flavor
slices of red pepper tart. Born and bred in southern United States, I find that no word in the English language compares to fried. We in the south have been served fried wisteria and fried Sambucus (elder bush) flowers. And the Tuscans are as mad for frying as are we southerners. In Tuscany, we make a light beer batter. As guests are handed their glasses of prosecco, we pass fried artichokes and— praise the gods—fried zucchini flowers. We fry the male flowers—those that will not become zucchini but blaze just as brilliantly in the garden. Don’t wash the delicate zucchini flowers. Just pull them gently from the plant, leaving the stamens inside. If you like, you can insert a sliver of cheese or a spoon of mashed potatoes and some basil into the flower. But they are simply divine as they are. Here’s the simple batter: Mix a cup of flour with a cup of beer and some salt. Dip the artichokes or flowers into the batter, then fry them in about two cups of peanut or sunflower oil. Out of habit, I use peanut oil. You always read that you can’t fry in olive oil. Tell it to the Tuscans! When we fry in our own great oil—as Tuscans often do—there’s a particular lightness and crispness that I love. When the flowers are crisp, sprinkle with coarse salt. Serve them hot and keep them coming! Guests will eat a 18
LEAF MAGAZINE
summer 2012
prodigious amount. You may think that dinner should end then. No! The pasta or risotto are the next act, followed by a spit-roasted guinea hen, or a savory veal shank and some stuffed peppers, slow-roasted onions, or green beans with orange and olives. Some cheeses appear, and a grappolo of grapes and a few plums to dip in a bowl of cool water. Surely that’s it. But then comes the fig tart. Guests may have been at the table for five hours by now, so appetites have cranked up again (perhaps not for a second piece of tart, but surely for a little glass of grappa or limoncello). At the end of these summer evenings, we push back from the table at one or two in the morning. Even the fireflies have gone to sleep. As I clear the plates and the thousand glasses, I’m thinking of my garden. I’ll be checking on the tomatoes in the morning for the moment the flowers begin to form little green knobs. Already the strawberries, lettuces, and onions proclaim their virtues. Cut the arugula before it bolts, I remind myself. What a pleasure, the strong sun pouring onto the eggplant, potatoes, raspberries, and garlic. I almost can feel the warmth on my shoulders—a pleasure as strong as bringing that bounty to the table, and celebrating with friends under the stars.