SPRINGTIME IN SICILYIn the markets of Palermo, vendors share deliciously imprecise recipes

PALERMO, Italy -- Nestled among the faded gray and peeling concrete buildings, some still cratered by World War II bombings, sits one of the liveliest markets in Sicily. Bright red and blue awnings cover hundreds of stalls in the colorful Ballarò, the most extensive of many markets in this charming, chaotic city.

I traverse the warren of vendors and happen upon a butcher selling all the cuts of beef you don't recognize, as well as the innards. A fishmonger cuts thin steaks from local Mediterranean swordfish for a popular dish made with seasoned breadcrumbs. Giuseppe Bronte grabs the stem of a gigantic green-yellow broccolo, a variety of cauliflower, with his rough hands and hacks off the thick stem. Bronte belts out a rhythmic call, letting everyone know what he's selling, his voice joining the cacophony of shouts and sounds.

My husband and I are spending two months in the seaside town of Mondello, just 20 harrowing minutes (what drivers!) from Palermo. Our studio apartment in a wisteria-covered stucco house, set on a steep hillside facing the Mediterranean Sea, has something that approximates a kitchen, with a briefcase-size four-burner stovetop. Two narrow shelves hold sea salt, olive oil, and dried wild oregano, all local staples. A few pots and pans are in the cabinet. In other words, a basic but sufficient setup for exploring Sicilian cooking and the recipes shared with me while foraging through markets.

In Sicily, as in the rest of Italy, if you buy something from a vendor, you're almost obligated to hear what a wife or mother or sister would do with that particular ingredient. Here, everyone has an opinion about cooking. And no one has an exact recipe for anything.

This is a friendly place, and vendors are luring you over to try his goods. A roly-poly baker is selling sesame-studded loaves and pita-like breads with spongy interiors from Monreale, a town famous for its cathedral and bakeries. A few steps away, I encounter a hill of black and green olives, then wheels of pepper-studded pecorino. ''How about a taste?" asks the big-bellied proprietor.

The kind and patient Providenza Di Noto has become a favorite. Her 70-year-old shop is on the periphery of another open-air market, the Vucciria. ''Più o meno" -- ''more or less" -- is how she describes measurements for minestrone soup. Her brother, Sandro, interjects. After a heated exchange about onions, she turns back and says triumphantly, ''One. Big one." Then her usual ''more or less." She puts her index finger to her cheek and twists it -- the gesture that describes anything delicious in Sicily. ''Buonissimo," she says, eyes cast upward.

Di Noto's mixture of dried chickpeas, green and red lentils, white beans, cranberry beans, and split favas sits in a sack near the front of her shop. As she dips her scoop in, she continues her impromptu cooking lesson. I understand about every fifth word, but I do catch how to break the spaghetti into the soup because she mimes it as she goes. The low tables at her stall are covered with hand-labeled packets of mixed spices, sun-dried tomatoes, salted capers, and glass jars of anchovies. Little bags of a currant and pine nut mix, a sampling of the Arab influence on Sicilian cuisine, hang on one wall. Beans in hand, I navigate the narrow lanes to gather the remaining ingredients for my pot.

Later, while the soup is simmering, I get a call from friends of friends. Palermo resident Ludovico Ziino, a retired pediatrician who loves to cook, asks if we can join him and his wife, Giulia, for dinner the next week (like most Sicilians, the invitation is for 9 p.m. -- often my bedtime). Dinner, he tells me, will consist of ''specialties from Palermo -- my grandmother's recipes."

At Ziino's house in the heart of the city, at a table laid with heirloom linens and silver, we dine on large shell pasta tossed with the green-yellow cauliflower I've seen all over the markets and a saffron-scented, slightly sweet sauce made with pine nuts and currants. This dish is typically made with bucatini (pasta straws), but Ziino used shells to better cradle his aromatic sauce. Everyone is chattering about how the dish is made. When I ask how much saffron, Ziino looks at his large hand, puts his thumb to the top joint of his pinky, and in his deep bass tells me, ''About this much -- more or less." I add the cauliflower and pasta dish to my list of meals to try.

Visiting the fish stalls on the pier in Mondello early one morning, I listen as shoppers bargain with the fishmongers. The miniscule, opalescent neonata (newborn fish) glisten in a pile. I turn to the gentleman who has just bought a bagful and ask how to prepare them. Make a little fried fish cake, he tells me emphatically, with olive oil, salt, pepper, an egg, and just enough flour -- more or less! -- to hold it all together. Fry in a spoonful of oil, he continues, and when it turns white, sprinkle with lemon juice and eat right away. This, he says, is ''the end of the world." Then he sighs, dreamily, slightly shaking his hands, which are cupped, prayer-like.

Across the street at the Schillaci family's shop, wooden crates of oranges, pears, artichokes, those handsome giant green-yellow cauliflowers, and eggplant spill out onto the piazza. I buy two pounds of cipolline -- tiny, squat onions -- to prepare in a sweet and sour sauce. This is a recipe that the entire Schillaci family -- and several customers -- gave me the week before.

Offering their advice in loud voices, everyone speaking at once, they instructed me to balance the wine vinegar and the sugar. The amount of each, of course, is several spoonfuls.
That is, more or less.

An American burger in Tokyo

TOKYO -- Pass the neighborhood shrine, pass the smell of charcoal-roasted fish, pass the sushi shop, pass a noodle spot. Then comes a surprise: The unmistakable aroma of grilled burgers and fries from a restaurant a few doors down.

In Tokyo, anything culinary is a possibility. Yes, there is American fast food here -- McDonald's and Kentucky Fried Chicken are both a presence. But well-made hamburgers and a side of crisp potato wedges is another story.

Daimon Yoshida, 32, was born in Japan but spent eight years in California and Oregon, beginning when he was an impressionable teenager. When he returned home and had a hankering for burgers, he couldn't find any that thrilled him. With a loan from his mother, this handsome entrepreneur opened Fire House seven years ago, and the place is a hit. The restaurant is tuckedamong more than two dozen Japanese eateries along a 150-yard stretch. And while sushi and soba shops on the street have plenty of empty seats at their counters, the hamburger joint boasts lines out the door. Every day, Yoshida and his staff send more than 500 burgers out of the busy kitchen.

Fire House is a step down from the street, where a deck and the outer walls of the shop are laid with wide planks of 150-year-old American wood. With old tools, board games, and lithographs part of the decor, thanks to Yoshida's mother, who dealt in American antiques here, the 30-seat spot feels like a real American establishment. Country music plays and customers linger over lunch -- a rarity in Japan, where the midday meal is often inhaled, while standing, in 15 minutes.

Yoshida's burgers, one-quarter pound each before being cooked on a flat griddle, are hardly lean. ''Perfect ingredients create great food," says the restaurateur, who adds fat from the famous and highly prized Japanese Matsuzaka beef to Australian ground meat because Japanese diners prefer their beef well marbled. Several years ago, Yoshida had to stop using American beef when imports were banned after an instance of mad cow disease was discovered. He won't use Japanese beef, he says, because ''it's too good."

To find the perfect bun, Yoshida taste-tested hundreds until he found the right bakery. Sesame seed buns, something like brioche, are placed on the griddle just before cradling the burgers. The patties are liberally sprinkled with a salt and pepper seasoning mixture that Yoshida made up. Then burgers are constructed: mustard on the bottom bun, lettuce, a slice of tomato, chopped onion, sweet pickle relish, the patty, and finally, mayonnaise.

The stacked burger is tucked into a paper wrapper covering half the bun. On the plate are wedges of deep-fried potato with the skins intact, the outsides crisp, the flesh soft. Some customers use a knife and fork on the burgers, others eat them holding the paper wrapper to catch the drips.
A burger with fries and a pickle starts at around $9, cheap for Tokyo but not as inexpensive as McDonald's, where a Quarter Pounder with fries and a drink costs just over $5. Fire House offers bacon cheeseburgers, chili burgers, and a few Japanese twists: burgers with fried eggs and the hamburgo, served with stewed apples.

Yoshida doesn't want customers to think all Americans eat enormous quantities of food, so he offers a bit more than regular Japanese portions, but doesn't overdo it.
The cooks and the wait staff are in constant motion. So is Yoshida, who has muscular forearms from scraping the griddle with gusto after each order. In addition to the 350 burgers he serves daily on the premises, the shop delivers another 200-plus to neighborhood homes and businesses.

The restaurateur does everything -- both work and play -- with zeal. Now that the shop is running smoothly -- it's open daily -- the chief cook has finally been able to take time off. He spends three months a year in the Caribbean while his staff carries on.
And oddly enough, he doesn't miss the griddle.

Fire House, 4-5-10 Hongo, Bunkyo-ku, Tokyo, 03-3815-6044, or go to http://www.firehouse.co.jp/

The layered look is easy and elegant

Watching a chef create individual pieces of sushi at lightning speed is quite a sight. Rice is compressed into a perfect oval in a slightly cupped palm and topped with a thin slice of fish. Artistry and skill and many years of practice are in evidence. But without any training or experience at a sushi bar, you can make at least 25 pieces of sushi at one time and present something quite artistic.
To do it, press the rice and other ingredients into a square. Known as oshizushi, or pressed sushi, the dish is made with layers of cooked short-grain rice and fish, then cut into bite-size pieces.
In Japan, a special box made from cedar is used for the dish. A slightly smaller square lid is set on top and weighted to compress the mixture. Using nothing more than an ordinary square or rectangular baking pan -- the sort you would pull from the cabinet to make a batch of brownies -- you can layer the rice with smoked salmon, arugula, and spicy mayonnaise. A heavy cookbook will serve as a weight instead of the special lid.
Once the mixture is pressed and cut up, serve the squares as hors d'oeuvres at a summer party. With them, offer cold sake and a slice of lime. Vary the filling by using cooked shrimp or slices of avocado in place of salmon.-- DEBRA SAMUELS

Pressed salmon sushi
Makes about 30 bite-size pieces
These sushi pieces are served on a platter sprinkled with scallions, with soy sauce. To dip the pieces, turn them salmon side down; if you dip the rice end first, the pieces fall apart.

RICE

2 1/2 cups short-grain white rice
2 3/4 cups water
5 tablespoons rice wine vinegar
2 tablespoons sugar
1/2 teaspoon salt


1. In a bowl, place the rice and enough water to cover it. Wash the rice by stirring it and draining it. Do this three more times or until the water becomes almost clear. Let the rice soak for 20 minutes.
Drain rice.
2. In a pot, combine the rice and 2 3/4 cups water. Bring to a boil over medium heat. Cover and cook for 5 minutes. Turn the heat to low and cook 10 minutes more. Turn the heat off and let the rice steam for 10 minutes.
3. In a saucepan, combine the vinegar, sugar, and salt. Stir over low heat until the sugar and salt dissolve.
4. Transfer the rice to a large bowl. With large cutting movements, use a wooden spoon to toss the rice without mashing it. Sprinkle the vinegar mixture onto the rice as you toss to coat the grains. Fan the rice to cool it as you mix it. Cover with a clean, damp dish towel.

TOPPING

3/4 cup mayonnaise
2 teaspoons liquid hot sauce
Dash of cayenne pepper
1 teaspoon dark sesame oil
2 cups arugula leaves
12 ounces smoked salmon
3 scallions, finely chopped
Soy sauce (for dipping)

1. Set a 9-by-13-inch pan on the counter. Line the bottom with 2 pieces of plastic wrap, letting 8 inches hang over all sides. With moist hands, place half the sushi rice in the bottom of the pan. Press lightly to make a smooth layer.
2. In a bowl, stir together the mayonnaise, hot sauce, cayenne, and sesame oil. Spread half the mayonnaise mixture on the rice.
3. Add half the arugula and half the salmon slices.
4. Repeat with the remaining rice, mayonnaise mixture, arugula, and salmon. Fold the extra plastic wrap over the top layer. Place a large book on top and gently apply pressure. Set aside for at least 15 minutes or for up to 1 hour.5. Open the plastic wrap and use it to lift out the sushi. Set it on a cutting board. With a wet paper towel, moisten the edge of a sharp knife. Cut sushi into pieces about 1 by 2 inches each. Sprinkle with scallions. Serve with soy sauce.

Fiddleheads are the season's star shoots

LEXINGTON -- Deep green, earthy spirals wound as tight as coils, fiddleheads burst into the spring produce bin for a few weeks. They're shoots, and they're at their best when tightly coiled. They grow into graceful ostrich ferns -- but alas, the pretty ferns are no longer edible. Fiddleheads' spiral shape gives rise to their name -- they look like the tip of a violin.

At Wilson Farms here, fiddleheads share space with bundles of green and white asparagus. But they sit unnoticed. Produce manager Tony Casieri says, ''People who know what they are come looking for them, but most just seem intrigued. They have no idea how to cook them."

They do look different than anything else at the farm stand, and, unlike asparagus, they're not around long enough for people to become interested. Also, fiddleheads still have their paperlike scales intact.

This is what happened to Wilson staff member Paul Vlasos on a fishing trip in Maine years ago: ''We were picking fiddleheads by the side of the road with a local guy. We had about 5 pounds, and I was wondering how we were going to get off all the brown, papery scales," he says. ''My friend took us back to his garage, opened up an old washing machine, threw the fiddleheads in, and turned on the spin cycle." There was no water in the machine, and the scales flew off. ''Now that's Yankee ingenuity for you," says Vlasos. The fishermen cooked the little coils and tossed them with lemon juice and cider vinegar.

Unless you know what you're doing, however, picking fiddleheads in the wild isn't advised; some fern varieties are not edible.

As for removing the papery scales at home, that is the tedious part. But the cooking couldn't be simpler. Steaming, boiling, or sauteing in butter are the recommended methods. Inspired by Vlasos's story, I tried the centrifugal force of my salad spinner to dislodge the scales. What did the job just as well was a short soak followed by a few rinses.

The flavor of a fiddlehead is clean and subtle, reminiscent of both asparagus and green beans, so a light treatment is best. In Japan, fiddleheads (called warabi) are highly prized. A few are artfully placed in a small dish, and a simple dressing of soy sauce and wasabi is drizzled from a spoon.

Fresh local fiddlehead ferns are available at farmstands and farmers' markets through early June.


Fiddlehead ferns with wasabi soy sauce dressing
Wasabi is the green mustard paste served with sushi. It is sold in tubes at Asian grocers and some supermarkets. Serves 2.

1 1/2 cups fiddleheads (scant 1/2 pound)
1 teaspoon salt
1/2 -1 teaspoon wasabi paste
2 teaspoons water
2 tablespoons light soy sauce

1. In a large bowl in the sink, rinse the fiddleheads under the tap to dislodge the brown scales. Drain and repeat several times. Trim the ends off the ferns (last piece on the coils).
2. Bring a large saucepan of salted water to a boil. Add the fiddleheads and cook for 8 minutes or until they are tender when pierced with the tip of a knife. Drain them into a colander and set them aside.
3. In a small bowl, mix 1/2 teaspoon wasabi paste and water until smooth. Whisk in the soy sauce. Add more wasabi, if you like. 4. Transfer the fiddleheads to a bowl and spoon the dressing over them. Toss gently and serve warm or at room temperature.

Baked to perfectionAt Somerville's La Contessa, the prized ricotta pies have a longstanding following

SOMERVILLE -- Paper bunnies and decorated eggs adorn the picture windows at La Contessa Bakery Cafe here. Huge chocolate Easter eggs wrapped in colorful cellophane hang above the counter waiting for excited children. On a top shelf, along with a statue of St. Anthony, are boxes of sweet Italian bread baked in the shape of a dove. Amid these confections are the bakery's prized ricotta pies, their light brown crust embracing a sweet filling, which dominate one of the glass-fronted display cases. Felix Sabatino and Annette Serrao, the lively brother-and-sister team who own La Contessa, are getting ready for Easter. Between 500 and 600 pies will emerge from the bakery's ovens.

For more than 30 years, Antonio Bruno, the head baker, has been making the pies, beginning with pasta frolla, a sweet pastry crust enhanced with touch of orange oil. It cradles and covers the filling of ricotta cheese, sugar, and the powdered vanilla called vanillin. The fresh whole milk ricotta (pronounced ri-GHOT-ta or ri-GOT) comes from Purity Cheese of Quincy and the North End, another longstanding business. A slice of the pie, also called torta di Pasqua -- or Easter torte -- for its special place on the holiday menu, reveals a dense white filling that is both moist and not too sweet, surrounded by a soft, flaky crust. Ricotta pies are eaten throughout Italy, but with many variations -- some with candied fruit, anisette flavoring, or chocolate. La Contessa's plain version is southern Italian in origin.
In some respects, time has stood still in this corner of Somerville. While rents increase and trendy cafes move in, La Contessa continues its holiday traditions in much the same way they might be celebrated in Italy. Three tables offer customers a place to sit, sip strong coffee, and eat a pastry. No one here is working on a laptop -- though cellphones ring now and again.

On this bright day, Sabatino is handing out slices of another Easter staple -- pizza chiena (GAYN-a), sometimes called pizza ripiena, which means ''stuffed," or pizza rustica. At the end of Lent, people who have given up meat can enjoy it again in this lattice-topped pie, which holds a 4-inch layer of cheese studded with cold cuts.
Serrao works the counter, addressing customers as ''honey" or ''sweetie." She came to La Contessa first, in the early 1970s, when she was 17; her younger brother followed her a while later. He was 12. At the time, the bakery was owned by ''Papa" Joe Magliaro. The siblings were raised in Somerville, and Sabatino describes himself as ''a chunky kid in orange shorts standing on a crate washing dishes." By 12, he was practicing making frosting roses after work. Magliaro told the boy: ''You have the hand," Sabatino remembers.

After stints at Mike's Pastry in the North End and at several hotels, Sabatino bought La Contessa in 2000 with his parents' help. Actually, Armando and Emanuela Sabatino, who were from the Avellino province in Campania, had saved their son's earnings without his knowing. The boy thought that his $20 weekly La Contessa wages were going directly to St. Benedicts school in Somerville. ''I thought I was paying for my schooling. But secretly my dad opened a savings account for me and deposited all the money. He did that for all his six kids," Sabatino says softly.
Over the years, Sabatino has continued the tradition started by Magliaro, who was known as ''Joe Cookie" by legions of Somerville kids. ''Joe told me to always give a kid a cookie when they walked in the door," says Sabatino.

Bruno, the baker, has been making Italian pastries since 1972. ''I got this job the second day I went looking and never left," he says, scooping rings of dough from water boiling in a dented copper pot. ''We are making tarali," he says. ''Like an Italian bagel."
With three owners in 48 years, La Contessa is a fixture in Davis Square. ''It's a little island," says Bob Baker, an Arlington resident and patron for most of his 53 years. ''If I'm going through Davis Square, I'm going to La Contessa for a rum cake slice for my wife, Lin," he says. Linda Baker has celebrated her birthday with a La Contessa rum cake since she was a little girl. Elizabeth Pizzi of Belmont practically swoons over the thought of the bakery's lemon squares. And cannoli are shipped all over the country.

The bakery is usually filled with a cast of local characters, many at their usual tables. They convey all the enviable bonhomie and caring of a genuine community. Frank Privitera, a local lawyer, talks politics while he sips coffee and greets customers, urging everyone to try a cannoli. Bruce Curliss, a loyal customer who has become Sabatino's best friend, calls La Contessa ''a great little treasure." He shares a daily corner table with several local businessmen, who enjoy coffee, pastry, and friendly insults from Serrao. ''She loves us," they insist. They flip a coin to see who pays.

When Serrao's cellphone rings, the theme from ''The Godfather" fills the room. Linger long enough and you might even get her dating advice. Playing matchmaker for a young woman recently, Serrao says, ''We're all miserable and married, why shouldn't she be?"

And the day goes on, as customers hear her cheerful greetings and the pastry cases are refilled again and again. ''Goodbye, sweetheart," she calls out as someone leaves the shop. By the end of the day, she's said it dozens of times.

La Contessa Bakery Cafe is at 420 Highland Ave.,
Davis Square, Somerville, 617-623-9193.

From one pot, a bounty of Japanese flavors

In the family of Japanese one-pot wonders -- sukiyaki among them -- the standout dinner is yosenabe, a mixture of seafood, chicken, tofu, glass noodles, and vegetables. Diners use their chopsticks to dip into a communal earthenware pot on a portable burner. Inside the pot is a simmering broth filled with the seafood, vegetables, and other ingredients. Diners lift out a piece of fish, a shiitake mushroom, or savory Chinese cabbage, then dab the food into a citrusy piquant soy sauce seasoned with grated daikon.
The meal is leisurely. Friends and family make their way through a platter of beautifully displayed raw ingredients, adding them to the pot as they eat. Fish and chicken go in first because they take the longest to cook. The simmering liquid gives the food flavor and results in a delicious broth, enjoyed at the end of the meal with clear noodles, also cooked in the broth.
Most households are not equipped with portable tabletop burners, but you can make this meal with a few adjustments. Use a heavy-based pot with a lid. Heat the broth, let the seafood, poultry, and vegetables simmer briefly, and then bring the pot to the table.

Recipe Yosenabe

The Japanese hot pot of seafood, chicken, and vegetables is served with a soy dipping sauce. Have a soup bowl plus a smaller bowl for the sauce for each diner.

Serves 4.

FOR THE BROTH

5 cups water
3 chicken wings
2 tablespoons soy sauce
2 tablespoons sugar
2 tablespoons sake or dry white wine

1. In a large, flame-proof casserole, bring the water to a boil. Add the chicken wings and return to a boil. Skim the broth. Cover and simmer for 15 minutes. Remove the wings -- bone them and add the meat to soup -- and skim off the fat.
2. Add soy sauce, sugar, and sake or wine. Bring to a boil and set over low heat.

FOR THE SAUCE

½ cup soy sauce
3 tablespoons lemon juice
½ daikon (long white radish), peeled
Pinch of cayenne pepper

1. In a bowl, combine the soy sauce and lemon juice. Pour the mixture into a small pitcher.
2. Using the small holes on a box grater, grate the radish and place it in a small serving bowl. Sprinkle the radish with the cayenne and mix well. Set aside.

FOR THE POT

1 bundle (2 ounces) rice stick noodles
1 skinless, boneless chicken breast
3/4 pound skinless, boneless firm white-fleshed fish or salmon
8 littleneck or hard-shell clams
8 fresh shiitake mushrooms
½ small head of Chinese cabbage, quartered
1 cake (14 ounces) firm tofu, cut into 8 pieces
2 carrots, sliced diagonally to ¼ inch thick
4 scallions, sliced on the diagonal into 8 pieces each
16 pea pods

1. In a bowl, combine the rice sticks and enough boiling water to cover them. Set aside for 20 minutes. Drain noodles and cut in half.
2. Cut the chicken into 1-by-3-inch strips. Cut the fish into 8 pieces.
3. Rinse the clams. Soak the clams in cold water for 10 minutes. Arrange the noodles, chicken, fish, and clams on a large platter.
4. Remove stems from the mushrooms. Wipe the caps with wet paper towel. Carve an x into the caps. Add the caps to the platter.
5. Add the cabbage, tofu, carrots, scallions, noodles, and pea pods to platter. Set aside.
6. To the simmering broth, add half the chicken, 4 clams, 4 mushrooms, half the cabbage, and half the carrots. Reduce heat and cover the pan. Simmer for 3 minutes.
7. Add half of the remaining ingredients, except for the pea pods. Cover and cook for 3 minutes until clamshells are open. Add 8 pea pods and remove from heat.
8. Divide the cooked chicken, fish, and vegetables among 4 bowls. Add a little broth to each bowl.9. Pour a little of the dipping sauce into each of the 4 small bowls. Add a spoonful of the spicy daikon and serve at once. Dip the cooked food into the sauce. Cook the remaining ingredients in the same way.

Two delectable desserts for cooling off during the summertime Granitas, sorbets are frozen delights

Two great frozen desserts are granitas, which are coarse-grained Italian ices, and sorbets, which have a creamy texture even when they're not made with milk.
For both, begin by pureeing the fruit that is in abundance now. Add super-fine sugar and fresh citrus juice for a tart twist that adds depth to the fruit flavor.
Spend a few minutes with the fruit you've just juiced. Carefully scrape out the remaining shell of lemons, limes, oranges, or even grapefruits, removing the pith (white membrane) with a spoon and -- presto -- you've got serving bowls. Take a thin slice from the bottom of the bowl so it will stay level.
Sorbets can be made in an ice cream maker, but it isn't necessary. When you're done processing, heap the mixture into the bowls and freeze for several hours. Alternatively, you can add the puree directly and freeze; the result will be no less delicious.
For granita, put the base into a shallow pan in the freezer and "rake" it with a fork every 30 minutes for two hours. This breaks up the crystals as the mixture begins to solidify, giving it a rough, homey texture -- like a slush.
Fruit isn't the only base you can use. Leftover strong coffee makes a wonderful granita, too. Serve in espresso cups with a drizzle of sweetened condensed milk. Is it iced coffee or coffee ice cream? Another idea is to add vanilla-flavored yogurt to fresh-squeezed orange juice. Make individual servings by pouring into orange halves and you have the taste of a creamsicle.
Plan to enjoy your frozen confections the same day, when the flavor is at its peak.
Fruit icesMakes 3 cups2 cups fruit -- strawberries, mangoes, peaches
3/4 cup super-fine sugar
1/4 cup orange juice
2 tablespoons lemon or lime juice
1 teaspoon lemon or lime zest
1. Combine fruit, sugar, and juices in a blender or food processor. Mix well.
2. Pour into a bowl and add the zest. Stir until combined.
3. Process in an ice cream maker according to instructions or pour directly into prepared fruit bowls.
4. Place fruit bowls on a cookie sheet and freeze for about 2-3 hours.
5. To make granita, pour fruit mixture into a shallow pan. Rake the mixture with a fork every 30 minutes until you have a slushy consistency. This takes about 2 hours.

Adapted from "How to Cook Everything," by Mark Bittman (Macmillan USA)