September, life finds its rhythm. Work, school, a more regular schedule, whether one has been away or not. Summer obeyed different rules — drinks after work that won’t let go because it isn’t yet night at ten o’clock, drawn out day trips to the beach that feel as good as a week away, shorter hours, longer hours, a trip, an adventure. Chances are, there was a disruption of pace. In September, the tempo returns. The French call it ‘la rentrée.’
I buy bucketloads of vegetables. Summer yawns and stretches into autumn and there is so much to chose from, to be overwhelmed by. There are familiar ideas to steady myself, the things I feel impelled to make every September, with Pavlovian regularity.
Corn on the cob
Runner beans cooked in an instant stew of olive oil, tomatoes, garlic, and herbs
Steak (preferably skirt steak)
Perhaps, from the hazy alcoves of years past, a simple combination I hadn’t made for a long while —
Figs, prosciutto, mozzarella on a blanket of basil, bound together with a sliver of olive oil and dusting of black pepper
This can be dinner.
A ratatouille to hold on to summer for a few weeks longer. [N&Q]
Many ideas with plums, which, though they do appear earlier, to me always signify September. [N&Q]
Nigel Slater agrees. More plums (!) and marinated maquerel in his column last week. [Guardian]
More figs (!). I often evade recipes with many ingredients, steps, and components, but these Figs in pomegranate molasses and tahini nut crumble sound irresistible. [Guardian]
A negroni, with a twist. [Guardian]
La rentrée brings impetus. Much more than January, September is a time for new things — resolutions, if you like the term. Midwinter was for hibernating, September to harvest and feast. It’s the time to sow. Recharged, happy to refashion some regularity, I’ve delved in the dark corners of my refrigerator and retrieved my sourdough starter. It had been lying dormant for a year. I have not used it or fed it. I’ve barely looked at it. There are two jars with about one inch each of starter, topped by a few millimetres of brownish grey liquid. No mold, no pungent smell. I am curious, and curiously hopeful. I’ve left my starter lie before, but never nearly this long.
It is miraculous. After one unscientific, unmeasured ‘feeding’ — a tablespoon of starter, about double the amount of dark rye flour, and just enough (filtered) water to create a thick paste — left for a few days in a warm (thanks to the weather) kitchen, the mixture is showing timid signs of activity. Air bubbles. I can hardly believe it.
The sourdough adventure continues …
SOME LINKS !
(If I’ve done this correctly, the NY Times articles should be unlocked)
A fascinating story about acequias, an irrigation system created in the Middle Ages and replaced by water intensive systems since the 1960s are now being excavated and brought back to life to adapt to extreme heat and drought in Southern Spain. [NYT]
The brilliant iconoclast who rejects terroir — portrait of Oregon wine maker Maggie Harrison. [NYT]
Fuchsia Dunlop on The Chairman restaurant in Hong Kong and why Cantonese food is not what you think it is. [FT]
Happy September, bonne rentrée!
I have always felt that September should be where the new year should begin. x