Writing this blog has been full of slap-upside-the-head, "D'oh!" moments over the years. There was the time someone mentioned making a stock from leftover corn cobs. And another time when I discovered how simple it was—not to mention how much more delicious it tastes—to make your own peanut butter. (Got five minutes and a blender?)

I'm constantly asking myself: How could it have taken me so long to figure this stuff out?

So this last week I decided to make a big pan of lasagne, something I've done a zillion times before. A few years ago I would have bought a container of ricotta and slathered it on the next-to-the-top layer to give a creamy, oozy richness to this Italian-American classic. But when Dave developed a problem with dairy, and with lactose-free commercial ricotta not readily available, I had to eschew that particular ingredient for several years.

Then I read somewhere that it was super easy to make your own at home. D'oh!

While, according to my friend and cookbood author Nancy Harmon-Jenkins, traditional Italian ricotta is made from the recooked whey left over from cheesemaking (ri-cotta means "recooked"), another method makes a delicious fresh cheese that's as good or better than most store-bought brands. With the availability of organic lactose-free whole milk (thank you, Organic Valley), all it requires is lemon juice and salt!

I tried it, fiddled with the timing a bit to get the texture I wanted and, like magic, the creamy softness was back in our lives. And it's so dang easy, I can guarantee that it's going to start showing up on crostini, mixed in pasta and dolloped on salads.

Homemade Ricotta-Style Cheese

For 1 cup ricotta (double to make 2 cups):

4 c. whole milk
1/3 c. fresh-squeezed lemon juice
1 tsp. salt

In a saucepan, heat milk over medium heat (you don’t want to heat it too quickly). Stirring occasionally to keep it from scalding and measuring often with an instant read thermometer, bring milk to 200°.  When it reaches 200°, remove from heat and add lemon juice and salt. Stir a couple of times to combine and let it sit for 5 minutes. (You'll notice it start to curdle and separate.)

While it’s sitting, put cheesecloth or a cloth jelly bag in a fine mesh strainer over a large bowl. Pour the contents of the pan into the lined strainer and drain, making sure to save the watery whey (see note, below). Depending on how dry you want your ricotta to be, let it sit for two to 20 minutes. Draining it for a shorter time will give you creamier ricotta, while waiting the full time will result in a dry texture. When it's reached your desired texture, taste it for salt and adjust.

NOTE: Save the whey (the watery liquid left after draining) and feed it to your chickens or pigs. If you don't have livestock, don't worry—you can feed it to your family, as well! It's very nutritious and is great added to soups, stews and sauces that benefit from a slight milkiness. (Think chowders, or a potato-leek soup.) One reader said she used the leftover whey to cook pork loin in the crock pot for pulled pork, which confirms what I'd read about the acids in the whey helping to break down meat. I've used it to make carnitas, and it worked fabulously. Try it!

Before Blue Apron and Hello Fresh, there were Hamburger Helper and Swanson's frozen dinners. Even before that, when I was growing up, when my father didn't have time to hunt down a brontosaurus à la Fred Flintstone, my mother made do with Campbell's cream of mushroom soup and an arsenal of Lipton's dehydrated products. Spanish rice, tuna casserole and pot roast were her go-to dinners, egged on by the women's magazines of the day like the Ladies Home Journal that gave busy homemakers tips on "quick dinners your family will love!"

Tamale pie was one of those dinner solutions, though in the days when most Americans considered spaghetti sauce "spicy food," its call for the addition of chili powder—actually a spice mix containing paprika, cumin, garlic powder, onion powder, oregano and maybe cayenne—was a bridge too far for many. But my dad loved him some zing, so my mom would occasionally pep up her dinner rotation with chili powder-inflected goulash or tacos with hot sauce.

I'd been looking for a tamale pie recipe for those times when I'm feeling a bit of nostalgia for the casserole dinners of my childhood, and recently a friend shared one that brought back a flood of cornmeal-scented, cheesy memories. Updated with a few adaptations using local cornmeal and pasture-raised beef, locally grown and roasted tomatoes and some tangy sharp cheddar from Organic Valley, it fit the bill perfectly. I hope it will for you, too!

Tamale Pie

2 Tbsp. vegetable oil
1 onion
2 poblano peppers, chopped in 1/4” dice
3 cloves garlic, minced
1 1/2 lbs. ground meat (beef, chicken or turkey)
2 c. roasted tomatoes
2 c. corn kernels
1/2 c. chicken stock
2 tsp. ancho chile powder
1 tsp. ground cumin
1 c. cornmeal
1 c. grated cheddar or jack cheese
Salt to taste

Preheat oven to 350°.

Heat oil in large skillet over medium high heat. (If using a cast iron skillet, you can bake the casserole in it, as well.) When it shimmers, add ground meat and sauté until the meat is browned. Add onion and sauté until tender, about 3 minutes. Add garlic and pepper and sauté until softened, about 5 minutes. Add chile powder and cumin and stir briefly, then add tomatoes, corn kernels and broth. Bring to a simmer. Salt to taste.

While meat mixture simmers, bring 2 cups water to a boil. Slowly add cornmeal, stirring vigorously to prevent lumps. Continue cooking and stirring until it becomes quite thick. Add 1 teaspoon salt, or to taste. Stir cornmeal mixture into other ingredients. Put mixture into casserole (if you are using a cast iron skillet, you can bake the casserole in this). Sprinkle cheese over the top and bake about 30 minutes.

My family loves jam—Dave's homemade sourdough toasted in our old-school two-slice toaster is most of the reason—so this time of year I make a lot of it. And I'm talking about gallons of the stuff, enough to last us until the fruit ripens again next summer. So far this summer alone I've made raspberry, marionberry, strawberry, blackberry and two kinds of plum jam, with Dave's special citrus marmalade rounding out the selection.

I'm not confident enough to start playing around with spices to my repertoire, and I do love the forthright flavors of the fruits all by themselves. There are those who make exotic combinations like plum cardamom or apricot chanterelle, both from my friend Jennifer Bright, my polestar for preserving ideas—see this recipe for Prune Plum Jam with Fennel Seed for a taste. (Her blog Culinaria Eugenius, from her previous life in Eugene, is a trove of recipes and inspiration.)

This summer I did have a breakthrough when I ran across a blog called Divas Can Cook by Monique Kilgore, which she describes as centering on African-American Southern Cuisine. Her recipe for strawberry jam without pectin describes a technique calling for combining the fruit with sugar, warming it to melt the sugar, then bringing it to a rolling boil until it reaches 220 degrees. Done!

For me this eliminates the "will it set" problem of either runny preserves or a set that is too hard (and probably overcooked), plus the hassle of the plate-in-the-freezer, is-it-done guesswork. I've now used her technique with all the fruit jams I've made so far and they've all been exactly the right not-too-runny, not-too-thick consistency we love—Goldilocks would be so pleased! So thanks to Monique for setting me on the right path.

Fruit Jam

Adapted from Divas Can Cook by Monique Kilgore

So far I've used this technique to make strawberry, blackberry, marionberry, raspberry and plum preserves with excellent results.

1 lb. fresh fruit
1 1/4 c. sugar
1-2 Tbsp. fresh-squeezed lemon juice

Combine fruit with sugar and lemon juice in a large pot or Dutch oven. (If you have more than one pound of fruit, I use the same proportions as above for sugar and lemon juice.) Allow the fruit to sit and macerate for 15 minutes, then place over medium heat and simmer for 15 minutes until the sugar melts completely. (Kilgore mashes the fruit at this point for an even consistency, but I like my jam to have some texture so I skip that step.)

When the sugar has melted, turn up the heat and bring the fruit to a rolling boil and continue cooking until the temperature of the jam reaches 220 degrees. At that point transfer the jam to clean glass jars. If you're freezing the jam, simply allow it to cool to room temperature and transfer to your freezer. If you want shelf-stable jam, process the sealed jars in a water-bath canner following the canner directions.

Love figs? Get my recipe for a spectacular Balsamic Fig Jam that is amazing with cheeses or on toast.

This week's newsletter from the Beaverton Farmers Market is all about the colorful, luscious pears you'll see lovingly displayed in vendors' market booths, and I thought this one was so simple and uncomplicated that it deserved sharing here.

Decadent Pear

"Marketgoers love his apples, but they also love him for his amazing pears," wrote Market Master Ginger Rapport of Thompson Farms' Lynn Thompson. "Lynn is always welcoming and was happy to share his favorite pear recipe which he lovingly calls 'Decadent Pear.'"

4 sweet red pears
4 Tbsp. of brown sugar
4 Tbsp. of butter
4 strips of bacon, fried until crisp then crumbled

Halve the pears and hollow out the centers.

Spoon 1/2 tablespoon each of butter and brown sugar into each half, and microwave them for a minute to soften the pears.

Top with crumbled bacon and broil for a couple of minutes to crisp up the glaze.

I know, I know, calling a particular drink "the best cocktail" is hyperbole on the scale of saying one religion is the true path and everyone else is going to H-E-double toothpicks. And there are going to be comments like, "Whaddaya mean..." and "You're fulla..." But, doggone it, it's my favorite and I'm not afraid to say it.

Now, I've had lots of other great cocktails. After all, there is such a thing as due diligence in these matters and I'm all about fair play. Martinis, Manhattans, mojitos, lemon drops, G&Ts, sidecars, toddies...I could go on. But the Negroni is the one I always come back to as my touchstone, especially as made by my favorite bartender.

And it's not for everyone. You have to have a taste for the bitter (Campari) along with the sweet (vermouth). And the perfect accompaniment is a twist of lemon, though many practitioners are trying to substitute orange peel—in my opinion giving the drink a cloying oiliness rather than the zing that lemon rind contributes.

So if you're ready to try one, here's the recipe that we've adopted as our own.

Our House Negroni

A good friend of mine described the Negroni as "the perfectly balanced cocktail when made correctly." I've got to agree. The richness of the gin, the bitter-sweetness of the Campari, the balancing acidity of the vermouth. Measure it out if you have to, free pour if you're confident enough, just make it. This is a great old-school drink that originated in the 1930's, and is making a comeback today. Big ups for this very refreshing adult beverage.

1 part Gin
1 part Campari
1/2 part Sweet Vermouth
1/2 part Dry Vermouth

Fill your cocktail shaker halfway with ice, dump in the booze, shake then strain into a chilled martini glass and garnish with a twist of lemon.

A note on the gin: I love Beefeater and Taqueray, but with this drink I actually prefer the less assertive flavor of a Gordon's Dry Gin or a similar mid-range gin. Also, if you look in a vintage bar guide, it will invariably say one part sweet vermouth with no dry vermouth. But I was shown this half-and-half method by the bartender at Bix Restaurant in San Francisco many years ago—a great "must stop" bar for you martini fans—and this rounds out the flavors perfectly. Cheers!

I must have been around four years old. My family lived in a fifties-style ranch on a one block-long street of similar houses in Tigard, an early patch of development in what would become the suburban sprawl that quickly surrounded Portland in the 1960s and 70s.

At the back of the house, the edge of our neatly mowed, unfenced green lawn bordered on a field of wildflowers where I'd wander, picking bouquets to bring to my mother. It would eventually become a parking lot for a giant strip mall, but to my four-year-old self it was a vast prairie, a place for catching and studying the birds and bugs that lived there or spending what seemed like hours laying there and looking up at the clouds passing overhead.

Across the street in front of our house was another row of houses identical to ours, beyond which stretched another field, this one planted with row upon row of corn. All the kids on our street would play hide-and-seek in that field, losing each other in the sameness of the shadowy stalks that stretched into the sky, their tassels glowing in the evening light. During the late summer I'd often wander off into the field on my own and pick an ear or two, peeling back the green husk and nibbling the sweet raw corn that always tasted better than anything boiled and buttered, and only emerge when I heard my mother calling from the front porch to come in for dinner.

So when it's corn season and there's no field across the street to wander off into, I'll bring home an armload from the farmers' market, husk a few ears, scrape off the kernels and cook up a batch of corn stock from the cobs to make a corn risotto that brings back, if only for a few moments, that sweet memory from my childhood.

Sweet Corn Risotto

1 Tbsp. olive oil
1 Tbsp. butter or margarine
1/2 yellow onion, chopped fine
2 cloves garlic, minced
2 c. arborio rice
2 c. corn kernels
5 c. corn stock
1/2 c. parmesan
Salt and pepper, to taste

To make corn stock, cut kernels off of five corn cobs. Put kernels in a bowl and set aside. Place cobs in large saucepan and cover with 5 cups water. Bring to a boil, then reduce heat to simmer for 15 to 20 minutes. Remove cobs and strain stock through wire mesh sieve to remove any debris.

Melt butter and oil in 2 1/2-3 qt. heavy-bottomed sauce pan. Add onion and garlic and sauté over medium heat till translucent. Add rice and stir for about 30 seconds till grains are hot and coated with butter mixture. Add corn and combine. Stirring frequently, add stock one ladle-full at a time, allowing rice to absorb it before adding more. When rice is tender but still slightly al dente, stir in cheese. Add salt and pepper, adjusting to taste.

My neighbors Bill and Jen have been a driving force behind many of my culinary explorations, with their extensive garden and Bill's consuming interest in fermentation. Jen, too, comes from a long line of picklers and preservers—check out her great-grandmother's refrigerator pickles recipe—and Bill turned me on to homemade shrubs like his cantaloupe and mint shrub.

Last year he gave me a bushel of purple shiso to play with, which led me to Andrea Nguyen's inspiring website, Viet World Kitchen, about all things Vietnamese—her Vietnamese Food Any Day cookbook has changed my cooking on a basic level—and her recipe for Vietnamese Shiso (Tia To) Shrub. I made several batches and we enjoyed them all summer long.

This year, just as the early July heat wave was hitting the Northwest with a vengeance, our Stoneboat Farm CSA was offering fennel as part of the share. Fennel's long wavy fronds are normally a source of annoyance since they've gone straight to the compost bin, but this time I asked my friend Melinda if there was a use for them. "Fennel fronds?!?" she exclaimed, her eyes lighting up at the thought. "Candied fennel! Syrup! Pesto!"

Okay, then—I now feel badly about dumping them all these years. But no more!

The pesto was made and enjoyed with a salmon fillet we grilled a couple of days later, and I made a syrup from the leftover stalks. It was good, but wasn't thrilling…until my son mentioned he'd made a soda with some of the syrup and had added a splash of tarragon vinegar to make it sing. And did it ever!

Don't get me wrong, I'm still in love with Andrea's shiso drinking vinegar, but this one may be the hit of this summer's beverage bar.

Fennel-Tarragon Drinking Vinegar

4 c. fennel fronds, sliced in 3" lengths
6 c. water
6 c. sugar
2 c. tarragon vinegar (see below)

In a large saucepan over medium heat, combine water, sugar and fennel fronds. Bring to a boil and turn off heat. Cover pan and allow to steep for 2-3 hours until syrup cools. Add vinegar and stir. Bottle and store in refrigerator (makes about two quarts); will keep for several weeks.

To make a beverage, fill an 8 oz. drinking glass with ice. Add 1 oz. drinking vinegar. Fill with club soda. Stir, adding more syrup or soda to taste. Garnish with lemon, mint, etc., if desired.

Tarragon Vinegar

Fresh tarragon
White wine vinegar

Fill a couple of pint jars with tarragon sprigs—feel free to pack them in, but not too tightly; you need room for the vinegar, after all! Fill with vinegar to within 1/2" of rim. Place tight-fitting lid on the jar and store in a cool, dark place (like a basement) for 2 weeks. Using a fine mesh strainer, strain out the sprigs. Bottle (I save my empty vinegar bottles for just this purpose) and store in refrigerator.

If you've been seeing ads from your grocery store or fishmonger offering whole fish for a fraction of the regular retail price but you're not sure how you'd use it, I'm reposting this handy guide.

There is nothing better, or better for you, than fresh-caught, wild, local fish. Fish are packed with Omega-3 fatty acids, high in protein and low in saturated fat, and the American Heart Association advises eating fish twice a week. Trouble is, the usual price per pound for fresh fillets in the butcher case puts it out of reach for most budgets. Plus many commercially available ocean species can be high in mercury, and farm-raised fish are usually fed high doses of antibiotics—think of them as factory farms for finned creatures—due to the crowded pens they're raised in. And don't get me started on the effects of these farms on our waterways.

But those of us on the West Coast are fortunate to have access to some of the most delicious wild fish on the planet in our populations of native wild albacore and salmon. This year the fleet of primarily family-owned boats have been pulling in a supply of albacore from the fishery that stretches from Northern California up into British Columbia. Certified as sustainable by the Marine Stewardship Council, these albacore are young—just three to five years old, low in mercury and weighing in at 12 to 25 pounds—and individually caught with a hook-and-line system. (Want more info? Read my post, Albacore A to Z, for details.)

Wild salmon, particularly from Alaskan waters, are in plentiful supply right now, too, with stores advertising tempting steaks, fillets and roasts. But if you want to get a real deal, look for special sales events featuring whole fish.

"Whole fish?" you say. "I don't even know where to start with a whole fish!"

Well, let's talk about where you buy it. Make sure the fishmonger is reputable—recent studies have found that almost 20% of fish sold to consumers are mislabeled, and fish ordered at restaurants are more likely to be incorrectly labeled than fish bought at markets or grocery stores. I recently bought two whole albacore and two whole Coho salmon at New Seasons Market, a regional chain that buys its whole fish from local boats and has several one or two-day sales events per season. Find more places to buy local seafood with the Oregon Seafood Locator Map and Listings.

When you buy whole fish, you'll need to specify how you want it packaged. The fish are already cleaned, and most stores will butcher your fish at no charge, whether you want steaks or roasts or whole fillets. I always ask for the trimmings to be included, since the head, fins and bones make amazing stock for soups, chowders, risottos and paella, among many other uses. (Here's my technique for using those trimmings.)

And don't believe those online charts meant for chefs that say the yield from a whole albacore, gutted and without the head, is 50 percent of the weight. From the 17-pound fish (head off) that I bought from the store, my yield was more than 80 percent after removing the loins, roasting the carcass (350° for 30 min.), picking off the meat (nearly 2 lbs.) and then making stock from the bones (2 1/2 qts.). The total weight of bones, fins and detritus that went into the compost bin was only two or three pounds. (Kind of tells you about the food waste that happens in restaurants, though, doesn't it?)

If you're not going to throw the fish on the grill right away—always a good idea, and just one good-sized fillet will feed four to six—you'll need to think about how you want to store it. With a vacuum sealer it's a done deal, since properly packaged fish will keep for as long as a year. The idea is to keep air away from the meat to prevent freezer burn, so if you don't have a vacuum sealer, what do you do?

I quizzed the fellow at the fish counter when I bought my salmon, and he said that his dad, an avid fisherman, would put a single fillet in a zip-lock bag and submerge it in a sink full of water, holding the closure just above the water line. The water pressure pushes the air out, making an airtight seal around the fish. Not having a sealing machine myself, a little smoothing of the wrinkles in the bag while it was submerged did almost as good a job as the machine. (I found that a two-gallon zip-lock bag will hold a good-sized fillet quite nicely.)

A note: it's good to go over your fish ahead of freezing to check for pinbones or other bones that the butchers may have missed. First, it makes it easier to just throw it on the grill without worrying about biting down on a bone while you're eating and, second, it keeps those pokey bones from puncturing the bag and letting air in. Just hold the fillet and feel for any bones by running your fingers down the flesh, then use a pair of (clean) needle nose pliers to pull out the bones.

All this is to say that you can have more fresh, local, sustainable fish in your diet without paying dearly for the privilege.

Check out this recipe for to-die-for nicoise salad or this one for gochujang-roasted albacore. These salmon cakes will have your family swooning, or try this easy roasted salmon piccata. And you can't go wrong with a classic miso-glazed grilled salmon fillet.

I don't know about you, but this is the way it goes at our house: I'm browsing through recipes online or reading an article about our local fisheries—it is, after all, part of my job—and I think, "Gosh darn it, we need to have more fish in our diet."

Then I close the window or finish the article and forget about it.

But this summer we've invested in a CSA subscription from Stoneboat Farm, which means I will be picking up our share every Saturday morning for 23 weeks at its booth at the Hollywood Farmers Market. And that just happens to be across the aisle from the beautiful display at Linda Brand Crab which, in addition to the eponymous crab in its name, usually has a plethora of other local, fresh-out-of-the-water fish and shellfish on offer.

After I picked up our share this past weekend, I glanced across the aisle and noticed some beautiful rosy albacore tuna loins for a very reasonable price. So I picked up a small-ish, three-quarter pound piece and stashed it in the shopping bag with my vegetables, figuring I'd come up with something for dinner that night.

As usual the afternoon got involved, this time with a trip to the garden store for compost, digging it in to amend the dead soil in our raised beds, planting the tomatoes, peppers and ground cherries from Alice at Log House Plants, and suddenly the clock somehow said it was time to make dinner.

Oops. The albacore!

A quick scan of the veg bin—this is where a CSA really comes in handy—made the decision a snap, and with my homemade gochujang and other staples at the ready, I came up with a simple and, it turned out, incredibly delicious solution. Not just a terrific way to supplement a vegetable stir fry, this roasted fish would be great to use with any firm-fleshed fish as a main course with rice and salad, or sliced into cubes it would make a terrific appetizer right out of the oven (or off the grill) this summer.

Plus it makes it easy to fulfill that pledge to include more fish on our table!

Gochujang Roasted Albacore with Vegetable Fried Rice

For the marinade:
3/4 lb. albacore loin, sliced in 1" thick sections
3 garlic cloves, finely minced or pressed in a garlic press
2 Tbsp. gochujang
1 Tbsp. miso (I'm addicted to locally made Jorinji miso)
1 1/2 tsp. brown sugar
1 Tbsp. water to thin

For the fried rice:
4 c. leftover cooked rice*
4 c. vegetables, chopped in bite-sized pieces (I used cabbage, carrots and zucchini)
2 Tbsp. vegetable oil
1 onion, chopped in 1/4-inch dice
3 garlic cloves, minced
1 Tbsp. ginger, peeled and grated
2 Tbsp. gochujang
2 Tbsp. miso
1 Tbsp. fish sauce
1Tbsp. toasted sesame oil
1 bunch green onions, sliced into 1" lengths
1/2 tsp. red pepper flakes (optional)
1 Tbsp. toasted sesame seeds (optional)

Preheat oven to 400°.

Place a sheet of parchment paper in a roasting pan.

Chop vegetables for stir fry.

In a small mixing bowl, stir together the marinade ingredients. Thickly coat each piece of fish in the marinade mixture and place them on the parchment paper in the roasting pan. Reserve any remaining marinade for the fried rice. 

Place roasting pan in oven, roasting for 10 minutes. Remove from oven and set aside while you cook the fried rice.

In a deep sauté pan, heat the oil over medium-high heat until it shimmers. Add the chopped onions and sauté until it starts to become translucent. Add the ginger and garlic to the onions and sauté briefly, then add the gochujang, miso and any remaining gochujang marinade and cook for 1 minute, stirring to keep it from sticking.

Add vegetables starting with the ones that take the longest to cook (like carrots, then zucchini and cabbage) and sauté until crisp-tender. Add pepper flakes, fish sauce, sesame oil and green onions and heat briefly, then add cooked rice.* Cook for at least 5-10 minutes to heat the rice, then season to taste with more fish sauce, miso or sesame oil if it seems bland.

Cut the roasted fish into 1" pieces and place on top of the fried rice. Serve, sprinkling with toasted sesame seeds if desired.

* It's not necessary to have cooked rice on hand—I've made rice just beforehand with no problem. If you need to cook rice, bring 4 c. water to a boil and then add 2 cups long grain or jasmine rice. When it returns to a boil, turn down the heat to low and cook until all the liquid has been absorbed, about 20 minutes. You can cool the rice at this point, or use it hot.

Points have been deducted from my lifetime hosting score because of my penchant for trying out new recipes on guests. Fortunately very few of them have been complete disasters, and with enough wine and a smashing dessert—the old saying about ending on a high note is worth hewing to—how could anyone complain?

The other night was a prime example. Dave had marinated a whole bone-in pork leg in a pernil-style rub, then smoked it for six hours, rendering it lusciously juicy and with an enviable red smoke ring just inside the crust. I'd gone to the farmers' market for spring lettuces for a salad dressed with my new favorite vinaigrette, and picked up asparagus because, well, duh, it's asparagus season and who can resist?

Our guests for that evening were on a low-carb, low-salt regime so a "starch"—I've written before about the "meat, starch, vegetable" rubric that's imbedded in my middle-class, WASP-ish DNA—needed to be something other than the usual risotto or pasta or potatoes.

Fortunately I remembered there was a pound of barley I'd stashed in the freezer, so a grain salad seemed like a healthy solution. Parsley and mint were threatening to take over the garden, and darn it if that asparagus might come in handy, too.

Oh, and did I mention that Dave had made a raspberry sorbet for dessert? High note hit!

Barley, Asparagus and Mint Tabbouli

For the vinaigrette:
1/2 c. olive oil
6 Tbsp. lemon juice
1 Tbsp. Dijon mustard
1 clove garlic, crushed
1/2 tsp. dried oregano
Salt and pepper to taste

For the salad:
2-3 c. cooked barley, either hulled or whole grain
1 c. coarsely chopped fresh mint leaves
1 c. coarsely chopped fresh Italian parsley
1/2 c. finely sliced spring onions, red onion, or sweet onion
1/2 to 1 lb. asparagus, cut into 1" long pieces and lightly steamed
Salt to taste

If using unhulled barley, soak overnight prior to cooking.

Put 8 oz. uncooked barley in the bottom of a large saucepan and cover with 2-3" of water. Bring to a boil, reduce heat to simmer and cook, adding water if it gets too dry, until the barley is cooked through but still has a nice resistance when you bite into it…don't let it get mushy. (Unhulled barley will take longer than hulled barley.) Drain and rinse in cold water to cool. Transfer 2 to 3 cups, depending on how much grain you like in your tabbouli—I like less grain, more herbs—to a large mixing bowl, add remaining ingredients and enough dressing to moisten. Combine and, if time allows, let it sit for an hour or so for flavors to meld. Serve at room temperature.

While the barley cooks, make the vinaigrette. Take any tightly lidded pint container—I often use a jam jar—put all the ingredients into it, screw on the lid and shake like the dickens over the sink in case, as once happened, the lid didn't seal as tight as I thought and I ended up dressing the kitchen instead of the salad. It can be made ahead and stores well for several days in the fridge.

Check out these six salad recipes that will keep you inspired all summer long!