We’ve arrived at about mid-summer, and it’s already given us a bit of everything — storms, heat waves, and those awesome, absolutely #10 days in between. Thoughts are starting to turn toward grabbing the last of vacation time, back-to-school planning, and enjoying the very best of what this season’s produce has to offer.

I’m relishing all of it. The eating right now is so easy, so light — I genuinely wish I could carry it into the colder months.

And then, earlier today, wandering through the supermarket, I got stopped cold by a display of Halloween candy. Halloween. Already. I mean — can you believe it?

Enough of that. I’m leaving myself to enjoy the rest of my summer, and I invite you to do the same.

Farm Stand Report

This weekend’s visit to the local farm stand told its own late-summer story. It’s a small suburban plot with a history worth knowing — the farmer worked this same land as a kid, years before he was ever able to buy it from its original owner. Now this farmer and his wife have taken it over, and the business is thriving in a way that’s genuinely heartening to watch.

The produce itself is starting to thin out. Strawberries were scarce and surprisingly expensive. Zucchini is still going strong (no surprise there). Corn — both white and bicolor — is beginning to slow down. Salad greens were thin on the ground too, which tracks with everyone’s continued caution around the ongoing bacterial contamination concerns. On the other end, basil is absolutely overflowing, and fruit bushes were on sale for anyone thinking ahead to fall planting.

But the real standout this week wasn’t produce at all — it was the farm itself. This little cottage operation has grown into something more: a general store, a petting zoo, a birthday patio, tractor rides. Saturday morning had it overflowing with young families, kids everywhere, the whole place buzzing. And threaded through all of it, zinnias in an absolute profusion of color — the kind of abundance that stops you for a second on your way to the car.

The Weekend Menu

Friday — Happy Hour

• Elderflower Spritz (or a gin and tonic with basil)

• Shaved Raw Zucchini Salad — lemon, Parmesan, cracked pepper, served as a light bite

Saturday — The Full Table

• Heirloom Tomato and Burrata Platter, basil and good olive oil

• Grilled Herb Chicken (or swordfish)

• Shaved Raw Zucchini & Mint Salad — mint-feta variation

• Grilled Corn with lime and Parmesan

• Crusty Bread, olive oil for dipping

Sunday — Slow Morning to Simple Supper

• Iced Peach or Lemon Tea

• Chilled Zucchini and Basil Soup (Featured Recipe)

• Nonna’s Zucchini Fudge Loaf with Simple Glaze (dessert)

Featured Recipe: Chilled Zucchini and Basil Soup

Nonna’s Note: This is the kind of recipe that came from not wanting to turn the stove on in August — a “use what’s too much of it” soup, meant to be made ahead and pulled from the fridge cold, no fuss. A good use for the zucchini nobody claimed from the counter pile.

Ingredients

• 2 tbsp olive oil

• 1 small onion, chopped

• 2 cloves garlic, minced

• 4 cups zucchini, roughly chopped (about 3-4 medium)

• 2 cups vegetable or chicken broth

• 1 cup fresh basil leaves, packed

• ½ cup plain yogurt or light cream

• Juice of half a lemon

• Salt and cracked pepper, to taste

• Olive oil, for finishing

• Extra basil leaves, for garnish

Method

1. Heat olive oil in a pot over medium heat. Add onion and cook until softened, about 4-5 minutes. Add garlic and cook 1 minute more, until fragrant.

2. Add chopped zucchini and broth. Bring to a simmer and cook until the zucchini is fork-tender, about 10-12 minutes.

3. Remove from heat and let cool slightly. Stir in the basil leaves while the mixture is still warm — this helps the basil blend smoothly and keeps its bright color.

4. Transfer to a blender (or use an immersion blender) and blend until completely smooth.

5. Stir in yogurt or cream and lemon juice. Season with salt and pepper to taste.

6. Chill for at least 2 hours, ideally overnight, before serving.

7. Serve cold, finished with a drizzle of good olive oil and a few fresh basil leaves on top.

Shoppable List

• Zucchini (several, mixed sizes)

• Fresh mint

• Feta cheese

• Lemons

• Parmesan

• Fresh basil

• Heirloom tomatoes

• Burrata

• Corn

• Chicken or swordfish

• Crusty bread

• Olive oil

• Plain yogurt or light cream (soup base)

• Vegetable or chicken broth

• Onion and garlic

• Dutch-process cocoa powder

• Madagascar vanilla extract

• Sour cream

• Instant espresso powder

• Eggs

• All-purpose flour

• Granulated and light brown sugar

• Vegetable oil or butter

• Powdered sugar and milk (glaze)

Looking for more ways to use up your zucchini overflow? A full zucchini-forward collection is in the works — more to come.

Nonna’s Notebook: The Zucchini That Wouldn’t Quit

Everyone thinks bigger is better with zucchini. Let one go a few extra days on the vine and you’re not harvesting a vegetable anymore — you’re pulling out something that belongs in a Flintstones cartoon, a club Fred could sling over his shoulder.

Which is exactly what happened in my house. A family member walked in recently, practically glowing, holding out a genuine club of a zucchini — a gift, proudly delivered, from a “gentleman farmer” he’d met somewhere along the way. I took it the way you take these things. Gratefully. And with the faint sense of what I was in for.

Because that’s the trap of zucchini. It’s the easiest thing in the world to grow — it was actually our first real gardening success with the kids, because it forgives almost everything. Low maintenance, practically no attention required, and prolific almost to a fault. Which is exactly the problem.

Then comes the overflow. The dreaded overflow.

I don’t like to waste what I’m given, so I got to work. A chocolate chip zucchini loaf. A sautéed zucchini and yellow squash side, just the two of them together in a pan. A zucchini and corn salad, bright and simple. One by one, I worked that club of a zucchini down to nothing.

And I mean nothing — I had just finished the very last of it, feeling rather accomplished, when he walked back in.

With another one.

Here we go again.

So when I saw a chef on TV make a chocolate cake with zucchini folded into it, something clicked. Aha. Maybe. Because here’s the thing about my house: I have eaters who will not touch a food if they know what’s in it — and it doesn’t meet with their approval, or it’s not a brand they trust, or it just looks suspicious in that particular way kids and picky adults decide things look suspicious. So I did what any Nonna worth her salt would do. I got quiet about it.

Cocoa. Zucchini. Chocolate chips. And a secret ingredient I’m not giving up here — you’ll have to make the recipe below to find out. I baked a loaf, sliced it simply, and said nothing. Not a word. Just a plate of chocolate loaf set out like it was any other treat.

Nobody asked. Nobody suspected. Nobody knew the difference.

And to this day? That is my story, and I’m sticking to it.

(Recipe for Nonna’s Zucchini Fudge Loaf with Simple Glaze below — the secret ingredient included.)

Nonna’s Zucchini Fudge Loaf with Simple Glaze

The secret’s in the espresso — nobody will ever guess.

Ingredients

• 1½ cups shredded zucchini, lightly squeezed of excess moisture

• 1¾ cups all-purpose flour

• ½ cup Dutch-process cocoa powder

• 1 tsp baking soda

• ½ tsp salt

• 1–2 tsp instant espresso powder (dissolve into the wet ingredients)

• ¾ cup granulated sugar

• ¼ cup light brown sugar

• 2 large eggs

• ½ cup vegetable oil or melted butter

• ¼ cup sour cream

• 1 tsp Madagascar vanilla extract

Simple Glaze

• 1 cup powdered sugar

• 2–3 tbsp milk

• ½ tsp Madagascar vanilla extract

Method

1. Preheat oven to 350°F. Grease and line a standard 9x5-inch loaf pan.

2. Whisk together flour, cocoa powder, baking soda, and salt in a bowl.

3. In a separate bowl, whisk eggs, both sugars, oil, sour cream, vanilla, and the dissolved espresso powder until smooth.

4. Fold the dry ingredients into the wet just until combined — don’t overmix.

5. Fold in the shredded zucchini last, gently, until evenly distributed.

6. Pour into the prepared pan and bake 50–60 minutes, until a toothpick comes out mostly clean (a few moist crumbs are fine — this is meant to stay fudgy).

7. Cool completely in the pan before glazing.

8. Whisk glaze ingredients until smooth and drizzle over the cooled loaf. Slice and serve without a word.

Nonna’s Note: This is a one-bowl kind of loaf — nothing fussy, nothing that needs a stand mixer. Sour cream keeps it tender for days. And yes, the espresso powder is doing exactly what you think it’s doing — deepening the chocolate without anyone ever tasting coffee.

Around the House: My Go-To Tools for Zucchini Season

A few simple tools do most of the work once zucchini starts piling up:

• A wide-mouth peeler — creates thin, even ribbons of zucchini (also works beautifully on cucumbers, yellow squash, or carrots)

• A mandoline — same effect, much faster, especially useful when you’re working through a whole club-sized zucchini at once

• A spiralizer — a fun twist of the handle turns zucchini into thin, spaghetti-like threads, and cleanup afterward is genuinely easy

The spiralizer is my favorite trick on a hot summer night, when a real bowl of pasta feels like too much. Zoodles cook fast — the biggest mistake is treating them like real pasta and boiling them, which turns them watery and limp in minutes. Instead: heat a splash of olive oil and a few pats of butter together in a wide skillet over medium-high heat until the butter is melted and just starting to foam. Add the spiralized zucchini and toss constantly for 1–2 minutes, just until bright green and slightly tender, still with a little bite. Off the heat, season immediately with cracked pepper and sea salt, then toss with a generous shave of Parmigiano-Reggiano. Serve right away — zoodles don’t hold well.

Nonna’s Note: If your zucchini “noodles” seem watery after spiralizing, salt them lightly and let them sit in a colander for 10 minutes first, then pat dry before cooking. That one step makes the difference between a light dish and a soupy one.

A caprese salad on the side, a glass of chilled white wine, and dinner is done.

Weekend Kitchen Planner

Friday

• Shave zucchini for the happy hour salad

• Mix the evening’s drink

Saturday

• Grill the protein and corn

• Assemble the tomato and burrata platter

• Shave zucchini for the mint-feta salad

Sunday

• Bake the fudge loaf in the morning so it has time to cool before glazing

• The soup can be made ahead and chilled — just stir and garnish before serving

Worth Keeping

The joy on a child’s face at a Saturday morning tractor ride costs nothing and lasts longer than almost anything you can buy. Some of the best traditions aren’t handed down — they’re just a farm stand, a petting zoo, and a family who showed up.

Before You Go

I’ve noticed something this summer — the frenzy of activity, the must-do’s, aren’t crowding in the way they usually do. I’ve taken to having my coffee with my dog in the early morning, before everyone’s up and the day is fully underway. I like sitting among my veggie, herb, and flower containers, checking in on how they’re doing, deadheading a bit here and there. Just tending.

Being attentive to tending.

Everything doesn’t have to be a big, grand doing. Small doings are good too. For me, they’re calming — I can feel my breathing slow down, I notice more as I take the time to actually see things, and I find myself more appreciative without trying to be. That wasn’t the plan. It’s kind of serendipitous how this has happened.

I like it. I hope you’re finding it too.

The Jersey Nonna — Weekend Gathering No. 6

Welcome

The peaches arrived this week, and before I even picked one up, I was somewhere else entirely.

Not at the farm stand. At my aunt’s little lakehouse on Lake Hopatcong, where the house always smelled like whatever summer was offering — peaches one week, watermelon the next.

I’ve come to think that’s what food really does for us. It’s not the peach we remember. It’s what the peach lets us walk back into — the smell of a linoleum floor under bare feet, a red Formica table, boat wakes slapping the seawall. The fruit is just the door. Memory is where you end up once you walk through it.

This week’s Gathering is built around that idea. We’ll celebrate peach season, but really, we’re celebrating what peaches carry with them — a house that made ordinary days feel like they mattered.

Farm Stand Report

This week the farm stand felt like summer at full volume. Baskets of peaches perfumed the air before I even reached them. White corn and the old-fashioned bread-and-butter corn were stacked in neat pyramids, still wrapped in their fresh green husks. Every table seemed more abundant than the last.

If you’re picking peaches, let your nose lead — a good one announces itself before you even touch it. Look for a creamy yellow background color rather than green, and a slight give at the stem. Bring them home and let them finish ripening right on the counter; the refrigerator only slows down what the sun already started.

Some weeks, the farm stand isn’t asking you to find the one perfect peach. It’s asking you to notice there’s this much of it while it lasts.

The Weekend Menu

Friday Evening

• Peach-Basil Bellini

• Burrata with Grilled Peaches, Prosciutto & Basil

Saturday Gathering

• Heirloom Tomato Salad

• Grilled Herb Chicken with Charred Corn

• Garlicky Green Beans

• Rosemary Focaccia

Sunday

• Iced Mint Tea

• Summer Herb Pasta with Burrata and Basil

• Brown Butter Peach Galette (Featured Recipe)

Featured Recipe: Brown Butter Peach Galette

Serves 6

Ingredients

• 8 tbsp (1 stick) butter

• 1¼ cups all-purpose flour

• 3 tbsp sugar, divided

• ¼ tsp salt

• 3 tbsp ice water

• 4 ripe peaches, sliced

• 2 tbsp brown sugar

• 1 tbsp cornstarch

• Juice of half a lemon

• Pinch of cinnamon

• 1 egg, beaten

• Coarse sugar, for sprinkling

Instructions

1. Melt the butter in a small pan over medium heat and let it keep cooking a few minutes past melted, swirling now and then, until it turns golden and smells nutty. Pour it into a bowl and pop it in the fridge until it’s firm enough to handle, about an hour.

2. Whisk the flour, 1 tablespoon of sugar, and salt together in a bowl. Cut in the browned butter with your fingers until it looks crumbly, then add the ice water a little at a time until the dough just comes together. Pat into a disc, wrap it up, and chill at least an hour.

3. Toss the peaches with the remaining sugar, brown sugar, cornstarch, lemon juice, and cinnamon.

4. Roll the dough out into a rough circle — it doesn’t need to be neat. Pile the peaches in the center, leaving a few inches bare around the edge, and fold that edge up and over the fruit however it wants to fold. Rustic is the whole point.

5. Brush the crust with egg and sprinkle with coarse sugar. Bake at 400°F until the crust is golden and the peaches are bubbling, about 40 minutes.

6. Let it cool a bit before slicing so the filling has time to settle. Good warm, good the next morning with coffee.

Nonna’s Note: The browned butter is what makes this taste like more than the sum of its parts — don’t skip it, and don’t rush it past the nutty smell into burnt. If that step feels like a lot for a weeknight, a good store-bought pie crust works just fine here too. Nobody’s going to love you less for it.

Shoppable List

• Fresh peaches (ripe, fragrant)

• Burrata

• Prosciutto

• Fresh basil

• Heirloom tomatoes

• Boneless chicken thighs or breasts

• Fresh Jersey corn

• Green beans

• Garlic

• Fresh rosemary

• Flour, yeast, olive oil (focaccia)

• Fresh mint

• Pasta of choice

• Butter, flour, sugar, lemon (galette dough)

Loved the tomato salad this weekend? The full Jersey tomato collection — 25 recipes deep — is waiting for you in Red, Ripe & Ready, available now at the shop.

Nonna’s Notebook: Food as Memory

It's funny what a peach can bring back.

Every July, before I taste the first ripe peach of the season, I find myself back in my aunt’s lakehouse kitchen. There was always a bowl of peaches sitting on the sideboard, quietly waiting for whoever happened to wander through. No one announced they were there, and no one asked whether you could have one. If you were hungry, you helped yourself.

That simple bowl of fruit was part of the rhythm of those summers. We’d spend our days swimming, hiding beneath the dock stairs, spying on the older boys next door as they came home from dates, or walking to the little store for penny candy. We’d come back sunburned, laughing, with sticky fingers and no real sense of what time it was.

Looking back now, I realize how much freedom we were given. My aunt had a wonderful way of trusting us to explore, to entertain ourselves, and to come home when we were hungry. It never felt remarkable then — it was simply the way summer worked.

The world changed, and by the time I was raising my own children, it wasn’t the same. We were more careful. We worried more. The freedom that had felt so ordinary to me had quietly become something rare.

Whenever peach season returns, I don’t just remember the fruit. I remember the feeling that came with it — the unspoken welcome of a kitchen where there was always enough, where no one counted what you took, and where growing up happened almost without anyone noticing.

It isn’t really the peach I remember.

It’s the permission that came with it.

Around the House

This week our house is full. Family is in town for a high school reunion, and they’re staying with us — which means the whole place has shifted into welcome mode. Fresh flowers on the counter, grab-and-go food stocked in the fridge for whenever anyone wanders in hungry, guest towels out before anyone even asked.

What strikes me every time is how much bigger these reunions get than the actual graduating class. People come back from all over the country just to be near each other for a weekend, and somewhere along the way the party stops belonging to any one class — it belongs to the whole town. We’ll be “crashing” it right along with everyone else, and nobody will mind.

Out in the garden, the herb planters are thriving to the point where I’m already thinking about how I’ll preserve the extra before it gets ahead of me. The tomatoes taught me a lesson the hard way — I’d started them in containers that were too small, and they let me know it by refusing to really take off. So I spent the weekend making one nursery run after another, buying bigger pots, and repotting everything. They seem happy to finally spread their roots.

I’ll say this about the nursery: my eyes are a lot bigger than my gardening stomach. I always go in for tomatoes and come out with three more things I didn’t know I needed.

Weekend Kitchen Planner

Wednesday — Farm stand shopping.
Thursday — Prepare galette dough. Shop bakery items.
Friday — Assemble appetizers.
Saturday — Prep salad. Grill dinner.
Sunday — Bake galette. Enjoy leftovers.

Worth Keeping

“It isn’t really the peach I remember. It’s the permission that came with it.”

Before You Go

As I’ve gotten older, I’ve realized that the houses I remember most aren’t the beautifully decorated ones. They’re the ones where I never wondered whether I belonged.

Maybe that’s what made my aunt’s little lakehouse so unforgettable.

Not the lake.

Not even the peaches.

Just the quiet certainty that there was always room for one more.

I hope you find a little of that feeling this weekend.

See you next Friday.

— The Jersey Nonna

This week isn’t about one showstopper dish. It’s about a long table, a full weekend, and the particular joy of feeding people without making it a production — cornhole in the yard, corn on the stove, and a door that never really closes.

Farm Stand Report

The farm stand this week was a profusion of color — every flower in full bloom before I even got to the produce. On the vegetable side, I steered clear of leafy greens; there’s a bacterial concern going around right now, and it’s not worth the risk. Corn, though, was in glorious abundance, both yellow and white, and I stocked up — some for tonight’s table, some tucked away in the freezer, and some earmarked for a recipe idea I’m developing (more on that soon). Husking it at home, I was struck all over again by how indescribable the smell of fresh corn is — I couldn’t get enough of it. It got me thinking: fresh basil and fresh white corn might just be summer in a bottle. A candle, a perfume — something to file away for later.

The Weekend Menu

A shore-house weekend — family and friends coming as they are, from a cornhole battle, a Little League game, in from the beach, or off a too-hot-to-move nap. Paper plates, buffet-style, nothing formal.

Friday Evening — Welcome to the Weekend

• Caprese Salad with Balsamic Reduction

• Grilled Sausage and Peppers

• Good bread

• Cold beer or lemonade

Saturday Morning

• Store-bought muffins and bagels

• Assorted flavored cream cheeses and jams

• Big seasonal fruit salad bowl

Saturday — The Backyard Buffet

• Grilled Sausage and Peppers

• Italian Garden Macaroni Salad — the “loaves and fishes” salad

• Fresh Jersey Corn Salad

Dessert Sideboard

• Watermelon and cantaloupe

• Lemon squares

• Brownies

• Apple oat bars

• Zucchini Black Forest Cupcakes

Sunday Brunch — The Summer Garden Frittata & Croissant Board

• Garden Vegetable & Diced Mozzarella Frittata

• Split croissants with prosciutto, fig jam, and honey

• Big seasonal fruit salad bowl — cantaloupe, watermelon, fresh berries, sweet cherries (cantaloupe always takes me back — a first boyfriend, a local eatery, cantaloupe sundaes every summer)

Sunday Dinner — The Centerpiece

• Lemon, Corn & Zucchini Oven Risotto — this issue’s featured recipe

Set it all up family-style on the counter or island with a stack of plates and a big pot of coffee. Let everyone drift in, fill a plate, and head out to the patio or the couch on their own schedule.

Featured Recipe: Lemon, Corn & Zucchini Oven Risotto

Serves 4

Ingredients

• 2 tbsp butter

• 1 small onion, finely diced

• 2 garlic cloves, minced

• 1½ cups Arborio rice

• ½ cup dry white wine

• 4 cups warm chicken or vegetable broth

• 1 cup fresh corn kernels (2 ears)

• 1 medium zucchini, halved and sliced into half-moons

• Zest and juice of 1 lemon

• ½ cup grated Parmigiano-Reggiano

• Salt, pepper, fresh basil to finish

Instructions

1. Preheat oven to 375°F. In a Dutch oven over medium heat, melt butter and cook onion 4 minutes until soft. Add garlic, cook 1 minute.

2. Add rice and toast 2 minutes, stirring, until slightly translucent at the edges. Add wine and stir until absorbed.

3. Add warm broth, corn, zucchini, lemon zest, salt and pepper. Stir once. Cover tightly and transfer to oven. Bake 25 minutes without opening the lid.

4. Remove from oven. Stir in parmesan and lemon juice. The risotto will look slightly soupy — that’s right. Let it sit uncovered 2 minutes and it will come together perfectly. Top with torn fresh basil and a drizzle of olive oil.

Nonna’s Note: The key to oven risotto is toasting the rice first — two minutes in the pot with butter and a little onion until the grains smell slightly nutty. That step is the same as traditional risotto and it matters just as much here. Don’t skip it. Everything else, the oven handles.

Shoppable List — Lemon, Corn & Zucchini Oven Risotto

• Arborio rice

• Fresh corn (2 ears) or frozen kernels

• 1 medium zucchini

• 1 lemon

• Parmigiano-Reggiano

• Fresh basil

Cookbook tie-in: If this risotto is calling your name, you’ll find its tomato cousin — Tomato Risotto with Basil Oil — in Red, Ripe & Ready: The Jersey Tomato Cookbook*, launching next week.

Nonna’s Notebook

Summer at my parents’ house meant one thing on the calendar every few weeks: a backyard barbecue. Not fancy. No charred meat, no pig on a spit — just my father at the grill, timing hamburgers and hot dogs down to the minute like it was a science he’d personally perfected, which, as far as he was concerned, it was.

The tables went outside. Paper plates, because nothing needed to break and even less needed to be washed. And the same handful of dishes showed up every time, because they didn’t need improving: a big bowl of Babs’ potato salad, deviled eggs made the way everyone made them in the fifties — dry mustard, Hellmann’s, a dusting of paprika on top — and corn on the cob. There might have been something else on the table some weeks. I honestly don’t remember. Those three were the ones that mattered.

Dessert was ice pops, handed out straight from the freezer, no plate required. Easy, effortless, or at the very least, made ahead — which in my family has always amounted to the same thing.

The kids ran the yard all afternoon — I have a whole vision of a slip and slide out there somewhere, grass stains and shrieking. And the grown-ups gravitated between the patio and the kitchen, the screen door swinging open and shut at will, all day, whoever needed something inside or wanted to see what was happening out back. Nobody ever really settled in one place.

But that same “there’s always room” instinct showed up at his table indoors, too, not just in the backyard. If more people showed up for a dinner than the table was set for — and more people always showed up than the table was set for — my father had a whole procedure for it. Add the leaf, pull out the folding chairs, set another place. No hesitation, no recalculating whether there was enough. There was always enough. He’d take his seat at the head of the table once everyone was settled, and before a single plate got passed, he’d say the same four words: and bless all here. Not a long grace. Just that. Whoever was sitting there that day was included in it, family or not.

That’s the whole memory, really — a yard that stretched to fit whoever wandered in, a table that stretched the same way indoors, and a blessing that never asked who belonged there before it welcomed them in.

Around the House

We’ve had heat waves elbowing in on thunderstorms this week — a little early for true dog days, but nobody told the weather that. I’m not fighting it. I’m using it.

Mornings, I’m out the door with the dog before the sun’s fully up, before the pavement turns into something you wouldn’t want bare paws on. It’s the best part of the day and I’m not sharing it with anyone. Afternoons get handed over to my grandkids on the days I’ve got them, and to a reading list I actually built on purpose this year — categories and all, because “whatever’s on the nightstand” wasn’t cutting it anymore:

• The page-turner — a thriller or mystery

• A high-quality beach read or contemporary fiction

• Transportive historical fiction

• A biography of a fascinating historical figure

• A smart finance or wealth-building book

• A deep-dive history book

• A current bestseller

Right now I’m tearing through The Other Alcott by Elise Hooper for the historical fiction slot — it pulls the spotlight off Louisa May Alcott and hands it to her overlooked younger sister, May, and it’s better for it.

That’s the update. No big projects this week, no ambitious plans — just early mornings, good company, and a book I can’t put down. Some weeks, that’s the whole win.

Weekend Kitchen Planner

Wednesday — Shop the farm stand: corn, zucchini, lemon, tomatoes, cherries, mozzarella. Grab croissants, prosciutto, bagels, muffins, cream cheese, and jam while you’re out.

Thursday — Make the macaroni salad and vinaigrette — it improves sitting overnight. Bake the dessert sideboard items (lemon squares, brownies, apple oat bars).

Friday — Assemble the caprese. Prep sausage and peppers for the grill.

Saturday — Grill sausage and peppers, make the corn salad, set out the dessert sideboard and buffet. Sauté the frittata vegetables in the evening for Sunday.

Sunday — Bake the frittata (or reheat if made Saturday night). Toast the rice and start the oven risotto in the afternoon for a Sunday dinner centerpiece.

Worth Keeping

“There was always enough.” — On tables that stretch to fit whoever shows up.

Before You Go

When I was younger, the house had to be in perfect order before anyone walked in — even family, even for a quick cup of coffee. Unannounced guests sent me into a small panic. I pictured them judging the housekeeping, never mind that I was too busy raising kids to care about it myself. That was where my energy went, and it should have been.

These days, the state of the house barely registers. I’m always ready for a cup of coffee, dishes in the sink or not. What I want is the company, the conversation, whoever shows up and however long they stay.

I’m fairly sure nobody actually remembers what my house looked like on any given afternoon. But I’d bet they remember the conversation.

See you next Friday. Bring your appetite.

— The Jersey Nonna

Weekend Gathering No. 3

The Tomato Has Arrived

July 11–13, 2026

This week the tomatoes finally mean it. In this issue: what's arrived at the farm stand and what to do with all of it, a weekend menu built entirely around the Jersey tomato at peak, the Jersey Tomato Salad as the featured recipe — the one you've been waiting to make since June — a Nonna's Notebook story about a neighbor, a basket on the doorstep, and juice running down your chin, and a look at what's still standing in the garden after a heat wave and a storm. Pull up a chair. This is the one.

The Farm Stand Report

The tomatoes are here in real numbers now and they mean it. Beefsteaks, heirlooms, a few early plums — this is the week you stop waiting and start buying. Alongside them: zucchini still going strong, and the first Jersey white corn has arrived, which is its own kind of occasion worth noting.

The herbs were on offer this week — fifty percent off, which is the farm stand’s way of telling you the season is shifting and you should be preserving rather than buying fresh week to week. If you’ve been thinking about putting up a batch of basil or drying what you have, this is your sign.

The Weekend Menu

Friday Night — The Main Event
Jersey Tomato Salad with flaky salt, good olive oil, and fresh basil. Grilled bread rubbed with garlic for soaking up everything left in the bowl. Keep the rest of dinner simple — grilled chicken or sausage, nothing that competes with the tomato.

Saturday Lunch — Standing at the Counter
Tomato and mozzarella, torn rather than sliced, on a plate big enough to share. A little balsamic if you want it. Eaten outside, plate on your knee, no ceremony required.

Saturday Dinner — The Tomato Gets Heat
A quick tomato and garlic pasta — fresh tomatoes broken down hot and fast in a good pan, not simmered into sauce, so it still tastes like summer instead of February. Torn basil and real Parmigiano at the finish.

Sunday Morning — Slow
Eggs over warm tomatoes, cooked just until they collapse, with toast for dragging through the juice. The kind of breakfast that turns into brunch because nobody’s in a hurry.

Sunday Dinner — Send the Weekend Off Right
A rustic tomato tart or a panzanella — stale bread, tomatoes, red onion, good vinegar, everything sitting together until the bread has soaked up every bit of tomato water. Whichever feels right by Sunday evening.

Featured Recipe — Jersey Tomato Salad
The one you’ve been waiting for since June.

The Jersey Tomato Salad needs almost nothing. That’s the whole point.

Ingredients (serves 4)
3–4 large Jersey beefsteak tomatoes, at peak ripeness
Flaky sea salt
Good extra-virgin olive oil
Fresh basil leaves, torn
Fresh ground black pepper

Method
Slice the tomatoes thick — at least half an inch. Arrange them on a platter without overlapping. Salt them generously with flaky salt and let them sit for five minutes. That rest is not optional — it draws out the juice and concentrates the flavor. Drizzle with good olive oil. Scatter torn basil. Finish with black pepper.

Serve at room temperature. Never cold.

Nonna’s Note: The tomato is the recipe. Buy the best ones you can find, preferably from someone who grew them in Jersey soil, and then get out of the way.

Your Shoppable List — Jersey Tomato Salad

• Jersey beefsteak tomatoes — 3 to 4 large, from the farm stand, not the supermarket

• Flaky sea salt — Maldon or similar

• Extra-virgin olive oil — the best bottle you have

• Fresh basil — one small bunch

• Black pepper — freshly ground

That’s it. Five ingredients. This is the whole recipe.

Red, Ripe & Ready: The Jersey Tomato Cookbook launches July 15th — 25 recipes built entirely around the Jersey tomato at peak. Link below.

Nonna’s Notebook

My neighbor across the street was the closest thing my children had to a surrogate grandfather. He kept a vegetable garden on the side of his house and tended it the way some men tend a classic car — slowly, carefully, with real love. Plum tomatoes destined for sauce, rows of them, staked and watched over all summer.

He went everywhere with his dog, a sweet old lab who was, without question, his best friend. That dog rode shotgun. Every time. His wife, it was understood, rode in the back.

One afternoon that basket appeared on my doorstep. No note. No ceremony. Just the tomatoes — heavy, warm from the garden, imperfect in every way that matters. I picked one up and bit into it right there on the doorstep before I’d even made it back inside.

The juice ran down my chin.

That’s the whole story. That’s all there is to say.

Perfectly imperfect. Every time.

Around the House

It has been a summer of extremes in the garden. A heat wave that tested everything — I was out there watering twice, sometimes three times a day and still watching things struggle. Then a wind and rain event that took down trees and power lines and left us without power for a stretch. And still, when it was all over, my little herb garden and tomato plants were standing. That felt like something.

The herbs are thriving — almost too well. I have the classic gardener’s problem of having planted everything a little too close together, and I can feel the moment coming when they’re going to need more room. The basil is abundant. The Italian parsley, however, is giving me very little and I have made my peace with it. There is always next year.

The tomatoes are coming along but I’ve noticed some yellowing on the lower leaves. A little research pointed me toward nitrogen deficiency — the fix is either a balanced fertilizer or fish emulsion. I’m going to test both methods and report back. Consider this the beginning of a field report.

Weekend Kitchen Planner

A little prep goes a long way. Here’s how to set your weekend up right.

Wednesday or Thursday
Pick up your tomatoes now and let them sit on the counter through Friday — they’ll be at their best by the weekend. Never in the refrigerator.

Stock up on good olive oil and flaky salt if you’re running low. These two ingredients are doing most of the work this weekend.

If you’re making the tomato tart Sunday, buy your pastry dough now or make it Thursday so it’s resting in the refrigerator.

Friday Before Dinner
Pull out your best platter. Wipe the rim. Slice the tomatoes thick. Salt them and walk away for five minutes.

That five-minute rest is the whole recipe.

Saturday Morning
If you’re making panzanella Sunday, set aside a half loaf of good bread today and let it go stale on the counter overnight. It needs to be dry enough to absorb the tomato water without going to mush.

Saturday Night
Check your tomatoes. If any are very ripe — almost past peak — those go into Sunday’s eggs or the pasta. The firmest ones are your Sunday tart.

Nothing goes to waste this weekend.

Worth Keeping

Perfectly imperfect. Every time.
— On heirloom tomatoes, and everything else worth growing.

Before You Go

Some people mark the start of summer by the calendar. Others by Memorial Day weekend, the first beach trip, the sound of a lawn mower on a Saturday morning.

For me it’s simpler than any of that.

It’s the first sun-ripened Jersey tomato. That’s when summer is finally, officially, completely here.

See you next Friday. Bring your appetite.

— The Jersey Nonna

Before anyone lifts a fork, they’ve already decided how hungry they are.

That’s not a theory. That’s just how a plate works.

I’ve been thinking about this for years without having a name for it — the way a meal arranged with care tastes like care before a single bite is taken. The way color and light and the simple act of wiping the rim of a serving bowl changes the feeling of sitting down. We eat first with our eyes. Everything else comes after.

I learned this, I think, from two completely opposite places.

The first was my mother’s breakfront. You know the one — every household of a certain era had it. Dark wood, glass doors, the good china stored behind them for so long that each plate had to be washed before the table could be set. It only came out for holidays. Easter. Thanksgiving. Christmas. The rest of the year it stood there in the dining room like a monument to occasions that hadn’t arrived yet.

I loved those holiday tables. The china, the pressed tablecloth, the good glasses. There was something in the ritual of it that said: this meal matters. These people matter.

But I’ve spent a long time thinking about what it means that the china spent most of its life in the dark. That beauty was something we rationed. Reserved. Saved for later.

I don’t believe in saving beauty for later anymore.

The second place I learned it was a backyard barbecue at my cousin’s house on an ordinary Saturday afternoon in summer. Nothing fancy. Red checked vinyl tablecloth, paper plates, plastic forks. Bountiful bowls of everything — Babs’ potato salad, coleslaw from a bag, macaroni salad, burgers and hot dogs cooked to order. Kids coming out of the pool dripping wet to claim their hot dogs. Marshmallows burned black over the fire because nobody could wait. No occasion. No reason. Just all of us together in the sun.

That table was beautiful. Not elegant — beautiful. The difference matters.

Because beauty isn’t about the china. It’s about the intention behind it.

I collect cookbooks the way some people collect novels — I read them cover to cover, study the photographs, linger over the plating notes. Over time I’ve been drawn less to the recipes themselves and more to the tables behind them. The way a cloth is folded. The way herbs are scattered. The way light falls on a bowl of tomatoes sitting in the right spot on the right afternoon.

And somewhere in all that looking, I developed a habit so automatic I barely notice it anymore: before anything goes to the table, I wipe the rims. Every platter, every bowl, every serving dish. Clean edges. A final check. It takes thirty seconds and it changes everything about how a table reads — not because anyone will notice, but because I will know.

That’s the thing about presentation that people miss. It isn’t for the applause. It’s a form of care made visible. A beautiful plate — even a paper one at a backyard barbecue, even a chipped one from Tuesday night dinner — tells the person sitting down something they might not be able to name but will absolutely feel: you were worth the effort.

My mother’s china is out of the breakfront now. I use it more than she did.

Not because the occasions got more special.

Because I stopped waiting for them.

— The Jersey Nonna

Weekend Gathering No. 2

July 4–6, 2026

The Backyard Table

Two hundred and fifty years old today, America. We’re celebrating the way we always have — outside, with people we love, waiting for the sky to do something extraordinary.

🌿 This Week at the Farm Stand

Summer has stopped being polite about it.

The strawberries are finishing their run — grab them this week if you want the last of them, because they mean it when they go. The blueberries are fully here now, confident and sweet. And the corn. The first real Jersey corn of the season is arriving at farm stands this week, and if you haven’t had it yet, this is your weekend.

The tomatoes are coming. You can feel it. A few stands have them already — deeply red, heavy, irregular, the kind that smell like a garden when you hold them. Buy them if you see them. Don’t refrigerate them. Leave them on the counter and use them within two days.

This is the weekend summer stops hinting and starts delivering.

Into My Basket This Week

First Jersey corn · Blueberries · Last of the strawberries · Jersey beefsteak tomatoes (grab them if you find them) · Cucumbers · Fresh basil · Flat-leaf parsley · Red onion · A small bunch of zinnias or sunflowers — because it’s a holiday and the table deserves it

🍽️ This Weekend’s Menu

Friday Evening — Welcome to the Weekend
Caprese salad with capers and balsamic reduction
Grilled Italian sausage · Corn on the cob
Good bread · Cold beer or lemonade

Saturday — The Fourth

Morning
Blueberry pancakes on the back porch
Coffee before the day gets loud

Afternoon — The Backyard Table
The Jersey Nonna Caprese Salad (tomatoes at room temperature, always)

MNiece’s Cucumber Tomato Feta Salad (dressed with fresh lemon juice — her idea, and she was right)
Babs’ Potato Salad — the recipe that belongs to someone, and always will · Full story on Substack
Grilled burgers on toasted buns — raw red onion, sliced tomato, lettuce
Fresh corn · Watermelon

Dessert
Fourth of July Berries — The Jersey Nonna Way (recipe below)
Ina Garten’s Flag Sheet Cake — because it’s America’s 250th birthday and some occasions demand the real thing

Sunday Morning
Garden herb frittata · Toast · Fresh blueberries · Good coffee

Sunday Supper
Leftover magic — potato salad tastes better the second day
Cold sliced tomatoes with good olive oil and salt
Whatever’s left of the flag cake

🍓 Featured Recipe

Fourth of July Berries — The Jersey Nonna Way
Red, white, and blue never tasted so Italian. Serves 4 generously.

This dessert came together the way the best ones do — not from a cookbook, but from thinking about what summer actually tastes like and letting the season lead.

Fresh Jersey strawberries and blueberries, coaxed into a deep crimson syrup, poured over more fresh berries, finished with a cloud of chilled zabaglione and two pignoli cookies balanced on the rim.

It is festive without trying. It is Italian without announcing it. And it is the kind of thing people ask you about for years.

For the Berry Coulis

1 cup fresh strawberries, hulled and halved
1 cup fresh blueberries
3 tbsp sugar
2 tbsp water

Combine berries, sugar, and water in a small saucepan over medium heat. Cook, stirring occasionally, until the berries burst and release their juices — about 8 to 10 minutes. The mixture will look loose and jammy. Remove from heat.

Press through a fine mesh strainer or a double layer of cheesecloth, pressing firmly to extract every drop of juice. Discard the solids. Return the liquid to the saucepan and simmer over medium-low heat until reduced by about a third and lightly syrupy — another 5 to 8 minutes. It should coat a spoon but still pour easily.

Cool completely or bring to room temperature. The syrup keeps refrigerated for three days.

For the Zabaglione (make this first — it needs time to chill)

4 egg yolks
¼ cup sugar
½ cup dry Marsala wine

Combine egg yolks, sugar, and Marsala in a heatproof bowl set over a pot of barely simmering water — the bowl should not touch the water. Whisk continuously and vigorously until the mixture triples in volume, turns pale yellow, and holds a ribbon when you lift the whisk. This takes 8 to 10 minutes and your arm will know about it.

Remove from heat. Set the bowl over a larger bowl of ice water and continue whisking until cool. Refrigerate until fully chilled, at least one hour. The zabaglione will be silky, airy, and just barely sweet.

For the Pignoli Cookies (makes about 18)

One 8 oz tube almond paste (not marzipan — they are not the same)
½ cup powdered sugar
1 egg white
1 cup pine nuts

Break the almond paste into a bowl and work in the powdered sugar with your hands until the mixture resembles coarse crumbs. Add the egg white and mix until a soft, slightly sticky dough forms.

Roll into small balls, about 1 inch across. Pour pine nuts into a shallow bowl. Press each ball gently into the pine nuts, rolling to coat on all sides. Place on a parchment-lined baking sheet, pressing very slightly to flatten.

Bake at 325°F for 14 to 16 minutes until golden at the edges and just set. They will still feel soft — they firm as they cool. Cool completely on the pan before moving them.

Nonna Note: Almond paste and marzipan are not interchangeable. Marzipan is sweeter and smoother and will make your cookies taste like candy. Almond paste has more almond, less sugar, and gives you the dense chewy interior that makes a pignoli cookie worth making. Find it in the baking aisle, usually near the canned fruit.

To Assemble

In a parfait glass or a pretty ice cream dish, arrange a generous handful of fresh mixed strawberries and blueberries. Spoon the berry coulis over and around — be generous, let it pool at the bottom. Add a cloud of chilled zabaglione on top.

Balance two pignoli cookies on the rim.

Serve immediately.

One more thing: This dessert is built to be made in parts. The coulis can be made two days ahead. The zabaglione the morning of. The cookies the day before. When your guests arrive, assembly takes three minutes and looks like you spent the afternoon in the kitchen. You did not have to. This is the Jersey Nonna way.

📝 From Nonna’s Notebook

The Hill at Colgate Field

When I was growing up, the Fourth of July had a shape to it.

Every year, my immediate family together with my aunts, uncles, and cousins would walk the half mile to Colgate Field together. We’d stake out our blankets on the hill early, claiming territory the way children do, with great seriousness and very little strategy.

Then we’d wait for the sky to do something extraordinary.

And it always did.

I remember the fountain of sparkles cascading down. The spinning wheels of light on the ground. The way we’d lie back on those blankets and ooooh and ahhhhh at everything, laughing at ourselves for being so delighted and completely unable to help it.

And the booms.

Not just the noise of them — the physical fact of them. The fireworks that didn’t just make sound but moved through your chest, a pressure against your ribs that arrived before the sound did and said pay attention, something real is happening here. We’d laugh at each explosion, startled every time even though we knew it was coming. And the finale — everything at once, the whole sky full, the booming overlapping and building until it felt like the air itself had opinions about the Fourth of July. We stopped talking. We just felt it.

Afterward, the whole loud happy crowd of us would walk to my aunt’s house and pile into her kitchen — the children at the table with cold milk and her homemade chocolate chip cookies and brownies, the grownups drifting outside to do whatever grownups did. We never asked. We had cookies.

We thought we were living inside something ordinary.

I drove past Colgate Field not long ago.

That hill we so carefully camped on — the mountain we staked our blankets on with such ceremony, the great elevation from which we watched the sky perform?

A small rise. Barely a slope.

My child’s eyes had turned a gentle hill into a mountain, and I had been carrying that mountain inside me for fifty years without knowing it.

I think that’s what summers do when they’re good enough. They make everything larger. The fireworks louder. The cookies sweeter. The hill higher.

And they’re right to.

🌼 Around the House

A holiday table doesn’t need bunting and banners to feel like a celebration.

This year I’m keeping it simple — a white tablecloth, whatever red and white flowers the farm stand has, and my grandmother’s blue transferware pitcher in the center because it happens to be exactly the right color and because she would have liked being part of the party.

Simple is actually harder than it looks. And more beautiful when you get it right.

One other thing: if you’re eating outside this weekend, set the table before you do anything else. A set table tells everyone who sits down at it that this moment was prepared for. That someone thought about them before they arrived. Five minutes. Worth every one.

🧺 Weekend Kitchen Planner

Thursday Evening (the work that makes Saturday easy)
☐ Make Babs’ Potato Salad — the whole batch
☐ It goes in the refrigerator tonight. This is not a suggestion.
☐ Bake the pignoli cookies — they keep beautifully overnight in a tin

Friday
☐ Farm stand — corn, tomatoes, blueberries, last strawberries, flowers
☐ Make the balsamic reduction for the caprese — 10 minutes, keeps all weekend
☐ Make the berry coulis and refrigerate
☐ Bake the flag cake in the morning before the heat arrives
☐ Set the outdoor table before you do anything else

Saturday — The Fourth
☐ Make the zabaglione in the morning — refrigerate until needed
☐ Assemble the caprese just before serving — tomatoes at room temperature, always
☐ Dress my niece’s cucumber tomato feta salad with fresh lemon juice right before the meal
☐ Pull potato salad from the refrigerator 20 minutes before serving
☐ Grill the burgers last — everything else should already be on the table
☐ Assemble the berry dessert just before serving — three minutes, stunning results

Sunday
☐ Cold leftover potato salad for lunch — it is better today than it was yesterday
☐ Save a slice of flag cake for someone who missed Saturday
☐ Sit outside for ten quiet minutes before the weekend ends

This week’s standing invitation: find someone who didn’t have a place to go this weekend and give them one. There is always room for one more chair.

🌟 Worth Keeping This Week

“Summers that are good enough make everything larger — the fireworks louder, the cookies sweeter, the hill higher. They’re right to.”

— The Jersey Nonna

❤️ Before You Go...

My niece taught me a salad this summer.

Cucumbers. Tomatoes. Feta cheese. Fresh lemon juice. That’s it.

I would not have thought to use lemon instead of vinegar. I would have reached for what I knew. But my niece didn’t know what I knew, so she did what made sense to her, and it was better.

I think about that sometimes. How much we miss because we’re too certain about the way things are supposed to be done. How a younger hand in the kitchen isn’t a disruption — it’s a reminder that there are other ways to be right.

My aunt taught me to be generous at the table and never count how many cookies someone took. I carried that into my own kitchen and tried to pass it along. My niece showed up this summer with a salad dressed in lemon juice and reminded me that the learning goes both ways.

Every generation brings something to the table.

Quite literally, it turns out.

Happy Fourth of July. Happy 250th, America. Go feel some fireworks in your chest tonight.

Until next Friday,
— Kathy
The Jersey Nonna

Her name was Barbara Ann. But nobody called her that — not her sisters, not her husband, not her children, not the grandchildren who came later. To everyone who loved her, she was Babs. Just Babs. And if you knew her, you already know exactly what kind of woman could earn a nickname like that and wear it for a lifetime.

She had opinions. Strong ones. About most things, but about food in particular, and about this potato salad most of all.

Eastern potatoes. Small dice. Raw red onion. Red wine vinegar. Celery for crunch. Mayonnaise loosened just enough to coat. Salt and pepper.

Nothing else. Never anything else.

Don’t tell her about the capers. Don’t mention the celery seed. Don’t come near her kitchen with smoked paprika or Dijon mustard or any of the additions food bloggers use to make someone else’s recipe their own. She would have had something to say about that, and she would not have said it quietly.

She made this potato salad at every family event for her entire adult life. Fourth of July. Labor Day. Birthday parties. Sunday dinners when enough people were around to justify a big bowl. It was always there, always the same, always exactly right.

When she died, we put a bowl of it on the table at her repast.

She would have had something to say about that too, probably. But I think — I hope — she would have understood. Because some people are so thoroughly themselves, so completely present in the things they make and the way they make them, that when they’re gone the only thing you can think to do is set a place for them anyway.

The bowl was her presence at a table she couldn’t sit at anymore. It was the right thing. It was the only thing.

I’ve tried to improve this recipe exactly once. I added something — I don’t even remember what now — and it was wrong immediately. Not bad, exactly. Just wrong. It wasn’t Babs’ potato salad anymore. It was mine, and mine wasn’t what anyone wanted.

So I stopped trying to improve it. Some recipes aren’t yours to improve. They belong to someone else and your only job is to make them right and not mess with them and pass them along.

This is me passing it along.

Babs’ Potato Salad
As she made it. As it always was. As it will always be.

The potatoes: Eastern potatoes — the waxy kind that hold their shape. Peeled, boiled whole until just tender, cooled completely, then cut into a medium dice. Not tiny. Not chunky. Hers.

The celery: Diced a little smaller than the potato. For crunch and freshness. Don’t skip it.

The onion: Raw red onion, diced, generous, unapologetic. Yes, you’ll taste it the next day. It’s worth it every time.

The dressing: Mayonnaise — real mayonnaise, not the light version, not the olive oil version — loosened with red wine vinegar until it coats rather than globs. Salt and pepper. That’s it. That is the whole list.

The ratio: For five pounds of potatoes, you know when it looks right. It should be dressed, not drowned. Start with less dressing than you think you need and add from there.

The rule: Make it the day before if you can. It gets better overnight. Babs’ knew this.

It started at the ice cream shop on a scorching afternoon. He ordered a waffle cone with two scoops, chocolate syrup, and sprinkles — the full production. But the heat had other plans. Before he could make a dent in it, the whole thing was surrendering fast, dripping off the bottom of the cone while he chased it helplessly. I ended up finishing it. (I told myself the calories dripped out with the ice cream. I stand by this.)

On the drive home I started thinking. We always build ice cream cones from the outside in — cone first, then ice cream, then chocolate, then sprinkles. What if we flipped it? Put the chocolate and sprinkles inside the cone, let it harden, and then add the ice cream? The cone becomes the bowl. The chocolate layer seals the bottom. The sprinkles are baked right into the experience, not sliding off the top.

That’s the inside-out ice cream cone. Or the upside-down one. We haven’t settled on a name.

A few days later, my grandson and I made a project of it. We melted semi-sweet chocolate chips with a splash of coconut oil over a little double boiler I fashioned from a glass bowl and a saucepan. He stirred — carefully, supervised, very seriously. We spooned the chocolate into waffle cones, swirled to coat the inside, shook in red, white, and blue sprinkles, and stood them in the freezer to set. When we were done, we had five perfect cones waiting for ice cream.

The payoff: a scoop of good vanilla ice cream dropped in, no drips, chocolate surprise at the bottom, and a nine-year-old who now believes he invented something.

He might be right.

Weekend Gathering No. 1

June 26–28, 2026

There’s a pitcher of sunflowers on my counter that has no business making me this happy. Pull up a chair. Let me tell you what I’ve been thinking about.

🌿 This Week at the Farm Stand

This is one of my favorite weekends of the year.

The strawberries are taking their final bow, the blueberries are just beginning to arrive, and every farm stand seems to have baskets overflowing with zucchini, cucumbers, leafy greens, and fragrant herbs. If you’re lucky, you may even spot the first truly vine-ripened Jersey tomatoes. They’re still a little scarce, and honestly, that’s as it should be. Some things are worth waiting for.

One of the quiet pleasures of shopping at a farm stand is learning patience. Nature has its own calendar, and it refuses to be rushed. When the tomatoes finally arrive in abundance, they’ll taste like sunshine — because they had time to become themselves.

This weekend, don’t overbuy. Choose only what you’ll enjoy over the next few days. Summer will be back next week with something new.

Into My Basket This Week

Fresh strawberries · Blueberries · Zucchini · Cucumbers · Leaf lettuce · Fresh basil · Parsley · Scallions · New potatoes · A bunch of sunflowers (because every kitchen deserves flowers)

🍽️ This Weekend’s Menu

Friday Evening
Nonna’s Breaded Chicken Cutlets with lemon
Parmesan zucchini ribbons · Warm Italian bread
Mixed garden salad
Fresh strawberries with lightly sweetened mascarpone

Saturday Morning
Blueberry pancakes · Real maple syrup
Good coffee enjoyed outside before the day begins

Saturday Lunch
Simple cucumber sandwiches with herb cream cheese
Fresh cherries · Iced tea

Saturday Evening
Grilled Italian sausage with peppers and onions
Roasted new potatoes · Garden salad
Vanilla ice cream topped with fresh blueberries

Sunday Morning
Garden herb frittata · Toast · Fresh berries

Sunday Supper
Classic Sunday meatballs
Slow-simmered tomato sauce · Rigatoni · Italian bread
A simple green salad

Because some traditions deserve to stay exactly as they are.

🍓 Featured Recipe

Nonna’s Breaded Chicken Cutlets
The one tip that changes everything

For years I made breaded chicken cutlets the same way I’d always made them — seasoned breadcrumbs, egg wash, same pan, same oil. They were fine. Sometimes great, sometimes hit or miss. The breading didn’t always stay as crisp as I wanted, and I couldn’t quite name what I was doing wrong.

Then my son gave me a tip that changed everything.

One step. After you bread the cutlets, put them in the refrigerator. Uncovered. Thirty minutes minimum, an hour if you have it. The breading dries just slightly — not so much that it hardens, but enough that when it hits the hot oil it seizes and sets immediately instead of absorbing and slipping. That’s why they come out crispy all the way to the table now, every single time.

That’s the whole secret.

Ingredients (serves 4)

4 boneless chicken breasts, pounded thin (about ¼ inch)
2 eggs, beaten with a splash of water
1½ cups Italian seasoned breadcrumbs
½ cup grated Pecorino Romano
1 tsp garlic powder
1 tsp dried parsley
Salt and pepper
Neutral oil for frying (about 1 inch in the pan)
Lemon wedges to serve

To Make

Mix breadcrumbs, cheese, garlic powder, parsley, salt, and pepper in a shallow dish. Beat eggs in a second dish. Dip each cutlet in egg, let the excess drip off, then press firmly into the breadcrumb mixture on both sides. Place on a sheet pan in a single layer.

Now stop. Refrigerate uncovered for 30 to 60 minutes. This is the step.

Heat oil in a large heavy skillet over medium-high until shimmering. Cook cutlets 2 to 3 minutes per side until deeply golden. Do not crowd the pan. Drain on a wire rack — not paper towels — so air circulates underneath and the bottom stays crisp.

Serve immediately with lemon wedges.

Nonna Note: Pan-fry them. I know baking is tempting, but the cutlet sits in its own steam in the oven and you’ll never get the crust you’re after. A shallow fry, a wire rack, and that refrigerator rest — that’s the whole recipe.

The Strawberry Basil Sparkler — muddle 3–4 sliced strawberries with 2 torn basil leaves and the juice of half a lime. Add ice. Top with sparkling water. Make one before you start cooking. You’ve earned it.

📝 From Nonna’s Notebook

Why the First Tomato Matters

Every summer someone asks me why people in New Jersey get so excited about tomato season. After all, tomatoes are available all year long.

Yes. But not these tomatoes.

Not the ones that sat in warm sunshine instead of a truck. Not the ones that smell like a garden before you even slice them. Not the ones that need nothing more than a sprinkle of salt and a piece of good bread.

I remember the first summer I understood this. My next-door neighbor handed me a tomato warm from his backyard garden, said nothing, and watched me eat it over the kitchen sink like it was something precious. It was. I have been chasing that tomato ever since.

The first real Jersey tomato isn’t just another ingredient. It’s permission.

Permission to eat more slowly. Permission to stop saving the good olive oil. Permission to call a friend and say, “I’ve got tomatoes. Come over.”

Summer has a way of reminding us that abundance isn’t having everything. It’s recognizing enough when it’s sitting right in front of you.

🌼 Around the House

Buy yourself flowers.

Not because company is coming. Not because it’s a birthday. Not because the dining room needs decorating.

Just because it’s Saturday.

This week I tucked a handful of sunflowers into an old white pitcher that usually lives on the top shelf of my pantry. The whole kitchen looked happier.

Sometimes that’s reason enough.

🧺 Weekend Kitchen Planner

Friday
☐ Visit the farm stand
☐ Wash berries and lettuce
☐ Pound and bread chicken cutlets
☐ Rest cutlets in refrigerator (don’t skip this)
☐ Slice cucumbers · Put flowers in water
☐ Set the table before dinner — it takes five minutes and changes everything

Saturday
☐ Make pancakes slowly
☐ Eat outside if the weather cooperates
☐ Prep Sunday meatballs while you have the kitchen going
☐ Freeze any extra berries

Sunday
☐ Simmer the sauce early — let the whole house smell like Sunday
☐ Save enough leftovers for Monday
☐ Sit for ten quiet minutes before the weekend ends

This week’s standing invitation: call someone you’ve been meaning to have over. The tomatoes won’t wait forever. Neither will the people you love.

❤️ Before You Go...

I used to think hospitality meant preparing something extraordinary.

A spotless house. A table worthy of a magazine. Dessert made from scratch.

The older I’ve become, the more I’ve changed my mind.

Hospitality is really just making room.

Making room at the table. Making room in the conversation. Making room in your day for someone who needs a cup of coffee and twenty minutes of your attention.

The meal will be forgotten.

The feeling won’t.

That’s what I hope you carry into this weekend.

Until next Friday,
— Kathy
The Jersey Nonna

The Jersey Nonna is a weekly publication about cooking seasonally, living simply, and finding beauty in ordinary weekends. Every Friday, Weekend Gathering arrives in your inbox — a farm stand report, a weekend menu, a featured recipe, a little essay, a kitchen planner, and a quiet thought to carry into your weekend.

But first — this.

A guide to the Jersey farm stand, spring through early summer. What’s ready now, what’s coming, what to do with all of it, and how to shop the way your grandmother did — by what looks good, not by what’s on a list.

It’s yours, free, with my compliments.

Weekend Gathering No. 1 arrives this Friday, June 26th.

I’m glad you found your way here. Pull up a chair.

— Kathy
The Jersey Nonna

What’s inside your guide:

June — Strawberries at their peak. Last call for asparagus. Fresh herbs in abundance. The quiet before summer’s full arrival.

July — This is what you waited for. Jersey beefsteak tomatoes. Sweet corn the day it comes in. Peaches you smell before you buy. Blueberries at their peak. Buy more than you think you need.

August — Buy everything. This is the month to put things up. Eggplant silky and sweet. Heirloom tomatoes in every color. Fresh garlic by the head. The farm stand at its most generous — and its most fleeting.

From the Farm Stand
The Jersey Nonna’s Guide to Summer’s Best — June, July & August

“The best things at the farm stand don’t wait. Neither should you.”
— The Jersey Nonna

A Note from the Nonna

It is June. The farm stand just opened. The strawberries are here — dark red, fragrant, the real ones — and the herbs are abundant and the asparagus is making its last appearance before it disappears until next spring.

The tomatoes are coming. The corn is coming. The peaches are coming.

But right now, in early June, there is already so much worth stopping for.

This guide will grow with you all summer. Come back to it every week.

What’s in Season and When

JUNE
Early season. Strawberries peak. Herbs abundant. Asparagus last call. The quiet before the summer abundance.

Strawberries — peak, dark and fragrant. Go every week until they’re gone.
Asparagus — last chance until next spring
Sugar snap and snow peas — eat raw
Fresh herbs — basil, dill, mint, parsley. Buy more than you think you need.
Spring lettuces and arugula
Radishes — with butter and salt
Spring onions and scallions
Rhubarb — jam, crisp, or sauce
Farm eggs — always worth buying

JULY
Peak season. Everything is here. This is what you waited for. Buy more than you think you need.

Jersey beefsteak tomatoes ★★ — the whole reason
Sweet corn ★★ — ask when it came in. Same day only.
Peaches ★★ — smell before you buy
Zucchini ★ — small ones, hand-length or shorter. Always.
Blueberries ★ — New Jersey’s state fruit, peak now
Green and wax beans — freeze half
Cucumbers — salads and quick pickles
Fresh basil — buy in abundance
Bell peppers — starting to appear

AUGUST
Late season. Buy everything. This is the month to put things up. Freeze, can, preserve. August will not last.

Eggplant ★ — peak, silky and sweet
Heirloom tomatoes ★★ — buy the ugly ones
Hot peppers — roast, pickle, preserve in oil
Cantaloupe — smell the stem end
Late sweet corn — still worth buying
Blackberries — peak in August
Butternut squash — early ones arriving
Fresh garlic ★ — buy plenty, it goes in everything
Shishito peppers — blister in a hot pan

★ = Worth going out of your way for
★★ = Do not leave the stand without this when in season

What Changes Week to Week

The best farm stand shoppers don’t plan meals and then shop. They go to the stand, see what’s extraordinary today, and plan from that. Ask the farmer what came in this morning. Ask what they’re eating for dinner. The answer is always the thing to buy.

Early June — strawberries, herbs, snap peas, last asparagus. Lighter, fresher cooking.
Late June — first zucchini, blueberries starting, corn beginning in warm years.
All of July — tomatoes, corn, peaches, blueberries all at once. The most abundant month.
August — eggplant, heirlooms, hot peppers, garlic. Deeper flavors. Time to preserve.

The Nonna Essentials Checklist
Print this. Bring it. Check things off. Come home and cook.

These are the things I look for every single week. Not all of them will be there in June. All of them will be there in July. By August I am buying everything on this list and more.

☐ Jersey strawberries — June only. Buy every week until gone.
☐ Fresh herbs — a big bunch of basil, all summer. Never enough.
☐ Jersey beefsteak tomatoes — July through August. The whole reason.
☐ Sweet corn — 6 ears minimum. Ask when it came in. Same day only.
☐ Zucchini — small ones only. Hand-length or shorter. Always.
☐ Peaches or nectarines — smell before you buy. Trust your nose.
☐ Fresh garlic — buy plenty. It goes in everything.
☐ Green or wax beans — blanch and freeze half for winter.
☐ Cucumbers — salads, quick pickles, snacking.
☐ Blueberries — mid-June through August. Freeze some.
☐ Eggplant — August. Silky and sweet when truly in season.
☐ Fresh flowers — for the table. Always for the table.
☐ One thing you’ve never tried before — ask the farmer what to do with it.
☐ Something for someone else — tomatoes are a love language.

Recipe No. 1 — June
Jersey Strawberry Shortcake — With Real Biscuits and Two Kinds of Berries

Not the Bisquick version. Half the strawberries are cooked down into a deep glossy syrup. The other half stay fresh and macerated. The biscuits have sour cream, lemon zest, and nutmeg. The cream is barely sweetened. A splash of Grand Marnier if you’re in the right mood. You probably are.

Serves 6 · About 1 hour · Worth every minute

The Strawberries — Two Ways
3 lbs fresh Jersey strawberries, hulled
⅓ cup sugar, divided
1 tsp fresh lemon juice
Pinch of fine sea salt
2 tbsp Grand Marnier, Chambord, or Cointreau — optional but not really

The Biscuits
2 cups all-purpose flour
3 tbsp sugar
1 tbsp baking powder
½ tsp salt
¼ tsp freshly grated nutmeg
8 tbsp cold butter, cubed
½ cup cold heavy cream, plus more for brushing
¼ cup cold sour cream
1 tsp vanilla
1 tsp lemon zest

The Cream
1½ cups heavy cream, very cold
2 tbsp powdered sugar
1 tsp vanilla extract

To Make

Divide strawberries — 1 lb for the syrup, 2 lbs for fresh. Cook syrup portion with 2 tbsp sugar and lemon juice over medium heat 12 to 15 minutes until thick and glossy. Stir in liqueur while warm if using. Cool slightly.

Slice remaining 2 lbs of strawberries. Toss with remaining sugar and salt. Let sit 30 to 60 minutes at room temperature until they release their juice. Fold into the warm syrup.

Make biscuits: preheat oven to 425°F. Whisk dry ingredients together. Work cold butter in with your fingers into flat shards — not crumbs. Some pieces pea-sized, some almond-sized is correct.

Whisk heavy cream, sour cream, vanilla, and lemon zest together. Fold into flour mixture just until the dough comes together — shaggy is correct.

On a floured surface, press dough to ¾ inch. Fold in thirds. Rotate, press, fold again. One more time. Cut into rounds or squares — press straight down, never twist.

Brush tops with cream. Sprinkle with coarse sugar. Bake 15 to 18 minutes until deeply golden. Cool 5 minutes.

Whip cream to soft billowy peaks — barely sweetened. Split warm biscuits with a fork. Pile strawberries over the bottom half. Add cream. Lean the top half at an angle. Serve immediately.

Nonna’s Notes: The cooked berry syrup is what makes this extraordinary — it concentrates every bit of flavor from the best strawberries of the year. The nutmeg in the biscuit is the thing people taste and cannot identify. Don’t leave it out. Don’t add more than ¼ tsp. Leftover biscuits the next morning with butter and the remaining strawberry syrup — not a bad situation to be in.

Recipe No. 2 — June
Classic Jersey Basil Pesto — The Real Thing, Made Simply

When the basil is abundant and fragrant and the bunches are enormous and cheap — buy three. Make pesto. Use some this week. Freeze half in ice cube trays. In February, when the world is grey and there is no farm stand and the grocery store basil smells like nothing, you will pull a cube from the freezer and for one moment it will be June again.

Makes 1½ cups · 15 minutes · No cooking · Freezes perfectly

Ingredients
4 cups fresh basil leaves, packed — about 2 large farm stand bunches
½ cup good olive oil
⅓ cup pine nuts or walnuts, toasted
3 garlic cloves
½ cup freshly grated Parmesan
¼ cup Pecorino Romano
½ tsp kosher salt
Squeeze of fresh lemon juice

To Make

Toast pine nuts or walnuts in a dry skillet over medium heat, about 3 minutes, shaking constantly. They burn in seconds. Watch them the entire time. Remove the moment they’re golden.

Wash basil leaves and spin completely dry in a salad spinner. Wet basil makes watery pesto. Take the extra minute.

Pulse garlic and toasted nuts in a food processor until roughly chopped. Add basil and pulse until finely chopped, scraping down the sides once or twice.

With the processor running, stream in olive oil slowly. Process until combined but not completely smooth — a little texture is correct. Pesto should not be a paste.

Add both cheeses, salt, and lemon juice. Pulse to combine. Taste. Adjust salt. It should be intensely basil-forward with brightness from the lemon.

Transfer to a jar. Pour a thin layer of olive oil over the top to prevent browning. Refrigerate up to 5 days.

To freeze: spoon into ice cube trays. Freeze solid, then transfer to a zip bag. Label with the date. Drop directly from frozen into soups, pasta, and sauces all winter.

Nonna’s Notes: Walnuts are a perfect substitution for pine nuts — slightly earthier, a fraction of the cost. No regrets. The two-cheese combination — Parmesan and Pecorino — is what gives depth. Use both if you can. Make a double batch. Every cube in that ice tray will be used. Make more.

Recipe No. 3 — July
Jersey Tomato Salad with Red Onion, Herbs, and a Little Attitude

Not a caprese. Caprese is lovely but everyone makes it. This salad is loud and unapologetic — the way a good Jersey tomato in July deserves to be treated. Ten minutes. No cooking. Make it the day you buy the tomatoes. Eat it with crusty bread. There is nothing better.

Serves 4 · 10 minutes · No cooking · Make day-of

The Salad
3 to 4 large Jersey beefsteak tomatoes, about 2 lbs — room temperature, always
½ red onion, very thinly sliced
1 cup fresh basil leaves, torn
¼ cup flat-leaf parsley, roughly chopped
¼ cup Kalamata olives, halved
1 Persian cucumber, sliced — optional

The Dressing
3 tbsp good olive oil
1½ tbsp red wine vinegar
1 garlic clove, minced
½ tsp dried oregano
Salt, pepper, and red pepper flakes to taste

To Finish
Flaky sea salt · Crusty bread — non-negotiable

To Make

Slice tomatoes in thick rounds or rough wedges. Room temperature is non-negotiable. A cold tomato is a sad tomato. Never refrigerated.

Soak red onion in cold water for 5 minutes. Drain and pat completely dry. Takes the raw edge off without losing the crunch.

Whisk olive oil, vinegar, garlic, oregano, salt, pepper, and red pepper flakes until emulsified. Taste. It should be bold.

Arrange tomatoes on a wide plate or platter. Scatter red onion, basil, parsley, olives, and cucumber over the top.

Drizzle dressing over everything. Finish with a generous pinch of flaky sea salt.

Let sit 5 to 10 minutes before serving. The tomatoes will release their juice into the dressing. That is the whole point.

Serve with crusty bread. You need it to catch everything on the plate.

Nonna’s Notes: Make it the same day you buy the tomatoes. Room temperature is everything. Never the fridge. Strain the leftover juice the next day and toss with pasta. Do not waste a single drop.

When You Get Home — The Action Plan

Right away
Tomatoes on the counter, stem side down — never the refrigerator
Fresh herbs in a glass of water like flowers
Peaches on the counter if not fully ripe
Corn in the refrigerator unshucked — cook within 1 to 2 days

Within 2 to 3 days
Make the tomato salad while the tomatoes are perfect
Grill or blanch the corn — freeze half off the cob
Sauté zucchini with garlic and olive oil
Make the shortcake — you deserve it

For the freezer
Blanch green beans 2 minutes, freeze flat in bags
Cut corn off the cob, freeze in 2-cup portions
Freeze sliced peaches on a sheet pan then transfer to a bag
Freeze pesto in ice cube trays — summer in a cube

Nonna’s Farm Stand Rules

Never refrigerate tomatoes — counter only, stem side down. Cold destroys flavor and texture. Eat within 3 to 4 days.

Smell before you buy — peaches, cantaloupe, basil, strawberries. No scent means no flavor. Your nose never lies.

Talk to the farmer — ask what came in today. Ask what their favorite is. The best things aren’t always on display.

Small zucchini only — once it’s longer than your hand it’s watery and tasteless. The small ones are sweet and tender.

Buy herbs in abundance — basil, dill, mint. More than you think. Use generously. Freeze the rest in olive oil.

Go early or go late — early means first pick of the freshest. Late means farmers discount what’s left. Both win.

Bring cash and a real bag — you always buy more than planned. That is not a problem. That is the whole point of going.

One thing never tried before — every week. Ask the farmer what to do with it. This is how you stay curious.

Weekend Gathering No. 1 is live today — your first Friday at The Jersey Nonna’s table. Find it right here on Substack.

Every Friday from now through summer, I’ll be back with a farm stand report, a weekend menu, a featured recipe, a little essay, and a quiet thought to carry into your weekend.

I’m glad you’re here. Pull up a chair.

— Kathy
The Jersey Nonna

The Jersey strawberry season lasts about three weeks.

Three weeks. Maybe four if the weather cooperates and the farmers get lucky. Then they’re gone until next June and you’re left eating the pale, hard, flavorless things from the grocery store that smell like cardboard and taste like a memory of a strawberry rather than an actual one.

I say this not to make you anxious. I say it because I want you to go to the farm stand this week. This week, not next week, not when you get around to it. This week. Before they’re gone.

I have been going to Jersey farm stands my whole life.

I know the particular happiness of pulling into the gravel parking lot on a Saturday morning when the stand has just opened and everything is arranged and abundant and the air smells like something growing. I know the way you walk past the flowers and the herbs and the early lettuces and then you see them — dark red, small, fragrant in a way that stops you mid-stride.

Jersey strawberries don’t look like grocery store strawberries. They’re smaller. More irregular. Sometimes almost purple-red rather than the bright candy-red you find in a plastic clamshell in February. They’re soft in a way that tells you they were picked recently and handled gently and didn’t travel a thousand miles in a refrigerated truck.

And the smell. The smell is the whole thing.

If you hold a Jersey strawberry up and it smells like summer — sweet and slightly floral and intensely of itself — buy everything they have. If it doesn’t have a scent, put it down and find a different stand.

Your nose will not lie to you about a strawberry.

Here is what I do every June when the strawberries arrive.

I buy more than I think I need. Always. Because I have learned, over many years and many June mornings, that there is no such thing as too many Jersey strawberries. There is only not enough.

I eat some of them in the car on the way home. This is not a character flaw. This is correct behavior.

The rest I bring into the kitchen and I figure out what they want to be.

Sometimes they don’t want to be anything except themselves — sliced, maybe with a little sugar if they need it, eaten over the sink at noon because it’s June and the kitchen is warm and there’s nowhere to be.

Sometimes they want to be shortcake. Not sponge cake — I want to be very clear about this — real shortcake, which is a biscuit. A proper, buttery, slightly crumbly biscuit split in half while still warm, with macerated strawberries spooned over and barely sweetened whipped cream that collapses a little as it hits the warm biscuit. That is the dessert. That is the right answer.

Sometimes they want to be jam. A small batch, no pectin, nothing complicated. Just strawberries and sugar and lemon juice cooked down until it thickens and smells like June and goes into jars that will make February feel less bleak.

And sometimes — not always, but sometimes — they want to be left almost entirely alone. Macerated with a little sugar and a splash of good balsamic vinegar, left for an hour until they’ve made their own syrup, then spooned over vanilla ice cream or panna cotta or just eaten straight from the bowl with a spoon.

That last one requires no recipe. It requires only a willingness to leave something alone and let it become what it wants to be.

There is a particular kind of sadness that comes in late June when you go to the farm stand and the strawberries are gone.

You know it’s coming. You’ve known it since the first week. That’s part of what makes them so good — the knowledge that they won’t last, that you have to pay attention now, that the window is short and the world doesn’t wait.

I think about this every June. About the things that are only here for a moment and what it costs to miss them because you were too busy or too distracted or you figured you’d get to it next week.

The strawberries don’t wait for next week.

Neither, if I’m being honest, do most of the things that matter.

Go this week. Buy too many. Eat some in the car.

Make the shortcake at least once. Make the jam if you have an afternoon. Macerate a bowl with balsamic and put it over ice cream on a Tuesday night because Tuesday is special enough.

And when they’re gone — and they will be gone, sooner than you think — you’ll already be looking forward to next June.

That’s the right relationship to have with a Jersey strawberry.

If you want to keep the strawberry celebration going, I put all of my favorite seasonal berry recipes into a beautiful new Strawberry Cookbook. You can find a copy right here in my shop!

My Shop

STRAWBERRY SHORTCAKE With real biscuits, because that’s what shortcake is

Serves 6 · 40 minutes · Worth every minute

For the biscuits: 2 cups all-purpose flour 2 tbsp sugar 1 tbsp baking powder ½ tsp salt 6 tbsp cold butter, cubed ¾ cup cold heavy cream, plus more for brushing 1 tsp vanilla extract

For the strawberries: 2 lbs fresh Jersey strawberries, hulled and sliced 3 tbsp sugar — start here, adjust for sweetness 1 tsp fresh lemon juice Pinch of salt

For the cream: 1 cup heavy cream, very cold 2 tbsp powdered sugar 1 tsp vanilla extract

Make the strawberries first. Toss sliced strawberries with sugar, lemon juice, and a pinch of salt. Let sit at room temperature for at least 30 minutes. They’ll release their juice and make their own syrup. Taste and adjust sugar — Jersey strawberries often need less than you think.

Make the biscuits. Preheat oven to 425°F. Whisk together flour, sugar, baking powder, and salt. Cut in cold butter with your fingers until you have rough, shaggy crumbs with some pea-sized pieces — this is what makes the biscuit flaky, so don’t overwork it. Add heavy cream and vanilla and stir with a fork just until the dough comes together.

Turn out onto a floured surface. Pat gently — don’t roll — into a rectangle about ¾ inch thick. Cut into 6 rounds or squares. Place on a parchment-lined baking sheet. Brush tops with heavy cream. Bake 14-16 minutes until deeply golden.

Make the whipped cream. Beat cold heavy cream with powdered sugar and vanilla until it holds soft peaks. Stop before it gets stiff — you want it to be billowy and slightly loose.

Assemble while the biscuits are still warm. Split each biscuit. Spoon strawberries and their syrup generously over the bottom half. Add a large spoonful of whipped cream. Place the top half of the biscuit on at a slight angle so it looks abundant and imperfect.

Serve immediately. The biscuit will begin to absorb the strawberry syrup and the cream will settle and in ten minutes it will be something different and slightly less beautiful but still completely delicious.

Eat it while it’s right.

Nonna’s notes:

The biscuit is the whole argument for making this yourself rather than buying sponge cake from the store. The biscuit is buttery and slightly salty and it makes the strawberries taste more like strawberries. Don’t skip it.

If your strawberries are very sweet, cut the sugar to 2 tablespoons and let them sit longer. If they need a little help, use the full 3 tablespoons and add an extra squeeze of lemon.

The cream should be barely sweetened. This is not whipped cream from a can. This is cream that knows it’s not the star of the dish.

Leftover biscuits? Toast them the next morning and eat with butter and jam. You’re welcome.

— The Jersey Nonna

thejerseynonna.com · Find the free Summer Farm Stand Guide when you subscribe at the link

I have been going to the same farm stand for longer than I care to calculate.

Same gravel parking lot. Same wooden tables. Same particular smell of sun-warmed tomatoes and fresh basil and something green and alive that hits you the moment you open the car door and reminds you that this — right here, this moment — is what summer actually is.

I go every week from June through September. Sometimes twice a week in July when the tomatoes are at their absolute peak and I need more than I bought the first time, which is always. I go on Saturday mornings when it’s crowded and the best things go fast. I go on Tuesday afternoons when it’s quieter and the farmers are there themselves and willing to talk.

I go because the food is better. That’s the simple answer. A Jersey tomato from a farm stand in July tastes like a completely different species from the thing in the plastic clamshell at the grocery store. A farm stand peach smells like summer from three feet away. The corn was picked this morning and you can tell.

But that’s not really why I go.

I go because of what happens when I’m there.

I slow down. That’s the first thing. There is no rushing through a farm stand the way you rush through a grocery store. You stop. You look at things. You pick up a tomato and feel the weight of it, smell the stem end, hold it up in the light. You notice that the green beans look extraordinary this week or that the basil is the best it’s been all season.

You pay attention. And paying attention, it turns out, is one of the things I am most hungry for.

I talk to strangers. The woman ahead of me in line who knows which stand has the best peaches. The farmer who tells me what came in this morning before it made it to the table. The person reaching for the same bunch of basil who catches my eye and we both laugh because of course we were both going for the basil.

I make decisions without a plan. I don’t arrive with a recipe in mind. I arrive with an open basket and a willingness to be told what’s beautiful this week. The zucchini calls to me. The heirloom tomatoes — ugly and extraordinary — demand to come home with me. I buy more than I intended and less than I wish I’d bought and I spend the rest of the week figuring out what to do with all of it.

That figuring out is some of my best cooking.

My mother went to the farm stand. Her mother went to the farm stand, though in those days it was just called going to the market, and you went because that was where the food was and there was no other option.

We have other options now. We have grocery stores open at midnight and delivery apps and meal kit services and every ingredient available every month of every year regardless of whether it has any business existing in February.

And still I go to the farm stand.

Because some things are worth doing the inconvenient way. Because buying a tomato that was grown in New Jersey soil and picked this week and smells like it should is a fundamentally different experience from buying a tomato that traveled a thousand miles and tastes like the container it came in.

Because the ritual of it matters to me. The drive over on a Saturday morning. The coffee in the car. The parking lot filling up with other people who have also decided that this particular errand is worth their time. The walk through the tables. The decisions. The drive home with the windows down and everything smelling like summer.

Because standing at a farm stand table in July with a warm tomato in each hand, trying to decide between them, is one of the small moments that makes a life feel worth paying attention to.

And I am, at this point in my life, very interested in paying attention.

This newsletter is about food. It’s about home and gathering and creativity and traditions and the things we make with our hands and the people we make them for.

But underneath all of that it’s really about paying attention. To the season. To the people at your table. To the tomato that smells like July. To the small moments that most people walk right past because they’re moving too fast to notice them.

I notice them. I’ve always noticed them. And now I’m going to write them down.

Every week. In your inbox.

Starting with the farm stand.

The farm stand is waiting.

— The Jersey Nonna

thejerseynonna.com