Baked Ricotta and Tomatoes with Thyme Butter: A recipe from Vegetarian Heartland

The past three weeks have been a hazy blur. A rotation of sleeping and bathing and working and driving. Laundry and dishes and chickens and dogs. We hit the ground running after Vermont. We had a housewarming party that I hope to write about later this week.

It's a stressful time, a time when I want nothing more than for it to be the grey period of unplanned weekends that comes more so in the winter than in the late summer for us. The Sunday we got back from Vermont, a few of my relatives from Indiana visited. They wanted to see our house, having done a long and winding coastal tour of my siblings and their children, we were the final stop.

I do not have a relationship with my extended family. Or, I should say, it is always in the fractious stop-and-go phase. A mass of aborted potential stands between us when we are all in the same room together. I see them so rarely, I forget they exist sometimes. Both sides of my family are from the same small town in Indiana, a county that rests on the border of Ohio. I am the outsider, having grown up in Pennsylvania and not the true Midwest. 

And because of this, I cannot remember the last time my grandfather called me. I do not think my aunt ever knew I lived in California for those five years. I was forgotten about; and it was mutual in many ways. Though not bitter. A difference, so out of each others' control it has always been better to leave it as is.

I had these thoughts circling my head all of Sunday. I told Nolan I was nervous to spend so much time with them with no distraction. I hoped they would have canceled at the last minute. I thought of every excuse I used up in high school to play hooky. To be faced with silence is a nauseous feeling for me.

But instead, they did come. They met the dogs and hugged Nolan. They saw the barn. They got the tour. They commented on the bones of the house, the structure. They asked what we paid and forgot what we did for work. They laughed at our jokes and my father held out his arm when my grandfather needed help down our staircase. My aunt hugged me tight and she smelled sweet, like a citronella candle. I loosened up enough by dinner time.

And it was then I remembered how deep my roots go. To sit across from my family was to look in a broken mirror, a thousand small and shattered version of myself in their mannerisms and expressions. My uncle holds his fork like my mother. My grandfather stays quiet during meals. I share my nose with his side and I saw a withered, but vital, older version of myself--a version of myself who hobbles from age and beer and who has worn the same suspenders for the last 30 years. My uncle, who spoke a little loudly at the table, commented on the menus and everyone's dinner choice. In the awkward down-tic of conversation, I find myself doing this too.

And even though I am not from that town anymore, there are bits of it still left in me. I am my family's as much as I am my own self. It is the Midwest that stays deep in the crags of my personality. It comes out most when I'm around them. And maybe I need to stop running away from that side of myself. Maybe it's time I embraced those who didn't call for so long and understand that there is an unspoken resolve to being from the same small town as the rest of them was never a bad thing to begin with.

I thought about all of this as  I read through Vegetarian Heartland, by Shelly Westerhausen and made her dish below. I found that I could be so connected to where I am from, but adapt to who I am now and that isn't a bad thing. That fearing it can only make it that much harder to resolve yourself to it, whenever that may be. Whenever I am ready to do so.

Baked Ricotta and Tomatoes with Thyme Butter

The recipe, which can be found by picking up a copy of Shelly's book, is so simple and truly delicious. I ended up doubling it to my pie pan, which worked well. This is a recipe that can stand up to variation and adaptation and I can't wait to see how it will bring me into the winter months, when I'll be dreaming of these gorgeous heirloom cherry tomatoes!

Summer's Cake: Peach and Ricotta Gateau Breton

The nights are slightly colder. I’ve adapted to the thick blanket of humidity at night. Milo at my feet and the air conditioner running. I keep a robe on a bedside chair, in case I ever get too cold. I wouldn’t dream of turning the air down, though. There’s no ceiling fan in this room, the ceilings barely hit six feet. So I stretch on the bed and shudder. I grab for the puppy in the middle of the night, check to see if he is still breathing, put his head on a pillow next to mine. I dream of Heathrow airport and look up how to how to say “damselfly” in Spanish. I stayed awake until one in the morning, reading cookbooks and scribbling notes. And at three in the morning, I woke up to a moth hitting my window in a manic apache dance, leaving small floury dust on the mesh window screen. A Catherine, disheveled from her cocoon.  It’s the pubescent hour of stretching and yawning, the transition between yesterday and today and I loathe it now, the beginning of summer ending. Too fast it’s already blurry and I find myself beating my shoulder against every window, begging to be left in. The only trace of me is dust, powder, particulate and leftover.

So I baked a cake to celebrate the season. An elegy, a eulogy. A begging for forgiveness for taking it for granted, being home and safe and wrapped up in bed, waiting for the heat to break.

Peach and Ricotta Gateau Breton

Ingredients

• 1 ½ cup AP flour
• 2 TB cornstarch
• ¾ cup brown sugar
• pinch of salt
• ½ cup butter, softened
• 1/3 cup ricotta
• 6 egg yolks, plus 1 for egg wash
• 1 TB pure vanilla extract
• 1 TB orange juice
• 1 TB orange zest
• 1 large peach, slice

Directions

1. Preheat oven to 375*F
2. Prepare an 8-inch springform pan with butter and parchment paper, set aside
3. In a bowl of a stand mixer, sift all dry ingredients together
4. Add butter and ricotta and beat on medium-low with the paddle attachment
5. With mixer running, add yolks, one at a time (do not add subsequent yolk until previous is completely incorporated)
6. Add vanilla and orange juice and zest
7. Turn mixer off, use a rubber spatula to hand fold a couple times to ensure all ingredients are fully incorporated
8. Arrange peach slices on your parchment-lined pan
9. Gently pour batter over peaches in pan
10. Batter is very sticky, so sprinkle a little flour onto the top (or with floured hands) to help press dough into pan and along the edges
11. Bake for 15 minutes at 375*F, then reduce oven to 350*F and bake for an additional 30 minutes or until golden brown on top
12. Remove from oven and allow to cool completely before removing from pan
13. Turn out onto a plate so peach-side is facing up
14. Serve cooled or warmed up a bit. Can keep for up to two days.