I am boldly plowing my way through a refrigerator full of veggies with some, admittedly, mixed results. Anchovy frisee was not so good. In fact, it was so bad, I couldn’t eat it.

Ah well…. But, this little gem of a culinary epiphany is well-worth documenting, sharing, and trying, and I would encourage all of you inundated with zucchini and summer squash (whether from your own garden or a farm share) to embrace the flour, egg, and bread crumb combo.

This is my total cop-out post. For several weeks, I was busy baking up a storm and churning homemade ice cream, and then I stopped. Dead stop. I’ve eaten out the last several nights and been making my way through the mountains of baked goods already cluttering up my kitchen, and thus, have prepared little else for the last week or so.

And, when it came time for dinner last night, I realized that there was nothing suitable already made in my refrigerator. This does not happen. I usually have a buffet of left-overs ready for the nights that I don’t feel like cooking, or that are too muggy to contemplate turning on the oven, but not last night. And so my only solution, apart from becoming even better acquainted with the sushi delivery guy than I already am, was to recycle something from the fridge into a dinner-appropriate meal.

There are certain kitchen tasks that, no matter how simple, always reduce my ego and perception of my own mental capacity to the size of a child. For example, basting a turkey…. It’s quite simple, really. You just dip the tip into some of the juice, squeeze the little rubber-thingy, and distribute the juice over the turkey. Simple, right? But, somehow, I always end up choking on the heat of the oven, bump my head tellingly against the oven door, can’t quite get the juice into the baster (at which point it makes that hideous slurp-slurp noise), jab at the turkey senselessly, causing it to lose far more moisture than I ever intended to put in, and usually give myself a nasty burn.

After two previous attempts – one solid, one mildly disastrous – I think I’ve finally got the hang of my ice cream maker. The main take-aways from the first two attempts were:

Follow directions
Re-read the directions and make sure you’re following them as they are actually stated on the directions, and not concocting new directions in your own head.

Once those two directives were firmly planted in my brain (along side the horrid memory of the ice cream maker bouncing and spurting all over my counter), I managed to turn out a really, REALLY good batch of ice cream.

Congratulations Budapest, you did it!

Yes, Budapest, you bested me…. you served me something that I could not only not stomach, but had to politely, and as discreetly as possible, spit into my napkin.

Now, before I describe this offensive spread, which, along with gifelte fish, deserves its own Fear Factor episode, I will proudly state that I am not easily offended in the culinary department. I’ve watched Anthony Bourdain eat a live snakes heart and throught “Damn, I want to DO that!” There are foods I don’t care for, but very little that I can’t or won’t eat. Until this past week, the list was restricted to the aforementioned gefilte fish, but no more….

I was a little troubled the other day…. while I desperately did not want to turn my oven to 375° on a day so humid you could practically bottle the humidity, I really, REALLY wanted a ginger scone and did not want the store or cafe-bought variety, which tend to be nothing like a real scone.

Well, as fate would have it, my scones (yes, I did cave and turn the oven on) were also nothing like a real scone, but, in fact, turned out to be more like the perfect ginger cookie. Now, before you think that all of this balmy Boston weather has gone to my head and turned me into some sort of ego-maniac, dropping superlatives like “best” and “perfect” with nary a thought for accuracy, let me tell you that this cookie is worthy of any and all laudations that you care to throw at it.

It’s officially raspberry season in New England, which feels like finding the pot of gold at the end of a rainbow. For 9-10 months of the year, berries are too expensive, not tasty enough, and from too far away to be contemplated…. But then, for a brief window of time, they are profuse, overflowing at farmers’ markets, in farm share boxes, proudly proclaim their local origin in the supermarkets, and are equally boastful of their budget-friendly prices.

If you’re like me, you scoop them up by the armful when they are as sweet and luscious as they are in July and August, get them home, and then wonder what on earth you’re going to do with all of them. Well, this Raspberry Buttermilk Cake recipe should help in some small way to make good use of the now-prolific fruit.

It is amazing how many veggies I’ve been eating since joining a CSA. I didn’t eat this many when I was a vegetarian (a long, long time ago), but it’s hard not to when half of your refrigerator is filled with them every week.

The funny thing about these veggies and greens – it’s been mostly greens since the start of the season – is that they actually do a bang up job of filling me up. I’m not the person that thinks “Hmmm… arugula sounds good,” when my tummy’s growling. I’m more likely to think that a grilled cheese, fried chicken, or a salty peanut butter cookie will do the trick, but rummaging through a fridge stocked with such a copious amount of veggies, just to find the one fat-laden item, brings on such a crushing tidal wave of guilt that words fail me to describe its strength.

As I did with our Spain trip in the Spring, I’ve posted a few of my favorite dishes from our Vienna & Budapest trip below.

One of the most special meals was at Baraka, a restaurant that Concierge.com called the best restaurant east of the Iron Curtain. While the food was not as technically accomplished as I would have expected, the ambience was lovely, service beyond reproach, and, for such an elegant restaurant, a lot of fun.

Since joining a CSA, the space in my refrigerator has become increasingly dear, leaving every half-full bottle subject to critique as to its usefulness and value.

Being of old New England stock and physically averse to waste, I have been trying admirably to finish the remnant of all bottles, but there are some that are proving more difficult than others. My Trappist Peach Preserves were proving troublesome…. I had been slathering them on pieces of my Grilled Poundcake for weeks now, as I’ve made enough versions of that poundcake to feed most of Beacon Hill. I still have several cakes leftover, but could not stomach the peach preserves for one more slice – but, no more could I bear another slice with peach preserves than I could bear to throw them out, as they are incomparably delicious and of very high quality.