* Which also happens to be Yom Kippur. When I mentioned this to Marcie Cohen Ferris, assistant professor of American Studies at UNC Chapel Hill and author of the masterful Matzoh Ball Gumbo: Culinary Tales of the Jewish South, she responded in characteristic, shoot-from-the-hip fashion. “Oh, no,” she said. “Sounds like two of the holiest days of the year are about to collide. Everybody take cover!”

A recent dinner party at a friend’s house began with a gorgeous platter of grilled fresh sardines, golden and crisp-skinned. They were delicious, and made me feel on holiday in a Mediterranean port town. They also left me wanting more grilled fish.

As luck would have it, another pal scored some line-caught black sea bass from down around Cape May, New Jersey. Sea bass are at their best fall through winter, before they begin their spring spawning run, and these were real beauts.

You’d be hard-pressed to find a fish better designed for cooking whole. On average, a black sea bass weighs one to three pounds, with a simple, easy-to-see bone structure (reassuring for the fish-phobic) and edible skin that’s striking enough to up the drama quotient when serving. The firm, fine-textured white flesh holds together well (it’s wonderful in chowder or stew); mild and sweet, it’s still distinctive enough in flavor to stand up well to other flavorings—ginger and soy or pungent black bean sauce, for instance, or, if you’re in a surf ‘n’ turf mood, foresty porcini mushrooms.

Still feeling the tug of the Mediterranean, I was inspired to finally deal with our sprawl of fennel plants. They were going to seed and starting to look devitalized, so I gathered an armload of the feathery stalks and a few small bulbs and carted them off to dinner.

Our fish had been gutted on the boat, but the decision on whether to scale them required beer and further discussion. The scales on a bass are as impervious as chainmail, and over live fire, they keep the flesh moist and tender. Still, our fish were going to be lying on a very aromatic fennel bed, and what if that armor protected the meat a little too much? We sighed and got to work, taking care to scrape the fish thoroughly and strip out their sharp, spiny dorsal fins. (If you’re buying whole fish at the store, this work is obligingly done by the guy behind the fish counter.)

Cooking fish, like meat, on the bone always yields more succulence and flavor. When grilling whole fish (or roasting it, our wintertime alternative), aim for cooking it until it is just done in the thickest part of the midsection; the residual heat will finish the job nicely. To check the degree of doneness, insert the tip of a knife, a metal spatula, or a putty knife (my favorite tool for the job) horizontally along the top of the back, where the dorsal fin was, and look inside: The flesh should have turned from translucent to opaque and look like it is going to flake. Don’t leave the fish on the fire until it actually does flake, or else it will overcook.

Black Sea Bass Grilled over Fennel

Serves 4

The key to shopping at any fish market is adaptability: You want what’s sparkling fresh. If black sea bass isn’t available or doesn’t look pristine, substitute striped bass, red snapper, or trout. Spanish mackerel and sardines, lustier in flavor, are outstanding on the grill as well. If you have a supply of Maldon sea salt on hand, scatter those big crunchy flakes over the fish just before serving.

Two 1½- to 2-pound whole black sea bass, cleaned, dorsal fin removed but leaving head and tail intact

Coarse salt and freshly ground black pepper

A generous supply of fennel stalks and fronds, plus 2 fennel bulbs, very thinly sliced

2 fat, juicy-looking garlic cloves, peeled and lightly smashed

2  bay leaves

Olive oil

1. Rinse the fish and pat it dry. Season the inside of each with salt and pepper, then loosely fill with some slices of fennel bulb (save the rest for a salad; see below), the garlic, and bay leaves. Brush the outside of the fish with oil and generously season with salt and pepper.

2. Have your fire medium-hot and ready to go. Put a bed of fennel stalks on the grill rack and the fish on top of the fennel. As the feathery stalks start to crackle and char over the coals, they will smell amazing. Depending on the size of the fish and the heat of the coals, grill the fish on one side for about 6 to 7 minutes, then carefully turn them over (two metal spatulas come in handy). Cook until the fish is opaque (see above) and transfer to a platter.

3. Black sea bass is one of the simplest fish to debone. First, cut nice-sized portions crosswise, down to the fish bones—a.k.a. the frame—then remove the portions with a spatula. Holding the frame by the tail, gently peel it off the underside of the fish. Cut remaining servings the same way.

The rest of our meal couldn’t have been simpler: boiled potatoes, tossed in butter and parsley; a salad of sliced fennel, black olives, and rounds of the season’s first oranges; and a blowsy head of radicchio, cut into wedges and slapped on the grill as an afterthought. We ate outside, by the light of a lantern, and fish scales glinted in the grass.

You may not think that green tomatoes have a season—they’re available all summer long if you have access to backyard beefsteaks—but they do, and it’s now. Farm stands are piled high with them, as growers know many of them will never completely ripen on the vine.

The tomato is a tropical berry, after all, and requires lots of hot sunny days to reach its full potential—that deep, complex, almost meaty sweetness many of us live for each summer. September’s shorter days (thus fewer hours of sun) and cooler temperatures mean that a mature green tomato has a greater proportion of acid to sugar.

Fried green tomatoes are great morning, noon, and night. They are delicious sprinkled with brown sugar while still hot in the skillet, just before you slide them onto warmed breakfast plates. If you somehow get roped into having people over for brunch (not my favorite meal), serve this and it will bring down the house. At lunch, a BLT made with a few slices of fried green tomato may seem like a lot of trouble to go to for a sandwich, but it is transcendent, and you are worth it.

In the evening, you can always make fried green tomatoes a side dish, but they inevitably steal the show; that’s why I tend to build a meal around them, instead. Rely on leftover roast chicken or slices of baked ham to fill in the cracks, or make them the center of a vegetable-based meal, and I guarantee that no one sitting at your table will miss the meat. They’re wonderful with anything—snap beans or butter beans, corn on the cob or succotash, roasted eggplant or ratatouille, grilled zucchini with pesto or sautéed with shavings of Parmigiano-Reggiano, and potatoes, rice, or grits any which way. Add a platter of fresh sliced tomatoes to the mix, for a fabulous contrast in texture and flavor. Pickled black-eyed peas—what’s known as Texas caviar—always fit in nicely as well.

And if you are fortunate enough to have a jar of watermelon rind pickles in the pantry, my Aunt Roxy would urge you to jump up and go get it. She knew that tomato and watermelon have an odd yet very real affinity for one another way back when, and she would greet the deservedly popular fresh tomato-watermelon salads of today with a satisfied little nod of recognition.

I have to part ways with her, however, over cream gravy. That standard southern accompaniment for fried tomatoes is not part of my culinary repertoire where tomatoes are concerned. I have nothing against lily-gilding in general, but I’ve never liked something wet on top of something golden and crisp, no matter how much I enjoy the components individually. A butter sauce over pan-fried soft-shelled crabs. Ketchup or, yeesh, chili on french fries. A scoop of vanilla on a flaky double-crusted fruit pie. You name it, the end result is soggy food. I don’t see the point.

As far as the actual coating goes, I’ve experimented with using seasoned flour or panko, but I keep coming home to cornmeal. It can be ground fine or coarse; it doesn’t matter as long as it’s sweet-smelling, a sign of freshness. And if you happen to have some okra in the fridge, why stop the frying at tomatoes? Trim the pods, cut them into bite-size nuggets and coat them like the tomato slices. Although it’s important not to crowd the pan while frying anything, there is always room to work a few pieces of okra into each batch. Whoever you are feeding will think you have hung the moon.

Fried Green Tomatoes

Serves 4

1 large egg, lightly beaten

cornmeal

coarse salt and freshly ground black pepper

maybe a little cayenne, if so inclined

4 extremely firm (but not rock-hard) large green tomatoes

canola oil, if you’re feeling virtuous, or bacon drippings, if not

1. Preheat the oven to 325° or so to keep the tomatoes warm as fried. Have ready the beaten egg in one shallow bowl and the cornmeal—seasoned with salt, pepper, and a trace of cayenne, if desired—in another. Cut off the rounded ends of the tomatoes and cut the rest into slices about ¼ inch thick*.

2. Pour enough oil or drippings into a heavy skillet (cast iron is best, but  not necessary) to measure about an eighth of an inch or so. Heat it over moderate heat until it shimmers. Meanwhile, working with one tomato slice at a time, dip it in the egg, turning to coat, dredge it well in the cornmeal, and put it on a sheet of wax paper**. By the time you coat enough slices to fit in the skillet (remember, don’t overcrowd), the fat in the pan should be good and hot.

3. Carefully, so as not to dislodge the coating, slip a batch of tomato slices into the hot fat and fry, turning as necessary, until golden on both sides. Drain the slices on paper towels or brown paper, transfer them to a wire rack set in a rimmed baking pan, and tuck them in the oven to stay warm and crisp.

4. In additional batches, coat and fry the rest of the tomato slices, adding more fat as needed. Be patient—give the fat time to really hotten up in between. You’ll be forgiven if you eat the first fried slice or two while alone and in the kitchen, but be sweet and share the rest.

* If the slices are too thin, you won’t get the custardy interior you want in fried tomatoes. And if they are too thick, then the crust will burn before the interior is cooked through and soft.

** Letting the coated tomato slices rest for a minute or two on wax paper is something I remember watching Aunt Roxy do. It must give the cornmeal a chance to absorb some moisture and make up its mind to adhere.

Snap beans are such a part of my summer cooking routine, it never occurred to me to write about them until now. Luckily, thanks to second plantings in July, you’ll still find bushels of them at many farmers markets for a few weeks to come. I don’t want you to miss out.

I like having snap beans cooked and in the refrigerator. Cooled in the pot liquor (cooking liquid), then stored in some of that fine stuff, they keep for days. Eat them hot with butter, either plain or ramped up with herbs or minced shallots. Or serve them at room temperature, with a shallot vinaigrette, a garlicky mayonnaise, or a dressing made with a drizzle of walnut oil.

I usually get my beans working on a back burner early on a Sunday evening, while I’m busy tending to other things. The prep work is quick and simple. Pinching off the stems takes no time, and I always leave the curved little tail at the other end—it’s tender and sweet when cooked. And what’s handy about the common varieties you see today is that they’re stringless; that is, they lack the filament, tough as fishing line, that joins the two halves of the pod and that must be removed before cooking*. If you are lucky enough, however, to come across an old heirloom variety like Kentucky Wonder, pounce. I guarantee you won’t regret the fiddly task of stringing them.

All that’s left to do is break them in two or three pieces, so the beans are easy to serve and eat. Their signature juicy snap when you break them sounds like summer.

My mother preferred the garden to the kitchen, and she loved growing snap beans, in large part, for their beauty.”Look at this flower,” she would say, gently pushing aside the heart-shaped leaflets to cradle a bean blossom. She admired the shaggy compactness of yellow bush beans, and took enormous pleasure in building the tall cane wigwams needed to stake the half runners. She would rattle the bamboo, making sure each frame was stable and sturdy. I don’t think Thor Heyerdahl took any greater pride in lashing together the raft Kon-Tiki.

Just writing about this triggers a desire to grow my own next year, although I couldn’t possibly harvest beans that taste any better than the ones I buy at the Union Square market. This year, they most often come from Elizabeth Ryder’s Ryder Farm Cottage Industries, in Brewster, New York. Those are Betsy’s green and yellow snaps, thin as pencils, you see above. They are always fresh and fabulous, like everything else she sells.

The secret to deeply flavorful snap beans is not salt pork or a ham hock, although seasoning meat can be very nice. It lies in cooking them long enough to bring out their nuanced, vegetal flavor. Depending on the age and freshness of the beans, this can take up to an hour or two; frequent tasting for doneness is the price you pay for greatness.

This brings me to a very important point. The notion that, to a southerner, the only good bean is a mushy, overcooked bean is one of the great, enduring (and many) myths of the South. As any early-19th-century southern cook would tell you—with some asperity, I imagine—”boiled” does not mean carelessly cooked or even lengthily cooked. Personally, I don’t care for snap beans cooked al dente. They’re squeaky in the mouth. I like mine well-done, with a consistency that is tender and yielding, yet a few critical steps shy of falling apart.

This summer, I haven’t bothered with infusing the cooking liquid with seasoning meat first; the beans have been so delicious, they haven’t needed the help. If I’m craving some porky richness, lardons do the trick for me. I love the contrast between the chewy-crisp sticks of bacon and soft, velvety beans.

Southern-esque Snap Beans with Lardons

Serves 4 to 6

Yellow wax beans aren’t often as available as garden-variety green beans, and they don’t have as much flavor. But pairing the two types of snaps on a plate is awfully pretty, so I always find them hard to resist. When buying wax beans, look for ones with a tinge of green at the tips, a sign that they are young and tender. They are usually thinner and not as robust as green beans. When feeling ambitious, I cook the two separately, but usually I just give the green beans a head start in the pot.

2 pounds snap beans (any kind), stems removed, strings removed if necessary (always check), and snapped into pieces

Salt

6 to 8 ounces slab or thick-cut bacon

Sherry vinegar

1. Rinse the beans well. Put them in a large heavy pot and just cover them with fresh cold water. Put a lid on the pot and bring to a boil over high heat. Reduce the heat and simmer (or “slow-boil,” as my grandmother would say) the beans, covered, until they are done to your taste. If you like them soft, like I do, this should take at least an hour and usually longer; you really can’t rush things. About halfway through, season the beans with salt and adjust the lid to partially cover.

2. If you can stand it (the beans really are better the next day), let the beans cool in their own liquid, then store them, in some of the liquid, in the refrigerator. Otherwise, proceed.

3. If you’re using slab bacon, first discard the rind and cut the bacon lengthwise into ¼-inch-thick slices. Then, no matter which type of bacon you have, cut the slices into ¼-inch-wide sticks. Cook the bacon in a large cast-iron or other heavy skillet over moderate heat until it’s crisp, golden, and smells unbelievably great. Drain the bacon on paper towels and try a piece to make sure it’s as good as you think it is. Deny this if someone surprises you in the kitchen.

4. Reheat the beans if necessary. When hot, transfer them with a slotted spoon to warmed plates or a serving platter. Sprinkle with vinegar and scatter with lardons. Eat right away.

* Up side of an evil agri-biz plot? Nope. There are plenty of reasons to hate modern-day Big Ag, but this isn’t one of them. The stringless string bean was first propagated in 1884 by plant breeder Calvin Keeney (1849–1930) at his seed company in LeRoy New York, a town that was also, incidentally, the birthplace of Jell-O.

Nothing pitches me headfirst into gloom faster than Labor Day. I will chirk up once it’s October—always such a golden month—but for now, I am holding on tight to summer. The peaches are wonderful. The tomatoes are delicious. The corn—even that bought on the fly in a suburban supermarket—is juicy and full of farm-stand flavor.

This Labor Day, reason to live came in the form of a lamb steak, a cut usually taken from the center of the leg and sporting a cross-section of bone similar to that of a ham steak. Because it responds beautifully to marinades or rubs in every flavor palette imaginable and because it cooks so quickly, it’s outstanding on the grill or under the broiler. This is nothing new—James Beard wrote about grilling lamb steaks with great relish in the July 1956 issue of House & Garden—but it has never been as popular as it deserves to be.

Baffling, really. A lamb steak is more flavorful and less expensive than loin or rib chops and not as fatty as shoulder chops. And for a household of two, in which a leg of lamb (even a “short” leg, minus the wider top section) is overkill, a 1½-pound-plus lamb steak is just right for one meal and satisfying day-after sandwiches.

Lamb steak is at its best when not cooked past medium. “Grill over coals, turning to brown evenly,” writes Mr. Beard, “until the steaks are nicely browned on the outside but still pink and rare in the middle. Season to taste with salt and pepper as they cook.”

One simple thing you can do with grilled lamb steak is cut it into succulent, rosy slices and serve it with warmed pitas or other flatbread, leaves of crisp romaine, and the cool, creamy cucumber-yogurt condiment called tzatziki. Even if the people at your table cannot stand yogurt, they will love tzatziki, and you will always wish you’d made more.

For inspiration this past weekend, however, I looked no further than the herb garden we’ve had fun with all summer. It looked a bit worse for wear after Irene roughed things up, but Mediterranean herbs thrive on drama. I chopped up small, fragrant handfuls of rosemary, thyme, marjoram, and summer savory and stirred them together with salt, some chopped garlic, and olive oil. Then I smeared the slurry all over the steak and left it alone for an hour. That gave me plenty of time to size up the tomatoes we had on hand.

They were nice and big, but misshapen—not the best candidates for classic tomatoes Provençal, which are sliced through the equator so each half will stand upright, cradling a raft of seasoned breadcrumbs. It didn’t matter. I cut the tomatoes into as even slices as I could manage, then overlapped them in a small oiled gratin dish. Scattered with a mixture of lightly toasted fresh bread crumbs, grated Parmigiano-Reggiano, and olive oil, they would take no time in the oven.

I extricated some leftover boiled potatoes and stewed romano beans—you know, the flat green ones—from the fridge and warmed them up together. The only romanos I’d been able to find at the market were mature—broad and bumpy with developed seeds inside. I’d cooked them until tender the first go-round, and, after being reheated, you could cut them with a fork. They had great depth of flavor. The potatoes were tender, too, yet still held their shape. This was going to be good.

Grilling a lamb steak is easy. If flare-ups bother you, then trim off some (but not too much) of the excess fat. As you would with beef steak, gauge the cooking time by thickness, not by weight. Ours, just over an inch thick, took about 10 minutes for medium-rare, just long enough to finish a bowlful of black olives, lick the oil off our fingers, and open another bottle of wine.

We left the steak a bit longer on the first side to develop a good sear before turning it over. The tomatoes had gone into a hot oven—450º or so—right before the steak hit the grill rack. By the time the meat was off the fire and had a chance to collect itself, the tomatoes were bubbling and their topping was golden brown. The beans and potatoes were getting along famously. Everything smelled absolutely wonderful.

By the time we sat down to eat, I had forgotten it was September. Until I received a text from my friend Thomas Jayne, who shares my end-of-summer angst. “Worse than a back to school advert …” he wrote. “is ‘Book your Christmas party now!’ “

Stewed tomatoes are delicious hot, cold, or at room temperature. This makes them convenient to have on hand during a hurricane—or whenever you’ve been too greedy at a farm stand and consequently find yourself on the home front with lots (and lots) of tomatoes turning soft-ripe at precisely the same moment.

Botanically speaking, tomatoes are tropical berries that originated in South America, but, when stewed, they make a great example of why we treat them as a vegetable rather than a fruit. Ripe tomatoes contain large amounts of glutamic acid and sulfur compounds—both more common to meats than to fruits—and enough acid to balance rich flavors and textures. That is why tomatoes get along so companionably with nutty, unctuous okra when simmered together, for instance, or why a fresh tomato salad works so well with a grilled steak or a gutsy blue-cheese dressing.

Using a mix of different varieties adds depth and complexity to stewed tomatoes, and large, thin-skinned heirlooms are generally the easiest to peel. As far as seasonings go, consider salt and freshly ground black pepper a given. Beyond that, there are any number of variations. Some people start off with finely chopped onion sweated in butter; others jazz things up with chopped herbs, green bell pepper, or garlic; still others add fresh breadcrumbs to thicken, or sweeten the pot with sugar.

Personally, I do not like to veer off into spaghetti sauce territory, and staking out a moral position on whether to add sugar is, as so many moral positions are, impractical. It depends on the tomatoes—what variety, how hot and sunny it was while they were on the vine, their degree of ripeness—you get the picture. Sometimes a judicious pinch or two of brown sugar is just what’s required to mellow acidity that’s a little on the harsh side. And if those tomatoes aren’t acidic enough? Forgo lemon or lime juice for the more interesting tang of Sherry vinegar.

If I decide to go the embellishment route, my go-to ingredient is fresh ginger. I discovered what its pungent warmth can do for tomatoes while collaborating on a cookbook with chef Floyd Cardoz of Tabla restaurant (r.i.p.) and the forthcoming North End Grill, and now the combination of flavors feels like something I grew up with.

This past Saturday, however, when I was in full hurricane-prep mode, there was just one small problem: I’d used up all of our fresh ginger while making ginger beer the day before, and hadn’t thought to buy any more. By this point, every supermarket in our neighborhood was closed; the entire city was waiting for Irene to swagger into town. I didn’t regret the homemade brew—we were going to kick-start the evening with a round of Dark and Stormies—but drat. I felt thwarted.

I opened the kitchen cabinet and stared. High up on the baking shelf was the glint of a bright yellow tin of Reed’s crystallized ginger*. In no time, it was down on the counter, among the neatly stacked emergency rations**. I roughly chopped a couple of the spicy, sugary nuggets and stirred them into the tomatoes once they were gently bubbling away. Oh, nice. Not too sweet. Soon, I recklessly added a few more. Yes.

Tomatoes Irene (Stewed Tomatoes with Crystallized Ginger)

Serves 4

If you have fresh ginger on hand, by all means use it. Peel it first, of course, and mince it. I usually add it to half a medium onion that’s been finely diced and cooked in butter or olive oil (heretical, but healthier for some) until soft but not brown. Stir the ginger around until fragrant, which takes mere seconds, then add the tomatoes. This time around, with no fresh ginger on hand, I skipped the onion and simply stirred the crystallized ginger into the simmering tomatoes.

About 2 pounds soft-ripe tomatoes

Salt and freshly ground black pepper

2 to 3 tablespoons crystallized ginger, roughly chopped

1. Put the tomatoes in a large bowl and cover them with boiling water. Let them sit 2 to 3 minutes, then transfer them to a colander and run cold water over them. When they are cool enough to fool with, peel with a sharp paring knife. (This method works with peaches, too.)

2. If you are at all accident-prone or are wearing your best white T-shirt, donning an apron for this step is a smart idea. Set a fine-mesh sieve over a bowl. Working over it, quarter each tomato and scoop the seeds into the sieve with your fingers. Put the tomato flesh into the bowl, which should already be collecting dribbles of pale, watery juices. Sneak a taste—they are full of flavor.

3. Add the tomatoes and their juices to a pot and season with salt and pepper. Bring the tomatoes to a boil over medium-high heat, then reduce the heat until the tomatoes find a slow, gentle simmer. Partially cover the pot and let the tomatoes cook until they move beyond tender to become lush and velvety. This should take about an hour. About 30 minutes into the process, add about 2 tablespoons of the chopped crystallized ginger. After the tomatoes are cooked but still hot, taste them (careful!) and tinker with the seasoning. You will probably want more salt and pepper, as well as a little more ginger.

* Crystallized ginger, available at supermarkets and natural foods stores, is a pantry staple in our kitchen; we tend to buy Reed’s brand because it’s easy to find in New York City and stays fresh in its tin for ages. Like stem ginger in syrup, the confection is made by cooking pieces of peeled fresh ginger  in a sugar syrup to tenderize the fibrous flesh and temper its pungent heat. Stem ginger is bottled in the syrup; crystallized ginger is dried, then covered in coarse sugar.

** I was trained early and well, and know not to face a hurricane without supplies that include graham crackers, a tinned ham, and little pots of Vienna sausages. Sam snapped open a lid before I could stop him. “Dear god, they’re en gelée,” he said, awestruck. “Did you, um, buy any vegetables?” I pointed to the pot of flat green romano beans working on the stove and the sweet potatoes, ready for the oven. Things were under control.

Butter beans are suave—there is no other word that sums up their flavor, their texture, and their effortless ability to swing from down-home to haute. At roadside stands in the South, you’ll find coolers full of them—hand-picked, shucked, bagged, and ready for the pot.

No such luck here in New York City. Still, a recent heap of the unshucked beans at the Union Square Greenmarket was enough to make me screech to a halt. The fact that I just happened to be toting a stylish “bean bag” from Paris—a present from my friend and former colleague Paul Grimes—was pure serendipity. After all, even though I’ll happily pay a surcharge for shucked beans, the prep work can be done anywhere—on a bench by the river, for instance, on a train ride out to Long Island, or even in a hospital waiting room. No matter how impatiently I begin the task, breaking open the leathery pods and flicking out the smooth, shiny buttonlike beans becomes a meditative act, a culinary rosary.

My butter bean is another person’s lima (Phaseolus lunatus), and both common names are appropriate. Aside from its prized creamy texture when cooked, the bean was cultivated in the Andes as early as 5000 B.C.E. Eventually, the Spanish exported it from Lima, Peru, throughout the Americas and beyond. The pale, small-seeded type called sivvy (sieva) beans*, grown in the Lowcountry of South Carolina and Georgia since 1700 and exalted for its delicate flavor, probably got there by way of the Caribbean.

Fresh butter beans are simple to cook**. Combine them with water to cover by no more than an inch or so. Bring to a boil, then turn down the heat until the water hovers at a steady barely-there simmer. Cook the beans until they are tender inside, about 30 minutes, and (pay attention to this part) let them cool, off the heat, in the cooking liquid, so they stay plump and smooth. Any harried weeknight cook will appreciate the fact that they’ll keep well in the fridge for a few days.

A number of embellishments come to mind. If you are in the mood to simmer a ham hock in the cooking water first to season it, or to fry up some bacon to crumble on top before serving, then by all means go for it. Butter beans are often paired with corn in a succotash, and Little Jimmy Dickens can attest to the fact that a bowl of butter beans can always use a side of cornbread.

In the Lowcountry, butter beans are served over rice, juiced with a little pot liquor and topped with a pat of butter, placed just so. It’s difficult to improve upon that, but for a change of pace, I might add the beans to a skillet of sautéed onion, along with some chopped fresh herbs—marjoram, summer savory, or rosemary work especially well—then toss with one of those curvy pasta shapes like campanelle or orecchiette. That sounds especially soothing tonight, after  the earthquake wobblies.

Butter beans have a very great affinity for cream. Add some to the cooking liquid and then reheat the beans in a little more, spiked with the barest trace of freshly grated nutmeg. Or whiz up them in a food processor with a bit of milk for a silky-smooth purée that is wonderful with panfried trout or sautéed summer flounder.

When they are very fresh and small, butter beans also make a fine first course, a tactic that comes in handy when you don’t have quite enough to go around as a side. I’ve spooned them into my grandmother’s thin porcelain cups or small terra-cotta saucers from Mexico. They look perfectly at home in anything. Even people who profess to loathe butter beans are struck by how rarefied and beautiful they look this way, and then they eat them right up.

* According to a recent genetic diversity study, sieva beans arose independently in central-western Mexico. Other aliases include Sewee (after a South Carolina Indian tribe), civet, siveau, saba, West Indian, and Carolina lima.

** And cook them you must, to destroy a naturally occurring toxic compound called linamarin. Don’t let that caveat stop you; butter beans are a fabulous, almost fat-free source of protein and soluble fiber (key for the regulation of blood sugar and cholesterol levels) as well as the insoluble (good-for-you-in-general) sort.

The neat, workmanlike, and—let’s face it—really cute bunches of onions stopped me in my tracks. Vince D’Attolico, delighted at my reaction, unloaded the last of the crates from his Hudson Valley farm and stood back from his stand at Union Square to gauge the overall effect. “It’s a Dutch variety I haven’t tasted for twenty years,” he explained. I cradled a bunch in my hand.

“They are sweet onions, and fantastic on the grill,” Vince continued. “All you need to do is take off the rubber band.” He grinned. “Grill them ten minutes on one side, flip them over, ten minutes. Give them another ten or so, then just pop them out of their skins.” Sold. I scooped up a couple of bunches and, a good half hour later, after I’d had a chance to think about what dinnertime looked like for the week ahead, I doubled back and bought more. In for a penny, in for a pound.

Stumbling across an unexpected ingredient and having it expand your options and, at the same time, sharpen your focus is, for me, one of the most exciting things about cooking. Grilled onions, for instance, are familiar to every backyard chef, but regular storage varieties require peeling, slicing into rounds, and, often, running a skewer through each round horizontally, to keep the dratted things together. Not only is this fiddly work (making kebab-size chunks is no better), but grilled onion rounds can get too burnt-tasting for me. I am not a big fan of char, so I immediately embraced the thought of letting the smoke and heat work their magic on whole onions, small enough* to cook quickly and still clad in their protective jackets.

Those grilled late that afternoon exceeded expectations, pushing burgers and portobellos over the top. When I tucked the knobbly leftovers into the refrigerator, I was reminded of the sturdy little wooden blocks I loved as a child. Now, as then, I couldn’t wait to take them out and build something. This time of year, when summer feels particularly precious, I’m not interested in ambitious or clever dishes, just straightforward food with clean, well-built lines. And these onions were going to simplify my life, not complicate it.

The next evening was a cakewalk. With a pot of rice working on a back burner, I slipped some onions out of their plain brown wrappers and quartered them. Before discarding the skins, I inspected them for the occasional glob of caramelized juices—pure flavor, in other words. Easily pried off with a fingernail, they followed a good-sized chunk of butter into a pan and dissolved after a few stirs and scrapes with a wooden spoon. This technique, by the way, is called deglazing, and you probably do it all the time, without even thinking. It’s the key to a great pan sauce.

I carved the kernels off two ears of corn and deposited them in the butter. Soon, they were joined by a generous handful of cherry tomatoes. It wasn’t until they started to split that I added salt, pepper, and the onions. By the time the rice was done, the sweet, smoky onions had hottened. I spooned the stuff over mounds of rice and had dinner on the table in practically no time. In retrospect, I suppose I could have started things off with crisp-fried bacon, for crumbling over our helpings at the last minute, but I dunno—we didn’t miss the meat.

A couple of nights ago, though, a slim packet of prosciutto was the first thing I reached for when I opened the refrigerator. Sam and I had both walked through the door late, tired, and hungry, and assembly, rather than cooking, was in order. Tomatoes, cut into chunks and set out in a bowl, dressed with nothing more than salt, pepper, and olive oil. Big forkfuls of smoked bluefish, from Nodine’s Smokehouse. And open-faced sandwiches on long slices of baguette: the remains of a fennel-arugula salad, nicely wilted in mustard vinaigrette, a substantial layer of thinly sliced prosciutto, and more onions, which still packed a potent mix of lush, smoke-tinged tenderness and juicy crunch.

Just took stock, and there are only a couple of small—very small—onions left. They look awfully wrinkly and forlorn, but on the inside—wow, we’re in fine shape. This day has been extremely long, and we need nourishment fast. “An omelet!” Sam said. Of course. They do that wonderful one, with sweated onions and vinegar (“What sort?” says Sam, his head already in the cupboard) in Lyon, but this is no time to look it up; let’s keep moving.

Cut the onions into slivers and heat them until hot but not browned. Get some toast toasting. Stir the onions into the beaten eggs, and cook the omelet (crucial bit: hot small pan). Chicken out and let Sam do the flipping. The instant the omelet hits the plate, I add a little butter to the pan; when it starts to brown, it’s time to swirl in a splash of red-wine vinegar—golly, that smells fabulous—then drizzle over the eggs.

We scrupulously divide the omelet and eat, feet up, in front of the television. “That was the last of the onions, then?” Sam asked. “If there are any left, they’d be good on pizza.”

* I’ll bet cipolline, which are readily available, would work well, too. Can’t wait to try them and see.

Summer weekends are for rusticating. Sometimes, we head down to visit friends in southwestern Virginia, where a typical Saturday might be spent mowing a field, hiking up to the Blue Ridge Parkway … or lolling in a porch swing with an absorbing read and a long, tall glass of something cold.

Dinner is straightforward, often from the grill, and always delicious. On this last visit, we hadn’t thought far enough in advance to make a pie for dessert, and even a quick cobbler sounded like work—it was too hot to even think of turning on the oven. But in a household with three active boys, the freezer is always filled with ice cream. Really good ice cream, from a local dairy, the Homestead Creamery, which delivers dairy products, bread, and other staples once a week.

So peaches and vanilla ice cream it was. Everyone was happy, and I think my husband and 16-year-old Will went back for seconds.

There are occasions, though, when a little lily-gilding is called for, and that is where peach Melba comes in. Created by Auguste Escoffier in 1893 (celebrity chefs are really nothing new) for the famed lyric soprano Nellie Melba, the combination of poached peaches, vanilla ice cream, and a raspberry coulis, or sauce, is staggeringly simple*. In fact, I’ve always thought it interesting that it is a remarkably un-diva-like dish, unlike the Australia-born Helen (“Nellie”) Porter Mitchell, who took her Italian-sounding stage name (her debut role was as Gilda in Rigoletto) from her home city of Melbourne and who took the opera world by storm.

The New Jersey peaches we get in New York have been so deeply flavorful for the past couple of years that I don’t even bother to poach them. I don’t bother to blanch them to make removing their skins easier, either. Instead, I put them in a bowl, pour boiling water over them, and walk away for a few minutes. After draining, I run the peaches under cold water until cool enough to handle, and, with a little help from a paring knife, the skins slip right off. This method is much less fraught than blanching—no hovering over a steaming pot, for starters, or worrying about timing (do you start counting when you first add the peaches or when the water returns to a boil?). And, all too often, the turbulence of a rolling boil causes beautiful, unbruised peaches to bash into one another and hurt themselves.

I first had peach Melba with unpoached fruit at Chez Panisse, in Berkeley, and I’ve never forgotten it. The peaches were from Al Courchesne at Frog Hollow Farm, and they had extraordinary perfume and flavor. What gives peach Melba its finesse, though, is the raspberry coulis. You can substitute blackberries, but, to my mind, nothing matches the rich, exquisite clarity of raspberries, except, perhaps, Dame Melba’s voice.

Peach Melba

Serves 6

I usually serve this with a plate of Jules Destrooper Almond Thins, my favorite store-bought cookie. They’re available at many supermarkets and at amazon.com as well, although you have to buy a 12-pack. The sauce is very simple to prepare, although you could make dessert even easier by using a 10-ounce package of frozen raspberries in syrup; thaw them before puréeing.

For the raspberry coulis

2½ cups raspberries

A scant ¼ cup sugar, or to taste

1 teaspoon fresh lemon juice, or to taste

¼ teaspoon framboise (optional)

For the rest of the dessert

5 to 6 (depending on size)  firm-ripe peaches

Fresh lemon juice

About ¼ cup sugar, or to taste

1 quart of your favorite vanilla ice cream

In a blender or food processor, purée the raspberries, sugar, lemon juice, and framboise, if using. Pour the purée through a fine sieve into a bowl, pressing down on the solids with a rubber spatula. Discard the solids. Serve the sauce right away, at room temperature, or chill it for later use. Covered and refrigerated, it keeps 3 days.

Put the peaches in a large bowl and cover with boiling water; let them sit about 3 minutes. Transfer the peaches to a colander and run cold water over them. With a sharp paring knife, peel the peaches. Cut them into thin, elegant slices and put them in a bowl. Sprinkle them with lemon juice and add the sugar, gently tossing to coat the peaches. Let them sit 10 minutes or so, to give the sugar a chance to dissolve.

Put a few small scoops of ice cream in each of 6 bowls and drizzle with some of the raspberry coulis. Arrange the sliced peaches on top, then embellish with more coulis. Serve at once.

*Especially when you leave off the carved-ice sculpture of Lohengrin‘s swan for serving, which Escoffier intended as a thank-you for tickets to the opera. The singer was so delighted with her Pêches au Cygne (first made with strawberry purée) that the dish soon reappeared as Pêches Melba.

Up until the late ’80s or so, the only parsley you would see in its raw form in this country was a jaunty boutonnière (or prom-worthy corsage) of curly parsley on dinner plates across the land. My mother even garnished our meals with the stuff, turning my little brother’s intense love of a record album about the adventures of Parsley the Lion* to her advantage. Our family’s designated picky eater would eat even canned beets if ornamented by a shaggy mane of parsley. I am still incredulous.

Today’s supermarkets continue to stock curly parsley, but next to it, you’ll find the variety called flat-leaf (see above photo). At some point, you will have likely mistaken this for cilantro and not discovered the error until you’ve arrived home and started making guacamole. Some sources say that flat-leaf parsley has a deeper flavor than the curly kind, which apparently contains a lesser amount of essential oils; others maintain that flavor has to do with the relative maturity of the plants; still others say that the distinctive leave shape of each variety hits the palate differently.

What I say is that flat-leaf parsley is a hell of a lot easier to wash and dry than the curly type, a real plus if you are basically living on tabbouleh.

I’ve been eating it for a week now, and I can’t seem to stop. I made a big bowlful the other day for lunch, then made more the next night for supper. Any leftovers are delicious for breakfast, shoveled onto hot buttered toast and eaten with a slice of muskmelon on the side, or wrapped in a leaf of romaine for a mid-afternoon snack.

The weather drove me to it. For days, the hot sunshine, miraculously dry air, and high arc of cloudless, deep-blue sky have reminded me of the Middle East and the time I spent there with our friend Thomas Jayne. One of the evening meals I remember most clearly took place on a veranda underneath a grape arbor. The air smelled of wood smoke and I smelled, rather exotically, of rose soap with an undertone of camel sweat. The table held bowls of freekeh—barley and shredded chicken in a rich broth—a multitude of mezzes, grilled chicken livers, saffron rice, and a succulent lamb stew.

What really blew me away, though, was the tabbouleh. It was not the grain-heavy dish I was used to but an emerald-green mound of sparkling-fresh parsley merely sprinkled with bulgur. In this part of the world, I realized, parsley is not considered an herb, but a vegetable.

And that is a very good idea.

Tabbouleh

Serves 4

When I think of it, I buy bulgur—wheat that’s been steamed, dried, and cracked—in the bulk bin at Whole Foods or my local natural foods store, but otherwise I use Arrowhead Mills or Near East brand. As for the parsley (which, by the way, is packed with iron and vitamins A and C), wash and dry it well before using. And although many versions of tabbouleh contain diced cucumber, by the time I work my way around to it, I’m usually fed up with chopping. Instead, I simply cut the cuke into long, cool spears and serve them on the side. Lastly, you’ll see an optional ingredient below called sumac, a Middle Eastern spice that comes from the ground-up berries of the elm-leaved sumac. When I’m in the mood to change things up a bit, its mild yet funky tartness does something wonderful with the lemon juice; it’s also great sprinkled over hummus or rubbed on lamb steaks before grilling. Look for it at Middle Eastern markets or order from Formaggio Kitchen.

½ cup fine bulgur

3 cups chopped fresh flat-leaved parsley

½ cup or so chopped fresh spearmint leaves, or to taste

Extra-virgin olive oil

About 3 tablespoons freshly squeezed lemon juice (I keep forgetting to measure)

1 large ripe tomato, finely diced

Salt and freshly ground pepper

Ground sumac (optional)

Put the bulgur in a small bowl and pour 1 cup of boiling water over it. Give a quick stir to combine and cover the bowl tightly with plastic wrap. Let the bulgur sit 15 minutes, then drain it in a sieve. (Press on it lightly to remove excess liquid.)

Combine the parsley and mint in a large bowl and add the bulgur. Drizzle with generous amounts of oil and lemon juice and toss. Season with salt and pepper, toss again, and scatter decoratively with the tomato. Sprinkle with sumac if you like.

Photo courtesy of Julia Burke

* The album was a spin-off from the children’s classic television series The Herbs and its sequel, The Adventures of Parsley, created by Michael Bond, author of the Paddington Bear books, and produced in Britain in the late ’60s. The stop-start animated series—which I didn’t see until much later in life—was set in a walled kitchen garden and featured a lion called Parsley, as well as Dill the Dog, Sage the Owl, Lady Rosemary, Sir Basil, Aunt Mint, Bayleaf the Gardener, and the Chives, “who were very difficult to tell apart.” Bond took inspiration from Culpeper’s 17th-century Complete Herbal and the great animator Ivor Wood constructed the three-dimensional puppets. Brilliant.