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<p>“There is a kind of appealing grace in having the end result of a</p><p>project, food or otherwise, seemingly brought off without</p><p>strain.”</p><p>—LEE BAILEY</p><p>An Inspired Platter of Fruit and a Piece of Chocolate</p><p>http://www.rodalewellness.com/</p><p>contents</p><p>Introduction</p><p>The Grazer’s Larder: Stocking the Pantry, Fridge, and Freezer</p><p>The Essential Stuff</p><p>Grazing Menus (from Simple Spreads to Full-On Soirées)</p><p>Just Shopping</p><p>Mostly Chopping</p><p>A Bit of Cooking</p><p>Worth the Effort</p><p>Last Bites, Small and Sweet</p><p>The Grazing Breakfast (for Guests or Not)</p><p>A Few Signature Sips</p><p>Acknowledgments</p><p>introduction</p><p>I would love to be that girl. The one who rides a motorcycle, goes out with</p><p>a painter or a rock star, or better, a restless surfer; the one shooting pool,</p><p>singing karaoke, dancing on the bar; the one whose life is one beautiful</p><p>adventure after another, never the same thing twice. She travels the world</p><p>(probably has a bikini and a ball gown in her designer bag at all times);</p><p>she’s seen the Sahara and been to the Bhutan. She speaks five—maybe six</p><p>—languages, has a degree in philosophy, and might even be a spy. Oh, and</p><p>she has amazing hair.</p><p>But I’m not her. While she’s out living dangerously, I’m standing by the</p><p>stove stirring risotto, or peeling a hard-boiled egg over the sink for lunch.</p><p>When she’s sitting down to a dinner of oysters and Champagne, I’m</p><p>crawling into bed with a cup of a tea and a big orange cat. It’s just the way</p><p>things turned out and I’m okay with it. Without all the glamorous</p><p>distractions, I learned how to cook.</p><p>My consolation for not being a rock star, Nobel Prize winner, world-</p><p>renowned neurosurgeon, or the next Bond girl is that I get to play with fire</p><p>and knives in the comfort of my own kitchen. As a food stylist and</p><p>passionate cook, I get to have my own dazzling adventures: the soufflé that</p><p>rose perfectly, the sauce that curdled horribly. I too can experience the</p><p>vastness of the world simply by what I cook and eat. No, I may not be a free</p><p>spirit in the world at large, but I’ve been fortunate to visit at least a handful</p><p>of far-off lands, sample some regional delicacies, and learn a bit about</p><p>culinary tradition. Now my inner adventuress comes out in my kitchen,</p><p>where I choose to taste a bit here and a bit there, feast on flavors from all</p><p>over the world, and wander happily from one bite to the next. I am,</p><p>admittedly, a culinary wanderer, a vagabond, a gypsy, a self-proclaimed</p><p>grazer. Someone who cooks all day for a living and then can’t wait (most of</p><p>the time) to cook something wonderful on the weekends too. When I cook</p><p>for myself and for friends, I want the preparation to be easy but the</p><p>presentation to be lovely. I want the dishes I make to be multiple so there’s</p><p>something for everyone, and I want them all to work together; a meal like</p><p>this should have a sensibility, a theme, an aesthetic, like an eclectically</p><p>decorated room that you don’t want to leave.</p><p>When I go out to eat, I’m happiest with a menu that lets me pick from a</p><p>little of this and a little of that, to share a selection of smaller dishes,</p><p>whether it’s just two of us or a crowd. And while cooking at home is rarely</p><p>as extravagant (often a homemade pizza and a salad is our dinner of</p><p>choice), when I do cook more elaborate meals, I want to offer something</p><p>other than the expected meat with a vegetable or starch. I want to enjoy a</p><p>similar, albeit simplified, menu to those I enjoy in my favorite restaurants.</p><p>Whether the dishes I pull together are simply well-chosen ingredients left</p><p>nearly naked (think a good Spanish sardine from a tin laid seductively over</p><p>a cracker with a squeeze of lemon) or something that requires a bit more</p><p>energy on the part of the cook (a quick melon soup with toasted prosciutto</p><p>shards), I love a couple of well-curated dishes that make the meal more of a</p><p>celebration than just sustenance.</p><p>When my husband, Ken, and I first went to Spain, we fell deeply,</p><p>wholeheartedly in love with tapas, so much so that we ate nothing else—not</p><p>a single full meal—the entire trip. So giddy over the breadth of individual</p><p>bites at our disposal, so enchanted were we by this natural rhythm of</p><p>consumption, that when we got home, our entire style of eating changed.</p><p>We were both happier and more comfortable nibbling on a plate of cheese,</p><p>sharing a dish of olive oil–fried shrimp, and chatting over a slice of grilled</p><p>bread than eating a huge bowl of pasta or a steak. No, we don’t eat this way</p><p>every night. As I’ve said, many nights we make a small pizza and a salad,</p><p>but even that in its own way is a form of grazing for us. We snack on a</p><p>piece of Parma ham as we wash the lettuce, savor a bit of Taleggio before it</p><p>makes its way onto the crust, and Ken is famous (at least in our house) for</p><p>devouring all the crispy croutons and delicate petals of Parmesan in the</p><p>Caesar salad before it’s even dressed.</p><p>Grazing is not a new idea—in Greece, it’s the notion behind the mezze;</p><p>and, as I’ve said, Spain has tapas; Japanese sushi is not dissimilar; and the</p><p>Italian cicchetti is all about small, varied dishes. To me, the concept is</p><p>irresistible: consuming less of more. What could be more stimulating for a</p><p>cook or an eater? And yes, while there are those who might say grazing is</p><p>akin to snacking and, in turn, an unhealthy way to eat constantly instead of</p><p>mindfully, I beg to differ. Grazing is about consciously eating small</p><p>portions of multiple dishes made with thought and intent.</p><p>I find the notion of grazing to be liberating; it frees us as cooks from the</p><p>pressure of a main course, alleviates the expectations of what comes first,</p><p>second, and what goes on the side. Just imagine: a plate of figs, some spiced</p><p>baby lamb chops, and a few pieces of roasted Delicata squash on a crisp fall</p><p>day; a shooter of spiced tomato bisque alongside a toasted Brie crostini and</p><p>a smattering of cured meat as a late-winter lunch; a platter of grilled</p><p>sardines served with slabs of toasted bread, blistered cherry tomatoes, and</p><p>pickled fennel, followed by a spoonful of milky panna cotta on a blazing</p><p>hot day by the sea; a slice of buttery toast and a cup of potato-leek soup</p><p>supped while standing at the counter with a friend. Each of these is a</p><p>medley of little dishes pulled together to create something collectively more</p><p>delicious. Something that embraces the notion of the seasons, that’s inspired</p><p>by what’s ripe and most flavorful at that particular moment. And while it</p><p>may sound effortful, the truth is, grazing is as much about the shopping as</p><p>the cooking; if you plan well, you’ll find that you actually spend less time</p><p>in front of the stove.</p><p>keeping it simple</p><p>Putting out a few small dishes seems harder than just one, I know. But the</p><p>key is to embrace good ingredients that need minimal help from the cook</p><p>and to dispose of the idea that you have to make everything yourself—</p><p>smart shopping, a bit of planning, and confidence is really all it takes. It</p><p>also helps to think of what you feel like eating rather than spend hours</p><p>digging around for the perfect recipe. When I cook at home, instead of</p><p>seeking out a recipe and following it, I do almost exactly the opposite. I</p><p>think about what I’m in the mood for or have on hand and work backward</p><p>from there. Rarely do I follow an entire recipe verbatim—I cherry-pick a</p><p>little from a curated collection, choosing the mix of ingredients that sounds</p><p>good to me and the blend of techniques that makes the most sense.</p><p>I steer clear of recipes that call for multiple bowls and pans in favor of</p><p>simpler, more streamlined approaches—or I figure out how to simplify</p><p>them myself (a small kitchen is a great motivator for keeping dinner</p><p>contained). Erica, a close friend who also cooks professionally, swears that</p><p>if she’s reading a recipe and a candy thermometer is required, she</p><p>immediately turns the page. All cooks have a limit, a mental barrier that</p><p>renders a recipe too complex or too laden to bother with; hers is the</p><p>requisite candy thermometer while mine is subject to my mood, but too</p><p>many pots, pans, and gadgets is certainly up there on my list. I also won’t</p><p>when thinly sliced and preserved in shallots, garlic,</p><p>sugar, and salt, they become a Moroccan treat. The key is the thin skin (less</p><p>bitter pith), which is why, if you don’t have access to a tree in California,</p><p>Meyer lemons or small organic lemons are usually your best bet when</p><p>making this recipe.</p><p>6 small Meyer lemons or thin-skinned lemons (or Mexican limes, if</p><p>you have them)</p><p>3 shallots, minced</p><p>3–4 garlic cloves, minced</p><p>¼ cup kosher salt</p><p>¼ cup granulated sugar</p><p>In a pot of boiling water, blanch the lemons for about a minute. Drain, rinse,</p><p>and wipe them with a paper towel to remove any wax.</p><p>Slice the lemons as thinly as you can, getting rid of any seeds and reserving</p><p>the ends.</p><p>Combine the shallots and garlic together in one bowl. In another bowl, mix</p><p>the salt and sugar. Place a layer of the lemon slices on the bottom of an</p><p>airtight jar. Top this with a bit of the shallot-garlic mixture, then a good</p><p>sprinkling of the salt-sugar mixture. Continue layering the lemon slices,</p><p>alternating the two mixtures, until the jar is almost full but not overly</p><p>packed. When you’ve filled the jar, press down gently on the layers to</p><p>release some of their juices. Then, squeeze all the juice from the remaining</p><p>lemon ends into the jar. Seal the jar tightly and shake a few times to</p><p>circulate.</p><p>Refrigerate the jar for about 5 days, giving it a shake or two each day. Use</p><p>the slices whole or chop roughly. They should keep, sealed in the</p><p>refrigerator, for up to a month.</p><p>pickled red onions</p><p>Red onions are a favorite of mine because they’re sweet, not to mention</p><p>lovely to look at. You can certainly eat red onions raw, and they’re</p><p>remarkable when caramelized in olive oil due to their sugar content, but I</p><p>think one of the best ways to treat a red onion is with a quick pickle. First,</p><p>their natural sweetness combined with a bit more sugar ricochets off the</p><p>vinegar, salt, and spice almost magically, creating a balance of flavor that</p><p>tastes far more complex than you’d expect from so few and such simple</p><p>ingredients. Second, the color of the onions seeps out into the liquid, so</p><p>you’ll find yourself with a jar of pink pickles swimming in a pool of</p><p>preternaturally magenta brine. They’re otherworldly and exactly the kind of</p><p>condiment you want to have sitting on the table alongside a plate of</p><p>sandwiches or bruschetta, a platter of tacos, or some spiced crab cakes. All</p><p>that and these simple pickles take mere minutes to pull together. Assuming</p><p>the entire jar isn’t devoured immediately, they can also be stored in the</p><p>fridge for up to 2 weeks, the flavor and color becoming more stunning as</p><p>they macerate.</p><p>½ cup water</p><p>½ cup distilled white vinegar</p><p>3 tablespoons granulated sugar</p><p>1 teaspoon sea salt, plus more to taste</p><p>1 bay leaf, preferably fresh</p><p>1 dried red chile</p><p>1 red onion, thinly sliced into half-moons</p><p>In a small saucepan, combine the water, vinegar, sugar, salt, bay leaf, and</p><p>chile and bring to a boil. Add the onion, reduce the heat, and simmer for 30</p><p>seconds. Remove from the heat and let cool completely. Transfer to an</p><p>airtight jar and keep in the fridge for up to 2 weeks.</p><p>My Marinated Beans</p><p>my marinated beans</p><p>If I’m honest with myself, I’m someone who manages to be both high</p><p>energy and lazy at the same time. (I know that sounds like a paradox.) But</p><p>while one half of my DNA thrives in constant motion—get that job, paint</p><p>that room, move those hydrangea bushes, balance that checkbook—the</p><p>other half craves lying on the couch with a cat, a book, and a blanket—</p><p>forever. Which is why I am, at least some of the time, an admittedly lazy</p><p>home cook. Especially when it comes to beans. I know in my heart of hearts</p><p>that I should always think ahead, soak the beans the night before, drain</p><p>them, cook them, salt them, and then look lovingly at them, knowing I</p><p>brought them from that dry and dormant state to a more tender and flavorful</p><p>place with my own hands. But I rarely remember to do any of that and,</p><p>frankly, I think canned beans are fine. Especially when you’re going to</p><p>dress them up with other flavorful ingredients and then let them marinate</p><p>for a bit. So forgive yourself ahead of time if, like me, you choose to cheat a</p><p>little here; life is way too short to beat yourself up over beans.</p><p>1 can (15.5 ounces) gigante beans, rinsed and drained, or 1 cup</p><p>dried beans, cooked according to package directions</p><p>½ cup extra-virgin olive oil</p><p>Grated zest and juice of 1 lemon</p><p>2–3 garlic cloves, smashed</p><p>4–6 pepperoncini, trimmed and finely chopped</p><p>1–2 tablespoons fresh oregano leaves, roughly chopped</p><p>2–3 tablespoons sherry vinegar or other bright vinegar</p><p>Sea salt and freshly ground black pepper</p><p>Put the beans in a lidded mason jar large enough to hold the other</p><p>ingredients as well. Add the olive oil, lemon zest and juice, garlic,</p><p>pepperoncini, and oregano. Stir gently to combine so you don’t smash the</p><p>beans, and taste for brightness. Add enough sherry vinegar to give the</p><p>marinade a bit of tang but not enough to overpower—the beans will get</p><p>stronger as they sit.</p><p>Season the beans with salt and pepper and seal the jar. Let sit in the fridge</p><p>for an hour or two, or overnight if possible. Give the jar a gentle shake</p><p>every now and then to circulate the vinaigrette. Taste again and adjust the</p><p>seasoning as needed. Serve straight from the jar with toothpicks for</p><p>spearing (watch out for the smashed cloves of garlic, as they look</p><p>remarkably like the beans after marinating).</p><p>Smoked Trout–Stuffed Deviled Eggs</p><p>smoked trout–stuffed deviled eggs</p><p>Deviled eggs are decidedly old-fashioned. They harken back to the days of</p><p>crustless cucumber sandwiches and many-layered dips made from soup</p><p>mixes. But it’s kind of a shame, because I love hard-boiled eggs, and</p><p>deviled eggs seem like they should be hard-boiled eggs on steroids. When</p><p>I’m working, I regularly eat a hard-boiled egg and call it breakfast—or</p><p>lunch. I’m only slightly embarrassed to admit that I recently could have</p><p>been spotted walking down Sixth Avenue trying to elegantly peel a hard-</p><p>boiled egg and sprinkle it with salt while running from one meeting to</p><p>another. That’s how much I love hard-boiled eggs. I’m just not a fan of</p><p>adding gobs of mayonnaise to one of Mother Nature’s most perfect foods.</p><p>That said, over the years I’ve had to make many versions of deviled eggs</p><p>for different cookbooks and magazine pieces I’ve styled, and have come to</p><p>realize that the stuffy stuffed eggs I’ve long dismissed as dull are just one</p><p>kind. There’s another altogether delicious sort of devilishness out there, if</p><p>you’re open to it. Cut down on the mayonnaise, bid farewell to the</p><p>ubiquitous paprika sprinkle, and this nostalgic little number we think of as</p><p>dated can be refashioned into something cool and classic. With a hint of</p><p>lemon, a spike of Dijon, and a bit of smoky trout swirled inside, suddenly</p><p>the deviled egg is less frumpy and more fun; less Ethel and more Lucy. And</p><p>really, who doesn’t love Lucy?</p><p>8 large eggs</p><p>¼ cup mayonnaise</p><p>1½ teaspoons Dijon mustard</p><p>Juice of ½ lemon</p><p>2 ounces smoked trout, finely flaked</p><p>Sea salt and freshly ground black pepper</p><p>Snipped fresh chives or chervil, for garnish</p><p>Bring a large pot of water to boil. Using a slotted spoon, gently lower the</p><p>eggs into the boiling water, reduce to a simmer, cover, and let cook for 10</p><p>minutes. Set an alarm—seriously. When your alarm goes off, drain the</p><p>eggs, run them under cold water, and set aside to cool.</p><p>Once the eggs are cool enough to handle, peel and halve them lengthwise.</p><p>Remove the yolks and transfer them to a food processor. Set the whites</p><p>aside.</p><p>Add the mayonnaise, mustard, lemon juice, and trout to the yolks and</p><p>process until just smooth. Season with salt and pepper and transfer the</p><p>mixture to a piping bag (you can always use a resealable plastic bag with</p><p>the corner cut off for this bit).</p><p>Pipe the yolk mixture back into the whites, top with the herbs, and serve.</p><p>Prosciutto, Asparagus, and Arugula Rolls</p><p>prosciutto, asparagus, and arugula rolls</p><p>Grazing is all about tasting lots of things but not committing to a single one.</p><p>It’s the opposite of meal monogamy, the antithesis of boredom at the table.</p><p>When you graze, you skip from dish to dish, bending the rules of</p><p>convention like a culinary contortionist. Instead of saying, “Tonight I’ll</p><p>have a salad,” you flirt first with that dish of briny Cerignola olives to your</p><p>left, mingle shamelessly with that come-hither-looking bowl of artichokes</p><p>on your right, and make an absolute spectacle of yourself with the wild</p><p>mushroom crostini across the way. You scan the table looking for your next</p><p>conquest, and then you set your sights on barely blanched asparagus spears</p><p>and baby arugula, dressed with olive oil and lemon and rolled up in velum-</p><p>thin layers of prosciutto. An Italian-inspired twist on negimaki, these are</p><p>one of my most reliable kitchen tricks—equal parts easy, impressive, and</p><p>irresistible.</p><p>Sea salt</p><p>1 pound pencil-thin asparagus, trimmed</p><p>3 tablespoons extra-virgin olive oil</p><p>Grated zest and juice of 1 lemon</p><p>Freshly ground black pepper</p><p>2–3 handfuls baby or wild arugula</p><p>16 thin slices prosciutto (about ½ pound), each about 8" long</p><p>Bring a large pot of salted water to boil. Add the asparagus to the pot and</p><p>cook until bright green and just tender, about 3 minutes depending on</p><p>thickness. Drain the asparagus and run immediately under cold water to</p><p>stop the cooking process. Pat dry and set aside.</p><p>In a large bowl, whisk together the olive oil, lemon zest, and about half the</p><p>lemon juice. Season with salt and pepper. Add the arugula and asparagus</p><p>spears to the bowl and toss gently to coat, being careful not to snap the</p><p>asparagus. Taste and add a bit more lemon juice if necessary.</p><p>On a large cutting board or work surface, arrange 4 slices of prosciutto</p><p>vertically and slightly overlapping to form a 6" × 8" rectangle. Lay one-</p><p>quarter of the dressed arugula and asparagus horizontally across the</p><p>prosciutto on the end closest to you. Tightly roll up the prosciutto as you</p><p>would a jelly roll, being sure to keep the vegetables evenly distributed.</p><p>Cut the rolls on the bias into 8 pieces and repeat with the remaining</p><p>ingredients.</p><p>homemade croutons with parmesan shavings on</p><p>baby romaine</p><p>(aka deconstructed caesar salad)</p><p>The same thing always happens when I make Caesar salad: I set the big</p><p>wooden bowl full of salad down on the table and go back into the kitchen to</p><p>finish whatever else I’m cooking. When I return, all evidence of the</p><p>essential croutons and Parmesan shavings have vanished. A bowl of gently</p><p>dressed lettuce, devoid of all garnishes, stares at me. How, you may wonder,</p><p>do so many crunchy croutons just disappear? How does a pile of paper-thin</p><p>cheese just evaporate? Well, it’s The Ken Effect. In a blatant expression of</p><p>grazing, Ken has made a habit of ransacking my Caesar salad for what he</p><p>calls “the good bits” before dinner even begins. This pattern became so</p><p>pervasive that I finally decided to legitimize the whole sneaky affair. So</p><p>here it is—croutons and cheese served in leaves of baby romaine and</p><p>dressed with a brazen garlicky-anchovy dressing. It’s incidental grazing</p><p>food at its best.</p><p>3–4 cups cubed rustic bread</p><p>2 tablespoons plus ¼ cup extra-virgin olive oil</p><p>Salt and freshly ground black pepper</p><p>A couple sprigs fresh oregano or thyme, leaves picked</p><p>1–2 anchovy fillets, or to taste</p><p>2–3 tablespoons fresh lemon juice</p><p>1 garlic clove, smashed</p><p>1 head baby romaine lettuce, leaves separated</p><p>Fresh Parmesan shavings</p><p>Preheat the oven to 400°F.</p><p>Place the bread cubes on a rimmed baking sheet and drizzle with 2</p><p>tablespoons of olive oil. Sprinkle with salt, pepper, and herbs and toss to</p><p>coat well. Bake for 8 to 12 minutes, turning the cubes at least once so they</p><p>brown evenly on all sides. Remove from the oven and set aside to cool.</p><p>Place the anchovies on a cutting board and chop them, then use the side of</p><p>your knife to mash them into a paste. Transfer the anchovies to a small,</p><p>lidded jar and add the remaining ¼ cup olive oil, the lemon juice, and garlic</p><p>clove. Season with salt and pepper and seal the jar before shaking well. Set</p><p>aside.</p><p>Place the individual romaine leaves on a platter. Fill each leaf with a few</p><p>croutons and top with a shaving or two of Parmesan. Drizzle the dressing</p><p>over the entire platter, sprinkle with pepper, and serve.</p><p>Communal Salade Niçoise</p><p>communal salade niçoise</p><p>I have loved salade niçoise for as long as I can remember. I once ate one in</p><p>a small seaside town on the southern coast of France under a colorfully</p><p>striped awning; I enjoyed one with my friend Jackie and her newborn son</p><p>on Rue Cler in Paris; I’ve had a smattering of good and not-so-good</p><p>versions in and around New York over the years. But the majority of my</p><p>best Niçoise-eating experiences happened courtesy of Pastis, an oh-so-</p><p>fashionable spot, sadly now shuttered, in the Meatpacking District in NYC</p><p>near our apartment. For us, Pastis was reliably good French food close to</p><p>home, but it was also the kind of place that could claim a crowd nearly all</p><p>the time, to the point where on more than one occasion, we’d walk over</p><p>only to be told it would take an hour or more to be seated. Rather than being</p><p>deterred, we learned to adapt. We would leave the hostess with her lengthy</p><p>list of names, head home, order takeout, and enjoy the same lovely meal in</p><p>the comfort of our apartment in less than 30 minutes. Creatures of habit that</p><p>we are, we nearly always ordered the same thing: a medium cheeseburger</p><p>with fries and a Niçoise salad. Ken was partial to the burger and I was</p><p>devoted to the fresh, barely seared tuna Niçoise, but we always shared. The</p><p>salad was perfect for splitting because there was more than enough for two.</p><p>My version is less traditional—I’ve swapped fresh tuna for the meaty pink</p><p>Italian kind that comes packed in olive oil; I’m partial to substituting</p><p>roasted tomatoes if fresh aren’t truly in season; and I suggest creamy green</p><p>olives instead of the traditional black—but the communal concept is the</p><p>same. Everyone gets a little bit of everything with only one plate to wash.</p><p>communal salade niçoise</p><p>8 small new potatoes, halved</p><p>Sea salt</p><p>Good handful haricots verts, trimmed</p><p>2–3 anchovy fillets, or to taste</p><p>1 garlic clove, smashed</p><p>¼ cup extra-virgin olive oil</p><p>Grated zest and juice of 1 lemon</p><p>Freshly ground black pepper</p><p>2 small heads gem butter lettuce</p><p>1 jar or can (5–7 ounces) Italian tuna in olive oil, drained</p><p>4 large hard-boiled eggs</p><p>8–10 cherry tomatoes, fresh or oven-roasted</p><p>1 cup Cerignola olives or other buttery olives</p><p>Put the potatoes in a pot of salted water and bring to a boil over high heat.</p><p>When the water boils, reduce the heat to medium and simmer until the</p><p>potatoes are just tender and can be pierced with a knife, about 8 minutes.</p><p>Use a slotted spoon to transfer the potatoes to a bowl to cool.</p><p>Return the water to a boil, add the haricots verts, and cook until the water</p><p>returns to a boil and the beans are just bright green and crisp-tender, 1 to 2</p><p>minutes. Drain and run under cold water to stop the cooking process.</p><p>Meanwhile, put the anchovies and garlic on a cutting board and chop them</p><p>together. Then use the side of your knife to mash them even more, until</p><p>nearly a paste. Transfer the mixture to a small lidded jar and add the olive</p><p>oil and lemon zest and juice. Season with salt and pepper, seal the jar, and</p><p>shake well.</p><p>Separate the leaves of lettuce and lay them on a platter or board. Scatter the</p><p>potatoes over the lettuce and spoon the tuna evenly around the platter.</p><p>Halve the eggs and spread them around evenly as well, then add the</p><p>tomatoes, haricots verts, and olives. To serve, drizzle some of the dressing</p><p>over the platter and serve the rest alongside.</p><p>melon soup with prosciutto shards</p><p>A slice of cantaloupe or honeydew melon swathed in a sheet of prosciutto</p><p>—when the melon is so ripe that the juices seep to the skin as soon as it’s</p><p>pierced with a knife, and the ham has that fatty, nutty, almost feral mountain</p><p>flavor to it, you know within an instant why this is such classic Italian fare.</p><p>The balance of sweet and salty is at the heart of it, and</p><p>this summer soup</p><p>captures just that. With crisped pieces of prosciutto scattered over the</p><p>chilled, liquid melon, it’s both familiar and surprising. On a hot summer</p><p>afternoon, when I want nothing more than to sit on the patio with a thick</p><p>book, watch the hawk circle silently up in the sky, and be entertained by the</p><p>chipmunks darting amongst the rocks and ferns, this is the lunch I crave: a</p><p>cup of this soup alongside a sandwich of Ham and Cornichons on Buttered</p><p>Baguette.</p><p>6–8 slices prosciutto, halved lengthwise</p><p>1 small honeydew or cantaloupe melon, halved, seeded, and cut into</p><p>chunks</p><p>¼ cup fresh lime juice</p><p>1 tablespoon honey (optional)</p><p>Sea salt and freshly ground black pepper</p><p>Preheat the oven to 400°F. Line a baking sheet with parchment paper or</p><p>foil.</p><p>Lay the prosciutto slices on the lined baking sheet and toast until just crisp,</p><p>about 8 minutes. Remove and set aside to cool.</p><p>Meanwhile, put the melon chunks in a blender and puree until very smooth.</p><p>Add the lime juice and honey (if using), season with salt and pepper, and</p><p>puree again. Taste, adjust the seasoning as needed, and chill slightly. Serve</p><p>the soup in small bowls or shot glasses topped with a shard of prosciutto.</p><p>Avocado, As It Should Be | Tuna Crudo with Tomatillo-Avocado Dressing | Crab, Avocado, and Black</p><p>Bean Tostadas</p><p>avocado, as it should be</p><p>This is not a recipe. It’s just a perfect thing in a very imperfect world. And</p><p>it has to be here—to overlook it in a book about fast, easy ways to eat good</p><p>food would be heresy. Growing up in California, we had three avocado</p><p>trees in our front yard, and while the squirrels usually got away with a fair</p><p>number of them—we would find the half-eaten fruit and random pits on the</p><p>patio all the time—we were still well-endowed with bags of the creamy,</p><p>coal-skinned gems throughout the year. We often ate them either right out</p><p>of the skin with a spoon or barely smashed in a bowl—near naked and far</p><p>from smooth. Which is probably the reason why the addition of onion,</p><p>garlic, tomatoes, chiles, or almost anything else to a mashed avocado makes</p><p>me cringe. A good avocado needs no competition in the bowl, just a</p><p>squeeze of citrus and a sprinkle of salt. This is my mayonnaise, the spread</p><p>that makes any sandwich better, a slice of toast a complete meal, and bag of</p><p>chips almost irrelevant. Put this out with An Unconventional Plate of</p><p>Vegetables and a good loaf of bread, and you’re set.</p><p>2 Hass avocados</p><p>1 lime</p><p>Sea salt</p><p>Halve the avocados and remove the pits. Scoop the flesh into a bowl and</p><p>mash with a fork until chunky but spreadable. Season with lime juice and</p><p>sea salt, to taste. Devour with a spoon or serve with tortilla chips, fresh</p><p>vegetables, or toast.</p><p>CLOCKWISE, FROM TOP: Japanese Eggplant Mousse with Za’atar | Lemony Hummus |</p><p>Parmesan Pea Spread | Rosemary and White Bean Smear</p><p>lemony hummus</p><p>There will be controversy here. I will face dissenters. I realize it’s a subject</p><p>that engenders deep and passionate feelings, but here goes: When it comes</p><p>to my hummus, I can take or leave the tahini. I know, some will say it isn’t</p><p>actually hummus without the tahini, but from my quick research on the</p><p>matter, hummus translates from Arabic as “chickpeas.” Enough said. Well,</p><p>almost: The addition of tahini, known as hummus bi tahina, wasn’t noted</p><p>until the 13th century in Cairo. But I’m not trying to be difficult. The fact is,</p><p>I love chickpeas mashed up with a little garlic and cumin and a lot of lemon</p><p>and olive oil. (Okay, worth noting: Lemon and garlic weren’t added to</p><p>hummus until even later than tahini, according to my online research. But</p><p>why get hung up on details?) To my taste, if you’ve got chickpeas, olive oil,</p><p>lemon, garlic, and cumin, you can stop right there. Everything that</p><p>happened to me earlier in the day—the guy who shoved past me on the</p><p>subway; the taxi that sped by and splattered filthy water on my jeans; right</p><p>now, my upstairs neighbor who is wearing stilettos and dancing to ABBA</p><p>while I try to write—all of that will be forgotten with a generous spoonful</p><p>of hummus, regardless of the tahini. But I’m okay with adding it, too—I</p><p>just don’t think it’s any less hummus if you don’t have tahini in the house.</p><p>See photograph.</p><p>1 can (15.5 ounces) chickpeas, rinsed and drained</p><p>1 garlic clove, peeled</p><p>2 tablespoons tahini (optional)</p><p>¼–½ cup extra-virgin olive oil, plus more as needed</p><p>2–3 tablespoons fresh lemon juice, or to taste</p><p>1–2 teaspoons ground cumin, or to taste</p><p>Sea salt and freshly ground black pepper</p><p>In a food processor, combine the chickpeas, garlic, and tahini (if using) and</p><p>blitz until the mixture is coarsely chopped. With the machine running, begin</p><p>to add the olive oil through the feed tube in a steady stream, starting with ¼</p><p>cup. Continue to process until the mixture begins to look smooth, adding</p><p>more oil until you have a creamy puree.</p><p>Add a couple tablespoons of lemon juice, 1 teaspoon cumin, and some salt</p><p>and pepper and pulse again. At this point, taste the mixture and adjust the</p><p>flavor as needed for your palate. I prefer more lemon and cumin than tahini</p><p>in my hummus, but some people love that rich, nutty flavor and want more</p><p>tahini—make it yours.</p><p>rosemary and white bean smear</p><p>There are two specific “dips” I remember my mom serving for guests when</p><p>I was a kid. The first was a caviar cream cheese that she’d buy at the</p><p>Farmers Market in Hollywood at Monsieur Marcel. Not the modern-day</p><p>farmers’ market, but the original market that first opened back in 1934 on</p><p>Fairfax and West 3rd Street. A wonder of covered kiosks hawking all kinds</p><p>of specialty foods, the market was full of small family-run shops selling</p><p>everything from homemade ice cream to seafood, and of course, the famed</p><p>Du-par’s Pie Shop. When we lived in Laurel Canyon, this was the place my</p><p>mom would frequent to procure bits and pieces for entertaining—and the</p><p>legendary pink caviar dip was always among them. It was the Katharine</p><p>Hepburn of appetizers: classic and sublimely sophisticated, the patrician of</p><p>predinner spreads. The other dip she served was a white bean puree she’d</p><p>make herself. A rustic blend of cannellini beans, rosemary, lemon zest,</p><p>lemon juice, and olive oil, this dip was less fancy and more earthy, less</p><p>glamorous and more quirky. A few years ago, I was home in LA and my</p><p>parents and I went to the original Farmers Market, found the caviar cheese,</p><p>and bought a small container to see if it lived up to expectations from 30-</p><p>plus years ago. It’s remarkable how flavors live on in your mind; it was just</p><p>as we’d all remembered. But I can’t lie: As much as I love Hepburn, I’m</p><p>still partial to this less Hollywood, more homey approach. See photograph.</p><p>1 can (15.5 ounces) cannellini beans, rinsed and drained</p><p>1 garlic clove, peeled</p><p>1 tablespoon chopped fresh rosemary, plus more as needed</p><p>¼–½ cup extra-virgin olive oil, plus more as needed</p><p>Grated zest of 1 lemon</p><p>1 tablespoon fresh lemon juice, or to taste</p><p>Sea salt and freshly ground black pepper</p><p>In a food processor, combine the beans, garlic, and rosemary and puree until</p><p>the mixture is coarsely chopped. With the machine running, begin to add</p><p>the olive oil through the feed tube in a steady stream, starting with ¼ cup.</p><p>Continue to process until the mixture begins to look smooth, adding more</p><p>oil until you have a creamy puree.</p><p>Add the lemon zest and juice, sprinkle with salt and pepper, and pulse</p><p>again. Taste the puree and add more rosemary, lemon juice, or salt and</p><p>pepper as needed.</p><p>parmesan pea spread</p><p>I love fresh peas. I even love shelling peas: the way the pods pop when</p><p>they’re just off the vine; how the peas lie in their emerald cocoon lined up</p><p>from barely-there to brazenly plump; how my fingers smell fertile and</p><p>mossy after all the shells have been emptied of their virescent pearls. Fresh</p><p>peas are a treat, a seasonal romance I look forward to all winter that’s far</p><p>too fleeting, which is why my freezer is rarely without a box of the frozen</p><p>kind. Captured at their peak, frozen peas are reliable in flavor and</p><p>dependable when you have nothing fresh in the</p><p>house.</p><p>Derived many moons ago from a risotto recipe by Nigella Lawson, I’ve</p><p>turned this commonsense combo of peas, butter, and Parmesan into a spread</p><p>for crostini, smeared it on a pizza crust for something unexpected, loosened</p><p>it with cream and served it over pasta, and even thinned it with chicken</p><p>stock for a refreshing summer soup. Like with many recipes in my</p><p>repertoire, I use the basic idea for many different dishes; but in its purest</p><p>form, I smear it on toast.</p><p>½ stick (4 tablespoons) unsalted butter, at room temperature</p><p>1 tablespoon minced shallot (about ½ shallot)</p><p>3 cups fresh peas or 1 box (10 ounces) frozen peas</p><p>½ cup chicken stock</p><p>½ cup freshly grated Parmesan cheese, or more to taste</p><p>Salt and freshly ground black pepper</p><p>Fresh mint leaves, for garnish</p><p>In a large saucepan, melt 2 tablespoons of the butter over medium heat. Add</p><p>the shallot and cook until just soft, 3 to 4 minutes. Add the peas and swirl</p><p>them around in the butter until nicely coated, then increase the heat to</p><p>medium-high and add the chicken stock. Bring the stock to a simmer and</p><p>cook the peas until they’re tender but still bright green, no more than 2 or 3</p><p>minutes for frozen peas or about 5 minutes for fresh.</p><p>Carefully transfer the pea mixture to a food processor and add the</p><p>remaining 2 tablespoons butter and the Parmesan. Puree the mixture until</p><p>smooth. Season with salt and pepper and adjust the seasoning as needed</p><p>(add more cheese, if you like).</p><p>I serve this spread on toasted bread with a mint leaf and another good shave</p><p>of cheese, but if you like the idea of adding mint to the puree, feel free to</p><p>add a few leaves to the mix; just be cautious—the mint can overpower the</p><p>delicate sweetness of the peas if you have a heavy hand.</p><p>japanese eggplant mousse with za’atar</p><p>I remember the first time I met Mark Bittman (the man who gets a large</p><p>chunk of credit for my having the pinch-worthy job that I do). It was, for all</p><p>intents and purposes, a job interview, and I had the requisite butterflies one</p><p>gets—maybe more, as this was someone I held in high esteem. Dressed in a</p><p>well-worn sweater and sneakers, Mark was sitting amongst stacks of</p><p>cookbooks and papers, down one of the alleys of desks that made up the</p><p>hustle and bustle of the New York Times newsroom floor, right in the midst</p><p>of the ringing phones and clattering keys. Within minutes, despite his</p><p>culinary gravitas, my nerves were assuaged by his casual manner; he was a</p><p>bastion of calm in contrast to the constant blur and hum of people moving</p><p>and talking and writing all around us. We sat at his desk and talked for a</p><p>little over an hour, until he only slightly abruptly turned to me, stood up,</p><p>and said with a distinct sense of finality, “Okay, I have to go home and eat</p><p>an eggplant.” And with that, I was dismissed. A few minutes later, as I was</p><p>walking down 42nd Street, I ran through our meeting in my head, trying to</p><p>recall what I’d said or how I’d come off, but I couldn’t focus. I simply kept</p><p>hearing how firmly yet charmingly he’d bid me farewell, an au revoir laced</p><p>with information: his intent to leave and eat an eggplant. All I could do was</p><p>wonder how he’d prepare that eggplant, patiently waiting for his return</p><p>home. See photograph.</p><p>3 medium Japanese eggplant or baby eggplant, halved lengthwise</p><p>¼–½ cup extra-virgin olive oil</p><p>Sea salt</p><p>2 garlic cloves, unpeeled Grated zest of 1 lemon</p><p>1–2 teaspoons fresh lemon juice, or to taste</p><p>3–4 teaspoons za’atar</p><p>¼ cup finely chopped fresh Italian parsley</p><p>Preheat the oven to 400°F.</p><p>Brush the cut sides of each eggplant half with olive oil and sprinkle with</p><p>salt. Place the eggplant halves cut-side up on a baking sheet along with the</p><p>garlic. Roast until the flesh of the eggplant is extremely tender and can be</p><p>easily scooped with a spoon, about 30 minutes.</p><p>Scoop the eggplant flesh into a food processor. Squeeze the garlic out of its</p><p>skins and add to the eggplant. Add the lemon zest and juice. With the</p><p>machine running, add ¼ cup of the olive oil through the feed tube in a</p><p>steady stream. Continue to process until the mixture is light and fluffy, like</p><p>a mousse. Transfer to a bowl and gently fold in the za’atar and parsley.</p><p>Taste and season with more salt, lemon juice, or za’atar as needed.</p><p>pan con tomate</p><p>When you look at pan con tomate, it doesn’t seem like much. In fact, it can</p><p>look sort of sad, a slice of toast smeared with a translucent red spread,</p><p>nothing as luscious as jam and, if done properly, barely there in thickness; a</p><p>hushed little snack, utterly undecorated, like a cake not yet frosted. But</p><p>then, you taste it. The startling pungency of the anchovies is quickly</p><p>softened by the sweet but acidic tomato, all followed up with a throaty</p><p>whisper of garlic. Quiet only in appearances, a proper pan con tomate is</p><p>like walking into a grand old house with faded walls and declining</p><p>splendor, furniture covered in bed linens like ghosts, and pale light</p><p>streaming through sagging windows. But then you pull off the sheets to</p><p>reveal the thick velvet and button-studded couches in all shades of claret</p><p>and sapphire, see the marbled-topped tables and mahogany-footed chairs,</p><p>take in the crystal chandelier, and open the windows to a sudden burst of</p><p>sea-laced air that floods the room. A good pan con tomate is just like that:</p><p>shrouded in quiet and low expectations until the first bite, when it</p><p>transforms into a wonder of flavor and complexity. Grating the tomatoes</p><p>matters, smashing the anchovies well is essential, and while you</p><p>traditionally swipe the toast with raw garlic, if you—or someone you know</p><p>(my husband, for instance)—find raw garlic a bit too bold, you can use</p><p>roasted garlic to fabulous effect. It’s sweeter and creamier but adds a</p><p>welcome earthiness in place of the fiery bite. See photograph.</p><p>2 large tomatoes</p><p>3–4 good-quality anchovy fillets</p><p>Sea salt and freshly ground black pepper</p><p>12 slices (½" each) country bread</p><p>2 or so large garlic cloves, peeled</p><p>Set a box grater inside a bowl large enough to hold it and grate the tomatoes</p><p>using the side with the largest holes—you should end up with a slightly</p><p>thick, juicy, pulpy mixture. Grate as much of each tomato as possible, until</p><p>all that’s left are the remnants of some skin; discard this.</p><p>Add the anchovies to the grated tomato and, using a fork, mash them until</p><p>they’re relatively well blended. Taste the mixture and decide if you need to</p><p>add some salt—the anchovies are pretty salty, so you may not. Sprinkle</p><p>with a bit of pepper.</p><p>Preheat the broiler. Place the bread slices on a baking sheet and toast until</p><p>they just begin to brown. Remove from the oven and rub the top of each</p><p>slice of toast with a clove of garlic until lightly coated.</p><p>Using a butter knife, top each piece of toast with a thin smear of the tomato</p><p>mixture and serve.</p><p>Ham and Cornichons on Buttered Baguette</p><p>ham and cornichons on buttered baguette</p><p>Ken will be the first to tell you that I have some serious food quirks. For</p><p>one, I hate when he buys a muffin or scone or some other breakfast product</p><p>at a chain coffee bar. I know what they’ll taste like (not much beyond</p><p>sweet), I know there’s nothing good in them, and I know that if he’d just</p><p>wait a little while (till we get home), he’d enjoy something so much better.</p><p>Sometimes I actually think he buys that lemon–poppy seed lump of starch</p><p>and sugar just to bug me. But what can I do?</p><p>Then there’s my airplane food issue. I won’t eat airplane food. Ever.</p><p>You could put me on a flight to Australia, tell me there’s a 9-hour delay on</p><p>the tarmac, and I still wouldn’t give in. Happily, this scenario never arises</p><p>because I am notorious for packing an airplane picnic. The day before a</p><p>trip, when I’m running around doing laundry, cleaning the house, and</p><p>making sure there’s sufficient cat food on hand, I always allow an hour or</p><p>so to shop for our mile-high meal—and it’s almost always the same thing.</p><p>My fear of flying keeps me consistent, like a baseball player who always</p><p>wears his winning pair of socks. The idea that I had this exact meal on our</p><p>last flight and made it safely</p><p>back to earth gives me a sense of security.</p><p>Thinly sliced French-style ham with tangy cornichons and lots of salty</p><p>butter on a baguette is my talisman; it’s the perfect food at 35,000 feet. It</p><p>may actually be the perfect sandwich period. (Author’s note: In case you</p><p>ever happen to sit next to me, you should know that we do detour from</p><p>eating this sandwich once a year, on the flight home from LA after</p><p>Thanksgiving. On that trip, we always have leftover turkey and avocado on</p><p>sourdough. Again, all in the name of safety.)</p><p>1 baguette, about 18"</p><p>Salted butter (preferably a European-style butter, such as Chimay</p><p>or Kerrygold)</p><p>8–12 thin slices jambon de Paris or other French-style cooked ham</p><p>14–16 cornichons, halved</p><p>Toothpicks, as needed</p><p>Slice the baguette lengthwise and generously smear both sides with salty</p><p>butter (you really can’t over-butter this sandwich, in my opinion). Drape the</p><p>ham slices in gentle folds over the bottom half of the loaf and then top with</p><p>the cornichon halves.</p><p>Place the nicely buttered top half over the bottom of the loaf and secure the</p><p>sandwich with toothpicks at 8 to 12 even intervals. Use a bread knife to cut</p><p>the sandwich evenly into slices between the toothpicks and serve. If, by</p><p>chance, you’re not serving this to guests but packing it for a flight instead,</p><p>cut it for only as many as you’re planning to share with (I suggest no more</p><p>than one), wrap tightly in foil, and pack in your carry-on along with a bag</p><p>of salted potato chips.</p><p>Sardine Bruschetta with Fennel and Preserved Lemons</p><p>sardine bruschetta with fennel and preserved</p><p>lemons</p><p>When I use tinned sardines, which is admittedly a lot, I keep it simple.</p><p>They’re so vibrant on their own that you don’t really want to do anything</p><p>that will compete with their tender, briny meatiness. Fennel and lemon are</p><p>two flavors that, while potent in their own right, do work really well with</p><p>sardines, not by overpowering them but by gently softening out their bolder</p><p>edges. The sweet licorice of the fennel mellows the fish, and the salty-sweet</p><p>preserved lemons brighten the buttery flavor. Of course, you can take the</p><p>easy approach and add some fresh lemon zest and juice into the mix if you</p><p>don’t have preserved lemons around, but there is something more robust</p><p>about the garlic-shallot-sugar-salt-sour mix that brings it all to life.</p><p>1 bulb fennel, halved and cored (fronds reserved)</p><p>1 cup Preserved Lemons, with some of the juices</p><p>Sea salt and freshly ground black pepper</p><p>2 cans (3.75 ounces each) oil-packed sardines</p><p>12 slices rustic bread, toasted</p><p>Use a mandoline to cut the fennel halves into paper-thin slices and then</p><p>transfer to a medium bowl.</p><p>Roughly chop the preserved lemons until they resemble a relish and add</p><p>them to the fennel along with any juices—the idea is to let the liquid from</p><p>the lemons dress the raw fennel and then allow it all to macerate. Season</p><p>with salt and pepper as needed.</p><p>While the fennel and lemons sit, drain the sardines of their oil and place</p><p>them in a small bowl. Use a fork to mash the sardines into a rough paste. If</p><p>the mixture seems a bit dry, add a teaspoon or so of the oil from the can.</p><p>You want the paste to be spreadable, but you don’t want it to lose all</p><p>texture.</p><p>To serve, spread about a teaspoon of the sardine paste on each slice of toast</p><p>and add a tangle of the fennel-lemon mixture. Top each toast with a pinch</p><p>of fresh fennel fronds.</p><p>Creamy Avocado Soup with Crab</p><p>creamy avocado soup with crab</p><p>Baja California, just over the border from San Diego, is a place we’d</p><p>sometimes go to shop on a Saturday when I was young. Tijuana was where</p><p>we went most often, but my parents had a friend named Lil with a house on</p><p>Rosarita Beach, and one day we went down just to visit her for lunch. Lil</p><p>always struck me as almost glamorous—she was older than my parents,</p><p>probably 50, single, and a successful realtor in west Los Angeles. She had</p><p>the white-gold hair that women of a certain age possess, wore pastel-</p><p>colored slacks (yes, slacks) with color-coordinated blouses, and her skin</p><p>was gently lined and papery, swept over with powder and a bit of blush. She</p><p>wasn’t an aging movie star, but she had a manicured quality and carried</p><p>herself like someone comfortable moving through life alone. I recall this</p><p>trip more specifically than others because of the lunch she made. Sitting at</p><p>her rattan table with matching cushioned chairs overlooking the expanse of</p><p>sand and far-off blue, I watched as Lil brought out a platter of avocado</p><p>halves, each filled with shrimp or crab in the vacancy where the slippery pit</p><p>had been. At the age of 8 or so, using the fruit itself as an edible bowl struck</p><p>me as pure brilliance—not only did I get to eat the shellfish salad she</p><p>stuffed into the center, but then I was left with an entire avocado half and a</p><p>spoon. The combination was magical. This soup is a riff on that</p><p>combination; it’s more dressed up than Lil’s simple lunch, but the flavors</p><p>are spot-on.</p><p>2 avocados, cut into chunks</p><p>1 cup buttermilk</p><p>2 tablespoons fresh lime juice</p><p>¼ teaspoon cayenne pepper, or more to taste</p><p>Sea salt and freshly ground black pepper</p><p>½ pound lump crabmeat, picked over for shells</p><p>1 teaspoon finely minced jalapeño</p><p>2–3 sprigs fresh cilantro, leaves chopped</p><p>Extra-virgin olive oil, for serving</p><p>In a food processor or blender, combine the avocados and buttermilk and</p><p>puree until very smooth. Add 1 tablespoon of the lime juice and the</p><p>cayenne, season with salt and pepper, and blend again. Adjust the seasoning</p><p>as needed.</p><p>In a small bowl, combine the crab with the jalapeño, cilantro, and the</p><p>remaining 1 tablespoon lime juice. Season with salt and pepper.</p><p>Spoon the soup into small bowls, top with a scoop of the crab mixture, and</p><p>drizzle with olive oil.</p><p>Three-Tomato Panzanella</p><p>three-tomato panzanella</p><p>I have a theory about restaurants. I believe that how good a restaurant is can</p><p>be judged by how good (or not good) their bread is. Sit down at a restaurant</p><p>and find yourself face-to-face with a thick slice of toothsome, slightly sour</p><p>peasant bread—the crumb freckled with wheat and full of holes, the crust</p><p>blistered with char and strewn with flour—and you’re probably about to eat</p><p>well. Reach into the napkin-lined basket and emerge with a hunk of snow-</p><p>white sponge, the skin soft and pallid, perhaps even a bit moist, and you</p><p>should probably go elsewhere. Good bread can also make a just-okay meal</p><p>seem better: “Well, at least the bread is really good.” It can be the highlight</p><p>of a meal or a deal-breaker.</p><p>With this recipe, an interpretation of the traditional Italian bread salad,</p><p>the bread is a deal-breaker. Great bread will make this, but the inverse is</p><p>also true: Bad bread, or even mediocre, will break your heart. The bread</p><p>needs to be dry so that it can soak up all the juices of the salad and still hold</p><p>its spring; if the bread is too soft or fresh, it will turn mushy. What you want</p><p>is bread with some tug to it, lots of nice crevices in the crumb, and a sturdy</p><p>crust. When the cubes macerate in the salad, they become sodden and</p><p>animated with flavor, unresisting and softened to the chew. We make this as</p><p>an excuse to use up all the heels of bread that build up in our house; when</p><p>the tomatoes are at their peak and the herbs are resplendent, it’s the perfect</p><p>expression of summer.</p><p>three-tomato panzanella</p><p>1 loaf day-old good-quality rustic bread</p><p>1 pint red cherry tomatoes, halved</p><p>1 pint yellow cherry tomatoes, halved</p><p>2–3 medium Green Zebra tomatoes, cut into wedges</p><p>Sea salt and freshly ground black pepper</p><p>½ red onion, cut into thin half-moons</p><p>2 tablespoons small capers, drained</p><p>1 celery heart, finely sliced (leaves reserved)</p><p>¼ cup extra-virgin olive oil, plus more as needed</p><p>2–3 tablespoons red wine vinegar</p><p>6–8 anchovy fillets, very finely chopped</p><p>1 garlic clove, peeled</p><p>3–4 sprigs fresh basil, leaves picked</p><p>Make sure your bread is truly stale—if not, cut the bread into thick slices</p><p>and then tear into big pieces (about 1"). Let them sit out in the air for an</p><p>hour or more, or toast for a couple of minutes,</p><p>not for color but just to dry</p><p>them out.</p><p>In a large bowl, combine the tomatoes with a sprinkle of salt and pepper</p><p>and let sit for a few minutes (the salt will help draw some of the juices out</p><p>of the tomatoes). Then add the red onion, capers, celery, and bread and toss</p><p>well to combine.</p><p>In a small bowl or jar, combine the olive oil, vinegar, and anchovies. Grate</p><p>the garlic into the mix with a rasp-style zester/grater. Whisk or shake well.</p><p>Drizzle the dressing over the salad, toss, adjust the seasoning as needed, and</p><p>then add the basil leaves and celery leaves. Let the salad sit for 15 minutes</p><p>or longer to macerate and then serve.</p><p>persian cucumbers, snap peas, and red onion with</p><p>lemon zest</p><p>Ken and I have a subtle yet ongoing difference of opinion when it comes to</p><p>peeling vegetables. I don’t think a tender young carrot needs more than a</p><p>good scrub, but he adamantly disagrees. I prefer to leave the skin on my</p><p>eggplant, and he finds it tough (we meet in the middle on this one, and I</p><p>peel the ink-toned vegetables in alternating strips so we each get a bit of</p><p>what we like). This clash of culinary tastes is why Persian (mini) cucumbers</p><p>are such a welcome vegetable in our house—they’re a natural compromise,</p><p>the perfect peacekeeper. With tender barely-there skins, you don’t need to</p><p>peel them, and they have a more lush and fertile flavor than their larger,</p><p>thicker-skinned cousins. Paired with sweet, crisp snap peas, slivers of red</p><p>onion, and a tangy vinaigrette, these slinky cucumbers are like the United</p><p>Nations of vegetables, bringing everyone together for a summer salad of</p><p>delicious proportions. See photograph.</p><p>3 tablespoons extra-virgin olive oil</p><p>Grated zest and juice of 1 lemon</p><p>1 tablespoon country-style Dijon mustard</p><p>Sea salt and freshly ground black pepper</p><p>3 Persian (mini) cucumbers, sliced into ribbons</p><p>2 cups sugar snap peas, cut on the bias</p><p>½ red onion, thinly sliced into half-moons</p><p>¼–½ cup crumbled goat or feta cheese (optional)</p><p>In a small jar or bowl, combine the olive oil, lemon zest and juice, and</p><p>mustard and season with salt and pepper. Shake or whisk well to emulsify.</p><p>In a large bowl, combine the cucumbers, snap peas, and onion. Drizzle with</p><p>enough of the dressing to just coat the vegetables. Add the cheese (if using)</p><p>and serve.</p><p>peak of summer salad</p><p>I grew up in California. Having lived now for many years on the East</p><p>Coast, I have adapted pretty well to the differences between the two, but</p><p>there are still things I miss. Even though my friends and family back home</p><p>begin to fret about forest fires at the first bluster, I can’t help but long for</p><p>the ghostly Santa Ana winds that blow through Los Angeles each year;</p><p>those enveloping hot gusts that Joan Didion described as “. . . the season of</p><p>suicide and divorce and prickly dread;” those menacing gales that Raymond</p><p>Chandler noted were when “meek little wives feel the edge of the carving</p><p>knife and study their husbands’ necks. Anything can happen.” Like</p><p>Halloween, for me those powerful breezes are spooky and seductive at the</p><p>same time, an expression of my native home. I still crave watching the sun</p><p>set from the bluffs above Pacific Coast Highway. I ache for the smell of</p><p>eucalyptus and wild fennel that blankets the bone-dry hills, and I’ll never</p><p>stop yearning to live in a place where avocados and oranges grow on trees</p><p>in every yard you pass, or to be surrounded by walls of bougainvillea</p><p>hugging the sides of houses, their flowers thin as tissue paper in every color</p><p>of pink and orange.</p><p>But one thing that I have come to love about living in a place with</p><p>seasons is the longing it creates, the desire for one period of time to end and</p><p>the next to begin. After a tediously long winter, the arrival of warmth is so</p><p>welcome that you breathe a sigh of relief; it’s like an old friend getting back</p><p>in touch after being away for far too long, someone you worried might have</p><p>forgotten they promised to return, but then suddenly reappears as though</p><p>never having gone. It’s the softening in the shoulders you feel on that first</p><p>day when you can leave the jacket behind, the tanning of cheeks after a day</p><p>in the sun, and the taste of peaches, tomatoes, and corn after months</p><p>without. Living on the East Coast is a constant lesson in patience, a practice</p><p>in fortitude, but one that’s rewarded so sweetly that it’s very hard to leave.</p><p>2 large heirloom tomatoes, chopped</p><p>3 large peaches, chopped</p><p>2 ears corn, kernels removed from the cobs</p><p>½ red onion, halved and thinly sliced</p><p>A few sprigs fresh cilantro, leaves picked</p><p>¼ cup extra-virgin olive oil</p><p>Juice of 1 lemon</p><p>Sea salt and freshly ground black pepper</p><p>In a large bowl, combine the tomatoes, peaches, corn, red onion, and</p><p>cilantro and toss gently. In a jar or small bowl, combine the olive oil and</p><p>lemon juice and season with salt and pepper. Taste and adjust the seasoning</p><p>as needed. Drizzle the salad with the dressing and toss.</p><p>zucchini ribbons with herbed goat cheese</p><p>(grilled or raw)</p><p>Once summer rolls around, Ken and I eat an absurd amount of zucchini.</p><p>Come early June, I head to our local farm stand each Friday, a sloping lean-</p><p>to on Route 7 where tables barely off the road stand burdened with</p><p>summer’s bounty, and I lose all sense of self-control. Along with downy-</p><p>skinned peaches, milky corn, and tomatoes in every shade from honey to</p><p>oxblood, there are also masses of zucchini, and I just can’t resist. Their</p><p>delicate skin is burnished a rich magnolia green and their lithe figures go</p><p>slightly swollen at the base. I’d like to say we prepare these squash</p><p>differently each time, slicing them for a gratin, grating them for a bread,</p><p>sautéing them for a soup, or roasting them, stuffed with herbs and cheese,</p><p>but we don’t. Pretty much all we ever seem to garner the energy or</p><p>ingenuity to do with them is this: We thinly slice them with a vegetable</p><p>peeler or mandoline until they resemble ribbons, toss them with lemon</p><p>juice, olive oil, and a bit of salt and pepper, spear them with skewers,</p><p>bending each back and forth on top of themselves like a switchback road,</p><p>and let them char on the grill. When we’re really lazy, we eat them raw—</p><p>tender and wilted in nothing more than the bracing vinaigrette. See</p><p>photograph.</p><p>1 small log goat cheese, at room temperature</p><p>4 tablespoons extra-virgin olive oil, plus more as needed</p><p>3–4 sprigs fresh tarragon, chervil, or dill, leaves picked and torn</p><p>Grated zest and juice of 1 lemon</p><p>Sea salt and freshly ground black pepper</p><p>4 medium zucchini, trimmed</p><p>½ red onion, cut into very thin half-moons (optional)</p><p>Put the goat cheese in a small bowl along with 1 tablespoon of the olive oil.</p><p>Use a spatula or wooden spoon to cream the cheese until almost spreadable,</p><p>adding a bit more oil if needed. Add the herbs and mix thoroughly to</p><p>combine. Let sit.</p><p>In a large bowl, combine the remaining 3 tablespoons olive oil with the</p><p>lemon zest and juice. Season with salt and pepper and whisk to combine.</p><p>Use a mandoline or vegetable peeler to slice the zucchini lengthwise into</p><p>long, very thin ribbons, adding them to the bowl with the dressing to</p><p>marinate and soften.</p><p>Preheat a grill. Skewer the squash, folding each ribbon back and forth two</p><p>or three times. Lightly grill the skewers over medium heat until the squash</p><p>is tender.</p><p>Serve the reserved goat cheese crumbled over the top of either the grilled or</p><p>simply marinated raw zucchini.</p><p>Scallop and Plum Ceviche with Tarragon</p><p>scallop and plum ceviche with tarragon</p><p>In culinary school, we had what were called “Market Basket” exams. On</p><p>those days, we were paired up with another student and then given a few</p><p>key ingredients (the Market Basket) and told to create a three-course meal</p><p>in a set amount of time—a meal that the chef instructor would then taste</p><p>and grade based on originality, flavor, and presentation. In addition to the</p><p>Market Basket ingredients, we were allowed to use pantry basics to</p><p>accentuate the recipes we created, but the core ingredients we were</p><p>assigned had to be the focus of the menu. For my favorite Market Basket</p><p>exam, I was paired with</p><p>my closest friend in the class, Kevin. We had a</p><p>very similar approach to food and cooking, and we had fun together in the</p><p>kitchen, so as far as tests go, that one was more enjoyable than stressful.</p><p>That day, two of the ingredients we were given were scallops and plums—</p><p>not a pairing I would naturally make on my own, but that’s the point.</p><p>Together, Kevin and I concocted a less-than-traditional ceviche that we</p><p>flavored with fresh, licorice-y tarragon and lip-puckering lime juice. Like</p><p>with most ceviche, the fish cooks in the acid of the citrus, infusing the</p><p>scallops with a brightness that’s refreshing but doesn’t overpower the</p><p>sweetness of the meat or the flesh of the fruit. It’s a delicate dish; a virtue</p><p>further enhanced as the juice of the plums seeps into the scallops, giving</p><p>everything a gentle and otherworldly lavender hue. As I recall, we also</p><p>made a chilled asparagus soup that day. Using both green and white</p><p>asparagus, we made two separate batches—one vibrant green and the other</p><p>creamy white—and then swirled them together in the bowl. There was also</p><p>a savory crostata involved. In retrospect, the entire Market Basket menu we</p><p>created was an exercise in how to cook for those of us who love to graze.</p><p>Use what you’ve got to make lots of good little things, including this</p><p>ceviche.</p><p>1 pound sea scallops, cut into ¼"–½" dice</p><p>2 black plums, cut into ¼"–½" dice</p><p>1–2 sprigs fresh tarragon, leaves picked and chopped, or more to</p><p>taste</p><p>½ teaspoon grated lime zest</p><p>¼ cup fresh lime juice</p><p>Pinch cayenne pepper</p><p>Sea salt</p><p>In a bowl, toss together the scallops, plums, tarragon, lime zest and juice,</p><p>and cayenne. Season with salt. Chill the mixture for about 15 minutes. Taste</p><p>and adjust the seasoning.</p><p>tuna crudo with tomatillo-avocado dressing</p><p>This is all about the dressing. Fresh, flavorful sushi-grade tuna is heavenly,</p><p>and it’s also the perfect partner for this zesty drizzle; but if you don’t eat</p><p>tuna or don’t partake of raw fish, don’t turn the page. This dressing is what</p><p>I make to slather over tacos, tamales, or almost any Mexican-inspired dish</p><p>that needs a little oomph, from simple Saturday quesadilla lunches to lazy</p><p>weeknight salads when I have nothing more than some fresh corn,</p><p>tomatoes, and a can of black beans in the house. It’s the salsa-cum-dressing</p><p>that just makes everything better. Tossed with crab for a spunky salad,</p><p>spread on grilled corn, or served right out of the bowl with a handful of</p><p>chips, this will find its way into your regular repertoire. The avocado adds a</p><p>creamy richness that turns a simple salsa into a more complex condiment.</p><p>Used sparingly on paper-thin tuna, this is an easy, elegant dish that doesn’t</p><p>require a lick of cooking, just a bit of slicing and some blitzing. See</p><p>photograph.</p><p>4 medium tomatillos, husked and quartered</p><p>¼ small white onion</p><p>½ jalapeño</p><p>Good handful fresh cilantro, leaves and some stems</p><p>Juice of 1 lime, or to taste</p><p>Sea salt and freshly ground black pepper</p><p>1 avocado, halved and pitted</p><p>1 pound sushi-grade tuna, well chilled</p><p>Good-quality tortilla chips</p><p>In a food processor or blender, combine the tomatillos, onion, jalapeño, and</p><p>cilantro and puree until smooth. Add the lime juice and season with salt and</p><p>pepper. Taste and add more cilantro, lime, salt, or pepper as needed. Scoop</p><p>the avocado into the tomatillo mixture. Puree until creamy.</p><p>Remove the tuna from the fridge and slice it against the grain as thinly as</p><p>you can. To serve, lay the tuna on a plate and drizzle with some of the</p><p>dressing. Serve with additional dressing and chips on the side.</p><p>Crab, Avocado, and Bblack Bean Tostadas</p><p>crab, avocado, and black bean tostadas</p><p>Growing up in southern California, we ate Mexican food the way I imagine</p><p>most families go through mac and cheese. Whether it was the little white</p><p>paper dishes of tacquitos smothered in a lip-searing avocado sauce that</p><p>we’d make jaunts down from the Canyon to Olvera Street to procure; the</p><p>homemade tamales my mother’s friend would drop off, bundled in corn</p><p>husks and streaking their brown bag with clouds of grease; or the tostadas at</p><p>Casa Mia (a dark but lively dive we frequented just a stone’s throw from the</p><p>beach). Or my mom’s own weekly conceit: homemade salsa, guacamole,</p><p>shredded cheese, sour cream, and warm beans spread across the dinner</p><p>table, tortillas steamed in foil and dealt like cards to each of us to fill as we</p><p>saw fit. All were standard and beloved fare from as far back as I can recall.</p><p>But perhaps the best was when we had company coming over and my</p><p>mom was going for a casual vibe. On those nights, she would up the ante on</p><p>our make-your-own approach by serving both a green and a red salsa,</p><p>swapping in black beans for refried (for some reason these seemed fancier),</p><p>and dazzling guests with a brimming bowl of freshly cracked crab. Whether</p><p>other women were entertaining in this fashion I don’t know, but whenever</p><p>company was mentioned, I hoped that one of my mom’s luminous Mexican</p><p>dinners would follow.</p><p>I use the same trick today to keep dinner easy and a tad surprising: My</p><p>only refinements are quickly blitzing the beans with cilantro and lime in the</p><p>food processor to smooth them out, and tossing the crab with the avocado</p><p>and chile so there are fewer bowls on the table. Here’s my suggestion:</p><p>Serve these tostadas with Avocado, As It Should Be, some grilled corn</p><p>sprinkled with chili salt and lime, and a dish of Pickled Red Onions, and</p><p>graze away. You could also use the tomatillo-avocado dressing to brilliant</p><p>effect.</p><p>crab, avocado, and black bean tostadas</p><p>1 pound lump crabmeat</p><p>2 avocados</p><p>1 small Thai chile or ½ jalapeño, minced</p><p>Grated zest and juice of 2 limes, or more as needed</p><p>Sea salt and freshly ground black pepper</p><p>1 can (15.5 ounces) black beans, rinsed and drained</p><p>Good handful fresh cilantro sprigs, leaves picked (some stems are</p><p>okay)</p><p>1 teaspoon ground cumin</p><p>Pinch cayenne pepper</p><p>8 or so corn tortillas, warmed (see Note)</p><p>A few radishes, sliced</p><p>Pickled Red Onions (optional)</p><p>Place the crab in a medium bowl, picking through lightly to make sure there</p><p>aren’t any bits of shell mixed in. Halve the avocados lengthwise and</p><p>remove the pit. Run your knife lengthwise down the flesh of the avocados</p><p>at ¼" intervals and then again crosswise so you have a relatively even grid.</p><p>Using a soup spoon, scoop down between the skin and flesh and add the</p><p>chunks to the bowl.</p><p>Add the chile and toss gently. Add the lime zest and half the lime juice and</p><p>season with salt and pepper. Taste the salad and adjust the seasoning as</p><p>needed. Set aside.</p><p>In a food processor, combine the beans, cilantro, cumin, cayenne, and the</p><p>remaining lime juice. Puree until smooth, adding a bit of water if needed to</p><p>achieve your desired consistency. Season with salt and more lime if needed.</p><p>Transfer to a saucepan and keep warm over medium heat until the tortillas</p><p>are ready.</p><p>To serve, spread some of the black bean mixture on each tortilla and then</p><p>top with a scoop of the crab salad, a few sliced radishes, and pickled onions,</p><p>if using.</p><p>Note: Warm and lightly char the tortillas, one at a time, in a cast</p><p>iron pan over medium-high heat, or bundle them in foil and warm in</p><p>a 400°F oven while you make the beans.</p><p>a bit of cooking</p><p>There are meditative moments to be found in the kitchen: the shelling</p><p>of peas, the stirring of risotto, and the kneading of bread, to name a</p><p>few. Activities that calm us down at the stove rather than wind us up.</p><p>This section is laden with meditation-inducing dishes. Whether</p><p>through the repeat piping of gougères, the delicate slicing of pears, the</p><p>shaving of parsnips into ribbons, or the mustering of patience to slow-</p><p>roast tomatoes, the dishes in this chapter make grazing simple, and</p><p>they also make the act of cooking nourishing. I promise, nothing here</p><p>requires much cooking, but the little you do will leave you happy you</p><p>bothered.</p><p>Roasted Cherry Tomatoes in Olive Oil</p><p>Provençal-Style Roasted Nuts</p><p>Trumpet Mushroom Chips</p><p>Pear Crisps</p><p>Ricotta-Stuffed Medjool Dates Wrapped (or Not) in Bacon</p><p>Creamy Fava Beans with Olive Oil and</p><p>Goat Cheese</p><p>Blistered Shishito Peppers with Flaky Salt</p><p>Sautéed Sweet Onion and Chard Toast with Rustic Tomme</p><p>Prosciutto-Wrapped Grilled Peaches with Mint</p><p>Roasted Cherry Tomato Toast with Brie and Basil</p><p>Pimentón-Spiced Chickpeas with Spinach and Manchego on Toast</p><p>Thyme-Roasted Parsnip Tangle</p><p>Classic Croque-Monsieur Bites</p><p>Curried Carrot and Coconut Soup</p><p>Spiced Tomato Bisque with Goat Cheese Crumbles</p><p>Pea Shooters with Parmesan Crisps</p><p>Potato and Leek Soup</p><p>Sweet and Spicy Delicata Squash Crescents</p><p>Charred Fava Shells with Lemon, Chile, and Anchovies</p><p>Roasted Beet Tartare with Cheese and Pistachios</p><p>Roasted Brussels Sprouts with Pancetta and Maple Pecans</p><p>Moroccan-Spiced Carrots</p><p>Farmers’ Market Gratin</p><p>Spanish-Style Shrimp with Chile</p><p>Asian-Inspired Crab Cakes with Soy-Lime Dipping Sauce</p><p>Grilled Sardines with Meyer Lemons</p><p>Summer Spiced Crab Cakes with Basil Aioli</p><p>Lemon-Tarragon Chicken Skewers</p><p>Armenian-Spiced Baby Lamb Chops with Yogurt and Mint</p><p>Roasted Cherry Tomatoes in Olive Oil</p><p>roasted cherry tomatoes in olive oil</p><p>There are things that you know about yourself, character traits (okay, flaws)</p><p>that you have to work on constantly to keep at bay or under control because</p><p>they are so deeply rooted in the core of what makes you, you. For me, one</p><p>of these essential flaws is a deep and all-consuming lack of patience. I</p><p>wasn’t born with any. Not a lick. So when it comes to a recipe requiring a</p><p>low oven temperature and a long, slow cooking time, I embrace it as an</p><p>opportunity to become a better, more self-aware human being.</p><p>These tomatoes are part of my therapy. They are so good, so blissfully</p><p>full of pure tomato-ness, and so useful as a condiment or small side dish</p><p>that I make them regularly and have a batch in the freezer at all times. Take</p><p>a deep breath and give them a couple of hours to bask in the warmth of a</p><p>250°F oven until they reach that heat-blistered, wrinkled, and weepily</p><p>wonderful state. The long cooking time intensifies the quintessential sweet-</p><p>tart-acidic flavor of either cherry or grape tomatoes, which in the dead of</p><p>winter is a welcome treat when all you can find at the markets are those</p><p>disappointingly anemic hothouse options. Served drowning in a puddle of</p><p>extra-virgin olive oil along with a hunk of good hard cheese (pecorino is</p><p>nice here) or a few disks of musky soppressata, these are well worth the</p><p>wait. And coming from someone as impatient as I am, that means</p><p>something.</p><p>2 pints cherry tomatoes on the vine or grape tomatoes, halved</p><p>4–6 garlic cloves, smashed</p><p>About ½ cup extra-virgin olive oil</p><p>Sea salt and freshly ground black pepper</p><p>Preheat the oven to 250°F.</p><p>Arrange the tomatoes and garlic on a rimmed baking sheet. Drizzle</p><p>everything with just enough olive oil to lightly coat. Sprinkle lightly with</p><p>salt and pepper.</p><p>Roast the tomatoes until they are well shriveled but still juicy on the inside,</p><p>about 2 hours. Remove from the oven and let cool a bit.</p><p>To serve, transfer the tomatoes to a bowl and cover in more olive oil. At this</p><p>point, you can also add any other bits and pieces you like to the mix. To</p><p>store, keep the tomatoes in olive oil and refrigerate or freeze.</p><p>provençal-style roasted nuts</p><p>One of the joys of traveling back to somewhere you’ve been before is the</p><p>sense of familiarity—the feeling that, while it’s not your home, some part of</p><p>that place is yours; you have a personal history there, a story all your own,</p><p>however brief and fleeting it may have been. It’s not unlike going to a</p><p>restaurant on the first night of a trip and then returning again on the last</p><p>night; you’re not a regular, not a local, but for that last meal, you belong in</p><p>a way you didn’t just a few days before.</p><p>I’ve gone to Oaxaca a handful of times and each time I find myself</p><p>sitting in the zocolo, the center of the town, at a small table outside one of</p><p>the many restaurants, sipping a beer and eating dishes of salty peanuts</p><p>spiked with a squeeze of fresh lime juice. The nuts have a burnt red papery</p><p>skin that clings to your tongue, and they’re smaller than the peanuts you get</p><p>here—crunchier, too. The nuts in this recipe are different from those served</p><p>at the cafes in the zocolo, but with a cool drink in hand, they bring back that</p><p>feeling of being somewhere both foreign and familiar at the same time.</p><p>Somewhere you belong, at least for right now.</p><p>2 cups nuts (half raw almonds and half walnuts, or any combination</p><p>of nuts you like)</p><p>1 tablespoon unsalted butter</p><p>2 tablespoons honey</p><p>1 tablespoon light brown sugar</p><p>1 teaspoon sea salt</p><p>¼ teaspoon cayenne pepper</p><p>1 tablespoon finely chopped fresh rosemary</p><p>2 teaspoons fresh thyme leaves, chopped</p><p>Preheat the oven to 300°F. Line a rimmed baking sheet with parchment</p><p>paper.</p><p>Place the nuts on the lined baking sheet and roast for 5 minutes. Turn them</p><p>and cook until fragrant and lightly browned, another 5 minutes. Remove</p><p>from the oven (but leave the oven on).</p><p>Meanwhile, in a small saucepan, combine the butter, honey, brown sugar,</p><p>salt, and cayenne and stir constantly over medium heat until the butter has</p><p>melted and the sugar and salt have dissolved. Remove from the heat and</p><p>add the rosemary and thyme.</p><p>Pour the butter mixture over the nuts and toss well to coat evenly. Return</p><p>the pan to the oven and continue roasting, tossing the nuts every 4 to 5</p><p>minutes, until golden and fragrant, 12 to 15 minutes. Let cool thoroughly.</p><p>To serve, break up the nuts and transfer to a bowl.</p><p>trumpet mushroom chips</p><p>When I told my friend Erica that I was adding mushroom chips to this book,</p><p>she said, without missing a beat, “Please just don’t call them vegan bacon.”</p><p>The hijacking of the roasted mushroom as a bacon replacement is irksome.</p><p>It’s not that I don’t want vegans to have their crispy, salty, meaty fix; it’s</p><p>just that neither bacon nor mushrooms benefit from this linguistic co-</p><p>opting. Bacon is undeniably delicious, but that doesn’t mean its name</p><p>should be bandied about freely as a moniker for anything salty and</p><p>wonderful. Equally, mushrooms deserve the respect to be called by their</p><p>rightful name, not treated as a stand-in for something off-limits to the</p><p>animal-free among us. The implication is that mushrooms aren’t quite up to</p><p>snuff, but by re-labeling them, they might become a passable facsimile for</p><p>something they are not. This is silly.</p><p>These chips are delicious because they are earthy in a way that pork</p><p>isn’t, toothsome in a manner that’s very un-porcine, and beautiful in a way</p><p>that even the best bacon cannot hope to be (I’ve never seen a piece of bacon</p><p>shaped like a toadstool in the woods). These are roasted mushrooms dressed</p><p>up with a bit of sweet and a bit of salt, all while maintaining their integrity.</p><p>You can do this with any mushroom—shiitakes are smaller but also</p><p>beautifully shaped and nice for an added crunch on salads (but please don’t</p><p>call them croutons). That said, the king trumpet (also called royal trumpet</p><p>and king oyster) is my favorite because it has that whimsical, woodland</p><p>silhouette that brings to mind a magical forest.</p><p>½ pound king trumpet mushrooms, cut lengthwise into ¼" slices</p><p>4 tablespoons extra-virgin olive oil</p><p>Sea salt and freshly ground black pepper</p><p>2 tablespoons soy sauce</p><p>1 tablespoon maple syrup</p><p>Preheat the oven to 300°F. Line two rimmed baking sheets with parchment</p><p>paper.</p><p>Arrange the mushroom slices on the lined baking sheets in a single layer.</p><p>Brush them with 3 tablespoons of the oil, using a pastry brush to coat</p><p>evenly. Sprinkle lightly with salt and pepper. Bake for 30 minutes, then use</p><p>a spatula to turn the mushrooms and bake until nicely browned and</p><p>beginning to crisp on the edges, another 20 to 25 minutes.</p><p>Meanwhile, in a bowl, combine the soy sauce, maple syrup, and remaining</p><p>1 tablespoon oil.</p><p>Remove the mushrooms from the oven, brush lightly with the soy mixture,</p><p>and return to the oven until they are nicely glazed, another 10 minutes.</p><p>Serve hot.</p><p>Pear Crisps</p><p>pear crisps</p><p>Two years ago Ken and I decided we wanted an orchard. Well, let me</p><p>rephrase that: I was reading Nigel Slater’s tome Ripe and was so smitten by</p><p>his description of his damson plum tree that I decided I wanted us to have</p><p>an orchard. Never one to trample my enthusiasm, Ken joined in and agreed</p><p>we should plant a very small orchard. That weekend, after tearing up a</p><p>patch of lawn for said orchard, we headed off to the nursery and returned</p><p>with a dwarf peach, a Honeycrisp apple, a sour cherry, and a pear tree. That</p><p>first year we admired our miniature orchard and hoped that in time it would</p><p>bear fruit. This year, we were tickled to see that while the apple has yet to</p><p>be pollinated, we had loads of fuzzy pinkish peaches and blushing green</p><p>pears.</p><p>One day late in summer, I was heading to Rhode Island to pick Ken up</p><p>from a work event and as I walked out, I stopped by the orchard to admire</p><p>the bounty of pears, quietly envisioning all the tarts and crisps in my near</p><p>future. When we got home the next day, I wandered over to once again</p><p>count the pears and secretly compliment myself on this fruitful feat, when I</p><p>realized the tree was bare. Seriously, not a pear in sight. I stood there,</p><p>stunned and saddened, trying to figure out how, in less than 24 hours, all</p><p>those glorious greenish-red gems could have simply vanished. It was then</p><p>that I spied a squirrel high above in the oak tree staring down at me (I swear</p><p>he was grinning). I called my mom to tell her of my defeat and all she said</p><p>was, in a tone so matter-of-fact it would have made me laugh if I weren’t</p><p>near tears, “They must have been watching and waited until they saw you</p><p>drive away.” Sadly, I have yet to use my own pears, but I still make these</p><p>crisps to serve with wine and cheese, a triple crème being especially</p><p>decadent or a good bracing blue to soften the sweetness of the fruit.</p><p>4 firm pears, such as Bartlett</p><p>Preheat the oven to 250°F. Line baking sheets with parchment paper.</p><p>Use a mandoline or sharp knife to slice the pears lengthwise into very thin</p><p>pieces. If you can, it’s nice to keep the stem attached to a slice as you go.</p><p>Place the slices on the lined baking sheets and bake for 11⁄2 hours. Flip the</p><p>pears and continue to bake until they begin to turn golden brown on the</p><p>edges, another 1 to 11⁄2 hours. Remove from the oven and transfer to wire</p><p>racks. The pears will crisp up as they cool.</p><p>ricotta-stuffed medjool dates wrapped (or not) in</p><p>bacon</p><p>I love the word “Medjool.” It sounds like something out of the Arabian</p><p>Nights, a single word that evokes richly colored silks, wrists draped in</p><p>shimmering bangles, stiflingly hot souks, and tile-lined walls in every shade</p><p>of blue. Supposedly it means “unknown.” That alone is alluring, but</p><p>evidently the fruit was so named because it came from a previously</p><p>undiscovered date palm tree found in an oasis in Morocco. Seriously, how</p><p>seductive is that? An unassuming wrinkled brown fruit found on an</p><p>unknown tree discovered near a pool of crystal water in the midst of miles</p><p>upon miles of dust storms and sand dunes—you can almost see Ingrid</p><p>Bergman and Humphrey Bogart, dazzling in their crisp white linens, setting</p><p>out on camelback to find this elusive spot and collect dates to take back to</p><p>Rick’s Café Américain, a treat to savor with their evening brandy. No, they</p><p>don’t look like much, but bite into one and taste that caramel sweetness and</p><p>you’ll be right there with me in my 1940s desert fantasy. Stuff these amber</p><p>gems with milky ricotta to soften the honeyed flavor and then, if you feel</p><p>inclined, wrap them in smoky bacon for a savory, succulent delight.</p><p>24 Medjool dates, pitted</p><p>½ cup fresh whole-milk ricotta cheese</p><p>Sea salt</p><p>12 slices thick-cut bacon (optional)</p><p>Preheat the oven to 450°F. Line a rimmed baking sheet with parchment</p><p>paper.</p><p>Use a sharp knife to cut each date lengthwise down the middle, keeping the</p><p>bottom intact. Fill a piping bag with the ricotta (or use a resealable plastic</p><p>bag with the corner cut off). Squeeze a bit of cheese into the center of each</p><p>date.</p><p>If you’re not using bacon, bake the dates until they are warm and the cheese</p><p>begins to soften, about 5 minutes. Sprinkle with salt and serve.</p><p>If you are using bacon, cut the slices in half crosswise. Wrap each date in a</p><p>piece of the bacon and place them seam-side down on the baking sheet (if</p><p>you’d like, you can run a toothpick through each date to secure them). Bake</p><p>until the bacon begins to crisp on the edges, about 20 minutes.</p><p>Remove from the oven and serve.</p><p>creamy fava beans with olive oil and goat cheese</p><p>There are certain ingredients that intimidate me: Jerusalem artichokes,</p><p>fiddlehead ferns, and cardoons come to mind. It’s not that I don’t love to eat</p><p>them, but there’s something about each of them that’s standoffish to me as a</p><p>cook. I’ve read recipes for them, but intuitively, I don’t know what to do</p><p>with them; they’re so aloof, so much cooler than I am in the kitchen. I want</p><p>to approach them, but they just seem out of my league. That’s how it was</p><p>for me with fava beans as well, until I had an escarole salad with fava beans</p><p>and pecorino a few years back and decided I just adored favas too much to</p><p>be so hesitant about approaching them. You know the issue: You have to</p><p>shell them, blanch them, then peel them . . . they don’t exactly make</p><p>themselves easy to love. But I finally took a deep breath, gathered all the</p><p>culinary confidence I could, and bought a bagful. And oh was it worth it.</p><p>Once you break through that tough outer layer and start to see their tender,</p><p>sweet, nuttier inside, you’ll be smitten too—you just have to get to know</p><p>them. Blitz them up with olive oil, tarragon, and some creamy goat cheese</p><p>to serve on grilled bread or for dipping, and favas will be your new best</p><p>friend, I promise. See photograph.</p><p>2½–3 pounds fresh fava beans, shelled (about 2 cups) or (even</p><p>easier) 2 cups frozen shelled favas</p><p>¼–½ cup extra-virgin olive oil</p><p>½ small onion, chopped</p><p>Sea salt and freshly ground black pepper</p><p>1 sprig fresh tarragon, leaves picked</p><p>1 ounce goat cheese (about 2 tablespoons)</p><p>Bring a large pot of salted water to boil. If you’re using fresh favas, add the</p><p>shelled beans and simmer until they turn bright green, 2 to 3 minutes. Drain</p><p>the beans and run under cold water to stop the cooking process and help</p><p>keep their green color. Remove the outer peels and discard.</p><p>In a saucepan or skillet, heat 2 tablespoons of the olive oil over high heat.</p><p>Add the onion and cook until tender and translucent, 3 to 5 minutes. Add</p><p>the beans (freshly peeled or frozen, no need to thaw them first) to the pan</p><p>and cook until tender, 1 to 2 minutes for fresh or 3 to 4 minutes for frozen.</p><p>Season with salt and pepper.</p><p>Transfer the beans and onion mixture to a food processor, add the tarragon,</p><p>and puree, adding some of the remaining olive oil through the feed tube as</p><p>needed to achieve a thick but relatively smooth consistency. Finally, add the</p><p>goat cheese and pulse again until just combined. Taste and adjust the flavors</p><p>as you like—more tarragon, goat cheese, salt, or pepper.</p><p>Blistered Shishito Peppers with Flaky Salt</p><p>blistered shishito peppers with flaky salt</p><p>The rumor is that for every ten shishito or padrón peppers, there’s one in the</p><p>mix that’s fiery. I can tell you from personal experience that this is a myth.</p><p>Sometimes I buy a bag at the farmers’ market and not a single pepper sets</p><p>my mouth on fire. Other times it seems as though every other one is a</p><p>burning red ember destined to leave me reaching for a glass of water as my</p><p>eyes tear up from the heat. The wonderful thing about this recipe is that the</p><p>char you get on the peppers from the scalding cast iron pan masks the</p><p>immediate burn of your tongue if you do get a hot one. And if you don’t,</p><p>well then you just get that wonderful char, followed by the piquant, grassy</p><p>flavor of the pepper itself. Usually 2 to 3 inches in length, both shishito and</p><p>padrón peppers are intensely green and furrowed with canyons that run the</p><p>lengths of their skin, and while I tend to find shishitos more often in the</p><p>market, either works perfectly.</p><p>1–2 tablespoons extra-virgin olive oil</p><p>1 pound shishito or padrón peppers</p><p>Flaky sea salt</p><p>Heat a large cast</p><p>iron pan over high heat. The pan should be large enough to</p><p>hold all the peppers in a relatively even layer. If it isn’t, cook in batches.</p><p>Add enough olive oil to thinly coat the bottom of the pan and heat until just</p><p>smoking. Add the peppers and cook, tossing frequently, until the skins</p><p>begin to char and the peppers start to soften and wilt a bit, 3 to 4 minutes.</p><p>Transfer to a bowl, sprinkle generously with salt, and serve.</p><p>sautéed sweet onion and chard toast with rustic</p><p>tomme</p><p>I’m the first one to admit that cheese can be intimidating (see my full</p><p>confession), but branching out beyond the old standbys is a low-risk</p><p>adventure. A tomme, as I understand it on good authority, is the broad name</p><p>for a group of small, roundish cheeses from the French or Swiss Alps that I</p><p>find to be fruity and nutty with hints of salt. One of the most famous is the</p><p>tomme de Savoie, though now some artisanal American makers are also</p><p>producing tomme-esque cheeses that are well worth a gander. Find one you</p><p>like and let this earthy combination warm the coldest winter day. Here’s a</p><p>thought: Light a fire if you have one, tug on the thickest of socks and softest</p><p>of sweaters, and pair this toast with Sweet and Spicy Delicata Squash</p><p>Crescents and a cup of Potato and Leek Soup. Unless you’re someplace</p><p>warm—in that case, skip the socks and sweater and serve the soup chilled à</p><p>la vichyssoise. See photograph.</p><p>2–3 tablespoons extra-virgin olive oil</p><p>1 large Vidalia onion or other sweet onion, very thinly sliced into</p><p>half-moons</p><p>Sea salt and freshly ground black pepper</p><p>1 bunch green or rainbow chard, stems removed and cut into 1"</p><p>ribbons</p><p>1 teaspoon sherry vinegar, or more to taste</p><p>Sliced rustic bread, toasted</p><p>Thinly sliced rustic cheese, such as tomme de Savoie, tomme</p><p>crayeuse, or Consider Bardwell Manchester</p><p>In a medium saucepan, heat 2 tablespoons of the olive oil over medium-</p><p>high heat. When the oil is hot, add the onions and sprinkle with salt and</p><p>pepper. Reduce the heat to medium and cook, stirring frequently, until the</p><p>onions begin to color, about 10 minutes. If the pan seems dry, add an extra</p><p>tablespoon of oil.</p><p>When the onions are golden brown on the edges or even beginning to stick</p><p>to the pan, stir in ½ cup or so of water and continue to cook until the liquid</p><p>evaporates and the onions are very tender and have melded together in a</p><p>tangle, another 10 to 15 minutes.</p><p>Add the chard leaves in batches until they begin to wilt, so they all fit in the</p><p>pan, and cook, stirring occasionally, until just tender, 4 to 6 minutes. Add</p><p>another tablespoon or so of water to soften the leaves, if needed. Add the</p><p>vinegar, taste, and season again with salt and pepper, if needed. Remove</p><p>from the heat.</p><p>Spoon the onion-chard mixture onto the toasts and, while still warm, top</p><p>with the thinly sliced cheese—it will soften a bit as it sits on the hot</p><p>vegetables.</p><p>Grilled Sardines with Meyer Lemons | Prosciutto-Wrapped Grilled Peaches with Mint | Persian</p><p>Cucumbers, Snap Peas, and Red Onion with Lemon Zest</p><p>prosciutto-wrapped grilled peaches with mint</p><p>Summer may officially start in June, but I never feel like it’s really, truly</p><p>summer until I bite into that first perfectly ripe peach. As much as tomatoes</p><p>and cherries vie for the title of quintessential summer food, it’s really this</p><p>fuzzy, sunset-brushed stone fruit that’s the bellwether for long lazy days and</p><p>warm, firefly-sparked nights. With that in mind, we planted a miniature</p><p>peach tree a couple of years ago and, as happened with our pear tree, the</p><p>squirrels beat us to our glorious bounty. Or most of it. Having seen my</p><p>beloved pear tree ransacked in a single night, I cleverly picked a handful of</p><p>unripe peaches the next day, just in case those pesky garden thieves decided</p><p>to hit the peaches next. Which of course they did. By the following week I</p><p>had six or so rock-hard peaches in my fruit bowl and a woefully bare tree.</p><p>But remarkably, the peaches I salvaged, while small, did soften, and they</p><p>were everything one hopes for in a peach: the skin soft, downy, and fragrant</p><p>and the flesh weeping with golden juices.</p><p>There’s nothing like walking out and plucking a peach from your own</p><p>tree . . . unless you have to do it preemptively to combat the local wildlife;</p><p>then it’s a little less romantic. So, forced to buy peaches for the rest of the</p><p>summer, I asked the farmer at my local stand how he deals with the squirrel</p><p>issue. He said, “Well, it’s one of the less pretty parts of farming. We shoot</p><p>’em.” I love peaches, I really do. But as a gardener, not a farmer, that’s not</p><p>something I’m okay with. In fact, I wished he hadn’t told me so I could</p><p>have at least enjoyed his peaches with a clear conscience. As for my crop,</p><p>I’ve come to terms with sharing with the rest of the community.</p><p>4 peaches, quartered</p><p>2 tablespoons extra-virgin olive oil</p><p>8 slices prosciutto or other cured ham, torn in half</p><p>Handful fresh mint leaves</p><p>Preheat a grill.</p><p>Lay the peaches cut-side up on a baking sheet and brush them with the oil.</p><p>When the grill is hot, set the fruit cut-side down on the grate and cook for</p><p>about 4 minutes or until grill marks appear and the fruit begins to soften.</p><p>Flip the peaches and cook the other cut side until well marked as well.</p><p>Remove from the heat and let sit until cool enough to handle.</p><p>Wrap each peach in a bit of prosciutto, scatter mint over top, and serve.</p><p>roasted cherry tomato toast with brie and basil</p><p>When I was a kid, my parents would pull us out of school for an extra week</p><p>at the holidays so we could go to Europe when the flights were cheap. For</p><p>us, off-season travel (meaning rainy and cold) was the norm; I assumed</p><p>everyone headed to London in deepest December. But it was fun. We would</p><p>rent a flat for part of the time (this was back before Airbnb or VRBO), buy</p><p>a little Christmas tree that we’d decorate with ribbons from a local art shop,</p><p>make a proper English roast with Yorkshire pudding, and my sister and I</p><p>would worry like crazy that Santa wouldn’t know we had left town and</p><p>wouldn’t be able to find us. Then we would head off to the countryside for a</p><p>few days. I lost my dental retainer in a café in Bath once (we found it at the</p><p>bottom of the very last garbage bag we dug through in the basement) and I</p><p>learned my multiplication tables in a little town in Ireland called</p><p>Blessington. Sometimes we’d drive, but more often we’d take the train, the</p><p>best part of which was the café car. The idea of eating and watching the</p><p>emerald green waves of farmland swoop by was just irresistible to my</p><p>preteen eyes.</p><p>My favorite meal on these trips was a tomato and cheese sandwich on</p><p>buttered white bread. Bought from a capped man behind the café counter,</p><p>these sandwiches were cut into two triangles and sealed in a plastic box of</p><p>the same shape. The cheese was a sharp white, the bread was soft and</p><p>smeared from edge to edge with creamy yellow butter, and the tomatoes</p><p>actually had flavor. I reckon I’d be disappointed if I bought this sandwich</p><p>on a train today, but I’ve reimagined a version that reminds me of those</p><p>travelers’ lunches. Sure, this version goes a bit more Franco than Anglo, but</p><p>the elements are all here.</p><p>About 24 cherry tomatoes</p><p>Extra-virgin olive oil</p><p>Sea salt and freshly ground black pepper</p><p>8 slices country bread</p><p>½ pound Brie, at room temperature</p><p>Fresh basil leaves</p><p>Preheat the oven to 400°F. Line a baking sheet with parchment paper.</p><p>Put the cherry tomatoes on the lined baking sheet and drizzle with olive oil.</p><p>Roll the tomatoes around to make sure all are lightly coated. Sprinkle with</p><p>salt and pepper. Roast until the tomatoes begin to soften and blister, about</p><p>20 minutes.</p><p>Turn the oven to broil. Brush the bread slices with olive oil, put them on a</p><p>baking sheet, and toast until nicely colored, turning once to lightly crisp the</p><p>underside as well. Remove from the oven and top each slice with slab of</p><p>Brie. Drape a basil leaf or two over the cheese, top each toast with 3 or so</p><p>roasted cherry tomatoes, and serve.</p><p>pimentón-spiced chickpeas with spinach and</p><p>manchego on toast</p><p>There is always</p><p>buy esoteric ingredients that are needed for only a teaspoon or a drizzle;</p><p>even if your pantry isn’t perfectly stocked, there’s almost always a way to</p><p>substitute a few ground fennel seeds for fennel pollen or a mix of brown</p><p>sugar and lime juice for tamarind paste when you need to.</p><p>I can also be driven to distraction by recipes that call for “a tablespoon</p><p>of garlic,” “1 cup basil,” or “¾ pound tomatoes.” Bothering to figure out</p><p>how many cloves of garlic make up a tablespoon (two small or one large,</p><p>but what if all I have seems to be medium?) drives me mad. And what</p><p>exactly does a cup of basil look like? Are the leaves packed or just lightly</p><p>squished in there? And perhaps more importantly, how does the recipe</p><p>writer know if I like more or less garlic or basil? This is why many of the</p><p>recipes you’ll find here—when the amounts really don’t impact the</p><p>outcome of the dish, just the intensity of a certain flavor—call for “a</p><p>handful” of this or “3 to 4 sprigs” of that. When it comes to fresh</p><p>vegetables, you’ll also see “1 large or 2 medium tomatoes, chopped (about</p><p>2 cups)” instead of “¾ pound tomatoes, chopped.” Even after years of</p><p>cooking, I still haven’t the foggiest idea what ¾ pound of tomatoes is; in</p><p>midsummer, it could probably be one large, but in deepest winter, perhaps</p><p>three small. As for the garlic and herbs, I trust you, the cook and the eater,</p><p>to have some sense of how you want your food to taste. And you should</p><p>trust you, too. As home cooks, we aren’t trying to replicate the same meal</p><p>for 20 tables every night—we’re just trying to make good food that we want</p><p>to eat, and have some fun along the way.</p><p>pairing food, or what goes with what</p><p>One reason I believe many of us are more comfortable with the idea of</p><p>small plates when we eat at a restaurant is how seamlessly they fit together;</p><p>the menu, if it’s done well, will maintain a singular sensibility, a cohesive</p><p>aesthetic—a selection of dishes that all complement one another in terms of</p><p>flavor and texture. At a restaurant, the chef has done the thinking for us,</p><p>making it easy to choose what to eat without consciously thinking about</p><p>“what goes with what.”</p><p>Of course, when we cook at home, we have to think about how dishes</p><p>work together, but a roast chicken and garlic mashed potatoes or a bowl of</p><p>pasta is considerably easier to navigate than a table of six dishes. Part of the</p><p>art of creating food for grazing comes with understanding which foods play</p><p>well together. Certainly you can mix and mingle anything you like, and you</p><p>should (your taste and mine may not be the same and what we have in the</p><p>fridge and pantry most certainly varies too), but there is a logic and beauty</p><p>to pairing food in a way that makes sense.</p><p>The way I decide what to serve with what is like a puzzle. I start with an</p><p>idea for one dish, usually the most time- and labor-intensive of the meal,</p><p>and then I try to figure out what subsequent and simple dishes fit around</p><p>that first one. Most of those secondary dishes are chosen because they either</p><p>require minimal cooking or are simply good-quality store-bought</p><p>provisions. Sometimes in the midst of figuring out what to make, the</p><p>original key player changes to better suit the others I’ve become attached to,</p><p>and that’s okay. It’s a process of moving the pieces around until a fully</p><p>formed picture comes into view, and I can see how the dishes will live</p><p>together on the table and how they’ll taste together. And while it sounds</p><p>like an involved process, this all usually takes place in less than 5 minutes</p><p>while standing in the produce aisle or wandering the stands at the farmers’</p><p>market.</p><p>There are a few different ways of approaching what to cook and serve</p><p>with what. First, there’s seasonality. If you start by thinking about what</p><p>ingredients are in-season at the same time, you’ll have a pretty good idea of</p><p>what goes together thematically: asparagus and peas; winter squash and</p><p>apples; corn, tomatoes, and grilled seafood; fresh goat cheese and plums or</p><p>cherries. These pairings make sense because they’re ripe and available at</p><p>the same time. With this strategy in mind, you can see how, come spring,</p><p>deep-fried asparagus will work beautifully with a small dish of minted pea</p><p>soup and a plate of smoked salmon. Or how once fall arrives, a sweet onion</p><p>and chard toast would be the ideal companion for a dish of roasted Brussels</p><p>sprouts with pancetta and pecans or a cup of cassoulet. Mother Nature</p><p>directs us to what we should make, or at least gives us a really smart</p><p>starting point, so following the seasons makes coming up with a menu</p><p>incredibly easy.</p><p>Regionality is another really simple way to craft a grazing meal. Feel</p><p>like something Spanish? Start with a tortilla, add some jamón, olives, pan</p><p>con tomate, and a dish of briny anchovies or fried chickpeas. More in the</p><p>mood for Middle Eastern? Let spiced lamb chops serve as the anchoring</p><p>dish surrounded by a bowl of eggplant mousse, a plate of olives, and some</p><p>sun-dried tomatoes. It’s not hard to pair different dishes together once you</p><p>start thinking in terms of where foods originate.</p><p>Another slightly more creative way to come up with food pairings is to</p><p>deconstruct more complex meals. Take a favorite of mine: pizza with</p><p>prosciutto, artichokes, and olives. Why not just eliminate the crust (and the</p><p>cooking) and set out these three ingredients on the table with a loaf of good</p><p>bread and a dish of olive oil for dipping? I have a passion for cassoulet; if I</p><p>take it apart, a meal of sliced sausage, marinated beans, oven-roasted</p><p>tomatoes, and a good loaf of bread becomes a nice hint at those alluring</p><p>flavors without all the fuss. When you think about classic preparations,</p><p>reduce them to their essential elements, and then rearrange and simplify</p><p>them, you have another clever method for creating an inspired grazing</p><p>meal. And, when all else fails, turn to the grazing menus to take a peek at</p><p>the menus there.</p><p>Spanish Tortilla with Sweet Onion and Thyme | Fresh Figs with Serrano Ham | Blistered Shishito</p><p>Peppers with Flaky Salt | Pan con Tomate</p><p>how i shop</p><p>Food shopping is something I enjoy. I know this isn’t true for everyone, but</p><p>the way I look at it, picking out the food I’m going to make is just as</p><p>important as cooking it; the same care and thought that go into chopping</p><p>that garlic or peeling that squash should go into choosing it. Certainly I</p><p>could whip through the grocery store, grabbing bags and boxes of</p><p>prepackaged stuff, but where’s the thoughtful intent in that?</p><p>The way I procure food may not be ideal or even possible for you, but it</p><p>can give you a sense of what makes for an efficient and relatively waste-</p><p>free kitchen. So here’s my general routine: I do a weekly staples trip to the</p><p>grocery store for the basics—milk for coffee, bananas and berries for</p><p>granola in the morning, greens and other vegetables for salads and such,</p><p>and yogurt, butter, eggs, and so on (the stuff we go through weekly).</p><p>At the same time, I’ll pick up olives and marinated artichokes in the deli</p><p>section, decent crackers or grissini, and whatever else we’ve finished off</p><p>during the week and need to replenish. I’d rather buy these specialty items</p><p>at our local Italian delicatessen and cheese shop, and sometimes I do, but</p><p>I’d be lying if I said I made a trip every week just for these special</p><p>provisions. For fresh mozzarella, prosciutto, and other charcuterie, I do try</p><p>to get to our favorite Italian spot, but if I don’t, the weekly shop has to do,</p><p>and I don’t lose sleep over it.</p><p>I do buy my fish from the fish store and most of my meat from the</p><p>butcher. I’m lucky to have a great fish store (The Lobster Place) and a</p><p>wonderful butcher (Ottomanelli) within walking distance of our apartment,</p><p>and for me, these two trips are important. I like knowing my fishmonger</p><p>and my butcher, and they guide me in terms of what’s freshest, in-season,</p><p>well-aged, or the best value. I like that Frank, my butcher, is happy to order</p><p>something for me if I need it, butterfly a bird if I ask, and trim or tie up a</p><p>roast for me while I stand by happily chatting.</p><p>a can of chickpeas in my cupboard, and here’s why:</p><p>Chickpeas are the superheroes of the pantry. Like the Wonder Twins, Zan</p><p>and Jayna (remember them?), they can morph or transform into almost</p><p>anything. Short on stuff to fill out a salad? Add a cup of chickpeas. Looking</p><p>for an easy appetizer? Fry some chickpeas in olive oil and sprinkle them</p><p>with sea salt and pimentón. Desperate for a quick stew? Toss a can of</p><p>chickpeas on the stove with a can of tomatoes, a sausage or two, and some</p><p>greens, and dinner is done. Tired of the same old pastas? Chickpeas with a</p><p>bit of pancetta, Parmesan, and toasted breadcrumbs will do the trick.</p><p>Or, try this Spanish-inspired take on toast. The smashed chickpeas get</p><p>tangled up in the garlicky spinach and it all takes on a notably smoky flavor</p><p>from the pimentón and cumin. The creamy slivers of Manchego melt ever</p><p>so slightly when they hit the hot legumes. It’s a quick visit to Andalusia</p><p>without ever leaving your kitchen. Serve this with Blistered Shishito</p><p>Peppers with Flaky Salt, a dish of olives, and some extra Manchego for a</p><p>simple, Spanish-inspired grazing meal.</p><p>2–3 tablespoons extra-virgin olive oil</p><p>1 garlic clove, minced</p><p>1 can (15.5 ounces) chickpeas, rinsed and drained</p><p>2 teaspoons pimentón (smoked paprika)</p><p>1 teaspoon ground cumin</p><p>Pinch red chili flakes</p><p>Sea salt and freshly ground black pepper</p><p>7 ounces baby spinach</p><p>12 slices rustic bread, brushed with oil and toasted</p><p>24 thinly shaved slices Manchego cheese</p><p>In a large skillet, heat 2 tablespoons of the olive oil over medium-high heat.</p><p>When the oil shimmers, add the garlic and cook for about 1 minute or until</p><p>fragrant. Add the chickpeas, pimentón, cumin, and chili flakes and cook</p><p>until the chickpeas are warmed though, about 5 minutes. Season with salt</p><p>and pepper. Gently smash the chickpeas with the back of a wooden spoon</p><p>(you don’t want them to become a paste, just broken down a bit).</p><p>Add another tablespoon of oil to the pan if it seems dry and add the spinach.</p><p>Continue to cook, tossing frequently, until the spinach is wilted but not</p><p>releasing too much liquid, about 1 minute. Remove from the heat and</p><p>season again with salt and pepper.</p><p>To serve, generously scoop the spinach-chickpea mixture onto the toasts</p><p>and top each with a couple slivers of shaved Manchego.</p><p>Thyme-Roasted Parsnip Tangle</p><p>thyme-roasted parsnip tangle</p><p>I feel sort of bad for parsnips. I know it sounds odd to empathize with a</p><p>vegetable, but hear me out. They look like carrots, but are pale and more</p><p>unassuming. They’re not really eaten raw, so their utility is limited. They’re</p><p>often stumpy and squat, with a few warts and stray roots on display.</p><p>They’re not as well-loved as potatoes, not as bright and popular as carrots,</p><p>not as exotic as celeriac, as bracing as turnips, as brilliantly colored as</p><p>beets, or as precious as radishes, all decked out in shades of pink. The</p><p>parsnip is, however, a delicious root vegetable that shines when treated</p><p>well. Peeled into gossamer-thin strips, tossed with a bit of oil, cheese, and</p><p>herbs, this wallflower becomes a willowy tangle of crispy ribbons. Like</p><p>Eliza Doolittle breaking free of her Cockney accent and homely clothes to</p><p>become a lady, with little more than a vegetable peeler, the overlooked</p><p>parsnip can take your breath away, or at least tame your hunger.</p><p>3 parsnips, peeled</p><p>2 tablespoons extra-virgin olive oil</p><p>½ cup freshly grated Parmesan cheese, plus more for serving</p><p>3–4 sprigs fresh thyme, leaves picked</p><p>Sea salt and freshly ground black pepper</p><p>Preheat the oven to 400°F.</p><p>Use a vegetable peeler or mandoline to slice the parsnips lengthwise into</p><p>long ribbons. This is easiest if you rotate the parsnip every few pulls,</p><p>peeling evenly on all sides. Eventually you’ll hit the core, which you can</p><p>discard.</p><p>Transfer the ribbons to a baking sheet and toss them with the olive oil,</p><p>Parmesan, and thyme and season with salt and pepper. Bake the ribbons,</p><p>tossing every 2 to 3 minutes, until they are browned and crispy (they can</p><p>color quickly on the edges if you’re not paying attention), about 15 minutes.</p><p>Serve hot with an additional sprinkle of cheese or thyme if desired.</p><p>classic croque-monsieur bites</p><p>Years ago I was traveling with a boyfriend to a close friend’s wedding. The</p><p>boyfriend should have been an ex already; I knew it before we left, but he</p><p>didn’t. I wanted to be heading to Paris with someone who made my insides</p><p>melt when I caught his eye. I wasn’t. After the flight, I remember being in</p><p>the baggage claim area feeling ragged and drained. Standing there, waiting</p><p>for our bags to tumble down the carousel, I saw another couple. They’d</p><p>clearly been on our flight, but unlike us, they looked lovely; radiant and</p><p>adoring, they were not off balance in the slightest.</p><p>She was tall and slim and moved like syrup, gracefully swaying as he</p><p>held her from behind, his arms a cocoon around her waist. He had shaggy</p><p>hair that wasn’t simply unkempt from the flight; you could tell it was</p><p>always that way, sexy rockstar meets seductive oil painter. I knew nothing</p><p>about these two people except that they were happy. They were in France in</p><p>the summer and they were about to embark on the trip I was craving so</p><p>deeply. They would drink café au lait and eat croissants each morning</p><p>feeling that fullness that only the prospect of an empty, idle day in a foreign</p><p>city can elicit. They would wander aimlessly through cobblestone streets,</p><p>stopping for drinks in an outdoor café whenever they felt like it; a</p><p>Kronenbourg 1664 for him and a glass of Sancerre for her. They would</p><p>share a croque-monsieur; a sandwich I’d never heard of before and would</p><p>only discover on this trip.</p><p>The perfect combination of sharp Gruyère cheese, smoky ham, and</p><p>butter-fried country bread makes for a sandwich that is complete, yet</p><p>always seems to be leaving its mate behind on the menu. There’s something</p><p>sad about ordering the monsieur, delirious with anticipation for all that he</p><p>offers, while thoughtlessly leaving the croque-madame behind. I guess I</p><p>was in that kind of mood—the leaving kind. I broke up with that boyfriend</p><p>the week after we returned (nothing ends an unhappy relationship faster</p><p>than sitting through a happy couple’s nuptials). But for years now, those</p><p>two unknown lovers have stayed with me, a visualization of romance,</p><p>travel, adventure, and love all bound up in a single embrace. Sometimes in</p><p>airports I think of them: Are they still together? If I saw them at the</p><p>baggage carousel now, would he still hold her just so? But then, and</p><p>perhaps more importantly, my mind wanders to the love I discovered on</p><p>that trip and I wonder: Will there be a really good croque-monsieur where</p><p>I’m going now?</p><p>1 tablespoon butter, plus more as needed</p><p>1 tablespoon all-purpose flour</p><p>¾ cup whole milk</p><p>Pinch ground nutmeg</p><p>Sea salt and freshly ground black pepper</p><p>2 tablespoons freshly grated Parmesan cheese</p><p>1 cup finely grated Gruyère cheese</p><p>4 slices rustic bread</p><p>Dijon mustard</p><p>¼ pound thinly sliced Paris ham</p><p>Preheat the oven to 350°F.</p><p>In a saucepan, melt the 1 tablespoon butter over medium heat until just</p><p>foamy. Add the flour and whisk until smooth, about 30 seconds. Gradually</p><p>whisk in the milk, stirring constantly, until it thickens and nicely coats the</p><p>back of a spoon. Remove from the heat, add the nutmeg, and season with</p><p>salt and pepper. Stir in the Parmesan and 2 to 3 tablespoons of the Gruyère.</p><p>Butter both sides of the bread slices and toast in a skillet over medium heat</p><p>until golden. Spread mustard thinly on one side of all the toasts. Dividing</p><p>evenly, top two toasts with the ham and about ½ cup of the Gruyère. Top</p><p>each sandwich with the remaining toasts, mustard-side in, and put on a</p><p>baking sheet. Using a spatula or the back of a wooden spoon, spread the top</p><p>of each sandwich with the béchamel sauce and sprinkle with the remaining</p><p>Gruyère. Bake until the cheese begins to melt, about 5 minutes. Turn the</p><p>oven to broil and broil the sandwiches until the top bubbles and browns, 2</p><p>to 4 minutes. Cut into squares and serve hot.</p><p>curried carrot and coconut soup</p><p>Curry and coconut can transport me from my small apartment in the middle</p><p>of the city to a land ablaze with golden minarets, silken dresses in every</p><p>shade of the sunset, bejeweled women with hennaed hands, and hazy heat</p><p>that blurs in the distance. No, I’ve never been there, but this is what I</p><p>conjure when I stand in the kitchen pulling spices from the cabinet and</p><p>opening a can of creamy, clotted-on-the-top coconut milk. The warmth of</p><p>the spices and the tropical fruit blended with sweet carrots and ginger is</p><p>both seductive and soothing—it’s like curling up at home to read an E.M.</p><p>Forster or Graham Greene novel on a rainy day. You get to disappear into</p><p>another world, to float away to an exotic locale while feeling completely</p><p>coddled at the same time. I tend to make this soup after I’ve bought a big</p><p>bunch of carrots, only needing one or two. When those roots begin to taunt</p><p>me from their drawer at the bottom of the fridge and threaten to go soft, I</p><p>relent and treat us to this aromatic bisque.</p><p>3 tablespoons butter or olive oil</p><p>½ medium onion, roughly chopped</p><p>Sea salt and freshly ground black pepper</p><p>4 large or 6 medium carrots, chopped (4–5 cups)</p><p>1 piece (1") fresh ginger, peeled and grated</p><p>¼ teaspoon ground coriander</p><p>¼ teaspoon ground cumin</p><p>¼ teaspoon ground turmeric</p><p>Pinch cayenne pepper</p><p>¼–½ cup unsweetened coconut milk</p><p>Pinch sugar (optional)</p><p>Unsweetened coconut flakes (optional)</p><p>In a large saucepan, melt the butter over medium heat. Add the onion,</p><p>sprinkle with salt and pepper, and stir to coat well with the butter. Cook</p><p>until the onions are tender and translucent, 6 to 8 minutes. Add the carrots,</p><p>ginger, coriander, cumin, turmeric, and cayenne. Stir and cook until the</p><p>carrots are softened, about 10 minutes.</p><p>Add enough water to cover the vegetables by 1" (about 3 cups). Bring to a</p><p>boil over high heat, reduce the heat to medium, and continue cooking until</p><p>the carrots are cooked through, another 15 to 20 minutes.</p><p>Let the soup cool slightly. Working in batches if necessary, transfer the soup</p><p>to a blender or food processor and puree until smooth. Blend in enough</p><p>coconut milk to create the consistency you want. If it’s still too thick after</p><p>adding the coconut milk, loosen with a bit of water. Adjust the seasoning,</p><p>adding the sugar to taste. If desired, serve garnished with coconut flakes.</p><p>Spiced Tomato Bisque with Goat Cheese Crumbles</p><p>spiced tomato bisque with goat cheese crumbles</p><p>Tomatoes and cheese are a combination that works in so many forms. One</p><p>of my favorite sandwiches is a version of tomatoes and cheese adapted from</p><p>the ones I enjoyed as kid traveling with my parents; there used to be a little</p><p>restaurant down in SoHo called Salt that I would go to now and again for</p><p>lunch, just to savor their sweet tomato soup served with melted Brie on a</p><p>slice of baguette; and while I’m not one of them, I know many people who</p><p>harken back to their childhood memories of being served Campbell’s</p><p>tomato soup with grilled cheese sandwiches on the side. I think it’s the</p><p>creaminess of the cheese—whether Brie, American, or otherwise—and how</p><p>it smoothes out the acidic edge and the sometimes cloying sweetness of the</p><p>tomatoes that makes it such a classic duo.</p><p>With this, one of my favorite winter soups, the same concept is in play.</p><p>Using spice to bring out the savory side of the tomatoes (the ginger,</p><p>cayenne, and chili flakes give it a kick that hints at the flavors of India</p><p>without going the full distance), crumbles of creamy goat cheese are then</p><p>swirled into the hot soup just before serving. This final ingredient leaves</p><p>milky streaks, trails that cut through the hearty bisque, enriching the soup,</p><p>blurring the heat, and offering up the occasional tangy crumb.</p><p>2 tablespoons extra-virgin olive oil</p><p>1 clove garlic, minced</p><p>1 piece (2") fresh ginger, peeled and grated</p><p>1 cup diced onion</p><p>1 can (28 ounces) crushed Italian plum tomatoes</p><p>1 cup water</p><p>2 tablespoons sugar</p><p>2 teaspoons fine sea salt</p><p>½ teaspoon red chili flakes, or more to taste</p><p>Pinch cayenne pepper</p><p>4 ounces goat cheese, such as Vermont Creamery</p><p>In a large saucepan, heat the oil over medium-high heat until it shimmers.</p><p>Add the garlic and ginger and sauté until just fragrant, 1 to 2 minutes. Add</p><p>the onion and continue cooking until soft and translucent, about 5 minutes.</p><p>Add the tomatoes, water, sugar, salt, chili flakes, and cayenne. Reduce the</p><p>heat to medium-low and simmer for 30 minutes to meld the flavors. Using</p><p>an immersion blender, blender, or food processor, puree the soup until</p><p>smooth. Add the goat cheese and stir well until the mixture is mostly</p><p>combined with creamy streaks and a few evident crumbles of cheese. Ladle</p><p>the soup into bowls to serve.</p><p>pea shooters with parmesan crisps</p><p>Parmesan is a bit like sea salt or lemons to me—it makes so many things</p><p>taste more like they should. It certainly has its own potent personality, but</p><p>when grated or shaved, it’s like a soft whisper, an accent that elevates</p><p>everything it touches. In this spring soup, the Parmesan is both a subtle</p><p>seasoning and the only ingredient needed to make the delicate garnish</p><p>served alongside said soup: a cheesy tuile—a savory brittle, a woven wafer.</p><p>When fresh peas abound, this is a soup to serve chilled and enjoy with a</p><p>glass of something cold on the patio. When the fresh peas are long gone but</p><p>you’re yearning to be reminded that the long winter days won’t last forever,</p><p>a box of frozen will do the trick—ladled up warm, it’s a harbinger of longer,</p><p>lazier days yet to come.</p><p>½ stick (4 tablespoons) unsalted butter, at room temperature</p><p>1 leek, cleaned and thinly sliced</p><p>2 cups fresh or frozen peas</p><p>3 cups chicken stock</p><p>1½ cups freshly shredded Parmesan cheese (use a coarse grater, not</p><p>a rasp-style grater)</p><p>Sea salt and freshly ground black pepper</p><p>In a medium saucepan, melt 1 tablespoon of the butter over medium-high</p><p>heat. Add the leek and cook until soft, about 5 minutes. Add the peas and</p><p>swirl to coat in the butter, then add ½ cup of the chicken stock. Bring the</p><p>stock to a simmer and cook for a minute or two, just until the peas turn</p><p>bright green. Remove the pan from the heat.</p><p>Transfer the peas and their cooking liquid to a food processor or blender</p><p>and puree. Add the remaining 3 tablespoons butter and ½ cup of the</p><p>Parmesan and continue to process until smooth. Add the remaining 2½ cups</p><p>chicken stock and process one more time until fully combined. Season with</p><p>salt and pepper and set aside.</p><p>To make the crisps, preheat the oven to 375°F. Line a baking sheet with</p><p>parchment paper.</p><p>Scoop tablespoon-sized mounds of the remaining 1 cup Parmesan onto the</p><p>lined baking sheet and spread into rough 3" rounds, leaving at least 1"</p><p>between them.</p><p>Bake until the cheese has melted and is lightly browned, 4 to 5 minutes.</p><p>Remove from the oven, let the cheese just stop bubbling and set up a bit,</p><p>and then lift the crisps from the parchment paper with a thin spatula. As</p><p>they cool, the crisps will set up.</p><p>To serve, return the soup to the stove and heat. Pour the soup into shot</p><p>glasses or small bowls and serve with the crisps.</p><p>potato and leek soup</p><p>Everyone has favorite vegetables, I imagine. I’m partial to artichokes,</p><p>avocados, and leeks. There are, of course, many more on my list of loves,</p><p>but those three are the first that come to mind. Leeks are revelatory to me</p><p>because of all they can do: They can be braised as a side dish, chopped and</p><p>sautéed for a mirepoix, roasted in a gratin, grilled with little more than olive</p><p>oil and salt and pepper, and, of course, blitzed up in soup. Their buttery,</p><p>silky flavor reminds us that they’re part of the onion family, but they’re so</p><p>much softer and sweeter. Unlike onions, shallots, or even scallions, leeks</p><p>are not aggressive; they’re never loud or brazen, even on their own. Leeks</p><p>are demure, present but quietly so. But they can be frustrating too.</p><p>When you buy leeks, the ones you’re hoping for are about a foot or</p><p>more long, mostly white slender stalks with just a blush of a green neck that</p><p>turns dark at the very top. But what you will often</p><p>find are squat ones with</p><p>less than an inch or so of creamy white stalk and a long, splayed pine green</p><p>top. These are disappointing and should be left behind; the flavor is more</p><p>forest-y than creamy and there’s just not enough to go around. Especially in</p><p>this simple soup, where you want at least two promising leeks, because</p><p>contrary to what some might say, potato and leek soup should showcase</p><p>both vegetables in equal measure.</p><p>½ stick (4 tablespoons) unsalted butter</p><p>2–3 leeks, cleaned and thinly sliced</p><p>2 russet (baking) potatoes, peeled and cut into chunks</p><p>Salt and freshly ground black pepper</p><p>4–5 cups chicken stock</p><p>¼–½ cup heavy cream or half-and-half</p><p>Chopped fresh chives</p><p>In a large deep saucepan, melt the butter over medium heat until the foam</p><p>subsides. Add the leeks and sauté until very soft but not colored, 10 to 12</p><p>minutes. Add the potatoes and toss to coat in the butter. Season with salt</p><p>and pepper and add enough stock to cover the vegetables by at least ½".</p><p>Bring to a boil and then reduce to a simmer. Cook until the potatoes can be</p><p>easily pierced with a knife, 12 to 15 minutes.</p><p>Working in batches if necessary, transfer the leeks, potatoes, and stock to a</p><p>blender or food processor and puree until smooth. Return the mixture to the</p><p>pan, add as much cream as you like, and taste for seasoning. Garnish with</p><p>chives and serve with lots of good bread for sopping.</p><p>sweet and spicy delicata squash crescents</p><p>Probably due to nothing more than lack of imagination, I’d never made a</p><p>Delicata squash until a couple of years ago. I had looked at them, noticing</p><p>their slinky shape with just a shadow of a waist, admiring their sunshine</p><p>yellow skin with rippling streams of green running down the outside, and</p><p>thought about buying one. But for some reason I didn’t. Instead I returned</p><p>to the known world of the kabocha and Hubbard, the oh-so-familiar land of</p><p>the acorn and butternut. Until my pal Kate showed up to work one day with</p><p>leftovers from the night before and offered me a taste. Kate and I work</p><p>together quite a bit. We’re both originally from Los Angeles, prefer being</p><p>barefoot, could happily survive on cured meats, and think Negronis are the</p><p>nectar of the gods. Suffice it to say, despite the crushing age difference that</p><p>I choose to ignore and the fact that she has the kind of flaxen Breck Girl</p><p>hair women kill for, I like her a lot.</p><p>So it was one of those slightly embarrassing but ultimately rewarding</p><p>moments when I dipped into her Tupperware, tasted this wondrous squash,</p><p>and had to acknowledge that I had been missing out on something special</p><p>for way too long. Roasted with the skin still on, the ruddy orange slices</p><p>were tossed with woodsy syrup and warm spices—and just enough cayenne</p><p>and chili flakes to add a healthy kick of fire on the back end. Cut into little</p><p>crescents that resemble waning moons, these will pair brilliantly with</p><p>Roasted Brussels Sprouts with Pancetta and Maple Pecans or Armenian-</p><p>Spiced Baby Lamb Chops with Yogurt and Mint.</p><p>2 Delicata squash, halved lengthwise, seeded, and cut crosswise into</p><p>½"-thick crescents</p><p>2 tablespoons extra-virgin olive oil</p><p>2½ tablespoons maple syrup</p><p>1 teaspoon ground cinnamon</p><p>1 teaspoon red chili flakes</p><p>¼ teaspoon cayenne pepper, or to taste</p><p>Sea salt</p><p>Preheat the oven to 400°F.</p><p>On a rimmed baking sheet, toss the squash with the olive oil, maple syrup,</p><p>cinnamon, chili flakes, cayenne, and a generous sprinkling of salt. Make</p><p>sure all the squash crescents are well coated and transfer the pan to the</p><p>oven.</p><p>Roast the squash until they begin to brown on the edges, about 20 minutes.</p><p>Use a spatula to flip the squash; they should release easily from the pan. If</p><p>not, continue to cook for another 5 minutes or so, until they do. Cook on the</p><p>second side until nicely colored and tender, another 10 minutes. Remove</p><p>from the oven and transfer to a serving plate.</p><p>Charred Fava Shells with Lemon, Chile, and Anchovies</p><p>charred fava shells with lemon, chile, and</p><p>anchovies</p><p>I don’t get home to la more than a few times a year, but whenever I do, a</p><p>visit to Gjelina, the Venice restaurant that attracts Angelinos and tourists</p><p>alike, always gets squeezed in. It’s the first stop my parents and I make on</p><p>our drive home from the airport for lunch, the place we go for one nice</p><p>dinner, or, as happened last time, the quick bite I grab on my way back to</p><p>the airport when I’m jumping on a red-eye.</p><p>I was home not too long ago for work and after a full week of shooting,</p><p>my assistant Kate and I were bound for that last flight out after a long day.</p><p>With barely 2 hours to kill and a rental car to return, we looked at each</p><p>other and silently agreed to make a beeline for Gjelina, grab a quick dinner</p><p>at the bar, and still make the 10:30 p.m. Virgin America back to New York.</p><p>We found a parking spot right out front (the gods were on our side),</p><p>grabbed stools, and ordered a silly amount of small plates and a pizza.</p><p>All was good, but the one dish I couldn’t shake, the one that I had to</p><p>deconstruct so I could recreate it for Ken the following night, was this one.</p><p>Fava beans served in their pods (I had never considered such a thing),</p><p>grilled and marinated in some lemony-garlicky brew. Back in New York the</p><p>next evening, while still a bit groggy but before I could lose the thread, I</p><p>picked up some tender favas (small and young is what you want), pulled out</p><p>my cast iron pan, and took my best guess at the marinade. This is what I</p><p>came up with; but since they weren’t on the menu the next time I was there,</p><p>I have no idea if my memory served me well or not. Let’s pretend it did.</p><p>¼ cup extra-virgin olive oil</p><p>2 garlic cloves, smashed</p><p>Grated zest and juice of 1 lemon</p><p>3–4 anchovy fillets</p><p>1 teaspoon red chili flakes</p><p>Sea salt</p><p>1 pound small young fava beans in their pods</p><p>Thinly shaved Parmesan cheese</p><p>In a bowl large enough to hold the beans, combine the olive oil, garlic,</p><p>lemon zest and juice, anchovies, and chili flakes. Mash up the anchovies</p><p>with a fork and combine all the ingredients well. Taste, decide if you need</p><p>salt (the anchovies may be enough), and let sit to macerate while you cook</p><p>the beans.</p><p>Set a cast iron pan over high heat or light a grill. If you’re using a cast iron</p><p>pan, keep the heat relatively high and lay the favas in the dry pan in an even</p><p>layer. If you’re using a grill, turn the heat to medium and lay the favas so</p><p>they won’t fall through the grates.</p><p>Cook the favas, turning as needed so they char in spots but don’t burn,</p><p>about 10 minutes total. You want the favas to color on the outside but also</p><p>cook through—ideally, the outside pod will soften and the inner beans will</p><p>steam.</p><p>When the beans are lightly charred and very soft, transfer them to the bowl</p><p>with the marinade and let sit for 15 minutes or longer—the more time they</p><p>rest in the marinade, the more they will absorb the flavors. To serve,</p><p>transfer to a large dish and garnish with shavings of Parmesan. Then eat</p><p>them, pod and all, before they disappear.</p><p>Roasted Beet Tartare with Cheese and Pistachios</p><p>roasted beet tartare with cheese and pistachios</p><p>There are a lot of people who will say that roasted beets and cheese (most</p><p>often goat cheese) is passé, that it should be retired as a culinary concept. I</p><p>will admit that restaurants might have gone a little overboard with the beet</p><p>and goat cheese salad at one point in time, but no one ever gave such strife</p><p>to the sudden ubiquity of tuna tartare or the everywhereness of kale salad.</p><p>Popular combinations can, like anything, become classics or clichés. Either</p><p>way, if they taste good, who cares? I came to beets late in life. Beyond the</p><p>bottle of borscht my dad kept in the fridge to soothe his nostalgic cravings,</p><p>we didn’t eat beets much when I was a kid. And even though I have always</p><p>been someone who will happily consume almost anything set before me</p><p>(what Laurie Colwin so aptly called “a kind of universal recipient—the O-</p><p>positive for hostesses”), when I first tasted beets, they brought to mind</p><p>sweetened dirt. I was unconvinced.</p><p>For quite some time, when asked what I didn’t</p><p>like, there was one</p><p>ruddy-colored root that always came to mind. But exactly what drove other</p><p>more high-minded and haughty eaters away is what drove me toward them;</p><p>roasted beets with goat cheese were everywhere—I couldn’t escape. It was</p><p>like they were taunting me, daring me to dismiss them over and over again.</p><p>So I relented; a girl can only be so mean for so long. They were still sweet,</p><p>and now they were earthy (that was probably the dirt-thing from way back</p><p>when). Some were the savagely burgundy-stained ones I had long avoided,</p><p>but others were a sunny golden hue. Served with two small disks of lightly</p><p>crumb-crusted and fried chèvre over a bed of citrus-dressed arugula, they</p><p>humbled me.</p><p>I’ve now been eating beets for years and I don’t care what anyone says</p><p>—roasted beets are illuminated when paired with a creamy, tangy, buttery</p><p>cheese. Instead of the traditional goat, I like La Tur, a luscious Italian</p><p>number made from cow, sheep, and goat’s milk that’s oozy and silken at the</p><p>same time. If you want to stay slightly more classic, try Coupole, a triple</p><p>crème goat’s milk cheese from Vermont Creamery.</p><p>3 medium beets</p><p>1 shallot, very finely minced</p><p>3 tablespoons extra-virgin olive oil</p><p>1–2 tablespoons fresh orange juice, or to taste</p><p>Sea salt and freshly ground black pepper</p><p>½ cup raw pistachios</p><p>1 round triple crème cheese, like La Tur or Coupole</p><p>Fresh mint leaves (optional)</p><p>Preheat the oven to 400°F.</p><p>Cut the tops off the beets, leaving about 2" of stem (this helps keep them</p><p>from bleeding as they cook). Wrap each beet completely in foil and place</p><p>them on a baking sheet. Transfer to the oven and roast until a sharp knife</p><p>easily pierces the vegetable, about 1 hour depending on size. Remove the</p><p>beets from the oven and let cool.</p><p>Meanwhile, in a small lidded jar, combine the shallot, olive oil, orange</p><p>juice, salt, and pepper and shake to combine. Set aside.</p><p>When the beets can be handled, remove the foil, trim the tops and bottoms,</p><p>and peel (some people like to use gloves or paper towels for this, as beets</p><p>can stain your hands). When the beets are totally peeled, use a mandoline or</p><p>sharp knife to slice them into thin rounds.</p><p>Lay the beets in an overlapping fashion on a platter, drizzle with the</p><p>dressing, and sprinkle with the pistachios and mint, if using. Serve with the</p><p>cheese.</p><p>roasted brussels sprouts with pancetta and maple</p><p>pecans</p><p>Interstate 5, the highway that runs through the Central Valley of California,</p><p>isn’t the most romantic of roadways, but for me it holds a sense of dusty</p><p>nostalgia—a wide, flat expanse of blacktop pummeled by big-rig trucks and</p><p>pickups, dust kicking up behind wheels, and sprinklers the size of airplane</p><p>wings dousing the acres of fields that line both sides of the road. My</p><p>memories of that drive consist of searing hot days, the windows of our</p><p>Volvo station wagon open to hair-dryer hot gusts, and the mountains off in</p><p>the distance wobbling in a watery yellow sky.</p><p>But what I recall even more vividly is the sulfurous smell of the various</p><p>crops that would envelop the car at certain points along the way: the</p><p>powerful aroma of cabbage, broccoli, and Brussels sprouts, the perfume of</p><p>our state’s industry and identity. For miles at a time, the entire car would be</p><p>suffused by the smell of agriculture. To this day when I find Brussels</p><p>sprouts, usually only in the fall, I buy them on the stalk—there’s a Zen to be</p><p>found in popping off one at a time into a waiting bowl, and the pungent</p><p>smell is a quick, nostalgic jaunt back to those drives up the spine of my</p><p>home state.</p><p>1 cup pecans</p><p>1 tablespoon unsalted butter</p><p>1 tablespoon maple syrup</p><p>½ teaspoon sea salt, plus more to taste</p><p>1 tablespoon extra-virgin olive oil</p><p>¼ pound pancetta, cut into ¼" dice</p><p>1 pound Brussels sprouts, trimmed and quartered</p><p>1 tablespoon sherry vinegar, or more to taste</p><p>Preheat the oven to 400°F.</p><p>Spread the pecans on a baking sheet and roast until fragrant, 4 to 5 minutes.</p><p>In a small saucepan, melt the butter, then stir in the maple syrup and salt.</p><p>Pour the butter mixture over the hot nuts and toss to coat evenly. Set aside.</p><p>Meanwhile, in a large saucepan, heat the olive oil over medium-high heat.</p><p>Add the pancetta and cook, stirring occasionally, until the fat has rendered</p><p>and the pork is just beginning to color, 8 to 10 minutes.</p><p>Add the Brussels sprouts to the pancetta and cook until the sprouts are</p><p>bright green and crisp-tender, 3 to 4 minutes. Season as needed with salt,</p><p>add the vinegar, and toss well to combine. Toss with the reserved pecans</p><p>and serve.</p><p>moroccan spiced carrots</p><p>I don’t know a lot of people who won’t eat a raw carrot. The cooked carrot,</p><p>however, is another story. For every person who likes cooked carrots (I</p><p>count myself among that group), there always seems to be someone who</p><p>pushes them off to the side of their plate, like a child sent to the corner for</p><p>misbehaving.</p><p>I think one reason many people don’t like cooked carrots is because</p><p>they’ve only eaten bad ones—or to put it more delicately, overcooked ones.</p><p>An overcooked carrot loses its sweet character and turns mealy, torpid, and</p><p>depleted. A properly cooked carrot—braised, grilled, roasted, or sautéed—</p><p>maintains a subtle rigidity right at the core; whether the exterior is expertly</p><p>charred or gently glazed, the inside maintains a tender structure with soft,</p><p>nutty, caramel-y notes. With a properly cooked carrot, you can still taste the</p><p>essence of earth, and you know that what you’re eating was once rooted in</p><p>fertile and damp soil. The only trick to cooking perfect carrots is pulling</p><p>them out of the oven or off the heat when a sharp knife inserted into the</p><p>thickest part pierces the flesh but meets with a bit of resistance (for a lot of</p><p>us, that means 10 to 20 minutes earlier than usual). Shower your carrots in a</p><p>medley of Moroccan-inspired spices, douse with a bit of citrus, and cook</p><p>until just tender—with this approach, even dissenters will likely be swayed.</p><p>3 bunches baby carrots or small carrots (rainbow are nice)</p><p>3 tablespoons extra-virgin olive oil</p><p>1 teaspoon ground cinnamon</p><p>1 teaspoon ground cumin</p><p>½ teaspoon ground coriander</p><p>½ teaspoon red chili flakes</p><p>Pinch cayenne pepper, or more to taste</p><p>Sea salt</p><p>Grated zest and juice of 2 lemons or 2 oranges</p><p>Preheat the oven to 400°F.</p><p>Peel the carrots and trim their stems to about ½", leaving a bit of a handle at</p><p>the top.</p><p>Put the carrots on a rimmed baking sheet and drizzle with the olive oil.</p><p>Sprinkle the carrots with the cinnamon, cumin, coriander, chili flakes, and</p><p>cayenne and season with salt. Toss to coat evenly. Roast until the carrots are</p><p>just beginning to caramelize and color, about 15 minutes. Shake the carrots</p><p>around on the pan and let them cook until just tender, another 5 to 10</p><p>minutes.</p><p>Remove the carrots from the oven, sprinkle with the lemon zest and juice,</p><p>and transfer to a serving plate. Serve warm or at room temperature.</p><p>farmers’ market gratin</p><p>My idea of a gratin includes pretty much anything I can top with</p><p>breadcrumbs mixed with Parmesan cheese. I’m partial to wide, low baking</p><p>dishes or pans so that you get as much surface area for the breadcrumb</p><p>mixture as possible (as with a crumble, that’s the part everyone really wants</p><p>anyway). When I first started making this gratin, which is pretty much an</p><p>everything-in-the-kitchen-sink vegetable casserole, I made it in a rather</p><p>extravagant way and saved it mostly for company. It was certainly</p><p>impressive, but it was also a bit of a chore. I would slice all the vegetables</p><p>and roast them individually, drizzled with olive oil and sprinkled with salt</p><p>and pepper, in single layers on individual baking sheets until they were</p><p>tender and just brown. This took some time. After they cooled I would layer</p><p>them, one vegetable at a time, in concentric circles in a springform pan,</p><p>pressing down after each layer. Then I would bake the final terrine, because</p><p>that’s basically what it was, until the breadcrumb topping was golden and</p><p>the vegetables were warmed through. Releasing the vegetables from their</p><p>spring-loaded corset revealed</p><p>a many-layered torte that captured the flavor</p><p>of late summer.</p><p>Then one day Ken said, “Why don’t you just toss them all together raw</p><p>and bake them without all the fuss—wouldn’t that work?” “I suppose it</p><p>might,” I responded, finding his casual tone and cavalier idea somewhat</p><p>irksome and wondering why it hadn’t occurred to me before. So now I slice,</p><p>toss, and layer them loosely (not lavishly), adding the breadcrumbs halfway</p><p>through the baking so they don’t brown too fast. It’s not as stunning in</p><p>terms of presentation, but it takes a fraction of the time and effort, which is</p><p>really more suited for a late-summer dish anyway.</p><p>Extra-virgin olive oil, as needed</p><p>1 large Vidalia or other sweet onion, halved and thinly sliced</p><p>2 garlic cloves, roughly chopped</p><p>Sea salt and freshly ground black pepper</p><p>1 medium eggplant, cut crosswise into ¼"-thick disks</p><p>2 medium zucchini, cut into ¼"-thick disks</p><p>2 yellow summer squash, cut into ¼"-thick disks</p><p>3 Roma (plum) tomatoes, cut into ¼"-thick disks</p><p>4–5 sprigs fresh oregano or thyme, leaves picked</p><p>2 cups homemade breadcrumbs</p><p>1 cup finely grated Parmesan cheese</p><p>¼ teaspoon red chili flakes</p><p>In a large pan over high heat, add enough olive oil to generously coat the</p><p>bottom, 2 to 3 tablespoons. When the oil shimmers, add the onion and</p><p>garlic, sprinkle with salt and pepper, and reduce the heat to medium. Cook,</p><p>stirring frequently, until the onion begins to color, about 10 minutes. If the</p><p>pan seems dry, add an extra tablespoon of oil.</p><p>When the onions are golden brown on the edges or begin to stick to the pan,</p><p>stir in ¼ cup or so of water and continue to cook until the liquid evaporates</p><p>and the onions are very tender and have melded together in a tangle,</p><p>another 10 minutes. Set aside.</p><p>Preheat the oven to 375°F.</p><p>Meanwhile, in a large bowl, toss the eggplant, zucchini, and summer squash</p><p>with enough olive oil to coat everything lightly (½ cup or so). Sprinkle with</p><p>salt and pepper and toss again. In a large, wide gratin dish—round, oval, or</p><p>rectangular—begin layering the vegetables so they partially overlap like</p><p>fish scales: Start with a layer of eggplant, then zucchini, summer squash,</p><p>and then tomatoes. Drape half of the caramelized onions over the tomatoes,</p><p>sprinkle with some of the herbs, and repeat the layers again. Don’t worry if</p><p>you’re short on some of the vegetables; just keep working until all are used</p><p>up.</p><p>Transfer the dish to the oven and bake until the vegetables become tender,</p><p>release their juices, and brown a bit on top, about 45 minutes.</p><p>Meanwhile, in a medium bowl, combine the breadcrumbs, Parmesan, and</p><p>chili flakes with a few good glugs of olive oil. Season with salt and pepper</p><p>and toss to combine.</p><p>Spread the breadcrumb mixture over the partially cooked vegetables and</p><p>return the dish to the oven. Cook until the top is nicely golden and bubbling</p><p>at the edges, another 10 to 15 minutes. Remove from the oven and serve hot</p><p>or at room temperature.</p><p>Spanish-Sstyle Shrimp with Chile</p><p>spanish-style shrimp with chile</p><p>Ken and I had landed in Seville on an unexpectedly chilly November</p><p>afternoon. Delivered by a taxi that rumbled along the curvy cobblestone</p><p>streets, we arrived at our hotel, an old mansion right in the center of the</p><p>town, and found ourselves in a high-beamed room with embroidered cotton</p><p>sheets on the bed and wide clay tiles on the floor. Upon opening the</p><p>window, we were met with a horizon line of rooftops, stucco in every color</p><p>from putty to persimmon. The crisp air wafted in, carrying with it the scent</p><p>of Seville oranges and helping us bat back the fatigue that lurked behind our</p><p>eyes.</p><p>A quick shower and change of clothes later, we set out in search of that</p><p>odd-houred meal travelers always seem to need: the one too late to be lunch</p><p>but far too early to qualify as dinner, especially in a country where they</p><p>don’t even leave the house before 8 in the evening. Wandering the narrow</p><p>alleyways that constituted streets, we found our way to a bar. Amber-</p><p>colored hams with glossy black hooves dangled from a rack above, and a</p><p>thick potato-filled tortilla, slices already missing, sat on the counter and</p><p>beckoned us to stay a while. With glasses of woodsy red wine before us, we</p><p>ordered a half ración of the local Ibérico ham, a slice of the tortilla, and a</p><p>dish of gambas al ajillo—sweet, garlicky, smoky shrimp that arrived in a</p><p>low terra-cotta dish, the olive oil still bubbling like liquid gold. With a</p><p>basket of warm bread for sopping and a dish of buttery green olives, this</p><p>was the post-flight, pre-adventure, midday grazing meal we needed.</p><p>4 garlic cloves, peeled</p><p>20–24 medium shrimp, peeled and deveined</p><p>½ cup extra-virgin olive oil</p><p>Sea salt and freshly ground black pepper</p><p>½ teaspoon pimentón (smoked paprika)</p><p>Generous pinch red chili flakes</p><p>1 teaspoon sherry vinegar</p><p>2–3 sprigs fresh Italian parsley, leaves picked</p><p>Rustic bread</p><p>Grate the garlic into a bowl large enough to hold the shrimp. Add the</p><p>shrimp and ¼ cup of the olive oil, season with salt and pepper, and let sit</p><p>for 15 minutes or so.</p><p>When you’re ready to cook, in a large skillet, heat the remaining ¼ cup</p><p>olive oil over high heat. When the oil is hot, add the shrimp, grated garlic,</p><p>and any oil in the bowl along with the pimentón and chili flakes. Cook,</p><p>tossing and stirring constantly, until the shrimp are pink and just cooked</p><p>through, about 3 minutes. Add the vinegar and toss to combine. Garnish</p><p>with the parsley and serve with the bread for sopping up any juices.</p><p>asian-inspired crab cakes with soy-lime dipping</p><p>sauce</p><p>A good crab cake can be hard to find. The ones you get at restaurants tend</p><p>to be loaded with more mayonnaise and breadcrumbs than crab, which of</p><p>course is not the point; a really good crab cake should be mostly crab. Or in</p><p>this case, mostly crab with a bit of shrimp. The shrimp does two jobs here:</p><p>First, it gets blitzed up to act as the binder (no mayo needed), and second,</p><p>its sweet flavor enhances the crab so you find yourself with a turbo-charged</p><p>crab cake, the oceanic shellfish flavor boosted rather than muted. Dressed</p><p>up with traditional Asian flavors (chile, scallion, cilantro, and ginger), these</p><p>are not the crab cakes your guests are expecting. I make these quite small—</p><p>only a couple of inches in diameter, as they really are the epitome of finger</p><p>food.</p><p>6 medium shrimp, peeled and deveined</p><p>1 teaspoon Thai fish sauce</p><p>1 pound lump crabmeat, picked over for shells</p><p>1 large egg</p><p>¼ cup chopped scallion</p><p>¼ cup chopped fresh cilantro</p><p>1 small fresh chile, minced</p><p>1 teaspoon minced fresh ginger</p><p>¼ cup homemade breadcrumbs</p><p>Sea salt and freshly ground black pepper</p><p>¼ cup soy sauce</p><p>Grated zest and juice of 2 limes</p><p>1 tablespoon toasted sesame oil</p><p>¼ cup peanut or vegetable oil, plus more as needed</p><p>½ cup all-purpose flour</p><p>In a small food processor, puree the shrimp until you have a smooth paste,</p><p>then add the fish sauce. Transfer to a medium bowl and add the crab, egg,</p><p>scallion, cilantro, chile, ginger, and breadcrumbs. Season with salt and</p><p>pepper and refrigerate for about 30 minutes so it’s easier to handle.</p><p>Meanwhile, in a small bowl, combine the soy sauce, lime zest and juice,</p><p>and sesame oil. Whisk well and set aside.</p><p>When the crab mixture is stiff enough to handle, shape into small disks</p><p>about 2" in diameter; return the cakes to the fridge for a few minutes to set</p><p>up again.</p><p>In a large skillet, heat the peanut oil over high heat. When the oil shimmers,</p><p>dredge the cakes in the flour. Fry the cakes, reducing the heat as necessary</p><p>to prevent burning, and turning once, until nicely browned on both sides,</p><p>about 8 minutes total. Serve with the dipping sauce.</p><p>grilled sardines with meyer lemons</p><p>I spent a week once with my friend Jackie toodling around Corsica, a small</p><p>French island in the Mediterranean off the coast of Nice, a stone’s throw</p><p>from Sardinia. A craggy, mountainous place, Corsica harbors flavors of</p><p>both the countries that shoulder it, yet it has a rustic individuality all its</p><p>own. Our first day on this island, we headed down the thread-thin coastal</p><p>road</p><p>that skims Cap Corse, en route to a place we’d read about in the</p><p>guidebook called the Les Calanques de Piana. Not sure what to expect, we</p><p>were riveted by the eroded granite rocks that spun skyward out of the earth</p><p>and down into the sea below, a ragged wall of crag that changed color as the</p><p>sun moved, appearing a rich salmon pink one moment, then burnt clay the</p><p>next. Transfixed by Mother Nature’s architecture, we decided to stay in</p><p>Piana, winding our way to the sole hotel in town, a sweeping palace of a</p><p>place called Hôtel Les Roches Rouges. This grand arch-windowed and</p><p>column-laden structure was perched on the edge of a cliff, the wide terrace</p><p>hanging precariously over the sea. It was a bit down at the heels, a shadow</p><p>of what it must have been at one point, but stunning nonetheless.</p><p>When we arrived, a few older men sat drinking Pernod in the sun,</p><p>women in floppy hats sipped the local pink wine, and Jackie and I pinched</p><p>ourselves for having stumbled into something out of another time. That first</p><p>night, in a dining room that harkened back to days when people dressed for</p><p>dinner, we shared the bouillabaisse as the waiter had recommended. It was</p><p>so salty as to be almost inedible, so we ate the bread and drank wine</p><p>instead. The next day, being a few hours wiser, we ate at a beachside</p><p>restaurant, sharing more of the pink wine along with a salad of green beans,</p><p>tomatoes, and hard-boiled egg, a generous wedge of the local sheep’s milk</p><p>cheese, and a platter of perfectly grilled sardines, just pulled from the sea.</p><p>See photograph.</p><p>¼ cup extra-virgin olive oil</p><p>Grated zest and juice of 2 Meyer lemons, plus 4 whole Meyer</p><p>lemons</p><p>8 whole fresh sardines, cleaned, head and tails removed if you</p><p>prefer</p><p>Sea salt and freshly ground black pepper</p><p>Heat a grill or grill pan until very hot. In a small bowl, mix the olive oil and</p><p>lemon zest and juice together and brush over the sardines. Season with salt</p><p>and pepper.</p><p>Halve the remaining 4 lemons. When the grill is hot, add the fish and lemon</p><p>halves, face down. Cook the fish until nicely lined on both sides and cooked</p><p>through, 3 to 4 minutes per side. Cook the lemons until well charred. Serve</p><p>the sardines with the charred lemons for squeezing.</p><p>Summer Spiced Crab Cakes with Basil Aioli</p><p>summer spiced crab cakes with basil aioli</p><p>Before we embarked on buying our perpetual fixer-upper of a cottage in</p><p>Connecticut, Ken and I used to rent a small place every summer on the</p><p>coast of Rhode Island. A little Craftsman, it sat on a shimmering cobalt lake</p><p>just a stone’s throw from the front patio. By walking down across the grass</p><p>and through a forest of rhododendrons, all tortured and bent to form a</p><p>shadowy tunnel, you were led to a dock adorned with nothing more than</p><p>two Adirondack chairs, our annual beacon after a year in the city. Creatures</p><p>of habit that we are, each year we would arrive, drop our stuff, and head to</p><p>the local market for provisions so that we could spend at least the next day</p><p>not having to leave the lake if we so chose. Beyond the local corn,</p><p>tomatoes, fish, and Brickley’s chocolate almond and coconut ice cream, we</p><p>also always procured a pound of fresh crab. As was our habit, the next day</p><p>we would make these Old Bay–spiked crab cakes for lunch, an unstated</p><p>declaration that yes, we were officially on vacation.</p><p>1 pound lump crabmeat, picked over for shells</p><p>4 scallions, minced</p><p>3 sprigs fresh cilantro, leaves picked and chopped</p><p>1½ teaspoons Old Bay seasoning</p><p>¼ cup homemade breadcrumbs</p><p>¼ cup mayonnaise</p><p>Sea salt and freshly ground black pepper</p><p>1 large egg, plus 1 large yolk</p><p>½ cup extra-virgin olive oil</p><p>1 tablespoon Dijon mustard</p><p>Juice of ½ lemon</p><p>2 teaspoons white wine vinegar</p><p>Good handful fresh basil leaves</p><p>¼ cup vegetable oil, or more as needed</p><p>½ cup all-purpose flour</p><p>In a bowl, combine the crab, scallions, cilantro, Old Bay, breadcrumbs, and</p><p>mayonnaise. Season with salt and pepper. Add the whole egg and mix</p><p>gently. Divide into patties, about 3 ounces each. Chill until set and easy to</p><p>handle, about 30 minutes.</p><p>While the cakes chill, in a blender or small food processor, combine the</p><p>olive oil, mustard, lemon juice, vinegar, egg yolk, and basil. Puree until</p><p>very smooth, then taste and season with salt and pepper. Set aside.</p><p>In a large skillet, heat the vegetable oil over medium-high heat. Dredge the</p><p>cakes in the flour. Reduce the heat to medium and fry the cakes until nicely</p><p>browned, about 3 minutes per side. Serve with the basil aioli.</p><p>lemon-tarragon chicken skewers</p><p>Ken and I once spent a year living in a small town on the coast of</p><p>Connecticut. We rented an old house with a garden and a slim view of the</p><p>water, and in the evenings, we’d watch the gulls dip and dive over the</p><p>sailboats. We idled as the sun slipped away, watching as the light turned to a</p><p>watercolor wash of pink and blue, the shade that colors the insides of</p><p>seashells and only seems to happen by the ocean.</p><p>At the time, we were not only discovering the pleasures of living at the</p><p>beach, but also attempting to be gardeners. Among our early efforts was an</p><p>herb garden, or what I liked to think of as an herb “walk,” as we had</p><p>planted a variety of different herbs alongside a path we cut near the</p><p>vegetable patch we’d started (we were naively ambitious with our early</p><p>adventures). This walk was no more than a collection of mismatched flat</p><p>stones we’d found in the shed and laid to create a footpath, but my hope</p><p>was that the herbs would take off and the whole length of stones would</p><p>have that rambling lush but manicured English garden effect.</p><p>That didn’t quite work out as I’d envisioned, but the rosemary, oregano,</p><p>and mint did run wild in the sea air. Sadly, the tarragon never really</p><p>flourished; instead, it crept slowly along, providing just enough for me to</p><p>continually clip off the leggy strands, pluck the silken leaves, and use it for</p><p>cooking. With this tender, licorice-flavored herb on hand, one of our</p><p>favorite dinners was chicken marinated in lemon and tarragon. Barely a</p><p>recipe, I know; it’s more a suggestion for marrying flavors meant for one</p><p>another.</p><p>¼ cup extra-virgin olive oil</p><p>Juice of 1 lemon</p><p>1 small bunch fresh tarragon, leaves picked and chopped (about ¼</p><p>cup)</p><p>1 pound chicken tenders (or breasts cut lengthwise into 1"-thick</p><p>strips)</p><p>Sea salt and freshly ground black pepper</p><p>At least 1 hour before you want to cook, in a wide baking dish or bowl,</p><p>combine the olive oil, lemon juice, and tarragon. Add the chicken, season</p><p>generously with salt and pepper, and toss well to combine. You want the</p><p>tarragon to really stick to the meat. Cover the dish with plastic wrap and</p><p>refrigerate for at least 1 hour or up to 8 hours.</p><p>When you’re ready to cook, remove the chicken from the fridge and let it</p><p>come to room temperature while you heat a grill or grill pan to high.</p><p>Thread each piece of chicken lengthwise onto a skewer. Cook until grill</p><p>marks appear on both sides and the chicken is cooked through, 5 to 7</p><p>minutes total. Transfer to a serving platter.</p><p>Roasted Cherry Tomatoes in Olive Oil | Creamy Fava Beans with Olive Oil and Goat Cheese |</p><p>Zucchini Ribbons with Herbed Goat Cheese | Armenian-Spiced Baby Lamb Chops with Yogurt and</p><p>Mint</p><p>armenian-spiced baby lamb chops with yogurt</p><p>and mint</p><p>I found a slim, red, spiral-bound cookbook at a thrift shop once called</p><p>Treasured Armenian Recipes. It was from the early ’70s, and it caught my</p><p>eye because a friend of Armenian descent had recently thrown a cocktail</p><p>party and had made a platter of baby lamb chops that were ridiculously</p><p>good. The recipe, she said, was her mother’s. When I found the little book, I</p><p>thought it would be fun to give to her, but upon showing it to her, she said,</p><p>“That’s the book my mom cooks from. I have it.” And so I kept it. It’s one</p><p>of those old community cookbooks, a collection of recipes handed down</p><p>from cook to cook.</p><p>About the same time I found this book, my dad mentioned one he’d</p><p>recently read—Passage to Ararat by Michael Arlen, which traces a son’s</p><p>journey back to Armenia to discover what his father and family left</p><p>behind</p><p>when they emigrated to the States. I immediately bought it. And while this</p><p>recipe isn’t adapted from either of these books, it is inspired by both.</p><p>2 tablespoons cumin seeds</p><p>1 tablespoon fennel seeds</p><p>1 tablespoon coriander seeds</p><p>1½ teaspoons sea salt, plus more as needed</p><p>1 tablespoon freshly ground black pepper</p><p>2 garlic cloves, finely minced</p><p>Extra-virgin olive oil 12 lamb rib chops</p><p>1 cup whole-milk Greek yogurt</p><p>Grated zest and juice of ½ lemon</p><p>2 sprigs fresh mint, leaves picked and chopped</p><p>Combine the cumin, fennel, and coriander seeds in a mortar and crush well</p><p>with a pestle (or put them in a small plastic bag, seal, and smash with a</p><p>rolling pin or the bottom of a pan). When the spices are well combined,</p><p>transfer them to a small bowl and add the salt, pepper, garlic, and enough</p><p>olive oil to make a loose paste.</p><p>Heat a grill pan or grill until very hot. Rub the lamb chops evenly with the</p><p>spice paste, coating both sides of each chop well. Cook the chops until grill</p><p>marks appear and the meat releases easily, about 5 minutes. Turn the chops</p><p>and cook for another 2 to 3 minutes for medium-rare. Remove from the heat</p><p>and let rest.</p><p>In a bowl, mix the yogurt, lemon zest and juice, mint, and salt to taste.</p><p>Serve the chops with the yogurt on the side.</p><p>worth the effort</p><p>The beauty of grazing is how easy—or involved—it can be. There is a</p><p>time and place for the simple antipasti, ingredients rummaged from the</p><p>fridge and pantry and set on a board strewn with well-chosen cheese</p><p>and charcuterie. And then there are the times when you want to make</p><p>something that requires a bit more energy, something that demands</p><p>rolling or kneading, some slow simmering or deep frying. For those</p><p>days, when you want to get lost in the kitchen for a while and emerge</p><p>with fat-topped jars of pâté or cups of soothing stew, these are your</p><p>recipes.</p><p>Red Onion and Raspberry Jam</p><p>Flaky Cheddar Biscuits with Heirloom Tomatoes and Peaches</p><p>Creamy Chicken Liver Pâté with (or without) Red Onion and Raspberry</p><p>Jam on Brioche</p><p>Duck Rillettes on Toast</p><p>Herb-Scented Gougères (aka Cheesepuffs)</p><p>Spanish Tortilla with Sweet Onion and Thyme</p><p>A Trio of Tartlettes (Smoked Salmon & Asparagus, Prosciutto with Tomato</p><p>& Basil, and Crab with Tarragon)</p><p>Braised Leeks with Lemon-Dijon Vinaigrette</p><p>Barely-Battered Squid with Old Bay Mayo</p><p>Crispy Asparagus and Shallots</p><p>Asparagus and Herb Frittata Bites</p><p>Kale, Spinach, and Pecorino Pizza Slivers</p><p>Potato and Thyme with Taleggio Pizzettes</p><p>Chickpea Fries with Meyer Lemon–Scented Aioli</p><p>Polenta Cakes with Shiitake Mushrooms, Roasted Garlic, and Thyme</p><p>Deep-Fried Artichokes and Crispy Lemons</p><p>Cassoulet Cups with Duck, Sausage, and Zucchini</p><p>Shredded Potato Cakes with Ramps</p><p>Shrimp-Studded Rice Paper Rolls and Peanut Dipping Sauce</p><p>red onion and raspberry jam</p><p>“Have I taught you nothing?” he says to me, maybe halfway in jest, as he</p><p>resets my grip. Yes, I have already forgotten what I’ve spent the better part</p><p>of 20 years learning—in yoga, when you bind in side angle pose, the wrist</p><p>of the hand wrapping around your back should be gripped by the hand</p><p>scooping up from under your ribcage. The idea is to open your shoulder by</p><p>pulling down, not up. I know this in my head, but my muscle memory is</p><p>lacking sometimes, or maybe it’s my focus that’s wobbly, or my ever-</p><p>present impatience that’s throwing me off. No matter, with his light touch,</p><p>my patient teacher corrects me—again. I’ve been practicing yoga for a long</p><p>time now, but I am still no closer to conquering flying crow or a forearm</p><p>stand than I was on day one. Yet I keep trying.</p><p>Cooking is a lot like yoga. It’s as much about the process as the final</p><p>product; it’s about being as present at the stove as you are at the table.</p><p>There’s a soul-soothing peacefulness in the kneading of bread, a healthy</p><p>degree of focus needed to not burn nuts or overcook an egg, and yes, a Zen</p><p>calm to be captured in the repetitive slicing of onions. All these little tasks</p><p>are part of daily practice, part of what makes being in the kitchen so</p><p>worthwhile—these acts force me to connect with myself in a way that</p><p>matters, regardless of what the outcome is.</p><p>This jam is a practice in kitchen yoga for me because every step</p><p>requires some patience, focus, and repetition. The slicing of the red onions</p><p>into slender half-moons, sweating them slowly until they begin to wilt as</p><p>though exuding a deep sigh of exhaustion, and then, the continued stirring</p><p>of the pot until a rich magenta tangle that’s both tart and sweet begins to</p><p>emerge. It’s an excuse to let everything else around you vanish for a bit (the</p><p>process), while also creating a delicious condiment that makes almost</p><p>anything it touches taste better (the outcome). I like to think of it as onion</p><p>jam pose. See photograph.</p><p>¼ cup extra-virgin olive oil</p><p>2 large red onions, peeled and cut into thin half-moons</p><p>Sea salt</p><p>¼ cup raspberry vinegar, or more to taste</p><p>In a large skillet, heat the olive oil over medium-high heat until</p><p>shimmering. Add the onions, sprinkle with salt, and reduce the heat to</p><p>medium-low. Cook, stirring occasionally, until they are very soft but not</p><p>coloring, 10 to 15 minutes.</p><p>Add the vinegar and continue to cook, stirring, until the onions begin to</p><p>break down and meld together, another 20 minutes or so. Taste and adjust</p><p>the seasoning, adding more vinegar or salt if needed. When the onions are</p><p>the consistency of jam, remove them from the heat, let cool completely, and</p><p>transfer to an airtight container for up to 2 weeks.</p><p>flaky cheddar biscuits with heirloom tomatoes and</p><p>peaches</p><p>When July and August, and yes, even September come around, I do as little</p><p>cooking as possible—it’s more about picking and choosing, slicing and</p><p>chopping, a bit of grilling and a lot of sipping. Because when the farmers’</p><p>market is overflowing with tomatoes of every kind and baskets of fuzzy,</p><p>lusciously ripe peaches abound, the cook becomes sort of irrelevant. Which</p><p>is why I have the good sense to do nothing more than gather up a bagful of</p><p>each and obey as these strong-willed and sensual orbs beg me to let them</p><p>live together in some manner of mingling.</p><p>Some days, when it’s just a couple of us and everyone is happy to grab a</p><p>fork and dip into the same bowl, I’ll roughly chop up the tomatoes and</p><p>peaches and toss them with slivered red onion and cilantro, dousing it all</p><p>with lemon juice for a rustic salad. But when Ken has his way, both fruits</p><p>are sliced and slipped into the middle of a freshly baked tender cheddar</p><p>biscuit. Flaky, buttery, and rich, these mottled biscuits absorb all the soft,</p><p>honeyed juices of the peaches while the dewy seeds from the tomato cling</p><p>to the crumb. Think of it as sweet-and-savory shortcake, if you will.</p><p>1½ cups all-purpose flour, plus more for dusting</p><p>2 teaspoons baking powder</p><p>½ teaspoon baking soda</p><p>½ teaspoon sea salt</p><p>1 cup finely grated sharp cheddar cheese</p><p>½ stick (4 tablespoons) cold (or better, frozen) unsalted butter</p><p>1 cup heavy cream</p><p>2 large heirloom tomatoes, sliced</p><p>2 large peaches, sliced</p><p>Preheat the oven to 425°F. Line a baking sheet with parchment paper.</p><p>In a large bowl, combine the flour, baking powder, baking soda, salt, and</p><p>cheddar. Using the large holes of a box grater, grate the butter into the bowl.</p><p>Using your fingers, blend the mixture together until it resembles coarse</p><p>meal—be sure not to overwork the mixture; some larger pieces of butter are</p><p>fine.</p><p>Add the cream to the bowl and mix until thoroughly combined. Transfer the</p><p>dough to a lightly floured work surface and pat into an 8" round. Use a 2" to</p><p>3" biscuit cutter to cut into biscuits and transfer to the prepared baking</p><p>sheet. Gather the scraps, pat out, and cut more biscuits.</p><p>Bake the biscuits until lightly browned and puffed, about 15 minutes. Let</p><p>cool for a few minutes, then split the biscuits horizontally and fill each with</p><p>a slice of tomato and a few peach slices. Top with the remaining biscuit half</p><p>and serve immediately.</p><p>creamy chicken liver pâté with (or without) red</p><p>onion and raspberry jam on brioche</p><p>In my very early 20s, when I first</p><p>started trying to cook dishes I thought of</p><p>as sophisticated and worldly; when I began spending Saturdays making the</p><p>Silver Palate’s coq au vin, Julia Child’s boeuf bourguignon, and Time-Life’s</p><p>cannelloni; long before culinary school; back when my idea of becoming a</p><p>good cook meant tackling recipes demanding complicated trussing</p><p>techniques and cheesecloth-bound bundles of fresh herbs, I knew that pâté</p><p>had to work its way into my repertoire. Luckily, I was also smart enough to</p><p>know that good pâté is all about the sweet, fatty flavor of the livers,</p><p>accentuated but not overwhelmed by other ingredients.</p><p>This is my idea of a perfect pâté: onions and butter and thyme and</p><p>brandy and cream and lots of freshly ground pepper all blitzed up to bring</p><p>out the best in the livers (and if you happen to have duck instead of chicken</p><p>on hand, all the luckier for you). I think you’ll find this is sublime smeared</p><p>on brioche (or anything, really), but I can’t help suggesting you top it with a</p><p>tiny bit of Red Onion and Raspberry Jam if you have it. See photograph.</p><p>1 stick (8 tablespoons) unsalted butter, at room temperature</p><p>1 onion, chopped</p><p>1 pound chicken livers</p><p>Sea salt</p><p>⅓ cup heavy cream</p><p>1 tablespoon fresh thyme leaves</p><p>Freshly ground black pepper</p><p>2–3 tablespoons brandy</p><p>1 loaf brioche bread</p><p>Red Onion and Raspberry Jam (optional)</p><p>In a medium skillet, melt 2 tablespoons of the butter over medium-high</p><p>heat. Add the onion and cook until softened but not coloring, about 4</p><p>minutes. Add the livers to the pan, sprinkle with salt, and cook until the</p><p>livers begin to brown, about 3 minutes. Flip and cook on the other side. You</p><p>want the outside to brown but the inside to stay relatively pink. If you’re not</p><p>sure about how the livers are cooking, cut into one and check.</p><p>Transfer the livers, onion, and all the buttery juices to a food processor.</p><p>(Reserve the skillet.) Add 4 tablespoons of the butter, the cream, thyme, and</p><p>a good bit of pepper to the processor and puree until smooth.</p><p>Add the brandy to the skillet you fried the livers in and set it over high heat</p><p>to deglaze and cook off some of the alcohol. Then add the brandy to the</p><p>puree and pulse a few times to combine.</p><p>Set a fine-mesh sieve over a large bowl. Pour the liver puree into the sieve</p><p>(you may have to work in batches depending on the size of your sieve) and</p><p>use a rubber spatula to press the mixture through the sieve. Then do it again</p><p>—I know it’s a pain, but it’s worth it for a truly perfect pâté without a hint</p><p>of any grainy bits. Once the mixture is velvety smooth, transfer to a wide-</p><p>mouth jar. Smooth the top.</p><p>In a small pan, melt the remaining 2 tablespoons butter over low heat and</p><p>spoon off any foam. Pour the melted butter over the top of the pâté (this will</p><p>keep the livers from discoloring), cover, and refrigerate to set up, ideally</p><p>overnight.</p><p>To serve, cut the brioche into ¼"- to ½"-thick slices and halve on the</p><p>diagonal. Toast until the slices just begin to color.</p><p>Remove the hardened butter seal from the top of the pâté and smear each</p><p>toast with a bit of the pâté (once the butter seal is broken, you can keep the</p><p>pâté sealed in the jar for a couple days).</p><p>Serve the pâté with the brioche toasts and, if desired, top with a bit of Red</p><p>Onion and Raspberry Jam.</p><p>Duck Rillettes on Toast, top right | Chicken Liver Pâté with (or without) Red Onion and Raspberry</p><p>Jam, bottom right | Red Onion and Raspberry Jam, left center</p><p>duck rillettes on toast</p><p>This is my holiday go-to, party-pleasing culinary coup. Rillettes and pâté</p><p>are those homemade treats that people seem to think are really difficult to</p><p>make, when in fact they’re not. With the advent of really good duck confit</p><p>now available in most decent grocery stores (or easily ordered by your</p><p>butcher), you don’t need to buy a whole duck and spend 2 days making the</p><p>confit in order to make rillettes (yes, another shortcut, but one I’m not even</p><p>a little embarrassed to take). My friend Daniel taught me how to get the</p><p>consistency of rillettes just right by using the paddle attachment on my</p><p>stand mixer. The paddle gently breaks down the meat and perfectly creams</p><p>it with the rendered fat. I’ve added the zest and juice of a clementine (you</p><p>can use any sweet citrus, but come Christmas, the time of year I’m most</p><p>driven to make rillettes, those squat spheres, the smallest of the mandarins,</p><p>always seem to be lurking in the fruit bowl as symbols of the season, so</p><p>why not?), lots of fresh thyme, a splash of brandy, and just a hint of Dijon</p><p>mustard. Decadent? Definitely, but that’s the point. Don’t forget the</p><p>Champagne.</p><p>2 duck legs confit</p><p>¼ cup softened duck fat, plus more as needed</p><p>3–4 sprigs fresh thyme, leaves picked</p><p>Grated zest of 1 clementine or other small orange, plus 1 tablespoon</p><p>juice</p><p>1 teaspoon Dijon mustard</p><p>1 teaspoon brandy</p><p>Sea salt and freshly ground black pepper</p><p>Baguette, sliced and toasted, for serving</p><p>Remove the meat from the duck legs, separating any excess fat and</p><p>discarding the bones. (I save the fat to melt down for frying potatoes and</p><p>use store-bought fat for the rillettes, as the 2 duck legs don’t usually provide</p><p>enough.)</p><p>Transfer the meat to a stand mixer fitted with the paddle attachment. Add</p><p>the duck fat and mix on medium speed until the meat begins to shred, about</p><p>2 minutes. Add the thyme, clementine zest and juice, mustard, and brandy</p><p>and continue to mix until the meat is finely shredded and fully combined</p><p>with the fat; it should be spreadable in consistency. If you want it creamier,</p><p>add a bit more fat, but go slowly, as it can get too fatty. Season with salt and</p><p>pepper, taste, and adjust the seasoning as needed.</p><p>Transfer the rillettes to an airtight jar, pack tightly, and smooth the top. Melt</p><p>an additional tablespoon or so of duck fat over low heat and pour the fat</p><p>over the top of the rillettes to create a seal. Cover the jar and keep</p><p>refrigerated; serve with toasts.</p><p>herb-scented gougères</p><p>(aka cheesepuffs)</p><p>Ken and I were driving around Burgundy a few years ago. We were en route</p><p>to meet my parents in Paris for a week and decided to tack on a few days in</p><p>the region where some of our favorite wines are made. Our first stop was</p><p>just outside Chablis, where a Dutch couple had renovated a magnificent old</p><p>estate and turned it into a quietly elegant hotel with acres of vegetable</p><p>gardens, fruit orchards, horses, cows, chickens—well, you get it. Being off-</p><p>season, we happily found that we had the place to ourselves; it was as</p><p>though this sprawling and enchanting spot had been reserved just for us to</p><p>wander and discover without a trace of humanity beyond the owner</p><p>trimming his hedges off in the distance, two setters swirling madly around</p><p>his boots.</p><p>After a long walk and a short nap, the owners kindly invited us to join</p><p>them for an aperitif. While we both tend to avoid socializing when</p><p>traveling, and were sufficiently jet-lagged to have legitimately said no, we</p><p>were swayed by the dreamy quality of the day. Wandering down to what</p><p>they misleadingly called the lounge—a stone room the size of a barn with</p><p>20-foot sliding glass doors left open to the courtyard beyond, meticulously</p><p>decorated in French chic with a fireplace tall enough for me to stand in—we</p><p>found flutes of the local bubbly and our hostess’s homemade gougères</p><p>awaiting. The fizz from the wine went right to our time-addled heads, but</p><p>the buttery golden puffs of pâte à choux were sobering. These little puffs of</p><p>pastry were crisp on the outside with a soft, custard-like bite and just a</p><p>whisper of cheese. Full of air, they teased and left us wanting more. So I</p><p>couldn’t help but try and recreate them for us back at home. Of course, it’s</p><p>hard to replicate something you’ve tasted so briefly, no matter how you try</p><p>to memorize the texture and flavor; it’s often not the recipe but the</p><p>experience as a whole that you’re craving . . . but it’s always worth a try.</p><p>1 cup water</p><p>1 stick (8 tablespoons) unsalted butter, cut into small pieces</p><p>½ teaspoon sea salt</p><p>1 cup all-purpose flour</p><p>4–5 large eggs</p><p>1½ cups finely grated Parmesan cheese,</p><p>sharp white cheddar</p><p>cheese, or a mix</p><p>3 sprigs fresh thyme, leaves picked</p><p>Preheat the oven to 400°F. Line two rimmed baking sheets with parchment</p><p>paper.</p><p>In a large saucepan, combine the water, butter, and salt and bring to a boil</p><p>over high heat. Reduce the heat to medium so the mixture simmers. Add the</p><p>flour and cook, stirring constantly with a wooden spoon, until the mixture</p><p>pulls away from the sides of the pan, about 2 minutes.</p><p>Remove the pan from the heat and cool for a few minutes (you don’t want</p><p>the mixture so hot that the eggs begin to cook when you add them). Add 1</p><p>egg at a time, beating well after each addition, until you’ve added 4 of the</p><p>eggs. Every time you add an egg, the dough will seem to separate, but it</p><p>will come back together as you beat. You want the batter to be very shiny</p><p>and smooth, and it should fall in slow ribbons from your spoon. If the batter</p><p>seems too stiff, beat the remaining egg in a small bowl and add it, a</p><p>spoonful at a time, while continuing to stir until you reach the desired</p><p>consistency. When the dough just holds soft peaks and falls nicely from the</p><p>spoon, stir in the cheese and thyme.</p><p>Fill a pastry bag fitted with a ½" plain tip with the dough and pipe out 1"</p><p>rounds on the lined baking sheets, leaving an inch or so between them.</p><p>Bake for 15 minutes, then switch the position of the baking sheets. Bake</p><p>until the gougères are puffed and beginning to color and crisp (they should</p><p>sound hollow when tapped on the bottom), another 15 minutes. Remove</p><p>from the oven and turn off the heat.</p><p>Being careful not to burn yourself, use a skewer or sharp paring knife to</p><p>make a small hole or cut in the bottom of each gougère and return them to</p><p>the oven for another 5 minutes (this will allow the inside to crisp a bit and</p><p>prevent deflating). Serve hot.</p><p>spanish tortilla with sweet onion and thyme</p><p>It doesn’t happen very often, but every now and again I wake up in the</p><p>middle of the night starving, ravenous, aching for a meal like I haven’t</p><p>eaten in days, as though I hadn’t just had dinner a few hours ago. This</p><p>hunger is strange because it feels so pure, so much like true hunger, not the</p><p>“it’s time for dinner” kind of hunger or the “I haven’t eaten for a few hours</p><p>so I’m peckish” post-lunch sort, but the kind that leaves your insides</p><p>waning, your stomach physically tugging inward. It’s the kind you</p><p>experience after a long-haul flight (altitude always leaves me hungry) or</p><p>following a day at the beach, caressed by the sun and water, your body</p><p>depleted by the elements and desperate for something to restore it. When I</p><p>get this strange nocturnal longing for food, what I want is very specific: a</p><p>slice of Spanish tortilla.</p><p>Appropriately enough, I first tasted a Spanish tortilla in Spain, but since</p><p>then I’ve eaten them almost solely in the comfort of my own kitchen.</p><p>Through my research and various trials and errors, I discovered that the</p><p>secret to a transcendent tortilla is the largely overlooked step of soaking the</p><p>cooked potatoes in the egg mixture for at least 15 minutes before beginning</p><p>to fry the final dish. By soaking the softened potatoes and onions, you allow</p><p>the flavors to meld and the potatoes to absorb some of the egg—it makes all</p><p>the difference.</p><p>My own addition to the tortilla (which actually wasn’t my idea at all, it</p><p>was Ken’s) is fresh thyme; the thyme is not classically Spanish, but it adds</p><p>an intoxicating smokiness that’s worth the tinker with tradition. I must</p><p>confess though, I have yet to satisfy my midsleep cravings. Instead I turn</p><p>over, gently nudge Ken awake, and report, “I’m starving.” His very reliable</p><p>response is to pull the pillow over his head and mumble something other</p><p>than what I long to hear (which would be, “Oh my beloved! Let me get up</p><p>and make you a tortilla!”). So I go back to sleep, my mind adrift with</p><p>thoughts of tender potato tangled up with sweet onion, all bound together in</p><p>an eggy embrace. See photograph.</p><p>½ cup olive oil, plus more as needed</p><p>1 large sweet onion, thinly sliced</p><p>Salt and freshly ground black pepper</p><p>3–4 sprigs fresh thyme, leaves picked</p><p>3 medium russet (baking) potatoes, peeled and very thinly sliced</p><p>6 large eggs</p><p>In a 10" nonstick skillet, heat ¼ cup of the olive oil until it shimmers. Add</p><p>the onions and sprinkle with salt and pepper. Reduce the heat to medium-</p><p>low and cook until they begin to soften and color, 10 to 15 minutes. Add the</p><p>thyme and stir to combine.</p><p>When the onions are tender and golden, add the potatoes and continue</p><p>cooking over medium-low heat, tossing frequently so all the slices are</p><p>coated in oil. The pan will seem very full, but don’t worry; as long as the</p><p>potatoes have a chance to become partially cooked, it’s fine. Continue</p><p>tossing them every couple of minutes so they all have a chance to cook,</p><p>about 20 minutes total. As you stir the mixture, be careful: You want to</p><p>keep as many of the potatoes intact as possible to get a nice layered effect in</p><p>the finished tortilla.</p><p>Meanwhile, in a large bowl, beat together the eggs and season with salt and</p><p>pepper.</p><p>Remove the potato-onion mixture from the pan and let it cool slightly (you</p><p>don’t want it so hot that it cooks the eggs), then add it to the egg mixture.</p><p>Gently toss to combine, and then let sit for about 15 minutes, so the</p><p>potatoes absorb some of the eggs.</p><p>Add the remaining ¼ cup olive oil to the pan and heat over medium-high</p><p>heat until quite hot (it’s important to get the oil hot so the eggs seize up and</p><p>form a nice crust). Carefully pour the egg and potato mixture into the pan,</p><p>spread it around evenly, and cook for about 1 minute; reduce the heat to low</p><p>and cook until the underside and edges of the tortilla are set but the top is</p><p>still loose and jiggly, about 15 minutes. Shake the pan to loosen the tortilla,</p><p>using a spatula if necessary. Slip the tortilla out, cooked-side down, onto a</p><p>plate as large as the pan.</p><p>Place another plate of the same size on top of the tortilla, flip it over, and</p><p>slide it back into the pan, cooked-side up. Continue cooking the tortilla</p><p>over low heat until it’s fully set and moves around easily in the pan, another</p><p>10 minutes. Once it’s finished cooking, invert the tortilla again.</p><p>Cut the tortilla into slices and serve right away, or wait an hour or so. It</p><p>may sink a bit in the middle, but the flavors will meld together and taste</p><p>even better when served at room temperature.</p><p>A Trio of Tartlettes</p><p>a trio of tartlettes</p><p>(smoked salmon & asparagus, prosciutto with tomato & basil,</p><p>and crab with tarragon)</p><p>One of the best meals I’ve ever eaten in Paris didn’t involve a trendy bistro</p><p>or a traditional brasserie, but a last-minute shopping trip. Ken and I landed,</p><p>napped, and headed out into the bitter cold November afternoon in search of</p><p>all things French. By the time we headed back to the little apartment we had</p><p>rented with a view of the Eiffel Tower, lit up and sparkling like the bubbles</p><p>in a glass of Champagne, it was nearly 6 in the evening—on a Sunday. And,</p><p>though we’d been duly warned by friends, we didn’t totally absorb the</p><p>reality that most of Paris closes down on Sunday evening and feeding</p><p>yourself can be close to impossible if you haven’t planned accordingly.</p><p>Realizing the error of our ways, we dashed into the only open patisserie we</p><p>could find and were lucky enough to procure their sole remaining chicken</p><p>and leek quiche, a jar of vegetable soup, and an apricot tart. We went home,</p><p>drank the wine our host had graciously left, and ate our picnic staring out at</p><p>the Tower, happier than I can explain.</p><p>The variations I have here are some of my favorites, but you can use</p><p>almost anything you like or have left over in the fridge—instead of buying</p><p>smoked salmon or crab, feel free to use up those extra sautéed mushrooms,</p><p>handful of baby spinach, or bit of roast chicken. Think of this crust-and-</p><p>custard combination as a blank canvas for what you have on hand that</p><p>sounds good to you.</p><p>PASTRY</p><p>1 stick (8 tablespoons) cold unsalted butter, cut into ½" pieces</p><p>1¼ cups all-purpose flour</p><p>¼ teaspoon sea salt, plus more to taste</p><p>¼–½ cup</p><p>ice water, more or less as needed</p><p>CUSTARD</p><p>2 large eggs</p><p>⅓ cup whole milk</p><p>⅓ cup heavy cream</p><p>Sea salt and freshly ground black pepper</p><p>SMOKED SALMON & ASPARAGUS FILLING</p><p>1 slice smoked salmon, torn into small pieces</p><p>3–4 asparagus spears, trimmed and shaved into ribbons with a</p><p>peeler</p><p>Goat cheese, for topping</p><p>PROSCIUTTO, TOMATO & BASIL FILLING</p><p>1–2 slices prosciutto, torn into small pieces</p><p>2 slices Roma (plum) tomato</p><p>¼ cup freshly grated Parmesan cheese</p><p>4 or so fresh basil leaves, for topping</p><p>CRAB & TARRAGON FILLING</p><p>½ cup lump crabmeat, picked over for shells</p><p>¼ cup grated Gruyère cheese</p><p>3–4 sprigs fresh tarragon, leaves picked</p><p>a trio of tartlettes</p><p>To make the pastry: In a food processor, combine the butter, flour, and salt</p><p>and pulse until the mixture resembles coarse meal, about 10 pulses. Slowly</p><p>add ¼ cup of the ice water through the feed tube and pulse until the mixture</p><p>begins to come together, forming a dough. If you need to, add more water, 1</p><p>tablespoon at a time, and pulse again. Stop the machine and dump the</p><p>mixture onto a clean work surface.</p><p>Bring the dough together with your hands and knead once or twice until it</p><p>forms a ball—don’t worry if it’s not totally uniform; you should see patches</p><p>of butter in places for a flaky crust. Form into a disk, wrap in plastic wrap,</p><p>and refrigerate for at least 30 minutes.</p><p>Remove the dough from the fridge. Dust a clean work surface with flour,</p><p>unwrap the disk, and use a rolling pin to roll it into a 15" × 10" rectangle.</p><p>Cut the dough into six 5" squares. Press the dough evenly into the bottom</p><p>and up the sides of six 4" tart pans. Trim the edges and prick the bottom of</p><p>the crusts lightly with a fork. Freeze or chill the tarts for at least 30 minutes.</p><p>Preheat the oven to 375°F.</p><p>Meanwhile, to make the custard: In a large bowl, whisk together the eggs,</p><p>milk, and cream. Season with salt and pepper.</p><p>Once the crusts are very cold, gently place a piece of foil inside each tart</p><p>shell, making sure it’s snug against the edges, then weigh the foil down with</p><p>pie weights or beans. (The weights will keep the bottoms from puffing up</p><p>and the edges from sliding down.)</p><p>Put the tart pans on a baking sheet and bake until just beginning to color on</p><p>the edges, 10 to 12 minutes. Remove from the oven, carefully grasp the</p><p>edges of the foil, and lift the weights and linings from the pans. Return the</p><p>tart shells to the oven until the bottom crusts look dry, another 3 to 5</p><p>minutes. Remove the tart shells from the oven and reduce the temperature</p><p>to 350°F.</p><p>Divide the custard mixture among the tart shells, filling them no more than</p><p>two-thirds of the way full. Top two of the tarts with the smoked salmon,</p><p>asparagus ribbons, and a crumble of goat cheese. Top another two with the</p><p>prosciutto, a slice of tomato, the Parmesan, and a bit of basil. Top the final</p><p>two with the crab, Gruyère, and tarragon leaves.</p><p>Bake until the custard is set, 20 to 25 minutes. Serve hot or at room</p><p>temperature.</p><p>braised leeks with lemon-dijon vinaigrette</p><p>There’s a tiny little restaurant in london called Casse-Croûte on</p><p>Bermondsey Street (I love saying that: Bermondsey), just around the corner</p><p>from Borough Market, one of my very favorite outdoor food markets.</p><p>Casse-Croûte is a mouse hole of a place with just a few tables that are all</p><p>within knee-knocking distance of one another. It has a very limited and</p><p>ever-changing menu, and is that rare thing: a French restaurant so good and</p><p>so authentic, you actually feel like you’re in France. When I was there</p><p>recently, I was seduced, as I usually am, by the starters more than the main</p><p>courses (though the roasted John Dory did look quite amazing), and ordered</p><p>the first thing on the chalkboard: a soft-boiled egg with a very small slice of</p><p>smoked haddock over braised leeks.</p><p>The egg was miraculous. It was not only soft-boiled to perfection, but it</p><p>was served whole and out of the shell; I’d never seen such a thing. A</p><p>wiggly white orb that proved perfectly cooked when pierced, the tangerine-</p><p>toned yoke spilling out onto the leeks and haddock, softening the richness</p><p>of the hollandaise bath that all the ingredients waded in. The leeks were</p><p>astonishingly tender yet still attached right at the root, reminding me of a</p><p>well-poached artichoke heart in terms of texture. I’ve brightened up the</p><p>sauce, making it a simple vinaigrette, and skipped the haddock, but let me</p><p>say this: A dish of soft-boiled eggs and a plate of some smoked fish would</p><p>fill out this grazing meal beautifully.</p><p>3 tablespoons unsalted butter</p><p>4 large leeks, white and light green parts only, cleaned and cut into</p><p>4" lengths</p><p>Sea salt and freshly ground black pepper</p><p>½ cup chicken stock</p><p>3 tablespoons extra-virgin olive oil</p><p>Grated zest and juice of 1 lemon</p><p>1 tablespoon Dijon mustard</p><p>In a large, lidded skillet, melt the butter over medium-high heat. When the</p><p>butter foams, add the leeks and season with salt and pepper; reduce the heat</p><p>to medium and sauté until they start to become tender, about 5 minutes.</p><p>Add the stock, bring to a simmer, and</p><p>cover. Cook until the leeks are very soft, another 15 to 20 minutes. Remove</p><p>the lid, increase the heat, and cook until the liquid reduces and thickens.</p><p>Remove from the heat.</p><p>In a small bowl, combine the olive oil, lemon zest and juice, and mustard.</p><p>Whisk well to combine and season to taste with salt and pepper.</p><p>When you’re ready to serve, transfer the leeks to a platter and drizzle with</p><p>the vinaigrette. Serve hot or at room temperature.</p><p>Barely-Battered Squid with Old Bay Mayo | Crispy Asparagus and Shallots</p><p>barely-battered squid with old bay mayo</p><p>Squid can be scary if you’ve never cooked it before. The raw, dare I say</p><p>slimy, texture is obviously a deterrent for some, and with those coil-like</p><p>tentacles freckled violet on one side and lined with tiny suckers on the</p><p>other, well, the otherworldliness can curb one’s desire to get too close.</p><p>Certainly the idea of cleaning the translucent eight-armed critters can prove</p><p>a nonstarter for the squeamish among us. But try and clear your mind of all</p><p>this for a minute. Think instead about how much you love a lightly battered,</p><p>perfectly fried, salt-dusted, lemon-doused plate of calamari. Imagine you’re</p><p>sitting by the sea with a glass of straw-colored wine in your hand when</p><p>suddenly, the beautiful server with the long dark hair and cocoa eyes (man</p><p>or woman, you choose) sets down a dish of this squid before you. How</p><p>great would that be? And it could totally happen. However, if it seems far-</p><p>fetched, here’s my thought: Ask your kind fishmonger to clean and cut up</p><p>the squid for you, so all the dirty work is done.</p><p>Olive oil, for deep-frying</p><p>1 cup mayonnaise</p><p>3 tablespoons Old Bay seasoning</p><p>1½ pounds cleaned squid, sliced into rings, tentacles halved</p><p>lengthwise if large</p><p>Sea salt and freshly ground black pepper</p><p>1 cup all-purpose flour</p><p>1 cup whole milk</p><p>Lemon wedges, for serving</p><p>Pour 2" of olive oil into a deep pot and heat over medium-high heat to</p><p>350°F (use a candy thermometer) or until a pinch of flour sizzles when</p><p>added to the oil.</p><p>While the oil heats, in a bowl, combine the mayonnaise and 2 tablespoons</p><p>of the Old Bay. Refrigerate until it’s time to serve.</p><p>Pat the squid dry with paper towels and season well with salt and pepper.</p><p>Put the flour in a wide bowl and season with the remaining 1 tablespoon</p><p>Old Bay. Add the milk to a second wide bowl.</p><p>When the oil is hot, working in batches, dip the squid in the milk, dredge in</p><p>the flour, shaking off as much excess as possible, and then add to the oil.</p><p>Fry the squid until it just begins to color, about 3 minutes (don’t overcook,</p><p>or it will get tough). Use a slotted spoon to fish out the squid and transfer to</p><p>paper towels to drain. Sprinkle immediately with a bit more salt, if desired,</p><p>and repeat with the remaining batches. Serve with the Old Bay mayo and</p><p>lots of lemon wedges.</p><p>crispy asparagus and shallots</p><p>I have not eaten at State Bird Provisions in San Francisco. I hope to, I want</p><p>to, I plan to, but I haven’t yet. I actually have to admit that I had never</p><p>Could I do it myself? Sure,</p><p>but it’s easier to ask him; he does an infinitely better job, and I learn a ton</p><p>just by standing on the other side of his counter watching him work.</p><p>Then there’s the farmers’ market. I can spend an hour or more</p><p>wandering the Union Square market in New York City, taking in the breadth</p><p>of fresh fruit and vegetables and breathing in the overt scent of dirt and</p><p>produce, the aroma of which always catches me off guard in the midst of</p><p>such blatantly urban surroundings. But I’m partial to the farm stand near</p><p>our cottage in Connecticut. Once summer arrives, I am devoted to my</p><p>Friday afternoon stop for corn and peaches and tomatoes and zucchini and</p><p>leeks and whatever else they have on display. I know it sounds like so much</p><p>foodie nonsense to wax poetic about the difference in produce between the</p><p>grocery store and the farmers’ market or farm stand, but for anyone who’s</p><p>tasted corn just picked that morning or bitten into a peach fresh off the tree,</p><p>you know that I’m not being pretentious—there is a difference. That said, I</p><p>am hardly above buying corn at the grocery store if it’s just in from Georgia</p><p>and the local stuff hasn’t arrived yet. (I love my grocery store, and pretty</p><p>much everything in this book can be found at a decent one if you don’t have</p><p>a farmers’ market, butcher, or specialty shop at your disposal.)</p><p>But if you have access and can afford it, taking advantage of (and</p><p>supporting) the local guys is worthwhile. It’s also a strategy I use to keep</p><p>me honest when it comes to cooking seasonally; if you’re buying</p><p>ingredients that are truly at their peak, fresh, and flavorful, then you don’t</p><p>need a lot of added flavors to enhance them. I’d be fibbing if I said I didn’t</p><p>buy asparagus from South America in January when I’ve already eaten my</p><p>weight in potatoes and winter squash and need a pre-spring boost, but I try</p><p>to be true to the seasonal ethic, and when I am, the food needs far less</p><p>fiddling. And that’s really the point of cooking for me: tasting the</p><p>ingredients in their purest, freshest, most naked, radiant, and unadulterated</p><p>form. A glug of olive oil and a sprinkle of salt and pepper are frequently all</p><p>that’s needed to turn good ingredients into a glorious meal. It’s all about</p><p>what you can rationalize and what makes sense for you.</p><p>the grazer’s larder: stocking the pantry, fridge,</p><p>and freezer</p><p>I have to come clean here and say that I dislike those utilitarian sections in</p><p>cookbooks that adamantly list what tools or ingredients I should have in my</p><p>kitchen. There’s something doctrinaire and restrictive about them—as if by</p><p>not having everything on the list, my capabilities in the kitchen are</p><p>somehow limited, my expertise lessened; after a single glance, I’m always</p><p>exhausted by all I lack—and how much energy it would take to remedy the</p><p>situation.</p><p>No, I don’t have a set of pots and pans in every size (where would I</p><p>keep them?); I’ve never had a microwave and don’t miss it (it strikes me as</p><p>most useful for reheating coffee); I don’t own a food mill or a ricer, a</p><p>toaster or a juicer—the list goes on and on. Yet none of these things keep</p><p>me from cooking, and not having some of them actually means I have to get</p><p>more creative. If you want to make a pie and don’t have a rolling pin, I can</p><p>assure you from personal experience that a wine bottle works just fine. A</p><p>chicken can be roasted on a baking sheet if you don’t have a proper roasting</p><p>pan; and while I love my mandoline, I’ve only recently gotten one, and for</p><p>years was able to slice things quite nicely with a plain old knife. Cooking</p><p>and eating reasonably well isn’t contingent upon stocking your kitchen with</p><p>a lot of fussy pans, utensils, gadgets you’ll rarely use (if you can even find</p><p>them when you need them), a bunch of rarified spices, or a pantry full of</p><p>different types of flour. Rather, I think being a good cook has more to do</p><p>with an instinct for flavors and a sense of bravery—being open to trying</p><p>new things—than anything else.</p><p>With that little diatribe out of the way, I must confess that now you’re</p><p>going to get a list, but a very loosey-goosey one. The way that I like to eat</p><p>is largely dependent upon keeping my pantry well-stocked with my favorite</p><p>basics as well as special bits and pieces that can be pulled out to compose a</p><p>meal with almost no work beyond the slice of a knife or the twist of lid.</p><p>This being the grazing cook’s quintessential parlor trick—a pantry of</p><p>diverse and delectable provisions—I can’t help but offer a list for</p><p>illustration. Don’t think of this list as a mandate by any means; what I like</p><p>and keep on hand may not be what you like. Instead, think of it as a glimpse</p><p>into my pantry and freezer (a very chaotic and often less-than-well-</p><p>organized affair), an example of how to make grazing a more natural way of</p><p>eating.</p><p>PANTRY</p><p>Olive oil</p><p>Sea salt (finely ground)</p><p>Maldon sea salt flakes</p><p>Sherry vinegar (or red or white wine vinegar)</p><p>Balsamic vinegar</p><p>Dijon mustard (classic and country-style)</p><p>Pasta</p><p>San Marzano tomatoes</p><p>Grissini (thin breadsticks; packaged is fine)</p><p>Crackers or flatbreads</p><p>Canned gigante beans</p><p>Canned black beans</p><p>Canned chickpeas</p><p>Canned cannellini beans</p><p>Anchovies</p><p>Sardines</p><p>Pepperoncini</p><p>Sun-dried tomatoes</p><p>Nuts (almonds, pecans, pistachios, walnuts, etc.)</p><p>Mayonnaise</p><p>Soy sauce</p><p>Thai fish sauce</p><p>Toasted sesame oil</p><p>Chili sauce or paste</p><p>All-purpose flour</p><p>Baking powder and soda</p><p>Sugar (granulated, brown [dark or light], and powdered)</p><p>Active dry yeast</p><p>FRUIT AND VEGETABLE STAPLES</p><p>Garlic</p><p>Lemons</p><p>Limes</p><p>Onions and shallots</p><p>Avocados</p><p>Tomatoes</p><p>Arugula or other tender greens</p><p>Fresh herbs* (rosemary, thyme, basil, tarragon, mint, oregano, and bay leaves)</p><p>*I grow small pots of these so I always have some on hand—it’s heartbreaking to buy whole</p><p>bunches and let them go to waste. If you don’t have the room or inclination to start a few</p><p>pots, the resinous herbs like rosemary and thyme will keep longer in the fridge, while the</p><p>tender herbs can be chopped and frozen in small plastic bags.</p><p>FRIDGE</p><p>Eggs</p><p>Butter (salted and unsalted)</p><p>Olives of varying kinds</p><p>Marinated artichoke hearts</p><p>Parmesan cheese</p><p>A soft cheese you like (I tend to have a round of goat’s milk Brie or a hunk of Taleggio on</p><p>hand)</p><p>A harder cheese you like (A good English cheddar or Stilton and a wedge of Manchego or</p><p>Pyrénées Brebis are some of my regulars)</p><p>Bacon (thick-cut)</p><p>Prosciutto, soppressata, or some type of charcuterie</p><p>Smoked salmon</p><p>FREEZER</p><p>Frozen peas</p><p>Frozen fruit (stuff going soft that gets cleaned, cut, and bagged)</p><p>Frozen spinach</p><p>Breadcrumbs</p><p>Mozzarella (bought fresh and frozen in small bits)</p><p>Italian sausages</p><p>Pancetta</p><p>Leftovers of all kinds</p><p>SPICES</p><p>Black pepper in a peppermill</p><p>Red chili flakes</p><p>Pimentón (smoked paprika)</p><p>Fennel seeds</p><p>Old Bay seasoning</p><p>Ground cumin</p><p>Ground coriander</p><p>Cayenne pepper</p><p>Ground ginger</p><p>Ground turmeric</p><p>Vanilla extract</p><p>Almond extract</p><p>the essential stuff</p><p>life is better with bread</p><p>(and crackers, grissini, etc.)</p><p>I love bread. I make bread regularly and eat bread daily. I don’t understand</p><p>the trend of demonizing gluten. I completely understand that some people</p><p>can’t tolerate it, and that’s incredibly sad, but for those who don’t actually</p><p>suffer from celiac disease or a gluten intolerance, you’re missing out.</p><p>If you like to bake, there are few things more satisfying than turning out</p><p>a loaf of homemade bread. Whether you take on the project of making your</p><p>own starter and baking traditional (and time-consuming) artisanal breads,</p><p>jump on the no-knead phenomenon, or simply try your hand at a quick</p><p>bread, feeling the dough in your hands, cutting into a warm loaf, and</p><p>slathering a thick slice with butter is unlike anything else I can imagine. If</p><p>the from-scratch approach is a bit too much for you, make sure you buy</p><p>decent stuff—the kind of loaves you find festooned with a halo of flour and</p><p>slashes across the crust—and you’ll be tickled at how happy it makes your</p><p>company and how much easier it makes filling out the table.</p><p>I may be the exception in these days of gluten-shunning, but the first</p><p>thing I do when I visit our cottage on</p><p>heard of State Bird until I was lucky enough to style a New York Times</p><p>Magazine piece that featured some of the dishes from the restaurant. If</p><p>you’re like me and haven’t heard of it, it’s a highly acclaimed spot serving</p><p>Western-style food in a dim sum fashion: think trollies careening between</p><p>tables laden not with pork buns, but with delicate plates of fried spears like</p><p>these, their outsides crisp with just a shadow of the green asparagus</p><p>gleaming through the crust. At least that’s how I imagine it, not having been</p><p>myself. This recipe being an adaptation of an adaptation, I can’t promise</p><p>that these will live up to expectations if you have been lucky enough to eat</p><p>there, but I can say they’re delicious. I skip the fried scallions used in the</p><p>original recipe in favor of shallot rings; my dipping sauce is simplified; and</p><p>I favor an irregular mix of breadcrumbs, some the size of sand and some of</p><p>small pebbles, the variation giving each spear a ragged, rustic crust. See</p><p>photograph.</p><p>1 garlic clove, peeled</p><p>4 anchovy fillets, or more to taste</p><p>¼ cup extra-virgin olive oil</p><p>Grated zest and juice of 1 lemon</p><p>Freshly ground black pepper</p><p>Olive oil, for deep-frying</p><p>2 large eggs</p><p>2 tablespoons heavy cream</p><p>Sea salt</p><p>2 cups all-purpose flour</p><p>2 cups homemade breadcrumbs, not too fine</p><p>1 bunch asparagus, trimmed</p><p>2 shallots, sliced into ¼" rings</p><p>½ cup shaved Parmesan cheese</p><p>On a cutting board, mash and then roughly mince the garlic clove with the</p><p>flat side of a large knife. Add the anchovies to the garlic and mince together</p><p>a bit, then use the side of the knife to mash them into a cohesive paste.</p><p>Transfer the paste to either a small jar with a lid or a bowl and then add the</p><p>extra-virgin olive oil, lemon zest and juice, and a generous grind of pepper.</p><p>Shake or whisk to combine. Taste and adjust the seasoning as needed.</p><p>Pour about 1" of olive oil into a large, deep pot and heat to 350°F (use a</p><p>candy thermometer) or until a sprinkle of flour sizzles when added to the</p><p>oil.</p><p>While the oil heats, in a wide bowl, mix the eggs and cream together and</p><p>season with salt and pepper. Put the flour in a second wide bowl and the</p><p>breadcrumbs in a third.</p><p>When the oil is hot, dredge the asparagus spears in the flour first, then the</p><p>egg mixture, and finally the breadcrumbs. Working in batches so you don’t</p><p>overcrowd the pan (and in turn lower the temperature of the oil), add the</p><p>asparagus. Cook until each spear turns a rich, golden brown, then transfer to</p><p>paper towels to drain. Once all the spears have been fried, repeat the</p><p>dredging and frying with the shallot rings.</p><p>Serve the asparagus scattered with the shallots, topped with shavings of</p><p>Parmesan cheese and a bowl of the dipping sauce.</p><p>asparagus and herb frittata bites</p><p>When I graduated college, I went to London with dreams of cooking. (I</p><p>ended up waitressing, but that’s another story.) As a 21-year-old on a very</p><p>limited budget, my desire to immerse myself in the burgeoning British food</p><p>revolution was quelled by my pocketbook. Instead, I found myself eating</p><p>regularly at a bustling restaurant near where I was staying. This lively (and</p><p>largely youthful) spot had three essential things going for it: The staff didn’t</p><p>mind how long you sat at your table with a book, the wine was cheap, and</p><p>they made a fantastic omelet, a dinner perfectly suited to my alone-in-a-</p><p>foreign-country state of mind and budget.</p><p>For a few pounds, I could sit and read (I was deep into Virginia Woolf’s</p><p>The Voyage Out), feel terribly sophisticated sipping from a stout globe of</p><p>claret-colored wine, and fill my belly with a cumulus of buttery eggs, sharp</p><p>but silken cheese, and vegetables. The omelets weren’t the slim sheath-like</p><p>rolled sort you find in France—these were lush golden nests with dimples</p><p>of brown butter on the skin and creamy curds emanating from within, which</p><p>is what I lust after in an omelet or frittata. I prefer frittatas these days;</p><p>they’re easier (no turning) and you get more of that custardy layer on the</p><p>top. With spring asparagus and chives (or tarragon if you’re feeling saucy),</p><p>this is the centerpiece of a grazing breakfast, lunch, or dinner. And it goes</p><p>without saying that I hope you take liberties with the vegetables, cheese,</p><p>and herbs as you see fit.</p><p>2–3 tablespoons extra-virgin olive oil</p><p>1 medium leek, cleaned and very thinly sliced</p><p>Sea salt and freshly ground black pepper</p><p>About 12 medium asparagus spears, cut on the bias into 1" pieces</p><p>6 large eggs</p><p>2 tablespoons heavy cream or milk</p><p>2 tablespoons chopped fresh tarragon or chervil</p><p>¼ cup goat cheese</p><p>8–12 fresh chives or handful fresh tarragon leaves</p><p>Preheat the broiler.</p><p>In a 10" ovenproof nonstick skillet, heat the olive oil over medium-high</p><p>heat until it shimmers. Add the leek, sprinkle with salt and pepper, reduce</p><p>the heat to medium, and cook, stirring occasionally, until very soft and</p><p>beginning to color, 8 to 10 minutes.</p><p>Add the asparagus to the pan and continue to cook until just tender, another</p><p>3 to 4 minutes.</p><p>Meanwhile, in a small bowl, beat the eggs with the cream and sprinkle with</p><p>salt and pepper.</p><p>Reduce the heat to low and add the tarragon to the skillet. Pour the egg</p><p>mixture over the vegetables, distributing evenly. Cook, undisturbed, until</p><p>the eggs are just set and the edges of the frittata can be loosened from the</p><p>sides of the pan with a spatula, 8 to 10 minutes.</p><p>Dot the top of the frittata with the goat cheese and lay the chives across in a</p><p>random manner. Transfer the frittata to the oven and broil until the top just</p><p>begins to bubble and brown, 1 to 2 minutes. Slide the frittata out of the pan</p><p>and onto a serving plate; cut into wedges. Serve hot, warm, or at room</p><p>temperature.</p><p>kale, spinach, and pecorino pizza slivers</p><p>Certain foods have their moment in the sun; you know, like those months</p><p>when everyone was suddenly swooning over chia or smitten with açai. The</p><p>kale phenomenon started quite a few years ago; one day, it was a toothsome</p><p>leafy green languishing next to the collards and chard, and then suddenly it</p><p>was being massaged with oil for salad, slow-cooked with sea salt for chips,</p><p>and cold-pressed with ginger and green apples for juice. Kale was the “It”</p><p>vegetable, the trendy brassica, the hipster green. But it wasn’t until I had a</p><p>pizza back home in Los Angeles at Stella Barra that I joined the legions of</p><p>kale converts and became one of the annoying acolytes who swears life is</p><p>just better with kale in the picture. The pizza that changed it all was topped</p><p>with kale and spinach—the greens somehow being both tender and crisped</p><p>at the same time. I was jealous not to have thought of this combination</p><p>myself, eager to eat another slice before it all disappeared, and excited to try</p><p>to make one similar. Kale, it seems, is truly one of the cool kids. See</p><p>photograph.</p><p>2¾ cups bread flour</p><p>¼ ounce active dry yeast (about 2½ teaspoons)</p><p>2 teaspoons sea salt</p><p>¼ cup plus 3 tablespoons extra-virgin olive oil</p><p>1 cup warm water</p><p>3–4 ounces kale (about ½ bunch), deribbed and leaves cut into 1"</p><p>ribbons</p><p>3–4 ounces baby spinach</p><p>2–3 tablespoons medium or coarse cornmeal</p><p>Wedge of pecorino cheese</p><p>In a food processor, combine the flour, yeast, and salt. With the machine</p><p>running, pour ¼ cup of the olive oil through the feed tube, then add the</p><p>water in a slow, steady stream. Continue to process for 2 to 3 minutes (the</p><p>dough should form a rough ball and ride around in the processor). The</p><p>finished dough should be soft, slightly sticky, and elastic. If it seems a bit</p><p>too dry, add a tablespoon or so of water; if it’s too wet, add a tablespoon or</p><p>so more flour.</p><p>Lay a piece of plastic wrap about 12" long on a clean work surface. Work</p><p>the dough into an 8" × 5" rectangle on the plastic. Press your fingers into</p><p>the top of the dough, making indentations all over as though it were a</p><p>focaccia. With a long side facing you, fold the left third of the dough over</p><p>(as you would a letter) and repeat the indentions. Fold the right third over</p><p>and make the indentations again. Cover the folded dough with plastic wrap</p><p>and let rise for</p><p>20 minutes.</p><p>Halve the dough, form each piece into a neat ball, wrap tightly in plastic</p><p>wrap, and transfer to the freezer. The morning before you want to make</p><p>pizza, transfer the dough to the refrigerator to thaw.</p><p>About an hour before you’re ready to bake, put a pizza stone in the oven on</p><p>the middle rack and preheat to 500��F. (If you don’t have a pizza stone, oil a</p><p>rimmed baking sheet and set aside.) Bring the dough to room temperature.</p><p>Meanwhile, in a large skillet, heat 2 tablespoons of the olive oil over high</p><p>heat. Add the kale leaves and sauté, stirring frequently, until just beginning</p><p>to wilt. Add the spinach and continue to cook, stirring constantly, until the</p><p>greens are fully wilted, 2 to 3 minutes. Remove from the heat. Use a</p><p>wooden spoon to press against the greens and squeeze out any extra liquid;</p><p>discard into the sink (you don’t want to make the pizza crust soggy).</p><p>Dust a pizza peel or the oiled baking sheet generously with cornmeal.</p><p>Working with the dough in your hands (not flat on a work surface), gently</p><p>begin to stretch the dough into a circular shape, pressing your fist up into</p><p>the center of the dough and pulling at the edges with your other hand. With</p><p>both hands, stretch the dough, being careful not to tear it. Working in a</p><p>circular motion, pull the thicker edges of the dough outward, letting gravity</p><p>help you. Continue to stretch the dough until it’s relatively even in thickness</p><p>(the edges will be thicker) and you have the size you want, 10" to 12" in</p><p>diameter. When the dough is the size desired, carefully lay it on the peel or</p><p>baking sheet.</p><p>Brush the crust with the remaining 1 tablespoon olive oil. Use a vegetable</p><p>peeler to shave off slivers of pecorino and cover the top of the crust with a</p><p>thin layer of the cheese. Drape the reserved greens evenly over the dough</p><p>and layer more cheese on top. Carefully slide the pizza off the peel and onto</p><p>your heated stone, or place the baking sheet in the oven. Bake the pizza</p><p>until the crust is golden and the cheese is bubbling, 6 to 10 minutes. Serve</p><p>immediately.</p><p>Potato and Thyme with Taleggio Pizzettes | Kale, Spinach, and Pecorino Pizza Slivers</p><p>potato and thyme with taleggio pizzettes</p><p>I wrote a book on homemade pizza. I mention this simply because once you</p><p>come up with close to 100 or so ideas for all sorts of ingredients that can</p><p>live happily together atop a pie, well, it’s hard to pick a favorite. But the</p><p>thing about this particular combination is that while it is a pizza—it has a</p><p>crust with a cornmeal underbelly and blistered bubbles on top, no doubt—it</p><p>really could be mistaken for something more. And it is one of my very</p><p>favorites. The wonder of this pie is how the luscious, sort-of-stinky cheese</p><p>mingles with the slender, barely there slices of potato, how the buttery leeks</p><p>bounce off the smoky thyme. The joy here is that the flavors all conflate to</p><p>become something elegant, something sophisticated, something so graceful</p><p>that you might mistake it for a tart or a galette—something with a less-</p><p>pedestrian name than pizza, with a title more dignified, more befitting its</p><p>sumptuous character. Except the truth is, it’s just a pizza. It just so happens</p><p>to be a very good one.</p><p>2¾ cups bread flour</p><p>¼ ounce active dry yeast (about 2½ teaspoons)</p><p>2 teaspoons sea salt, plus more to taste</p><p>¼ cup plus 2 tablespoons extra-virgin olive oil, plus more for</p><p>greasing the pan</p><p>1 cup warm water</p><p>2 large leeks, cleaned and thinly sliced</p><p>1 medium russet (baking) potato</p><p>Cornmeal</p><p>¼ pound Taleggio cheese</p><p>3–4 sprigs fresh thyme</p><p>Freshly grated Parmesan cheese</p><p>In a food processor, combine the flour, yeast, and salt. With the machine</p><p>running, pour ¼ cup of the olive oil through the feed tube, then add the</p><p>water in a slow, steady stream. Continue to process for 2 to 3 minutes (the</p><p>dough should form a rough ball and ride around in the processor). The</p><p>finished dough should be soft, slightly sticky, and elastic. If it seems a bit</p><p>too dry, add a tablespoon or so of water; if it’s too wet, add a tablespoon or</p><p>so more flour.</p><p>Lay a piece of plastic wrap about 12" long on a clean work surface. Work</p><p>the dough into an 8" × 5" rectangle on the plastic. Press your fingers into</p><p>the top of dough all over, making indentations as though it were a focaccia.</p><p>With a long side facing you, fold the left third of the dough over (as you</p><p>would a letter) and repeat the indentions.</p><p>potato and thyme with taleggio pizzettes</p><p>Fold the right third over and make the indentations again. Cover the folded</p><p>dough with plastic wrap and let rise for 20 minutes.</p><p>Cut the dough into 4 equal pieces, form each piece into a neat ball, wrap</p><p>tightly in plastic wrap, and transfer to the freezer. The morning before you</p><p>want to make pizza, transfer the dough to the refrigerator to thaw.</p><p>About an hour before you’re ready to bake, preheat the oven to 500°F.</p><p>Bring the dough to room temperature.</p><p>In a medium skillet, heat the remaining 2 tablespoons olive oil over</p><p>medium-high heat until it shimmers. Add the leeks and sprinkle with salt.</p><p>Reduce the heat to medium-low and cook, stirring frequently, until the leeks</p><p>begin to soften, 10 to 12 minutes. Add a few tablespoons of water to the pan</p><p>to keep them from browning and help them braise. Continue to cook,</p><p>stirring occasionally, until the leeks meld together, another 8 to 10 minutes</p><p>(they should almost have the consistency of jam).</p><p>Meanwhile, bring a medium saucepan of salted water to boil. Use a</p><p>mandoline to very thinly slice the potato (you should almost be able to see</p><p>through the slices). When the water boils, add the potato slices and cook for</p><p>about 1 minute—the slices should be tender but not thoroughly cooked</p><p>through. Drain the potatoes and set aside to cool.</p><p>Oil two rimmed baking sheets and dust them generously with cornmeal.</p><p>Working with the dough in your hands (not flat on a work surface), gently</p><p>begin to stretch each thawed ball into a circular shape, pressing your fist up</p><p>into the center of the dough and pulling at the edges with your other hand.</p><p>With both hands, stretch the dough, being careful not to tear it. Working in a</p><p>circular motion, pull the thicker edges of the dough outward, letting gravity</p><p>help you. Continue to stretch the dough until it’s relatively even in thickness</p><p>(the edges will be thicker) and you have the size you want, 6" to 8" in</p><p>diameter. When the dough is the size desired, carefully lay it on a baking</p><p>sheet. You should be able to fit two pizzettes on each sheet.</p><p>Using the back of a spoon or a rubber spatula, spread the leeks evenly on</p><p>the prepared pizza crusts, being careful not to tear the dough. Dot the leeks</p><p>with walnut-size pieces of Taleggio. Place the potato slices on the crust in a</p><p>single layer with the slices partially overlapping. Sprinkle the pizzettes with</p><p>the thyme and Parmesan to taste.</p><p>Transfer the baking sheets to the oven and bake until the crusts are nicely</p><p>browned, the edges of the potatoes have colored and begun to curl, and the</p><p>Taleggio is melted, 6 to 10 minutes.</p><p>Chickpea Fries with Meyer Lemon–Scented Aioli</p><p>chickpea fries with meyer lemon–scented aioli</p><p>I’m slightly embarrassed to admit that while I had eaten at the world-</p><p>famous Chez Panisse in Berkeley by the time I was 16, I did not know what</p><p>a panisse was until a few years ago (potentially even more embarrassing: I</p><p>didn’t realize that the restaurant was named for a character in Marcel</p><p>Pagnol’s 1930s movie trilogy and not these delicious savory fries until even</p><p>more recently). It’s only marginally worrying that as a cook, I never</p><p>bothered to investigate either of these things, but it honestly didn’t occur to</p><p>me to think about it until I was making chickpea fries alongside Mark</p><p>Bittman for one of his New York Times videos. As the camera started to roll,</p><p>Mark smiled knowingly and began, “Today we’re making chickpea fries,</p><p>also called panisse in France.” What? These things we’d been working on</p><p>for a week were called panisse? How late to the party was I? Pretty late, it</p><p>turns out. If you like French fries, I’d wager you’ll love these.</p><p>And while I</p><p>don’t know the derivation of it, they’re often cut into batons on the bias and</p><p>served stacked in overlapping rows. Another thing I should probably bother</p><p>to investigate.</p><p>½ cup extra-virgin olive oil, plus more for frying and the baking</p><p>sheet</p><p>2 cups whole milk</p><p>2 cups water</p><p>1 tablespoon unsalted butter</p><p>1½ teaspoons sea salt, plus more for finishing</p><p>2¼ cups chickpea flour</p><p>1 garlic clove, finely minced</p><p>1 large egg yolk</p><p>Juice of 1 Meyer lemon, plus wedges for serving</p><p>Freshly ground black pepper</p><p>Generously oil a 13" × 9" rimmed baking sheet.</p><p>In a large saucepan, combine the milk, water, butter, and 1 teaspoon of the</p><p>salt and bring to a boil. Reduce the heat and let the liquid come to barely a</p><p>simmer, then gradually whisk in the chickpea flour, stirring constantly to</p><p>avoid lumps. Continue whisking over medium heat until the mixture</p><p>becomes very thick and holds its shape easily, 8 to 10 minutes.</p><p>Transfer the mixture to the prepared baking sheet, spreading it out to fill the</p><p>pan evenly, and use an offset spatula to smooth the top. Cover the baking</p><p>sheet with plastic wrap and chill in the fridge until fully set and firm, about</p><p>2 hours.</p><p>Meanwhile, using the flat side of a knife, mash the garlic with the</p><p>remaining ½ teaspoon salt until it becomes a paste. Transfer to a small bowl</p><p>and add the egg yolk. Whisk in half of the lemon juice and beat until foamy.</p><p>Add ½ cup of the olive oil to the bowl and continue whisking until</p><p>combined. Add the remaining lemon juice. Taste, add more salt if needed,</p><p>and season with pepper. Refrigerate until it’s time to serve.</p><p>Cut the chickpea mixture into batons about 1" wide and 3" long.</p><p>In a large skillet, heat ½" of olive oil until it shimmers. Working in batches</p><p>so you don’t crowd the pan, fry the panisse until golden brown on one side,</p><p>1 to 2 minutes. Turn and cook on the other side until nicely browned as</p><p>well. Remove from the oil, drain on paper towels, and sprinkle generously</p><p>with salt and pepper. Repeat until all the panisse are fried. Serve hot with</p><p>the aioli and Meyer lemon wedges.</p><p>polenta cakes with shiitake mushrooms, roasted</p><p>garlic, and thyme</p><p>My friend Andi is not a born cook. She willingly admits that comfort in the</p><p>kitchen is as elusive to her as a headstand during yoga class is to me. My</p><p>belief is that anyone can cook if they have the inclination and interest, and</p><p>while she might argue the point, she is living proof of this theory. About 10</p><p>years ago, Andi decided she wanted to make a pie for Thanksgiving. With</p><p>the help of instructional emails beforehand and a few phone calls during the</p><p>trickier parts on the day of baking, she made not one, but two pies—</p><p>pumpkin and pecan. I didn’t taste them, but I hear they were damn good.</p><p>Then, when my pizza cookbook came out, she decided to try her hand at</p><p>that. (I know, a first-time cook who aims high—pie dough and pizza dough</p><p>right out of the gate.) Her pizzas look wonderful (she’s 3,000 miles away,</p><p>so photos are my gauge) and her partner says they’re perfect; I trust him. So</p><p>Andi, a self-proclaimed kitchen novice and longtime vegetarian, is learning</p><p>to cook at last. She claims she’s ready to break out of her comfort zone and</p><p>try something new, so this recipe is my challenge to her. She’s been making</p><p>my mushroom pizza for months now, which uses this same technique, so I</p><p>know she’s got this part down: shiitakes roasted with garlic and thyme to</p><p>bring out their deepest, earthiest essence. All that’s left is for her to try her</p><p>hand at the polenta cakes. Having conquered two kinds of pies, I’m far from</p><p>worried about her mastering a cake.</p><p>4 tablespoons extra-virgin olive oil</p><p>1 cup whole milk</p><p>2 cups chicken stock, plus more as needed</p><p>1 cup polenta (not instant)</p><p>2 tablespoons unsalted butter</p><p>½ cup freshly grated Parmesan cheese, plus more for garnish</p><p>Sea salt</p><p>12–14 shiitake mushrooms, stems discarded and caps sliced</p><p>3 garlic cloves, smashed</p><p>Freshly ground black pepper</p><p>4–5 sprigs fresh thyme</p><p>Coat a 13" × 9" rimmed baking sheet with 1 tablespoon of the olive oil.</p><p>In a large saucepan, combine the milk and 2 cups of the stock and bring to a</p><p>boil. Slowly add the polenta to the pot, stirring constantly to avoid lumps.</p><p>Once all the polenta has been added, reduce the heat to low and continue to</p><p>stir almost constantly until the mixture is very thick and the grain is tender,</p><p>about 30 minutes. If the polenta seems to absorb the liquid too quickly, add</p><p>more stock, ½ cup at a time, and continue stirring.</p><p>When the polenta is very thick—it should pull away from the edges of the</p><p>pan when stirred—add the butter and Parmesan, season with salt to taste,</p><p>and stir to combine well.</p><p>Remove from the heat and pour the polenta onto the prepared baking sheet.</p><p>Use an offset spatula to smooth the top. Cover with plastic wrap and chill</p><p>until fully set and firm, about 1 hour.</p><p>Preheat the oven to 400°F.</p><p>In a medium lidded ovenproof saucepan or Dutch oven, heat 2 tablespoons</p><p>of the olive oil over medium-high heat. Add the mushrooms and garlic and</p><p>sauté until the mushrooms just begin to soften, about 3 minutes. Sprinkle</p><p>with salt and pepper. Add the thyme, cover the pot, and transfer it to the</p><p>oven to roast until the mushrooms are cooked through and the garlic is very</p><p>soft and fragrant, 6 to 8 minutes. Remove from the oven and discard the</p><p>thyme stems. Leave the oven on and line a baking sheet with parchment</p><p>paper.</p><p>Use a 2" round cookie cutter to cut the cakes and transfer to the lined</p><p>baking sheet. Bake until warmed through, 10 to 12 minutes. Remove from</p><p>the oven and top each cake with a spoonful of the mushroom mixture and</p><p>more Parmesan.</p><p>Deep-Fried Artichokes and Crispy Lemons</p><p>deep-fried artichokes and crispy lemons</p><p>There is one really important thing to know about fried artichokes, and it’s a</p><p>sad one: They make white wine taste terrible. I mean, really terrible. And</p><p>it’s not just fried artichokes, but any artichoke, even the long-stemmed,</p><p>olive oil–marinated ones that no antipasti should be without. From what I</p><p>gather, there’s some organic acid or enzyme in the artichoke that doesn’t</p><p>play well with white wine, and Mother Nature evidently doesn’t drink or</p><p>doesn’t care about those of us who do. Unfortunately, I can’t offer a</p><p>solution to this natural culinary disaster, but I have found a satisfactory</p><p>workaround: When you make these flowerlike fried delicacies, have a</p><p>Gimlet or another cocktail of your choosing. Problem avoided, if not</p><p>solved. Another option, if you’re still unconvinced and insist on having</p><p>wine at the table, is this: Offer your guests two beverages, one to</p><p>accompany the artichokes and one for everything else. With two drinks in</p><p>hand, everyone might be twice as happy.</p><p>4 lemons</p><p>8 globe artichokes</p><p>Olive oil or other vegetable oil, for deep-frying</p><p>Sea salt and freshly ground black pepper</p><p>¼ cup all-purpose flour</p><p>Fill a large bowl with water. Halve and squeeze the juice of 2 lemons into</p><p>the water, then drop in the rinds.</p><p>To prepare the artichokes, remove the tough outer leaves until you reach the</p><p>tender pale yellow/green leaves. Cut off about 1" of the thorny top. Trim the</p><p>stem of the artichoke by peeling off the outer green fiber, leaving about 2"</p><p>of stem if possible. Slice the artichokes in half lengthwise, and scoop out</p><p>the choke and discard (a melon baller works well for this). As you work,</p><p>immediately put the artichokes in the lemon water to prevent oxidization.</p><p>Fill a deep pot with enough olive oil to just cover the artichokes and heat to</p><p>325°F (use a candy thermometer). Line a baking sheet with paper towels</p><p>and set aside.</p><p>While the oil is heating, dry the artichokes well with paper towels. Sprinkle</p><p>generously with salt and pepper.</p><p>When the oil has reached 325°F, working in batches so as not to crowd the</p><p>pot, add the artichokes and cook, turning occasionally with tongs, until a</p><p>fork easily pierces the stem at its thickest point, 10 to 15 minutes. The</p><p>outside should be deeply golden.</p><p>Remove the artichokes from the oil and drain well on the lined baking</p><p>sheet. (You can prepare the</p><p>artichokes up to this point and leave them out</p><p>for a few hours until you’re ready to finish.)</p><p>Slice the remaining 2 lemons into thin rounds and remove the seeds. While</p><p>the oil is still hot, mix the flour with a sprinkle of salt and a grind of pepper</p><p>and dust the sliced lemons with the flour mixture to barely coat. Drop the</p><p>lemons into the hot oil and cook until just crisp, 1 to 2 minutes. Remove</p><p>and let drain on the lined baking sheet next to the artichokes.</p><p>When ready to serve, reheat the oil to 365°F. Working again in batches,</p><p>return the artichokes to the hot oil for a minute or so, just to crisp. Drain</p><p>very well on paper towels and serve hot in the center of a small plate, with a</p><p>sprinkle of sea salt and the fried lemons.</p><p>Cassoulet Cups with Duck, Sausage, and Zucchini | Sautéed Sweet Onion and Chard Toast with</p><p>Rustic Tomme, left center</p><p>cassoulet cups with duck, sausage, and zucchini</p><p>When I met Ken, he was a very picky eater. On our second official date, I</p><p>called and asked him if he wanted to go to dinner at Grange Hall. At the</p><p>time, Grange Hall was a sweet little restaurant on Commerce Street in</p><p>Greenwich Village, a cozy place that was serving farm-to-table fare long</p><p>before anyone called it that. Resonant of the 1940s in décor, the room was</p><p>always alight with a golden aura, the walls resplendent with murals</p><p>depicting a folk story of a sea captain and his two estranged daughters (the</p><p>twin townhouses across from the restaurant were said to have been built to</p><p>house the warring women), and the music exactly as you’d hope, Ella or</p><p>Billie or June Christy accompanied by the icy rattle of martini shakers.</p><p>When I asked Ken if he wanted to go, he said, “I don’t know. What kind</p><p>of food do they have?” Really? I thought. It’s taken all I have to make this</p><p>call and you ask me this? “Well, they have good food—you know, fish,</p><p>chicken, the usual.” “Okay, if they have chicken.” An adventurous eater and</p><p>cook even back then, I should have been deterred, but evidently love truly is</p><p>blinding. We had a great time despite his hesitancy (I had the trout, he had</p><p>the chicken), and I decided his food foibles were surmountable, which they</p><p>have proven to be—almost completely. I mention all this because when I</p><p>first decided I wanted to make cassoulet, I saw the deep consternation creep</p><p>into Ken’s lovely but telling eyes, the pull of his lips, the slightest, almost</p><p>imperceptible shake of his head. “Do you not like cassoulet?” His response:</p><p>“I don’t know. What is it?” And with that, I knew he’d love it—and he</p><p>does.</p><p>4 tablespoons extra-virgin olive oil, plus more as needed</p><p>1 pound sweet Italian sausages (about 4)</p><p>2 duck legs confit</p><p>2 garlic cloves, chopped</p><p>2 medium leeks, cleaned, trimmed, and thinly sliced</p><p>2 medium carrots, cut into ¼"-thick rounds</p><p>2 celery stalks, cut into ¼" pieces</p><p>2 medium zucchini, cut into ½" pieces</p><p>Sea salt and freshly ground black pepper</p><p>1 can (28 ounces) San Marzano tomatoes, drained (juice reserved</p><p>for another use)</p><p>2 cans (15 ounces each) cannellini beans, rinsed and drained</p><p>About 3 cups chicken stock</p><p>3 sprigs fresh Italian parsley, chopped</p><p>4 sprigs fresh thyme, leaves picked, plus more for breadcrumbs</p><p>(optional)</p><p>2 fresh bay leaves</p><p>Good pinch red chili flakes, or more to taste</p><p>2–3 cups homemade breadcrumbs</p><p>In a large deep pot, heat 1 tablespoon of the olive oil over medium-high</p><p>heat until it shimmers. Reduce the heat to medium, add the sausages, and</p><p>cook, turning every few minutes, until nicely browned on all sides and</p><p>cooked through, about 10 minutes. Remove the sausages from the pan and</p><p>set aside.</p><p>In the same pot, add the duck legs, fat-side down, and cook over medium</p><p>heat until they release easily from the pan and are deeply colored. Flip the</p><p>legs and cook on the other side. When the second side is browned, use your</p><p>tongs and hold the legs upright so the edges brown a bit too. Remove from</p><p>the pan and let sit with the sausages.</p><p>If the pan seems dry, add another 1 tablespoon olive oil (you want about 2</p><p>tablespoons total fat in the pan). When the fat is hot, add the garlic and</p><p>leeks and cook over medium heat, stirring frequently, until the vegetables</p><p>begin to soften, about 6 minutes. Add the carrots, celery, and zucchini,</p><p>sprinkle with salt and pepper, and cook until tender, another 8 to 10</p><p>minutes.</p><p>Meanwhile, tear the meat from the duck legs and discard the bones. Cut the</p><p>sausages into ½" rounds.</p><p>Add the cut-up meat, the tomatoes (I just add them whole and break up with</p><p>a wooden spoon in the pan, but feel free to roughly chop), beans, 21⁄2 cups of</p><p>the stock, the parsley, thyme, bay leaves, and chili flakes to the pan. Reduce</p><p>the heat to medium-low, partially cover the pot, and let simmer for 1 hour,</p><p>stirring every 15 minutes or so. After an hour, the mixture should have</p><p>thickened and the beans should begin to break down a bit and create a</p><p>creamy sauce. If the stew is still too thin, increase the heat to medium and</p><p>cook for another 20 to 30 minutes; if it’s too thick, add a bit more stock.</p><p>Taste and adjust the salt, pepper, and chili flakes as needed. Fish out the bay</p><p>leaves and discard.</p><p>Preheat the broiler.</p><p>Toss the breadcrumbs in a bowl with the remaining 2 tablespoons olive oil</p><p>and some salt and pepper (I like to add a few sprigs’ worth of thyme leaves</p><p>too). Ladle the cassoulet into small broilerproof bowls. Sprinkle each</p><p>serving with a nice coating of breadcrumbs and transfer to a baking sheet.</p><p>Broil until the breadcrumbs are just golden, 2 to 3 minutes.</p><p>shredded potato cakes with ramps</p><p>Potatoes, shredded, pressed together, and fried in fat are pretty much my</p><p>idea of bliss. Growing up, we called them hash browns and my mom served</p><p>them for breakfast with fried eggs on special occasions. More often now</p><p>they’re dinner, needing nothing more than a salad to make the meal</p><p>complete. Some people prefer potato cakes that rely on leftover mashed</p><p>potatoes, but I like the rougher, more rustic texture of a shredded cake. With</p><p>mashed cakes, you get that first crisp bite followed by a smooth inside that</p><p>breaks down and collapses on your tongue, almost as if exuding a sigh of</p><p>relief. With shredded cakes, the exterior, if cooked well, becomes a crunchy</p><p>web enclosing a tender but still structured interior, a lace of starch, fat, salt,</p><p>and any other seasoning you decide feels right.</p><p>Bits of leftover anything can go into a potato cake, so last spring, when</p><p>a friend showed up bearing a bag of ramps she’d just picked that morning</p><p>from a vacant lot near her Berkshire home, dinner was decided. Ramps, for</p><p>those who don’t live in a place where they grow wild, are the most seasonal</p><p>and fleeting member of the onion family. Like a scallion’s prettier cousin,</p><p>these lithe alliums have pearly bulbs at one end with eggplant-colored</p><p>waists and breezy wing-like tails that fan out into edible greens on the other.</p><p>I hate to cut ramps, as they’re so stunning when cooked whole and left in a</p><p>tangle, but for this, you really want the heads to be tender without</p><p>overcooking the stems or browning the leaves. If ramps aren’t an option, a</p><p>sweet onion will do the trick. Add some thyme, leftover sautéed</p><p>mushrooms, bits of pancetta or bacon—really anything your heart desires.</p><p>3 medium russet (baking) potatoes, peeled</p><p>4–6 ramps, or less if that’s all you have</p><p>6 tablespoons extra-virgin olive oil (or duck fat, if you’re feeling</p><p>decadent)</p><p>Sea salt and freshly ground black pepper</p><p>On the widest holes of a box grater, grate the potatoes. Working in batches,</p><p>take a handful of the potatoes in a clean kitchen towel (you can use paper</p><p>towels instead, but they tend to tear) and squeeze out as much liquid as you</p><p>can. Put each batch of squeezed potatoes into a large bowl and set aside.</p><p>Separate the ramp leaves from the white stems and bulbs. Chop the bulbs</p><p>and stems into bite-size pieces and cut the leaves into ribbons.</p><p>In a 12" nonstick skillet, heat 2 tablespoons of the olive oil over medium-</p><p>high heat until it shimmers. Add the bulbs and stems, sprinkle with salt and</p><p>pepper, and cook until tender, about</p><p>5 minutes. Add the leaves and continue</p><p>to cook until they wilt, another 2 to 3 minutes.</p><p>Preheat the oven to 400°F. Line a baking sheet with parchment paper.</p><p>Season the shredded potatoes with salt and pepper. Add 2 tablespoons olive</p><p>oil to the pan. Transfer the potatoes to the pan, tossing so the ramps are</p><p>distributed evenly among the potatoes, and then use a spatula to press into a</p><p>firm cake. Take the spatula around the edge of the pan and press the</p><p>potatoes in a bit so you have a relatively firm patty. Reduce the heat to</p><p>medium-low and let the cake cook undisturbed for about 15 minutes. Give</p><p>the pan a shake to loosen the cake. Place a plate wider than the pan over the</p><p>top of the pan and carefully invert the cake onto the plate. Add the</p><p>remaining 2 tablespoons olive oil to the pan and slide the cake back into the</p><p>pan with the browned side facing up. Continue to cook until a peek under</p><p>the bottom of the cake shows it’s browned, another 15 minutes.</p><p>Flip the cake out of the pan and onto the lined baking sheet. Transfer the</p><p>cake to the oven and bake until the potatoes are tender all the way through,</p><p>another 15 to 20 minutes. Serve hot or at room temperature.</p><p>shrimp-studded rice paper rolls and peanut</p><p>dipping sauce</p><p>My sister, Ali, and her husband, Jeremy, did a very cool thing when they</p><p>decided to get married. Instead of a traditional wedding, they threw an</p><p>unassuming housewarming party, invited all their friends and family to their</p><p>new loft, and then in the midst of it all, surprised the crowd by saying “I</p><p>do” atop the spiral staircase in the middle of their living room. That was</p><p>pretty nifty, but the really cool part is that Ali and Jeremy are friends with</p><p>Charles Phan, the chef and owner of The Slanted Door, a renowned</p><p>Vietnamese restaurant in San Francisco, who kindly offered to cater their</p><p>unexpected nuptials. Charles’s spring rolls are often the first thing I head for</p><p>when I get off the plane in San Francisco and the last thing I grab before</p><p>getting back on—they’re that good. So besides Ali marrying Jeremy and the</p><p>a cappella boy band who sang Drift Away following the ceremony, these</p><p>spring rolls were the highlight of the party. And, while I’ve tried to make</p><p>Charles’s recipe many times since, they’re never as good as his; so instead</p><p>of feeling demoralized by what I can’t perfectly replicate, I’ve devised a</p><p>simpler version that doesn’t aim so high. These are fresh, sweet, and</p><p>wonderful in their own right, but full disclosure only seems fair: They’re</p><p>definitely different from the ones at The Slanted Door.</p><p>½ cup creamy unsweetened peanut butter</p><p>¼ cup water</p><p>2 tablespoons soy sauce</p><p>2 tablespoons honey</p><p>1½ tablespoons rice vinegar</p><p>1 teaspoon fresh lime juice</p><p>1 piece (1") fresh ginger, peeled</p><p>2 garlic cloves, peeled</p><p>¼–½ teaspoon red chili flakes</p><p>Pinch sea salt</p><p>4 ounces vermicelli (rice noodles)</p><p>2 tablespoons extra-virgin olive oil</p><p>18 medium shrimp, peeled and deveined</p><p>1 small head Boston or Bibb lettuce, leaves separated</p><p>Handful fresh mint or basil leaves, or a combination</p><p>1 carrot, julienned</p><p>1 Persian (mini) cucumber or ½ English cucumber, julienned</p><p>12 rice paper wrappers (8")</p><p>In a food processor, combine the peanut butter, water, soy sauce, honey,</p><p>vinegar, lime juice, ginger, 1 garlic clove, chili flakes, and salt and process</p><p>until very smooth. Taste to adjust the seasoning and add more water to thin</p><p>a bit, if needed. Set the dipping sauce aside.</p><p>Bring a pot of salted water to boil and cook the vermicelli according to</p><p>package directions. Drain in a colander and rinse with very cold water, then</p><p>with very hot water, and then again with very cold water (this helps keep</p><p>the noodles from sticking together). Set aside.</p><p>Mince the remaining garlic clove. In a medium skillet, heat the olive oil</p><p>over medium-high heat until it shimmers. Add the minced garlic and cook</p><p>for 30 seconds, stirring constantly. Reduce the heat to medium, add the</p><p>shrimp, and sear on both sides until pink and cooked through. Remove from</p><p>the heat. When cool enough to handle, slice each shrimp in half lengthwise</p><p>and set aside.</p><p>Gather together the lettuce, noodles, mint, carrot, and cucumber and</p><p>organize them so they’re within easy reach. Fill a large bowl with very hot</p><p>water. Soak and wring out two clean kitchen towels and lay one in the</p><p>center of your work surface (this helps keep the rice papers from sticking).</p><p>Working with one rice paper at a time, soak the paper in the hot water until</p><p>tender and pliable, but not so long that it tears, 10 to 15 seconds.</p><p>Lay the rice paper on the towel. Line the bottom third of the paper with one</p><p>lettuce leaf and top with about ¼ cup vermicelli. Add a couple of mint</p><p>leaves and 2 or 3 pieces of carrot and cucumber on top of the noodles. Fold</p><p>the bottom edge up over the vegetables and vermicelli and roll up tightly,</p><p>just until the rice paper sticks to itself but you still have more rice paper to</p><p>go. Lay three shrimp, cut-sides up, on the rice paper so they are touching</p><p>the edge of the rolled portion. Now fold the right and left sides over the</p><p>shrimp and rolled portion, and continue to roll up as tightly as possible until</p><p>everything is completely enclosed and the sides are nicely tucked in. Move</p><p>the roll to a plate and cover with the other damp towel to keep the rice</p><p>paper from drying out. Repeat this process until you’ve used all the</p><p>ingredients.</p><p>Cut the rolls into thirds on the bias and serve with the peanut dipping sauce.</p><p>last bites, small and sweet</p><p>I’m a selective sweets eater. I like a bite or two, but rarely need my</p><p>own serving. So I’ve taken to making desserts that are meant to be</p><p>shared, what I think of as intentionally communal sweets—an idea</p><p>inspired by our friends Neil and Claude, who, at one of their dinner</p><p>parties, placed a single platter of brownies and ice cream in the middle</p><p>of the table, then casually dropped a spoon in front of each of us. It</p><p>was relaxed yet sophisticated, the hosts making their own lives easier</p><p>in the kitchen and all of us more comfortable at the table. None of the</p><p>guests knew one another before that night, but suddenly we were</p><p>scooping ice cream off the same plate and fighting over the last</p><p>crumbs. Whether it’s a platter of fruit, a smattering of crumble-topped</p><p>ramekins, or a selection of cakes, ditching formality in favor of</p><p>intimacy is refreshing. Try it.</p><p>An Inspired Platter of Fruit and a Piece of Chocolate</p><p>Brown Butter Brownies</p><p>Lacy Oatmeal–Chocolate Chip Cookies</p><p>Apricot, Berry, Fig (or Almost Any Kind of Fruit) Almond Slices</p><p>Lemon-Lavender Posset</p><p>Kahlúa–Vanilla Bean Crème Brûlée Pots</p><p>Whatever-You-Fancy Fruit Crumble</p><p>Classic Crostata, One Large or a Few Small</p><p>Chocolate Whiskey Cakes with Boozy Vanilla Cream</p><p>Eiffel Tower–Inspired Coconut Macaroons</p><p>An Inspired Platter of Fruit and a Piece of Chocolate</p><p>an inspired platter of fruit and a piece of</p><p>chocolate</p><p>Not too long ago, we were invited to a grown-up dinner party. The kind</p><p>where people you don’t know very well sit around and talk about what they</p><p>do for a living, what they thought of the new restaurant that opened up</p><p>where the old restaurant used to be, and other topics that usually leave me</p><p>wondering why we went in the first place. I tried to be a good guest by</p><p>asking what I should bring—dessert, wine, anything at all—but the hostess</p><p>very adamantly said no, she had it all taken care of.</p><p>After dinner, when the plates were cleared and the coffee was being</p><p>poured, the hostess returned to the table with a bowl of small oranges and</p><p>passed them around. How charming, I thought, this casual and refreshing</p><p>reprieve between dinner and dessert. What a sweet, rustic touch, I noted, as</p><p>I waited with bated breath for the homemade cookies, the froufrou torte</p><p>from the French bakery down the street, or even a few bars of chocolate, the</p><p>metallic wrappers torn back and passed around for all to share. Then</p><p>whiskey came out, more coffee was proffered, and it dawned on me that</p><p>this was it—a lone orange would punctuate this lackluster evening, the peel</p><p>lying torn and pithy on the placemat in front</p><p>of me.</p><p>Now, I’m not against fruit for dessert, don’t misunderstand me, but for a</p><p>dinner party, passing out oranges feels kind of meager, like you just</p><p>couldn’t be bothered. Sure, at home I’ll happily peel an orange and share</p><p>sections after a meal for something light and sweet, but guests deserve a bit</p><p>more in my book. If you want to serve fruit (and by all means do), then</p><p>spend a couple more minutes shopping and a few more slicing, and have</p><p>fun playing with both succulent and surprising combinations. A fruit plate</p><p>can dazzle if done with care and seasonality in mind. A chocolate bar is</p><p>never a bad idea either.</p><p>SUMMER FRUIT PLATE IDEAS</p><p>Stone fruits: cherries, apricots, peaches, plums, or nectarines</p><p>Berries: raspberries, blueberries, blackberries, or strawberries</p><p>TROPICAL FRUIT PLATE IDEAS</p><p>Pineapple</p><p>Mango</p><p>Papaya</p><p>Kiwi</p><p>FALL/WINTER FRUIT PLATE IDEAS</p><p>Figs</p><p>Apples (tart and sweet) Pears</p><p>Red currants or pomegranate seeds</p><p>Milk or dark chocolate bar, broken into bite-size pieces</p><p>Choose a selection of ripe, seasonal fruit and peel, pit, and slice or cut up</p><p>the fruit as needed. Arrange on a plate or platter and serve with the</p><p>chocolate. No one will want for more.</p><p>Brown Butter Brownies | Lacy Oatmeal–Chocolate Chip Cookies</p><p>brown butter brownies</p><p>There are things in this life that I can’t do, no matter how hard I try. Take,</p><p>for instance, my love of music and lack of musical talent. From the moment</p><p>I got my bubble-shaped white Panasonic tape recorder and my first cassette,</p><p>Get the Knack (it was 1979, so totally cutting-edge), I pushed play and was</p><p>smitten. Then Elvis Costello became my high-school heartthrob and the</p><p>Sony Walkman my parents gave me twirled Alison so many times I’m</p><p>surprised the tape wasn’t wiped clean. I was a DJ in college, but it still</p><p>wasn’t enough. So I bought a used guitar and took lessons, to no avail. As</p><p>Don McLean so aptly said, “ . . . the music wouldn’t play.” I love to sing,</p><p>and boy have I tried. But according to at least one source (Ken), I can’t</p><p>carry a tune, or at least not one that should be heard by others; so I’m</p><p>reduced to belting it out with Sugarland alone in the car or crooning with</p><p>Anita O’Day when no one else is home.</p><p>But here’s the thing: I can brown butter. No, I may not be able to tell</p><p>chord A from C, but I know how to judge when the milk solids are the exact</p><p>shade of rusty brown to pull the pan off the stove. I can’t sing on key (or tell</p><p>one key from another), but I know when the bubbling, foamy fat is toasted</p><p>just right so that these brownies have that perfect crackle-topped texture and</p><p>moist, almost-fudgy-but-not-too-gooey interior. I am totally aware that</p><p>making a great brownie is not the same as being a legendary jazz singer or a</p><p>member of the Grand Ole Opry. I get that I’m never going to win that</p><p>Grammy or sell out Madison Square Garden. But it makes me feel better to</p><p>know that even if I can’t sing or play, even if Ken never wants to hear my</p><p>bluesy version of Peaceful Easy Feeling again (as he’s told me repeatedly,</p><p>he doesn’t), then at least he will always want an encore when it comes to</p><p>my brownies.</p><p>1¼ sticks (10 tablespoons) unsalted butter, cut into pieces, plus more</p><p>for the pan</p><p>1¼ cups sugar</p><p>¾ cup unsweetened cocoa powder</p><p>½ teaspoon sea salt</p><p>¼ teaspoon baking powder</p><p>2 large eggs</p><p>1½ teaspoons vanilla extract</p><p>⅔ cup all-purpose flour</p><p>2 ounces dark or semisweet chocolate, roughly chopped</p><p>Flaky sea salt, for serving</p><p>Preheat the oven to 325°F. Line an 8" × 8" baking pan with two pieces of</p><p>crisscrossed parchment paper, leaving enough overhang to pull the</p><p>brownies out of the pan when baked. Butter the parchment paper well.</p><p>In a medium saucepan, melt the butter over medium heat, stirring pretty</p><p>constantly with a heatproof spatula. Continue to cook for about 8 minutes,</p><p>until it begins to brown (you want to see little brownish-reddish particles</p><p>suspended in the melted butter). It should smell wonderful but will begin to</p><p>color quickly at this point, so remove from the heat once you see the</p><p>particles.</p><p>Stir the sugar into the saucepan and combine well. Then stir in the cocoa</p><p>powder, salt, and baking powder until thoroughly incorporated. Let sit for a</p><p>few minutes to cool.</p><p>Add the eggs to the pan one at a time, beating to incorporate into the</p><p>mixture until it looks shiny and well blended. Add the vanilla and flour and</p><p>stir until the flour is fully integrated, then give the mixture another minute</p><p>of mixing to smooth out the batter. Add the chopped chocolate and stir until</p><p>it’s almost completely melted.</p><p>Spread the batter in the prepared pan, using a knife or offset spatula to</p><p>smooth the top. Bake until a wooden pick or skewer inserted in the center</p><p>comes out almost clean, about 25 minutes. Cool the brownies completely</p><p>before using the parchment paper to lift them out of the pan.</p><p>Cut the brownies into small squares and serve on a large plate. Sprinkle</p><p>with flaky sea salt and offer multiple forks and spoons and a couple pints of</p><p>your favorite ice cream.</p><p>lacy oatmeal–chocolate chip cookies</p><p>I remember the first time I had an oatmeal–chocolate chip cookie. Our</p><p>babysitter, Llewelyn—even her name was cool—brought over some</p><p>cookies she’d made. This was the mid ’70s, and as I remember, she was like</p><p>a shorter version of Susan Dey in The Partridge Family, only more exotic.</p><p>She had long brown hair that was parted right down the middle and fell in</p><p>that loose, natural way that hair doesn’t seem to fall anymore. She wore</p><p>peasant skirts and had a guitar. She was studying modern dance and had</p><p>written a children’s book about a girl named Ivy. I wanted to be exactly like</p><p>her. Especially after I tasted her cookies.</p><p>The day I tasted Llewelyn’s oatmeal–chocolate chip cookies, I</p><p>definitively knew what I had suspected all along—that the old-fashioned</p><p>oatmeal cookie wasn’t living up to its full potential. It was reticent, looking</p><p>for that something to make it feel complete. Llewelyn had found what was</p><p>missing—the chocolate chip. Her cookies were socially acceptable yet</p><p>daring. They were part Ali McGraw and part Faye Dunaway. If I were a</p><p>cookie, these were the cookies I imagined my 8-year-old self to be: good</p><p>and well behaved on the outside but with a dark, brooding interior, a rebel</p><p>dying to break out.</p><p>After years of tinkering and tweaking, the recipe I make now is a</p><p>slightly more sophisticated relative of those cookies: crunchy and just a bit</p><p>lacy, laden with chocolate chips and a halo of cocoa powder, full of oats but</p><p>not overly earthy. Just as I remember them, these cookies are the girl next</p><p>door on the back of a motorcycle, wholesome yet daring and rebellious at</p><p>the same time. They’re everything I’ll never be, but damn they taste good.</p><p>See photograph.</p><p>1 cup packed dark brown sugar</p><p>1 cup granulated sugar</p><p>2 sticks (½ pound) unsalted butter, at room temperature</p><p>2 large eggs</p><p>1 teaspoon vanilla extract</p><p>3 cups rolled oats</p><p>1 cup all-purpose flour</p><p>2 tablespoons unsweetened cocoa powder</p><p>1 teaspoon baking soda</p><p>1 teaspoon baking powder</p><p>¼ teaspoon sea salt</p><p>8 ounces good-quality chocolate, chopped into chunks, or chips</p><p>½ cup pecan pieces, toasted</p><p>¼ cup shredded coconut (sweetened or the natural stuff)</p><p>Preheat the oven to 350°F. Line two baking sheets with parchment paper.</p><p>In a stand mixer fitted with the paddle attachment, cream the brown sugar,</p><p>granulated sugar, and butter until the mixture is light and fluffy, about 5</p><p>minutes. Add the eggs and vanilla and beat, scraping down the sides of the</p><p>bowl as needed, until fully combined.</p><p>In a large bowl, combine the oats, flour, cocoa powder, baking soda, baking</p><p>powder, and salt and stir to combine. Add the dry mixture to the butter</p><p>mixture and mix until just combined. Remove the bowl from the mixer and</p><p>stir in the chocolate, pecans, and coconut.</p><p>Scoop tablespoon-size balls of dough onto the prepared baking sheets,</p><p>leaving a good 2" between them. Bake until the cookies are crisp and</p><p>golden brown, 12 to 14 minutes. Let the cookies cool on the pan for a few</p><p>minutes, then transfer to a wire rack to cool.</p><p>Note: You can bake half of this recipe and freeze half if you like to</p><p>make fresh cookies in a flash. Lay out a sheet of plastic wrap on the</p><p>counter and transfer any unbaked dough to the center of the plastic.</p><p>Use your hands to form the dough into a long log, then roll the</p><p>plastic around it and twist tightly on the ends to freeze. The morning</p><p>of the day you want to bake, transfer the dough to the fridge to thaw</p><p>and then simply cut into pieces, form into balls, and bake when</p><p>ready.</p><p>Apricot, Berry, Fig (Or Almost Any Kind of Fruit) Almond Slices</p><p>apricot, berry, fig (or almost any kind of fruit)</p><p>almond slices</p><p>I spent about a year living in London after college. As it happens, I ended</p><p>up making one of my very closest friends during that time. Our lives are</p><p>woven together in many ways, but sadly, living in the same city again has</p><p>never been one of them. Over the years, we’ve either met in foreign places</p><p>to spend time together or traveled back and forth between New York and</p><p>London for brief weekends. All this is a prelude to why this cake is here.</p><p>Every time I go to visit Jackie, I’m drawn to the small café (now world-</p><p>famous) by her flat in Islington called Ottolenghi. Since the first time I set</p><p>foot in the milk-white shop, the windows piled high with pastel-colored</p><p>meringues and buttery pastries, I have left with a fruit-topped slice of</p><p>almond cake. The first time it was apricot, the next was pear, then peach,</p><p>once fig.</p><p>Returning to New York after a short visit about 10 years ago, I took the</p><p>bold step of emailing Yotam Ottolenghi to ask for the recipe, promising not</p><p>to share it with a soul (this was prior to his cookbook fame and universal</p><p>presence). He kindly wrote back (I was surprised but delighted) and said,</p><p>“Well it’s just a basic frangipane sponge topped with fruit.” That was kind,</p><p>but hardly enough for me to go on. Clearly no secret was going to be</p><p>revealed, just a charming note to get me started on my quest to replicate the</p><p>world’s greatest cake. So I started playing around, and while we ate a lot of</p><p>good almond cakes, they never came close to his. Then his first book came</p><p>out and I was sure the mystery would be solved, but a quick glance at the</p><p>index made my heart fall. He wasn’t giving this one up.</p><p>Then one day I was browsing around his website and found a recipe for</p><p>a fig cake using almond flour. Made in the round it looked more like a</p><p>proper cake than the fruit squares I coveted from his shop, but the</p><p>ingredients seemed promising. Unfortunately, I’ll never know if this is</p><p>exactly the cake, the one cut into stout little squares, the crumb moist and</p><p>nutty and just my kind of sweet. By the time I get off the plane it’s always</p><p>gone, so I’ve never been able to compare the two, bite for bite, but this one</p><p>works for me. I’ve simplified the aromatics, added almonds on top for a bit</p><p>of crunch, and used all kinds of fruit imaginable, depending on the season</p><p>and what I have that needs using up.</p><p>1¾ sticks (14 tablespoons) unsalted butter, at room temperature,</p><p>plus more for the pan</p><p>1 cup sugar</p><p>3 large eggs, beaten</p><p>1 vanilla bean</p><p>1¾ cups almond flour</p><p>½ cup plus 3 tablespoons all-purpose flour</p><p>½ teaspoon sea salt</p><p>⅓ cup Greek yogurt</p><p>2–3 cups fruit of your choice, for topping: blueberries, sliced</p><p>rhubarb and raspberries, quartered figs, sliced apricots, etc.</p><p>¼ cup sliced almonds, for topping (optional)</p><p>Preheat the oven to 400°F. Butter a 9" springform pan, line the bottom with</p><p>a round of parchment, and butter the parchment.</p><p>In a stand mixer, cream together the butter and sugar until light and fluffy,</p><p>about 5 minutes. With the mixer running on low speed, very slowly drizzle</p><p>the eggs into the bowl. Stop the machine to scrape down the sides as</p><p>needed, until all the eggs are fully incorporated.</p><p>Slice the vanilla bean down the center and peel open the sides as you would</p><p>a book. Use a small paring knife to scrape out as much of the seeds as you</p><p>can, and add to the bowl. Let the mixer run for a minute, until you can see</p><p>little specks of vanilla evenly throughout the mixture.</p><p>In a medium bowl, combine the almond flour, all-purpose flour, and salt.</p><p>With the mixer on low speed, add the dry ingredients and mix until barely</p><p>combined. Remove the bowl from the mixer and fold in the yogurt. When</p><p>the mixture is thoroughly combined and no streaks of yogurt are evident,</p><p>transfer the batter to the prepared pan.</p><p>Use an offset spatula to smooth the top of the batter, then gently press just</p><p>enough fruit into the top of the batter to cover the cake (you should still see</p><p>the batter through the layer of fruit). Sprinkle with sliced almonds, if using,</p><p>and transfer the pan to a baking sheet before placing in the oven.</p><p>Bake for 15 minutes, then reduce the heat to 340°F. Bake until the cake is</p><p>just beginning to color on the edges and pull away from the sides of the pan</p><p>and a wooden pick or skewer inserted in the center comes out clean, another</p><p>40 minutes. Let the cake cool completely in the pan before releasing from</p><p>the springform sides.</p><p>Lemon-Lavender Posset</p><p>lemon-lavender posset</p><p>Posset . . . Isn’t that name enough to make you swoon, the word itself</p><p>bringing to mind a funny little house somewhere in a mossy forest? Names</p><p>can seduce, inspire, and help us define ourselves. And they can make the</p><p>ordinary, extraordinary. Set before me an apple called Braeburn, a damson</p><p>or mirabelle plum, a cheese with the wicked title of Dragon’s Breath Blue</p><p>or the magical Timberdoodle and I’m, well, tickled. This dessert, which is</p><p>insanely easy by the way, sounds like something out of a Van Morrison</p><p>song or a poem by John Donne—visions of green fields and weeping</p><p>willows spring to mind. It’s also just fun to say. Come on, try it: Have a</p><p>posset with me.</p><p>2 cups heavy cream</p><p>¾ cup sugar</p><p>1–2 fresh lavender flowers</p><p>5 tablespoons fresh lemon, lime, or other citrus juice</p><p>Red currants or pomegranate seeds, for garnish (optional)</p><p>In a medium saucepan, combine the cream, sugar, and lavender and bring to</p><p>a boil, stirring to dissolve the sugar. Once the mixture begins to bubble,</p><p>reduce to a simmer and let cook for 3 minutes. Remove from the heat and</p><p>stir in the lemon juice. Let sit for about 10 minutes for the flavors to meld.</p><p>Strain the mixture through a fine-mesh sieve and then pour into small</p><p>glasses, jars, or cups. Let cool completely (if you don’t, the top will</p><p>wrinkle), then cover with plastic wrap and chill for at least 4 hours or until</p><p>fully set. Serve topped with red currants or pomegranate seeds, if you like.</p><p>kahlúa–vanilla bean crème brûlée pots</p><p>I had a friend in college who lived in an apartment above the café where I</p><p>worked. I was what is now referred to as a “barista,” though back then we</p><p>just called it the “girl who makes cappuccino.” My friend worked as a</p><p>waiter at the only really elegant restaurant in our small town, and he’d</p><p>regularly stop in for a coffee before or after his shift. He was darkly</p><p>handsome and very exotic, with the unplaceable accent of someone who</p><p>grew up in Iran, was of Armenian descent, and moved to California. We</p><p>weren’t close; in truth, we were just friendly acquaintances who talked</p><p>when he came into the café and sometimes wandered over to the local dive</p><p>bar together after we both got off work to sip what I then believed to be a</p><p>fashionable late-night drink: Kahlúa and cream. A cloying combination, this</p><p>rich, sweet concoction is almost more enjoyable to watch than to drink, the</p><p>dark brown liqueur and the milky cream twisting and twirling like ballroom</p><p>dancers in a glass of ice. With drinks in hand, we talked about novels and</p><p>music: I lent him my copy of Travesty by John Hawkes; he gave me a mix</p><p>tape of Billie Holiday and Marianne Faithful (lacking in delusions of</p><p>artiness we were not).</p><p>Naturally, we fell out of touch and went our separate ways after college,</p><p>but then one New Year’s Eve in New York City, I looked up to see him</p><p>working the line at the restaurant I’d been invited to (open kitchens being</p><p>all the rage in New York in the 1990s). We said our hellos, said we should</p><p>get together,</p><p>and then it was midnight. A few years later, we passed one</p><p>another on the street in the Village; we lived within blocks of each other, it</p><p>seemed. Then, more years having passed, we ran into each other in a coffee</p><p>shop, a silly full-circle trip back in time, and finally exchanged deeper</p><p>hellos. Once again, we seem to be out of touch for now, but every time I</p><p>reach for the Kahlúa and cream to make these custards, I can’t help but</p><p>think of him.</p><p>2 cups heavy cream</p><p>¼ cup granulated sugar</p><p>1 vanilla bean</p><p>4 large egg yolks</p><p>3 tablespoons Kahlúa or other liqueur</p><p>Demerara sugar</p><p>Preheat the oven to 300°F. Bring a kettle of water to boil. Place five 4-</p><p>ounce ramekins in the bottom of a large roasting pan and set aside.</p><p>In a medium saucepan, combine the cream and granulated sugar. Use a</p><p>paring knife to cut the vanilla bean down the middle lengthwise, then open</p><p>the sides of the pod like a book, scrape out the seeds, and add them to the</p><p>pan. Cook over medium heat until bubbles just begin to appear at the edges</p><p>of the pan (do not boil). Remove from the heat and let sit.</p><p>In a large bowl, whisk the egg yolks and Kahlúa together. Gradually add the</p><p>warm cream mixture, whisking constantly. Strain the mixture through a</p><p>fine-mesh sieve set over a measuring cup. Pour the custard into the</p><p>ramekins.</p><p>Place the roasting pan in the oven and pour the boiling water around the</p><p>ramekins until it reaches halfway up the sides. Bake until the custard has set</p><p>but is still wobbly in the center (it will set up as it cools), 20 to 25 minutes.</p><p>Transfer to a rack to cool and then refrigerate for at least 4 hours.</p><p>To serve, sprinkle about a teaspoon or so of demerara sugar on each dish.</p><p>Tilt the dishes gently from side to side to help spread the sugar. Use a torch</p><p>to caramelize the tops evenly or set them under the broiler for a minute or</p><p>two, keeping a close eye on them so they don’t burn. Serve immediately.</p><p>Whatever-You-Fancy Fruit Crumble</p><p>whatever-you-fancy fruit crumble</p><p>I have an absurd collection of ramekins. I have rounds, ovals, and squares. I</p><p>have deep and shallow. I have some in clusters of four, six, and eight.</p><p>Someday, when I have the garage sale I keep threatening to have, I’m going</p><p>to go through the cupboard where I keep this ridiculous array of ramekins</p><p>and figure out which I should keep and which I can live without.</p><p>Though thinking about it now, I do sort of need them all. The reason,</p><p>and this makes a lot of sense if you think about it, is that I never know</p><p>exactly how many stalks of rhubarb will have pushed up, or how many</p><p>raspberries will have ripened on the vines at the empty house next door. I</p><p>can never be sure how many plums the kind woman who always tells me to</p><p>“have a blessed day” at the farm stand will add to my bag, or how many</p><p>peaches I’ll rescue before the squirrels have their wily way. You see,</p><p>without knowing how much fruit I’ll have on hand, I can’t be sure which</p><p>ramekins I’ll need, so I really do need them all. Especially the wide, low-</p><p>sided ones because, come to think of it, Ken favors a relatively even</p><p>balance of crumble topping to fruit. He claims the perfect crisp or crumble</p><p>(and they really are the same thing, aren’t they?) has equal parts fruit to</p><p>pecan-oat-crunch in every bite, which makes sense. More sense than one</p><p>person owning this many ramekins, for sure.</p><p>6 tablespoons cold butter, cut into small pieces, plus more for the</p><p>ramekins</p><p>About 4 cups fruit, whatever you like: sliced peaches, plums,</p><p>apricots, berries, rhubarb, etc. (or better, a mix)</p><p>2–3 tablespoons granulated sugar (depending on how sweet your</p><p>fruit is)</p><p>Grated zest of 1 orange or lemon, plus 1 tablespoon juice</p><p>¾ cup packed light or dark brown sugar</p><p>½ cup all-purpose flour</p><p>½ teaspoon ground cinnamon, or to taste</p><p>Good pinch sea salt</p><p>½ cup rolled oats</p><p>½ cup pecans</p><p>Preheat the oven to 375°F. Butter small ramekins or one large gratin dish</p><p>and transfer to a baking sheet.</p><p>In a large bowl, toss the fruit with the granulated sugar and orange or lemon</p><p>zest and juice and spread it out evenly in the ramekins or gratin dish.</p><p>In a food processor, combine the butter, brown sugar, flour, cinnamon, and</p><p>salt and pulse until it looks like small peas and just begins to clump</p><p>together, 20 to 30 seconds. Add the oats and pecans and pulse just a few</p><p>times to combine (they shouldn’t get too ground up).</p><p>Crumble the topping over the fruit and bake until golden and beginning to</p><p>brown, 20 to 30 minutes for small ramekins and 45 to 50 minutes for a</p><p>larger gratin dish.</p><p>Classic Crostata</p><p>classic crostata,</p><p>one large or a few small</p><p>It happens every year. Winter becomes the guest that doesn’t know it’s time</p><p>to leave, the season that overstays its welcome. Come April, the snow loses</p><p>its novelty and I’m bored by the cold company, the incessant battleship-</p><p>colored skies. But still it lingers, until even the trees begin to irritate me, so</p><p>bare and spindly, some bone white, some ashen gray. Then one day a slight</p><p>green shadow is there. Not buds yet, but a hue, tone, a tint to the air around</p><p>them that says spring is coming. And then it does, quite quickly; like a film</p><p>shown on fast forward, the trees flower and fruit appears and the long white</p><p>wait is over.</p><p>One day the light changes from pale to gold and the fruit trees begin to</p><p>compete with the birds to show who is more alive. And this is when I know</p><p>that soon, I am going to make a pie. Well, not a pie so much as a tart, a</p><p>galette—okay, let’s agree to call it a crostata. The dessert that does what a</p><p>good fruit dessert should do: showcase the fruit while letting the crust—</p><p>perfectly flaky, delicate, and barely there—hold it all together without</p><p>drawing too much attention to itself. This is the dessert that takes minutes</p><p>(honestly) to make, yet looks like a painting. When I make this dessert, I am</p><p>transported to the countryside somewhere: Italy probably; France maybe;</p><p>New England possibly; okay, California. It’s warm out, the sun is rich, and</p><p>this dessert is summer on a crust.</p><p>1¼ cups all-purpose flour, plus more as needed</p><p>1 stick (8 tablespoons) very cold unsalted butter</p><p>1 teaspoon sea salt</p><p>¼–⅓ cup ice water</p><p>3 firm, tart apples or fruit of your choice</p><p>Good squeeze fresh lemon juice</p><p>4 tablespoons sugar, plus more for sprinkling</p><p>2 tablespoons all-purpose flour</p><p>In a food processor, combine the flour, butter, and salt. Process the mixture</p><p>until it resembles small peas, 10 to 12 pulses. Transfer the dough to a large</p><p>bowl and add ¼ cup of the water. Use your hands to integrate the water into</p><p>the dough, adding a bit more if needed to bring it together. I often find I</p><p>need to add another 2 tablespoons to get it all combined. Don’t be scared of</p><p>the dough, but don’t overwork it either—it won’t be homogenous: You</p><p>should see chips of butter in the dough. If you’re making one large crostata,</p><p>form the dough into a flat disk, wrap it in plastic wrap, and refrigerate for 1</p><p>hour or up to 2 days. If you want to make 4 smaller crostatas, separate the</p><p>dough into 4 pieces and form each into a small, flat disk before wrapping</p><p>and refrigerating.</p><p>While the dough chills, peel the apples and slice them very thinly (I use a</p><p>mandoline here to make it easier and more consistent). If you’re using other</p><p>fruit, thinly slice as well—peaches and plums both work well. You can also</p><p>add a handful of berries to the mix.</p><p>Toss the apples in a large bowl with the lemon juice—use more or less</p><p>depending on your own taste, but know that this also helps keep the apples</p><p>from browning—along with 2 tablespoons of the sugar.</p><p>Once the dough is well chilled, unwrap it and place it on a clean, lightly</p><p>floured work surface. Use your rolling pin to hit the dough a few times to</p><p>flatten and make it a bit easier to roll out. If you’re making one large</p><p>crostata, roll the dough into a large round about ⅛" thick (the edges will be</p><p>scraggly, which is fine), then drape the dough over your rolling pin and</p><p>transfer it to a parchment-lined baking sheet. If you’re making multiple</p><p>smaller crostatas, do the same for each of the 4 pieces</p><p>of dough but use two</p><p>baking sheets.</p><p>Preheat the oven to 375°F.</p><p>Meanwhile, in a small bowl, combine the flour and the remaining 2</p><p>tablespoons sugar. Either spread the mixture in the center of the large</p><p>crostata, leaving about a 2" border, or spread it equally among the 4 smaller</p><p>crostatas, leaving about a 1" border. Top the sugar-flour mixture with the</p><p>fruit, using more or less depending on how much fruit you like, and then</p><p>fold the edges of the dough in over the fruit in pleats, so that you have a</p><p>border of dough with the majority of the fruit exposed in the center of the</p><p>crostata. Chill the crostatas for 15 to 20 minutes while the oven heats.</p><p>Just before baking, brush the edges of the dough with water, sprinkle with</p><p>more sugar, and transfer to the oven. Bake until the crust is golden brown</p><p>and the fruit is bubbling, 20 to 25 minutes.</p><p>Chocolate Whiskey Cakes with Boozy Vanilla Cream</p><p>chocolate whiskey cakes with boozy vanilla cream</p><p>There are two kinds of people in this world: those who love chocolate</p><p>desserts and those who love fruit desserts. I suppose there are also those</p><p>who like all desserts and then those who don’t really go in for sweets at all,</p><p>but generally speaking people seem to fall into one of the two camps. So</p><p>here’s a word of advice: If you’re dating someone, it’s worth finding out</p><p>which camp they’re in early on. I was not given this advice and as a result, I</p><p>am a fruit-dessert person married to a chocolate-dessert person, and let me</p><p>tell you—it causes no end of trouble.</p><p>Whenever we are having friends over and I want to bake, my instinct is</p><p>to make a lemon tart, a raspberry-plum crumble, a rhubarb-apple crisp,</p><p>maybe a peach crostata. Being the sort of spouse who listens to her partner</p><p>and seeks to find compromise whenever possible, I usually toss out my</p><p>ideas and then ask Ken what he would like. And this is where the problems</p><p>begin; his answer to this question is, without fail, “Something chocolate.” If</p><p>I push back ever so gently and say, “But what about a pie?” his response is</p><p>certain to be along these lines: “Sure, a chocolate cream pie, you mean?”</p><p>And if I do get my way and lament not being able to find the fruit I want for</p><p>a particular dessert, this is his pithy retort: “Well you know, chocolate is</p><p>never out of season.”</p><p>Is this proclivity for chocolate over fruit nature or nurture? I’m not sure,</p><p>but Ken’s mom did make a delicious double-chocolate Bundt cake that he</p><p>ate regularly throughout his childhood and well into adulthood. It was made</p><p>from a Duncan Hines mix, to which she added a box of chocolate Jell-O</p><p>pudding, a bag of chocolate chips, and sour cream. This is very tough to</p><p>compete with. So I don’t try. Instead, I make these rich, barely boozy</p><p>chocolate cakes topped with a spiked whipped cream. And here’s the</p><p>kicker: I finish each one with a handful of raspberries. Some might say</p><p>that’s passive-aggressive of me, but I think of it as pure compromise. He</p><p>gets his chocolate, I get my fruit, and marital bliss is maintained.</p><p>2 sticks (½ pound) unsalted butter, plus more for the pan</p><p>1 cup unsweetened cocoa powder, plus more for dusting</p><p>1½ cups strong brewed coffee</p><p>½ cup whiskey, plus a splash for the whipped cream</p><p>2 cups granulated sugar</p><p>2 cups all-purpose flour</p><p>1¼ teaspoons baking soda</p><p>½ teaspoon salt</p><p>2 large eggs</p><p>2 teaspoons vanilla extract</p><p>1 cup cold heavy cream</p><p>1 tablespoon powdered sugar, or more to taste</p><p>1 cup raspberries</p><p>Preheat the oven to 325°F. Butter a 6-mold mini-Bundt pan well, then dust</p><p>with cocoa powder (the cocoa powder means you won’t get streaks of flour</p><p>on your cakes) to coat well. Tap out any excess.</p><p>In a medium saucepan, combine the coffee, whiskey, butter, and cocoa</p><p>powder. Whisk constantly over medium heat until the butter is melted.</p><p>Remove from the heat and pour in the granulated sugar, whisking until it’s</p><p>fully dissolved. Let cool for about 5 minutes.</p><p>Meanwhile, in a small bowl, combine the flour, baking soda, and salt. In a</p><p>large bowl, mix together the eggs and 1 teaspoon of the vanilla.</p><p>Add the chocolate mixture to the eggs and stir to combine. Add the dry</p><p>ingredients and stir until just combined but no traces of flour are visible.</p><p>The batter will be relatively thin in consistency.</p><p>Pour the batter into the prepared molds. Bake until a wooden pick or skewer</p><p>inserted in the center comes out clean, 25 to 30 minutes. Let the cakes cool</p><p>until they pull away from the edges of the pan, about 30 minutes. Turn out</p><p>onto a rack and let cool completely.</p><p>Before serving, in a stand mixer (you can also use a hand mixer or even a</p><p>whisk), whip the cream on medium speed until soft peaks begin to form.</p><p>Add the powdered sugar, remaining 1 teaspoon vanilla, and a splash of</p><p>whiskey (you can also use Grand Marnier, Cointreau, Kahlúa, or any</p><p>liqueur or liquor you like), and continue to whip until the cream holds stiff</p><p>peaks, being careful not to overwhip.</p><p>Serve the cakes topped with the cream and a sprinkling of raspberries.</p><p>Eiffel Tower–Inspired Coconut Macaroons</p><p>eiffel tower–inspired coconut macaroons</p><p>There are scents that send me spinning, aromas that must be so deeply</p><p>embedded in my memory that with barely a whiff, I can experience déjà vu</p><p>so vivid it throws me off balance. The moist, minty smell of eucalyptus</p><p>hurtles me home to California with such suddenness that I can almost hear</p><p>the rustle of those bluey-green leaves, the hot Santa Ana winds blowing</p><p>mischievously through the branches. Stepping into an elevator with a</p><p>woman wearing Diorissimo, the perfume my mom has worn for as long as I</p><p>can remember, and my brain is addled, certain that somehow she’s there</p><p>next to me. And then there’s coconut, that tropical, milky, sweet smell that</p><p>swirls me off to a sandy beach faster than anything I can imagine. This</p><p>warm exotic aroma competes with vanilla for the most alluring of food</p><p>fragrances, and no other dessert offers up more pure coconut-ness than the</p><p>macaroon.</p><p>Different from macarons, the sophisticated French confection made of</p><p>meringue and almond flour, coconut macaroons require just five ingredients</p><p>and can be made in mere minutes. They are usually formed into rounds and</p><p>then baked, like tropical snowballs, just a touch of gold on the edges. But</p><p>this approach is more festive by far, a whimsical twist on tradition: Mold</p><p>the coconut mix into miniature pyramids and the edges will turn a delicious</p><p>shade of bronze, as though tanned under a sweltering island sun, while the</p><p>interior stays tender and chewy.</p><p>3 cups unsweetened coconut flakes</p><p>1 cup sugar</p><p>Pinch salt</p><p>3 large egg whites</p><p>1 teaspoon vanilla extract</p><p>Preheat the oven to 350°F. Line a baking sheet with parchment paper.</p><p>In a medium bowl, combine the coconut, sugar, and salt. Add the egg</p><p>whites and vanilla and mix until you have a relatively cohesive blend.</p><p>Wet your hands and scoop out a rounded tablespoon of the mixture into the</p><p>palm of one hand. Use your other hand to press in on both sides, bringing</p><p>the macaroon to a point. Continue pressing with your thumb and forefinger</p><p>on both sides until you have an even shape.</p><p>Place the pyramids on the prepared baking sheet and bake until golden at</p><p>the edges, about 12 minutes. Let set on the baking sheet for a couple of</p><p>minutes before transferring to a rack to cool completely.</p><p>the grazing breakfast</p><p>(for guests or not)</p><p>Years ago, friends invited us up to their country house for the</p><p>weekend. Being early risers, we awoke in the morning to a silent</p><p>house, so we pattered into the kitchen hoping to quietly make some</p><p>coffee and sit on the deck until everyone else stirred. To our surprise,</p><p>we found breakfast spread across the old workbench that had been</p><p>reclaimed as a center island. There was homemade fruit bread, a plate</p><p>of muffins, a jar of granola, bowls of yogurt and fruit, a hot pot of</p><p>coffee, and a pitcher of fresh juice. It seemed our intrepid hosts had</p><p>snuck out, laid their premade goodies on the counter, and returned to</p><p>snooze, allowing everyone to enjoy the morning on their own</p><p>schedule. It was simple, smart, and delightful—and</p><p>it’s why there are</p><p>so few things in this chapter, because the perfect grazing breakfast</p><p>requires only some basics you can buy (the yogurt and fruit) or make</p><p>ahead (the granola and baked goods). The goal is really for everyone to</p><p>ease into the day as they see fit. That means the hosts too.</p><p>The Brazilian Breakfast</p><p>My Granola</p><p>Cherry-Almond (or Whatever) Cream Scones</p><p>Carolyn’s Banana Bread, Circa 1971</p><p>the brazilian breakfast</p><p>Sometimes you have to really work to get lost on this planet. A flight from</p><p>Rio de Janeiro to Salvador de Bahia, a ferry to the island of Morro de São</p><p>Paulo, a small motorboat to Valença, and then a tractor through tangled and</p><p>swampy mangroves to a secluded spot on the wisp of the island called</p><p>Boipeba—this is how Jackie and I found ourselves in delightfully plain</p><p>stucco-walled, thatch-roofed bungalows on a seemingly undiscovered</p><p>beach, hammocks strung up outside each front door like woven welcome</p><p>signs swaying gently in rhythm with the tide. Our host at this quiet pousada</p><p>was a bearded, feral-looking man who we never saw wearing anything</p><p>other than an orange bathing suit, his smooth skin burnished copper, the</p><p>color of a new penny.</p><p>On our first morning, we woke to see wild horses cantering down the</p><p>sand and young boys, slim as gazelles, practicing capoeira, the beautiful</p><p>Brazilian martial art that’s more acrobatic dance than aggressive fight, and</p><p>we knew this was a spot worth the trouble it took to get there. Breakfast, a</p><p>smattering of fruit in all shades of a sunset, was further proof. The mangoes</p><p>we had seen growing wild on the trip over were the centerpiece, surrounded</p><p>by sliced papaya, banana, guava, passion fruit, and even avocado, which</p><p>was drizzled lightly with honey. There was a bowl of something creamy—a</p><p>local yogurt, we assumed—a dish of muesli, half a baguette, a couple pots</p><p>of different jams, and a tender, slightly salty fresh cheese.</p><p>Accompanied by a pot of strong coffee and a pitcher of thick cream, this</p><p>was like no breakfast we’d stumbled upon so far. I still harken back to this</p><p>oddly sophisticated but simple spread when I have guests; an inspired plate</p><p>of fruit, some good bread, butter, and cheese or jam—what more could you</p><p>want? Well, perhaps the hammock and the nearly deserted island, but that</p><p>part’s not so easy.</p><p>Fruit that works together (think seasonally and thematically):</p><p>peaches, plums, apricots, and berries; or mangoes, papaya,</p><p>bananas, star fruit, pineapple, and kiwi</p><p>Greek yogurt</p><p>My Granola</p><p>Baguette or other good-quality bread</p><p>Butter and at least 2 kinds of jam (I like apricot or peach and a</p><p>berry)</p><p>Cheese (something soft like Vermont Creamery’s Cremont or a</p><p>Brie)</p><p>Meat (think ham, salami, or any charcuterie) or smoked fish</p><p>(optional)</p><p>Peel, cut, or slice the fruit as needed and spread it out on a platter. Put out a</p><p>dish of yogurt and a jar of granola. If you like, toast the bread; though if it’s</p><p>really fresh, don’t bother. Put out a plate of butter and jars of jam. Set out</p><p>the cheese and, if you like, also put out a plate of thinly sliced meat or</p><p>smoked salmon, haddock, or mackerel. Make coffee with hot milk on the</p><p>side, offer up tea, and call it a day.</p><p>My Granola</p><p>my granola</p><p>I can be disloyal; just ask breakfast. For years I skipped it; I drank coffee or</p><p>tea instead. Or I’d go through phases: croissants for a while, dry wheat</p><p>toast, fruit and yogurt, bagels with cream cheese and tomato—I’ve had</p><p>dalliances with them all. Each marks a certain time in my life, but I stuck</p><p>with none of them. Until granola came along. Of course I’d eaten granola;</p><p>during a stint in college we were even exclusive for a while, but then I</p><p>moved on. I’d tasted a few kinds over the years that I liked very much, and</p><p>when that happened I’d make a mental note of what made them stand out</p><p>from all the others, you know, the ones languishing in bins at the health</p><p>food store or on the shelves at the market. But breakfast wasn’t my meal, so</p><p>I didn’t take any of it too seriously.</p><p>Then one day a friend said she was making her own granola and offered</p><p>to send me some recipes she’d found. I still can’t explain it, but looking at</p><p>those recipes (all very different but representative of the same idea), I felt</p><p>like there was a relationship out there I’d been missing without even</p><p>realizing it. Breakfast was an entire meal I had written off without so much</p><p>as a second thought, and granola was just part and parcel of that neglect. I</p><p>guess this is how all love stories go: A friend introduces you and then</p><p>nature takes its course. At least that’s how it was for me. From the recipes</p><p>she gave me, I pulled out bits and pieces from each that I liked. I began to</p><p>play with different combinations of grains and nuts and various sweeteners.</p><p>That’s all granola is, really—a bunch of good stuff mixed up and toasted. It</p><p>wasn’t immediate, but it developed over time.</p><p>After a couple years of tweaking, I came up with a mix that’s a perfect</p><p>match for me. Until this granola, I admit, I treated breakfast as a second-</p><p>rate meal, an on-again-off-again affair: one to fumble through sleepily en</p><p>route to a more thoughtful lunch and then later a fully orchestrated and</p><p>appreciated dinner. I was so fickle and unfair. But I’ve changed, really. Now</p><p>granola and I spend most mornings together, even on the weekends. It’s</p><p>gotten serious.</p><p>my granola</p><p>6 tablespoons unsalted butter</p><p>⅓ cup packed light or dark brown sugar, or to taste</p><p>⅓ cup honey, or to taste</p><p>¼ cup maple syrup, or to taste</p><p>2 tablespoons vanilla extract</p><p>1 teaspoon sea salt</p><p>6 cups rolled oats</p><p>3 cups brown rice crisps</p><p>3 cups puffed wheat</p><p>1 cup coarsely ground almonds</p><p>1 cup coarsely ground pecans</p><p>1 cup coarsely ground walnuts</p><p>½ cup sliced almonds</p><p>½ cup unsweetened shredded coconut</p><p>1 tablespoon ground cinnamon</p><p>Preheat the oven to 325°F.</p><p>In a saucepan, combine the butter, brown sugar, honey, and maple syrup and</p><p>heat over medium-low heat until the butter is melted. Add the vanilla and</p><p>salt and stir well to combine.</p><p>In a really large bowl, mix together all the dry ingredients, including the</p><p>cinnamon. Slowly pour the butter mixture into the dry ingredients, mixing</p><p>to coat the oats, rice, and nuts as evenly as possible. Don’t rush this: It will</p><p>take a few minutes to thoroughly combine the butter with the dry</p><p>ingredients.</p><p>Spread the mixture evenly on two baking sheets and bake for 15 minutes.</p><p>Gently turn the granola using a spatula and bake for another 15 minutes,</p><p>then turn again. The granola is done when it’s a nice nutty brown color</p><p>throughout, 30 to 40 minutes total. Remove the granola from the oven and</p><p>let cool completely on the baking sheets. It will crisp up as it cools.</p><p>Store in an airtight container for up to 1 month or more. Serve with fresh</p><p>fruit and yogurt or milk, or sprinkle over ice cream.</p><p>Cherry-Almond (Or Whatever) Cream Scones</p><p>cherry-almond (or whatever) cream scones</p><p>Scones should be light and not too sweet; they should have a slight crunch</p><p>followed by a tender crumb, and they should be rich but never heavy.</p><p>Scones should not have the slightest metallic taste, the one that comes from</p><p>using too much baking powder. They should not be dense and they should</p><p>not be too big. To make really good scones, you need to handle the dough</p><p>with confidence but without overworking the gluten. These scones are all</p><p>that, and the beauty of this recipe is that you can play with the flavorings</p><p>with wild abandon as long as you keep the quantities the same. Switch out</p><p>the cherries for dried apricots and you have an apricot-almond scone. Fancy</p><p>a lemon-blueberry scone and all you have to do is swap in ¾ cup frozen</p><p>blueberries (frozen means they won’t squish when you shape the dough) for</p><p>the cherries, skip the sliced almonds and add the zest of a lemon, maybe a</p><p>squeeze of the juice, and use vanilla extract instead of almond. As long as</p><p>you don’t overload them, these scones can handle an abundance of culinary</p><p>creativity, and they can be done and dusted in under 30 minutes. One note:</p><p>Do not try to use half-and-half or milk instead of the cream, or</p><p>the weekends is pull half a loaf of</p><p>bread out of the freezer to thaw. I make the bread (from Chad Robertson’s</p><p>Tartine Bread) in batches of four loaves every other month or so, and the</p><p>two of us can handily finish half a loaf over the course of a weekend. From</p><p>toast in the morning, sandwiches at lunch, and a wedge at dinner, bread</p><p>never sticks around long in our house. This is true of crackers, grissini</p><p>(breadsticks), and those addictive Italian snacks called taralli, too.</p><p>Homemade or store-bought, these all have an important spot on the grazing</p><p>table.</p><p>the usefulness of a good tomato (and other near-</p><p>naked dishes)</p><p>As I write this, it’s early September and the tomatoes are within minutes of</p><p>being past their peak. Right now, they are perfect, misshapen orbs—</p><p>stunning in scarlet, honeyed yellow, the preternaturally striped lime green</p><p>known as a Zebra, and all shades in between. Absurdly juicy, they seem to</p><p>weep before the knife even breaks their skin, and the flavors (because every</p><p>kind does seem to have its own) are beyond any words I’m familiar with;</p><p>none of the usual suspects—sweet, tangy, acidic, sublime—do justice.</p><p>They’re also, to my mind, one of the most practical and utilitarian</p><p>ingredients in the fruit bowl (though the avocado is a close second).</p><p>Growing up in California, my sister and I were regularly sent off to school,</p><p>our brown bag lunches packed not with the ubiquitous apple or orange, but</p><p>with a tomato and a small plastic baggie of salt. Sitting on the playground,</p><p>we would eat the tomatoes whole, tearing ever so slightly at the corner of</p><p>the top-knotted baggie to create a makeshift saltshaker, the best way to add</p><p>a sprinkle with each bite.</p><p>Like summer itself, good tomatoes’ days are numbered, but while</p><p>they’re around, they are perfect foil for a breakfast egg—scrambled,</p><p>poached, or otherwise; unrivaled at lunch laid over avocado or soft cheese</p><p>on toast; and come dinner, they can be chopped and tossed with almost</p><p>anything in-season (basil, peaches, cucumbers, corn . . . seriously,</p><p>anything). Whether simply sliced and laid in a dish next to other naked or</p><p>barely-touched ingredients in midsummer, or slow-roasted and swimming</p><p>in buttery olive oil come winter, the tomato’s usefulness in the grazing</p><p>kitchen can’t be overstated. While available, a good tomato is the cook’s</p><p>stalwart companion; it makes everything better and demands so little.</p><p>Other fresh ingredients may not demonstrate quite the same full-</p><p>spectrum utilitarianism, but many do serve a similar purpose. An avocado, a</p><p>plate of fresh figs or radishes, a quick-pickled red onion, a sliced cucumber</p><p>set aside a dish of yogurt spiked with dill, a dish of sweet corn stripped off</p><p>the cob and sprinkled with lime juice and salt—all of these are essential to</p><p>the grazing table and, when taken together, can even make up an entire meal</p><p>—what Ken calls The Sliced Lunch. When all you have to do is pull out</p><p>various meats, cheeses, vegetables, crackers or bread, and a tomato, you</p><p>have a sliced lunch—and how perfect is a meal where you need nothing</p><p>more than a sharp knife or a pat of butter on the table?</p><p>cheese and making friends with your monger</p><p>As someone who cooks for a living, I’m about to make a slightly</p><p>embarrassing confession: I used to be scared of the cheese counter. Or,</p><p>more accurately, intimidated by the wealth of cheese behind said counter.</p><p>Yes, I’ve tangled with homemade tagliatelle and faced off with offal, but in</p><p>front of those different and carefully crafted curds, I was overwhelmed. Not</p><p>because I don’t love cheese with a deep and unwavering passion, but</p><p>because, like wine, there just always seemed so much to know—or so much</p><p>I didn’t know. But because I adore cheese in almost all of its forms, and</p><p>because it’s a critical element in the grazing kitchen, I set out to rid myself</p><p>of my anxiety in the only way I knew how: I tasted a lot of cheese.</p><p>I also got a quick lesson from a cheesemonger friend who helped me</p><p>navigate my education. One of the most useful things she told me is that</p><p>European cheese names encompass a broad array of eating experiences,</p><p>while American cheeses have one name for each cheese. Meaning, you may</p><p>like Manchego, but what you’ve enjoyed could have been a young, aged, or</p><p>even an oil-cured version—ostensibly three different cheeses. Same goes</p><p>for Brie, cheddar, or Stilton. European cheeses may come from the same</p><p>region, bear the same name, and illustrate similar characteristics, but they</p><p>can vary wildly in terms of taste and texture. All of which makes it slightly</p><p>confusing for the burgeoning cheese lover.</p><p>On the other hand, American cheeses are individually identified by the</p><p>maker along with a unique name; meaning, if you fall in love with a</p><p>specific American cheese (for instance, Cowgirl Creamery’s Mt. Tam or</p><p>Cato Corner’s Hooligan), rest assured that you’ll be getting the same cheese</p><p>time and again (barring any major changes to the process by the cheese</p><p>maker or seasonal variations). This was an aha moment for me, especially</p><p>with such an enticing array of artisanal farmstead cheeses now being</p><p>produced right here at home.</p><p>Of course it all gets more complicated as you talk about the families of</p><p>cheese (fresh, bloomy rind, washed rind, etc.) and the different types of</p><p>milk (cow, sheep, goat), but for someone like me, an academic explanation</p><p>wasn’t what I was looking for; I needed the sensory experience to</p><p>understand it, and I don’t think I’m alone. The only way I know how to be</p><p>comfy at the cheese counter is to find one with a kind and patient</p><p>cheesemonger who will let you try a bit of this and taste a bit of that before</p><p>you buy. Good cheese is expensive, so it’s worth taking that deep breath and</p><p>asking for a nibble rather than ending up with a hunk of bunk you don’t</p><p>enjoy. In my experience, you also don’t need to walk away having</p><p>purchased three or four cheeses all designed to complement one another on</p><p>a board. Of course, I love a good cheese board as much as the next girl, but</p><p>spending a bit of money on one really nice cheese is smarter than picking</p><p>up two or three that are just okay and discovering them a few weeks later,</p><p>furry and green, huddled at the back of the fridge.</p><p>it’s because of the pig</p><p>Years ago I asked my therapist if she was a vegetarian. It’s a funny question</p><p>to ask your therapist, I suppose, but I was desperate to know anything at all</p><p>about her; she was the most frustrating of clinicians, the one who knows</p><p>everything about you but shares virtually nothing of her own life. So one</p><p>day, as slyly as I could, I asked about her eating habits—specifically if she</p><p>was meat-free. I was startled to receive not just an answer (she dodged</p><p>pretty much every other personal question I’d ever posed), but a very direct</p><p>one: “I would be,” she said, “But I love the pig.” With those short</p><p>utterances, suddenly I knew a lot more about this woman to whom I had</p><p>bared all my deepest secrets. I knew we had something in common as well,</p><p>something that went beyond our therapist-patient relationship. We both</p><p>loved the pig and yet neither of us was fully comfortable with eating</p><p>animals. It was a conundrum that couldn’t be sorted, a hypocrisy that</p><p>couldn’t be ignored. We simply had to accept it (largely what therapy is for,</p><p>to help us accept what we cannot change).</p><p>And I guess I have. Because while I love animals more than I love most</p><p>people, and I could give up the odd grilled steak or braised short rib without</p><p>too much complaint, it’s my passion for the pig, and really all cured meats,</p><p>that keeps me a carnivore. Coppa, prosciutto, jamón serrano and ibérico,</p><p>soppressata, guanciale, pancetta, speck, and bresaola—they’re my downfall.</p><p>And one of the main reasons I’m such a devotee of grazing.</p><p>While I’m definitely a meat eater (guilty conscience here on full</p><p>display), I should say that Ken and I don’t actually consume that much of it.</p><p>We might share a small steak on a Friday night and we do like to roast a</p><p>chicken on Saturdays—one small bird gets us dinner plus lots of leftovers,</p><p>and keeps us well stocked with</p><p>the scones</p><p>will be rubbery; the mottled crust and tender crumb are dependent on the</p><p>fat.</p><p>2 cups all-purpose flour</p><p>¼ cup granulated sugar</p><p>2 teaspoons baking powder</p><p>½ teaspoon sea salt</p><p>¾ cup chopped dried cherries or other fruit</p><p>¼ cup sliced almonds</p><p>1¼–1½ cups heavy cream, plus more for brushing</p><p>½ teaspoon almond extract</p><p>2 tablespoons demerara sugar</p><p>Preheat the oven to 425°F. Line a baking sheet with parchment paper.</p><p>In a large bowl, combine the flour, granulated sugar, baking powder, and</p><p>salt. Add the cherries and almonds and stir to combine. Add 1¼ cups of the</p><p>cream and the almond extract and stir just until a dough forms (depending</p><p>on the weather, you may need to add up to another ¼ cup of cream to get all</p><p>the flour fully incorporated). The dough should be just a bit sticky but not</p><p>so much that you can’t handle it easily.</p><p>Turn the dough out onto a lightly floured surface and knead it once or</p><p>twice, until it holds together. Form the dough into an 8" round about 1"</p><p>thick. Use a pastry cutter or long knife to slice the dough into 8 equal</p><p>wedges.</p><p>Transfer the wedges to the prepared baking sheet. Brush the scones lightly</p><p>with a bit more cream and sprinkle with the demerara sugar.</p><p>Bake until golden brown, about 18 minutes. Transfer to a rack to cool.</p><p>Carolyn’s Banana Bread, Circa 1971</p><p>carolyn’s banana bread, circa 1971</p><p>My mom has been making this recipe since I was born—well, almost. It’s</p><p>from an old Sunset magazine paperback cookbook, slim as a matchbook</p><p>and studded throughout with quirky line drawings of food rather than color</p><p>photographs. But it’s everything you want in banana bread: It rises high in</p><p>the pan with a craggy fault line down the center, it’s moist in the middle,</p><p>and most importantly, it tastes like bananas. The original recipe called for</p><p>margarine (it was 1971, remember), but butter is what you want. My mom</p><p>started reducing the sugar from 1 cup to ¾ cup and adding shredded</p><p>coconut years ago—that’s the secret ingredient. It makes this bread more</p><p>complex and slightly earthy (there’s whole wheat flour in there, too), with a</p><p>just a suggestion of something exotic because of how the bananas, coconut,</p><p>and walnuts meld together. If you’re having guests and want to be hands-off</p><p>in the kitchen, make this loaf ahead—it freezes beautifully.</p><p>1 stick (8 tablespoons) unsalted butter, plus more for the pan</p><p>¾ cup sugar</p><p>2 medium very ripe bananas, well mashed (about 1 generous cup)</p><p>2 large eggs, beaten</p><p>1 cup all-purpose flour</p><p>1 cup whole wheat flour</p><p>1 teaspoon baking soda</p><p>½ teaspoon sea salt</p><p>⅓ cup hot water</p><p>½ cup chopped walnuts</p><p>¼ cup shredded coconut (sweetened is my preference, but natural is</p><p>fine)</p><p>Preheat the oven to 325°F. Butter a 9" × 5" loaf pan.</p><p>In a small saucepan, melt the butter over medium-low heat. Pour into a</p><p>large bowl, add the sugar, and use a wooden spoon or spatula to mix well.</p><p>Add the mashed bananas and eggs and continue mixing until well</p><p>combined.</p><p>In a medium bowl, combine the all-purpose flour, whole wheat flour,</p><p>baking soda, and salt. Add the dry ingredients to the banana mixture</p><p>alternately with the hot water in three additions.</p><p>When the batter is fully combined, stir in the nuts and coconut. Pour the</p><p>batter into the prepared loaf pan and bake until a wooden pick or skewer</p><p>inserted in the center comes out clean, 45 to 50 minutes. Let the bread cool</p><p>in the pan until it releases from the sides, about 15 minutes, then transfer to</p><p>a wire rack.</p><p>a few signature sips</p><p>As a wine drinker, I can be counted on to reach for a dry Burgundy</p><p>over a dirty martini any day, but every now and then, when the sun’s</p><p>just dipping down on a summer evening, or the fire is shooting sparks</p><p>on a cold night, it’s nice to switch it up. We have a small collection of</p><p>cocktails reserved for weekend evenings when we feel like something</p><p>special, or when we have friends over and want to start the visit with a</p><p>celebratory tipple. These are drinks served on the small size, aperitifs</p><p>fit for a low-slung coupe or simple rustic water glass; they’re designed</p><p>to whet the palate and stir the senses, not dull them.</p><p>Negroni Fizz</p><p>Blood Orange Blizzard</p><p>The Weekender</p><p>The Franken-Mojito</p><p>Negroni Fizz</p><p>negroni fizz</p><p>I’m a sucker for a cool hotel bar. Walk me into an elegant oak-paneled room</p><p>with soaring ceilings, velvet banquettes, and copper-coated light fixtures all</p><p>aglow, and my heart warms. Show me to the unassuming corner of a dimly</p><p>lit lobby, a cozy alcove concealing a worn mahogany bar tattooed with</p><p>drink rings, red leather–backed stools, and a blinking neon sign, and I’m</p><p>giddy. There’s something inherently romantic about these places. Unlike</p><p>airport bars—which have their own tacky and fluorescently lit charm—</p><p>hotel bars aren’t intentionally bland stopovers to keep you sated before the</p><p>adventure begins, but places you sink into once you’ve reached your final</p><p>destination, spots to help you adapt and savor the accomplishment of</p><p>having arrived.</p><p>When I find myself in a hotel bar, I’m often compelled to skip my usual</p><p>glass of wine in a favor of a grown-up drink, something that makes me feel</p><p>like I know much more about the world than I do: A Negroni, the most</p><p>succulent and sexy of drinks, is my aperitif of choice. This Italian</p><p>concoction has a way of being both exotic and familiar at the same time, not</p><p>unlike a good bartender, one you’ve just met who still treats you like a</p><p>regular. Sometimes, when I’m home and want to pretend I’m somewhere</p><p>new and novel, somewhere that whispers of adventures yet to come, I make</p><p>this bubbly version of a Negroni: Old Tom–style gin, if you’ve got it on</p><p>hand, is slightly sweeter than London dry and gives this adaption a soothing</p><p>honeyed-bitter balance, and the splash of fizz adds a glint of lightness. It’s a</p><p>bit less cloying and softer than the traditional mix, but it’s transporting</p><p>nonetheless. Just ask Ken, who says that with one of these in hand, I’m</p><p>prone to babbling on about all the places we should go; two drinks in, and</p><p>he has to stop me from pricing tickets to Patagonia, Havana, perhaps</p><p>Tangiers, I hear Prague is nice this time of year . . .</p><p>4 ounces Ransom gin (or other Old Tom–style gin)</p><p>4 ounces Campari</p><p>3 ounces dry white vermouth</p><p>Seltzer, for topping</p><p>Orange peel, for garnish</p><p>In an ice-filled glass or shaker, combine the gin, Campari, and vermouth</p><p>and mix or shake to chill. Strain into 4 coupes and top with a splash of</p><p>seltzer. Garnish with an orange peel.</p><p>blood orange blizzard</p><p>This drink has a ridiculous name, the kind you might expect to find on the</p><p>menu at a bar serving slushy blue drinks with curly straws. But before you</p><p>dismiss it part and parcel, let me explain. Ken loves a gin Gimlet, especially</p><p>the ones I make with my parents’ Mexican limes. But on one particular</p><p>Saturday in the middle of January, I found myself with two fresh blood</p><p>oranges left over from a job the day before and couldn’t resist trying</p><p>something new. Ken winced a bit as I poured his favorite dry gin into the</p><p>rosy mix, grimaced ever so slightly as I skipped the Rose’s lime juice in</p><p>favor of St-Germain liqueur (that wonderfully fragrant elixir made from</p><p>elderflowers that comes in a beveled bottle worthy of expensive perfume).</p><p>He stood by looking worried as I shook and stirred, but it took no more than</p><p>a sip before he was convinced. And while all this boozy drama was</p><p>unfolding in our kitchen, 30 inches of snow was blanketing New York City,</p><p>a blizzard of historic proportions, the weather conspiring to give a rather</p><p>sophisticated cocktail a very silly name.</p><p>4 ounces No. 3 London Dry Gin or other dry gin</p><p>4 ounces fresh blood orange juice</p><p>1½ ounces St-Germain liqueur</p><p>Blood orange slices, for garnish</p><p>In an ice-filled glass or shaker, combine the gin, blood orange juice, and St-</p><p>Germain and mix or shake to chill. Strain into 4 chilled stemmed glasses.</p><p>Garnish with slices of blood orange.</p><p>the weekender</p><p>Here’s the fun thing about this drink: it’s adaptable for those who prefer a</p><p>sweeter libation or for those who are partial to a touch of bitterness. I think</p><p>of it as the Little Black Dress of drinks; you can make it sweeter or edgier</p><p>depending on your mood. In the summer, Ken tends to drink gin and tonics</p><p>with lime as his aperitif, while every now and then I like a Campari and</p><p>soda with a slice of orange.</p><p>One July evening, in an effort to simplify the predinner patio drink</p><p>regimen, I decided to come up with something new, something that didn’t</p><p>require completely different ingredients and multiple kinds of citrus.</p><p>Keeping Ken’s predilection for gin in mind, I started there for both of us.</p><p>Then I added Pimm’s, that classic English liqueur, to his glass and Campari</p><p>to mine (he’s not a fan of the bitter nectar like I am). Topping them both</p><p>with a generous splash of blood orange–flavored Pellegrino (you can use</p><p>another flavor, of course), we had devised two cocktails out of one, a feat he</p><p>immediately coined, “The Weekender,” a pretty red drink perfect for warm</p><p>evenings, whether your taste runs toward the English or the Italian.</p><p>6 ounces No. 3 London Dry Gin or other dry gin</p><p>3 ounces Pimm’s No. 1 or Campari, depending on your taste</p><p>Blood orange San Pellegrino, for topping</p><p>Orange slices, for garnish</p><p>In an ice-filled glass or shaker, combine the gin and Pimm’s or Campari and</p><p>mix or shake to chill. Strain into 4 ice-filled martini or coupe glasses and</p><p>top with the Pellegrino. Garnish with orange slices.</p><p>The Franken-Mojito</p><p>the franken-mojito</p><p>In our house, drinks are usually invented out of necessity. I don’t mean</p><p>someone says, “I really need a drink,” though that does happen with</p><p>remarkable frequency. I mean because I often don’t have whatever</p><p>ingredients I need to make said drink, so I have to improvise; if my madcap</p><p>substitutions actually work, then we have a new cocktail in our repertoire.</p><p>In this particular case, a new drink came into being because my mint plant</p><p>had a bad week. I’d left it out in the sun during a few brutally hot days and</p><p>many of its tender, leafy tendrils had been singed beyond renewal. To bring</p><p>my poor plant back from death’s door, I trimmed it way back, leaving me</p><p>with a good handful of tattered but usable mint leaves, to which Ken said</p><p>with childlike glee, “Let’s make mojitos!” This seemed like a great idea at</p><p>the time—not only did I hate the thought of wasting the mint, but I was</p><p>thirsty and it was after 4 p.m. on a summer Saturday. Mojitos it was.</p><p>For once we had soda in the house (we can be counted on to have tonic,</p><p>but not so with soda; I can’t explain why), so I went digging in the liquor</p><p>cupboard for the white rum. We don’t drink rum as a rule, but I thought we</p><p>had a boutique bottle of something hanging around. At least that’s what I</p><p>remembered. After thoroughly searching the depths of the dusty bottles, all</p><p>I could find was amber rum, an unopened bottle of Santa Teresa 1796,</p><p>something I’d obviously dragged home from work one day and</p><p>unceremoniously shoved to the back to idle with the cachaça (carried back</p><p>from Brazil over a decade ago) and the Costco-size jug of tequila (probably</p><p>the same era). Not sure how big of a mojito misstep it was, I decided to try</p><p>it; I mean, rum is rum, right?</p><p>Finding myself without a muddler (no real surprise), I had to improvise</p><p>this part too and mashed up the mint using the wrong end of a wooden</p><p>spoon. Feeling a bit like we had just built the Frankenstein of the mojito</p><p>world, we took our first sips with hesitation. Our pause didn’t last long. The</p><p>amber rum added a toasty smokiness that softened the minty flavor and</p><p>smoothed out the lime; while the color was unsettling at first—less</p><p>refreshing in appearance than the traditional version—it was nothing we</p><p>couldn’t get beyond. Franken-Mojito was a keeper.</p><p>⅓ cup simple syrup</p><p>About 15 fresh mint leaves</p><p>1 cup amber rum (like Santa Teresa 1796 or Smith & Cross)</p><p>⅓ cup fresh lime juice plus 1 whole lime, sliced, for garnish</p><p>2–3 cups club soda</p><p>Lime slices, for garnish</p><p>Put the simple syrup and mint leaves in a shaker and muddle the leaves well</p><p>to release the mint oil. Add the rum and lime juice and shake to combine.</p><p>Pour the mixture into 4 ice-filled Collins glasses and top with the soda.</p><p>Garnish with lime slices.</p><p>acknowledgments</p><p>A tribe of very special, thoughtful, and supportive people helped make</p><p>Graze happen, all of massive importance to me and listed in no particular</p><p>order.</p><p>Thank you . . .</p><p>Erica Clark, for making this book better at every single stage. My debt (and</p><p>affection) grows.</p><p>Kate Schmidt, for being up for and excited about every adventure so far,</p><p>especially this one.</p><p>Kate Jordan, for saying yes to an out-of-the-blue request, having a</p><p>beautiful vision, and being the loveliest.</p><p>Nicole Franzen, for bringing your light—literally and figuratively—to this</p><p>book and to me.</p><p>Dervla Kelly, for being the most collaborative, supportive, and inspiring</p><p>editor imaginable.</p><p>Rae Ann Spitzenberger, for your stunning design, calming spirit, and</p><p>irrepressible love of potato chips.</p><p>Andi Delott, for everything since circa 1983.</p><p>Jackie McCann, for all these years of unwavering belief, uncensored</p><p>advice, and eternal optimism.</p><p>Frank Ottomanelli, for your contagious smile and for always letting me</p><p>linger.</p><p>Jen and Jeff Meyer, Katy Anderson, Daniel Meyer, and Gina Papalia, for</p><p>being the kind of friends who read a cookbook with the enthusiasm of a</p><p>novel and then offer to do it again.</p><p>Evan Sung, Maeve Sheridan, Elana Hershman, Surfin Percy, and Andie</p><p>McMahon, for listening, always.</p><p>Bev and George Rath, for being such good sports at the table.</p><p>Tricia Belvins, for your energy in testing and tasting. I’m so glad I found</p><p>you.</p><p>Aly Mostel, Anna Cooperberg, Andrea Modica, Angie Giammarino, Amy</p><p>King, Jennifer Levesque, Gail Gonzales, and everyone at Rodale for taking</p><p>me on—again.</p><p>Angela Miller, for seeing the idea behind a word and helping to make it</p><p>real.</p><p>Mark Bittman, for answering the phone, entering my life, and changing the</p><p>course of it for the best.</p><p>My family, Norm, Carolyn, and Ali Lenzer and Jeremy Yun, for letting me</p><p>highjack your histories so I could tell some silly stories about food.</p><p>And Ken, for letting me walk through this world by your side.</p><p>SUZANNE LENZER is a New York City-based food stylist and writer and the</p><p>author of Truly, Madly Pizza. Her styling has appeared in magazines, on</p><p>television, and in more than two dozen cookbooks, while her writing has</p><p>been featured in Tin House and the New York Times, among other</p><p>publications. Lenzer lives with her husband in Manhattan and Connecticut.</p><p>Visit her at suzannelenzer.com.</p><p>http://suzannelenzer.com/</p><p>Notice</p><p>Mention of specific companies, organizations, or authorities in this book does not imply endorsement</p><p>by the author or publisher, nor does mention of specific companies, organizations, or authorities</p><p>imply that they endorse this book, its author, or the publisher.</p><p>Internet addresses and telephone numbers given in this book were accurate at the time it went to</p><p>press.</p><p>© 2017 by Suzanne Lenzer</p><p>All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by</p><p>any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or any other information</p><p>storage and retrieval system, without the written permission of the publisher.</p><p>Book design by Rae Ann Spitzenberger</p><p>Photography by Nicole Franzen</p><p>Prop stylist: Kate Jordan</p><p>Food stylist: Suzanne Lenzer</p><p>Food stylist assistants: Erica Clark and Kate Schmidt</p><p>Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data is on file with publisher.</p><p>ISBN-13: 978–1–62336–753–4 hardcover</p><p>ISBN-13: 978–1–62336–754–1 e-book</p><p>We inspire health, healing, happiness, and love in the world. Starting with you.</p><p>RodaleWellness.com</p><p>http://rodalewellness.com/</p><p>Title Page</p><p>Contents</p><p>Introduction</p><p>The Grazer’s Larder: Stocking the Pantry, Fridge, and Freezer</p><p>The Essential Stuff</p><p>Grazing Menus (from Simple Spreads to Full-On Soirées)</p><p>Just Shopping</p><p>Mostly Chopping</p><p>A Bit of Cooking</p><p>Worth the Effort</p><p>Last Bites, Small and Sweet</p><p>The Grazing Breakfast (for Guests or Not)</p><p>A Few Signature Sips</p><p>Acknowledgments</p><p>About the</p><p>Author</p><p>Copyright Page</p><p>stock—but mostly we use small amounts of</p><p>whatever cured meats we have on hand to fill out a meal; not so little as to</p><p>be garnish, but not so much as to be considered the focal point of the table.</p><p>Especially with good-quality charcuterie, you don’t need a lot of it to satiate</p><p>your desire. The intensity of the flavors—the buttery sweetness of aged</p><p>prosciutto, the musty smokiness of a cabernet-colored bresaola, or the</p><p>spiced, fatty bite of a powdery skinned soppressata—all of these have</p><p>enough distinct character and robustness of flavor to warrant being served</p><p>in small portions. And that’s just what you want to do when you’re filling</p><p>the table with lots of other wonderful things.</p><p>If you tend to be partial to prosciutto or are stuck solely on soppressata,</p><p>the one suggestion I have is to venture further afield. Charcuterie is a lot</p><p>like cheese—you need to taste it to know if you like it, but there’s a lot out</p><p>there to discover. If you can, find yourself a good Italian deli or a decent</p><p>specialty store (worst case, jump online) and then be brave: Try a rustic</p><p>finocchiona, a fennel-infused Tuscan salami (said to have been created</p><p>when a boy stole a salami and ran into a field of wild fennel to savor his</p><p>purloined snack); dare to try caccicatori, a dried sausage made from ground</p><p>pork and supposedly carried in the pockets of hunters for sustenance in days</p><p>of yore; or if you’re feeling indulgent, savor a few slices of jamón ibérico</p><p>de Bellota, a buttery, fat-slicked sweet ham made from black-hoofed, acorn-</p><p>eating pigs raised in the oak forests between Spain and Portugal. Yes, some</p><p>of these will be more expensive and harder to find, but you don’t need to</p><p>buy too much or go all-out all the time. Some days, a slice of salami and a</p><p>hunk of cheese—no matter what their pedigree or fanciful history—work</p><p>just fine.</p><p>selective snobbery and some shortcuts i can live</p><p>with</p><p>Most any of my friends will tell you that I’m a bit batty when it comes to</p><p>homemade anything. I make 90 percent of the bread we eat, croissants too;</p><p>our granola is from scratch, and I rarely buy packaged cookies unless we’re</p><p>really in a pinch (but yeah, it happens to the best of us). You’ll never catch</p><p>me with a tub of packaged salsa in my fridge, no bottled salad dressing will</p><p>cross my threshold, there’s no chance of a frozen pizza in our house, and a</p><p>can of sodium-laced soup? No way. All that said . . .</p><p>I couldn’t live without canned tomatoes, beans, and sardines. I love the</p><p>simplicity of smoked salmon and the convenience of naturally cured</p><p>mackerel and trout that come hermetically sealed from the refrigerated</p><p>section. I have no problem with a jar of imported tuna (the kind that comes</p><p>preserved in olive oil), pepperoncini, anchovies, artichokes, and sun-dried</p><p>tomatoes. I can be counted on to have a box of peas in my freezer at all</p><p>times, maybe even a bag of frozen peaches or berries too, and a bag of corn</p><p>or a box of spinach is totally acceptable as well. Come winter, those plastic</p><p>tubs of arugula and baby lettuce are a no-brainer; they’re just in better shape</p><p>most of the time than the rubber band–bound heads of lettuce stacked and</p><p>squashed together in the produce section. Sure, I like to make homemade</p><p>pasta now and then, but the dried stuff is my go-to on a weekly basis. And</p><p>here it is, my deepest darkest secret revealed: I love Cape Cod Sea Salt</p><p>potato chips. They’re my kryptonite, my drug of choice, and I’m a full-on</p><p>addict.</p><p>These are my shortcuts, cheats, timesaving tricks, and guilty (packaged)</p><p>pleasures. And I am totally okay with all of them. I know there are those</p><p>who will judge me on all fronts, but I’ve come to terms with these shortcuts</p><p>and have no regrets. Whether you cook a lot or a little, I promise you will</p><p>have yours too—we all do. And we don’t have to agree on what they are. If</p><p>you’re okay with chicken stock from a box or pre-grated cheese, I could try</p><p>to convince you otherwise, but then you might try to take away my pre-</p><p>washed lettuce or worse, my chips, and that would break my heart.</p><p>It’s not about proving who can do more work in the kitchen; it’s about</p><p>doing as much as you can to feel good about what you’re cooking, while</p><p>still enjoying the process. If you’re on the fence about any of your</p><p>peccadillos, the barometer I use is the old Michael Pollan adage: If it has</p><p>more than five ingredients or you can’t pronounce it, don’t eat it. (Cape Cod</p><p>Sea Salt potato chips have only three ingredients, by the way.)</p><p>leftovers as inspiration</p><p>A huge part of my job as a food stylist is shopping, and I’m pretty good at</p><p>it. The part I’m not as skilled at is throwing away what’s left over at the end</p><p>of a shoot. Most of the leftovers get divvied up amongst the crew when we</p><p>finish, but there’s always that lump of Parmesan, half bag of wild rice,</p><p>handful of cherry tomatoes, or pound of sausage that no one grabbed. And I</p><p>can’t bear to toss it out. So I bring it home and try to make use of it as best I</p><p>can. I realize this isn’t an experience most home cooks will share with me—</p><p>getting stuck with bits and pieces of fresh food at the end of a long day—</p><p>but we all have leftovers that we can put to great use if we think about it,</p><p>especially when we’re conceiving smaller plates.</p><p>Leftovers can stare back at us from their shelf in the fridge, shaming us</p><p>into eating them before they go bad, but I like to think of them as a starting</p><p>point for something else entirely: inspiration for a new meal, rather than the</p><p>scraps of a previous one. Yes, the shredded chicken left over from Sunday’s</p><p>roast is easily savored on a slice of toast for lunch, but it can also become</p><p>the basis for individual chicken pot pies—ramekins filled with ample</p><p>vegetables, a gentle rosemary-infused sauce, and a quick flaky crust. A</p><p>leftover cup of risotto can certainly be reheated for a solo lunch, but when</p><p>rolled into balls, dredged in breadcrumbs, and fried until golden brown, it</p><p>becomes the start of a perfectly unplanned grazing meal.</p><p>In our house, tomatoes that start going soft get swaddled in plastic bags</p><p>for the freezer and ultimately turned into sauce; heels of bread are also</p><p>frozen, nestled together in a bag to later become homemade breadcrumbs;</p><p>small pieces of meat and those few bits of roasted vegetables that didn’t get</p><p>eaten all get frozen for a second chance at becoming something on the</p><p>grazing table. Even if you don’t have the energy or inclination to turn a bit</p><p>of leftover shrimp into a spring roll or a cup of sautéed mushrooms into an</p><p>individual quiche, you can still use these delicious odds and ends in their</p><p>simplest form the next day.</p><p>Every so often, usually after a holiday or a dinner party, we find</p><p>ourselves with a fridge full of sundries, so we have our favorite kind of</p><p>grazing meal—the kind where containers of all sizes are pulled out, paper-</p><p>wrapped bits and plastic-enveloped pieces are strewn across the counter,</p><p>and what was last night’s fête becomes this evening’s feast. The last slab of</p><p>slow-cooked pork gets cut into slices, those few remaining stems of sautéed</p><p>broccoli rabe are drizzled with lush olive oil and sprinkled with Parmesan</p><p>cheese, and a pint of pureed butternut squash is gently reheated and served</p><p>with that last half of baguette for dipping. It’s not unlike the all-American</p><p>tradition of the day after Thanksgiving—turning the remains of one night’s</p><p>dinner into another meal entirely, reminiscent yet remarkable in its own</p><p>right. This is grazing in perhaps its purest form—making the most of what’s</p><p>right in front of us without having to do much cooking at all.</p><p>what to sip while grazing</p><p>I like to drink and do so daily. I’m not one of those weekday teetotalers who</p><p>lets loose come Friday night; rather, I look forward to my glass of wine</p><p>most days. Like dinner itself, the ritual of a post-workday tipple is</p><p>something that makes the rest of it all worthwhile. I also have no problem</p><p>with drinking alone. Let the neighbors talk—sometimes after a long day,</p><p>walking into a quiet house, starting to cook, and pouring myself a glass of</p><p>wine to sip silently</p><p>with nothing more than the hum of the fridge or the purr</p><p>of the cat as background music is better than yoga (or at least, on par).</p><p>I also don’t subscribe to the thinking that white goes with some things</p><p>and red with others, or that certain wines fit specific seasons. Why save a</p><p>refreshing rosé for summer or resist a gutsy red in mid-August if that’s what</p><p>your heart desires? What you drink (be it wine, beer, or a cocktail) just</p><p>needs to be something you’ll enjoy as much as the food you’re making.</p><p>Sometimes nothing satisfies my thirst like a cold beer, whether alongside a</p><p>plate of oysters or a burger and fries. Other times, no matter what’s on the</p><p>menu, a proper cocktail is what I’ll crave, the ritual of making the drink</p><p>almost as mellowing as the elixir itself. It doesn’t matter what the experts</p><p>say or what the calendar reads—when it comes to choosing a drink, it’s</p><p>really a matter of personal preference.</p><p>Deciding what to pull out of the wine fridge after a long day usually</p><p>gets the same amount of attention as the meal I’m cooking. Meaning that on</p><p>nights when I’m stretching dough for an easy pizza or boiling water for a</p><p>simple bowl of pasta, I want to grab one of our house wines, those more-</p><p>than-serviceable, readily drinkable, totally affordable bottles that we buy by</p><p>the case so there’s always something decent on hand. We call these our</p><p>“pizza wines” because while they’re good, they’re not so fussy or fancy that</p><p>they can’t be served with a slice. These are our day-to-day dinner wines,</p><p>and it’s nice to find a few that you like and can buy with confidence and</p><p>regularity. Like good cheese, you want to experiment with wine and find</p><p>ones you really like and can buy again and again, but you don’t want to</p><p>have to taste a lot of plonk along the way. Take the time to start a</p><p>conversation with your local wine merchant; at first, it can be tough trying</p><p>to articulate what you like (it can be awkward talking to an expert in</p><p>oenology), but letting someone with expertise offer some guidance can save</p><p>you a lot of half-finished bottles and wasted money.</p><p>Beyond our workday wines, we also have those that we save for</p><p>weekends, whether friends or family come around or we simply want to</p><p>mix it up. These are usually more adventurous bottles than our old</p><p>standbys, and this is where Ken comes in. He can spend an hour or more</p><p>wandering the aisles of the wine store, reading about and contemplating</p><p>new wines for us to try (he can also get lost in Home Depot this way,</p><p>looking at lumber or pondering over power tools, both habits becoming</p><p>worrisome at times). We’ll often spend a bit more on the sleek French</p><p>whites I adore and luscious California reds he fancies—wines we are sure</p><p>to let breathe for a bit (how often do I open a bottle after a long day and not</p><p>even think to give it some air?), bottles we make the effort to sip more</p><p>slowly, to drink with some awareness and appreciation. None of which is to</p><p>say that these wines can’t be enjoyed Monday through Friday if the mood</p><p>arises, but just that when life slows down a bit, it’s nice to acknowledge the</p><p>moment with a thoughtful sip.</p><p>In general, our favorites wines (not being true collectors or</p><p>connoisseurs) tend to be French whites from Burgundy and the Loire Valley</p><p>(think Chablis, Pouilly-Fuissé, Sancerre, and Pouilly-Fumé); Italian wines</p><p>from Alto Adige, Friuli, Abruzzo, and Tuscany; Albariños and Riojas from</p><p>Spain; many of the New World Sauvignon Blancs from Australia and New</p><p>Zealand; and of course the Zinfandels, Pinot Noirs, Petite Sirahs, and Ken’s</p><p>coveted Cabernets from California and Oregon. All of these wines sit</p><p>happily on the table with a smattering of small plates, but so will your</p><p>favorites. In my mind, drinking is just like eating—only you know what</p><p>you like, and that’s exactly what you should serve.</p><p>grazing menus</p><p>(from simple spreads to full-on soirées)</p><p>Nothing in this book is hard to make. Some things are sparingly simple,</p><p>while others take a little time and a bit of effort (but not much, really). What</p><p>is most challenging about the concept of grazing is putting together a menu</p><p>that feels cohesive and has a sensibility. The more difficult aspect is</p><p>creating a continuous thread of flavors and textures that allows the eaters to</p><p>weave their way from one dish to the next, to travel fluidly from plate to</p><p>plate with a sense of intent. To help you begin unearthing the logic of a</p><p>well-laid grazing table, here are some of my menus. You’ll notice some</p><p>recipes found in this book, of course, but you’ll also see single ingredient</p><p>suggestions for filling out the table, thoughts on adding cheese or</p><p>charcuterie, and ideas for including fruit or sliced vegetables for a more</p><p>robust showing. This is where the pantry becomes vital and your creativity</p><p>as a shopper comes into focus.</p><p>TRANSPORTING TAPAS</p><p>A plate of jamón</p><p>A dish of green olives</p><p>Blistered Shishito Peppers with Flaky Salt</p><p>Spanish Tortilla with Sweet Onion and Thyme</p><p>Pan con Tomate</p><p>A DOG DAYS LUNCH</p><p>Melon Soup with Prosciutto Shards</p><p>Persian Cucumbers, Snap Peas, and Red Onion with Lemon Zest</p><p>Flaky Cheddar Biscuits with Heirloom Tomatoes and Peaches</p><p>A bowl of cherries</p><p>ODE TO SPRING AND ALL THINGS GREEN</p><p>A good loaf of bread with salty butter</p><p>Parmesan Pea Spread</p><p>Asparagus and Herb Frittata Bites</p><p>Zucchini Ribbons with Herbed Goat Cheese</p><p>A FRENCH AFFAIR FOR MANY</p><p>A good baguette</p><p>Radishes with Blue Butter</p><p>Herb-Scented Gougères</p><p>Ham and Cornichons on Buttered Baguette</p><p>Creamy Chicken Liver Pâté with (or without) Red Onion and Raspberry Jam on Brioche</p><p>A Trio of Tartlettes</p><p>Potato and Leek Soup, served chilled a la vichyssoise</p><p>A (NEARLY) SPONTANEOUS SUNDAY SOIRÉE</p><p>Smoked Trout–Stuffed Deviled Eggs</p><p>Pea Shooters with Parmesan Crisps</p><p>A plate of smoked salmon speckled with capers</p><p>Lemon-Tarragon Chicken Skewers</p><p>Eiffel Tower–Inspired Coconut Macaroons</p><p>A ROMANTIC BITE</p><p>Oysters with Bubbly Mignonette</p><p>Duck Rillettes on Toast</p><p>A bowl of baby arugula with sliced artichoke hearts and Parmesan shavings</p><p>Chocolate Whiskey Cakes with Boozy Vanilla Cream</p><p>ROMAN HOLIDAY FOR A FEW</p><p>Quintessential All-Shopping, Light-Chopping Antipasti</p><p>Charcuterie-Draped Grissini</p><p>Deep-Fried Artichokes and Crispy Lemons</p><p>Three-Tomato Panzanella</p><p>A QUICK JAUNT TO SPAIN</p><p>Pimentón-Spiced Chickpeas with Spinach and Manchego on Toast</p><p>Spanish-Style Shrimp with Chile</p><p>A dish of green olives</p><p>More slices of Manchego</p><p>Fresh figs</p><p>AFTER THE SUN, BY THE SEA OR ELSEWHERE</p><p>Charred Fava Shells with Lemon, Chile, and Anchovies</p><p>Summer Spiced Crab Cakes with Basil Aioli</p><p>Tomato slices with fresh basil, olive oil, and sea salt</p><p>An Inspired Platter of Fruit and a Piece of Chocolate</p><p>MEXICO VIA CALIFORNIA</p><p>Avocado, As It Should Be</p><p>A basket of good tortilla chips</p><p>Crab, Avocado, and Black Bean Tostadas</p><p>Fresh corn kernels tossed with chopped tomato, cilantro, and lime juice</p><p>FALL SUPPER BY THE FIRE</p><p>Thyme-Roasted Parsnip Tangle</p><p>Sautéed Sweet Onion and Chard Toast with Rustic Tomme</p><p>Sweet and Spicy Delicata Squash Crescents</p><p>Sliced pears and a hunk of Stilton or your favorite cheese</p><p>WEEKNIGHT (VIRTUALLY) NO-COOKING GET-TOGETHER</p><p>An Unconventional Plate of Vegetables</p><p>Lemony Hummus</p><p>Sardines on Crackers with Lemon and Thyme</p><p>Creamy Avocado Soup with Crab</p><p>Homemade Croutons with Parmesan Shavings on Baby Romaine</p><p>A DALLIANCE WITH NORTH AFRICA</p><p>Toasted pita or flatbread</p><p>Preserved Lemon and Herb Marinated Olives</p><p>Ricotta-Stuffed Medjool Dates Wrapped (or not) in Bacon</p><p>Japanese Eggplant Mousse with Za’atar</p><p>Moroccan-Spiced Carrots</p><p>Armenian-Spiced Baby Lamb Chops with Yogurt and Mint</p><p>LUNCH AFTER A BRISK WINTER HIKE</p><p>Curried Carrot and Coconut Soup</p><p>Farmers’ Market Gratin</p><p>A wedge of cheese, soft or hard</p><p>Whatever-You-Fancy Fruit Crumble</p><p>A CELEBRATION OF STONE FRUIT</p><p>Cherries with Cheese and Pistachios</p><p>Scallop and Plum Ceviche with Tarragon</p><p>Peak of Summer Salad</p><p>Apricot, Berry, Fig (or Almost Any Kind of Fruit) Almond Slices</p><p>just shopping</p><p>We all have our bad habits. I am notorious for snacking while I cook. It</p><p>can be a vellum-thin slice of prosciutto, a wedge of briny artichoke, a</p><p>mouthful of grated Parmesan,</p><p>or a handful of chickpeas—I’m not fussy. I</p><p>just love to taste as I go. It’s a weakness for sure, but also a perk of being</p><p>the cook, or in this case, the shopper. Some of my favorite covert bites—</p><p>those stolen corners of cheese and purloined pieces of cucumber—are</p><p>little more than well-chosen ingredients made pretty on a plate, exactly</p><p>what you’ll find here. These are not recipes, so please don’t be misled;</p><p>rather, they are ideas for good things that go with other good things—</p><p>that’s all.</p><p>An Unconventional Plate of Vegetables</p><p>Radishes with Blue Butter</p><p>Quintessential All-Shopping, Light-Chopping Antipasti</p><p>Sardines on Crackers with Lemon and Thyme</p><p>Preserved Lemon and Herb Marinated Olives</p><p>Fresh Figs with Serrano Ham</p><p>Cherries with Cheese and Pistachios</p><p>Charcuterie-Draped Grissini</p><p>Oysters with Bubbly Mignonette</p><p>An Unconventional Plate of Vegetables</p><p>an unconventional plate of vegetables</p><p>Crudités have never been my thing. It’s not because I don’t adore raw</p><p>vegetables—it’s just that the ubiquitous carrot sticks, broccoli florets, and</p><p>red pepper slices fall a bit flat next to a platter of unctuous cheeses or a dish</p><p>of nectarous olives. I know people say they like crudités, but could it really</p><p>be the creamy dip they adore, the hummus or guacamole, that keeps them</p><p>reaching for another celery stick? I always figured that was the real</p><p>attraction, until it dawned on me that the raw vegetables I like the most</p><p>aren’t commonly served as crudités. This hit me one night while I was</p><p>cooking dinner, when Ken turned to me and said, “You’re eating all the</p><p>sprouts.” He was right. We eat roasted Brussels sprouts like they’re going</p><p>out of style in the winter, but while they’re sitting on the baking sheet,</p><p>glistening with oil and sparkling with flaky salt awaiting their turn in the</p><p>oven, I snack on them mercilessly. The oil and salt tenderize the papery</p><p>outer leaves and soften their cruciferous bite, making them irresistible—the</p><p>perfect raw vegetable for premeal munching.</p><p>And there it was: With that subtle scolding, I had an epiphany. It wasn’t</p><p>crudités I found lacking, but the array of crudités set before me. I love</p><p>fennel slices so thin they flutter on your tongue, crisp sugar snap peas, and</p><p>peppery radishes. Those young rainbow-colored carrots can work, or more</p><p>mature ones turned into curls with the whip of a peeler. Even just tweaking</p><p>the way vegetables are sliced makes a difference in how they appear on the</p><p>plate, appeal to the senses, and sit on the tongue, which is why for me, a</p><p>few sprouts gleaming with oil or a cucumber curl win out over another</p><p>grape tomato or celery stick any day.</p><p>an unconventional plate of vegetables</p><p>Brussels sprouts</p><p>Extra-virgin olive oil</p><p>Sea salt</p><p>Persian (mini) cucumbers</p><p>Asparagus</p><p>Fennel</p><p>Rainbow radishes</p><p>French breakfast radishes or other small red radishes</p><p>Young carrots (rainbow are fun)</p><p>Sugar snap peas</p><p>Baby squash</p><p>Baby cauliflower</p><p>Treviso, endive, or other lettuce leaves</p><p>Trim the Brussels sprouts and halve them. Toss them in a bowl with a nice</p><p>coating of olive oil and use your hands to massage the oil into the sprouts.</p><p>Sprinkle them with sea salt and set aside.</p><p>Meanwhile, use a vegetable peeler to slice the cucumbers lengthwise into</p><p>long thin ribbons. Cut the asparagus spears in half lengthwise. Use a</p><p>mandoline or sharp knife to shave the fennel into thin pieces, being sure to</p><p>leave them slightly intact at the root end.</p><p>Peel and cut the rainbow radish into thin disks. Trim the breakfast radishes,</p><p>leaving just an inch or so of green at the top. If you can only find red</p><p>radishes, use the coarse side of a scrub sponge to scrub the radishes gently</p><p>around their middles to reveal a bit of the white underneath.</p><p>Peel the carrots and trim the tops so that less than an inch of green remains.</p><p>Snip the ends off the snap peas if they need it.</p><p>Place the lightly marinated Brussels sprouts and all the other cleaned and</p><p>cut vegetables on a platter and cluster tightly together. Serve with a small</p><p>bowl of olive oil and sea salt for dipping.</p><p>radishes with blue butter</p><p>Blue butter may change your life. It’s one of those absurdly easy kitchen</p><p>tricks that—assuming you like blue cheese—make almost everything better.</p><p>Spread it on toast, top a steak with a slab, or smear it on any vegetable—</p><p>raw or cooked—that you please. The only really important thing to know,</p><p>beyond its life-changing qualities, is to use good blue cheese. My knees go</p><p>weak for a hunk of Stilton, so that’s what I choose, but if your favorite is</p><p>Roquefort or Cabrales, feel free. The idea here is to simply add that sharp,</p><p>salty, and, yes, stinky essence to the peppery flavor of the radishes for</p><p>something a wee bit gutsier than the classic preparation usually served with</p><p>butter and salt. See photograph.</p><p>½ stick (4 tablespoons) unsalted butter, at room temperature</p><p>2 ounces Stilton or other good-quality blue cheese, at room</p><p>temperature</p><p>12–16 French breakfast radishes or other small radishes, halved</p><p>Flaky sea salt</p><p>In a bowl, mash the butter and cheese together with a fork until well</p><p>combined. Transfer to a serving dish and serve with radishes and flaky salt.</p><p>Or anything you can think of to smear it on, really.</p><p>quintessential all-shopping, light-chopping</p><p>antipasti</p><p>I think that all cooks, whether we admit it or not, want to be loved for our</p><p>food. Even the most humble among us—those who are demure and deflect</p><p>all compliments, even those of us with kitchen modesty built into our DNA</p><p>—can’t help but feel a warm blush when people like what we’ve made. So</p><p>it can be a bit of a heartbreaker to put out a lovingly prepared tray of snacks</p><p>—to hear the oohs- and-ahs, to see the wedges of cheese vanish, the slivers</p><p>of charcuterie disappear, and the marinated vegetables recede into the</p><p>waiting mouths of friends—believing that as a cook, you weren’t really</p><p>responsible for this crowd-pleaser, that it wasn’t your nuanced seasoning or</p><p>precise searing that brought this beauty into being. You were of course the</p><p>clever shopper, gifted chopper, and the one with an eye for layering,</p><p>clustering, and arranging, but still, it was all so easy, such a cheat really,</p><p>that you feel like a heel accepting the praise. To this I say (and I’m talking</p><p>to myself here too): Stop with the self-deprecation. It may be the simplest</p><p>of ways to dazzle but it still counts; shopping and choosing and slicing and</p><p>spreading is not mindless at all, and while it may not require the skill of</p><p>knowing rare from medium or soft-boiled from hard, it takes imagination to</p><p>do it well.</p><p>Stay simple and stick with the suggestions below, or get more</p><p>extravagant if you must—roast your own tomatoes instead of buying sun-</p><p>dried; grill thin slices of eggplant or zucchini, drizzle them with olive oil,</p><p>and dapple them with fresh oregano; add a dish of cornichons, Marcona</p><p>almonds, sliced figs, pears, or melon. The key to the perfect antipasti is</p><p>using the best ingredients you can rationalize, keeping it bountiful but not</p><p>cluttered, and being okay with saying, “Thanks, I’m so glad you like it. It</p><p>was all me.”</p><p>My Marinated Beans</p><p>Long-stemmed, marinated artichokes</p><p>Cerignola, Sevillano, Castelvetrano, or other brine-soaked olives</p><p>Oil-packed marinated sun-dried tomatoes</p><p>Cured meat (soppressata, prosciutto, coppa, bresaola, or better, a</p><p>mix)</p><p>Hunk of Parmesan or other hard cheese</p><p>Ball of burrata or dish of small mozzarella balls</p><p>Pepperoncini</p><p>Roasted peppers</p><p>Breadsticks, crackers, or toasts</p><p>Gather everything together and arrange on a platter or multiple plates so</p><p>that contrasting colors and textures live next to one another. That’s it.</p><p>Really.</p><p>sardines on crackers with lemon and thyme</p><p>If my fondness for grazing comes from anywhere, it’s almost certainly from</p><p>the weekend lunches we used to have as kids. My parents were early</p><p>adopters of the fixer-upper and, as such, weekends at our house were spent</p><p>in constant construction mode. For the Lenzers, a normal Saturday meant</p><p>stripping French windows or laying sprinkler systems, none of which lent</p><p>itself to leisurely meals by the</p><p>pool. Meaning lunch was always sort of an</p><p>afterthought. In my memory, it was only after my sister and I had voiced</p><p>long and loud our desire to eat that my parents would give in and head to</p><p>the kitchen. There we’d pull salami, cheese, crackers, and maybe some</p><p>liverwurst from the fridge and lay it on the old country-style table that</p><p>served as a center island. Sometimes, at my dad’s instigation, there would</p><p>be small bowls of borscht topped with sour cream. All of this was good, but</p><p>the best of these ramshackle family lunches was when the sardines came</p><p>out. Shiny tins opened with a key revealed perfectly packed and</p><p>wonderfully oily fish that my dad meticulously layered on Triscuit crackers</p><p>and garnished with nothing more than a squeeze of lemon.</p><p>I don’t keep Triscuits in the house these days (I’m partial to chips when</p><p>I want that salty fix), but when I’m working at home and need lunch, I can</p><p>regularly be counted on to stand in the kitchen with a can of sardines in</p><p>hand, half a lemon lying on the counter, and a few crackers if I’ve got them.</p><p>I tell myself these omega-3-loaded treats are good for my skin, but in truth,</p><p>there are few lunches quite as satisfying.</p><p>2 cans (3.75 ounces each) oil-packed sardines</p><p>12–16 Triscuits or your favorite crackers</p><p>1–2 lemons</p><p>2–3 sprigs fresh thyme, leaves picked</p><p>Gently remove the sardines from their containers and place on a cutting</p><p>board. Cut each sardine into thirds (don’t worry if they crumble a bit) and</p><p>transfer a piece to a cracker. Repeat with all the sardines and all the</p><p>crackers. Squeeze fresh lemon over all and sprinkle with thyme leaves.</p><p>preserved lemon and herb marinated olives</p><p>If you ever plan to come to my house to eat, there’s something you should</p><p>know about me: I’m a bit of a one-trick pony. I wonder if this is true of all</p><p>cooks, or if I’m just abnormally stuck in my ways. Or maybe it’s because</p><p>my job requires me to cook different things every day—when left to my</p><p>own devices, I fall back on old favorites with such comfort and ease. Take</p><p>my preserved lemons, for example. I’ve been making these for years now</p><p>and I can’t help but put them on and in as many things as possible. Sure, I</p><p>could come up with another way to add that elusive sweet-salty-citric bite,</p><p>but I don’t. I just keep going back and making more preserved lemons; they</p><p>really just make everything better. Especially olives. I love olives. From the</p><p>time I was a kid and discovered the wonder of sticking those inky-colored,</p><p>metallic-flavored canned olives on every finger, to the creamy, thick-fleshed</p><p>Sevillano giants I first tasted in southern Spain, I’ve rarely encountered an</p><p>olive I don’t like. But if you’re shopping at a grocery store and not an</p><p>Italian delicatessen or specialty store, you’ll find that the olives often need a</p><p>little oomph. That’s where the preserved lemons come in. If you’ve got</p><p>these in your fridge already, it’s a no-brainer; a dalliance between preserved</p><p>lemons and olives with a few fresh herbs tossed in for good measure turns</p><p>the ubiquitous into the revelatory.</p><p>2 cups brine-cured olives</p><p>½ cup chopped preserved lemons, homemade or store-bought, plus</p><p>more as needed</p><p>1 cup extra-virgin olive oil</p><p>1–2 sprigs fresh oregano, leaves picked and chopped</p><p>1 sprig fresh rosemary, leaves picked and chopped</p><p>2–3 sprigs fresh thyme, leaves picked</p><p>1 teaspoon red chili flakes</p><p>Sea salt</p><p>In a large jar, combine the olives, preserved lemons, olive oil, herbs, and</p><p>chili flakes and mix well. Taste the marinade and decide if you want to add</p><p>more lemons or some salt, and adjust as needed. Let the olives stand in the</p><p>fridge for at least a couple of hours or up to a week. To serve, bring to room</p><p>temperature and spoon into small bowls or serve right out of the jar.</p><p>Fresh Figs with Serrano Ham</p><p>fresh figs with serrano ham</p><p>Figs are my weakness. Well, I have many, but figs are pretty high on the</p><p>list. When I’m home alone and it’s time for lunch, a generous nub of cheese</p><p>and a handful of figs is pretty standard fare. Halved over yogurt and my</p><p>homemade granola, they flesh out a winsome breakfast. Then there’s that</p><p>almond cake I adore, where figs are featured prominently when I have my</p><p>way. (Ken is partial to substituting blueberries or rhubarb and raspberries,</p><p>but sometimes I’m able to persuade him.) Unlike other fruits, figs have the</p><p>capacity to sweep me off to somewhere more exotic, where warm spices</p><p>cloud the air and richly colored carpets line the halls of dark, cool rooms.</p><p>With their inky-toned skin, often blushing green right at the stem, and</p><p>honeyed flavor paired with a gentle crunch, figs are seductive. If you’ve</p><p>had a rough day, wrap a few figs in wisps of Serrano ham, pour a glass of</p><p>wine, and put on some music. Madeline Peyroux or Melody Gardot are</p><p>good choices, while sometimes Roxy Music or Joni Mitchell better fit the</p><p>mood; and every now and then, nothing is better than Kate Bush and her</p><p>ethereal siren-like voice. Then sit on the floor. Better yet, lie down on the</p><p>floor and stare up at the ceiling for a few minutes. If someone walks in, they</p><p>may wonder, but it works, I swear.</p><p>12 fresh figs</p><p>6 slices Serrano ham or other dry-cured ham</p><p>Balsamic vinegar, for drizzling (optional)</p><p>Slice each fig in half lengthwise. Tear each piece of ham in half as well.</p><p>Wrap each fig half in a band of the ham if you like, or simply serve the figs</p><p>on a plate with the ham and let guests assemble as they choose. Drizzle with</p><p>balsamic vinegar, if desired.</p><p>Cherries with Cheese and Pistachios</p><p>cherries with cheese and pistachios</p><p>When I was in college, I had what would now be called a “girl crush” on a</p><p>friend of mine named Cybele. She was a couple of years older, had a short</p><p>auburn bob, wore slim capris with ballet flats (there might even have been a</p><p>scarf tied at the neck from time to time), read Doris Lessing and Margaret</p><p>Atwood, and carried herself with a sense of sophistication I found</p><p>intoxicating. Needless to say, I was thrilled when she and her girlfriend</p><p>Renee invited me over for a glass of wine one afternoon. Their living room</p><p>had a bohemian style to it that I immediately adored; Mexican blankets</p><p>were tossed over old squishy chairs, batik and velvet pillows lay scattered</p><p>on the floor, Joan Armatrading belted from the stereo, and Cybele poured a</p><p>deeply red wine into oversized green goblets while wearing a vibrant caftan</p><p>that seemed to spill like the wine itself over her shoulders and pool at her</p><p>ankles in bursts of claret and gold. There was a board laden with fruit,</p><p>cheeses, and nuts on the coffee table. My guess, all these years later, is that</p><p>the cheeses included a waxy Brie and a few slices of block cheddar, the fruit</p><p>was likely grapes, and the nuts, well I’m going to go with canned and</p><p>mixed. But at the time, all I could think was, “This is perfect.” Granted, it</p><p>sounds terrifically pretentious in hindsight, but back then I was besotted by</p><p>it all. No, I could never wear a caftan and take myself seriously, and the</p><p>days of pillows on the floor being a thing are gone for me (I like a tidy</p><p>house). But I still love Joan Armatrading, read Lessing and Atwood when</p><p>the mood strikes, and while I’ve long lost track of Cybele, always think of</p><p>her and smile when I lay out a spread of fruit and cheese.</p><p>cherries with cheese and pistachios</p><p>1 pound cherries (don’t bother to stem or pit)</p><p>1 cup pistachios (with the shell on; half the fun is prying them open)</p><p>Cheese (whatever you love most)</p><p>It’s as simple as it sounds: Put the cherries in one bowl and the pistachios in</p><p>another. Be sure the cheese is at room temperature and place it on a board</p><p>with a knife. Enjoy.</p><p>Some ideas on cheese: If you’re trying to break away from the Brie</p><p>wheel and goat cheese log, here are some thoughts. With cherries or</p><p>other stone fruit, I like something creamy, like Three Sisters from</p><p>Nettle Meadow Farm: It’s a soft, bloomy rind cheese made of sheep,</p><p>goat, and cow’s milk. For something equally as decadent but a little</p><p>more lemony, try their Kunik triple crème made from goat and</p><p>Jersey cow’s milk. And if you’re lucky</p><p>enough to stumble upon it,</p><p>Gubbeen, a semi-soft cow’s milk cheese from County Cork, Ireland,</p><p>is a treat. A bit nutty and a little earthy, it’s worth looking out for.</p><p>If you’re doing a fruit and cheese plate with autumnal fruit like</p><p>apples, pears, and figs, my mind wanders to a nosey blue like</p><p>Stilton. If that’s not your thing, try a sheep’s milk cheese from the</p><p>Basque country, like P’tit Basque or Ossau-Iraty. Both of these are</p><p>nutty, sweet, and surprisingly creamy for semi-hard cheeses. If you</p><p>like truly hard Alpine-style cheese, Consider Bardwell in Vermont</p><p>has Rupert, an aged Jersey cow’s milk cheese that’s both bright and</p><p>sharp (but my favorite of theirs, the one I can eat by the wedge</p><p>alone in the kitchen and call it lunch, is Pawlet, a creamy Italian-</p><p>style toma like no other).</p><p>Keep in mind that while one really good cheese is totally fine (I find</p><p>setting out one favorite gives people a chance to really focus and</p><p>taste the nuances of the cheese), it’s also nice to offer a mix. Try</p><p>setting out hard and soft cheeses so there’s a play of textures as well</p><p>as flavors— and make sure each cheese gets its own knife, too.</p><p>Radishes with Blue Butter | My Marinated Beans | Charcuterie-Draped Grissini | Prosciutto,</p><p>Asparagus, and Arugula Rolls</p><p>charcuterie-draped grissini</p><p>There are things I insist on making from scratch: pizza dough, granola,</p><p>salad dressing, and pesto sauce. Then there are things I prefer to make from</p><p>scratch but feel okay buying when it’s a decent store-bought version: bread,</p><p>croissants, pasta, and crackers. Grissini, the long skinny breadsticks that</p><p>rival potato chips for best crunchy snack of all time, also fall into that</p><p>second category. I like making my own, and when I have the time, I do. But</p><p>I also believe that there’s a limit to what home cooks need to make from</p><p>scratch in order to feel okay about themselves. There are fabulous packaged</p><p>grissini out there (the best ones are very thin and made in Italy), and I</p><p>almost always have a box in the pantry so that these silly little snacks can</p><p>be made in mere minutes. If you have an Italian specialty store near you,</p><p>look there first; happily, more and more grocery stores are stocking nice</p><p>ones, too.</p><p>32 grissini</p><p>16 thin slices soppressata, prosciutto, coppa, bresaola, or other</p><p>cured meat</p><p>Roll 2 grissini together with a single slice of cured meat. If you’re using</p><p>soppressata or bresaola, you will want to serve them lying on a plate, but if</p><p>you’re using prosciutto or coppa, which are stickier, you can serve them</p><p>standing up in a mason jar or glass.</p><p>Oysters with Bubbly Mignonette</p><p>oysters with bubbly mignonette</p><p>I once read a book called The Oysters of Locmariaquer by Eleanor Clark.</p><p>It’s the story of a town in Brittany devoted to the cultivation of the Belon</p><p>oyster, also called les plates or the “the flat ones.” The proprietor of my</p><p>neighborhood bookshop, a mouse hole of a place called Three Lives,</p><p>recommended the book to me. The ownership has changed over now, but it</p><p>used to be owned by two women, Jill and Jenny, both of whom had a genius</p><p>for curating the best selection of books and somehow knowing exactly what</p><p>you needed to read at that moment to change your life. For some reason, on</p><p>one particular day, Jill decided I needed to know about Belon oysters. Go</p><p>figure. Having burrowed down under the covers that night and lost myself</p><p>to the land of briny bivalves, I became fixated on the idea of eating a tray of</p><p>these mollusks while sipping a glass of flinty Chablis and staring out at the</p><p>steely English Channel. I decided then and there that on one of my</p><p>birthdays—it didn’t matter which—I would make this happen. Here’s the</p><p>thing: It hasn’t happened yet. I haven’t given up (ideally, I have a lot of</p><p>birthdays left for this literary-inspired fantasy to become reality), but as I</p><p>bide my time, I’ve come up with a satisfactory facsimile of the experience.</p><p>The oysters aren’t necessarily from Belon, the Chablis is most likely the</p><p>remains of whatever we opened last night, and the view of the English</p><p>Channel is certainly lacking, but otherwise it’s exactly the same.</p><p>1 shallot, finely minced</p><p>¼ cup sherry vinegar</p><p>Freshly ground black pepper</p><p>12 or more oysters</p><p>2–3 tablespoons Prosecco or other bubbly dry wine</p><p>In a small bowl, combine the shallot, vinegar, and a generous amount of</p><p>pepper. Let sit while you shuck the oysters.</p><p>To shuck the oysters, use a safety glove. For years I didn’t, and I have the</p><p>scars to prove it. If you really aren’t going to bother, at least hold the oyster</p><p>in a dry kitchen towel as you insert the tip of the shucking knife into the</p><p>little hinge at the corner of the oyster. Twist the knife into the hinge as best</p><p>you can and lift upward to loosen the top shell from the bottom. Some</p><p>oysters are easier to open than others, but ideally once the knife makes its</p><p>way between the shells, you can pry them apart; try to keep the lower shell</p><p>upright as you do so to save as much of the briny liquor as possible.</p><p>When all the oysters have been shucked, transfer them to a plate of crushed</p><p>ice. Put the mignonette into a small serving bowl and top with a couple</p><p>tablespoons of Prosecco. Serve with the remaining Prosecco (of course).</p><p>mostly chopping</p><p>Plates brimming with vegetables bathed in zesty vinaigrettes; simple</p><p>spreads meant to be slathered on charred toast; bowls filled with</p><p>chilled summer soups; dishes replete with tangy beans, smoky deviled</p><p>eggs, or sushi-grade tuna laid nearly bare—these are the foods that</p><p>entice me, the kind that can be eaten with fingers or shared from a</p><p>communal platter. The ingredients need only a nudge from the cook: a</p><p>bit of oil and a sprinkle of salt definitely, maybe a smashed clove of</p><p>garlic or a mashed-up anchovy, possibly a drizzle of syrup or a squirt</p><p>of citrus, even a showering of tender or resinous herbs. They take a</p><p>little bit of work, but not a lot; some can be done in less than 5</p><p>minutes, and others can be made well in advance. Choose one, maybe</p><p>two, add some well-curated, store-bought bits and pieces, and call it a</p><p>day.</p><p>Preserved Lemons</p><p>Pickled Red Onions</p><p>My Marinated Beans</p><p>Smoked Trout–Stuffed Deviled Eggs</p><p>Prosciutto, Asparagus, and Arugula Rolls</p><p>Homemade Croutons with Parmesan Shavings on Baby Romaine (aka</p><p>Deconstructed Caesar Salad)</p><p>Communal Salade Niçoise</p><p>Melon Soup with Prosciutto Shards</p><p>Avocado, As It Should Be</p><p>Lemony Hummus</p><p>Rosemary and White Bean Smear</p><p>Parmesan Pea Spread</p><p>Japanese Eggplant Mousse with Za’atar</p><p>Pan con Tomate</p><p>Ham and Cornichons on Buttered Baguette</p><p>Sardine Bruschetta with Fennel and Preserved Lemons</p><p>Creamy Avocado Soup with Crab</p><p>Three-Tomato Panzanella</p><p>Persian Cucumbers, Snap Peas, and Red Onion with Lemon Zest</p><p>Peak of Summer Salad</p><p>Zucchini Ribbons with Herbed Goat Cheese (Grilled or Raw)</p><p>Scallop and Plum Ceviche with Tarragon</p><p>Tuna Crudo with Tomatillo-Avocado Dressing</p><p>Crab, Avocado, and Black Bean Tostadas</p><p>preserved lemons</p><p>Right now, in our tiny living room in Connecticut, we have two Mexican</p><p>lime plants, one Meyer lemon tree, a Key lime tree, and a kumquat tree. All</p><p>are small enough to fit in pots and stay that way to make the seasonal</p><p>sojourn inside when the East Coast begins to chill.</p><p>Our obsession with growing our own citrus in a climate that is</p><p>decidedly adverse to our plans may seem futile, but it’s a challenge I find</p><p>comforting. Two Meyer lemons a year, eight kumquats . . . those aren’t</p><p>yields to brag about, yet each brightly flavored orb gives us a sense of</p><p>delight—it’s been created against the odds of Mother Nature, in spite of the</p><p>obstacles she throws in front of us in the form of freezing temperatures and</p><p>inches of snow. This soulful battle we wage makes me feel in touch with the</p><p>elements and at one with a higher power, but the truth is this: Because our</p><p>bounty is so meager, we rely on care packages from my mom and dad’s</p><p>garden in Los Angeles—flat-rate boxes crammed with fruit (the Mexican</p><p>limes, calamansi, Meyer lemons, and sour oranges that grow like weeds out</p><p>west)—to keep us well stocked. The Mexican limes are the most prolific</p><p>and astounding—and</p>
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