Here in D.C., it’s felt a bit like summer since last summer. The extent of our winter snowfall came on an afternoon in March, when the first neon hints of green had long since popped, and lasted half an hour. The cherry blossoms came early, my tomato plants had quadrupled in size by late April, and somewhere along the way, I wondered: If this spring never really began, would I even notice when it ended? Would I appreciate summer without a hint of proper winter?
The answer, it turns out, is yes. On Tuesday night, my husband and I met friends at Makan, ate on their sidewalk patio and then stopped for margaritas at El Chucho. The neighborhood seemed to have done away with the concept of indoors. Windows were open, garage doors pulled up. It wasn’t so much that the weather was perfect; there simply was no weather. It wasn’t hot, wasn’t cold, wasn’t breezy, wasn’t stagnant, wasn’t humid, wasn’t dry. It just was. We all agreed: Something had shifted. It was summer.
Even though I grew up in a city where it’s practically possible to chew on the August air, summer has always been my favorite season. I will never grow out of being giddy over pools and oceans and shorts and freckles and the way a swig of salty, icy beer hits on a sweaty afternoon. Most all, though, I am giddy over summer food: thinking about it when it’s out of season, then cooking it, eating it, buying it.
And now it seems only fitting to write about it.
For me, for most of the year, seasonal cooking is unintentional. The air gets chilly, and I want food to warm me up. There’s no more corn at the grocery store, and the tomatoes are starting to look like they’ve caught a case of the blues, so of course I’m going to make chili and pull out my two volumes of Julia Child. Then, come spring, I see a fresh onion, and I cook with it. I find 800 uses for those electric-magenta radishes.
And then, as soon as my palate decides it’s summer, I start to cook variations on the same recipes, year after year. No other season makes me want the same foods I’ve been eating for decades, and though I’m not opposed to trends — I’ll swill the drink of the summer without a peep of objection — there’s something about summer that makes me want to settle into familiarity. Instead of getting creative with new recipes, I get comfortable, and I like to think after so much summer indulgence, my methods and madness might be worth sharing. So — because why not? — I decided to compile my favorite summer recipes for your cooking (grilling, baking, stomach-aching) pleasure.
summer meat (or: meat cooked outdoors)
If you’re lucky enough to have a Big Green Egg or some comparable smoker, get your hands on the ingredients you need for barbecued chicken with Alabama white sauce. And if you’re skeptical of a mayonnaise-based barbecue sauce, never fear. I was too, the first time I made it. Something so pale and creamy seemed beyond the genre and beyond my comprehension. Well, I’m here to tell you: Alabama white sauce is great, and the unspeakable things it does to your chicken will convert you in no time.
If I’ve got less time on my hands for prep and grilling, I’m all about Molly Baz’s spicy coconut grilled chicken thighs, which pack a ton of flavor but aren’t particularly spicy, despite the name. Or I’ll do something with a skirt steak — check out the recipe at the end of this newsletter — which always yields a dinner that feels a lot fancier than the time invested in it.
I can’t write about grilling without mentioning ribs in all their summertime glory. I just can’t muster the energy to be a purist and smoke them for hours, so I like to make them in the oven and finish them on the grill. Lately, I’ve been a big fan of these spicy tamarind pork ribs, with one note of caution: Make sure you know whether you’re using tamarind concentrate and puree. If you’re using concentrate, you’re going to want to dilute it with water to about half its strength. Otherwise, your marinade is going to be overpowering and too bitter.
side dishes (other than grilled corn, which you should make at least three times a week)
My go-to summer pastas are both exceedingly green. This orecchiette with buttermilk, peas and pistachios is my favorite by far, and this one-pot pasta with peas and mint is a still-great but easier option. The mint in both is sharp and cuts through the richness, making them perfect for summer as a side or even a main course.
Solidly in the side dish department: potato salad. My greatest sin against the Midwest is that I don’t particularly love mayonnaise-based ones, which might be more about Salmonella-related neuroses than taste, but the good news is there are so, so many non-mayo alternatives. I’ve been doing some experimenting this spring and summer, and my favorite so far is this chive-pesto situation from the New York Times. I also find myself going back to Alison Roman’s brown butter potato salad over and over.
Here’s a take: guacamole can be a side. It can be whatever you want it to be. I’ve eaten a mountain of chips with guac and called it dinner. I’ve snacked on guac at 9 a.m. It’s summertime, so you should eat lots of guacamole.
all things fruit
You’ve read my fruit soliloquies here for weeks, and joke’s on you if you thought I was stopping. Any summer menu should be fruit-heavy, but usually in the least healthy format possible. To that end, for at least one week every summer, you should start your day with Joanne Chang’s maple-blueberry scones. They’re great all year round, but fresh blueberries in June really do evoke some unsettling feelings toward November scones.
A set of popsicle molds was the best purchase I made in the summer of 2020. With abundant time on my hands, I took to making elaborate frozen treats; these yogurt and jam pops were a total hassle and worth every second of effort.
Claire Saffitz’s coconut lime custards, from her new book, “What’s For Dessert,” are the newest addition to my summer repertoire, which means they violate the general premise of this list. But they’re too good not to include, and I haven’t made a bad recipe from the book yet. The seeded berry crumble is also crunchy and salty-sweet and excellent.
One final fruit thought: You really aught to pickle it, and this guide tells you exactly how to turn the fruit you’re worried might go bad (or just a really nice carton of blueberries) into something tangy and savory.
honey-soy skirt steak with jalapeño chimichurri
serves: 6
prep time: 30 minutes (+ marinating)
cook time: 15 minutes
I first made this steak in the late spring of 2020, when the weather in Chicago was finally warm enough for me to venture out onto my patio. Grilled skirt steak is one of my favorite summer meats — it’s so simple and quick to prepare — and the chimichurri makes this recipe, adapted from Tieghan Gerard’s uber-successful blog, feel a bit fancier. It also adds nutty undertones and a spicy kick.
Grate 4 cloves of garlic and 1 inch of fresh ginger together in a large bowl. Add 1 cup of low-sodium soy sauce or tamari, 3 tablespoons of honey and 1 tablespoon of toasted sesame oil. Whisk it all pretty vigorously to combine and emulsify the honey and oil as much as possible.
Pour the marinade into a plastic bag, and add 2 pounds of skirt steak. I like to cut the steak in half so that it fits better in the bag and gets totally covered in the marinade — and if you have a steak with one thicker end, a slice down the middle means you can take the thinner portion off the grill sooner, rather than watching it char to oblivion.
Seal the bag, squeezing out the air, and leave it in the fridge for four to five hours to do its thing. (You can get away with marinating the meat for only about an hour, but it’s really best if you give it more time.)
When you’re about an hour away from wanting to grill, assemble the chimichurri. First, toast 2 tablespoons of sesame seeds in a small pan on your stove, until they’re just nutty brown and beginning to smell. Cut 4 green onions roughly in half; you want to chop them at the spot where they turn in color from medium green to bright green. Chop the top and stem off of 1 jalapeno, and split it lengthwise, removing its seeds. If you’re really spice-averse, remove the white interior ribs, which will help tone down the heat. Cut 2 limes in half, crosswise, and set one of the halves aside.
Add 1 packed cup of fresh cilantro (leaves and tender stems) to the bowl of a food processor – I have a miniature one, and this recipe is a perfect fit – along with the white/light green/medium green portion of your green onions, the jalapeno halves and ¼ of a cup of olive oil. Squeeze the juice from three of your lime halves into the bowl, and then pulse the mixture until the components are chopped and it’s well-combined but not totally liquid. Scoop the chimichurri into a bowl, and stir in the sesame seeds.
About 20 minutes before go time, get your steak out of the refrigerator and shake off excess marinade, discarding the bag. Let the steak rest on a plate while you light the grill and prepare to cook.
Once the grill is really hot, cook your steak (or pieces of steak) for about five minutes on each side — though you’ll want to adjust based on the thickness of your steak. Aim for an internal temperature of about 130 degrees for medium rare. (Here’s where I should add that I refuse to grill without an easy digital thermometer. They’re cheap and take the guesswork out of the whole enterprise.)
Let the steak rest for 10-15 minutes once it’s off the grill. Meanwhile, slice your remaining lime half into four or five thin wedges and slice about half your remaining green onions on the diagonal. When the steak is ready, slice it against the grain. Spoon about half your chimichurri across the top, and serve the rest on the side in a bowl. Garnish with lime wedges and green onion.