It's A Cucumber

According to my seed-sharing neighbor, Lisa, the odd green produce in the photo below is called an Italian cucumber. I concur that it's definitely a variety of cucumber. The flesh looks and tastes like a cucumber, although the skin is thinner and the seeds are larger than more common cucumber variations. As for it being Italian, I have no idea if this is true, and I have yet to corroborate this fact. For the record, Lisa's parents are of Italian descent and own a vineyard in Napa, so I'm inclined to take her at her word.

Ethnicity aside, our curious cucumber stepped up to plate last night and became the mainstay in a sauce that I paired with salmon fillets that were sauteed briefly in olive oil and lemon juice. Take this recipe, and enjoy. I adapted it from the current issue of Bon Appetit.

Green Gazpacho Sauce (for fish or whatever else you want to marry it to)

1 cucumber (any variety), seeded and roughly chopped, measuring about 1 1/2 cups
3 or 4 green onions, using both white and green parts, roughly chopped
Handful of fresh cilantro, roughly chopped
2-3 tablespoons of olive oil
1 tablespoon of balsamic vinegar
1-2 tablespoons of lemon juice
salt to taste

In a food processor or blender, combine the cucumber, green onions and the cilantro. Pulse until mixture is pureed. Add 2 tablespoons of olive oil, the vinegar, 1 tablespoon of lemon juice, and some salt. Pulse a few times until combined. At this point, I advise tasting the sauce. If it seems too dry or the flavors aren't vibrant enough, add the additional olive oil and the lemon juice. Chill for about an hour before serving. Makes enough for 4 as an accompaniment. Great paired with sauteed or grilled salmon. (FYI: The recipe that appeared in Bon Appetit added serrano chiles and omitted the lemon juice. The magazine paired it with seared mahi-mahi.)

Name That Produce

The greenish things in this photo are edible and were cultivated in our yard this summer. We started the plants in little cups from seeds given to us in the spring by our neighbor, Lisa. Upon seeing the finished product in our yard in July, Lisa nearly cried, her nostalgia for this item was that intense. All of us are familiar with more common varieties of this item, which are readily available at the supermarket or at the farmer's market, but I've never seen this variation anywhere else. If I hadn't known what the seeds were called, I would have been clueless about the resulting harvest.

Care to take a guess? Here's a hint: It has seeds in the center, which can be eaten or removed depending our your preference. The tomatoes in the photo are provided to give you a sense of scale. Prize for the winner....how about some tomatoes?

When Does One Reach Tomato Overkill?

Your refusal to comment on whether Dennis and I should install raised planting beds in the front lawn (see previous post) gives me pause. I have to assume that you think the idea is cracked brain, and you worry about our standing in the community. You're loathed to encourage us in what might well be a misadventure, although I doubt it would reach more than minnow proportions. At worst, we might encourage the squirrels and the crows to linger even longer at our house, given the possibility they might nip a bite of fruit or pilfer a fat worm. From the humans, some passers-by might roll their eyes and cluck a bit, or we might find ourselves the subject of a little neighborhood gossip for being "different." All are possible.

On the other hand, no one wants to be the one who dampens our spirits and just says, "No." You're not willing to finger-wag and tell us, "No front yard veggie patch. Not now. Not later. Not ever. You live in the suburbs, and not in California's farm belt. Besides, you already have an overabundance of tomatoes. Do your really want more produce? "

I have to admit that the tomato surplus is an excellent point. When does one cross the line with the crops? When does one arrive at too much of a good thing?

For the record, 60 tomatoes of mixed sizes and varieties -- after being skinned, seeded, cooked and pureed -- yield 8 cups of tomato something or other. You could call it a marinara sauce if you like, but it's more of a base, really, on which to build other dishes. One could add meat, or broccoli and eggplant, or shellfish, or just some garlic and mushrooms. I know the yields and quantities from personal experience. I've stood at the stove for hours this summer and processed tomatoes in this way. As I write this, a medium-sized pot of tomatoes, to which ground beef, red wine, and herbs have been added, bubbles gently in the kitchen, evidence of my labors.

Truth is, the bumper crops we experience every year (because my husband, instead of being conservative, gets greedy and installs dozens of tomato plants each spring that explode with full and unbelievable production by August) are a trial. I mean this in a good way. We share the bounty with anyone who expresses the tiniest interest. We eat lots of salads and soups. And I cook tomatoes until my hands are red and my fingers are wrinkled in order to freeze quite a bit of puree for later. Sometimes I reach my limit.

Of course, come this October, when I'm thawing out a few cups of home-grown tomato sauce for lasagna or some pasta, I'll be grateful for the amazing taste and the fact that it didn't come from a can or a jar or a supermarket shelf.