Dinner in Munich

After a whirlwind visit in Italy with Mylène and Ryan, Gary and I drove to Malapensa Airport outside Milan, dropped off the rental car, hustled to the terminal with baggage akimbo, and flew to Munich. From the airport, we hopped the train into the city after getting directions from a helpful and knowledgeable representative at the ticket desk. The trip into the city, plus a full 24-hours of any other public transit we might use, came to a mere 11 euros total for both of us.

Gummi Bears on my pillow!

Trains into the city arrived at surprisingly frequent intervals, especially compared to the ones at Philadelphia International Airport, and in 41 minutes (yes, 41 exactly), we were in downtown Munich. Police officers helped us to figure out how to get to our hotel from the train station, although they seemed a tad incredulous that we wanted to make the 15-minute trek on foot. Was it because we are Americans? Was it because we are of a certain age? Was it because of the long, multi-use tunnel we had to pass through to get to our destination? Whatever the reason, we proudly trudged toward downtown Munich and checked into the TRYP hotel, which I would recommend. It is close to museums, churches, the famous town hall—plus they left mini packets of Gummi Bears on our pillows.

After driving the four hours from Pisa to Milan (that experience will be left untold, but let’s leave it at scary, especially after the GPS conked out because the cigarette-lighter-power things (yes, I know that is a highly technical term) were not working in our Ford rental), cooling our heels at the airport, and sitting cooped up in coach, we were both ready for a hike. We had walked 13 miles one day in Italy, and we needed to stay in practice. We figured we would have our choice of German restaurants along the way. We were wrong.

In Italy, you can’t take three steps without encountering a trattoria, a pizzaria, or some place that serves Italian food. Yes, we found restaurants in Munich, but they were Thai, Japanese, Italian, Indian, Mandarin. Where were the real German restaurants, with beer steins and schnitzel and men in lederhosen? The diversity says a lot for the cosmopolitan nature of Munich, but since we were only going to be in the city for 24 hours, I wanted real German food. I certainly didn’t want pizza.

With iPhone in hand and Yelp on my iPhone (yes, I finally splurged on an international data plan), we saw that the closest restaurant described as German was about 4 kilometers away, and we gamely headed in that direction, although we were fading fast. The most direct route took us through the aforementioned tunnel, a path I really, really, really did not want to take again, so we meandered.

The meandering led us into an area of Munich that looked much more promising, and when I saw a man in an apron leaning against the wall of a restaurant, I did what I do—I asked a question, “Do you serve authentic German food?”

He answered that he served German food, but we could also have Italian or... I stopped him before he could continue his list. “We just left Italy. We want real German food.”

He smiled and led us inside, where we found something between a sports bar and a trendy modern restaurant. Huge flat-screen TVs served up soccer over colorful banquettes. Our new friend seated us at a window table and disappeared. He returned with two foot-high glasses of “authentic German” beer (Reutberger Fass) to drink with our “authentic German” food. Our waiter explained what he was going to serve us: kraut, pork and kugel. The kraut was served as a cold salad, a blend of shredded cabbage, maybe onions, and red pepper in vinaigrette. We each received three thick slices of roasted pork with a crisp layer of fat and two kugel, each the size of a golf ball. When I asked how they were made, our waiter told me that they grated potatoes, added flour, egg, cheese, shaped them into balls, and boiled them. Hmm, they sound a lot like gnocchi, I thought, but in execution, they were very, very different. I don’t know that I can duplicate them based on his basic description, but they were wonderful.

We were stuffed, but our waiter was so happy that we Americans had done such a good job eating German food that he insisted we have dessert, an Austrian dish called Kaisershmarm. Fortunately, it took a while to prepare so when it appeared we were able to do it justice. The waiter told us it was “like a pancake,” so I imagined a clafouti, but instead it was a sweet batter cooked into a half-inch thick cake that was cut into bite-sized cubes, tossed with raisins and slivered almonds, and drizzled with warm chocolate. It was served with a side of tangy applesauce swirled with strawberry puree for dipping. It was a delicious balance of sweet and tart, soft and crunchy, warm and cool. After we had a chance to experience all these sensations, the chef came to our table to make sure we liked his specialty. We assured him it was perfect.

Mind you, we never saw a menu, so as we waited for the check, we speculated on just how much this authentic taste of Germany was going to set us back. We both agreed it would be a bargain at 60 euros (around $75). After all, we had three courses, beer, and coffee in a comfortable cosmopolitan setting. Given the economy, we were expecting German food to be expensive. When the waiter returned with the check, it was only 28 euros ($36). We were certain he had made a mistake, like leaving off the entrees, but a careful check of the bill showed us that we had stumbled into the best deal in town.

If you are ever looking for a restaurant in Munich with great food, superior service, and a friendly atmosphere, check out the City Lounge. We are certainly glad we did!

September Italian Wedding

Pieve di San Marco a Rigoli

When we were invited to my cousin Max’s wedding in Pisa, I was honored but at the same time certain that we would not be attending. How could a pair of teachers swing a trip to Italy for a September 15 wedding? But fate intervened in mysterious ways. Gary was already set to retire in June, and I quit teaching in January. That set the stage for our trip, and our opportunity to experience nuptials that were absolutely spectacular.

Both the church and the villa where the reception was held date from 500. That is not a typo. We are talking 1600 years old. The ceremony was held at the Pieve di San Marco a Rigoli, a church built on a basilican plan with three arches. It is not just old; it is also quite beautiful in an elegant, unadorned manner.

The reception was an hour drive away, but still technically in Pisa. We would never have found the Villa Sonnino without following the caravan of cars from the church. Not only was it far (an Italian hour of driving seems much farther than in America, not only because we didn’t know exactly where we were going but also because Italians drive fast, even in a caravan), but the turn off led to a long, winding driveway to the parking area, and a good 5 minute walk from the parking lot to the actual villa. It was certainly not visible from the autostrada!

We were able to gain a measure of sustenance, though, in the parking lot. Right in front of our car was a hedge of fig trees full of ripe fruit. Now, if you are reading this post, you might have already seen my outpourings on figs, but Italian figs put my brown turkey figs to shame. These weren’t very large, but they were sweet as honey.

Did we need to worry about food? At any Italian gathering, food is central, but when it comes to a wedding, any stops that might have been employed were completely obliterated, and here we were at an Italian wedding in a villa with a history I could hardly fathom.

Upon our arrival, we were directed to a courtyard where white-gloved attendants were serving prosecco in crystal flutes. Soon an army of men and women in tailored white jackets began passing hors d’oeurves of every description. Fresh calamari salad on scallop shells, mini-bowls of pear soup, skewers with fried olives or arancini or sausages en croute, tray after tray bussed to each table with the servers gently encouraging us to “mangia, mangia.”

Once the bride and groom arrived, the tables under the white tents heaved under the weight of a buffet—a station where two chefs deep fried vegetables, fish, and, my personal favorite, balls of savory dough that were lighter than air; another table was filled with cheeses soft and hard, strong and mild, herbed and nutted; a third table held cured meats and savory pastries and bruschetti. The prosecco continued to flow.

Eleanora and Max

Max and Eleanora visited with us, thanking us for making the trip, and explaining that we should eat, eat, eat, because there were not too many courses. Courses? All the time we were accepting passed hors d’oeurves and piling our plates at the buffet, Ryan, Mylène’s fiancé, the least experienced among us about food served by Italians, kept warning us to pace ourselves, but we did not listen. Max said there would only be three courses. Hmmm. Gary and I realized we had made a huge tactical mistake.

Soon we were escorted into the main dining area, a long room with marble floors and a brick vaulted ceiling. The tables were set with white linens, chargers with the Sonnino coat of arms, crystal, silver flatware. In the center of the table were wines, white and red that seemed magical in that they were never empty—the servers were very adept at replacing bottles as we drained them! On cue, yet more servers marched from the kitchen with plates filled with piping-hot lobster risotto, and within a minute, every guest was served. Before we had done justice to the perfectly cooked rice, the waiters were back, offering us second helpings. This time, we were wiser. We knew there was more to come.

The next course was Max’s favorite, a chestnut pasta in a browned mushroom sauce, so rich and so delicious that it was both impossible to finish yet impossible not to take just one more bite. Again, the waiters offered platters of extra pasta, just in case we weren’t already too full to breath.

As day follows the night, so too came the main course—veal breast en croute served with roasted potatoes and a garden salad. I think the potatoes were roasted in duck fat, but regardless of how they were prepared, even humble potatoes transcended anything I have ever tasted. The tomatoes in the garden salad were the Platonic ideal of tomatoes, surpassing even the best fresh summer garden tomato. The only problem? I was so full I could barely swallow.

Once again, the timing was perfect. Instead of cutting the cake immediately, there was an intermission where the DJ played a video spoofing the courtship of Max and Eleanora. Then we were escorted to the lower courtyard to watch them cut the cake and feed each other a bite, graciously, mind you, no smearing of cake onto one another’s face. We toasted the happy couple with champagne then moved to perhaps the highlight of the meal, if it is at all possible to make that distinction.

Boxes of comfits

The final course was titled a “fantasy dessert buffet” and fantasy it was indeed. In addition to cake, espresso, aperitifs, prosecco and champagne in the main courtyard, there was a side courtyard with tables filled with exquisitely decorated boxes of comfits (no Italian wedding would be complete without those ubiquitous candied almonds), bowls with more comfits, trays of shot glasses filled with chocolate or vanilla mousse, topped with a rosette of freshly-whipped cream and currants or blueberries or raspberries or sliced strawberries. Another table displayed tiers of fruit, strawberries that actually tasted like strawberries, melon, pineapple, grapes, and a mélange of all of the above if one could not make a decision. Another table was filled with one-bite profiteroles, some filled with pastry crème, some with chocolate mousse, some with whipped cream. And the final table? It held an assortment of savory pastries, as Ryan said, to begin it all again.

Dessert fantasy

We ended the evening with a private tour of the villa before we headed back to our hotel to dream of the pleasures of Italy, the land of my family.

I am sorry that I did not return home with any recipes from the reception, but if you ever are invited to a wedding in Italy, by all means jump at the chance. You will have the experience of a lifetime.

Devil's Food Cake

Here is the devil's food cake
I made yesterday for
Tim's birthday.

My grandmother claimed that she didn't like to bake, and she was known for throwing out a whole batch of biscotti if it didn't meet her high standards. Somewhere along the line, though, she brought home a recipe for an amazing devil's food cake. Since my mother was always the one to bake this cake, it eventually got to be known as Mom Milanese's Devil's Food Cake.

When my brothers were little, Mom would bake this cake for their lunches, and they bragged about the trades they could get for it, especially since they knew there was more cake where that came from. When I was old enough to try my hand at baking, this was the first cake I made, and my brothers told me it wasn't as good as Mom's. While I do believe that Mom makes the best devil's food cake, I think that maybe they were teasing me and wanted me to try, try, try again, guaranteeing a constant supply of devil's food cake.

Birthdays still demand devil's food cake, a cake that can stand up to frosting, a cake that can serve a crowd, a cake that tastes best with a tall glass of milk. My husband prefers his devil's food cake with chocolate frosting, but the kids side with me on this one, so for their birthdays it's a devil's food cake with buttercream.

Here is the recipe. This is not an average devil's food cake, even though even an average devil's food cake is pretty darn good. This cake is outstandingly moist and chocolaty, a cake worthy to be served at birthday parties, but also a cake that deserves to be made anytime you need a chocolate fix.

When you test it, make sure that there are still a few moist crumbs clinging to the toothpick or it will be dry.  You get to decide whether you top it with chocolate or buttercream frosting!

Mom Milanese's Devil's Food Cake

Heat oven to 350 degrees. Grease and flour two 9-inch round pans.

1 cup sour milk (Add 1 Tablespoon vinegar to a measuring cup and fill to one-cup mark with milk. Stir and let sit for five minutes. You can substitute buttermilk if you have it on hand.)

1 cup water

1 cup Crisco (don't substitute butter or margarine)

3 cups all-purpose flour

2 cups sugar

1 cup cocoa
2 teaspoons baking soda
1 teaspoon salt

2 eggs
1 teaspoon vanilla (Don't substitute artificial vanilla flavoring.)

Make the sour milk and set aside. Put the water and the Crisco in a 4-cup measuring cup and bring to a boil in the microwave (or put water and Crisco in a small pan and bring to a boil). Stir to melt Crisco. Set aside.

Sift the dry ingredients into a large bowl. Add the sour milk, hot Crisco and water, eggs, and vanilla. Stir by hand until smooth.

Divide batter evenly between the two round pans. Bake 30-35 minutes. Don't overcook! Cool for 10 minutes on rack, then remove from pans. Turn so the cakes are right side up. Let cool completely before frosting.

This recipe can also be used to bake a 9x13 sheet cake or 24 cupcakes. Adjust baking time--about 40 minutes for the sheet cake or 20 minutes for the cupcakes.

Figs

There were so many figs this morning that
I'm making Drunken Fig Jam 
(from Epicurious.com). 
Is this a waste of Courvoisier?

I remember Nick Paputo's fig trees. Nick was a good friend of my father's, a Sicilian mason. When he built his own stone home, he transplanted the trees he brought from the old country, trees he had nurtured until they could become the crowning glory of his garden. These figs were accustomed to the warmer Mediterranean winters and needed protection. In the winter, his trees looked like silver spaceships, branches tightly tied so he could cover the tree with aluminum-backed insulation.

Growing up, the only fig trees I knew about belonged to recent immigrants, immigrants who smuggled innocent-looking sticks into the country, sticks that held the promise for figs galore. Despite the most ardent care against the cold, many of these trees didn't survive. In my innocence, I assumed that the only way you could get a fig tree was to travel to Italy and defy customs. But then, my father casually mentioned he wanted a fig tree for his yard. If you have ever tried buying a present for a man, you know that I leaped on his suggestion and went hunting for a fig tree in the good old USA. Surprisingly, they were available from a nursery online. SCORE! And just like those words you learn that suddenly seem to crop up everywhere, fig trees seemed ubiquitous, at Longwood Gardens, at James Madison's house in Virginia, dwarfing a three-story row house in South Philly, in a neighbor's front yard.

Even though my mother is the family member with the green thumb, Dad's fig tree grew quickly. It put out hundreds of figs each season, but he was careful to wrap his tree each fall so it could survive our bitter Pennsylvania winters. When Dad developed cancer, he was initially well enough to protect the fig, but in his last winter, no one thought about the fig. Fortunately, it was not a particularly harsh winter, and the tree managed to survive. My brother took a clipping from Dad's tree, and that tree  still produces lots of figs.

Meanwhile, my family bought me several fig trees, but none of them ever thrived. That is until the year after my father's death. That fig tree slowly adapted to its home on the south side of our house. My husband wraps it carefully each fall, and this year it looked like we might get a bumper crop. We could see lots of baby figs, but that's no guarantee that they will ripen before the first fall frost. But this year everything, from lilacs to lily of the valley to peonies to crape myrtles, has been ahead of season. The figs are no different.

A week ago, the first figs suddenly turned from hard and green to soft and golden. Each morning I've been able to harvest at least six and up to a dozen figs. Now, if your only only experience with figs has been inside a Fig Newton, you are missing one of the most exquisite culinary pleasures imaginable. People have described them as a cross between a strawberry and a peach, but that description does not do justice to the sweet and juicy fruit. You have to experience fresh figs for yourself. They are delicious out of hand, but I'm looking forward to a fig torte, figs wrapped in prosciutto, figs stuffed with cream cheese, figs added in the last thirty minutes to a roast pork. I'm also hoping to turn some into fig jam to extend their season into winter, when our fig tree is hibernating under burlap, waiting to produce next year's crop.

My fig tree

Road Trip Destination: Pretzels!

I love hand-twisted hard pretzels. I like the pretzels that you can buy at Giant or Shop Rite or Acme that come from the big chains, but I LOOOOOOOVE the pretzels that are made in small batches, packaged in cellophane bags, and sold at Reading Terminal Market or Highland Orchards or in specialty shops in Lancaster County. When I'm desperate for a pretzel fix, I've been known to spend $5 for a bag of 6 of these special pretzels.
When a postcard arrived in the mail with a special offer from Uncle Albert's (not the real name) Pretzels, I had a brainstorm. Why not go to the factory? That way, I could meet the people who make my favorite pretzels and save the shipping to boot.
So last Friday, we decided to go on a road trip for my pretzels. Armed with the address, the telephone number, printed instructions from Google Maps, a Garmin, and two GPS apps on my smart phone, we made reservations for the pretzel tour and set off.
According to the directions, the pretzel factory was a mere 10 minutes from the Morgantown Turnpike Exit. Easy peasy, as my son is want to say. "We should be there in under an hour," I whispered. I sounded not unlike our kids when we hit the road for Hershey Park.
It was a beautiful day. The sun was shining, the sky was blue, the radio was tuned to our favorite jazz station. We listened to the Garmin lady, and pretty soon, I could see the yellow flag on the Garmin screen marking our destination coming up on the left. Strangely enough, we were in front of the Maple Grove Raceway. There was no pretzel factory in sight.
We had come this far, though, and we were not giving up. We continued down the road, passing a farm stand where two boys with bowl-cut blond hair waved to us. We were not stopping, though. I dialed the 800 number and a very nice woman answered the phone. She had never heard of Maple Grove Raceway. Then I noticed that the name of the town on the postcard was different from the name of the town on my directions. "Are you in Bowmansville or Mohnton?" I asked. She said she would have to check.
At this point, my husband observed that if these were authentic Pennsylvania Dutch pretzels, I might have reached someone who didn't have much experience away from the farm. And after his observation, my cell phone lost its signal. Yes, we were in Pennsylvania Dutch country.
We turned around, past the boys at the farm stand, back to the raceway to retrace our steps. Both the GPS apps and the Garmin seemed to think we were again at our destination. I called the pretzel factory again, and the same person answered. "Are you the lady who cut off? I found direction on my computer." Hmm. They might not be living in the 1800's after all. It turns out we headed in the right direction but had not gone far enough. "You won't be able to see the factory from the road," she warned.
Once again we passed the boys at the produce stand. As we followed the new directions and the winding road, I kept cautioning my husband to slow down so we wouldn't miss this invisible-from-the-road factory. Soon we saw a tiny sign posted next to a mailbox. "Turn left here!" I squealed.
"Really? Here?" My husband was naturally confused. It was a dilapidated house surrounded by even more dilapidated farm equipment, but he made the turn. Again, we had come this far. There was no point arguing with a lady on a mission for pretzels.
We pulled around the house onto a gravel lane and parked off the main drag. There was an "Open" sign tacked on the left of the twin wooden screen doors, so we headed in that direction. When we opened the door, we almost ran into a pair girls working at the end of a conveyer belt, putting whole pretzels into bags and allowing the broken pieces to fall into boxes at the end of the line.
They were wearing organdy hair coverings and modest plaid dresses, typical of the clothing that Mennonite women have worn for over a century. I felt as if we were intruding, but we were quickly greeted and taken to the small sales area. They had a dozen or so different snacks, from sesame sticks to peanut-butter filled pretzels to chocolate-covered pretzels to sesame pretzels, but then I spied the Holy Grail: broken, dark, hand-twisted pretzels in three-pound bags.
"That'll be $5 for one bag or $7 for two," the sales woman informed me.
"I'll take two," I told her with a grin. "I think I must have talked to you on the phone," I said, but my husband shook his head. "Thanks for helping me with directions." Gary said she looked confused, but I didn't notice.
It turned out that we didn't get a tour of the factory, but we did get to see the assembly line. Maybe this was the exhibit area, a Williamsburg for pretzel enthusiasts, with the real, modern factory miles away, but I don't think so.
With our pretzels in hand, we headed back to the car. Next time we'll be able to find my favorite pretzels more easily, and I can leave my technology at home.

To gild the lily, you might want to try this dip that I've adapted from a recipe from The Food Network's magazine:

Pretzel Dip
15 minutes, plus overnight chilling
12 ounces of cream cheese, room temperature (I prefer Philadelphia)
1 cup heavy cream
2 tablespoons chopped scallions
1 tablespoon chopped chives
1 large garlic clove, chopped fine
2 tablespoons chopped fresh dill
1 tablespoon chopped fresh parsley
grated zest from one lemon
1 tablespoon lemon juice
salt to taste (I used 1/2 teaspoon kosher-style flaked salt)
1/2 teaspoon freshly-ground black pepper

Put the cream cheese into a mixing bowl and cream until light. Gradually add whipped cream and fully incorporate. Mix for another minute until it starts to thicken. Add remaining ingredients and mix well. Put a layer of cheesecloth into a 6-inch strainer. Place the cheese mixture into the strainer, cover with the ends of the cheesecloth, and suspend the strainer over a deep bowl (do not allow the strainer to sit on the bottom of the bowl because the liquid will not be able to drain). Cover. Refrigerate overnight. When you are ready to serve, remove the strainer, discard the liquid in the bowl. Turn the cheese onto a platter and serve with pretzels. This also is a great spread for crackers.
Note: Feel free to substitute your favorite chopped fresh herbs, but try to keep the quantity the same so the dip if flecked with green. If you don't like garlic, you don't have to add it, but in this quantity, it adds a subtle layer of flavor.

Birthday Dinners

When we were growing up, birthdays were family days, and the birthday child was the prince or princess. We could get away with pretty much anything on our birthdays. We got to choose what shows we watched on the television (and it was THE television, as in the one television in the whole house), what games we played (would it be "Mother May I" or "Red Light/Green Light"?), what kind of jelly went into the PBJ's we had for lunch. But most important of all the decisions we made for our day was the dinner menu. 

Mom was (and is) an amazing cook, and she would cater to our birthday whims. One brother wanted a ham dinner, another preferred ravioli, other brothers switched it up as their tastes changed. My request never changed. I loved Beef Stroganoff. I'm not sure where I first tasted it, or even how I even knew about it. I mean, where would a kid from Coatesville learn about a faux Russian entrée? However I discovered it, Beef Stroganoff it was. 

Time flies. I got married, had kids, saw the kids go off on their own. Now my husband and I go out for birthday dinners since he doesn't think it's fair for me to cook on my special day. We have had spectacular meals on these occasions, but the most important part of birthdays are not the specific food, or the chance to boss around my brothers, but the people who share the day with me, at the table, on the phone, in our shared thoughts. 

Oh, I forgot to mention that last week (after my birthday), I made Beef Stroganoff for dinner. It was easier than I remembered to make and just as delicious.

Beef Stroganoff

Serves 2 (easily doubled)

Total cooking time: 30 minutes

1 sirloin steak, about an inch thick

2 tablespoons flour, seasoned with salt and pepper, if desired

1 tablespoon butter or olive oil

1 yellow onion, finely sliced

1/2 pound crimini mushrooms, sliced

1/2 cup sour cream, room temperature

Put steak into the freezer for about 20 minutes to make it easier to slice. Slice thinly, on the diagonal. Put flour in a medium zip-lock bag, and shake. Add steak and shake to coat. Remove steak from bag, leaving behind extra flour. 

Heat butter or oil in a skillet. Add steak slices in a single layer. If necessary, do this in two batches. Let brown on both sides. Remove steak from pan. In the same pan (without washing), add the onions and saute gently over medium heat until translucent. Remove onions from pan. Add mushrooms to pan and increase heat to medium high. If necessary, add more butter or oil. Saute until the mushrooms are golden. Return the steak and onions to the pan, lower the temperature to heat through, and add sour cream. Heat until the sour cream is hot but not boiling (it will curdle if you let it boil). Serve over buttered noodles tossed with poppy seeds.

Cantaloupe

Melons are tricky fellows. By nature, they are secretive, hiding their true nature under thick skins. I've all but given up on honeydew melons that rarely deliver on the sultry promise of their musky scent, but I still have hope for cantaloupes. Mind you, I did not have any expectations for this particular melon. It was the second of a pair, the two for $5 melons sold at the grocery, not a local guy from the growers market or even from a roadside stand.
A few days ago, I had sliced open his twin, and it was oh-so average. Sweet enough, toothsome enough, but nothing special. It worked in cantaloupe soup, providing the right color and texture, but the other ingredients had to make up for what that particular cantaloupe lacked.
I had almost forgotten the second melon, and I certainly wasn't drooling in anticipation. In fact, I was pretty much resigned to encountering an inferior melon, and I figured that if it wasn't very good, there was plenty of time to chill a bowl of cantaloupe soup for dinner.
However, when my knife bisected the fruit, out wafted the unmistakable aroma of the perfect cantaloupe. As I trimmed off the rind, I could feel the perfect amount of resistance, not too crisp, not too mushy. I had to sit down and savor the moment.
When I had eaten my fill, I put the rest in the refrigerator for my spouse who prefers his fruit cold. After all, it was the perfect size for the two of us.
If you encounter a less-than-spectacular melon, though, there is hope. When life gives you mediocre cantaloupe, make cantaloupe soup.

Cantaloupe Soup
1 ripe cantaloupe, seeded, peeled, and cut into 1-inch chunks
1 cup fresh orange juice
1 cup plain Greek yogurt (full-fat, low-fat, or non-fat)
Agave nectar, to taste (If the melon is very sweet, you'll only need a tablespoon or so, but the beauty of using agave nectar is that it can be stirred in easily even after the soup has chilled.)
1/4 cup Midori (melon liquor), optional
a pinch of sea salt (trust me, it will make the flavors pop)
a pinch of Mishmish N.33 (an amazing spice blend that includes crystalized honey, lemon, and saffron--it is expensive, but it goes a looong way), optional--but if you don't have it, consider adding a bit of finely grated lemon rind

All the ingredients will not fit into a blender, so you have two options. Put everything in a bowl, mix together, and add 1/3 to the blender at a time. Blend at high speed until the cantaloupe is completely liquified. Pour the blended ingredients into a clean bowl or pitcher. Stir to make sure everything is well combined.
OR Put all ingredients into a large bowl and use an immersion blender to liquify the cantaloupe and blend all ingredients.
Taste and adjust seasonings if necessary. If you are unsure if it is sweet enough, wait until it is chilled and taste again.
Note that the quantities are general guidelines for a medium cantaloupe. If your melon is larger or smaller, adjust the amount of orange juice and yogurt appropriately.

Refrigerate for up to two days.

You can serve as a smoothie (don't add the Midori if you plan to serve to children!) or as a soup. I like to serve it in a shallow soup bowl, topped with a swirl of marscapone cheese that I've loosened by stirring and adding maple syrup to taste. A few blueberries sprinkled around the edges elevates this to party-worthy fare.