I've lost track of precisely how my family's Official Summer Dish came to be. I know, though, that it was inspired in part by a trip to Italy 15 years ago, where we spent long, leisurely afternoons over pasta and wine in Umbria and Tuscany. And I know that every time I prepare this dish, those lingering hours, when good food and company cultivated a keen sense of well-being, return to mind.
The dish is simple, and suffused with summer. It is pasta (your choice), tossed with an uncooked sauce of fresh tomatoes, torn basil leaves, lumps of mozzarella cheese, olive oil, garlic, a little sea salt and good-quality grated cheese. Reggiano is my preference. On a stifling Baltimore evening, it's all you need. Crusty bread and white wine, though, are fine complements.
Our Official Summer Dish is an artlessly prepared concoction: You decide how much of each ingredient to add. If tomatoes are ripe and plentiful, pile them on. If you've got a garlic groove on, dice away. Basil addicts or mozzarella mavens can overindulge with impunity. It's great for those with an aversion to following recipes.
The summer dish tastes best when you can pick both basil and tomatoes from the garden. But that won't happen until summer is at its peak. In mid-June, the basil is ready. The tomatoes aren't.
Still, temperatures in the 90s call for the inauguration of summer. I walk up the hill to my little garden plot and pull basil leaves. The herb's penetrating fragrance has the aromatherapeutic effect of dousing petty concerns and opening one's mind to the season's sensual pleasures.
The tomatoes are of the hothouse ripened variety - in other words, kind of tough. Soon, though, I'll be able to find local, sun-ripened specimens at the farmers' market. In time, my six plants may yield a meal or two's worth, as well.
Right now, the water is boiling, but it's too soon to add the pasta. I mince a clove or two of garlic, add it to a little well of olive oil at the bottom of a large, ceramic bowl made by a friend in California.
The tomatoes are coarsely chopped, the mozzarella cut into bite-size morsels. I tear bits of basil and throw it in.
By the end of August, we will have eaten the Official Summer Dish many times, sometimes two or even three times a week. So its preparation has become an automatic ritual. No thought required. Just a secular prayer in praise of summer's gifts.
The fresh fettuccine doesn't take long to cook. I try to toss it with the sauce, but it doesn't want to mingle. Corkscrew pasta or shells would have been preferable. No matter. The sharp and sweet flavors and bright colors of this dish (the same as the Italian flag), are ample compensation.
It's best to eat the Official Summer Dish outside. In my mind, swiping away the gnats only enhances the alfresco experience. If you're dining at dusk, fireflies may flicker and the mosquitoes may dive. From my patio, I can hear the spring of the diving board at the neighborhood pool, and spy kids careening through the yard in a neighborhood game of capture the flag.
At first, we politely serve individual portions of the Official Summer Dish. Then we eat the rest straight from the bowl. We may even slurp some of the tomato/garlic/olive-oil juice that remains. Or we sop it up with bread, fighting for the last dip.
This is bliss.