Summer 2010 is finished, put away your white shoes and lazy summertime attitudes. We may have a week or two before the equinox, but now is a good time to get your head around the notion of a serious working schedule. It’s September; so we should all have that back-to-school spirit, shouldn’t we?

Well, yes we should. Because there are cute jackets to buy, new books to order (In The Kitchen with A Good Appetite by my wonderful boss Melissa Clark is an especially great cookbook/essay collection, if anyone is in the market for same), and, as always, rent to be paid. Since all these things take money, and since money doesn’t fall from the trees, it follows that we must shake off this August lethargy and apply ourselves industriously.

But let’s just wait, say, five minutes more. There’s no sense in rushing toward the inevitable autumn. Let’s sit for a moment more in the sun. We can have a nice refreshing glass of basil lemonade while we take a deep breath and psych ourselves up for the exhausting onslaught of hustle and bustle that is to come. Soon enough we’ll be too busy to dangle a string in front of the cat and icy beverage sipping will be at the very bottom of the bottomless to-do list.

What’s that you say? You’ve never had lemonade with basil? Oh dear, you are missing out, as it is loads better than regular lemonade and, believe it or not, even a scoche more desirable than mint lemonade, which is also a treat but not quite as sophisticated, flavor-wise. Now you really must get up out of your deck chair (it looks like it’s going to rain anyway) and make yourself a pitcherful.

Before you stir a handful of herbs into a carton of Newman’s Own (and I’m not saying I’m categorically opposed to that option), what I want to recommend is that you cook up a basil confectionary syrup to sweeten freshly squeezed citrus. It’s not as fussy as you might imagine, simply a matter of infusing sugar water with basil leaves. It takes a bit of time, yes, but hardly any effort. The plus side is that you’ll end up with almost a quart of fragrant elixir, which will keep indefinitely – in any event, it will surely be used up before it has a chance to go bad.

Give a generous drizzle of the herbaceous syrup into a frosty pitcher (it’s nice in lemonade, and very nice in ice cold vodka with a spritz of seltzer). Then give yourself a good pep talk. You’ll be in high spirits by the time the glass is drained, ready to take on the fall and all comers. Who’s next?

Basil Confectionary Syrup

Makes about 1 quart

2 cups sugar

1 (8-ounce) bunch fresh basil, rinsed

In a heavy-bottomed saucepan set over medium heat, stir together the sugar with 2 cups of water. Cook, stirring occasionally, until the sugar dissolves and the syrup thickens slightly, about 5 minutes. Take the pan off the heat and add the basil, pressing the leaves into the liquid so they are submerged. Cover the pan with a lid and allow the syrup to cool to room temperature, 2 to 6 hours (it depends on the temperature of the room, now doesn’t it?). The syrup should be very fragrant and ever so slightly green. Discard the basil, carefully pour the syrup into a clean jar, and store in the refrigerator until needed.

To make Basil Lemonade: Squeeze 4 to 5 lemons through a strainer into a pitcher or large bowl. Top with an equal amount of cold water (sparkling or flat). Stir in 1/3 cup Basil Confectionary Syrup, taste, and add more if desired. Drop in a few fresh basil leaves for garnish.

The photo above was taken by my wonderful friend Melissa Clark with her very fancy camera.

Last Saturday I was sitting on my second-favorite bench in my fourth-favorite park, when a woman walking by shouted at me, “you look Raphael-esque!” Some people might have just ignored being shouted at by a passer-by, but not me. I happen to be completely tickled by being compared to a great work of art, and I shouted back, “Oh, go on!” But she had already gone on and crossed the street.

I stayed on the bench longer than I meant to, holding my pose and getting bitten by mosquitoes, thinking about the power of a nice presentation. Even though I wasn’t exactly sure what painting she was referring to – and assuming it was a painting and not a Ninja Turtle – I surmised that the shouty woman perceived artistry where there was only me because of the way I had arranged myself. Sitting in an elegant slouch, with an open-necked shirt, in front of some kind of myrtle tree plant was not at all a complicated arrangement, but evidently it had an inviting visual appeal. And the presentation of food on a plate ought to be similarly enticing.

In restaurants a great deal is made about the look of an order. In pastry school we had a whole course focusing on how to present a pretty plate. But I don’t think creating a sightly dish need be the result of too much study or guile. It just needs a tiny bit of forethought and, of course, a little common sense.

First of all: don’t crowd the plate. No matter how good a cook you are, people will only be reminded of sloppy cafeteria lunches when everything is all piled on together. If you’re a person with a voracious appetite who must eat loads of food at one sitting, that’s fine. Just invest in some appropriately gigantic dishes.

Another thing to keep in mind is color. Certainly, nobody intends to serve up a big plate of beige – but sometimes it’s hard to avoid. Let’s say your dinner is an optically lame whole-wheat cous cous and grilled chicken: you could liven it up by giving it a garnish. Just chop some fresh parsley or cilantro and sprinkle that on top. It’ll still be a plate of earth tones, but at least the green bits show you’ve made an effort.

Or, even better, toss a handful of cherry tomatoes with a tablespoon or so of olive oil, salt, and freshly ground pepper on a baking sheet. Place it under the broiler until the tomatoes get a little shriveled, blistery, and slightly caramelized, no more than four minutes. Stir them into the cous cous, they’ll taste so good and look like scattered jewels (which are the best kind of jewels, obviously).

Now, if you’ve got guests coming over whom you’d like to impress (i.e., anybody who comes over), you’ll want do a little something to class up the plate. It only takes a few artistic touches here and there to have your dining companions swooning – or at minimum have them moderately intimidated by your fanciness. For example, as soon as any guest enters my home I always make them a cocktail garnished with a fresh sprig of mint. People really freak out over this, I can’t tell you why – it’s only mint. But there you go.

For the main course, do use an unexpected element. I have a friend who, whenever he has a date visit his apartment for the first time, will make a salmon dish that he serves sprinkled with black sesame seeds. The color contrast is fun and fresh, he says, and the ladies love it. I have to take his word for this (we’re not that kind of friends).

For dessert, do not underestimate the importance of sauce. Worried that fudgey brownies or butter cookies are the only sweet dishes in your repertoire? Well, don’t be. You can serve them with great aplomb on small plates atop a swirl of homemade sauce. All you have to do is plop three or four tablespoons of jam (raspberry or apricot are personal favorites, but anything will work) in a small saucepan over low heat. Stir in some water (or alcohol) to thin it slightly, then drizzle on the plate. Oh so fancy.

Now, if these ideas don’t appeal, my best suggestion is to serve up any old hash from the kitchen and tell your guests that the evening has a rustic theme. Give everybody their own jug of wine, rip off hunks of bread to nosh on, and sing drinking songs. I’m quite sure it is what any artiste would do.

(The photo above is of a painting by Vincent Van Gogh, which I found on the internet by googling famous paintings + food. I wanted to use a photo of a Raffaello Sanzio da Urbino painting, but he really didn’t depict anything edible. Just the madonnas and the whores. Also some cherubs.)

Sugar and flour are great productivity boosters. Not long after I graduated from pastry school I went to work as part of the overnight baking crew at a renowned Hell’s Kitchen bakery. A team of three or four of us were on the job from 8:00 pm to 4:00 am making hundreds of scones, biscuits, muffins, croissants, sticky buns, and such from scratch so they were fresh and ready to go for the early morning customers. Those were very busy nights, the eight hour shift just barely long enough for us to get all of our buns and etc. out of the oven and priced for sale. A person needs a lot of energy to sustain that kind of high-volume artisanal production night after night and, when I was new to the business, I tended to keep mine up via a steady stream of sweets.

I ate as many of our fantastic cherry cream scones as I could get my floury hands on, how ever many were left over from the day before plus one or two from the fresh batch (we always had to try at least one of everything, you know, for quality control). By the end of each night’s tour of duty I probably had a half dozen scones in me (not to mention a few bites of applesauce doughnut, lemon muffin, and maybe a cinnamon twist) that would all digest as I slept late into the afternoon. Obviously, this was an unsustainable lifestyle – though it took me a bit of a while to realize it.

One night while I washed the giant mixing bowl I had made the scones in (that bowl was truly huge, a grown woman could take a bath in it), and scrubbed out the remnants of white flour and heavy cream which formed this cement-like paste at the bottom, the thought hit me like an industrial-sized case of brown sugar: this sludge is going through my guts right now.

Which is not to say cherry cream scones are sludge. On the contrary they are a tasty treat, the likes of which everyone deserves to enjoy frequently – but, seriously, not six a night. That is just an unhealthy amount of refined sugar and flour. And the heavy cream is probably not doing anybody any favors either.

Still, when I get a little busy or feel a little blue I just can’t go on without something sweet. Like a cookie. Or several. I find oatmeal cookies are just the thing for a wholesome, healthful pick-me-up and can be made a touch wholesomer with whole wheat flour. Of course, I add lightly toasted nuts for muscle-building protein and dark chocolate chips for the rejuvenating properties of their anti-oxidents. I sweeten them with honey, which, though technically a refined sugar, has plenty of super qualities. I add the zest of an orange because it’s pretty – and it’s flavor makes a festive compliment to the chocolate and honey.

And for a final way to rationalize cookie over-consumption, I’ve been making these oaty goodies with olive oil instead of butter. Not only do they taste great (which, I assure you, they do) but they can surely be considered part of a healthful regimen. I mean, eat three or four of these cookies with a jar of anchovies and you’ve practically got the Mediterranean Diet right there. Or have them with a glass of milk, whatever, it’s entirely up to you and how you choose to enjoy life. I advocate cookies and a good night’s sleep.

Super Wholesome Oatmeal Cookies

Makes 2 1/2 dozen cookies

1 1/2 cups whole wheat flour

2 teaspoons cinnamon

1/2 teaspoon baking soda

1/2 teaspoon baking powder

1/2 teaspoon kosher salt

1/2 cup extra-virgin olive oil

1/2 cup light-bodied honey, such as orange flower, wildflower, or clover

1 large egg, lightly beaten

2 teaspoons vanilla extract

Freshly grated zest of 1 orange

2 cups rolled oats

1/2 cup chopped walnuts, lightly toasted

1/2 cup bittersweet chocolate chips

In a small bowl, mix the flour, cinnamon, baking soda, baking powder, and salt. In a large mixing bowl, beat together the olive oil and honey. Add the egg, vanilla, and orange zest and continue beating until combined. Add the flour mixture all at once and stir just until no lumps remain. Stir in the oats, nuts, and chocolate chips until evenly distributed. Scrape the dough (it will be very sticky) onto a sheet of plastic and wrap up. Refrigerate until the dough firms up enough to work with, at least 1 hour and up to 3 days. Or chill it in the freezer for 20 minutes, if you’re in a rush.

When you’re ready to bake the cookies, preheat the oven to 325° F. Line 3 rimmed baking sheets with parchment paper, or lightly grease them to prevent the dough from sticking. Place heaping teaspoon-sized chunks of dough onto the prepared baking sheets with 1 1/2 inches between each chunk of dough. Bake until golden brown but still soft, 10 to 12 minutes. Transfer the cookies onto a wire rack to cool.

They’ll keep in an airtight container for 5 days or, if you don’t want to be tempted to eat them all at once, you can freeze the dough for up to 6 months. Just defrost and bake 4 or 5 cookies as needed, which is exactly what I do.

Photo by Ronan Killeen via his computer phone. (As previously noted, Mr. Killeen is not some punk who doesn’t own proper camera equipment. Though this time he did have advance notice that he would be taking this picture, he chose to pursue the artistic challenge of computer phone photography rather than schlep his photog gear to Brooklyn.)

One of my favorite Betty Draperisms is: “Only boring people get bored.” Reminds me of what my grandmother used to say: “What, you kids are bored? Go clean your room.” Neither adage was particularly helpful last Saturday afternoon when everybody in the known universe but me was on vacation and the weather was (finally) too nice to go to the movies and the World Cup had been over for an age. I was so bored.

Operating under the philosophy that sometimes you have to make your own fun, I decided to put on my Breton-striped shirt, cute shoes, one superfluous accessory (a low-slung belt that didn’t hold anything up, it was just for show) and go walk around the West Village pretending to be French. I think the look really worked because I was wearing very little make-up and hadn’t washed my hair since Tuesday. Voila!

“Voila” is one of the few French words I actually know, but I could always blow through my pursed lips and shrug my shoulders in a Gallic fashion in order to communicate. I remembered back to when I was a cigarette girl at a gentleman’s cabaret, there was an entertainer called Bianca who used to pretend to be French. I don’t think she spoke the language either, she was always asking for customers to buy her, “‘Ow do you say…le cigarette.” Everyone thought it was very droll, you know, they first time they heard her do it.

And it was an amusing way to pass the time, experiencing the city as a (imaginary) Frenchwoman might. “Theez Magnolia cupcakes, they are, ‘ow do you say, le too sweet!” I said to the people waiting in line for Magnolia cupcakes. “Pardonez moi, ‘ow do you get to Le High Line?” I said to the good-looking man sitting on the steps of the High Line. Buying a P.D. James detective novel at Partners & Crime Mystery Booksellers, I said to the clerk, “Theez English – too much milk in their chocolat, but their novels mystère are c’est magnifique!” “What?” said the clerk. I blew through my lips and shrugged my shoulders, Frenchly.

When the time came to get some dinner I, of course, wanted to continue my Francophilistic charade. I thought of the story a friend used to tell of her ex-husband, a Frenchman. He would say, “We need to go to the store, we are out of butter.” And she would say, “But you’ve got two sticks of butter right there in your hand.” And he would say, “No! It is not enough!” Thus I knew a proper faux French meal would have to be quite buttery. But what else?

Escargot are French. But it’s harder than you might think to get fresh snails in New York City. And anyway, escargot in garlic butter sauce was more authentic than I cared to be. Garlic butter sauce, however, fit the mood exactly. I popped over to Citarella and bought a quarter-pound of shrimp and a fresh baguette (something, after all, had to go with the sauce), the rest of the ingredients I had at home. I would like to point out, for the record, I did not do the phony accent thing while talking to the guy at the seafood counter. Readers, please take note: it is always unwise to annoy anyone who will be handling your food. Or drink.

At home I minced two garlic cloves and a large pinch of fresh parsley. I put them in a skillet over a moderate heat with half a stick of good, French butter. I thought of my friend’s ex, then plonked in two more tablespoons of butter and a sprinkle of sea salt. When the butter melted and the garlic was very fragrant, I added the shrimp (there were about six of them, each cleaned, deveined, and cut into thirds). I let the whole thing sizzle until the shrimp were just opaque, about two minutes and no more. I swirled in a decent-sized splash of dry, white wine (I think Pernod would have been even better, but I didn’t have any). I put it all on a plate, ripped off a hunk of baguette, and ate it up. Really, it was too much butter for one person. But, as I don’t intend to be pretend French on a regular basis, I regret nothing.

That said, my mom came for a visit this past week. She was here in my Brooklyn apartment for a long weekend – she took the bedroom with the a/c and I shared the sofa with the cat. We did all the normal mother-daughter visiting activities, went out to eat a lot, shopped, looked at the pictures in MoMA, and walked around endlessly. Throughout her four-day stay we were never separate. And now, for some reason, I find myself craving an extra big helping of green leafy kale.

I’m not going to lie, it was distressing to sleep on the sofa. Sofas are fine for naps, but not made for a night’s rest. And the cat, perfectly respectful of peaceful repose when I’m all tucked up in bed, showed no such reverence when she found me curled up and comforter-less on the sofa. It was nothing but meowing in my ear until the wee hours of the morning. Then, when I finally fell asleep she put her paw in my mouth. It tasted awful.

And the walking. Have you ever walked around New York City with someone not accustomed to it? It’s like once they get in an urban environment where there is a fair amount of hustle and a modicum of bustle, they forget how to put one foot in front of the other. They go so slow and have no sense of the rhythm of the sidewalk (sometimes you have to let others pass, sometimes you have to power past them). Not only did I get a massive crick in my neck from checking to see if she was still behind me (no matter how slow I walked, she simply refused to keep pace – even when I wore my cutest and most hobbling shoes on purpose to make myself go slower), but it was patently mortifying to look back and see my own mother impeding the borough’s foot traffic. Perhaps I am too easily mortified. It’s just that I take a lot of pride in my stride and I think everyone (especially blood relations) should do the same.

But here’s the thing that was truly discombobulating about the whole visit. The realization that so threw me off balance I can barely put it into words was this: my mother is exactly like me. Or, rather, I’m exactly like her, on account of she was here first. Either way: here’s me, here’s my rocker – imagine a vast distance between the two.

The idea first occurred to me when we were hanging out with some of my friends, she was discussing Mad Men, dissing Lebron James, remarking on the outfits of passers-by, and basically filling the “me” role in our group dynamic. I even heard her throw out a random Star Wars reference. It made my skin crawl. Later, when we were bickering, I had the strangest sensation that I was criticizing myself. Like that is the source of most of our arguments, I’m really just annoyed with my own stupid mistakes. Frankly, I’m not ready to accept this turn of thought. I’m going to need to repress this for a little while longer.

And that’s where the kale comes in. I’m hoping I can eat enough of it that it’s nutrients and wholesome goodness will sort of anesthetize my mood, smooth over my shock at discovering this indisputable fact of our mother-daughter existence. I think I can do it, too. Kale is really good.

I love it sautéed with spicy sausage – and it couldn’t be easier to prepare. Warm a big skillet over medium-high heat on the stovetop. Crumble in a spicy sausage (they sell these fantastic chorizo-style sausages at the specialty shop near where I live, if you can’t get the same flavorful quality where you are then add chili flakes or a pinch of cayenne for seasoning) and, while the meat browns, trim a fistful of (well-rinsed and dried) kale leaves by cutting out the spiny stem. Tear the leaves up into bite-sized pieces and add them to the pan. Let them wilt in the heat for abut a minute then start stirring them around, tossing the leaves gently with the sausage until they’re all nice and coated with that good spicy flavor. Depending how soft you like your kale (I like mine fairly crunchy, I like how their ruffles feel in my mouth), cook the leaves for 5 to 7 minutes more before scraping the whole pan (sausage drippings and all – superb when sopped up with crusty bread) onto your plate. Finish with sea salt.

Assuming your sausage is about a quarter pound, and you use a good-sized fistful of kale, this dish could serve two people. But I really needed the vitamins, so I ate it all up myself. I recommend doing the same whenever you make a relationship-changing realization you would just as soon not think about.

No matter what the circumstances, it’s important to maintain a sunny disposition. Even in the middle of another New York City heat wave, I try to remain calm. I’m really not a summery type of person so, yeah, it’s a bit of a struggle. I have an air conditioner inherited from a roommate out of time immemorial – one that’s noisily inadequate, possibly spewing up allergens, definitely harming the ozone layer, but I’m grateful to have the thing wedged into my bedroom window making its rumbling effort. Can’t say I feel any cooling effects, though. But that’s the summer, eh? It’s oppressively hot. But we all have to try and find our own fleeting moment of serenity somehow.

I try to find mine via something nice to eat. It may be emotional eating (does sweaty lethargy count as an emotion?), but whatever works I say. During the heat wave-before-last I got a little burst of sweet summertime cheer from a plateful of strawberries that were dipped in crème fraîche and rolled in brown sugar. The light tang of crème fraîche provided just the right buffer between the caramelly gloss of brown sugar and the juicy smack of berry. A person can consume a lot of berries like that – dip and roll, dip and roll – without too much fuss and without feeling like too much of a glutton. We’re just talking about dolled up fruit, after all – elegant DIY confectionery at it best. And they’re ever so refreshing with a frosted glass of minty ice tea, especially when served directly in front of a moderate- to high-powered rotating fan.

But that was two heat waves ago (about three weeks) and fresh, local strawberries are already out of the markets here. Stupid summer, stupid way-too-fleeting serenity.

In years past I might have just shrugged and thought: this is the Jet Age, if I want strawberries in late July I will just pay extra to get them at the supermarket where they are conveniently flown in from someplace far far away, like the Meekong Delta or Idaho. But lately I’ve been trying to be a more enlightened and ecologically conscious consumer (carbon emitting air conditioner aside) so I got on my bike and pedaled to the farmers’ market instead. I brought a tub of crème fraîche and a teacup full of sugar with me to see if any other kind of fruit tastes good with a serene little dip and roll.

I tried blueberries, which were abundant in the stands and seemed like they would give the same happy anti-oxidant laden kick as a strawberry. It was a sound theory (if I do say so myself) but the thing about the blueberry is its size – too much surface area, not enough fruit and all you end up tasting is the sugar and the crème. Next I tried these golden plums that were so pretty I thought for sure they’d be winners, but no dice. Maybe plums aren’t at they’re peak of flavor yet, right now they just don’t add a thing to the operation – all looks and no character. Finally I tried a slice of peach. It was a little green yet, not quite in prime season, but fragrant and alluring all the same. And the peach, dipped, rolled, and dripping with syrup, was exactly what I was in the mood for. I bought some more and ate them, sunnily, in the shade.

Photo by Ronan Killeen via his computer phone. (Mr. Killeen would like me to note that he is not some punk who doesn’t own proper camera equipment, it’s just that I asked him to take the pic on the spur of the moment.)