If you've ever tasted burrata, you don't easily forget it. The snowy balls of pillow-soft mozzarella harbor curds and heavy cream in their midst, both of which ooze onto your plate when you stab one with a fork. An almost illicit tide of silky, buttery freshness washes into your mouth with each bite.

The thing is, burrata is usually hard to find, so its pleasures are not well known. A specialty of Puglia, the heel of Italy's boot, burrata is made by filling fresh mozzarella with leftover curds, called stracciatella, and fresh cream; its top is then sealed into a little twist, the inside a treasure to be freed a little later. It doesn't travel well, as burrata is intended to be eaten within a day or so of its making. It's a small blessing, then, that we now have an Italian burrata maker in Vermont, at Maplebrook Farm in Bennington.

47 North Main Street, Waterbury, 244-0910

I don't often turn right when heading off the Stowe-Waterbury exit on I-89.  Perhaps that's why I had never made it to Maxi's Restaurant before. It gets great reviews on 7 Nights and is a member of the Vermont Fresh Network, both excellent endorsements. Sunday, I finally took that right turn.

The casual set-up included a lunch counter overlooking TVs playing a Lifetime Original Movie, several tables and this painting (right). My kind of place. The comfort food on the menu looked good, too. Hot turkey sandwiches, smoked gouda macaroni and cheese... All the comfort favorites.

I took a risk and chose chicken piccata — not exactly home-style American, but the promise of capers and artichokes on top was irresistible.

The green hue of everything on the plate (right) should indicate the freshness of the dish. Squash was lightly sautéed in little more than olive oil and salt and pepper. The edges were caramelized to delectable sweetness, but the vegetables weren't cooked so much that they lost their integrity in terms of flavor or texture.

The first time I grew radishes, I was flooded with so many that I ran out of ways to prepare them. I sliced and grated, buttered and salted, and ate them whole. Radishes don't lend themselves to culinary flexibility, I thought, but they sure like to grow. 

Not once did I think of bringing them into contact with heat. 

Too bad Coppa wasn't around back then. This enoteca in Boston's South End — with its nose-to-tail, Italian snacks, pizzas and charcuterie — has garnered intense devotion since it opened 18 months ago. I finally visited Coppa two weeks ago, where my friend Dana and I ploughed through a flotilla of small plates, including house-cured anchovies, fresh spaghetti smothered in cream, smoked bacon and sea urchin, and delicate pink slices of duck prosciutto. At one point, Dana actually clapped her hands with glee.

The simple yet innovative approach was best embodied, I thought, in 'Ravanelli Crostini' — a jumble of roasted radishes (and even crispier radish greens) on toast with nasturtium butter melted across the top. The fuschia heads were like umami garden candy, and became etched into my memory.

Since I live three hours from Coppa, I've been carting home bunches of radishes to recreate the dish at home, summer heat be damned. Why? As the months pass, radishes will grow spicier and woody, as Coppa's sous chef J.C. DeBrie can attest. 

325 N. Main St., Barre, 479-9862

I've always been curious about certain out-of-town restaurants that I still haven't patronized. Until last week, Soup N Greens was one of those restaurants.

I felt like I was penetrating a secret society as I finally made my way inside the old-school Barre favorite. And, expecting little more than a lunch counter, I was immediately surprised by the size of the place: Tables spilled back the length of three rooms.

I sat at a booth near the front window right around 8 p.m. on Friday. In another misconception, I thought the family restaurant would be slowing down by then, but the joint was still jumping.

Making a choice was difficult. I asked our waitress what on the menu was homemade or a specialty. "Like, everything," she said, sounding annoyed. She recommended the chicken Cordon Bleu and I took her advice.

It's a sunny Saturday morning and I’m sipping a drink so showstoppingly purple that a woman at the table next to me leans in to ask, “What is that?” When I tell her, she squints back at the menu board as if considering it in a new light.

We’re at separate tables inside the Green Goddess Café, just south of Stowe village, and that menu is deceptively simple. You can order standard café fare — a breakfast burrito, muffin or a tuna melt on rye — but you can also get fresh vegetable juices or smoothies that require a minimum of decision making. You choose from five fruits (strawberry, raspberry, peach, banana and blueberry) and either milk or juice. That’s it. There’s no protein powder, spirulina or other nouveau ingredients along the back counter.

I acquired a smoothie habit during years spent out west, and have fueled hundreds of mornings with a blend of strawberries, bananas and yogurt, my own version of a lassi. I've tried most of the blends at Smoothie King (usually too sweet) and Jamba Juice (too icy). Whenever in Austin, I hit up the Daily Juice for a Sublimator, a lip-smacking smoothie of fruit, flax and a generous helping of peanut butter.

But I've only had them occasionally of late, so when I arrive at the Green Goddess for brunch, I order a blueberry and peach smoothie almost as an afterthought. Five minutes later, the waitress delivers a pint glass stuffed with violet-colored swirls of ice, cream and fruit that draws glances as it makes its way through the room. It has exactly four ingredients: blueberries, peaches, soy milk and ice.

43 Shelburne Shopping Park, Shelburne, 985-1117

It was one of those restaurant spaces that always seemed to have something good. Remember Fibonacci's with its pizzas topped according to the mathematical principle? Somehow, though, I still hadn't made it to Cucina Antica in its more than half-decade of life.

I liked it immediately, right down to the tablecloths decorated with turn-of-last-century ads. Remember the table tops at Wendy's in the '80s? This was a similar blast from the past, but this time I was old enough to read and appreciate the promised wonders of the "Princess Bust Developer."

Things got even better when a wood bowl filled with warm, crusty bread arrived. The oil that waited on the table to be poured for dipping was beautifully muddled  with Italian herbs and garlic.

My first impression of the menu: This place is lobster central. There were salads, sandwiches, pastas and pizza all filled with knuckles and claws. Since I was trying to keep things thrifty, none of them made it to my table, but I was impressed.

Another summer, another chapter in my never-ending story of barbecue highs and lows. Saturday, July 2, I made the trek to Lake Placid for its annual I Love Barbecue Festival.

I wasn't the only Vermonter there. John Delpha of the Belted Cow Bistro was representing his team, I Que. Chittenden County teams Green Mountain Smokeshack and Sweet Breathe BBQ were also competing. Unfortunately, the guys were all taking it easy before competition heated up that evening and none were vending their wares to the public.

Substantially smaller than the Harpoon Championships of New England Barbecue that takes place in Windsor each year at the end of July, only a few teams were selling food in Lake Placid.