remedial eating

to look at it

I went walking, Thursday night.  It was 8:46 p.m.  

There were old discarded lawn chairs on the sidewalk, which I thought odd, given that trash day was days away, yet.  It took multiple chair sightings, plus several cordoned-off grass patches, before I realized folks were staking out spots for the parade.  The Fourth of July parade, this coming Wednesday.  Six days from last Thursday.  The Fourth is a fairly big deal, around here.  We'll probably go.  We probably won't stay.  94º.  You understand.

The trees overhead were deafening.  Right around the solstice, here, each year, the cicadas return, our high summer alarm.  A cicada sounds like a flourescent light on the fritz, during those final, whiny, vvvzzzzzzzzzzzz days. Like that, only louder.  Much, much louder.  Because while I'm never sure whether there are two or two thousand, invisible as they are in the branches and leaves, there are definitely multiples, all singing the same song.  I mention this, because I'd never heard cicadas, pre-Ohio, and maybe you've never heard them, either.

You non-cicada states should know you share a country with citizens whose entire summer has this soundtrack.  That for some of us, a walk in the great June outdoors sounds for all the world like a Wal-Mart whose every last overhead needs replacing.  (Weird.)

I know that it was 8:46 p.m., because I caught the time as I was checking the temperature.  The temperature was 98º.

Cooler than earlier.  Still, a bit toasty.

It's been hot here, this week.  It promises to be hot, next week.  I just checked the ten day forecast.  The first nine begin with "9".  The lows, for every last one of the next ten days, are expected to be higher than Seattle's highs.  

(Dear Seattle: I know you're beyond ready for summer.  Please know, I'm not bragging.  I'm whining.  I'll take rain on my parade over swelter, any day.  And anyway, sillies, Seattle's summer begins July 5.)

I mention this because I phoned my mom, while walking.  She asked after the heat, and I answered.  She was surprised, as I'd not thought to mention it myself.  I was surprised, because I realized I've become accustomed.  Am becoming accustomed.  Am at least not panic-stricken.  There was a time, last year, when I was in full-fledged summer panic.  It was just a passing phase, so I didn't mention it.  Only lasted from January through, oh gosh, maybe June? Literally, waking up in the middle of the night, frozen.  Paralyzed at the thought of the upcoming heat.  The suffocating humidity.  The claustrophobia of August.  The insufferable alter-ego I become.  

(Did I mention Thursday's humidity hit 92%?  After dark?  I am not anti-summer.  I am anti-awful.)  

Thing is, once last summer hit, it was alright.  More than alright.  Pretty okay, actually.  We'd learned enough, changed enough, to survive.  To cope.  To be competent.  To, often enough, thrive.  To be pleasant people, even in July.  To be able to go walking under ninety-eight degree skies.  In the event, it was just fine.     

Sufficiently fine that, last Thursday, I didn't think to volunteer the heat.  Had to be asked.  We've come a long way.    

I was looking over outtakes of our past week, realizing how very much they look like the week prior's.  More comic books, more flowers, more making stuff. More reading programs, more drawing sessions, more beetles and pests.  More popsicles, more baking, more beans and butterflies.  Encore, encore, to look at it.  

And yet, this week was entirely unto itself, in the living of it.  Looks are funny. Looks can fool.

Because this time, said comics were written with friends, which adds an entirely new element of funny.  And the reading program included words like Prize! and Finish!  The flowers were darker, fuller, further along.  The beans, big enough to climb inside.  The stuff made involved less flour and water (thank heavens), and more bulbs, wires, and circuitry (have mercy). This week's drawings were robots, portraits and puppies.  And ice cream doodles, on a long-wished-for, finally-found kitchen chalk board.    

I've yet to identify this week's blaze orange beetles.  I've identified and raged against this week's garden pests.  Bunnies.  Dear, sweet, tiny, twee, cotton-tailed bunnies.  Blasted, tomato-inhaling, zucchini-annihilating, sneaky stealthy bunnies.  Ate those first two tomatoes before dawn, the next day.  The first fourteen tiny summer squash, also.  One bite out of each.  Left the rest to rot. Make that thieving, inconsiderate, wasteful sneaky stealthy bunnies.  Memo to my furry friends: I hear you are lovely in mustard and cream.     

This week's baking took a detour toward cinnamon rolls.  This week, we made popsicles, but in triplicate, because, well, hello?  98º.  This week's butterfly looked just like last week's butterfly.  Black Tiger Swallowtail 1 and Black Tiger Swallowtail 2.  But redundant and metamorphosis are mutually exclusive. Wonder and awe never get old.  

And of course, that parade prep, beyond our backyard.  And those ubiquitous cicadas, which leave great moults, which make great collectibles to be shared over lunch.  And that old, existential, ultimately misplaced summer dread.  And these now, very real, sky-high outside temps.  Which cause fierce thunderstorms.  Which leave half our neighbors without power.  (We were so lucky.  Are so grateful.)  

Most of life unfolds outside the frame.  So much of what matters never earns verbs or nouns.  Where we point our lens, what we wrap words around, they are scraps and slivers, limited, selective.  Fragments, shards.  I was thinking about this, this past week.    

Next to that milk bottle of blooms, way up top, was a Lego robot.  Is a Lego robot.  As there is, on our table, almost always a Lego something-or-other. And a Pink Pearl.  And its accompanying crumbs.  And toast crumbs, from breakfast.  Yogurt smudges, also. And the counters behind, littered with the day's dishes.  Maybe bread rising.  A coffee pot, unrinsed.  Likely, half a lemon, careening toward mummy.  And we haven't even addressed the underneath, polka-dotted pink with dribbled smoothie.  See what I mean?  Sneaky, bunny rabbit words.  Splattered's more accurate, but I feel endlessly better stepping over spills Rorschach'd as polka dots.    

Much of it, most of it, sits beyond the borders.  Doesn't mean it's not in my kitchen.  

It is.  

Of course it is.  

Same as yours.

(Well, maybe you don't invite cicada casings to lunch.  But, you know, the sticky bits.)

To all appearances, that bowl might look a re-run.  To look at it, you might reasonably think, Lemon Curd.  To your point, it pretty much strikes the same pose.  To your tongue, it dances another jig altogether. 

Allow me to introduce Lime Curd. 

This particular curd was made a few months back, for a friend's birthday lunch. I had bought some strawberries to jolly up the table, despite the fact that it was February.  Certain exceptions apply when fêting a February 29th baby. After all, Leap Year doesn't come along every year.  And winter strawberries don't come with flavor, just because you will it.  

They needed help.  Lime curd was called in. 

I have spoken here before of my strawberry-lime love, of the way these two fruits complement one another.  If lime juice is all that, I reasoned, lime emboldened by egg and butter would flatter even winter's worst berries. Score one for reason.  Score ten for lime curd.  Or wherever your score card caps out.

We made our go-to lemon curd, the one I call foolproof because in fifty+ batches it's never failed, simply swapping out lemons for little green limes. Ace.  The color was only ever so slightly different, a bit more chartreuse, more off-yellow than green.  But the flavor, the flavor was unto itself.  Entirely different.  This week against last.  Lemon curd, for its part, tastes like it looks: soft, vivid, suave, (sorry) lemon-y.  Sharp, yes, but in a yellow way, which may make no sense to you but makes all kinds to me.  

Lime curd surprises.  Lime curd causes pause.  Lime curd raises eyebrows, and mouth corners, and berries.  Lime has that edge, that razor-rimmed sweet, a puckery, puckish, arch kind of tart.  Not unlike, come to think of it, a flourescent's final buzz.  Lime is lemon curd's mischievious twin.  Our plates, summers, selves, need mischievious twins.

It did the trick, dressing up those sad berries, but like any truly useful foodstuff, didn't stop there.  Turns out lime curd is swell on overnight waffles, settling into the squares like a birthright.  (Maple Syrup who?)  Whip it into buttercream, and sandwich between sugar cookies.  Slip it between a citrus-scented layer cake, littered, if you will, with blueberries.  Sneak it into summer trifle, alongside the custard, or better still, as a sly custard substitute. Spoon it onto pavlovas with raspberries and chantilly.  I eat it straight-up.  I've two kids who do, too.  Really, a spoon and a mouth and you're set.  

And yet, lime curd begs the berry.  There's something sublime, between the two.  All berries.  Any berries.  Blue, black, straw, marion, tay.  Maybe not goose.  Any berry but goose.  We made little berry tarts yesterday, the frilly French kind, with pâte sucre and fluted tins and a glossy jam topcoat.  We layered the berries on a pastry cream pouf, and it was nice enough, mild, softly sweet.  But I couldn't help wishing the cream was curd, an eye-squinching wink to wake up that ripe fruit.  

Our strawberries are gone, but I hear you Seattle folk still have some.  Score one for late-breaking summers.  For there is little lovelier (and little simpler) than a platter of rubies and a bowl of lime curd.  If that was strawberries under a cloud, this is them, dripping rhinestones, smart, dazzling, a nudge sassy. And if you, like me, see strawberries in the rearview mirror, rest assured: there's a berry parade yet to come.  And a sidekick, waiting in the wings.  

Foolproof Lime Curd
adapted from our favorite, foolproof lemon curd 
Yields: 2 cups

As I mentioned in the lemon original, the technique is what sets this curd apart: all ingredients are blitzed by stick blender before cooking, which shields the mixture against curdling, the ordinary bane of all curds.  I use organic limes for curd, owing to the heavy use of peel.  I've yet to have enough leftover lime curd to stockpile, but if it's anything like lemon curd, it will freeze admirably. Please note, you'll need a fine-mesh strainer (or regular strainer, plus cheesecloth).  Pull out your microplane and stick blender if you've got them.  Fine holes of a box grater and/or a standard blender make fine substitutes.

3 large eggs
3 large egg yolks
1/2 cup sugar
1/2 cup fresh lime juice (from 4-6 plump limes)
1/4 cup freshly grated lime zest (from 4-5 limes), from organic limes, if possible
pinch of salt
4 Tablespoons salted butter, softened, cut into pieces

Wash and dry limes.  Zest limes on a microplane rasp, measure out 1/4 cup of the zest, and set aside.

Juice limes, and measure 1/2 cup.  If you have a stick blender, add lime juice, eggs, egg yolks, and sugar directly to a medium, heavy pot, and blitz 30 seconds or so, until mixture is smooth and no clumps of egg remain.  (If using a standing blender, blitz juice, sugar and eggs on high for 30 seconds, then pour into pan.)  After blending, add lime zest and salt to mixture, then place pan on medium heat.  Heat mixture for 8-12 minutes, whisking occasionally, until mixture thickens noticeably and coats the back of a spoon.  Remove from heat, then whisk in butter, one piece at a time.  Set a fine-mesh sieve (or cheesecloth-lined strainer) over a large, heat-proof bowl, and pour in hot curd.  Strain curd (to remove zest), nudging as needed with a rubber spatula or wooden spoon.  Use a rubber spatula to scrape free the nice slick of curd on the underside of the strainer.  Eat warm, immediately, or chilled, with all manner of summer berries.  Keeps beautifully, refrigerated, up to 5 days.

adventuring

Looks a little dated, doesn't it?

It is.  Spring lambs are so March.

That one is also, and this one.  And the next. 

And the next twelve or twenty.  

In real life, we are under eighty-plus degree skies, with every green thing climbing cloud-ward and humidity finally edging in. 

In this space, though, I want to pause, to mark one small corner of a year just wrapped. 

Way back in September, with both boys in school, Zoë and I stumbled into a fine, occasional habit.  We realized, in the way one sometimes does in a family, that a new chapter sat splayed on the table of our afternoons.  With naps behind us, and legs just long enough, and a shared giddy-up-and-go attitude, we had ourselves the opportunity to explore.  Collect leaves.  Pack backpacks.  Pet animals.  Wear backpacks.  Hike trails.  Unpack backpacks. Poke around our city.  Pet more animals.  Re-pack backpacks. 

We read it, we took it (the chapter, the opportunity).  And we came to call it 'adventuring'.  (The definition is as squishy as oobleck; don't even try to go OED on it.  We both know what we mean, and that's all that matters.) 

Adventuring wasn't our everyday, this past year.  It wasn't even our everyweek, or everyother.  But once a month, sometimes twice, between our ordinary afternoons of groceries-stories-laundry-library-dishes-stuff-of-life, we'd catch each other's eye across the breakfast table, and ask, 'Want to go adventuring'?  

I can't remember a time the answer was not yes.  I can't remember a string of afternoons I've enjoyed more. 

We've played Pooh sticks in a few of our favorite streams.  Waded in others.  Squelched through a few. 

We've found mushrooms in fall, frosted grass in winter, and in spring, irrepressibility, everywhere.  Plus enough stones and leaves—"treasures", in local parlance—to enrich a middling kingdom.  (We only ever leave footprints, mostly only take pictures.  But sometimes, the pockets come home a bit heavy.)

We've seen white squirrels and blue heron and frogs in all forms, i.e. eggs, tadpoles, adolescents, croakers, and lunch.  A few deer.  Pigs, horses, hilarious turkeys.  A pinch-me-now riot of still-rumpled lambs. 

We've been scared witless by a flock of Canadian honkers.  Whether they actually chose that very moment to head South for the winter, or whether they were just looking for a laugh, I'll never know.  I only know there is intense thunder and vortex on the runway, under a lifting-off flock.  Also, that we'd do well to buff up our Duck Duck Goose. 

We've worn mittens and hats, and whisper-weather pants and T's, and breezy-thin summer dresses that still left us melting.  (Adventuring is not season-specific.)

And somehow, even in a cacophany of polka dots, two florals, and elephant print tennies, managed to camoflouge ourselves in nature.  Go figure.

And we've walked.  Sometimes fast, often slow.  Sometimes far, often not.  The 1.25 miles she clocked while 3.5 years impressed me mightily.  And made up for the "hikes" where we turned around at the trailhead.  I am learning, as a parent, to keep expectations low, flexibility high. 

(The gerund, incidentally, is imperative here.  Don't be fooled by pretty pictures, assume charmed days.  Eleven years I've been at this parenting business.  And still, I can't conjugate "to learn" into the past tense.)

We've adventured to the zoo, and the neighborhood park, and a forty-five minute slooooooow leaf-hunt around our one block.  

The important part is the sharing of hours, the calibrating of paces, the coming-together of independent attentions.  That old journey mumbo jumbo; destination, optional. 

And though they never technically fell under our 'adventuring' umbrella, I privately include a few other days, also.  The occasional lunch date, just us two, for Chipotle or warm naan dipped in cool raita.  The afternoons we'd make a meal of Raincoast Crisps and St. André and tiny cups of chamomile tea. (She's the only one who agrees this trio equals lunch.  Adventures of spirit count in my book.)

The afternoon we changed the tire on the jogging stroller.  I'd never changed a tire, stroller or otherwise; I needed all the aid and advice I could get.  Who knew there was a tire and a tube?  

The afternoons I answered "Yes" to "Let's do a project!", minus the ordinary but... and after... and until...  Where we set aside the urgent manys that fill lists and days, and sat at the table two hours or more, and gave ourselves over to some making whim.  Clothespin dolls.  Collages.  Puzzles, one-on-one.  An entire extended family of charismatic potatoes.  (Particularly colorful characters, those.)

A friend came for tea, recently, and I struggled to sit two consecutive minutes between jump-ups.  Not for lack of interest, just lack of still.  Two hours may be my ultimate adventure.    

And as the year evolved, our afternoons did, also, with a slow trend toward more friends, less mom.  Which is exactly as it should be.  Playdates are a right and ritual of four, and it is an adventure of another ilk to see these new muscles develop.  

Besides, it is no end of entertaining to eavesdrop on two four year olds figuring out how to elude an imaginary ogre.  (Turns out you cook him dinner, heavy on the wooden veg.)  

And as the school year has wound down, this particular brand of adventuring has also, as we are now four and not two, all day long.  We are not done exploring; not hardly.  But the flavor, the tenor, the content has changed. Bicycling.  Swimming.  Robot-building.  The big brother influence is evident, and the pace.  Somehow, Zoë held her own this week, trudging two-plus miles with four older kids.  The details may differ, but the adventuring continues.  

In the kitchen, as elsewhere.

Am I alone in considering it an adventure when a recipe begins, "Put a colander inside a large bowl; wet a clean kitchen towel and wring out as much water as you can. Fold it in half to create a double layer; line the colander with it. Add the buttermilk and cover with plastic wrap; refrigerate for 24 hours."  No? Yes? Probably?  Well, good for you.  You'll eat very well, and much sooner than I.

Because while I'm down with yeast, and don't think twice about rolled doughs, and thrill over a fridge full-to-bursting with produce, something about that kitchen towel, man, it threw me.  Stopped me in my tracks, for a fortnight, easy.  Don't make the same mistake; a two-week wait is too long.  And the towel bit is every bit as un-tricky as it sounds: drench, squeeze, line, pour buttermilk, ignore.  You're nine-tenths of the way toward strawberry reveries. More on that in just a moment.  

Our final adventure, during the boys' final school days, was a trip to the local U-pick strawberry patch.  Four year olds, it turns out, are good for roughly eight berries.  Twelve, at a stretch, with ample encouragement.  Beyond that, the afternoon was a delicate dance of picking and distracting, simultaneously.  Row runs were timed, Princess Strawberry invented, peek-a-boo strung along for another half-pound.  It was worth it; they were tiny, intense, excellent. 

The already-picked flat we bought helped bolster our stores.

Strawberries don't see much fuss, around here.  (Probably, plain doesn't surprise you by now.)  The first day, we gobble as is, on the stem, wrists red with juice, meals made of fruit.  Day 2, I get fancy, start slicing and sugaring, there being somehow pomp in strawberries as fork food.  Also, out comes the chocolate.  Always, the chocolate.  Day 3?  By Day 3, most sane people would have canned, gotten the water bath bubbling and jam jars popping and put up the bounty for six months hence.  

I don't can.  

So for me, Day 3 is when we start enhancing, knowing our time is short and our appetite, long.  Day 3 is when we start "cooking", if you will.  Except, I don't really cook, either.  At least not much, not when it comes to fruit.

More and more, as time spins and the seasons pile up, I find I want to do less and less to my fruit.  It is not that I don't love a pie, scone, crisp, cake or crumble, and certainly, they do cross our table.  But I want to eat fruit by the heap and the haul, greedily, immoderately.  Not weighed down by crumb or crust.  So I find myself searching for fruit made forthright: roasted apples, soused strawberries, intensified rhubarb.  Fruit under a spotlight, supported, encouraged, gently uplifted to be more like itself.   

Cue the berries and cream.

Kind of.

Fruit and cream are, of course, age-old companions, the stuff of fools and syllabubs and endless pies à la mode.  And I, cross my heart, love whipped cream more than anyone.  This is a fact.  This is a challenge.  I consider the proper proportion of pumpkin pie to whipped cream to be 1:1.  And I adore pumpkin pie.  I consider heavy cream, just pasteurized, barely sweetened, softly whipped and faintly vanilla'd, to be one of the Mother Sauces.   

(except)

(except i've always had this tiny niggling bother with whipped cream, particularly when it rubs shoulders with fruit.  it's about the oil slick.  you know the one.  that pesky veneer, the one that blankets your taste buds, whenever heavy cream hits cold fruit.  eck.  ugh.  i love heavy cream too much to hurt its feelings, and feel it fares beautifully in all other departments, so i mention this only as a whispered aside, and as the reason behind my enthusiasm for what follows.  i've long been on a hunt for something, cream-y but not cream, to escort my fruit.   

!!! BINGO !!! 

oops.  library voice.  moving on.)

About that damp towel, and that buttermilk, above.  What happens, during its overnight in the fridge, is a draining and thickening, a.k.a. exaltation.  The process is akin to making yogurt cheese; the outcome, entirely different.  (It was Megan who first made this analogy, and whom I credit for catching the potential in this Dutch dish.  I don't know about you, but I don't read Hangop met Boerenjongens, and think, Sounds like a winner!  Please forward any thanks, then, to A Sweet Spoonful.)  Strained buttermilk has a kinder, gentler mien than strained yogurt, a softly sweet tang that never rings sour.  I know this from rigorous straight-from-the strainer testing.

But wait.  It gets better.  So much better.

Because to this, you add a half-cup of heavy cream, whipped to soft peaks with a modesty of sugar.  You fold this right into the now-thick buttermilk, which sort of sighs and opens and spreads its wings.  It becomes something unlike anything I've ever eaten, and something I'll eat every summer, hence.  There's the signature tang of the buttermilk, which plays well with anything juice-filled and sun-ripe.  But also, there's a round, mellow sweet, the clear accent of pure cream, making itself heard.  

Really, though, it could taste like tire treads, and I'd eat it anyway, for its haunting featherweight.  According to some physics I don't quite understand, the cream's loft is not lost when it hits the strained solids.  Instead, the buttermilk winds up leavened by cream, like biscuits by baking soda, like hot air balloons by helium.  The end result is exquisitely airy and light, an ethereal thing, a butterfly's wing.  A butterfly's wing with latent punk tendencies, thanks to that inimitable buttermilk edge.  

It's a little like mascarpone, minus the cloying.  Like sour cream, minus the rich.  Like straight whipped cream, minus the gloss.  Like a June cloud, served up on a spoon.  A cloud which, it seems, goes with everything. We've heaped it over ripe mangos, per Megan's original, inverting only the proportions, fruit with fluff, not vice versa.  Nice.  It is custom-made for cardamom-roasted apricots, warm from the oven, or cold the next morning.  Rhubarb, cooked any which way, adores it.  Also, it is dangerously excellent eaten straight, with inky murky muscovado stirred right in.  Stop yourself at thirds. If you can.  

But thus far, in our house, its favorite friend is the strawberry, plus brown sugar, dark as you like.  The kids like to dunk their berries whole, first in the cloud, then in the brown sand.  Like that old standby of strawberries, sour cream and brown sugar, but delicate, not deadening.  Me, I like mine sliced and barely sugared, snuggled in under a good dollop, dappled with that same muscovado.  

And you?  How will you take yours?  There are blueberries around the corner, and August's blackberries, and eventually, Fall's fruits.  Go.  Adventure with it. Let me know where you land.     

 

Fresh Strawberries* under a Buttermilk Cloud
adapted from Megan, www.asweetspoonful.com, adapted in turn from the New York Times

I amended Megan's original by adding a touch of sugar directly to the finished cloud; just enough to whisper, not enough to sweeten.  Additionally, I found the towel wanted to wick whey from the buttermilk, and deposit it all over my refrigerator.  Folding the towel ends up, and placing the strainer set-up on a plate or tray, eliminates this problem.  Finally, good, whole (at least not non-fat) buttermilk is key.  An organic buttermilk will do the job nicely, or the Bulgarian buttermilk most supermarkets stock.    

*See below for additional serving ideas.  This is the little black dress of seasonal fruit. 

6 cups whole buttermilk
1/2 cup heavy cream
1/4-1/3 cup granulated sugar

plenty of fresh strawberries, sliced, dusted with sugar
muscovado or brown sugar, to top 

Place a large colander atop a wide, deep bowl, and place bowl on a wide plate or tray. Wet a clean cotton kitchen towel, wring out as much water as possible, then fold in half.  Line colander with wet towel, and pour in the buttermilk. Fold towel ends loosely over the top, cover with plastic wrap, and refrigerate for 24 hours.  

The next day, using a rubber spatula, scrape the drained buttermilk from the towel, into a medium bowl.  It will be thick; claim every last bit of goodness.  Stir buttermilk a few times, until smooth and creamy.

In a separate bowl, beat heavy cream until half-whipped.  Add sugar, beginning with the 1/4 cup, and continue to whip until firm, soft peaks form.  Scrape into buttermilk bowl, and fold gently, to incorporate.  Taste for sugar (kindly tart is good), adding a scratch more, if desired. 

To serve on strawberries:  slice your best and brightest, then dust lightly with sugar (one teaspoon per cup is plenty), stirring gently and setting aside to macerate, 10 minutes-1 hour.  Pile berries into a bowl, dollop with buttermilk cloud, and sprinkle with muscovado or brown sugar.  

*Other Serving Ideas:
::  Roast fresh apricots, like this, with a dab of butter, sugar, and cardamom, until they still hold their shape but are melting within, 20-25 minutes (half the time of apples).  Serve bowls of apricots, warm or at room temperature, with generous dollops of buttermilk cloud, and muscovado or crumbled amaretti.
::  Spoon over rhubarb, poached, simmered, roasted or splodged, stirring together, as for a fool, until the loveliest pale pink. 
::  Spoon over fresh sliced ataulfo mangos, with a bit of turbinado sugar and crushed pistachios.
::  Spoon over fresh blackberries, heated with a bit of sugar in a saucepan a few minutes, just until juices start to flow. 
::  Straight up: Spoon buttermilk cloud directly into small cups, stir in a few teaspoons of muscovado, and eat.  Surgeon General's Warming: Highly Addictive.

every year, around this time

I breathe a deep sigh of relief. 

Hello, Summer. 

Every year, when school ends, I commit to processing the reams of papers, ephemera, nostalgia, gum wrappers and crucial what-nots, before summer break officially enters its second week.  The deadline passed this afternoon.  I am this close.  

I re-dedicate myself (and my peeps) to the no toys on the table rule.  At every meal.  A mother is nothing if not optimistic.

Every year, I am sure I will get through the goodbyes, the last days, the graduations, without tissues. 

I am wrong.

Every early June, I spend these first days answering yes yes yes to requests to paint this and sculpt that and can we build a... ?  I'm a sucker for make-and-do, for messy anything. 

(And then I wonder why I cannot. for. the. life. of. me. keep the house clean.  See above, silly.  One step forward, six steps back.  On one measure, anyway.)

I wonder why, before Ohio, I'd never heard of serviceberries.  Do they not grow in Washington?  Did I forget to look up?  (I'm remiss that way.  It's entirely likely.) 

Either way, I am glad they were finally pointed out to me, as we've come to anticipate them mightily, about now.  Plummy sweet drops, free for the taking, polka-dotting trees up and down the road.  Landscaping never tasted so fine.

Every year, come mid-June, I swear the plants are channeling the Incredible Hulk, right behind my back.  Zoë ate the first four steamed haricots from that tiny plant of ten days back.  We've spied the first green, gumball-sized tomatoes.  The runner beans grew three inches in as many days.  (This year, finally, I marked the teepee poles.  Nice to be able to prove the impossible.)  The sunflowers are reaching for their namesake in the sky.  The weeds are aiming to get there first.

(I've decided brick paths and weeds are like peanut butter and jelly: made for each other, and once together, inseparable.)

I remember my Nana, and her exquisite knack for weaving ornamentals and edibles together.  I survey my own awkward tomato-larkspur situation, and I know I'm not there yet, and I know to keep trying. 

Except on days when the thermometer looks like this.

(Unlike the past two weeks, these past several days have seen some sweet relief.  The weather's been brilliant, seventies, raining, overcast, whoot! 

This does not happen every year, here, now.  But I am all for a few new June traditions.) 

So long as they still include strawberries. 

Because every year, right about now, we drown in strawberries.  Mostly, we keep it simple, straight-up.  Strawberries don't ask for much.  A quick rinse.  A warm day.  A happy resignation to spot-cleaning t-shirts. 

We eat quarts as-is, gnawed off their stems.  I'll slice them and sugar them lightly for crèpes.  I'll dollop on vanilla yogurt, and happily (greedily) call them breakfast.  Sometimes, I set out brown sugar and sour cream.  Always, there's a big bowl of warm chocolate.  (I think the kids might veto summer, if there weren't).   

But every year, I keep my eyes up, my antennae out, for a straightforward something to complement a bowl of berries. If we're feeling fancy, and we have an afternoon, we might do up a pie, or a quart of ice cream. (Yes, the ice cream happened.  I'm sure I needn't name the flavor.)  We made our first foray into jam this year.  It was pretty, and pretty tasty, and an A for effort.  But five minutes' work is more my speed, and often as not, more my taste.

This year, my antennae twitched not just once, but twice.   Back in early Spring, I bookmarked Heidi's ingenious roasted strawberries, then waited (im)patiently for the time to come.  Come it did, and roast I did, and so should you, because they are a-mazing.  I would be going on (and on and on) about them here, if only I hadn't next tried these.  

Oh, these.

These look pretty much like a bowl of sliced strawberries. These taste pretty much like Fourth of July fireworks.

What these are is a heap of berries, sliced large, then tossed with lime juice (!), zest (!!), and cardamom (!!!).  There's a bit of sugar, the raw, tawny kind (Turbinado or Demerara, call it what you will), which adds sweetness and depth and a faint caramel edge.  Also, there's the tiniest sprinkling of Grand Marnier, two teaspoons to a quart of fruit.  It's entirely optional—I left it out of the batch Henry and I called breakfast.  But if you're serving the 21-and-up set, it brings a lovely, haunting glow.

But back to the trunk of the tree here, folks: Strawberries. Lime. Cardamom. Seriously. 

I'm no stranger to the way citrus brightens up a bowl of berries; I've long squeezed over lemon and pinched sugar, for sparkle.  But—and you know I'm a fiend for lemon—the lime, here, is like lemon with personality.  Lime has a bit of a backbone, edge, sass.  Yes, that's it.  The lime is just sassy enough to make the berries shake their hips a little.  Without being so bossy as to overwhelm the tender fruit (yes, I'm looking at you, chocolate).

The lime and sugar would be good, grand even, particularly with that tipsy splash.  But then, there's that cardamom.  Pardon me while I sit on my hands.  My fingers go all exclamation-pointy over cardamom. I think I've established that I love the stuff, packing it into shortbread, livening up rhubarberry crisp.  I've been known to grind it into my coffee beans, for goodness sake.  But in an obvious, egregious mental lapse, I've never thought to add it to fresh fruit.  Let me be your bad example.  Make better choices.  Make these berries.

Actually, 'make' is too strong a word.  Stem, slice and stir is all there is to it.  There's no cooking here, no fussing about, save staying busy ten minutes while the berries release their juices.  Don't skip this bit.  It's at least half the joy.  Because what you wind up with is a ruby-hued syrup, heady with cardamom and zippy with lime.  It's intense.  I imagine the both of them spooned over poundcake, or waffles, or angel food, or or or or... I intend to tuck them into biscuits tomorrow, cushioned with whipped cream, and call it shortcake.  I also intend to return to these strawberries, every year, early and often. 

Boozy Strawberries with Cardamom + Lime
adapted from Saveur

The original recipe called for just the juice of the lime, and a (in my opinion) modest 1/4 teaspoon of cardamom. I prefer the added oomph from the lime zest and additional cardamom, but feel free to start small and season to taste. Also, the original called for gin, of which I had none. The Grand Marnier works beautifully; you have options.

Cardamom is significantly cheaper (and fresher) when bought in the bulk aisle, or from a spice retailer (see Penzey's).    

3 heaping cups (1 shy quart) whole strawberries, washed, stemmed and quartered
3 Tbs. Demerara sugar (a.k.a. turbinado or raw)
1 lime, zested and juiced
1/4 - 1 tsp. cardamom
2 tsp. grand marnier (optional)

Place quartered berries in a wide bowl, and add all remaining ingredients.  Stir gently to combine, and let sit 10-20 minutes, or up to six hours.  Serve at room temperature.  Repeat.

 

 

 

and another thing

Dear Patron Saint of Lost Causes:

I've a request.  It's a relatively small one, in the scheme of things.  Not a major miracle or anything.  More of a product development sort of favor. 

Here goes:  Could you see your way to issuing some sort of Early Error Warning System for sewing hacks?  It needn't be big, or even that complicated.  I'm sure, what with microprocessors these days, it could be a nice discreet little add-on.  Like an app, only for the Bernina.  Or a mini-Doppler Radar for the D.I.Y. fiber crowd.  Or like those tiny bugs Tom Cruise was always polka-dotting around under tables in Mission Impossible.  

See?  So small.

Only instead of intercepting secret spy stuff, this would flash or beep or, I don't know, kick you in the shins when you're about to blow it.  You're whipping up a pair of pajama pants, say—no buttons, no trim, no pockets, no pattern, just your classic elasticized upside-down V, easy-peasy—and while you're absolutely sure you're stitching together the right seams, you are in fact absolutely wrong.  Enter your ingenuity, dear soul, waving red flags or sending small electric shocks. 

Doesn't need to be fancy, or even specific.  None of this one ringtone for wrong sides together, another for bobbin thread doesn't match the top stitch.  Nope.  Overkill.  Doesn't even need to be loud, since it's almost guaranteed to go off only between the hours of 10 p.m. and 2 a.m.  Just a gentle *whoooop!* *whoooop!* to let you know you will soon (now!) (REVERSE!) be going off the rails.  To let you know you will regret this later.  To remind you that your daughter will remain stubbornly bipedal, no matter how fetching your new potato-sack-posing-as-pajamas-thingy.  

If you can't swing that, I suppose we could go with Plan B, although the technical specs are a little fuzzy.  I'm probably over-analyzing; implementation's your department.  I'll just state, for the record, that this whole third dimension thing is terribly problematic. 

Paper doll duds are sooooo much easier to engineer than people clothes, and I think you and I both know why.  Outline, scissor, boom: done.  Take away curves, bumps and bends, and you take away the need to affix two-plus pieces of fabric together.  Which is where it all falls apart, of course.  The together-ing.  

Together, turns out, has all kinds of interpretations.  Even on something as simple as plain p.j.'s.  Even when you've done it entirely wrong, once already.  Spent fifteen minutes puzzling out how this oversized tube sock might somehow become pants.  Seen the error of your ways, spent serious quality time with your seam ripper, cursed those excellent triple-stitched seam ends, and re-stitched the whole botched mess the right way, finally.

Even then, you might mis-gauge the mechanics of together.  Even though it seems impossible that a simple V could go sideways.  Once, let alone twice.  But lo, you have found it, rummaged around in that third dimension for yet another "variation".  Sewn the center seams together.  Produced straight-jacket pants.  Not a tube, anyway.  But not exactly practical.  Were we all Flat Stanley's, this would not happen. 

Also, we could slide under doorways, fly like kites, and travel for the price of one first-class stamp. 

I'm just saying.  Two dimensions.  Consider it. 

(See how much simpler a little buzzer would've been?) 

You could suggest I buff up on my spatial reasoning skills, but you, of all people, should know that's truly a lost cause.  We both know I can't navigate my way out of a cardboard box.  But have you forgotten that I cannot even build a cardboard box? 

Surely you recall the wild discrepancy in my high school assessment scores?  The 98th percentile in every last subject area, save that battery where one connects a flattened-out box and its 3-D object?  That battery in which I scored 17%, some 8% lower than what random answers would have gotten me?  Surely, you don't expect me to actually envision the finished product?  Though, reading the instructions might not be too much to ask...

(How I now have a son whose dream afternoon involves turning 8 1/2 x 11" sheets of [flat] paper into all manner of [seriously bumpy] Paper Toy Monsters is beyond me.  Some apples don't even land in the same orchard.  Good thing, too.) 

And another thing, while I have you on the line:  Mosquitoes?  Humidity?  Any wiggle room?  Because both were back in spades this week, and I'm just wondering.  May is lovely, what with the iris and alliums and whatnot, but the pests and sticky, not so much.  Can we negotiate on this one?  Tough nuts are your specialty...

Anyway, I'm willing to work on this, really.  I've already ripped out the entire second set of errant seams.  Only halfway was technically necessary, but whatever.  Also, I started a dress for Zoë's doll.  And even if neither are finished yet, they will be.  Spatially inept I may be, but stubborn and persistent, even more so.  I'm the one, after all, who's finally discovered that the lilacs and cherries must make room for what's next.  Who's giving this gardening business another go, even going so far as to put in four strawberries.  Who's finally discovered, after ten years of dyeing, that egg salad is the quintessential spring meal (Easter eggs!  Chives!  Parsley!  Hello!)  I know to give up on truly lost causes (keeping kids clean in spring, keeping dandelions from wish-blowers), but by and large I keep trying.  There's hope for me yet. 

Not that we're talking egg salad today.  It was good, very good, but rhubarb crisp is grand.  Yes, another rhubarb thing today.  Apologies in advance to the rhubarb loathers; for what it's worth, we were going to talk asparagus.  And we will, soon, but I can't get past this crisp.

It's the crisp I mentioned in passing last week.  And the same one I wrote up, and was going to direct you to over here.  But I seized up at the idea someone might not click through, and might miss something so lovely we've made three times in as many weeks.   

It's not lovely to look out, though I hardly need to tell you that.  I'm not sure crisp ever is.  Fine book, awful cover.  What makes this crisp especially fine, in my book, is that it is a rhubarb-raspberry crisp.  Rhubarb's no stranger to companion fruits, but strawberries are its standard partner in crime.  There's a certain logic to this, as they co-exist for a few weeks, but I'm not a fan, for several reasons.  I find strawberries' deep flavor fades in the oven, while their texture goes all strange and floppy.  Also, strawberries won't come on for weeks, yet.  I can't possibly wait that long for rhubarb crisp.

So years ago, at the suggestion of the Seattle Junior League, I began tipping in a bag of frozen raspberries.  I know nothing about the Seattle Junior League, save this, but I'm here to tell you, they are absolute geniuses.  Raspberries and rhubarb are Abbott and Costello, flip-flops and summer, salt and caramel: perfect.  Raspberries grow richer, deeper, better under fire, melting and concentrating into a jewelled sauce.  They round out the rhubarb's rougher edges, bringing sweetness and perfume and intense fruitiness.  The garnet color doesn't hurt.  Nor does the crispy topping.

Because admit it, we all angle the spoon just a little, to get an extra smidge of addictive crunch.  This particular topping is nothing special, just butter, brown sugar, flour and oats.  That said, there are details that keep me coming back.  The butter is salted, which all sweet things need.  The sugar is light brown, for a faint caramel twinge.  The oats are left whole, for a bit of nutty edge.  And the mixing together's done by hand, as is the scattering.  Vital, this.  I'm a devoted fan of the pinch-and-clump scatter, the taking of a moment to make pea gravel of my topping.  Mostly because I'm a devoted fan of the result, a particularly crisp and caramelized coverlet for my bubbling fruit. 

So perhaps I should amend myself.  The together-ing matters, I stand by that.  But sometimes, it seems, that's where it all succeeds.  

Rhubarb-Raspberry Crisp
Yield: 8-12 servings
adapted from Simply Classic and How to Cook Everything

I've decided there's no point in dirtying a food processor, here, as the oats should never see a blade.  Forming the crisp topping by hand is simpler, better and faster, a matter of minutes.  Do aim for roughly 1/4" slices when cutting the rhubarb.  Years ago, I got lazy, and my 1/2" slices came out of the oven crunchy as an apple. 

For a crisp with juices that run, choose the lesser amount of cornstarch; for a jammier filling, use the full 3 tablespoons.   A teaspoon (or two) of dried ginger or cardamom are wonderful additions to the crisp topping. 

For Fruit:
4 cups rhubarb, sliced ¼” thick
12 ounces raspberries (frozen are fine; no need to defrost)
¾ cup granulated sugar
2 – 3 tablespoons cornstarch

For Topping:
8 tablespoons (1/2 cup) salted butter, at room temperature
1 cup light brown sugar
¾ cup unbleached, all-purpose flour
¾ cup oats (old-fashioned)

Freshly whipped cream or ice cream, to serve

****

Preheat oven to 350°. 

In a baking pan, combine all ingredients for fruit filling, tossing briefly with fingers to combine. 

For the topping, in a wide bowl, combine butter, sugar, flour and oats.  With clean hands, rub warm butter into dry ingredients, picking up handfuls and sliding both between fingers and palms.  Continue until no pockets of dry flour remain, and you have an assortment of sandy clumps and loose crumbs, just a few minutes.  Top crisp by removing small handfuls of topping, squeezing gently to form large crumbs (peanuts to marbles in size), and scattering over surface of fruit. 

Bake 30-40 minutes, until fruit is bubbling around the edges, kitchen is fragrant, and topping is going golden around the edges. 

Allow to cool slightly, and serve, warm, with whipped cream or ice cream.  Also makes a most excellent breakfast.

what to call it

I used to side with Pasteur on the whole chance thing, arriving reliably on the laps of the prepared.  And while I'm not ready to argue against hard work, blood, sweat, tears, yada yada, I'm beginning to wonder.  Maybe even doubt.  Because sometimes, a big pile of wonderful just falls from the sky, with no warning, whatsoever.

I'm not talking about what passes for luck, like the fact the kids made it halfway through the parade, before we bailed and made scrambled eggs.  Time was, I would have called this a failure, thinking they ought to enjoy the whole thing.  Time was, I was young and silly and naive.  These days, I measure success on an altogether different scale, wherein showing up is victory; anything after, extra credit.  So we knew not to push it, and left while ahead, which would've looked like luck to my unseasoned self.  It was really just life, inflected by experience.  (Age, if you must.  I prefer wisdom.) 

I don't mean happy accidents, either, like catching red currants their last week at market, having missed them, apparently, the three weeks' prior.  We scooped up two pints of the tiny red jewels, ate them out of hand and turned them into curd.  It was good, but not great; their color faded, their pucker dimmed.  But their syrup made for a smashing drink, stirred into seltzer with a squeeze of lime.  Perfect for slurping out on the grass.

I don't even mean Mother Nature's startling abundance, that cucumber that tripled in size just in time to inhale before we left, or this "Charlotte" who took up residence over the kitchen sink.  Under ordinary circumstances, I'm not jonesing for spider litters.  Wilbur's buddy, if memory serves, delivered something like 532.  But sometimes, these things pass for science, or a miracle.  And so you wait and watch patiently, three sets of eyes over your shoulder, mindful of the two chrysalises that never came to anything.  Maybe you cross your fingers.  And toes.  And then, just like that, congratulations are in order.  Many, many, many, many of them.  It felt like good fortune, these sudden yields, but cause and effect is probably more like it. 

Even the sun in the sky isn't quite it, though I've been known to act as though it shines (or dims) just for me.  Like when Ohio's weather turned wonderful, just before the Fourth.  Sunny, mid-seventies, no humidity to speak of, we'd seen enough high summer to hop to it and enjoy.  We knew to spread quilts and move stories outside. 

Or the way Washington's weather went all brilliant, once we landed, even though summer was last seen last September, by all accounts.  How we stumbled into Seattle the day summer began is a grand fluke.  How we stumbled into Seattle at all, pure magic.  

That's what I'm going with anyway, for the moment.  It's inadequate, but I'm not just sure what to call it, that moment I opened my Inbox and saw this: "House available in Seattle in July".  Did I mention it's the Inbox I never ever check, the one with four (!) thousand (!!) unopened messages?  (And then some.)  And this note was just sitting there, smack dab on top, waiting for all the world like it knew I was coming?  Magic doesn't really cut it, of course, and I haven't clocked the karma, I'm pretty darn sure.  My Sunday attendance doesn't justify the language, but big ol' blessing comes to mind, or grace running rampant.  I certainly didn't earn or prepare for such luck.  Maybe we can settle on the exquisite kindness of strangers, for now.

I'm not sure what to call this, either, but it's been on my mind a lot, of late.  We made it just before leaving Ohio, knowing our rhubarb might be on its last legs.  And as if a roof alone weren't enough, our home-away-from-home came with its own lush patch; I've got another pan roasting right now, as I type.  It's vacation-easy, and dreamy good. 

What is it?  You could call it a mini-pavlova, I guess, or, my preference, a nice tidy mess.  It's a bit of both, which is to say, a crisp disk of meringue heaped with fruit and chantilly.  (Am I alone in thinking vanilla-whipped cream sound endlessly more elegant under the alias 'chantilly'?)  It's also not exactly either.  Pavlova's are typically big, like a frisbee, with squidgy centers and a yield that serves eight.  The meringue in a mess is crisp as the dickens, but it's crumbled and jumbled, boarding-school style.  We are now counting angels that don't matter one wit. 

What matters is that we made this as an afterthought, one morning between eating breakfast and cleaning up.  We didn't make it for company, or even for an evening treat, but just for our own lunch, because it was as easy as all that.  (Am I alone in thinking dessert sounds endlessly more respectable under the alias 'lunch'?) 

This came together quickly, as we had meringues on hand, which might sound like a feat if you're not in the habit.  It took me years to come around to meringues; they sounded so tricky and tasted so gacky.  ("Tooth-achingly sweet", my mother would say.)  But they're ridiculously easy to put together, two ingredients plus a stand or hand-held mixer.  Just beat egg whites and sugar five minutes or so, until they go glossy and hold stiff peaks.  Like Mount Rainier in the distance, or an upside-down dog ear. 

Then you just spoon and plop, spoon and plop and repeat, and shove in the lowest of ovens for a long while, plus an afternoon or overnight to dry out.  (If you still hold meringue anxiety, consider this: how many cookie instructions include "give or take twenty minutes"?  Terribly forgiving, these little munchkins.)  What you have, in the end, is a crisp snowy disc that holds perfectly for weeks (months, if you can manage).  They're sweet, it's true, and I can't much stand them solo, though my kids think they're perfect, all by their lonesome. (Then again, they'll mainline sugar, if I let them.)

If you ask me, meringue's glory lies elsewhere, as the ideal foil for all manner of fruits.  Their shattery crunch plays off tender nectarines perfectly, and their unabashed sweet makes tart berries sing.  Rhubarb sits squarely between the two, roasted into a slump, teetering toward sour.  I might love it best because it shows up first thing, when all else is fast asleep, in earliest Spring.  I might also ditch it first when other lovelies come to call.  I was determined to get in one more encore this year.  You will not be disappointed if you do the same. 

But as we teeter toward the crush of peak season, feel free to substitute or swap out with abandon.  Meringue plus fresh fruit is the sweater set of summer's table.  Don a cloud of chantilly and you've just added pearls, the perfect yum from the Fourth through Labor Day.  And if you're connecting the dots here — That shelf life!  That versatility! — you'll see you've tucked a dessert ace up your sleeve.  Keep a tin of meringues, and you've a pie crust in your back pocket.  Except, you know, without all the crumbs.  Call it easy, or organized, or devilishly clever; your pick.  You'll call it delicious, any which way.

A FINE MESS  (Meringue, Rhubarb, Whipped Cream)

If you've no rhubarb, don't hesitate to try this with other fruits: strawberries or nectarines, sprinkled with sugar and set to sit (macerate) 15 minutes.  As to the meringues, I've been known to crunkle a few store-bought poofs over the fruit and cream, but I always regret it.  Pale shadows, they are. 

Meringues
Adapted from Mark Bittman, How to Cook Everything
Yields 8-10 2" meringue discs

There are few kitchen ratios I remember, but this is among them — meringues are nothing more than 1 egg white : 1/4 cup sugar.  I often ad hoc meringues, whenever I have extra whites on hand, scaling the recipe up or down based on whatever I've got.  I should mention, you could go and get fancy with this, piping it with a star tip or stirring in shaved bits of bittersweet.  But that's December busywork; fuss has no place in lazy summer days.

Meringues store in an airtight tin forever.  Humidity's their only enemy; beware. 

3 egg whites
3/4 cup granulated sugar

Preheat oven to 150° degrees, or the lowest setting your oven allows.  200° or 225° is fine; just begin checking sooner, around 1 - 1 1/2 hours. 

In a stand mixer with whisk attachment, beat egg whites and sugar until roughly tripled in volume, shiny, opaque, and able to hold soft peaks, 5-8 minutes. 

Line baking sheet with parchment paper.  Using two soup spoons, spoon large dollops (2" or so across) onto lined baking tray, an inch or so apart.  (Meringues don't spread much, so you need only leave a small margin.)  Flatten slightly with spoon, but leave spikes and peaks; they're half the fun.  You're simply aiming for roughly the same thickness, for even cooking. 

Bake 2 hours at 150° (sooner if hotter, per above), or until meringues are dull white, firm to the touch, and crisp throughout.  (Break one in half to check, then call "freebies!")  Turn off oven, and leave them there to crisp, all afternoon or overnight, if you like a palest caramel color and flavor (I do).  Or, if you prefer the traditional pure white, remove after an hour.  Either way, store airtight, once cool, for months, if you can manage. 

Roast Rhubarb + Syrup
Adapted from Seven Spoons, Nigella, and my Pantry
Yields 3 cups rhubarb + 1 cup syrup

I'd originally intended to point you to Tara's recipe directly; her words, images and directions are always pitch-perfect.  Do check it out, if only to swoon.  As it happened, I had no vanilla beans on hand, and so improvised with the orange, which ended up lovely.  Also, I forgot to cover the rhubarb, which yielded firmer fruit and a more intense (reduced) syrup.  So I'm putting it forth as I made it, below.

Note: The rhubarb and syrup can be prepared up to 5 days ahead.  Cover and chill until needed, then bring to room temperature before serving. 

2 pounds rhubarb, washed
3/4 - 1 cup granulated sugar
One orange (organic, if possible)

Preheat an oven to 375°

Cut rhubarb into chunks, 2" in length if finger-thin, 1" if chunky-thick.  If you have a mix, aim for even mass, overall; the aim is even cooking time.  (And if you run into serious stringiness, peel off with your fingers the outer layer that pulls away easily.)  Place cut rhubarb into an ovenproof casserole or skillet.

Scrub the orange, then using a vegetable peeler, remove just the orange outer layer of the peel and place in the pan.  Slice orange in half, and squeeze juice over rhubarb.  Scatter 3/4 cup sugar overall, then toss with fingers to coat.  Place in oven, and roast for 35-45 minutes, or until rhubarb is soft when pierced with the tip of a knife, but still holds its shape.

Set a fine-mesh sieve over a medium bowl, then using a slotted spoon, remove rhubarb to sieve (there will still be syrup in the bottom of the pan.  Save this; you'll come back to it.)  Allow to sit, 10-15 minutes, until syrup has drained into the bowl.  (Don't press on solids; they'll cloud the syrup.)  Remove rhubarb chunks to a clean bowl, and cover.  Pour remaining syrup into sieve, scraping with a rubber spatula to get every last drop, then allow to drain into the bowl.

While the syrup is warm, taste for sweetness, bearing in mind you will want it quite tart to balance the meringues.  Add a bit more sugar, if needed, and stir to dissolve.  Cover, and chill, until needed. 

(Save a little, if you can, to quaff as a drink:  Mix a few Tablespoons' rhubarb syrup with a squeeze of lime, then fill a glass with seltzer water and ice cubes to chill.  Summer made sippable, and pink, to boot.)   

To Assemble:

One pint heavy cream, whipped to soft peaks with vanilla and a few Tablespoons' sugar

Place one meringue disc on a plate, heap with rhubarb (generous 1/4 cup), top with whipped cream (ditto), and drizzle generously with rhubarb syrup.  Eat, sigh, repeat.