Spring

The kitchen sink – epicenter of the kitchen and the house. We wash, prepare, cook, and serve from this spot, spending many an hour at this oasis. I love to keep little mementoes of my garden forays at the sink, reminding me of what’s blooming just outside my door. Making arrangements for my house at the sink gives me leftover blossoms, buds, and leaves to stick in my cache of containers awaiting a fresh floral look. And since the sink is such a personal, and well used piece of the home, my collection of “specials” is a close hand reminder of dear ones.

Mema’s silver tray, Aunt Irene’s mother-of-pearl salt and pepper shakers, a bud vase I stole from Mimi, a sprinkling of blue and white, a favorite Mason’s ware platter and a various and a sundry assortment of soaps stand guard as stylish and nostalgic items.

The seasons change but my assortment doesn’t too much. These items are neutral enough – silver, Depression glass, transferware or blue and white – to withstand the changing times and uphold the blooms of the current season. Red berries at Christmas, greens in the winter, spring buds and summer herbs, and autumnal hued leaves all find their place at my sink-side sanctuary.

According to In Style, shades of gray, scarlet, and yellow are hot this spring. I, however, prefer green and purple, as in fresh English pea green and baby artichoke purple. Apparently, so do San Diego's farmers; our farmers' markets have some of the most stylish looking artichokes around – ranging from petite purple baby artichokes to hefty, celery green Big Heart artichokes.

Despite their diminutive size, baby artichokes are fully mature artichokes with a full-bodied, earthy flavor. They simply don't grow as large as Globe or Big Heart artichokes because they're picked from the lower part of the artichoke plant. As a result, the characteristic fuzzy choke isn't all that fuzzy and can be eaten. Indeed, other than a few tough outer leaves, the entire artichoke is edible.

Baby artichokes are delicious in many dishes ranging from risotto and pasta to salads and soups. Paired with Italian Farro or emmer, as in this Farro with Baby Artichokes, Mushrooms, and Peas, baby artichokes are exceptionally stylish.

Pesto isn't just for basil, though traditionally that's what pesto is made of. The word pesto itself means "pounded" in Italian. Famous in Genoa, the pesto of basil, pine nuts, Parmesan and olive oil is a delicious sauce on pasta. But many herbs and/or greens can take the place of basil to create a flavorful pesto. In the past I've made it with parsley, cilantro and even ramp greens. This time I've made a pesto from radish greens.

It may sound crazy but I love using up every last remnant of vegetables. It's not unlike saving vegetables scraps for stock. I mean why throw anything away when it's good for flavor? Radish leaves are not only on the radish for show, they're very much edible as a pesto or even sautéed and tossed with pasta. They offer up a unique fresh and peppery flavor that enlivens the palate.

The next time you buy a bunch of radishes, save the greens and use them—you'll be pleasantly surprised. Try the pesto spread on sandwiches, mixed into pasta, or used as a sauce on pizza in place of tomato sauce.

A week without a trip to the farmers' market is like a week without the sun: it makes me grumpy. I can’t remember the last time I bought produce in a regular grocery store. Sure, I go to the supermarket for eggs, milk, and cereal, but fruits and vegetables come from the farmers. So, what I did other day, shocked me. I tell myself it a was just a transgression.

I was at Costco stocking up on bottled water, protein powder, and toilet paper (why two people need 36 rolls of Northern toilet tissue, I’ll never know). On my way to the protein powder, I passed pineapples, tall, fragrant, ripe pineapples each topped with a crown fit for a king. They had no brown spots, no fuzzy fur on the bottoms—they were perfect. Better yet, they were only $2.99 each. I couldn’t believe it! I put two in my carriage and buried them under the toilet paper.

Not 20 feet later on my way to the water, I passed a mountain of mangoes, whose green and yellow skins were taut and unblemished. Having just paid $1.75 each for some (which weren’t even good), I stopped to check the price -- $8 for a whole case! I debated whether or not to buy them. What would we do with a whole case of mangoes? Would they be sweet? What if they all ripened at the same time?