This summer, I’ve had the privilege of cooking for lots of crowds. I get a lot of questions about the stress of planning these dinners. My answer is simple: I’ve done this for many years, the planning is not what’s stressful. The logistical challenges around where to store all the damn food is. Because usually, these events aren’t unfolding around a big beautiful industrial kitchen with reach-ins and walk-ins and prep counters and multiple ovens. They’re popping up in lofts, on streets, in the vineyard. But that challenge is part of the excitement. It’s problem-solving, and that, I love.

When I begin menu planning, I think first about what’s in season and what I can source locally. Then I think about the wines that will be paired. I want there to be flow to the dishes. Do they complement each other or distract?

Because I’m serving family-style, there needs to be enough for everyone to enjoy, preferably something for the vegetarians, something for the pescatarians, something for the gluten-free-ers, and something for the garbivores.

Then I plan according to the logistical needs. Will I have an oven available to serve dishes hot? No? Ambient menu it is. More often than not, I plan two or three dishes to be served cold or at room temperature, and one or two to be served hot.

Boston Menu & Recipes

Before I dive into the menu, I have to give a shoutout to the two incredible ladies who helped make it a reality: Maria Colalancia of The Aperitivo Society, and Olivia Maietta of The Homemade Market.

I’m noticing a trend to these supper clubs. They’re all built around and by bad b$#%$es that I’m so honored to get connected with. They’re doers. Dreamers. Cacklers. And they are all following the thread that makes them them.

Maria pulled the strings to secure our location, hauled in the tables and chairs, sourced the table settings and linens, and even EMBROIDERED the tablecloth. Ultimately, she not only made the whole thing possible, but she embodied the type of energy that makes these dinners what they are.

And Olivia not only made the night’s most praised dish (lemon ricotta ravioli), but she was my wing woman in every sense in the kitchen. As guests arrived and my attention got pulled from the stovetop, I’d turn around in a panic, remembering I’d left the fritters on the stove. There she was: the batch I’d left for dead already plated, with a new round underway.

Summer Fritters

I was raised in Maryland, and there are some things you just can’t take out of me.

1) My love for Maryland Crabs

2) My love for Maryland sweet corn

3) The fact that both define summertime.

And while I’m tempted to shower these in Old Bay, these are NOT crab cakes. They’re light, finger-apps that taste like summer.

Serves 4

INGREDIENTS

For the fritters

• 4 oz fresh Jumbo Lump Crab Meat

• 2 sweet yellow summer corn on the cob

• 3 green onions

• 1 egg

• ¼ cup rice flour

• 1 tsp paprika

• ¼ tsp cayenne pepper

• 1 tsp celery salt

• Zest 1 lemon

• ¼ cup sparkling water

For the crema

• 1 avocado

• 1 jalapeño pepper

• 1 lime

• ¼ cup cilantro

• ¼ cup olive oil

• salt

DIRECTIONS

Make the Avocado Crema

Cut the avocado in half, take out the pit, and spoon the avocado into a blender. Halve the jalapeño, remove the seeds using a sharp paring knife, and add the pepper into the blender. Add the cilantro and squeeze in the juice of the lime. Season with salt and add the olive oil. Blend until smooth. If the blender gets stuck, add a tablespoon or two of water, until the blender functions properly and the crema is smooth. Taste and adjust with salt, lime, or olive oil. Cover and set aside.

Make the Crab Fritters

The key here is to be gentle as you want to keep as much of the crab meat intact as possible. Cut the fresh corn off the cob and put in a large bowl with the crab meat. Slice the green onions as thinly as possible and add them to the bowl. Add lemon zest and season with paprika, cayenne pepper, and celery salt, and toss to gently combine. Add the rice flour and toss gently to coat. Whisk the egg in a small bowl and add to the bowl. Working in batches, add the sparkling water and fold it in until the batter comes together.

Place a large, heavy-bottomed pan over medium-high heat. Add ¼ cup of avocado oil to the pan. Working in batches, scoop a tablespoon or so of the batter into the hot oil. When it reaches a golden-brown color, flip it with a spatula and fry until golden brown on that side. Continue until all the batter is gone. Serve with avocado crema.

Stone Fruit Salad

I wrote about this one a month ago, but it’s been a staple this summer because it’s just so good! To save redundancy, you can find it here.

Zucchini Salad

I lovingly refer to my zucchini plant as my dinosaur plant. At full bloom, there’s something prehistoric about its green, dense canopy. And its ability to dominate a garden bed for some reason makes me think of dinosaurs, though given our track record, it’s probably more akin to humans than anything else.

Anyway, zucchini takes over. Thankfully, in all its abundant glory, it’s also incredibly versatile. Undoubtedly one of my favorite ways to enjoy it in peak summer is in a shaved salad. Gently tossed with olive oil, salt, and lemon, delicate ribbons have just enough toothsomeness, while a creamy tahini dressing does the heavy lifting to make this salad so damn good.

Serves 4

INGREDIENTS

For the dressing

• 2 shallots, roughly chopped

• 1 small garlic clove, peeled

• 1 tbsp honey

• 2 tbsp tahini

• 1 lemon, zest and juice

• ¼ cup packed fresh dill fronds

• 6-8 fresh mint leaves

• 1 tbsp champagne vinegar

• ¼ cup olive oil

• Salt and freshly cracked pink pepper

• ¼ cup water

For the salad

• 1 small-medium zucchini

• 1/2 lemon, juiced

• 2 tbsp olive oil

• Flaky sea salt

• Pink pepper

• ½ cup toasted almonds, roughly chopped

• Pecorino Romano to serve

DIRECTIONS

Make the dressing

Add all of the ingredients to a blender and blend until smooth. Taste and adjust accordingly. If you want it slightly more tangy, you can always add a tbsp or two of Greek yogurt. Set aside.

Make the salad

Using a mandoline, shave the zucchini into thin ribbons. I like them to be thin enough that they fold easily, but not so thin that they break or have holes when shaved.

Gently toss the ribbons with fresh lemon juice, flaky sea salt, and olive oil to give them some seasoning.

Pile the ribbons onto a serving plate. I like to make them look like an intentional mess. Drizzle the dressing over top, then sprinkle with toasted almonds. Using a microplane, shave pecorino over top, coating the salad in a snow shower of cheese. Finish with a fresh round of ground pink pepper and serve immediately.

Salsa Fresca Roasted Fish

You know I love whole roasted fish. This one celebrates the height of tomato season. Served with a zingy, spicy zhoug, it’s a celebration of freshness and flavor. I like to do this with whole branzino or trout, but you can always do this with fillets as well. The timing will be slightly different, but the concept works just the same.

Serves 2-4

INGREDIENTS

For the fish

• 1 whole branzino, cleaned and scales removed

• ½ lemon

• 2-3 fresh herb sprigs (cilantro, parsley, basil will all work nicely)

• 4-5 Romano tomatoes, quartered

• 1 red onion, peeled and quartered

• 2 cloves garlic, peeled

• 1 lime, juiced

• 2 tbsp olive oil

• 1 tsp salt

For the zhoug

• 6 jalapeño peppers

• 1 cup parsley

• 1 cup cilantro

• ½ cup olive oil

• 2 cloves garlic

• 1 lime, juiced

• Salt

DIRECTIONS

Make the salsa fresca

Place the tomatoes, onion, garlic, lime juice, olive oil, and salt in a blender and blend until smooth.

Make the zhoug

Halve the jalapeño peppers and remove the seeds with a sharp paring knife. Place the jalapeños, parsley, cilantro, olive oil, garlic, lime juice, and a pinch of salt into a blender and blend until smooth. Adjust to taste.

Preheat the oven to 450.

Pat the fish dry with a paper towel and place it on a parchment-lined sheet pan. Using a sharp knife, cut three slits into the skin, starting just below the fin. This will help the fish cook evenly. Slice the ½ lemon into thin half-moons, cutting from top to tail. Rub the cavity of the fish with olive oil, then season it with salt and pepper.

Stuff the cavity with lemon slices and herbs. Spoon 4 tbsp of salsa fresca on the middle of the sheet-lined pan, place the stuffed fish on top, then spoon salsa fresca over the fish, ensuring to cover it head to tail. Bake in the oven for 15-20 minutes, checking at 15 to ensure it doesn’t overcook. Remember, the fish will continue to cook an additional 10 degrees once removed from the oven.

Serve with zhoug sauce on the side.

Summer Galette

There’s something so inviting about a rustic galette. It falls comfortably into my favorite category of shabby-chic. It’s imperfect, and that imperfection is part of its charm. For our dinner in Boston this summer, because I’m a masochist, I decided to make thirty individual galette’s so that every guest could have their own. While they each bubbled over (sorry Paul Hollywood, these probably wouldn’t have passed your test), they were cute, and still so very delicious

Makes 1 normal-sized Galette

INGREDIENTS

For the crust

• 2 ¾ cups all-purpose flour, plus more for working the dough

• 8 oz cold unsalted butter, cut into cubes

• 2tbsp granulated sugar

• 1 tsp salt

• ½ cup ice-cold water

• 1 tsp vodka

For the filling

• 4 red plums

• 2 peaches

• 1 cup pitted cherries

• Zest & juice 1 orange

• ½ cup sugar

• 1/2 tsp salt

• 2 tbsp cornstarch

To assemble

• 1 egg

• 6 tsp granulated sugar

DIRECTIONS

Make the dough

Stir together the flour, butter, sugar, and salt in a large bowl. Pinch the butter into the flour mixture with your fingertips until the butter is pea-sized.

Add the vodka to the ice water. Add the mixture 2 tbsp at a time to the flour, mixing it in by hand until the dough comes together. You might not use all the water, which is fine, just discard it if there’s any left. Turn the dough onto a surface and press it into a 1-inch-thick rectangle. Cut the rectangle crosswise into thirds and stack the dough. Wrap it tightly in plastic wrap and refrigerate for at least 2 hours and up to 3 days.

Macerate the fruit

1 hour before you’re ready to put the galette into the oven, cut the peaches and plums into bite-size pieces, and halve and pit the cherries. Add them to a bowl with the orange zest, juice, sugar, salt, and corn starch. Stir well to combine and set aside for 1 hour.

Assemble and bake

Bring the dough out of the refrigerator 10-20 minutes before you’re ready to assemble. Preheat the oven to 350. Line a baking sheet with parchment paper.

Unwrap the dough and roll it out on a floured surface, rotating the dough as you work, adding more flour as necessary. When you’ve rolled it to your desired thickness (I like it thin, but that can be risky for leaks). Gently fold the dough in half, then into a quarter, and transfer to the parchment-lined baking sheet. Unfold it to be open once more.

Whisk the egg with 1 tablespoon of water until well mixed. Spoon the fruit mixture into the center of the dough, spreading evenly and leaving a 2-inch border on all sides of the dough. Fold the dough edges over the filling, pleating as needed. Brush the crust with the whisked egg and sprinkle it with sugar.

Bake in the oven until golden brown and bubbling, roughly 1 hour. Remove and cool. I served with homemade vanilla cream, but ice cream is also always a winner.

As I knew it would (because it always does), summer’s flown by. It’s been busy, it’s been fun, and it’s been filled with delicious flavors shared with new and old friends. These recipes are a little late because, truthfully, this last week, I’ve been soaking up some much-needed time with my family.

I hope you try some of these out. If you do, let me know how you like them.

Thankfully, I did all my shopping yesterday. Our Slow Food farmstand had gorgeous carrots, lettuces from our favorite, Canewater Farms, greenhouse tomatoes from Idaho Falls, sweet corn (which never lives up because I’m a Maryland girl and I just know what it can taste like), and a spread of donut peaches that make my eyes and heart happy.

The chicken is in the oven on a low and slow braise, and I woke up early to get started on the three loaves of sourdough I stupidly committed myself to making.

It’s never dull.

But thankfully, I’ve done this enough times to know it all gets done. I’ve organized myself well, and we’re not curing cancer over here. I don’t have any options. The carrots can wait. The dough can chill. I’ve made the cakes. My kid needs to go to the doctor.

Three hours, two tests, and no answers later, we’re home again.

I’ll rot their brains (because when the oldest is sick, the youngest tags along) with plenty of Disney.

Retrospectively, that morning was oddly appropriate. Throughout the entire Table Wine journey, as it morphed from a concept to something tangible, it was crucial to me that every step of the way felt authentic. And while I’ve never been comfortable with socials, knowing I had to be present and visible meant that it all had to be real. Kids in all their messy glory are as real as it gets.

And as we planned out launch and activations, like the wine, it had to be done around the dinner table. And naturally, it had to happen on my home turf.

I’ve lived in Jackson Hole for 12 years. I’ve made lifelong friendships here. I’ve seen many of them leave due to the very real financial challenge of living in the millionaire playground. I’ve also seen many of them flourish, making dreams realities, building incredible local businesses, and finding community in a place they didn’t think possible. This place holds a rare magic that attracts the bold, the brave, the adventure seekers, the artists.

So when we mapped out activations for Table Wine, there was no question that I had to share this thing built on community, on connection, and people with my own.

While I prepped and planned for this meal for over 40, there was honestly not a moment of stress. Usually, I’m a nutcase. My husband begged me to stop catering because of the stress and anxiety it caused me on day to day. But for this night, for this wine, for these people, it didn’t feel stressful. It felt like coming home. Because I was home.

With the help of my friends, neighbors, and Kim (the sourdough gifter…), we laid rugs down the street, 8 borrowed banquet tables, a conglomeration of chairs, and three benches my husband Bryce “threw together” that morning with logs destined for the fireplace and some planks we had lying around. The glasses, silverware, tablecloths, and bud vases were thrifted from Kim’s storage unit. I quipped that it’s the first time her and Bryce’s hoarding came in handy. For decoration, we leaned into summer bounty with piles of tomatoes and stone fruits. We filled my teacup collection (more on that later) with cherries and tomatoes, and scattered them across the table.

As our first guests arrived, I came out to greet them. I’d slipped into my great-grandmother’s white linen dress (probably a mistake, seeing as I promptly spilled red wine on the skirt and it was mildly see-through), and wrapped an apron on for good measure, nonetheless. I felt elated watching the street fill with familiar faces. Instead of formal place settings, we cut playing cards in half, placing one half on the plate, and asking guests to pick the other half from a bowl to find their place at the table.

Our dear friend and photographer Todd Williams had the brilliant idea to set up a tapestry for portraits. As guests arrived, they snapped a photo (or 10).

As we brought out dishes (family-style, of course), I relished interrupting conversations, watching new friendships bud. It feels corny to say so, but it all went off without a hitch (though I probably should have made more chicken. Nothing to be done about that now).

The sky dimmed, and we lit the candles. The table changed accordingly. Platters emptied and bottles multiplied. The kids came out to say goodnight (I’d made it adults only, because those moments are rare for us all). No one was in a hurry to leave.

When Table Wine was first imagined, this was the picture I carried around in my head. An excuse to bring people together, because community doesn’t just happen; it exists because someone decides to make it

.

We say that Table Wine was made to join your moments, not define them. On our stretch of West Street, it did just that. And I can’t wait to do it all again.

Until my birthday, sweet, thoughtful, kind Kim kept us well stocked with fresh loaves (including a croissant loaf that my husband has been begging me to recreate ever since). After a month of laboring to keep my new starter alive, I realized what an expression of love those loaves truly were.

Mine is not a unique journey. I know many of you underwent the sourdough saga during the pandemic. I see you. I dove into this like everything I do, with enthusiasm, determination, and a continuous mantra to myself that the road will eventually smooth out. Admittedly, it took me 6 weeks to decide that my starter could no longer rule our lives. I committed it to a life in exile in our refrigerator, with weekly airing rights when I was ready to spend a day baking. It took another six weeks before I conceded that OO flour was non-negotiable. Turns out the Italians really do know best.

Between pancakes, crackers, biscuits, cinnamon rolls and cardamom buns, I’ve also decided that I will only make discard recipes when I absolutely want to, and have someone to give them to. I’m done with discarding discard bakes. Because truthfully, my family can only eat so much before they’re sick of it (despite my husband’s insistence that I’m wrong).

So, about a year and a half later, I’ve finally found my sourdough rhythm. And it works (usually). The key for me is setting alarms, staying consistent with my ratios, and allowing the bread to do the talking. I’m not someone who bakes bread every day. But I’m finally someone who knows when it’s a good day to bake my bread.

Kim’s Sourdough Recipe (she gave me this too)

The Dough

100 g active sourdough starter

375 g lukewarm water

400 g OO flour

100 g whole wheat or rye flour

12 g salt

B-Day (Baking Day)

To make the dough, place the active sourdough starter in a large glass bowl. Pouri n 375 g warm water and gently mix until the starter is mostly dissolved. Mix in the OO and whole wheat flour until a shaggy dough forms. Cover the bowl with a tight fitting lid to autolyze for 1 hour. After 1 hour, fold in the salt, stretching and folding the dough until the salt is incorporated and the dough becomes smooth. Cover and rest for 30 minutes. Repeat a series of stretches and folds. This is critical to forming gluten proteins in the dough. Repeat these 2 more times, every 30 minutes. You want to do 4 stretch and folds total, including the first round with the salt. Cover tightly to rise. When the dough has doubled in size (roughly 6-8 hours depending on the temperature of your kitchen), turn it out onto a surface dusted with rice flour. Fold the top towards the bottom to make a longer log shape, then roll one end inwards like a snail. Place the dough into a cloth-lined basket, and rest overnight in the refrigerator or up to 3 days.

When you’re ready to bake, preheat the oven to 550 degrees. Place a Dutch oven with its lid into the oven for 1 hour. After 1 hour, reduce the heat to 450, score the top of the dough, place in the Dutch oven, and cover with the lid. Bake for 35 minutes. After 35 minutes, reduce the oven to 400, remove the lid, and bake for another 7 minutes. Remove from oven and transfer the bread onto a wooden cutting board.

My Flour

I use a 4:1 ratio of OO flour and whole wheat or rye. The OO keeps the dough airy while the whole wheat/rye add distinct flavor. Too much whole wheat, I’ve found, results in a dense crumb.

My Schedule

Figuring out my sourdough schedule was the make-or-break for persevering. When I’m not on the road for work, I work mostly from home. This gives me the flexibility to make bread during the day.

7 am take the starter out of the fridge and feed it

12 pm make the dough and autolyze

1 pm add the salt and do a stretch and fold

1:30 pm stretch and fold

2 pm stretch and fold

2:30 pm stretch and fold

Cover and rest until doubled in size (in winter, that’s 9 pm, in summer, it’s closer to 7)

Scrape onto a rice flour-dusted counter, gently fold the top towards the bottom and then curl inwards like a snail. Transfer to a cloth-lined dough basket, fold the cloth over the top and refrigerate overnight. The dough can stay in the refrigerator for up to 3 days.

6 am next morning. Usually, the next morning, I’ll wake up at 6, place my cast iron Dutch oven into the oven, and preheat it to 550.

7 am turn the oven down to 450. Remove the bread from the fridge, core the top of the dough, place it in the oven, cover with the lid, and place in the oven. Bake for 35 minutes.

7:35 am reduce the oven temperature to 400, remove the lid, and bake for another 7 minutes.

Remove from the oven and place the bread on a wooden cutting board. Allow to cool for at least 1 hour before slicing into it. If you can’t help yourself, tear off pieces while still hot to keep the crumb structure.

What to Eat It With

Let’s be clear. A fresh homemade sourdough can be eaten by itself. Butter makes it better. Or some great olive oil. Other than that, I’d keep it simple.

Jam

Canned sardines

Ricotta with sliced figs, honey and salt

Butter, Gjetost, and jam

You Don’t Always Have to Discard the Discard

Sourdough Crackers

These are so simple, so flavorful, and you can make plenty of iterations. Go sweet with a cinnamon toast angle, keep it savory with garlic powder, salt, and rosemary, or season it with an everything bagel seasoning.

Sourdough Pancakes

My kiddos love these. On the rare occasion that I remember to make these the night ahead, it really is worth it. But morning of works great too.

Sourdough Biscuits

These are low-effort, high reward. And I’ve improvised countless times (I know, bakers, don’t come after me). It still works.

Sourdough Cinnamon Rolls

A plan ahead situation, but surprisingly not labor intensive.

Sourdough Cardamom Bun

An ode to Norway, these are so good, and just like all Norwegian baking endeavors, highly time- and labor-intensive. But worth it.

Sourdough Pizza Dough

Another high-labor, time-intensive situation. Noticeably different in the outcome.

January belongs to grapefruit. August reminds me that the perfect peach is unbeatable. Come September, I’ll swear figs have always been my favorite.

But July belongs to cherries.

Cherries arrive with remarkable restraint. For a few fleeting weeks, they’re everywhere. Then, just as I’ve convinced myself I’ll eat them forever, they’re gone.

And no fruit reminds me of childhood quite like cherries. And I can’t be alone in that. Why else is there such a nostalgic pull to cherry motifs? Yes, they’re charming and bright and somehow a little sexy, but there’s more to it than that. It’s because cherries and summer fill the same space of childhood where freedom and time felt endless, and boredom was a sport we conquered daily.

My grandfather loved cherries. And he had a few trees in his backyard that would get heavy with fruit every July. As a child, I’d sit for hours perched in their branches, mindlessly eating cherries.

One mid-summer’s day when I was seven, cherries became more than just fruit to me. My grandmother asked me to pick cherries before the rain came. If the fruit got wet, it’d split and attract ants and birds within hours the next day, so we had to beat the rain.

We spent a few hours filling buckets and bowls with as many cherries as we could pick. When we were satisfied with our haul, she sat me on a stool, handed me a paring knife, a bowl for pits, and a bowl for the precious pitted cherry flesh.

“Hold the cherry in your left fingers, and slowly score around the pit with the knife; let the pit guide the blade until you’ve cut it in half. Then twist the two halves until they split and use the tip of the knife to pop out the pit.”

We sat there for hours with my mother. The two of them chatted. I focused on the pit. My fingers were aching by the final hour and stained purple from the glorious cherry juices. Once the whole bowl had transformed from plump fruit to a juicy, messy bowl of goodness, I was ready to start devouring with abandon.

“Not so fast,” my grandmother said. “We’re going to make jam with this.” We cleaned up outside, wiping streaks of juice from our hands, our legs, and the tops of our toes.

Careful not to touch anything as we walked into the kitchen, she pulled out a big pot and dumped each of our bowls into it. Next, she emptied an entire bag of sugar on top. She sliced open two lemons and squeezed the juices into the pot, the slippery pips popping out before she could grab them. She placed the pot on the stovetop, lit the stove, and brought it to a gentle simmer.

“Do you want to be responsible for the most important part?” she asked. I nodded. She pulled my stool to the stove and handed me a wooden spoon. “Don’t let it bubble. Keep stirring to release the steam, but never let it bubble.”

For the rest of the day, I stood above the stove, stirring slowly, watching in amazement as the cherries slowly melted into a soft, purple miracle. My arms ached, and I felt tired to the bone.

We poured the jam into jars and left them to cool on the counter. The last remaining spoonfuls never made it that far. My grandmother scooped them, still warm, over fresh bowls of cold vanilla ice cream. We quickly devoured it side by side.

It filled my mouth with a warm, tart sweetness that I’ve been chasing ever since. It was the first time I’d understood that food could hold time. The stains on my fingers were evidence of an afternoon spent picking fruit, quietly learning to let the pit guide the blade, my arms aching from stirring a pot that seemed never to change until, suddenly, it had.

It was also the first time I realized the taste of food isn’t shaped by ingredients alone. It’s defined by the hands that prepare it and the time they’re willing to give it.

I think that’s when I fell in love with cooking. Not because I loved the recipe. Because I loved the transformation.

Every July, I inevitably buy too many cherries.

I eat them with a glass of wine. I eat them standing over the sink. I stain another shirt. And my children stain theirs, streams of red juice dripping from their chin as they diligently spit out the pit. Every once in a while, though, I find myself pulling out a paring knife. I put on an audiobook, lean into an afternoon of careful, slow labor, and follow my grandmother’s instructions, letting the pit guide the blade. My fingers still end up purple. And what follows tastes just like summer.

Three Recipes That Celebrate Cherry Season

Roasted Cherries with Basil Pesto, Toasted Sour Dough & Burrata

You can make this for a savory breakfast, a light lunch, or as an easy appetizer. Pro tip: double the pesto recipe so you have more for later. I love spooning it over a fried egg in the morning, tossing it into a salad with olive oil, or slathering it over salmon before baking.

Serves 4

For the cherries

• ½ lb summer cherries, pitted

• 1 tbsp extra virgin olive oil

• 1 tbsp balsamic vinegar

For the basil pesto

• 1 cup fresh basil leaves

• ¼ cup toasted almonds

• ¼ cup freshly grated Parmigiano Reggiano

• Zest of 1 lemon

• Juice of 1/2 lemon (save the other half in case it needs brightening at the end)

• ½ cup extra virgin olive oil

• Salt and pepper

• 1 small garlic clove, peeled

To assemble

• 4 thick slices of sourdough

• Butter

• 2 balls of burrata

• High-quality extra virgin olive oil for drizzling

• Flakey sea salt

• Freshly cracked black pepper

Directions

1) Preheat the oven to 425°F.

2) Make the pesto by combining all the basil, almonds, Parmigiano Reggiano, lemon zest, lemon juice, garlic, olive oil, salt, and pepper in a food processor. Pulse until smooth. Taste and adjust seasoning if needed.

3) Toss the cherries with olive oil and balsamic vinegar. Spread onto a parchment-lined sheet pan and roast for 10 minutes, until softened but still holding their shape.

4) Meanwhile, heat a cast-iron skillet over medium heat. Melt a small pat of butter and toast the sourdough until golden brown on both sides.

5) Tear each burrata in half and spread one half over each slice of toast.

6) Spoon over the pesto, followed by the warm roasted cherries. Finish with a drizzle of olive oil, a pinch of flaky sea salt, and freshly cracked black pepper.

7) Serve immediately while the cherries are still warm.

Pistachio Pork Roulade with Macerated Cherries

This is not a 30-minute recipe. But it is very worth the effort. If you want to skip the Lilet, you can always swap it out for a little more sugar and some freshly juiced orange.

Serves 4

For the Pork

• 1 1 1/2-2 lb pork tenderloin

• ¼ cup toasted pistachios

• ¼ cup parsley leaves, picked

• 6 mint leaves

• 2 tbsp fresh oregano leaves

• 1 tbsp fresh orange zest

• 1 shallot, peeled and roughly chopped

• 1 garlic clove, peeled

• ¼ cup olive oil

• Salt and pepper

For the Cherries

• 1 cup cherries, pitted

• 1 tbsp granulated sugar

• 1 tsp salt

• ¼ cup Lillet

• 1 tbsp fresh lemon juice

Directions

1) Macerate the cherries by combining all the ingredients in a bowl and stirring to combine. Cover and chill for at least 4 hours, and up to 1 week in the fridge.

2) Preheat the oven to 425°F.

3) Place the pistachios, parsley, mint, oregano, orange zest, shallot, garlic, and olive oil in a food processor. Season with salt and pepper. Pulse until finely chopped and spreadable. It should resemble a coarse pesto rather than a smooth purée.

4) Clean the silver skin off the pork tenderloin using a sharp boning knife.

5) Next, carefully butterfly the tenderloin by slicing lengthwise through the center, stopping about ½ inch before cutting all the way through. Open it like a book. Cover with plastic wrap and gently pound to an even ½-inch thickness.

6) Spread the pistachio pesto evenly across the pounded pork. Starting from the long edge of the pork, roll the pork up until it resembles a log. Using butcher’s twine, truss the tenderloin to ensure it’s even from top to tail.

7) Rub the pork roulade with olive oil and season with salt and pepper.

8) Bring a large skillet over medium-high heat. When the pan is searing hot, sear the pork in the pan until crispy and browned, roughly 2 minutes per side. Remove to a rack-lined sheet pan and finish in the oven for 18-22 minutes, until an instant-read thermometer inserted into the center registers 135°F. The pork will continue to cook another 10 degrees when you remove it from the oven to rest, so take it out before it reaches your desired internal temperature. Remove from the oven and rest for 10 minutes before slicing.

9) Cut off the butcher’s twine and slice into 2-inch disks. Spoon the macerated cherries over top to serve.

Stone Fruit Salad with Mint Mascarpone

A summer salad that feels like it could be dessert. Aren’t those just the best?

Serves 4

• 1/2 lb cherries

• 2 plums

• 2 apricots

• 1 cup mascarpone

• 1-¼ cups heavy whipping cream

• ¼ cup fresh mint leaves

• 1/2 cup fresh watercress or arugula

• Zest and juice 1 lime

• Pinch chili pepper flakes

• 1 tbsp honey

• 4 tbsp olive oil

• Flaky sea salt

Directions

1) Make the mascarpone. Place the mascarpone and 1 cup of heavy cream in the bowl of a mixer. Whip on low speed until the mixture is well combined, then increase the speed to medium and whip until soft peaks begin to form. Add the remaining ¼ cup of heavy cream and whip until the cream has thickened.

2) Chiffonade the mint into thin ribbons. Fold the mint, the lime zest, and a pinch of salt into the mascarpone. Spread the mascarpone onto a plate.

3) Pit and halve the cherries. Slice the apricots and plums into wedges and add everything to a large bowl with the watercress/arugula.

4) Whisk together the honey, lime juice, chili flakes, olive oil, and a pinch of flaky sea salt. Dress the salad and toss to evenly coat.

5) Spoon the dressed fruit over the mint mascarpone and serve immediately.

We spent a blissful week together enjoying the true meaning of a Norwegian summer: endless daylight, puffys worn over bikinis, and eating lots of gjetost and pølse med lompe. As we prepared to embark on our journey into the mountains, we realised we’d forgotten to write a meal plan. No big deal. I told them the huts all came with well-stocked pantries that ran on a trust system. But we might as well bring enough to keep us fed for breakfast, lunch and dinner, just in case. This being the night before we marched off into the mountains, we raided a local Joker, grabbed instant oat meals, knekkebrød, Jarlsberg, some candy (praise be to Kandi’s insistence) and plenty of trail mix. Our final, critical stop was Vinmonopolet.

A side note on Vinmonopolet. In America, boxed wine often carries a stigma. In Norway, it simply carries good wine farther. Norwegians demand both quality and practicality in equal measure. When you’re hiking into the mountains or taking a boat to an island for the weekend, practicality isn’t the opposite of pleasure—it’s what makes pleasure possible.

As we started our traipse into Romsdal in the pouring rain, we were thrilled to lug a bag of decent Rioja rather than lugging in (and out) a few extra pounds in bottles. What came next was three days of no phones, just each other, moving through some of the world’s most spectacular landscapes.

On our first day, as we came upon our home for the night, we were struck by the sheer comfort and welcoming warmth. We were soaked to the bone, and our boots were wetter than wet. Welcomed by a drying room with a lit stove and hangers for clothes, once we’d disrobed and arranged our dripping garments to dry, we stepped into the heart of the cabin. A warm living room complete with a crackling stove, blankets, and board games welcomed us.

After a glass of warming Rioja and an hour of quiet reading, we readied ourselves for dinner. We proudly stirred up our instant noodles and chatted about the almost comically serene qualities Norway had to offer. Three sisters, each equally blond, beautiful and kind, quietly walked in, smiled at us, and began to prepare their meal. As smells lifted from the stove, we each began to glance their way, curiosity igniting our barely-met appetites. They pulled out an elaborate fajita dinner from their packs. Every pepper and onion had been precut and packed, their chicken seasoned, and portions perfectly planned.

“Leave it to the Norwegians,” Kandi laughed. “Next they’ll pull out a steak dinner.”

As a child, I remember a similar trip we’d taken with a group of family friends. The meals had been similarly planned with precision and intention. Risotto, cheese fondue and spaghetti with bolognese. And for 5 days, as we hiked, there was a bag of ever-growing wild mushrooms that followed us from one hut to the next. On our last night, we gorged ourselves on a feast of wild mushrooms sautéed in garlic and butter, ingredients I now realise had been brought just for that reason.

The following morning began with a naked cold plunge in the glacier lake that our hut was perched upon. Over coffee, we learned that the sisters were headed in the same direction as us. They mentioned a challenging climb, of which we barely took notice. We’d met in the Tetons after all. We’re familiar with challenging terrain.

That day we hiked from one breathtaking glacier to another, and as the day neared late afternoon, we found by a small moss-covered shepherds’ cottage that sat on a lake, a small herd of untended sheep grazed peacefully at its edge. And as we followed the red trail markers, we began to wonder where our hut could possibly be.

“It must be around the corner of that cliff”, I said. Then watched as the red markers slowly climbed up the cliffside. “Of course it is,” said Kandi. We climbed. And climbed, and as the cliff got steeper, the markers got closer together. Soon, a fog set in. We were quieter now. Focused. Each step deliberate, every word one of encouragement, a check-in. When we reached the top, we couldn’t see more than 3 feet ahead at the most. Slowly we made our way, following the red dots over snow drifts until at last, a tiny grey hut appeared out of the fog. Next to it, a second.

Inside, a 200-square foot cabin with 2 bunks, a stove, and a spare mattress for the floor. We poured ourselves teacups of wine, made risotto, and ate in silence. That night, we covered some more difficult chapters. What was left to be said came out. And then we laughed in that tear-streaming, belly-aching, uncontrollable way that only comes from pure exhaustion and true love.

I quickly realised this was a trip I’d never forget. Not because of the scenery, or the endurance and challenges of the hike. It was memorable because we had protected something incredibly rare. Three uninterrupted days of simply being together. As Kandi always reminds us, “time is a thief.” And that’s what adulthood steals. Not excitement. Time.

I’m spoiled rotten with my friends. I’ve struck gold. And the most gratuitously spoiled part is that I’ve struck gold time, and time, again. I love my friends, and I will love and cherish them forever.

It’s not because we’ve done crazy things, had near-death-bonding experiences, or climbed ladders adjacently. It’s because we’ve shared slow intentional time, we’ve connected, we’ve grown together and separately like the strongest Aspen trees, grounded by a shared foundation of appreciated time together.

Fifteen years ago, friendship looked like Hurricanes at Pat O’Brien’s and wandering New Orleans in search of a pair of human-sized chickens until sunrise. Then it became late nights at the Cowboy Bar and sunrise hikes in the Tetons. During the pandemic, it was Zoom happy hours and birthday songs sung through laptop speakers. Today, it’s weeknight dinners, hour-long phone calls, and planning trips a decade in advance.

Those friendships define me.

I used to think friendships were built from extraordinary adventures.

Now, I know that they’re built by deciding, over and over again, that friendship is worth making time for. Worth cooking for. Worth calling. Worth hiking ten miles through the rain with. Worth sitting beside while the pasta boils or Jeopardy plays in the background. The joy is fed by the love shared and connections held, not by the bells and whistles that surround it.

That’s why I keep inviting people to dinner.

Not because I think the meal matters most.

But because we need a reason to return to one another.

Living in the mountains, the Solstice feeds me with joy and sadness, because already, I’m having anxiety that summer’s end is just around the corner. The days are long here, with nothing but options to quench your activity appetite. These days, we’re enjoying slow evenings spent by the river, or after-dinner bike rides chasing the kids around the neighborhood. And yet I’m already aware of how fleeting these days are. Thankfully, my stage of life has brought me an important realization: I simply won’t get to everything. The best parts of summer (like life) tend to happen on their own. Perhaps that’s also why I’m so bad at documenting them. By the time I think to take a photo, the light has changed, the kids have run off, and the moment has already done what it came to do.

Despite living in the Rockies, before you judge what comes next, I remain, at my core, a coastal girl. My affection for fresh seafood has never waned. Neither, apparently, has my tendency to write about fish.

With access to great seafood being somewhat limited where we live, our household has become devoted disciples of Sitka Seafood Market. Their wild Alaskan seafood arrives flash-frozen from small-boat fishermen and is our “treat yourself” subscription.

And when the temperatures climb, there is one dish I return to again and again.

Ceviche.

Bright, refreshing, and endlessly adaptable, ceviche feels like summer in a bowl. At its core, it’s simply seafood gently “cooked” in citrus. Whether you’re working with corvina, scallops, shrimp, or salmon, the same rule applies: start with beautiful seafood and let it shine.

Here are three versions I’ll be making all summer long.

Classic Peruvian Ceviche

The first chef I worked under, Santiago Kano, was incredibly talented. He had an unparalleled creativity, palate, and ability to fuse flavors and techniques into magic. And like the best chefs, he recognized that you don’t always have to reinvent the wheel. He showed me how to make this dish, and it’s stayed with me ever since.

Serves 2

8 oz Corvina

4 limes, juiced

¼ cup minced red onion

1 cup cherry tomatoes, quartered

A handful of cilantro, chopped

1 tsp finely diced aji pepper

Chips (sweet potato or tortilla)

Directions

Make sure the fish is properly deboned and skinned. Using your sharpest knife, cut the fish into 1-inch cubes and place in a bowl. Cover completely with fresh lime and orange juice. Season with salt, and allow to “cook” in the refrigerator for at least one hour, and up to a day. When you’re ready to serve, toss in the minced onion, tomatoes, and cilantro. Serve with a pinch of sea salt and crispy salty chips.

Strawberry Scallop Ceviche

I recently made this for our Hirondelle Vineyard lunch. It’s strawberry season in Napa, and 2 miles from the winery on the Silverado Trail is a Silverado Strawberry Stand. Just driving in I’m overcome with a wave of sweet summer strawberries. It’s one of the most nostalgic experiences I’ve ever had. That smell takes me right back to summers with my grandmother. Folded into a delicate ceviche with sweet, melt-in-your-mouth scallops, I’ll be making this one again and again.

Serves 2

8 oz Scallops

¼ cup fresh strawberries, diced

1 lime, juiced

1 lemon, juiced

2 oranges, juiced

Handful fresh basil, julienned

¼ cup brunoised cucumber

1 small jalapeno, brunoised (optional)

¼ cup macadamia nuts, toasted and chopped

Plantain chips or a spoon

Directions

Remove the muscle from the scallop and discard. Cut into ½ inch cubes and place in a bowl. Cover completely with fresh lime, lemon, and orange juice and season with salt. Toss to combine, cover, and refrigerate for one hour. Soak the brunoised jalapeño in water for 20 minutes. This will help take some of the bite out of the pepper but retain its flavor. Drain and set aside. When you’re ready to serve, fold in the strawberry, cucumber, basil, and as much of the jalapeño as you’d like. I’d advise tasting it to see how spicy it is before incorporating it. Again, you want the flavor of the scallop to shine through, the jalapeño is just there to accompany it. Garnish with a sprinkling of toasted macadamia nuts and serve with plantain chips or simply enjoy on a spoon.

Salmon Ceviche

This is all my mother. She’s Norwegian. So, salmon. Growing up, I remember her making a rendition of this all summer long. It’s tough to dial back the soy sauce, but if you can be conservative with it, it makes all the difference.

Serves 2

8 oz sushi-grade salmon

1-inch fresh ginger

1 clove garlic

1 lime, juiced

1 lemon, juiced

2 tbsp soy sauce

3 scallions chopped

1 tsp Fresno pepper, minced (taste to gauge its heat)

1 tbsp toasted sesame seeds

1 tsp sesame oil

Directions

Cut the salmon into 1/2 inch cubes and place in a bowl. Cover with fresh lemon and lime juice, toss to combine, and place covered in the refrigerator for 1 hour. Grate the ginger and garlic into a small mixing bowl and stir in the soy sauce and a minced fresno pepper. If the pepper is super spicy, dial it back a pinch. You want it to come through but not dominate the flavor of the dish. When you’re ready to serve, toss the soy-sauce mixture into the marinated salmon and toss together until well combined. Top with fresh scallions, toasted sesame seeds, and a drizzle of sesame oil.

These days, I’m less interested in squeezing every last drop out of summer. Maybe it’s chasing around two toddlers, but when the season arrives, I find myself cherishing the slow moments: lazy afternoons and languid evenings. A shared bowl of ceviche feels like more than enough. As I keep discovering, the moments worth holding onto are rarely the ones we plan for.

But let’s be clear: the Aperol Spritz isn’t exactly a low alcohol option. Delicious? Absolutely. Low-octane? Not quite.

Lately, I’ve been loving spritzes that occupy a different space—something refreshing, light, and a little special, while dialing back the alcohol. I will still happily receive and enjoy an Aperol Spritz. Or a stiff Negroni. But some nights I want something lighter, and I’ve decided that lowering my intake doesn’t have to mean giving up the ritual of a well-made drink.

Diluting wine with sparkling water isn’t revolutionary. In fact, it’s a tradition in many wine-producing cultures. In Spain, you’ll find countless versions that answer this calling. Inspired by my dear friend, Kandi, who uprooted her life last year and moved to Spain with her husband and two fur babies, last week, we served a Tinto de Verano during the reception for our Long Table Supper at Clos du Val.

It was 95 degrees in Napa that day, and the cocktail’s fresh, undeniably thirst-quenching qualities hit the spot. I did notice a few raised eyebrows as guests arrived, watching—what I can only imagine was with mild horror—as their first sip of Table Wine was poured over ice with lemon soda and sparkling water.

But here’s the thing: it worked. It was delicious.

Tinto de Verano

Makes 1 cocktail

Ingredients

• Ice

• 2 oz Table Wine

• 1 oz Lemon Soda (we used Güs)

• 1 sparkling water

• Slice of fresh lemon to garnish

Directions

1. Fill the coupe glass with ice. Add the Table Wine, lemon soda, and sparkling water.

2. Garnish with a slice of fresh lemon and serve immediately.

My brother recently introduced me to Mommmenpop, a citrus apéritif born in Napa Valley. The brainchild of winemaker Samantha Sheehan, this citrus-infused fortified wine makes a spritz that rivals the classic Aperol. In this version, I add ginger beer for a little exta zing.

Mommenpop Mule

Makes 1 cocktail

Ingredients

• Ice

• 2 oz Mommenpop (I love the blood orange)

• 1 oz ginger beer

• 1 oz sparkling water

• Garnish with fresh lime

Directions

1. Fill a wineglass with ice. Add the Mommenpop, ginger beer, and sparkling water.

2. Garnish with a lime wheel and serve.

We tend to swing between extremes. I believe in living somewhere in the middle. When I’m looking to lower my alcohol intake, I don’t see it as all or nothing. There is plenty of room between a full-strength cocktail and a zero-proof alternative, and I like that space.

Don’t get me wrong, I enjoy both ends of the spectrum. But sometimes, all you need is a splash of sparkling water, a handful of ice, and something delicious to sip while dinner cooks.

But it’s also the day that Table Wine, the project I’ve been thinking about, talking about, and working on for months, is finally being kicked out of the house and sent off into the world. College. Trade school. A job. A gap year. Honestly, I don’t know where she’s headed. The point is: it’s time.

And here’s the beautiful thing: you don’t have to plan around her.

She’s not the guest who requires a deep clean, a perfectly set table, or a reason to open the bottle you’ve been saving. She shows up with a backpack slung over her shoulder, packed for every possible occasion. Her shoes might be a little worn, and she’ll need to borrow a steamer for her dress. The plans are loose. But she’s game for anything and will pull up a chair wherever there’s room.

The truth is, we didn’t invent the world that Table Wine belongs in. You already did.

On your kitchen counter at 7 pm when dinner turned into dessert. In the backyard when someone dragged out another chair. At the beach when the cooler came along for the ride. In the alley after service when nobody was ready to go home. Around campfires, on porches, in crowded apartments and borrowed lawns.

Just like our girl, the best moments rarely announce themselves. They simply show up.

So no more waiting. Table Wine is ready. Keep doing what you’re doing. She’ll love it.

We were pulling together dinner for ten as part of a photoshoot for Table Wine. I’ll be honest, they did most of the work. I had one assignment: whole roasted fish. The rest they whipped up with ease, style, and the kind of confidence that makes you wonder why stress and food prep ever merge.

But somewhere between chopping herbs, arranging platters, and stealing bites over the kitchen counter, I realized how much I missed cooking with other people.

And while I’m not here to play gender politics (at least not today), I will say this: some of the most joyful kitchens I’ve worked in have been led by women. Primarily, powerhouse women.

Over the years, I’ve had the privilege of working under talented, demanding, inspiring chefs of all kinds. I’ve learned from incredible men and incredible women. But what stands out to me isn’t necessarily the food. It’s the feelings. The kitchens where laughter came easiest. The ones with creative audacity and endless collaboration. The ones where someone inevitably turned up the music halfway through service and suddenly an entire kitchen was dancing while simultaneously executing dinner for a full turn.

For context, when I first started cooking professionally, I had absolutely no training. What I did have was curiosity, patience, and an appetite for learning.

Thankfully, the Fine Dining Restaurant Group in Jackson Hole took a chance on me and hired me to join their culinary team at The Kitchen.

I started at garde manger, where salads reign supreme. From there, I moved through fry, crudo, grill, and eventually into a sous chef role. Over the next eight years, I moved through a variety of kitchens and worked alongside a cast of characters that could each fill their own novels.

Anyone who’s worked in a restaurant knows that kitchens attract big personalities. The work is physically demanding, mentally exhausting, and emotionally intense. Some days it broke me. Other days it made me feel like the luckiest person in the world.

But the thing I loved most wasn’t the food; it was the camaraderie.

All through my youth, I gravitated toward group endeavors. I played team sports. I sang in groups. Yes, I was an a cappella girl. I was also in a twelve-piece funk band in college (shout out Boat Taxi).

The common thread wasn’t competition or performance. It was collaboration. I loved creating something bigger than myself with other people.

The best professional kitchens operate the same way. Everyone is moving toward a shared goal. You’re communicating constantly. Anticipating one another’s needs. Stepping in when someone falls behind. Filling gaps without being asked. When it works, service feels less like work and more like choreography.

It’s a dance.

When it doesn’t, it’s a train wreck. If you’ve watched The Bear, you know what scene I’m talking about. The PTSD from that one was real.

Cooking at home with friends is, thankfully, much lower stakes. Nobody’s ticket times are suffering. And if anyone’s yelling “behind” or “corner”, it’s mostly ironic.

But what it can share is the camaraderie of making something together.

The shared tastes. The problem-solving. The conversations that happen over the steady rhythm of a knife on a cutting board. The satisfaction of placing platters on the table in synchrony.

The evening I spent cooking with the Stoopies had none of the stress of running a line. But it had all of the joy.

It was a reminder that food is rarely just about feeding people. Most of my favorite meals aren’t the ones I’ve cooked alone. They’re the ones made shoulder to shoulder with friends, passing ingredients, sharing ideas, and laughing our way through the process.

The meal eventually ends. The dishes get washed. The table gets cleared.

But the feeling of having created something together tends to stick around a little longer.

Meals at a long table just hit differently.

They’re family-style in the truest sense, not because everyone is related, but because everyone is participating. They dissolve barriers. They make space for old friendships to deepen and new ones to form. More importantly, long tables disrupt our tendency to cluster with people who look, think, vote, work, and live exactly like we do. Not because dinner should be a debate stage (unless you’re at my parents’ house, in which case it’s truly unavoidable and I honestly love it), but because sharing a meal is one of the few remaining rituals that asks us to be curious about one another. It’s hard to reduce someone to an opinion once they’ve passed you the bread basket three times.

Being the way that I am, this is the only way I want to serve (or be served) food. I want people interacting with one another as much as they’re interacting with what’s on their plate.

When we got married, I insisted on long tables. A family-style dinner for a family-style affair. And, to the mild horror of some of our guests, everyone was seated next to someone they didn’t know. To me, the entire point of a wedding is bringing communities together. If you’re building a shared life, why not start by building a shared table?

The good news is that creating one doesn’t require a wedding. Just a little intention.

Step 1: Decide on the Food

The table may be the star, but food comes first.

I’m not saying you have to plan a full menu (though that’s exactly what I’d be doing), but you do need a game plan. Potluck, takeout, barbeque, pizza party, giant pot of pasta: do whatever you please. Just commit to how you’re feeding people before you start worrying about napkins and centerpieces.

Trust me, everything else gets easier after that.

Step 2: Assemble the table

Find some tables and shove them together.

Cobble your seating with benches, chairs, turned-over boxes, camping chairs, hay bales, old stumps, whatever goes. Perfection is the enemy of hospitality.

No tables? That’s fine. Throw blankets down in a row and make one long quilted picnic.

Step 3: Set the Scene

Maybe you’re channeling Splendor and already have a Pinterest board dedicated to long-table dinners, in which case I’ll respectfully step aside.

For everyone else: I love a naked table. If we’re going for tablecloths, I don’t think they need to match. If you feel strongly that they do, you do you. I love candles and will happily die on that hill. Tea lights, tapers, votives: scatter them liberally. Add a few flowers, branches, herbs, or wild grasses in small vases and call it a day.

If you don’t have enough glasses, plates, or silverware, asks guests to bring their own. People are remarkably capable (and game).

I avoid disposables whenever possible, but I’m also not in the business of making your life stressful. Use what you’ve got.

Step 4: Pour the drinks

This probably belongs in step 1, but here we are.

At a minimum, I want water on the table. Old wine bottles make excellent carafes, so hang onto a few.

Beyond that, I like to keep things simple: one white, one red, plenty of both. If guests ask what they can bring, and they will, assign drinks.

Everyone likes having a choice.

Step 5: Put on some tunes

Music is non-negotiable, especially in our house.

Maybe you spend hours building the perfect playlist. Maybe you throw on your favorite dinner-party radio station and call it good. Maybe you ask guests to contribute a song when they RSVP.

The point isn’t the playlist. The point is giving your guests something to settle into.

That’s what the long table really does anyway. It gives people a place to land, while also asking something of us: pass the bread, pour the wine, reach for the salt. Stay curious. Stay open. Learn something new. Have a teaching moment, not because you planned for it, but because it happened between bites.

Before long, the table has done its job: it’s turned a group of people into a gathering.

If I’m cooking for a crowd, I’ll usually choose the whole roasted path. It’s beautiful, it’s dramatic, and it’s communal. And while there are many ways to do this well, I’ll share my secrets to success.

Pick your fish wisely

For me, choosing the fish is the most fun part. I love talking to a fishmonger and hearing what they recommend. They’re the experts after all, and they’ll be able to tell you what’s fresh.

If you don’t have a fishmonger, then you can keep to a few simple rules.

No, you can’t whole roast any fish. Bluefin tuna and swordfish are too big and too oily, while flatter fish like sole, flounder, and skate will simply fall apart or dry right out.

You’ll want something of a manageable size, 1 1/2-4 lbs. is ideal, depending on how many people you plan to feed. If you want a clean white fish, red snapper, branzino, or black sea bass are great options. If you want something richer, trout or arctic char offer delicious flavor with a fattier texture.

Clean & score

Ask the fishmonger to clean, gut, and scale the fish for you. It will make your life much easier. When you’re ready to get cooking, be sure to pat it dry, inside and out. This will render a delicious, crispy skin.

Using a sharp knife, carefully score 2-3 shallow cuts on each side. This will help the fish cook evenly.

Choose your stuffing & seasoning

There’s no need to overthink your stuffing, though I typically steer away from any sort of breading and opt for aromatics such as citrus slices, fresh herbs, and garlic. Sometimes, I’ll throw some butter in there, or if I want a more Eastern flavor profile I’ll add ginger, kefir lime leaf, and lemon grass.

Rub the outside of the fish evenly with olive oil and season simply with salt and pepper. Sometimes I’ll do some Sumac, especially for a whole-roasted small salmon.

Choose your sauce

I’m a sauce girl. It’s one of my favorite things to make, probably because it’s my favorite to eat too. Sauce has the power to transform. My go-to for a whole roasted fish is a simple chimichurri sauce.

The cooking

Ok, there are two key components here: high heat and finishing outside of the oven. I like to roast my fish at 425°F. You’ll want to roast the fish until an instant-read thermometer inserted into the thickest part of the fish registers 125°F. Here’s the key. When you pull it from the oven, it will continue to cook an additional 10°F over the next 10 minutes. This resting window will deliver you the perfect, delicate, flaky texture you’re looking for.

Okay, enough about the cooking. Here’s the recipe:

Serves 4 (with sides)

For the Fish

1 red snapper, about 2 lbs, cleaned & scaled

1 lemon, sliced

2 cloves garlic, peeled and smashed

3-4 sprigs Italian parsley

3 tbsp butter

Extra virgin olive oil

Salt and pepper

For the Chimichurri

½ cup Italian parsley, minced

½ cup cilantro, minced

1 shallot, minced

1 lime, juiced

2 tbsp apple cider or champagne vinegar

¼ cup high-quality extra virgin olive oil

Salt and pepper

Pinch red pepper flakes

Preheat your oven to 425°F.

Make the Chimichurri sauce by combining all the ingredients in a bowl and stirring to combine. Taste and adjust accordingly. Sometimes you’ll need more acid, or more olive oil, or salt.

Rub the outside and inside of your fish with olive oil and season generously with salt and pepper. Stuff the cavity with aromatics and butter, and place on a roasting pan. Roast for 18-20 minutes, or until an instant-read thermometer inserted into the thickest part of the fish registers 125°F. Remove from the oven and rest for 10 minutes. Serve with chimichurri sauce.

Pull up a seat and get to work.

Pro-tip for eating: claim the head. no one else will, and if you’re willing to get your fingers dirty, the cheeks and the meat at the top of the skull are truly the best part.

Yes, they require a bit of planning. Yes, you’ll be cleaning flour out of unexpected nooks and crannies for a while. But once people start stretching dough and building their own pies, the whole night turns into an instant icebreaker.

Plus, it’s a fast-tracked social experiment. Are they asking 100 questions? Hoarding toppings like there’s a cheese shortage? Quietly making a pizza that could come out of L’Antica Pizzeria da Michele? Or taking over the pizza station like they trained at L’Antica Pizzeria da Michele? It’s a delicious little social experiment.

Here’s my checklist for throwing a pizza night that feels equal parts effortless and elite.

The Dough

The dough is, inarguably, the most important part of the pizza. I’m a purist, so I’m partial to a Neapolitan-style crust: thin in the center, airy around the edges, and undeniably, deeply flavorful. Importantly, it’s bready and yeasty, not crumbly or sweet. The key is using high-quality 00 flour—an ultra-fine Italian flour that gives you that perfect chewy-crispy balance.

If making dough from scratch sounds ambitious, there’s absolutely no shame in outsourcing. Many local pizzerias will sell you fresh dough, and both Whole Foods and Trader Joe’s have solid fresh dough options.

Food52’s Whole Wheat Sourdough Pizza

If I have time, I’m making dough using my sourdough starter. I’ve tested a lot of recipes, but this Food52 version remains my go-to. Just note: it takes about 30 hours from start to finish, so this is a “plan ahead” situation.

Ingredients

300 grams 00 flour

300 grams whole-wheat flour

446 grams warm water

13 grams fine sea salt

110 grams ripe sourdough starter

Extra virgin olive oil

Directions

1) Using a dough whisk or a stand mixer fitted with a dough hook, combine 300 grams 00 flour, 300 grams whole wheat flour, and 400 grams of warm water. Mix until combined and no dry spots remain. Cover the bowl with plastic wrap and allow to autolyze for 30 minutes.

2) Add 13 grams of salt, 110 grams of ripe sourdough starter, and 46 grams of warm water. Mix by hand or in the stand of your mixer until the dough is well combined and has a consistent smooth texture, roughly 5-6 minutes mixing. Transfer to a large bowl and cover the dough with an airtight plastic wrap. Set a timer for 30 minutes. When the timer goes off, give the dough a round of stretch and folds, grabbing the side farthest from you, stretching it up, folding it towards you, and repeating the same practice from bottom to top, then side to side two times. Cover once more and set your alarm for 30 minutes. Repeat the stretch and folds. Cover and set your alarm for 90 minutes. When the alarm goes off, place the covered dough into the refrigerator and leave it overnight.

3) The next morning, remove the dough from the fridge and allow it to warm up for 15 minutes. Meanwhile, grease a 9x13-inch baking pan with olive oil. Turn the dough onto a clean countertop and divide it into four equal pieces. Shape each piece into a tight ball, folding the corners of the dough into the center, pinching it into a tight ball. Place the dough ball seam-side down onto the greased pan. Repeat with the remaining dough balls. Cover the pan with tight-fitting plastic wrap and leave to proof for 4 ½ hours. When the dough is puffy and springs back slowly to the touch, it’s ready. At this point, if you’re not ready to get cooking, you can place it covered in the fridge. Be sure to take them out 2-4 hours before cooking.

Non-Sourdough Pizza Dough

No starter? No problem. I recently tried a recipe from A Couple Cooks that turned out beautifully. My only tweak: adding a spoonful of honey for a slightly deeper, more fermented flavor.

Ingredients

500 grams 00 flour

8 grams instant yeast

1 tbsp honey

7 grams fine sea salt

338 grams warm water

13 grams extra virgin olive oil

Directions

1) Combine the flour, salt, and yeast in a large bowl. Stir to combine. Add the water, olive oil, and honey, and stir until a raggy dough forms. Turn it onto a clean, floured surface and knead for 8-9 minutes, until the dough feels smooth and pillowy. If the dough is very sticky, add a touch of flour while kneading.

2) Divide the dough into 3-4 equal pieces. Gently fold each piece in on itself to form tight dough balls. Place the dough onto the lightly floured surface, and add a dab of olive oil to the tops to keep the dough moist. Cover the balls with a damp towel and let them rise at room temperature until doubled in size, roughly 45 minutes.

3) You use the dough immediately. If you want to wait, place the dough into the fridge in a sealed container for up to 3 days. When you’re ready to use the dough, simply remove it from the fridge 30 minutes before cooking.

Toppings

The beauty of a pizza party is that it can be as low-lift or extra as you want it to be. You truly can use whatever’s in your fridge.

No tomato sauce? Olive oil works great. One of my favorite combinations is just olive oil, thinly sliced zucchini, chili flakes, lemon zest, and flaky salt. You can also blitz up a pesto using whatever herbs or greens you have lying around — arugula, carrot tops, kale, basil — with olive oil, garlic, nuts, lemon, and cheese. A kitchen-sink pesto if you will.

When I’m planning ahead, I usually set out:

· Tomato Sauce (home-made or bought)

· Pesto (home-made or bought)

· Cheese (mozzarella, goat, feta, Parmigiano Reggiano, Pecorino Romano, or taleggio)

· Vegetables (Sliced mushrooms, tomatoes, eggplant, zucchini, arugula)

· Meat (Prosciutto, salami, spicy Italian sausage, pepperoni, rotisserie chicken)

· Anchovies

· Olives

· Capers

· Thinly sliced garlic

· Fresh basil

· Great extra virgin olive oil

· Flakey sea salt

The more “build-your-own” the setup feels, the better. Just make sure you put out plenty of spoons & napkins. And be a handwashing policer. Or designate that job to someone you trust implicitly.

Playlist

Music is non-negotiable.

Lean into the collaborative energy and ask guests to bring a record or queue up a favorite song. Maybe you had pizza-Fridays as a kid, or maybe there’s just something so timeless about it, but pizza parties inevitably feel slightly nostalgic. So lean in to that seminally chaotic and highly soundtrack-dependent vibe and let the records and pies keep spinning all night.

If you simply want to press play for a crowd-pleasing energy, I love a Blondie radio on Spotify. Lately, I’ve also been leaning into dance-y alt tracks that make people stop mid-conversation to ask, “Wait…who is this?”

Check out my Pizza Party Playlist.

Wine

Pizza is one of those foods that makes almost every wine taste better.

Table Wine was literally made for this moment: fresh, vibrant, uncomplicated. Beyond that, I love serving lighter reds like Gamay, Primitivo, or Touriga Nacional. For whites, I’m reaching for a Rkatsiteli, Vermentino, Grüner Veltliner.

And honestly? Sometimes beer is the better choice.

Beverages

Not every drink needs to involve fermented grapes. A cold beer with pizza is hard to beat. So is a classic Coca-Cola. Something about the acidity + carbonation combo just works.

Sparkling water, lemonade, anything icy and refreshing is fair game.

Lemonade

Ingredients

1 cup freshly squeezed lemon juice

¼ cup maple syrup

3 cups water

Fresh mint leaves to serve

Directions

Stir together and serve over ice with a fresh mint.

Cooking

A great pizza setup matters as much as the dough itself.

There are now countless at-home pizza ovens — Ooni, Gozney, Solo Stove — and honestly, most of them work well. If you already own one, you probably don’t need my help. If you’re new to pizza-ing, the biggest tip I can offer is this: use two pizza peels.

A wooden peel for assembly. A metal peel for turning and removing pizzas from the oven. If you try assembling on hot metal, the dough melts immediately, and things get stressful quick.

If you don’t own a pizza oven, don’t worry. I don’t either. My method is cranking the oven as high as it’ll go (500°F at my house), assembling pizzas on the back of a sheet pan dusted generously with semolina flour, and baking until blistered and golden — usually around five minutes, depending on the oven. From there, simply slide the ‘za onto a wooden cutting board and serve it up.

Décor

We’ve covered the food, the drinks, and the music. The final touch for your pizza night is completing your vibe.

Pizza parties are ideal for large groups because they remove all the pressure of a formal dinner. People can stand, hover, graze, wander, or go back for another slice. It’s hosting without the rigidity.

If you have outdoor space, throw down blankets and pillows for an informal picnic setup. If you have a long table, lean fully into the Italian-family-dinner energy.

Candles, tea lights, string lights, floor lamps dragged outside — whatever works. Warm lighting changes everything. It turns pizza night into a whole atmosphere.

That said, nine times out of ten, I’d still rather host at home.

Yes, it’s easier with the kids. But more than anything, I love the ritual— the planning, the market run, the slow build of a meal. I love guaranteeing a rush-free evening with friends, that hopefully ends with a round (or two) of Salad Bowl. When I have time to prep, cook, and gather people under my roof, there’s not much that beats it.

To be clear, this is not a pristine operation. When you walk through the door, the house will not be immaculate, and the food has not been laid out for your arrival. On the contrary, there will be music playing, I will be mid-chop, mid-sear, and mid-toss (those pro-years really infused me with multitasking to the point of disadvantage), and the kitchen will look like it’s been lived in, because it has.

There will be snacks on the island, along with a stack of papers, probably one or two of my husband’s abandoned tools from the day, and an assortment of prepped dishes that just need their garnishes.

You won’t be a guest for long. You’ll be handed a glass, maybe a child, probably a task. Set the table. Slice the bread. Please, eat the damn cheese.

When the food hits the table, the familiar “pop” of corks being pulled will beckon you to take your seat. Candles are lit (a habit from childhood I’ll never relinquish), and we’ll crowd around the table that my husband built six years ago.

We’ll laugh. I’ll probably cry (mostly happy tears). Sometimes we’ll argue, but that’s part of it too. It’s how we learn each other. It’s how we stay engaged, connected, present, and challenged. This, the time shared, these relationships nurtured, is why it’s worth the effort.

We live in a moment defined by convenience. Food is faster than ever, everything is within reach, and nearly anything can be delivered to our door. But convenience has a tradeoff: time together has become increasingly scarce. We’re constantly connected, but rarely face-to-face. The small, serendipitous moments of connection have been traded in for ease and efficiency.

We can’t turn back the clocks of human evolution. But we can choose differently in small, impactful ways.

For me, that starts at the table.

So set a date. Invite some people over.

And for the love of God, have some fun while you do it.

photo by Sarah Davis

Luckily, this time around, the name was decided long before D-Day. Table Wine. You could call it traditional, basic, or cheeky. To me, it wraps up conception in just the right bow.

When I tell people my family is in the wine business, I get a lot of the same reactions: that’s so cool, you must have grown up at the winery, you must know everything about wine.

Yes, it’s very cool.

No, I grew up in Maryland.

And I know enough about wine, but I’m not an expert.

What I do know is this: wine has always been on our table.

My parents were both born and raised in Europe. And while they’ve spent most of their adult lives in the U.S., the sensibilities stayed with them. In our house, the table has always been the heartbeat of shared family time. Growing up, dinner was never an isolated experience; we never ate in shifts, and the only time a TV was on was during the Super Bowl. No exceptions.

No matter the time, dinner was served once every member of the family had taken their seat at the table. And each night, served with the meal was a bottle of wine for the adults. Ever present, wine was never the point of the meal; it was part of it. It was shared, passed, and poured. And all around it, conversation flowed.

For a long time, wine existed in two parallel worlds for me: my grandparents’ business, and something to be enjoyed with dinner. It wasn’t until I got older and started buying it myself that those worlds began to collide. Suddenly, something that had always felt so easy and everyday felt…less so.

When my grandparents passed the reins of Clos du Val to our generation, we were granted the opportunity to carry their legacy forward. At its core, that legacy is stewardship — of the land, the wines, and the people who make it possible. But that legacy is also about something else: perspective.

My grandfather believed that wine should be expressive, joyful, and rooted in the place and people that bring it to life, not weighed down by pretense. That belief is what brought him from Bordeaux to Napa Valley in the first place.

Now, over five decades later, I’m returning to that same thread, through my own lens and my own lived experiences.

I want a wine that fits how I gather. Something that belongs at a weeknight dinner, a friend’s kitchen counter, or a long, unplanned evening. A wine that complements a range of flavors, that pairs equally well with moments as it does with food. A fresh, expressive wine that lives for the moment and is made to be opened and shared freely.

Table Wine was conceived from that desire. I cannot wait until she/he/they are ready to meet the world.