Want to make awesome tamales? Quick, order some heirloom corn masa harina, then follow our lead!

By Leslie Brenner

[Editor’s note: This article was first published, in slightly different form, on Dec. 8, 2021.]

If you’ve always wanted to try making tamales for Christmas, but something inevitably got in the way (yep, it sounds pretty intimidating!), this is a great year to dive in with your maiden effort. It’s super fun, the rewards are great, and it’s easier than you might think. Christmas Eve falls conveniently on Sunday this year, so that can be a lovely day of cooking. More importantly, we home cooks now have heirloom corn masa harina at our disposal — which makes tamales that are about a thousand times better than those made with Maseca, or other commercial masa harina.

If you’re going to do this, you’ll need to quickly order some masa harina — we love the product from Masienda, which also now sells through Amazon and some Whole Foods Markets. Choose any color you like — yellow, white, blue, red, or more than one. King Arthur also sells an organic masa harina that’s much better than Maseca.

Got them ordered? (Or maybe you have some on hand because you’ve been living the masa life?) OK, good. Now let’s talk tamales.

How do blue corn tamales filled with duck in dark mole sound? Or vegan tamales filled with roasted sweet potato and vegetable picadillo — served with salsa macha? Yes, I thought so!

Why tamales, why now?

Until a few years ago, I thought that making tamales might not be worth the trouble. Most tamales I’d ever eaten — even those that came wrapped in great reputations — had just been OK at best. Usually the masa was not terribly flavorful, often on the heavy side, with not enough (or not delicious enough) filling.

Then I tasted Olivia Lopez’s tamales, made with masa fashioned from heirloom corn. (As you know if you’ve been reading Cooks Without Borders’ Mexican cooking features for any length of time, we are super fortunate to have Olivia as our resident Mexican cooking expert.) Of course much of her tamales’ lusciousness is thanks to her skill and palate — as chef and co-owner of Molino Olōyō in Dallas, the smashing tamales Olivia has been selling since last year through her Instagram feed quickly developed a cult following. (She doesn’t yet have a brick-and-mortar location.)

But another big part of the reason for Olivia’s tamales’ great flavor is the quality of the heirloom corn from Mexico that she nixtamalizes to make her masa.

For a story I published in The Dallas Morning News a few years ago, Olivia developed a recipe for a Sweet Pineapple Tamal using then-newly available heirloom masa harina from Masienda, and the tamales were spectacular.

And so (Christmas lightbulb illuminating — ding ding ding!) for the holiday season, Olivia developed and shared with us two savory tamal recipes using heirloom masa harina.

They’re out of this world — and believe it or not, not difficult to make.

First is the vegan tamal — one that gets its lushness from coconut oil, rather than the usual lard. It’s filled with roasted sweet potato and a vegetable picadillo. “That picadillo is inspired by the one my Grandma Margarita used to make,” says Olivia. The confetti-like sauté of onions, carrots, tomato, chiles, golden raisins and more is also versatile beyond tamales; if you have any left over, you can use it to fill tetelas, sopes or quesadillas. (I filled tetelas with a little extra picadillo and roasted sweet potato — fantastic.)

Sweet Potato and Vegetable Picadillo Tamales, prepared using Masienda heirloom masa harina, from Olivia Lopez’s recipe

In Mexico, Olivia tells us, tamales are usually eaten on their own, generally not with any salsa. “Usually you just have them with atole,” she says. “Masa on masa!” (Atole is a sweet, hot drink made with masa.) But she loves the late-autumn/early winter flavors of the vegan tamal with salsa macha — and we happen to have a great recipe for that, as well (Olivia’s!).

Our second tamal — blue corn filled with pato en mole oscuro (duck in dark mole) — has a saucy flourish as well: a quickly put-together chimichurri-like salsa made from dried tart cherries, chives (or scallion tops), parsley and lime. “It balances the rich, earthy mole,” says Olivia. Beautifully, I would add.

Tamales de Pato en Mole Oscuro (duck in dark mole), with Tart Cherry-Chive Salsa — prepared from recipes by Molino Oloyo chef and co-owner Olivia Lopez

The tamal’s filling is achieved by roasting duck legs (easy), then saucing the shredded duck in a dark mole that’s also easier to put together than I imagined. (Empowering!) You can use the duck fat that renders when you slow-roast those legs to enrich the masa, or use olive oil — again, no lard. Our instructions have you wrap the tamales in banana leaves before steaming, but corn husks work just as well. The vegan tamales call for corn husks, but they’re also interchangeable — as is the color of heirloom masa harina you use, yellow, blue, rose or white.

Don’t freak out when you see the long recipes — the reason for their wordiness is we’re holding your hand tight, to make sure you’re comfortable with what may be a new process, and to ensure you get great results. To that end, we put together a tip sheet.

Here’s the recipe for the duck mole tamales.

And finally, here is the recipe for Olivia’s Sweet Pineapple Tamales. We love pineapple’s sunny and bright flavor during winter’s chill — makes us (almost!) feel we’re in Colima, Mexico, Olivia’s home town. If only!

Want to keep the Sweet Pineapple Tamal vegan? Easy to do — the crema garnish is optional. And all three are gluten-free.

Happy Tamalidays!

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RECIPE: Sweet Potato and Vegetable Picadillo Tamales

RECIPE: Tamales de Pato en Mole Oscuro

RECIPE: Sweet Pineapple Tamales

RECIPE: Olivia’s Salsa Macha

RECIPE: Olivia Lopez’s Salsa de Cerezas

READ: The Masa Life Part I

READ: The Masa Life Part II

READ Part I of our Holiday Cookbook Gift Guide

READ Part II of our 2022 Cookbook Gift Guide

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The dreamiest moussaka, perfect for thrilling a crowd

By Leslie Brenner

If you’re in a certain Mediterranean mood, there’s nothing more marvelous than a great moussaka. With its layers of potato, eggplant, tomatoey lamb sauce and silky béchamel, Greece’s most famous dish has irresistible appeal.

In fact, when it’s carefully made, moussaka is one of the best dishes in the world. It’s perfect for this time of year, when eggplants are still in peak season and it’s cool enough to finally turn on the oven.

Yet somehow, moussaka has gotten left behind in the universe’s decades-long love affair with Mediterranean food. You don’t find it on restaurant menus much, nor is the internet bursting with outstanding moussaka recipes.

In an attempt to right that wrong, three years ago I set about to explore the origins of the dish and create the best version I could conjure — and came up with what a friend who tasted it called “Moussaka for the Ages.” Fragrant with allspice and cinnamon, it’s at once saucy, bright and rich; the way its creamy crown of béchamel plays with the lamby, saucy layers makes it eminently craveable.

READ: “Moussaka, a spectacular dish with a curious history, gets a magnificent makeover”

It’s great for feeding a crowd. Begin the fun with a big green salad (to keep it simple), or a cold mezze (appetizer spread) if you want to live large (weekend party!). You can build the moussaka ahead of time, stopping at the point where you add the béchamel topping. After that, the final half-hour or so of baking is pretty much hands-off, and it needs to rest 15 minutes after that, so the dish settles and the flavors bloom.

My version is less messy and easier than traditional version, which started with frying potatoes then eggplant. For the eggplant, I go a sheet-pan route, seasoning and drizzling olive oil on thick slices, and roasting them to melty tenderness. This results in a lighter moussaka with a more lovely caramelized eggplant flavor. Slices of potato, which form the base, get parboiled.

The béchamel-and-cheese topping on my moussaka is a little different than traditional versions as well. Lightened with yogurt, it’s brighter and fluffier; grated cheese gives it depth.

Try it this weekend — if you’re not feeding a crew, you can enjoy it reheated for a weeknight dinner or two.

RECIPE: Moussaka for the Ages

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5 favorite chilled soups — all of them vegetarian or vegan

Turkish cacik — chilled yogurt and cucumber soup with mint and dill

By Leslie Brenner

When the weather is sizzling hot, there’s nothing like a cold soup to refresh and restore.

Here are my five current faves. Two are vegan (the gazpachos); three are made without even turning on the stove (the gazpachos and the cacik). All are vegetarian. The borscht can also be vegan, if you leave off the sour cream stirred in at the end.

Cacik — Turkish Yogurt and Cucumber Soup

I love the traditional Turkish yogurt-and-cucumber soup known as cacik, first because it’s delicious and simple, but also because it you can make it in no time flat, by hand, without turning on the stove or even plugging anything in. Just whisk some yogurt to smoothness, add cucumber you’ve grated on a box grater, and whisk it together with chopped fresh mint and dill, a little white wine vinegar, olive oil, salt and pepper. Drop an ice cube in each bowl, top with more herbs (if you like) and enjoy.

Making cacik is a decidedly low-tech endeavor.

RECIPE: Cacik — Cold Yogurt and Cucumber Soup

Gazpacho Sevillano

Have some gorgeous ripe tomatoes? Seville’s classic tomato gazpacho is the play. Its beautiful sherry tang makes it super refreshing.

RECIPE: Gazpacho Sevillano

The Greenest Gazpacho

Easy, herbal and honestly pretty dreamy, this green vegan gazpacho gets body from raw almonds or cashews.

RECIPE: The Greenest Gazpacho

My Mom’s Cold Beet Borscht

This is one of my favorite summer meals — my mom’s recipe. It’s lightly sweet, tangy and transporting.

RECIPE: Joan’s Cold Beet Borscht

Chilled Minted Pea Soup

Our Ridiculously Easy Mint Pea Soup — based on a traditional French potage Saint Germain — is normally served hot, as shown above. Leave off the crème fraîche garnish and chill it, and it’s fabulous eaten cold.

RECIPE: Ridiculously Easy Minted Pea Soup

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READ: It’s the summer of ceviche: Here’s how to mastermind a great one

READ: Shrimp Louie belongs on your table this summer

READ: 12 Great dishes to invite to a vegan picnic

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Shrimp Louie, a retro West Coast delight with an entertaining history, belongs on your table this summer

By Leslie Brenner

When I was a seafood-loving child growing up in Los Angeles back in the late 1960s, one of my favorite family excursions was going to dinner on the Santa Monica Pier. About halfway out, on the south side of the pier, was a laid-back, checkered-tablecloth seafood joint that offered two of my favorite foods in the world. One was house-made potato chips that were crisp on the edges and soft in the middle. I can’t remember what they served them with, only that they were incredible.

The other was a seafood Louie. I may be rewriting history — that was a long time ago! — but the way I remember it, you could choose between Crab Louie, Shrimp Louie or Crab and Shrimp Louie. I always went for the the combo. What landed before me was a magnificent assemblage of iceberg lettuce, plump shrimps, pieces of Dungeness crab (in and out of the shell), tomato wedges, hard-boiled egg quarters, a wedge of lemon and a pitcher of Louis dressing. How royal!

Somehow, the Louie salad (also spelled Louis, like its sauce) has fallen out of fashion, but I’ve always kept it in my rotation: A shrimp Louie has always been one of my favorite summer dinners to make at home. It’s easy, it’s delicious, it’s satisfying and it’s cold.

Interested? Here’s the recipe.

On the rare occasions I have access to Dungeness crab, I’ll make it a crab Louis; otherwise shrimp is dandy. (I always buy wild shrimp rather than the farmed stuff from Southeast Asia, which often suffers from poor farming practices.) 

You may be wondering, what is the origin of seafood Louie, and why have I never heard of it? Really it’s a West Coast/last century thing, so if you’re unfamiliar with it, it’s probably either because you’re younger, or not from the West Coast, or both.

History of the Crab Louis

The crab Louis dates back at least to the early 20th century; it was likely born either in Washington State or California’s Bay Area. Either would make sense, as both are home to delicious Dungeness crab.

The exact origin is hazy. It is known to have been served at the Olympic Club in Seattle in 1904, when — according to What’s Cooking America — the legendary opera singer Enrique Caruso kept ordering it “until none was left in the restaurant’s kitchen.”

But this excellent short documentary segment — “Cracking the Case of Crab Louie,” from a show called “Mossback’s Northwest” shown on Seattle’s local PBS station — debunks the Caruso tale, pointing out that Caruso never visited Seattle. The segment also points to the earliest known appearance of a recipe in the Pacific Northwest for Crab Louis: in the Portland Council of Jewish Women’s Neighborhood Cookbook, published in 1912. The recipe called for lettuce, crab meat, hard-boiled and a dressing made from oil, vinegar, ketchup, Worcestershire sauce, English mustard, salt and paprika. (Apparently those ladies did not keep kosher!)

The Davenport Hotel — some 270 miles inland from Seattle — is another possible birthplace. The hotel’s restaurant, The Palm Court, states on its website that its founder — Louis Davenport — had his chef, Edouard Mathieu, create it. It’s still on the Palm Court’s menu, “served according to the original recipe.” Interesting to note that as described on the menu, that signature dish has the same ingredients as our basic recipe — “Crisp butter lettuce topped with fresh Dungeness crab leg meat, hard-boiled eggs, tomatoes, and our famous housemade Louis dressing.”

San Francisco also lays claim to Crab Louis’ invention. In a 1914 book called Bohemian San Francisco, author Clarence E. Edwords gave a recipe for the Crab Louis from a restaurant called Solari’s. There’s no lettuce, tomato or hard-boiled egg involved; it’s just crabmeat dressed with Louis dressing: mayo, chili sauce, chow-chow, Worcestershire sauce and herbs. The St. Francis Hotel is sometimes mentioned in Crab Louis’ origin story as well.

Louis’ evolution

Although James Beard — who was a native of Portland, Oregon — adored Crab Louis and reportedly included recipes for it in at least three of his cookbooks, the salad had a hard time gaining traction away from the West Coast. Clementine Paddleford did not include it among the more than 600 recipes she collected for What America Eats, her exhaustive 1960 survey of dining habits across the country.

It was, however, in both Craig Claiborne’s 1961 The New York Times Cookbook and the 1964 edition of Joy of Cooking. Both were basically crabmeat mounded on lettuce, with Louis dressing spooned over.

A rendition included in Time-Life’s famous American Cooking series (“The Great West” edition, published in 1971) looks and sounds more enticing. This one has you toss crabmeat with the dressing and set the dressed crab in half an avocado, arrange bibb or Boston lettuce leaves around it and garnish with tomato and hard-boiled egg wedges.

Since then, written mentions of the salad — whether in books or on menus — are few and far between. Perhaps you can still find it here and there on the West Coast.

In 1996, I had the opportunity to cross the Atlantic on the Queen Elizabeth II, invited as a first-class passenger. That included dinners in the Queen’s Grill — where you could order whatever you wanted, whether or not it was on the menu. Everyone enjoyed playing “stump the kitchen,” but stumping those polished servers wasn’t so easy. One night I asked for a Crab Louis: Of all the things I could think of eating that moment, that sounded the best. The elegant waiter, who had seemingly never heard of the dish, nevertheless didn’t miss a beat. “Certainly, madame,” he said. “And how would you like that prepared?”

“Oh, the usual way,” I said. “A bed of Boston lettuce, with Dungeness crab heaped on top, wedges of tomato and hard-boiled egg, and that Louis dressing that’s pretty much a Thousand Island.” A few minutes later, a gorgeous one appeared. Absolutely royal.

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Taste my Ukraine in a bowl of cold beet borscht

 By Leslie Brenner

There is only one thing in the world that my adventurous, handsome husband does not eat: beets. And so it happens that one of my favorite foods from my childhood — cold beet borscht — has never once graced our family table.

Until last week. Borscht, you see, is the national dish of Ukraine.

Recently, I have had a devastating personal loss. My brother David, who was two years my junior, died last month quite unexpectedly. It was our younger brother Johnny who called and delivered the irreparable, impossible news.

There is a thing that ties us together in my family: Our souls reside in our kitchens. They lurk in the bottom of a Dutch oven, to be scraped up and deglazed with a gurgle of wine; they flutter within a bowl of heavy cream, about to be whipped into lightness and loft. They waft about, now in the fridge, next in the pantry, whether we’re still of this world, or whether we’ve left long ago.

The love of cooking shared by my brothers and me came from our mom, Joan. She didn’t exactly teach us to cook; she taught us to love cooking. We watched her in the kitchen; we learned by osmosis. The methodical chop of the onion. The quiet sizzle in the pan. The aroma. 

Joan was hilarious. She was so funny and so sharp that you almost didn’t consider why she should be sad. The three of us, David and Johnny and I, would remember her, since we lost her six years ago, by texting each other about what we were cooking, or eating, or about our childhood food memories, or how funny Joan was.

Dave was also hilarious. As a teenager, one night — as we sat around the dinner table — he took a large handful of mashed potatoes and smeared it onto his face, a solid white beard. He then proceeded to shave it off, onto his plate, with his butter knife.  

The last thing David texted to Johnny and me, two days before he died, was about something he had just cooked for his family. It involved chuck roast, which made him remember Joan and the way she made beef stew. 

What’s happening in Ukraine — what has happened in the last month, since we lost Dave — would have torn my brother apart.

And not because Ukraine is our ancestral homeland. Our paternal grandfather was born in Zobolotov (now Zablotiv) in Western Ukraine, near the border with Moldova. But because of what Ukraine is now.

And so, I’ve been thinking about borscht — of which there are many kinds.  From what I’ve read, the borscht that is the national dish of Ukraine is the hot-and-hearty style, the beef-based borscht, rooty and earthy and deep.

But if you say “borscht” to just about any American of a certain age who was raised in a Jewish household, something cold and refreshing and pink is what springs to mind. Something light and vegetarian, with a touch of sweetness, a touch of tang. This is the borscht of Ashkenazi Jews a hundred and fifty years ago, who were chased out, or escaped the pogrom. Or who escaped or were exterminated a few decades later. Perhaps it is also the borscht of the Ashkenazi Jews who somehow have remained. The Volodymyr Zelenskys.  

Pink borscht — cool, refreshing, and hopeful — is what ties me to president Zelensky, and to the people, brave and bold and besieged, of Ukraine.

It means the world to me to share my mom’s recipe, passed down from her family, from who-knows-where in Eastern Europe, with you.

RECIPE: Joan’s Cold Beet Borscht

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Help feed the people of Ukraine by donating to World Central Kitchen. Its Chefs for Ukraine initiative is feeding people across the region, at border crossings into Poland, Romania, Moldova, and Hungary.

Now through Sunday, March 18, 100% of our proceeds from our $5 e-cookbook, 21 Favorite Recipes Cooks Without Borders, will be donated to World Central Kitchen.

The Personal Pop-up Family Dinner: Transportable and delicious, it's the meal of the moment

A lamb barbacoa taco meal for four, offered by Molino Olōyō last holiday season, and for Super Bowl Sunday pickup at a pop-up

By Leslie Brenner

“Hi, I know you’re busy and stressed — how about if I make dinner and bring it over to you one night this week? We can open a bottle of wine and enjoy it together.”

It’s a personal pop-in family-style dinner, inspired by the restaurant-style drop-off/pick up family meals that are suddenly everywhere. What a beautiful way to re-bond with friends you’ve missed the last couple of years.

There’s so much to be said for a big delicious something you can cook in advance, then reheat and serve later or another day. Make it during a weekend, then pop up at a friend’s later in the week and join them for dinner. Or you might drop it off for a friend or family member who is overwhelmed and needs a little nurturing. Or offer it as a gift — for a birthday or any occasion.

Alternatively, you might keep it as a delicious ace in the hole you’ll pull out during the workweek ahead — whether you’re feeding a family for one night, yourself and your partner for two dinners-for-two, or your solo self all week long.

Family dinners for four, packaged at the restaurant for pick-up or drop-off, with instructions for how to reheat at home, helped many restaurants survive the closure of their dining rooms during the pandemic. It continues to sustain them, and it’s also one way chefs — including Cooks Without Borders’ Mexican cuisine expert, Olivia Lopez — are launching their restaurants and other food businesses in advance of signing a lease on a brick-and-mortar location.

There’s plenty we can learn from the way these chefs conceive of these meals-for-four, pack them up, transport and deliver them — lessons that translate to dropping off meals to our own peeps, as well as cooking in advance for ourselves and our house-mates.

Ideal are dishes that can be completely cooked in advance and are just as good (or maybe even better) reheated. You can transport them in foil pans wrapped well in plastic wrap, with fresh garnishes in jars or zipper bags. Keep those garnishes separate to be added after reheating, and include written instructions for reheating and serving.

Many hot foods portioned for four can be reheated in a 375 degree oven for 25 minutes or so. Others — like a pot of soup — are quickly reheated on the stove.

And then there are the dishes you can cook till nearly done, and the same 25 minutes in the oven them will finish them perfectly.

Here’s a roundup of dishes from Cooks Without Borders that fit the bill this season — including notes on how to manage them for transport and reheating.

Sheet-Pan Chicken with Turnips, Carrots and Harissa

This easy and super-flavorful sheet-pan recipe for Moroccan-spiced chicken thighs reheats beautifully (cook it all the way through before packing it up) — 25 minutes in a 375-degree oven should do it. Pack chopped herb garnish in a zipper bag, with instructions to transfer the dish to a serving platter, then scatter the herbs over all.

RECIPE: Sheet-Pan Chicken with Turnips, Carrots and Harissa

Rapini, Cannellini and Italian Sausage Melt

Prepare almost to the end. If you don’t want to loan your Dutch oven to the recipient, transfer to a half-size (about 8 by 6 inches) foil roasting pan. Either way, lay the mozzarella slices over all then cover or wrap in plastic film. Reheat 25 minutes at 375 degrees, then turn oven to broil and broil for a minute or two, until the cheese starts to turn golden in spots.

Send by itself, or with a simple green salad — with vinaigrette in a jar or bottle.

RECIPE: Rapini, Cannellini and Italian Sausage Melt

Quintessential Quiche Lorraine

Make this in a foil pie tin rather than a glass or ceramic one. It can be enjoyed room-temp or reheated at 375 for about 20 minutes, or slice first for quicker re-heating. If it’s not to be eaten that day, it can be wrapped in plastic and refrigerated for up to a week. Remove plastic wrap before re-heating.

RECIPE: Quintessential Quiche Lorraine

Tu Casa Mi Casa Chicken Tinga

Transfer to a half-size foil roaster with instructions to either warm, covered, in a saucepan, or reheat 20 minutes in a 375-degree oven. Make a batch of Arroz Blanco (Mexican-style white rice) to include with it; include instructions to reheat the same way as the Chicken Tinga, or transfer the rice to a micro-wave-safe bowl, sprinkle with a few drops of water and reheat in the microwave. Or include a batch of home-made or store-bought corn tortillas, which can also be revived in the microwave.

RECIPE: Tu Casa Mi Casa Chicken Tinga

‘Falastin’ Cilantro-Crusted Roasted Cod

This delicious dish from Sami Tamimi and Tara Wigley’s wonderful 2020 book Falastin is quick and easy to put together, and travels well. Roast for about 6 minutes, rather than the full 7 or 8, and when it’s reheated — 20 minutes at 475 degrees — it should be about perfect. (Instruct recipient to check one of the fillets to make sure it’s cooked through, then plate, garnish with the lemon wedges and drizzle tahini sauce on top, if including.) Deliver in a half-sized foil roasting pan, with lemon wedges in a zipper bag and the optional Tahini Sauce in a jar or plastic tub. If you like, include a box of instant couscous and/or store-bought pita bread in the package.

RECIPE: ‘Falastin’ Cilantro-Crusted Roasted Cod

Deviled Duck Legs Provençal

These succulent, crunchy-topped duck legs are super-easy to make — about five minutes of prep, then shove ‘em in the oven to roast for an hour and a half or a little longer. They reheat really well — cover loosely with foil and reheat in a 375-degree oven for 25 minutes.

Consider including a bag of baby arugula or washed, dried and torn frisée, a jar of vinaigrette, and instructions to dress the salad lightly and serve the duck legs on top.

Or include a batch of French Lentil Salad, which can be served room-temp, or reheated along with the duck legs or on top of the stove.

RECIPE: Deviled Duck Legs

Najmieh’s Fresh Herb Kuku

Finally, this recipe for a Persian-style frittata-type dish, packed with fresh herbs — from Najmieh Batmanglij’s ‘Food of Life’ — is a great way to deliver a harbinger of spring. Transport on a foil sheet pan, wrapped in plastic film or foil, with the caramelized barberries in a jar or plastic tub and fresh dill garnish in a zipper bag. Include instructions to either serve room temperature or reheat in a 375 degree oven for 20 minutes, then transfer to a serving plate and garnish with the barberries and dill.

RECIPE: Najmieh’s Fresh Herb Kuku

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Salsa macha is the hottest condiment of the year, and we've got the best recipe

By Leslie Brenner

Back in April, we wrote about salsa macha, the glorious Mexican condiment that was just starting to take off.

READ: Look out chile crisp: Here comes salsa macha, the Mexican condiment that may change your life

Since then, it has swept the nation — Food Network Magazine just included Salsa Macha on its hot list, among “the food and drinks you’ll see everywhere in 2022.”

In the article, the editors wrote:

“Chili crisp was everywhere last year, and now another spicy oil-based condiment is poised for stardom: Mexico’s salsa macha, made with dried chiles, nuts and garlic. Demand is so high that chefs like Olivia Lopez and Rocio Camacho have started bottling their own beloved versions.”

Yes, that’s Olivia Lopez — Cooks Without Borders’ Mexican Cuisine expert! The business she founded last year, Molino Olōyō, sells her salsa macha locally in Dallas. (Contact Molino Olōyō by DM through its Instagram feed to purchase — please note that it is not yet available for shipping; local orders only.)

Don’t fret, though. If you don’t live in Dallas, you can still enjoy Olivia’s Salsa Macha — which to my taste is the best salsa macha in the universe — because Olivia was generous enough to share the recipe with Cooks Without Borders. I love it so much that I always (and I mean always) have a jar of it in the fridge. When it starts running low, I make more — we have become that addicted in my household. When my son Wylie, who has a peanut allergy, was visiting over the holidays, I made up a batch using cashews — just as delicious.

Would you like it? It’s yours. Happy Macha Year.

Did you enjoy this story? If so, you might like:

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RECIPES: Cooks Without Borders Mexican recipes

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The masa life: Making out-of-this-world tamales is totally within your power!

By Leslie Brenner

[Editor’s note: This is third in a series of Cooks Without Borders stories (with recipes) about how to live the masa life. Read The Masa Life Part 1 and The Masa Life Part 2.]

Got plans this weekend? If not, let’s make tamales! How do blue corn tamales filled with duck in dark mole sound? Or vegan tamales filled with roasted sweet potato and vegetable picadillo — served with salsa macha? Yes, I thought so!

Because heirloom corn is now available to home cooks in the form of easy-to-use and incredibly flavorful masa harina, making tamales at home has suddenly become an exciting and delicious project — just in time for tamales season.

Until recently I thought that making tamales might not be worth the trouble. Most tamales I’d ever eaten — even those that came wrapped in great reputations — had just been OK at best. Usually the masa was not terribly flavorful, often on the heavy side, with not enough (or not delicious enough) filling.

Then I tasted Olivia Lopez’s tamales, made with masa fashioned from heirloom corn. (As you know if you’ve been reading Cooks Without Borders’ Mexican cooking features for any length of time, we are super fortunate to have Olivia as our resident Mexican cooking expert.) Of course much of her tamales’ lusciousness is thanks to her skill and palate — as chef and co-owner of Molino Olōyō in Dallas, the smashing tamales Olivia sells through her Instagram feed have quickly developed a cult following. (She doesn’t yet have a brick-and-mortar location.)

But another big part of the reason for Olivia’s tamales’ great flavor is the quality of the heirloom corn from Mexico that she nixtamalizes to make her masa.

For a story I published in The Dallas Morning News last spring, Olivia developed a recipe for a Sweet Pineapple Tamal using the newly available heirloom masa harina from Masienda, and the tamales were spectacular.

And so (Christmas lightbulb illuminating — ding ding ding!) for this holiday season, Olivia has been generous to develop and share with us two savory tamal recipes using heirloom masa harina.

They’re out of this world — and believe it or not, not difficult to make.

First is the vegan tamal — one that gets its lushness from coconut oil, rather than the usual lard. It’s filled with roasted sweet potato and a vegetable picadillo. “That picadillo is inspired by the one my Grandma Margarita used to make,” says Olivia. The confetti-like sauté of onions, carrots, tomato, chiles, golden raisins and more is also versatile beyond tamales; if you have any left over, you can use it to fill tetelas, sopes or quesadillas. (I filled tetelas with a little extra picadillo and roasted sweet potato — fantastic.)

Sweet Potato and Vegetable Picadillo Tamales, prepared using Masienda heirloom masa harina, from Olivia Lopez’s recipe

In Mexico, Olivia tells us, tamales are usually eaten on their own, generally not with any salsa. “Usually you just have them with atole,” she says. “Masa on masa!” (Atole is a sweet, hot drink made with masa.) But she loves the late-autumn/early winter flavors of the vegan tamal with salsa macha — and we happen to have a great recipe for that, as well (Olivia’s!).

Our second tamal — blue corn filled with pato en mole oscuro (duck in dark mole) — has a saucy flourish as well: a quickly put-together chimichurri-like salsa made from dried tart cherries, chives (or scallion tops), parsley and lime. “It balances the rich, earthy mole,” says Olivia. Beautifully, I would add.

Tamales de Pato en Mole Oscuro (duck in dark mole), with Tart Cherry-Chive Salsa — prepared from recipes by Molino Oloyo chef and co-owner Olivia Lopez

The tamal’s filling is achieved by roasting duck legs (easy), then saucing the shredded duck in a dark mole that’s also easier to put together than I imagined. (Empowering!) You can use the duck fat that renders when you slow-roast those legs to enrich the masa, or use olive oil — again, no lard. Our instructions have you wrap the tamales in banana leaves before steaming, but corn husks work just as well. The vegan tamales call for corn husks, but they’re also interchangeable — as is the color of heirloom masa harina you use, yellow, blue, rose or white.

Don’t freak out when you see the long recipes — the reason for their wordiness is we’re holding your hand tight, to make sure you’re comfortable with what may be a new process, and to ensure you get great results. To that end, we put together a tip sheet.

Here’s the recipe for the duck mole tamales.

And finally, here is the recipe for Olivia’s Sweet Pineapple Tamales. We love pineapple’s sunny and bright flavor during winter’s chill — makes us (almost!) feel we’re in Colima, Mexico, Olivia’s home town. If only!

Want to keep the Sweet Pineapple Tamal vegan? Easy to do — the crema garnish is optional. And all three are gluten-free.

Happy Tamalidays!

RECIPE: Sweet Potato and Vegetable Picadillo Tamales

RECIPE: Tamales de Pato en Mole Oscuro

RECIPE: Sweet Pineapple Tamales

RECIPE: Olivia’s Salsa Macha

RECIPE: Olivia Lopez’s Salsa de Cerezas

Potato salad season opens today! Here are 5 you'll love

By Leslie Brenner

Today is the official unofficial season opener for summer’s most craveable side dish — the underdog show-stealer of every picnic or potluck. We can all pretend we can do without it, and then boom! A great potato salad blindsides us with deliciousness.

Here are five — three American, and two Japanese-style — that will round out your celebrations from now through Labor Day. (And probably beyond!)

Why Japanese-style? Because potato salad is a delicious example of yoshoku — Western dishes that migrated to Japan in the late 19th century and became truly Japanese. There’s something truly fabulous about this particular yoshuku fusion; Japanese flavors really make potatoes sing.

1. Herb-Happy Potato Salad

Red potatoes, red wine vinaigrette and either shallots or scallions come together under a flurry of fresh, soft herbs with this light, quick potato salad that’s a snap to make.

2. Salaryman Potato Salad

Salaryman Potato Salad: Each portion of the Japanese potato salad gets topped with half an ajitama marinated egg

Mayonnaise-based and built on russets, this cucumber-laced Japanese potato salad gets umami from HonDashi (instant dashi powder — a secret weapon of many a Japanese chef). Each portion is topped with half an ajitama, the delicious (and easy-to-make) marinated egg that often garnishes ramen. We fell in love with the salad at Salaryman, Justin Holt’s erstwhile ramen house in Dallas, and chef Holt was kind enough to share the recipe.

3. Jubilee Country-Style Potato Salad

When I came upon this recipe in Toni Tipton-Martin’s award-winning book, Jubilee: Recipes from Two Centuries of African American Cooking, it was so luscious it sent me into a potato-salad binge that went on for weeks. Eggy, mayonnaise-y and old-fashioned (in a good way!), it reminds me of the potato salad my mom used to make. Try not to eat the whole bowl.

4. Sonoko Sakai’s Potato Salada

For a different style of Japanese potato salad, try Sonoko Sakai’s “Potato Salada” from her award-winning book, Japanese Home Cooking. It’s dressed with homemade Japanese mayo and nerigoma (Japanese-style tahini), but sometimes we cheat and use Kewpie mayo (our favorite brand of commercial Japanese mayonnaise) and store-bought tahini. We love the carrots, green beans and cukes in this one!

5. Best Potato Salad Ever

I cringe a little every time I see the moniker of this bad boy, which I named before discovering Toni Tipton-Martin’s, Justin Holt’s or Sonoko Sakai’s. Still, I do think Best Potato Salad Ever is worthy of at least tying for the title. The secret to its wonderfulness is New Wave Sauce Gribiche — soft-boiled eggs tossed with chopped herbs, capers, cornichons and shallots, plus Champagne vinegar, lemon juice and Dijon mustard. How could you go wrong, right?

Have an excellent, potato-salad-filled Memorial Day weekend!

Quinoa, Pea and Mint Tabbouleh is one of our favorite salads, springtime through the summer

By Leslie Brenner

Every spring, as the sun comes out, the earth warms up, and thoughts of picnics, patios and pool parties pervade, this deliciously optimistic Quinoa, Pea and Mint Tabbouleh finds its way to my table lickety-split.

From Michael Solomonov and Steven Cook’s superb 2015 book Zahav: A World of Israeli Cooking, it’s one of my favorite things to eat all the way through summer’s end.

Easy to make, and from ingredients that are not hard to find (frozen peas!), it’s super-versatile. Serve it as a starter, part of a creative mezze spread, maybe, or a simple spring dinner. Or as a side dish with lamb, chicken or fish —or even as a vegan main course. It travels well and eats great at room temp, so it’s a dreamy dish to bring to a potluck or picnic. I love it on its own for lunch — especially when it’s leftover from the night before — either on its own, or stuffed into a whole-wheat pita pocket.

Because I’m so fond it it, I make sure to keep a bag or two of those petite peas in the freezer and quinoa in the pantry all spring and summer long. That way when I see fresh mint (or my potted one is in a giving mood), I can chop it all together.

Oh, just one thing: If you’re more than one or two people, consider doubling the batch. The few times I made just a single dose, I’ve kicked myself for not making more.

RECIPE: Quinoa, Pea and Mint Tabbouleh

Around the world in chicken soup: Here's how the elixir is enjoyed in 7 delicious cultures

Chicken soup is a nearly universal expression of love, nurturing and care-giving — one that deliciously manifests itself from culture to culture.

In this series of stories, we have explored chicken soups on five continents and one sub-continent. (Excuse us, Austrailia! Sorry Antarctica!) We thought, as the Northeast is blanketed in snow, that it would be cozy to round them up.

Thailand: Tom Kha Kai (Coconut-Galangal Chicken Soup)

“If you can smash things, cut things and boil water, you can pull off this classic on the first try,” writes Leela Punyaratabandhu in the headnote to her recipe for coconut-galangal chicken soup in Simple Thai Food, from which this recipe is adapted. (Read our review of the book.) She’s right: Once we had those key fresh ingredients, which we found at a local Asian supermarket, making the soup was remarkably quick and easy — and stunningly delicious.

It has lovely richness from the coconut, tang from lime juice and beautiful perfume from lemongrass and makrut lime leaves. Though it was based on store-bought chicken broth, it was as fabulous as any we’ve had in Thai restaurants.

RECIPE: Tom Kha Kai (Coconut-Galangal Chicken Soup)

Brazil: Canja de Galinha

In Brazil, chicken soup comes with rice. “Canja de galinha is the soup my grandma used to make — not just for me but for our whole family,” says Junior Borges, a super talented Rio-born chef in Dallas.

The chef still enjoys his canja. “I think it’s definitely one of those comforting, comforting things. For us, it’s our chicken noodle soup.” (Read more about it here.)

For this one, you’ll start with chicken parts, so it’s a homemade broth, soothing and aromatic. It’s finished with cilantro and parsley.

RECIPE: Junior Borges’ Canja de Galinha

Ethiopia: Ye Ocholoni Ina Doro Shorba (Peanut-Chicken Soup)

Thick, warm and satisfying, Ethiopian ye ocholoni in doro shorba gets its richness and body from peanuts; it’s beautifully spiced with Berbere spice mix. Ours is adapted from Jenn Louis’ The Chicken Soup Manifesto — a marvelous cookbook that explores chicken soups and stews from 64 countries. Lately Louis, a well-known chef in Portland, Oregon,has devoted herself to feeding her city’s homeless people, who have been suffering terribly during the pandemic. (There’s a link on her website to help her with donations, or even with cooking.) Thank you, Chef!

RECIPE: Ye Ocholoni Ina Doro Shorba

Eastern Europe: Ashkenazi Jewish Chicken Soup

This is the chicken soup I grew up with, which is in the same vein as the chicken soup Jewish mothers all over the United States have made for their families for eons. I happen to think the one my mom taught me is the best in the universe. It starts with a whole chicken. Very basic, very delicious.

RECIPE: Joan’s Chicken Soup

Mexico: Sopa de Lima (Yucatán-Style Chicken-Lime Soup)

I love this bright, light chicken soup from Mexico’s Yucatán region, which also comes to Cooks Without Borders via Louis’ The Chicken Soup Manifesto. It’s a good one to make when you don’t have time to make homemade broth. I do like to take the time to fry up some tortilla chips — which is also a great way to use up stale corn tortillas. If you miss Mexico as much as I do — or always wanted to go there — you’ll love this.

RECIPE: Jenn Louis’ Sopa de Lima

Tibet: Thukpa (Tibetan Chicken-Noodle Soup)

Thukpa, a fiery chicken-noodle soup from Tibet, is just the thing when you want super-flavorful chicken soup with lots of veg — it has cabbage, green beans, tomatoes, carrots, bean sprouts, bamboo shoots and bell peppers. It comes together quickly, as it’s based on store-bought chicken broth.

We found it in Maneet Chauhan’s Chaat: Recipes from the Kitchens, Markets and Railways of India. Read more about it here.

RECIPE: Maneet Chauhan’s Thukpa

Iran: Abgusht-e Morgh Ba Kufteh-ye Nokhodchi (Persian Chicken Soup with Chickpea and Lamb Meatballs)

I saved my favorite for last: a Persian chicken soup with tender lamb meatballs and an incredible garnish of dried rose petals, herbs and garlic.

This is the most aromatic and interesting chicken soup I've probably ever tasted — tinted with aromatic saffron and redolent of cardamom and cumin. It’s adapted from one of my favorite cookbooks — Food of Life by Najmieh Batmanglij. We wrote about it last month.

Making this soup is a huge project, so reserve a whole afternoon for it — it’s the perfect project for this weekend!

RECIPE: Persian Chicken Soup with Lamb Meatballs

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Moussaka, a spectacular dish with a curious history, gets a magnificent (and long overdue!) makeover

A great Greek moussaka — the layered gratin of eggplant, potato, lamb-tomato sauce and cheesy béchamel — is about as delicious as Mediterranean-inflected comfort food gets.

“Moussaka is the urban cosmopolitan showpiece of lamb-and-eggplant combinations, a pairing as fundamental to Middle and Near Eastern cuisines as pasta and tomatoes are to Italy and potatoes and cream to the French,” wrote Anya von Bremzen in her 2004 book The Greatest Dishes: Around the World in 80 Recipes.

Yet Greece’s most famous dish has gotten weirdly short shrift in our love affair with Eastern Mediterranean cooking. It’s not easy to find great versions (stateside, anyway), whether in restaurants or as recipes.

I’m extremely excited about the makeover we’ve given the dish (here’s the recipe, in case you can’t wait.) It’s my son Wylie’s favorite recipe among everything we’ve worked on this year in the Cooks Without Borders test kitchen. “I could eat it twice a week,” he says. “When can we make it again?”

The dish has a curious history. Like butter chicken, its origin can actually be traced with some certainty, which is unusual.

First, for context, let’s take a step back and look at moussakas in general — for they’re not only Greek. The great food historian Charles Perry (my former colleague at The Los Angles Times), neatly elucidated the category in The Oxford Companion to Food. He described moussaka (or musaka, or musakka) as “a meat and vegetable stew, originally made from sliced aubergine [eggplant], meat and tomatoes, and preferably cooked in an oven.” That, he adds, is the version currently favored by Turks and Arabs.

“In the Balkans, more elaborate versions are found. The Greeks cover the stew with a layer of beaten egg or béchamel sauce. Elsewhere in the Balkans musakka has become a much more various oven-baked casserole, admitting many more vegetables than aubergines or courgette [zucchini], often dropping tomatoes and even meat. Bulgarian and Yugoslav versions emphasize eggs, and a given recipe may consist of eggs, cheese, potatoes, and spinach, or eggs, cheese, sauerkraut, and rice. In Romania, which considers musaca a national dish, the vegetables may be potatoes, celery, cabbage or cauliflower — or may be replaced by noodles.”

So there are, in fact, a whole panoply of moussakas, covering numerous cultures in several regions. It seems worth adding that the word moussaka derives from the Arabic word musaqqâ, which means “moistened,” apparently referring to the tomato juices.

But we are concerned, at the moment, with Greek moussaka — which long baffled food historians because of its béchamel topping. How did such a quintessentially French sauce — made with flour, butter and milk — make its way onto the top of a Greek dish?

Von Bremzen, in researching Greek moussaka’s origins for her 2004 book, turned to her friend, the renowned Greek food writer Aglaia Kremezi, for intelligence. Kremezi had long believed — as did a number of Turkish food writers — that moussaka was probably created toward the end of the Ottoman empire by a Francophile chef working at Topkapi Palace in Istanbul. But upon digging deeper, Kremezi concluded that the Greek dish we know as moussaka is in fact much younger: It was created in the 1920 by Nikolaos Tselementes, author of a legendary 500-page Greek cookbook.

Kremezi went on to write about the dish’s origin at some length in an excellent story for The Atlantic 10 years ago, “‘Classic’ Greek Cuisine: Not So Classic." The story is a must-read that not only elucidates moussaka’s origin-story, but also helps us understand why Greek cuisine tends to be less attention-grabbing this century than that of its Levantine neighbors Turkey, Lebanon, Israel, Syria and Palestine.

Tselementes, who was hugely influential early last century — not just on home cooks, but on restaurant chefs and therefore on the Athens dining landscape — aimed to Westernize Greek cooking by returning it to what he believed were its roots. Curious as it would seem, he believed French cooking had its roots in ancient Greek cooking. Under Turkish rule, he believed, Greek cooking had become unacceptably eastern, and his goal was to re-Europeanize it, emphasize cream and butter. (Béchamel!) The rising Athenian middle and upper classes of the 1920s ate it up.

Kremezi didn’t. In the Atlantic story, she wrote, of Tselementes’ influence:

“He revised — and in my opinion, destroyed — many Greek recipes….The exclusion of spices and even herbs from the spicy and fragrant traditional foods resulted in the almost insipid dishes many Greek restaurants still serve. Tselementes went as far as to omit thyme and bay leaves from Escoffier's recipe for sauce Espagnole, in his Greek translation. He also despised garlic, which he very seldom uses in his recipes!”

So Tselementes created the modern iteration of the dish, which was based on layered lamb-and-eggplant, moistened with tomato, and topped with béchamel. Did he leave out spices and garlic? I have not yet been unable to turn up Tselementes’ original recipe, though I am still working on it, and have reached out to Kremezi for further clarification.

If we can get our hands on that original recipe — and I’m optimistic we will — perhaps that will shed light on why there are not better recipes for Greek moussaka out there in the world. Perhaps the recipe, as Kremezi seems to suggest, was just not as great as it might have been had he not extracted all the spices and garlic from it.

Meanwhile, I remain convinced that made thoughtfully, it is one of the world’s greatest dishes. (And Von Bremzen, an immensely well traveled food writer with a great palate, did include it among her 80 greatest in the world!)

Kremezi’s recipe for moussaka, which is loosely based on her mother’s recipe, includes green bell peppers and optional sausage or bacon. My platonic ideal for the dish is purely lamb, and I wanted to come up with a recipe that was as elemental and simple to execute as possible, while still delivering maximum impact and fabulous flavor.

I loved Kremezi’s idea of adding yogurt to the béchamel for lightness and tang when I first came upon her moussaka in von Bremzen’s book, and it was that recipe I used as a jumping off point.

Meanwhile, I couldn’t help but feel that frying the slices of eggplant and potato wasn’t necessarily the worth the trouble and heaviness. My “aha!” moment came as I remembered one of my favorite dishes in Sami Tamimi’s recently published cookbook, Falastin — Baked Kofta with Eggplant and Tomato. The Palestinian chef-author peeled eggplants, zebra-like, leaving half the peel on (which adds nice texture), sliced them, tossed with salt, pepper and olive oil and roasted the slices to meltingly tender, before building them into delicious layered towers of tomato, and lamb-beef kofta patties and baking.

The aha! was roasting the eggplant that way.

Cinnamon, which also appears in Tamimi’s dish, sounded like a great idea as well; I love the way it plays with allspice, garlic and Aleppo pepper.

I liked the idea of parboiling potatoes rather than frying them, which I came across in a 2018 recipe by Sydney Oland on Serious Eats. However, parboiling whole, peeled russets and then slicing them resulted in potato slices that were still crunchy once baked, even when I tripled the boiling time from 5 to 15 minutes.

Wylie (who at 23 years old has developed into a confident and terrifically talented cook during the Great Confinement) unwittingly solved the potato problem for me a couple nights ago. As he was improvising a dish of crusty sautéed potatoes, he sliced the potatoes, then blanched them for 5 minutes before putting them in the hot pan with duck fat.

Aha! Slice first, and then blanche. I had considered that, but worried the slices would fall apart, or wind up too mushy in the moussaka. It worked perfectly. Moussaka makeover achieved!

Here’s how you build the dish. Brush a square, deep baking dish with a little olive oil. Cover the bottom with a layer of blanched russet potato slices; season gently with salt and pepper. Next add a layer of roasted eggplant slices. Because they’re so nicely tender, you can squish them in a bit so there’s an even layer off eggplant covering the potatoes, without big gaps between them.

Next comes a layer of lamb and tomato sauce, with all those lovely spices. And finally, on top, a thick layer of béchamel with yogurt and grated cheddar cheese stirred in. Into the oven it goes, and when it comes out, it is gratinéed a gorgeous golden-brown.

The temptation is to dive into it right away, it’s so beautiful. Nathalie — my son’s girlfriend, a moussaka fanatic who’s Lebanese and knows about such things as layered lamb and eggplant — put up her hand and said, “Wait. Let it rest a few minutes.”

She was right: It wants to settle, come together. It’s still plenty hot when you slice into it 15 minutes later.

Yes, it’s as delicious as it looks. One piece of advice about ingredients: Put your hands on the best ground lamb you can manage. I once made it with lamb I ground at home from boneless shoulder — it was insanely, out-of-the-world wonderful, the best result I’ve had. Other times I have made it with pre-packaged supermarket ground lamb. Very good, but there’s definitely a difference. Tonight I’m making it using ground local lamb from the counter of a halal butcher in a Lebanese bakery and market. I will update the story with the results, so you might want to check back tomorrow.

Want to enjoy a delicious moussaka at your own table? Help yourself to the recipe. And please let us know how you like it.

RECIPE: Moussaka for the Ages

Feed your soul on election night with stress-relieving, jitters-calming, make-ahead Mexican favorites

“I will build a great, great wall on our southern border, and I will make Mexico pay for that wall.”

It seems fitting — in our nervous household, anyway — to feed our souls on election night with food that honors Mexican people.

Anxiety is running high. The urge to nibble nervously on election night will be real. No matter how Tumultuous Tuesday plays out, we will all need comfort and sustenance.

I already have the makings for a big pan of Chicken Enchiladas Verdes: tomatillos and chicken to roast, tortillas to roll, cheese and crema to soothe. I’ll make a big pot of Frijoles de Olla, crunchy, tangy carrots escabeches and a big plate of OG nachos, like the ones Pati Jinich just described in the New York Times as “crunchy, cheesy and truly Mexican.” And rice.

Pozole would be another great way to go: a big pot on the stove that you can return to again and again, dressing up bowls with crispy radishes and cabbage, creamy avocado, earthy oregano. (Our friend Mela Martínez has just the prescription!)

Pozole Rojo from Mely Martínez’s ‘The Mexican Home Kitchen’

Tumultuous Tuesday also happens to be Taco Tuesday. You could set a batch of carnitas, carne asada or roast chicken on the table, surround it with homemade or store-bought corn tortillas, chopped cilantro and onion, radishes and carrots to nibble — or sliced jicama drizzled with lime juice and tajín — and a couple of salsas.

I can imagine being so nervous that I’d be soothed by pressing tortillas throughout the evening and tossing them on the comal. (A recipe for roast chicken is included in our chicken enchilada recipe, or pick up a supermarket roast bird.)

Or make Josef Centeno’s supremely comforting Carne Guisada! And his Tía Carmen’s Flour Tortillas!

Stay safe, everyone. Stay healthy. Try to stay calm. Nurture yourselves and your families, soothe yourself by cooking, and we’ll see you on the other side.

RECIPE: Chicken Enchiladas Verdes

RECIPE: Frijoles de Olla

RECIPE: Mexican Rice

RECIPE: Taquería Carrots

RECIPE: Mely Martínez’s Pozole Rojo

RECIPE: Killer Carnitas

RECIPE: Serious Chingón Carne Asada

RECIPE: Corn Tortillas

RECIPE: Roasted Salsa Verde

RECIPE: Josef Centeno’s Carne Guisada

RECIPE: Josef Centeno’s Tía Carmen’s Flour Tortillas

Classic split pea soup, stupid-easy and satisfying, will keep you cozy and happy all week

There’s something almost magical about classic split pea soup. Sweat some chopped onion and carrot in oil, dump in a bag of dried split peas, add water and a ham hock, and an hour and half later, you’ve got soup.

OK, there’s a tiny bit more work involved. You had to cut up the onion, peel and slice a few carrots. You might have to skim a little oil off the top as it cooks. You need to remove the ham hock, shred or cut up the ham and put it back in, and add salt and pepper.

But really — can you imagine a soup that requires less of the cook? You don’t have to purée it to get that lovely thick texture: The peas purée themselves, breaking down as they cook, but magically retaining just the right amount of integrity. A marvelous alchemy turns just those four simple main ingredients into something beautiful and soul-sustaining.

You could probably add all kinds of things to it, but none of them would make it better than it already was. On top of it, it’s highly affordable, and requires no special equipment. It’s so nutritious and satisfying, it’s a meal in itself.

As it cooks, it fills your living space with beautiful aroma.

We love split pea soup. Make a pot early in the week, and it’ll sustain you and your family for days.

Want in? Here’s the recipe.

RECIPE: Classic Split Pea Soup.

What to make this weekend: world-class Beef Bourguignon. You and your family deserve it!

When the weather starts to cool down, there’s nothing as appealing as a living space filled with gorgeous cooking aromas — the kind that come most easily from long-braised dishes. And if you are an omnivore, it’s hard to imagine anything more alluring than the aroma of beef bourguignon, France’s classic stew, simmering in the oven.

In normal times, I think of the dish as something celebratory, or as a dish to enjoy with great friends on a weekend evening with a good bottle of wine.

But during The Great Confinement, we need ways to make family dinners feel special — and now that there’s a nip in the air, this classic fits the bill sumptuously. As Julia Child wrote in Mastering the Art of French Cooking, “Carefully done, and perfectly flavored, it is certainly one of the most delicious beef dishes concocted by man.”

Though you see it done many different ways in the United States, in France the dish is straightforward: It’s cubes of saucy wine-braised beef garnished with mushrooms, pearl onions and lardons (small bars of bacon). Though carrots and celery add significant flavor in the braising, they get strained out before giving the dish its finishing touch: that garnish.

There are no potatoes in the dish (ever), though beef bourguignon is usually served with potatoes — boiled is traditional (toss them with butter and parsley), though many (including some French people) prefer mashed. Buttered noodles are a legit choice as well, according to Child, though my French husband disagrees.

Don’t be in a rush when you make this; once the meat is brown and the thing is assembled, it braises for about an hour and 45 minutes. But as long as time is on your side, it’s not nearly as demanding to put together as you might think.

“Carefully done, and perfectly flavored, it is certainly one of the most delicious beef dishes concocted by man.” — Julia Child

I used to think the peskiest part was browning the cubes of beef: It takes forever to brown them on each side. But inspired by a 2016 story by Serious Eats’ Daniel Gritzer, I started playing with the browning, and agree wholeheartedly with him that in fact it’s best not to do so much browning. My solution is a little different than his: Brown each cube well on one side, then give another side just a quick sear. Compared to the old way, it goes very quickly, and the result is much more tender.

Since publishing our story about it a few years ago, I’ve discovered another time-saving innovation: Rather than blanching and peeling a pound of pearl onions, pick up a pack of frozen ones, which will be already peeled. There might be a teeny, tiny deficit of flavor in the onions themselves, but honestly, it’s barely discernible, and worth it if you want to save a little time and effort. (I can usually find them at my local Trader Joe’s.)

It’s not hard to find the main ingredients: beef chuck, button mushrooms, slab bacon (thick-cut will do in a pinch), pearl onions, red wine, beef shanks. If you don’t find shanks, just buy extra chuck.

Don’t spend much on the wine; use an under-$12 bottle. (Save your wine dollars for whatever you’ll drink with it.) Enjoy the aromas while it cooks, enjoy the dish with your family — and raise a glass to the day we can gather safely with friends once again. I’ll bet you’ll like this dish so much you’ll repeat it for them.

RECIPE: Beef Bourguignon

Pickle-y, spicy giardiniera is the perfect prelude to pasta, pizza and other carb-loaded indulgences

Everyone knows that if you precede something fattening with something purely vegetable, fat-free, gluten-free and crunchy, the fattening thing you eat after that doesn’t count.

Taquería carrots before chicken enchiladas, rice and beans? A zero-calorie equation.

OK, maybe in our dreams.

Still, I’m always looking for something light and refreshing to nibble before an extravagant plate of pappardelle with ragù bolognese, rich and creamy mac-and-cheese or a pizza.

Since I was a kid, I always loved giardiniera — the crunchy, tangy, lightly spicy pickled vegetable condiment that would make cameo appearances in neighborhood Italian restaurants, where small dishes of it would appear on red-and-white checked tableclothes as we waited for our spaghetti and meatballs or pepperoni pizza. That was my favorite way of eating cauliflower back then, and we loved the crunchy corrugated-cut carrots and celery.

In any case, I’ve been on the lookout for jars of good giardiniera at my local Italian grocery lately, and haven’t been delighted by what I’ve found. That’s why I was excited to see a recipe for it in Alex Guarnaschelli’s new book, Cook With Me.

In fact, I’ve now made five recipes from the book, and the giardinera is by far my favorite.

It starts by soaking cut-up vegetables and garlic overnight in salt water, so you need to plan that for the day before you want to start serving it. Then you simmer up a batch of brine — white wine vinegar combined with salt and spices — let it cool slightly and pour it over the soaked-and-drained vegetables.

Vegetables for giardiniera mixed with pickling brine

A couple hours later, you have giardiniera.

Guarnaschelli’s original recipe made about 6 pints, which is great if you either give most of it away or sterilize jars for long-term storage.

I like to keep things simple, so I halved her recipe. No need to sterilize; the recipe makes 3 pint-sized jars of pickled veg. For us, that’s perfect for keeping two and giving one away.

And then I’ll make it again very soon — maybe upping the serrano chile or chile flakes a bit, or adding some pepperoncini and bay leaf to the mix.

Till then, you’ll find me happily crunching away.

RECIPE: Alex Guarnaschelli’s Giardiniera

What to make this weekend: Baked kofta with eggplant and tomato from Sami Tamimi's 'Falastin'

Autumn is my favorite time of year to cook. The kitchen feels cozy (even if it’s still hot outside, as it is here in North Texas), and the ingredients speak to my soul.

It feels like the perfect time — while tomatoes are still happening — to make these baked kofta from Sami Tamimi and Tara Wigley’s recent book, Falastin.

Each kofta is a meltingly tender, intensely flavorful package made by stacking ingredients: a slice of roasted eggplant; a kofta patty made from lamb, beef, onion, garlic, tomato, herbs and spices; a slice of tomato, some rustic tomato sauce.

The aroma as they roast is intoxicating.

Garnished with fresh herbs and toasted pine nuts, it’s a dish that’s at once homey and sophisticated, comfortingly familiar yet gorgeously spiced.

Served with rice, couscous, roasted potatoes or a root-vegetable purée, it makes a smashing fall dinner.

If by some miracle every kofta is not gobbled up, they reheat brilliantly.

RECIPE: ‘Falastin’ Baked Kofta

Inspired by Diana Henry, this ridiculously easy autumn fruit-and-almond cake is a show-stopper

This time of year, when late-season plums are offering one last chance, and black Mission figs beckon plumply, I love to throw them together with juicy blackberries and bake them onto an absurdly easy-to-make cake.

The Autumn Fruit and Almond Cake was inspired by a summer fruit and almond cake from the 2016 cookbook Simple: Effortless Food, Big Flavors by the British author Diana Henry.

Although it bakes for quite a long time (an hour and a half to an hour and 45 minutes), the actual work involved is minimal. For the fruit topping, slice figs in half, slice two plums, toss with berries and a little sugar. For the cake, dump all the ingredients in a food processor and blitz them. Pour and spread the batter in a parchment-lined springform pan. Arrange the fruit on top. Bake, cool, remove pan ring, sprinkle with powdered sugar.

Not overly sweet, it’s a spectacular treat for lovers of fruit desserts. Almonds in the form of marzipan adds a wonderful toothsome texture, and the almondy flavor marries beautifully with the figs and other fruit. Sour cream keeps it super-moist.

RECIPE: Autumn Fruit and Almond Cake

Tres leches cake is having a big moment. We love the super-luscious version from Mely Martínez's new cookbook

Pastel de tres leches, or tres leches cake — Mexico’s star dessert — is enjoying a drenchy-sweet moment of glory.

The fluffy-creamy vanilla sponge cake, soaked in a mixture of creams (usually condensed milk, evaporated milk and heavy cream, and topped with whipped cream, has become an Instagram and Tik Tok star during the pandemic.

As G. Daniela Galarza wrote last week in an excellent story in The Washington Post:

“This past May, the month in which Trinity Sunday often falls, searches for “tres leches” were up 25 percent from May 2019. More than half a million posts are tagged #tresleches on Instagram, and on TikTok, nearly 25 million videos feature hands and pans whipping up batter for a tres leches cake.” 

Galarza’s story points to MM Pack’s illuminating 2004 story for the Austin Chronicle, “Got Milk?: On the trail of pastel de tres leches,” and then goes on to provide illuminating context and background.

The cake does not have a long history; it is probably only about a quarter-century old, according to Pack’s superb sleuthing. Nestlé, a major canned milk producer, introduced manufacturing plants around World War II in Mexico, and a recipe for pastel de tres leches was included. More investigation led Pack to find its antecedent: a dessert involving bread soaked in wine and layered with milk custard and fruit or nuts) came to Mexico in the 19th century.

All that is well and good, but The Great Confinement of 2020 continues to trigger cravings of comfort food and sweets. Fortunately, there are 9 and a half grillion versions to choose from.

The New York Times’ Melissa Clark, who may be some kind of dessert psychic — and who confesses to enjoying eating sweetened condensed milk straight out of the can — presciently published a recipe for a Seis Leches Cake (“A Milky Cake Where More is More”) in January.

We love the version Mely Martínez offers in her just-published cookbook The Mexican Home Kitchen, which we reviewed last month. Hers is not a sponge cake, but a somewhat denser vanilla cake with a lovely crumb; it takes longer (overnight) to soak up all those leches, but the result is outstanding.

About to attack my second slice of Martínez’s cake, on a whim I poured over it a splash of Plantation Pineapple Rum. Holy moly — it was insanely, wildly, wickedly good! Next time I’ll follow Martínez’s suggested variation and add a quarter cup of it to the milk mixture to soak in overnight.

RECIPE: Mely Martínez’s Tres Leches Cake

Deviled Duck Legs Provençal: a rich, herbal, piquant and crunchy example of how recipes evolve

Recipe provenance is a hot topic among food writers at the moment, as efforts to avoid cultural appropriation and give creators their proper due is top-of-mind. In his “What to Cook” column last week, New York Times food editor Sam Sifton announced changes to the way that important publication will be acknowledging provenance in its recipes henceforth. 

We applaud the Times’ new focus on transparency. Here at Cooks Without Borders, we’ve always tried to be mindful of crediting creators whose recipes we’ve adapted. And now, as we are in the process of adding recipe cards to each of our recipes (yaaas!), we have been simultaneously taking stock of our own acknowledgement of provenance — fine-toothing our recipe archives to shine the spotlight a bit brighter on recipes’ originators. 

Sometimes it even results in a name-change for a dish, usually one we’ve adapted from a cookbook. Raw Zucchini Salad with Green Olives, Mint and Pecorino, for instance, is now A16’s Raw Zucchini Salad with Green Olives, Mint and Pecorino. Although we had previously acknowledged Nate Appleman and Shelly Lindgren and their 2008 cookbook, A16 Food + Wine, as the source of the recipe, we thought it would be even better to commemorate the provenance directly in the dish’s name. 

Still . . . the whole issue of who actually creates recipes is often much more complicated than who wrote them down and got them published in a book, or served them in a restaurant. The truth is that dishes generally evolve over time — getting tweaked, changed, added to, zhuzzhed and riffed on by cooks around the world, in the course of years and decades and centuries. Occasionally a brand-new dish springs fully realized from the head of a creator, but that’s the exception rather than the rule. 

Deviled Duck Leg Provençal served with saucy braised lentils

So, if we adapt a recipe for, say, moussaka from a cookbook author who learned that recipe from a home cook in Greece, how should we handle that? It’s not as simple as it might seem. Certainly we credit the cookbook author in the headnote, but probably not in the name of the recipe. It’s totally a judgement call, and we try to err on the side of too much credit rather than too little. That said, it’s the home cook back in Greece who gets the short end of the wooden spoon, which is not ideal. 

Now and then, we’re able to trace the evolution of a dish — at least somewhat — and I always find it uncommonly satisfying.

Deviled Duck Legs Provençal is a case in point. I was introduced to it by a Los Angeles Times story by Regina Schrambling back in 2003, shortly before I joined the staff of the Times. In the story, Schrambling explained that she found the basis for the dish — duck legs rubbed with Dijon mustard and coated with bread crumbs — in Madeleine Kamman’s book In Madeleine’s Kitchen. Shrambling’s own touches were adding herbes de Provence and swapping panko for regular bread crumbs. 

Now that that’s straight, consider the dish itself: slow-baked duck legs, rich and meaty, with a bright tang of Dijon, lovely herbal notes and the delightful crunch of panko. For something so easy to achieve, it’s pretty damn fabulous. 

Serve it on undressed spring mix, as Shrambling suggested lo those many years ago, or on arugula or frisée, and let the salad sop up the duck’s juices.

Or go the lentil route, and simmer up a saucy batch of French green lentils braised in red wine with mirepoix. We haven’t put together an actual recipe for those lentils yet, but they’re a snap to make. Cut a carrot, a stalk of celery and about an equal amount of onion or shallot into small dice, sweat those in a little olive oil with a branch or two of thyme, add French green lentils, coat them with the mirepoix mixture and let them cook a minute. Add some red wine to cover, bring to a boil, let the alcohol cook off, then lower the heat and simmer till the lentils are just tender, about 20 or 25 minutes depending on the lentils, stirring now and then. Add more wine as necessary to keep the lentils happy (you can also add water or chicken broth if you prefer). Keep it a little wet and saucy at the end: You’ll want that winey sauce.

Want to make it even more luxurious? Whisk in a little butter at the end.

Aw, go on — you deserve it.

RECIPE: Deviled Duck Legs Provençal