American

Kwame Onwuachi's Jambalaya is a thrilling expression of a Creole classic

By Leslie Brenner

Jambalaya was not in the cards when I recently visited New Orleans, but it was definitely front of mind when I came home.

This was the perfect excuse to dive into Kwame Onwuachi’s acclaimed cookbook, My America: Recipes from a Young Black Chef, and start cooking. Since publishing it two years ago, Onwuachi has made a gigantic splash at Tatiana, the Afro-Caribbean restaurant he opened in New York City’s Lincoln Center 16 months ago. In fact, it’s hard to imagine a bigger splash: Tatiana topped the New York Times’ list of the 100 Best Restaurants in the city. Last fall, he was profiled in The New Yorker.

Jambalaya is not on Tatiana’s menu, but it does sit, as Onwuachi explains in his recipe’s headnote, “at the heart of Creole cuisine.” Generically, it’s a one-pot dish of rice with meats (often andouille sausage and chicken), vegetables (Louisiana’s “holy trinity” of onion, celery and bell pepper) and often shrimp or other seafood. Unlike gumbo, it’s not soupy or stewy. While gumbo (the ingredients of which are tatooed on Onwuachi’s arm, according to The New Yorker) is served with rice, jambalaya is a rice dish.

Every family has its own way of making it, writes Onwuachi in My America:

“Some use roux, some don’t. Some add andouille; others stick to seafood and chicken. Some families use short-grain rice, in a nod to paella; others use long."

The dish carries deep meaning for the chef, who grew up eating his mother’s jambalaya; she’s Creole, from Baton Rouge, Louisiana. His father is from Nigeria (where Kwame lived as a youth); the chef draws a comparison between Creole jambalaya and Nigerian jollof, another one-pot rice dish.

“Jambalaya, however, hails from Louisiana, where many Africans worked the rice fields the two continents shared. They brought with them not just the knowledge of how to grow but also how to prepare rice. Once in Louisiana, proto-jollof incorporated whatever proteins were available: andouille sausage, abundant shrimp from coastal waters, and chicken, another economical choice. Also added were influences of from the Spanish settlers who yearned for the paella of their home; and the French, the masters of roux.”

Although jambalaya is known as a one-pot affair, you’d need to haul out quite a few extra pots were you to follow Onwauachi’s recipe verbatim. There’s a second pot for the shrimp stock (for which you’d need a full pound of shrimp shells). You’d need a third to make chicken stock, and a fourth to make Louisiana-Style Hot Sauce, which requires a batch of Pickling Spice — in a fifth pot.

In a restaurant kitchen, making each of those ingredients from scratch in large quantities makes sense, but I don’t know many home cooks who’d comply.

That’s why I took the liberty of creating a few shortcuts. I hope that if chef Onwuachi ever sees this story and my adaptation of his wonderful recipe, he’ll find it in his heart to forgive me. My motive (a pure one to be sure!) is to make the recipe accessible to readers who may or may not own five pots, but in any case probably aren’t inclined to fabricate two stocks, a sauce, a brine and a spice mix before beginning to cook. Shortcuts notwithstanding, I daresay the resulting jambalaya is still pretty magnificent — and I think pretty close to the effect Onwuachi is hoping you’ll get.

RECIPE: Kwame Onwuachi’s Jambalaya

If you love the dish as much as I do, you’ll want to purchase the book — especially if you’re a seasoned and devoted enough cook that you might already have some shrimp stock laid in the freezer, or you’re actually eager to make your own hot sauce, or you to know how to create your own shortcuts. It’s an inspiring and beautiful volume.



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Dry-brine your way to Thanksgiving happiness: Some salt, a bird and a little time is all you need

By Leslie Brenner

It’s easy. It’s not messy or cumbersome. Besides the bird, only salt is required. Once it’s in the oven, no need to baste. It produces the most perfect, succulent meat and gorgeous, crisp, brown skin. So unless you are one of those brave folks who likes to fry their turkey, why wouldn’t you dry-brine the big bird?

The method — which basically involves rubbing salt all over the turkey and letting it sit for three days — lets time and the salt do all the work for you. It’s a lot less messy and cumbersome than wet-brining, and doesn’t require finding a vessel large enough to submerge a turkey, nor finding a place in the fridge large enough to store that. (A turkey sealed airlessly in a zipper bag takes a lot less space.)

The one important point we are stressing this year is weighing your bird. Last year, we purchased a turkey that was two pounds lighter than labeled. If we hadn’t been paying attention, that could easily have led to an overcooked bird and not enough food — not to mention not getting what we paid for.

When I was growing up, my mom always had — handwritten and taped to the fridge — a turkey roasting timetable, for easy game-day reference. Following the link to the recipes is a timetable for your own easy reference.

The main takeaway: You’ll need to salt the turkey Monday morning, so get your hands on it right way.

Dry-Brined Turkey Timetable

The weekend before Thanksgiving

• Clean out the fridge to make space for the coming week of cooking. It’s a good thing to do pre-holidays in any case.

• Purchase your bird, so you’ll have it ready to salt on Monday morning. Be sure to weigh it once you’re home.

Monday

• If your turkey weighs more than 8 pounds (which most turkeys do), salt it this morning.

Tuesday

• If your turkey weighs 8 pounds of less, salt it this morning.

• If you salted yesterday, turn the bird over.

Wednesday

• Turn the bird over.

Thursday

• Morning: About 6 hours before you plan to roast, remove the turkey from the zipper bag and place it breast-up on a platter or sheet pan in the fridge to air-dry. Blot with a paper towel, if the bird has any visible moisture on the skin (it probably won’t).

• One to 1 1/2 hours before you want to roast, remove the turkey from the fridge and let it starting coming to room temperature.

• 15 minutes before roasting (or however long it takes your oven to heat), heat the oven to 425 F / 218 C. If you’re going to tie the turkey’s legs together, do that now.

• Turkey in — breast-side down on a rack in a roasting pan. The total roasting time for a 12-pound bird will probably be about 2 hours 45 minutes, but could be a lot faster, depending on your oven.

• 30 minutes after it’s in: Remove the pan and use oven mitts to turn the turkey breast-side up. Reduce the oven heat to 325 F / 163 C.

• 1 1/2 hours after flipping: Use an inatant-read thermometer to test the temperature at the thickest part of the thigh meat. If it’s getting close to 165 F / 74 C, you’ll want to check doneness frequently from this point on. (Note: If your bird is smaller than 12 pounds, start checking about 1 hour after flipping.)

• 45 minutes after first temperature check: Your 12-pound should be done, or close to it — pull it out, or keep checking every few minutes. (An 8-pound bird will done much more quickly.) Place on a carving board in a warm place (tented loosely with foil, if you like) to rest.

• 30 minutes after it comes out of the oven, carve and serve!


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The ‘queen of all gumbos’ is a glorious way to eat your greens (or observe Lent)

Gumbo z’herbes from Toni Tipton-Martin’s ‘Jubilee’

By Leslie Brenner

It’s the time of year, in Louisiana and areas adjacent, for gumbo z’herbes — a greens-forward bowl of goodness that reflects the West African, Native American and European influences of the region.

Two years ago, Cooks Without Borders’ friend Chloé Landrieu-Murphy wrote about the dish in one of our favorite stories. Here’s how she characterized it:

“Often referred to as “the queen of all gumbos,” its name is a Creole dialect contraction for gumbo aux herbes, meaning “gumbo of greens.” (It’s also known as “green gumbo.”) Earthy, delicious and comforting, it is built like other gumbos, but it also includes an entire garden’s worth of leafy greens.” 

The dish has a fascinating background. The name gumbo z’herbes (pronounced gumbo zairbz) is a Creole contraction of the French gumbo aux herbes, so called because it contains multitudinous greens. It comes out of a Southern Louisiana tradition of cooking and eating green gumbo during Lent, the 40 days leading up to Holy Thursday. During that period, many observant Catholics abstain from eating meat on Fridays, and many gumbo z’herbes are vegan. But not all are; the one shown above, from Toni Tipton-Martin’s 2019 book Jubilee: Recipes from Two Centuries of African American Cooking, is chockablock with brisket, ham and sausage.

RECIPE: ‘Jubilee’ Gumbo Z’Herbes

If you happen to live in New Orleans (or are headed there for a visit) and you’re lucky enough to snag a table, you can experience the most famous rendition of the dish in the universe. That would be the one served at Dooky Chase’s Restaurant, the beloved Tremé landmark presided over for more than 70 years by the late great chef Leah Chase. Yep, the Queen of Creole Cuisine, as chef Chase was known, conceived the queen of all gumbos.

The restaurant, which began life in 1941 as the sandwich and lottery ticket shop of her parents-in-law, Emily and Edgar “Dooky” Chase, Sr., has been serving green gumbo on Holy Thursday for eons. On that day it drops its regular menu in favor of gumbo z’herbes, fried chicken and cornbread muffins, inevitably drawing a huge crowd. (Interested? Call and have your name added to the waiting list for April 6.)

Gumbo des Herbes made from a recipe adapted from ‘The Dooky Chase Cookbook’

Dooky Chase’s gumbo z’herbes is loaded with greens, of course (usually nine, including including mustard greens, collards, turnip greens, carrot tops, beet greens, spinach, cabbage, lettuce and watercress), as well as a whole lot of meat — two kinds of sausages, smoked ham, beef brisket and veal brisket.

Like most green gumbos, it also includes filé powder (powdered sassafras), a traditional Choctaw ingredient. In that way it is distinct from okra-based gumbos. (Okra is only in season in Louisiana from June through the first frost.) Interestingly, etymologists disagree about whether gumbo gets its name from kombo (the Choctaw word for filé) or gombo (the word for okra in several West African languages).

Gumbo z’herbes always starts with a mountain of greens.

Happily, you can make an outstanding gumbo z’herbes at home; Tipton-Martin’s recipe is a great introduction. Or dive in full-force and make the one from Leah Chase’s The Dooky Chase Cookbook. The restaurant’s current chef, Edgar “Dooky” Chase IV (Leah’s grandson), gave us permission a couple years ago to share the recipe, and he helped me find a substitute for one of its ingredients, hot chaurice (a fresh sausage), for our adaptation.

RECIPE: Dooky Chase’s Gumbo des Herbes

Some gumbo z’herbes start with a roux; others don’t. Most contain Louisiana’s “holy trinity” — chopped onion, green bell pepper and celery. (Dooky Chase’s contains onion and garlic instead.)

What all gumbo z’herbes have in common is a prodigious amount of leafy greens: Count on a lot of washing, trimming and chopping. Once they’re braised (save the pot liquor!), they’re either coarsely chopped (as in Tipton-Martin’s) or puréed (Dooky Chase’s).

Vegan versions go both ways, too. The one our friend Chloé created for CWB leaves the greens roughly chopped, which gives it nice texture.

Chloé Landrieu-Murphy’s vegan gumbo z’herbes

RECIPE: Chloé’s Vegan Gumbo Z’herbes

Whichever way you go, consider this: It is said that the number of different greens you use in your gumbo z’herbes represents the number of friends you’ll make in the coming year, and an odd number is good luck.

Wishing you many new friends this year, a delicious green gumbo and an armful of four-leaf clover’s worth of good luck!


Sweet potatoes are here! Don't wait till Thanksgiving to celebrate one of earth's perfect foods

By Leslie Brenner

There’s nothing like a sweet potato, hot from the oven, simply roasted till it’s super tender and caramelized syrup oozes out of its orangey-purple skin. Slice it open, push the ends together to reveal the gorgeous, meltingly soft flesh, and send in your spoon. What a treat, that custardy bite: It’s luscious and rich, autumnal sweet chased by an earthy, mineral tang.

How many other plant-foods can you think of that are delicious and satisfying enough to be an entire meal with no added ingredients? Beans and lentils could almost be that, but impossible to enjoy them without salt. A perfectly roasted sweet potato needs no such seasoning.

Naturally, sweet potatoes are also spectacular dressed up — as in the gratin with sage-butter and thyme I love to serve for Thanksgiving.

But I’m not waiting till the holiday to indulge in sweet potatoes: This weekend I’ll roast a few of them, dress them up (or not). and swoon. From now till my favorite food holiday, there are all kinds of ways to enjoy them.

Slather with miso butter and layer on sliced scallions and furikake (Japanese seasoning mix), for something transportingly delicious. One of my very favorite autumn dishes, it makes a dreamy (meatless) dinner, either on its own, preceded by a salad or followed by a soup, or some braised lentils, creamy white beans or soupy mayocoba beans.

Miso butter, if you’re not familiar with it, is a brilliant invention: Just combine softened unsalted butter and miso in equal amounts. (White miso is ideal, but any kind will be good.) Slit open the sweet potato, and slather it on. It’s delicious just like that, or you could grind on some black pepper. Or dress it up as in this photo (and recipe).

A sparkling autumn salad

Sweet potatoes are also marvelous in a fall salad, playing off another favorite autumn ingredient: pomegranate. The gem-like, tangy juicy seeds commune gorgeously with the creamy richness of the sweet potato; baby kale provides the perfect deep-flavored, earthy base and and toasted pecans add crunch. Again, great with just a soup to precede or follow it. (Roasted black bean!)

Slice and layer in a gratin

When Thanksgiving rolls around, I always make one of two sweet-potato gratins. The first was dreamed up by food writer Regina Schrambling, a frequent collaborator when I was Food Editor at The Los Angeles Times many years ago. Unlike those candied gratins so popular at holiday time, this one is savory — enriched with cream and butter and heightened with lots of fresh thyme.

The second savory gratin turns Regina’s version on its side — stacking the slices upright in the baking dish — and adds the classic Italian combination of brown butter and sage. It’s kind of outrageous.

RECIPE: Sweet Potato Gratin with Sage-Butter

Choose your sweet potato

Wondering what type of sweet potato to start with?

For any of these dishes (and any other I might think of), I always choose the garnet variety: Garnet sweet potatoes are exceedingly moist and sweet, not as starchy as some other varieties, and their flesh stays a saturated orange color when cooked. You’ll recognize them by their dark, purply skins. In fact, I love this variety so much I never buy any other.

Can’t commit to one of these iterations? Just go ahead and roast one plain. No recipe necessary — scrub the skin (you’ll definitely want to eat it), poke the tines of a fork in it in seven or eight places to create vents, so it doesn’t steam inside, lay it on a small baking dish or quarter-sheet pan lined with parchment and roast at 400 degrees till it’s very soft and oozing dark syrup. How long depends on the thickness of the sweet potato; a medium-sized one that’s more long and slim than fat and squat might take 45 or 50 minutes; thicker ones can take more than an hour.

Eat it piping hot, with nothing on it. Incredible how good it is, right?


Mac and cheese: This one hits all the cheesy, creamy, breadcrumby pleasure points

By Leslie Brenner

Here’s a mac and cheese that’s so good we couldn’t take the time to style it before diving in. Yep, it’s that creamy and cheesy and satisfying.

I developed the recipe six years ago, when I was restaurant critic for The Dallas Morning News, and the city had developed such a deep and persistent craving for mac and cheese that chefs were afraid not to offer it on their menus. Hey — I told readers. You can make this at home!

I’m craving it today, so I thought you might be needing a mac infusion as well. It’s a crusty, cheesy antidote to anything that feels unsettling in the world.

Based on supermarket macaroni (fancy imported bronze-die-cut pasta need not apply!), it’s simple to put together, and if you heat the oven while you boil the mac, you can have it on the table in less than an hour (including time to grate the cheese). You’ll be surprised at how heart-warmingly satisfying it is — perfect on a meatless Monday night (or anytime!), by itself or with a simple green salad. Highly recommend.

Inspired by old Hollywood, this may be the world’s most craveable Caesar

By Leslie Brenner

An eon ago, when I was in my twenties, I worked in Hollywood as an assistant on “Cheers,” a popular sit-com produced at Paramount Studios. One of the perks was that we could order lunch to eat at our desk (or dinner when we worked late) from any nearby restaurant, and the production company would pick up the tab. There were some really good restaurants to choose from, including a swanky French place called Le St. Germain, and an elegant Italian place, Emilio’s. (There was also a Mexican spot called Lucy’s El Adobe, whose chicken tostada captivated me.)

But there was one lunch I craved constantly, and ordered frequently: the Caesar salad from Nickodell, an old-school Hollywood restaurant that was right next door to the studio. Of course that Caesar was more of an event when you ordered it in the dining room, where it was tossed table-side, but to my desk, it always arrived crisp and chilled and perfect.

Super garlicky, forthright with anchovies, wonderfully tangy and generously endowed with grated Parm, it was absolutely smashing — an extreme Caesar. I’m not sure whether memory is playing a game, but I think they served it to-go on one of those cardboard-like deep-dish paper plates, with another bowl-like paper plate stapled onto the top of it. (This was pre-Uber Eats and GrubHub, of course; we sent our production assistants out to pick up our food.)

I wound up leaving Hollywood for grad school in New York. The sit-com’s decade-plus run ended, Nickodell closed and life went on. But I never stopped craving that salad.

At some point, I started recreating that Caesar at home. I don’t think I was fully conscious that it was the Nickodell umami-garlic-tang I was after, but my personal Caesar aesthetic had been set, on full-throttle.

Now, when I crave that flavor, I make my extreme Caesar. Its dressing includes both red wine vinegar and lemon, and a healthy dose of Worcestershire. Olive oil, of course. Lots of garlic, put through a press, and a meaningful amount of chopped anchovies. Lots of freshly ground black pepper. When I’m in a rush, I’ve been known to use anchovy paste instead of mincing fillets; both always live in my fridge.

Did Nickodell’s Caesar have croutons? Certainly, but they weren’t memorable or important, and croutons slow one’s salad game way down, so I leave them out. Also, I’d rather not have those carbs and extra calories from the oil they soak up. Having erased my carbo footprint, I figure I’ve earned the right to extra Parm — and a couple of eggs coddled to nearly gelatinous.

There is a feeling, among Caesar enthusiasts, that whole-leaf is the way to go. I certainly see the value, but to bend that way would be contrary to the spirit of the Nickodell archetype, so I chop.

Because this Caesar fires on so many cylinders, it loves to be a main course. Is it thanks to those solitary lunches at my desk that I like to eat it alone?

Of course it also loves company. Add a cool glass of rosé (or skin-contact!) wine, and you’ve got an excellent treat for a hot summer evening.

Beware, though: There is the possibility of permanent craving.

Spring's dynamic duo — grilled butterflied leg of lamb and asparagus — make a marvelous (and portable!) feast

By Leslie Brenner

In my corner of planet earth, we’ve arrived at the point in spring when the evenings are starting to stay warm enough to kindle thoughts of grilling — of sharing a glass of rosé out on the patio with friends, of nibbling dips and chips and such and taking in the intoxicating aroma of something delectable cooking over the coals.

And so yesterday, with our patio not yet exactly fit for prime time, I proposed bringing a ready-to-go grilling party to friends who had just moved into a new house. A butterflied leg of lamb and asparagus would be the base offering, along with a bottle of French rosé. Not a hard sell — you should try it some time!

It was so easy to put together — and turned to to be so delicious — that it sparked an “aha” moment: Rosy slices of flavorful grilled lamb and tender spears of lightly charred asparagus love to be the life of the spring party. The combo isn’t only great for instigating BYO-main course dinner invitations; it’s also the delightfully low-stress solution for Easter dinner or lunch, breaking a Ramadan fast, or (in a matter of weeks) setting the table for Mother's Day.

Asparagus and spring onions, cooked on the grill

Prepping for the event is shockingly quick. Procure a boneless leg of lamb: The first one I saw was 2.8 pounds, large enough to serve 6. A smaller one would be sufficient for four. Grab some fresh herbs — our marinade recipe calls for mint and cilantro, but you could swap either for parsley, rosemary, thyme, oregano or marjoram, or use a combo. You probably have everything else (red wine vinegar, garlic, olive oil, salt and pepper) on hand. And grab a bunch or two of asparagus: a pound and a half is perfect for four, two pounds for six.

This time of year, you might also find spring onions — the ones that look like scallions, but with much bigger bulbs on the bottom. Yesterday I found both red and white ones. These are fantastic thrown on that grill as well — as are garlic scapes, if you’re lucky enough to find them.

Once you’re home with the booty, make a marinade: Chop the herbs, toss in a bowl with pressed garlic, vinegar, salt and pepper, whisk in olive oil. Unwrap the lamb, removing any strings holding it in shape, and flatten it as much as possible. If it doesn’t lay flat, feel free to slash with a knife here and there, keeping it all in one piece: You want a shape that will cook relatively evenly on the grill. Don’t worry, though, if it’s much thicker in places — it’ll still be great.

Place the lamb in a shallow bowl, coat it on both sides with the marinade and transfer it to a large zipper bag. (Alternatively, you can put the lamb in the bag, pour in the marinade, zip it up (pushing out the air first), then massage it a bit so it’s completely covered in marinade. Leave it like that for at least two hours (refrigerating for all but the last hour), and it’s ready to cook. Heat the grill, wipe off the marinade and cook on both sides — it’s quicker than you might think: 12 to 22 minutes total (depending on the heat of the grill) will get you lamb that’s medium-rare where thickest and medium where thinnest.

RECIPE: Grilled Butterflied Leg of Lamb

You should have enough room on the grill to throw on the asparagus — which needs nothing more than olive oil and salt before going on. (For my portable feast, I trimmed off their woody bottoms and placed them in a zipper bag with about two teaspoons of oil and about a quarter teaspoon of salt, zipped it up, rolled the spears around a bit to coat, and transported them just so.) Ditto the spring onions: Trim the tops, slice them in half, creating a flat surface on the bulbs, and give them the same oil-and-salt treatment. If you’re not transporting them, you can put the asparagus (and spring onions if using) on a sheet pan, drizzle with oil, sprinkle with salt, and let them sit till you’re ready to grill.

As for timing, you can grill the asparagus at the same time as the lamb, cooking till the spears are as tender as you like them (I like them tender, and take them off when they’re floppy with picked up with tongs). Spring onions or garlic scapes will be perfect once they’re a bit charred, and both are fine served room temp. Want them hot? Grill the veg once you’ve pulled off the lamb to rest 10 minutes.

Slice the lamb, arrange on a platter surrounded by the asparagus, pour any collected juices over the lamb, and your feast is ready.

And it’s delicious just like that. Want to make a few more things?

This Tangy Green Everything Sauce — packed with mint, parsley, dill and shallots — is pretty dreamy with the lamb.

And so is its oregano-forward cousin, chimichurri. Both can be made ahead, and they’re easy to transport in a jar.

Yesterday, prepping the lamb, asparagus and spring onions was so quick that I remembered some red potatoes I had in the pantry, I boiled them up and threw together a quick (and super portable!) French-accented potato salad. While the potatoes cooked, I whisked together red wine vinegar, a goodly dollop of whole-grain mustard, salt and olive oil, then added a spoonful of mayo, thinly sliced shallots, roughly chopped parsley and black pepper. When the potatoes were cooked, I sliced them in their jackets and tossed them with the sauce: delicious.

A bit more involved, our Best Potato Salad Ever is great with this, too. (Find more potato salad recipes here.) All potato salads are portable as can be — ideal for stress-free at-home entertaining, or we’ll-bring-it-all personal pop-up dinners.

For dessert, the arrival of strawberry season makes it easy to keep it simple: Stem the berries (halving or quartering if they’re large), sprinkle with a little sugar or toss in Grand Marnier or other orange liqueur, let macerate an hour or two and serve just like that. Or with ice cream.

Strawberry Pavlova

If it’s a fancier feast, you can make Strawberry Pavlovas: These are great for Easter, Mother’s Day or Passover celebrations (they’re flour-free!). Again, everything can be made ahead — just assemble them on the spot.

So that’s the blueprint: As simple or extended as you like.

Happy spring!



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Cookbooks We Love: David Lebovitz's 'The Perfect Scoop' is the only ice cream book you'll ever need

Our photo of ‘The Perfect Scoop’ shows the 2007 first-edition paperback, but our review refers to the 2018 updated and revised edition.

Our photo of ‘The Perfect Scoop’ shows the 2007 first-edition paperback, but our review refers to the 2018 updated and revised edition.

By Leslie Brenner

The Perfect Scoop: 200 Recipes for Ice Creams, Sorbets, Gelatos, Granitas and Sweet Accompaniments (revised and updated), by David Lebovitz, photographs by Ed Anderson, 2018, Ten Speed Press, $24.99

Backgrounder: Paris-based former Chez Panisse pastry chef David Lebovitz has a wonderful blog and website (which you should be following if you love sweets or French cooking); we always refer to his section on Paris restaurants when we find ourselves in the City of Lights. He is the author of many excellent books, including Drinking French, Ready for Dessert, My Sweet Life in Paris and others (he has published nine in total), and The Perfect Scoop is our favorite of them all. Originally published in 2007, Lebovitz revised and updated it in 2018, adding a dozen new recipes, and it is that edition that’s the basis of this review and the recipes we’ve adapted.

Why We Love it: Lebovitz is the undisputed king of ice cream, and we’ve been making his frozen desserts since way back when the book was first published. The recipes always work perfectly as written, but they’re eminently riffable, and even provide such a strong foundation that if you’re a confident cook, you can probably start creating your own recipes. Besides chapters on the frozen desserts themselves, there are also chapters on Sauces and Toppings (Classic Hot Fudge, Cajeta, Candied Red Beans), Mix-Ins (Butter Pecans, Peppermint Patties) and “Vessels” (Ice Cream Cones, Crêpes, Profiteroles, Brownies).

We’ve made or tasted probably at least a dozen frozen desserts in the book, which besides ice cream, also includes gelatos, sorbets, sherbets and sorbettos, frozen yogurts, ices, granitas and ice pops. Recently, we made up a batch of Lebovitz’s Watermelon Sorbetto, pouring into ice-pop molds and turning it into not-too-sweet watermelon paletas (so good!). His Lavender-Honey Ice Cream is one of our favorites ever; Peach Ice Cream is a Philadelphia-style (no eggs) classic you’ll love all summer long; Cinnamon Ice Cream is classic as well. At Christmastime, Egg Nog Ice Cream is killer, and any time of year, Lemon Sorbet is a terrific version of classic lemon Italian ice. (You’ll have to buy the book to get those recipes, but believe me, you won’t be sorry.)

Gianduja Gelato with Straciatella from ‘The Perfect Scoop’

Gianduja Gelato with Straciatella from ‘The Perfect Scoop’

Recently we fell in love with (and wrote about) the Gianduja (hazelnut-chocolate) Gelato swirled with the Stracciatella (Italian-style chocolate chips) found in the Mix-Ins chapter.

Matcha Ice Cream from ‘The Perfect Scoop’

Matcha Ice Cream from ‘The Perfect Scoop’

Lovers of Japanese sweets will adore Lebovitz’s green tea ice cream. Made with matcha and rich with egg yolks, it is quite simply the best we’ve ever tasted.

Tangerine sorb edit.jpg

You’ll have to save for the winter, when mandarins (also known as tangerines) are in season and at their most flavorful, to fully appreciate Lebovitz’s Tangerine Sorbet. But do keep it in mind — with an incredible purity of flavor, it’s one of our all-time favorite winter desserts.

Nectarine Sorbet from ‘The Perfect Scoop’

Nectarine Sorbet from ‘The Perfect Scoop’

You’ve Gotta Try This: In Southwest France, where I’ve spent a lot of time over the last three decades, my French in-laws have a delightful custom of slicing a ripe peach into their red wine glasses at the end of dinner. The peaches get macerated, turning them into a glorious, light dessert, so fab with the red wine. A few years ago, I tried to develop a peach ice cream recipe that would replicate those flavors, but never succeeded. Lo and behold Lebovitz’s recipe for Nectarine Sorbet, which he suggests scooping into wine glasses and letting everyone pour in red wine to their taste. Dare I say it’s even better than the real thing!? The sorbet on its own is pretty magnificent — and easy to make, especially as nectarines don’t require peeling.

Nectarine Sorbet is marvelous in a glass of red wine.

Nectarine Sorbet is marvelous in a glass of red wine.

Still Wanna Make: Oh, man — where do I start?! Chartreuse Ice Cream is high on the list (will do that soon!), and so are Toasted Almond & Candied Cherry; Aztec Chocolate; Toasted Coconut; Dried-Apricot-Pistachio; and Prune-Armagnac (all ice creams). Among the dairy-free recipes, I feel a batch of Pineapple Sorbet coming on soon. And doesn’t Cucumber-Gin Sorbet sound like fun?

I’m guessing you’re half-way out of your seat and ready to churn; make sure your ice-cream-maker insert is in the freezer.

If You Don’t Yet Have an Ice-cream Maker: Do spring for one — it’s well worth it if you love ice creams and sorbets as much as we do. Our 15+ year-old Cuisinart finally died a month ago, and I bought a new one with a larger capacity — the Cuisinart ICE-70. It’s not inexpensive, at about $139 (at the moment), but I appreciate that it can churn up to 1 1/2 quarts of ice cream. (Note that it is not the 2 quarts its specs suggest; a full review is coming soon!) The New York Times Wirecutter highly recommends the much less pricey Cuisinart ICE-21 (my purchase was also based on a positive Wirecutter review, among others), but at three-quarters capacity, I believe that would cause overflow problems with many recipes, including some of Lebovitz’s.

Capture Bing cherries' spectacular flavor in a glorious ice cream (sugar cone and bare feet, optional!)

Bing cherry ice cream with black pepper and optional fresh bay leaf

By Leslie Brenner

Bing cherries bursting with flavor. Santa Rosa plums, with their tart-taut skins and juicy-sweet interiors. Blushing ripe peaches whose juice runs down your arm when you bite into them.

These are the things I love most about summer.

Santa Rosa plums don’t show up where I live in Dallas, Texas, but fabulous cherries are easy to find, and I devour them like they’re going out of style. They’re not — in fact, scientists are more excited than ever about their likely health benefits.

Curiously, great cherry desserts are not easy to come by. I love the idea of clafoutis — France’s famous cherry-packed eggy baked thingy — but I’ve never found one I’ve loved. (Got one? Please send it our way in a comment!)

Cherry ice cream always sounds so wonderful, but most of the recipes I find either require candying the fruit or contain much more cream, milk and sugar than fruit. I want cherry ice cream that’s seriously cherry-packed.

Cherries.jpg

This season, I came upon a Serious Eats recipe that sounded seriously wonderful, so I dove in. The recipe does without eggs, to focus the cherry flavor, which sounded wise. Unfortunately, the cherries exploded in the oven after about 35 minutes of roasting with sugar (40 minutes did sound long!), leaving my oven walls caked with the aftermath. I free-styled my way through the rest, loving the idea of steeping the cherry pits in the cream, but not getting why we’d strain the juice and not use the pulp (especially as the recipe noted that it’s delicious to eat as a jam or dessert topping). So I threw it back in. The ice cream was fabulous, with super-intense cherry flavor, but the recipe needed lots of tweaking. Roasting was smart, but I’d roast mine half the time — just long enough to intensify the flavor and make pitting easy.

Bing Cherry Ice Cream with Black Pepper and Bay Leaf

As I was putting it together, it occurred to me that a little fresh bay leaf flavor could be lovely with the cherries, so I steeped a couple of fresh leaves with the cream. Then, as I was whirring up the cherries, black pepper suggested itself as a complement, so I added that as well. If you want to go more purist, you can certainly skip these; alternatively, you can amp up the pepper a bit, as the amount called for is very subtle.

It’s delicious on its own, but also goes well with thin, crisp almond wafers. What I really want, though, is to scoop some into a sugar cone and lap it up like a kid. Maybe I’ll even take it outside, so I have to eat it before it melts.

Hope you enjoy it.

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

Best Potato Salad Lede.JPG

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

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

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

Old-fashioned American potato salad, prepared from a recipe adapted from ‘Jubilee’ by Toni Tipton-Martin

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

Potato Salada (Japanese potato salad), prepared from a recipe in ‘Japanese Home Cooking,’ by Sonoko Sakai

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

Best Potato Salad Ever is made with a new-wave gribiche.

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!

Family gift from the Great Confinement: the perfect, easy roast chicken

Perfect easy roast chicken with crispy, brown skin. Our recipe requires no basting, no flipping and no advance preparation.

Perfect easy roast chicken with crispy, brown skin. Our recipe requires no basting, no flipping and no advance preparation.

By Leslie Brenner

Yesterday was bittersweet. Wylie, my 24 year-old son and partner-in-cooking during The Great Confinement, finished packing up his silver Honda Fit, took one last look around to see what he left behind (inoperable culinary blowtorch, heavy suede jacket, melancholy parents) and — with his girlfriend Nathalie in the passenger seat — hit the road for California.

It’s a scene that’s been happening all across the country during recent weeks, apparently, as life begins to return to normal. Whatever that was.

The reasons for the bitter part of bittersweet are obvious. The sweet part is my feeling of gratefulness for the time we all had together — Wylie was with us during the entire pandemic.

I can’t exactly say that while Wylie was here I taught him to cook. That started long ago. He asked for a crepe pan for his birthday when he was, I think, seven. He spent the last year of his time in college in Los Angeles wowing his housemates with Santa Maria barbecues or giant pans of baked ziti.

But when he rejoined us a year and a half ago to regroup post-college and embark on a job search, he still had a lot to learn — as we all do. I’m pretty sure that’s when I taught him how to deglaze a pan, though he’ll probably dispute that. I definitely taught him to make corn tortillas and miso soup, soufflés and Chinese dumplings.

What I can say is that while he was here, Wylie grew up culinarily. Cooking nearly every meal during the year of confinement allowed both of us to fully immerse ourselves in the kitchen.

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Of course for me there was (and always will be) plenty to learn as well. We both learned from cookbooks, videos and websites, along with conversations with cooks — Monish Gujral in India, who taught us about murgh makhani (butter chicken, which his grandfather invented); An-My Lê in New York, my brilliant photographer-friend and home cook who taught us about bánh xèo (sizzling crepes) and pho ga; Yuyee Sakpanichkul here in Dallas, the chef-owner of Ka-Tip, who talked me through the way to build a Thai curry.

What surprised me most in all this was how much I learned from Wylie. He’s a quick study, and when he wanted to master a dish, he dove headlong into it — watching chef videos, reading websites (always seeing what Kenji had to say at Serious Eats), consulting cookbooks. Most of what he wanted to learn was French (Thomas Keller became one of his faves) or meat-centric. (Kenji, in case your internet has been out for the last few years, is J. Kenji López-Alt; his fans call him Kenji.) Yet Wylie is seldom satisfied that his teachers have shown him the best way. He absorbs their wisdom, and then pushes forward, questioning assumptions, making improvements. (I suppose the apple doesn’t fall far from the tree; that constant tweaking and evolution is the animating ethos of Cooks Without Borders.) 

One of the most useful things I learned from Wylie is his take on roast chicken. I had taught him everything I know on the subject, beginning with the late Judy Rodgers’ method of salting the bird a day or two before you want to roast, air-drying the skin, then tucking fresh herbs between skin and flesh and roasting simply in a skillet in a very hot oven. No need to baste, but you flip it twice. The result is an exquisite bird with wonderfully crisp skin. He tried that, tried Thomas’ Keller’s wet-brine method, which he was sure would be better (it wasn’t), tried CWB’s viral rendition of Lucky Peach’s lacquered roast chicken (impressed, but he tweaked the glaze). He tried other versions, too. We invested in a stove-top rotisserie, which makes a fabulous and very easy bird, but fixing the chicken on the rotisserie axle is a bit of a headache, and the thing can only accommodate birds smaller than three pounds, which aren’t easy to find.

After a year or so of experimenting, Wylie had settled into his preferred method. He feels salting ahead of time is best, but more often than not, when we want a roast chicken, we want it right now. One day, I suggested trying to pick up a supermarket roast chicken, something Wylie’s father and I used to do all the time when I was working at an office, and Wylie scoffed. “It’s just as easy to roast our own,” he said, “and so much better.”

Wylie’s solution to lack of time to salt and air-dry is hilarious: He pats the bird dry, sets it on a rack on a sheet pan and puts the pan on the floor with a small Vornado fan pointed at it for a half hour or so. Very effective! Then he finely chops a lot of thyme, distributes it between skin and flesh (sometimes suspended in butter), seasons inside and out, puts a whole lemon in the cavity and roasts — very simply. He uses Judy Rodgers’ basic method, heating a dry skillet on the stove, then setting the bird on it breast-up (at which point it makes a terrible loud farting sound!), and immediately putting it in a very hot oven.

Raw chicken.JPG

Unlike Rodgers, however, Wylie doesn’t flip the bird. Rodgers’ method calls for turning it breast-down after 20 minutes, then flipping it back breast-up for the last five or ten to crisp the skin back up. Wylie doesn’t believe that there’s much (if anything) to gain with the flip, and certainly not worth the risk of the breast skin tearing in the process. He wants that perfect, crisp, browned skin.

After having eaten an adulthood’s worth of Judy birds and a year’s worth of Wylie birds, I daresay he’s right.

Last night, hours after he and Nathalie drove off, I needed roast chicken. Had Wylie been here, he would have insisted on roasting the chicken himself. Instead, I channeled him, with edits. 

As I started putting it together, I realized that I finally had something I’d long been seeking: the best streamlined way to roast a chicken with minimum effort and maximum impact.

The Perfect Easy Roast Chicken, resting after its 50-minute, no-basting, no flipping stay in the oven

The Perfect Easy Roast Chicken, resting after its 50-minute, no-basting, no flipping stay in the oven

Busy all day, I hadn’t thought of taking the bird from the fridge and letting it come to room temp. No matter. I rinsed it and patted it dry, tucked some thyme under its skin and salted it inside and out. Pepper on the outside, too. I tied its ankles together, heated a skillet, plopped down that bird, and shoved it in the oven, set at 450. Our ridiculous smoke alarm went off three times (though the kitchen was not smoky), making us curse and miss Wylie. I pulled out the chicken and took its temperature in the thickest part of the thigh, which the experts always tell you to do: 190 degrees — overdone!  How was that possible after just 40 minutes?

And then a lightbulb went off, and I finally understood that the thickest-part-of-the-thigh dictum is wrong. How many times have we pulled out the bird when thickest part registered more than 165, let it rest, carved it, and found that next to the bone, it was underdone.

So instead I inserted the thermometer next to the drumstick bone: 145. Not done. Back in went the chicken for another 10 minutes, I took the temp in the same place, and got 165.

Out came the chicken to rest — resplendent in its golden-brown skin. I made a little pan-sauce, having minced a shallot finely enough to meet Wylie’s exacting standards. (I used to be sloppier.)

I carved the bird, missing Wylie’s sharp carving knife. (He built an impressive knife collection while here.) We dined, Thierry sipping a glass of rosé, me sipping fizzy water, having reclaimed our two old accustomed places at the table for dining à deux. We toasted Wylie and Nathalie — and the adventure they’d driven off into.

And the chicken? It was perfect.

Beautiful, light, and herbal: This easy-to-customize vegan soup gracefully celebrates spring

Cooks Without Borders’ Spring Vegan Soup

By Leslie Brenner

A couple weeks ago — shortly after spring had sprung — a recipe in the Washington Post captured my fancy. Its lede photo depicted a brothy bowl with peas and spinach, leeks and dill in varying shades of green, set off gorgeously with pink-skinned, white-fleshed potatoes. The story’s author and the recipe’s creator, Ellie Krieger, offered it up as “Proof spring is soup season, too.”

Had to have it! I made the soup that very evening, and absolutely loved it. No question I’ll make it again and again.

Still, in my mind’s test kitchen, I couldn’t help but riff. Wouldn’t it be lovely with some asparagus tips? English or snap peas still clinging to their pods? Fresh favas or field peas, if I happened upon them? Wouldn’t turnips be just as nice as potatoes — or even nicer, if it’s optimal healthy one is after, or if you could find those beautiful tiny Tokyo turnips? Sure, I’d lose that pretty pink flourish, but I could add slices of slender springtime carrots instead.

And hey, couldn’t this soup be made vegan — if I created a broth out of the castaway tops of leeks I’m forever gathering in the crisper (the WaPo recipe added to my stash), would that have sufficient flavor?

Well, yes, yes, yes, yes and yes! The very next night, that riffing went live — and the result was grand.

I call it Vegan Spring Beaty Soup partly because it’s beautiful to look at, and partly because of its healthful purity: I imagine that the more frequently you eat it, the more beautiful you become.

Even after I created our vegan version, the test kitchen lobe of my brain continued to riff. You could use just about any kind of soft herbs: chervil, tarragon, cilantro, mint. If the vegan part’s not important to you, you could swap dashi for leek broth, and maybe add a dash of white soy sauce, and lots of sliced scallions in place of the herbs.

Of course, if you want to keep it super-easy, you can use the store-bought chicken broth, as Krieger’s recipe does — do that, and it comes together in 25 minutes or less.

Ain’t that beautiful?

Outstanding cookbook author Toni Tipton-Martin puts history at the center of the American table

‘Jubilee: Recipes from Two Centuries of African American Cooking,’ by Toni Tipton-Martin

By Leslie Brenner

Editor’s note: Women have a history of writing the best cookbooks. That’s why throughout March — Women’s History Month — we’ll be featuring cookbooks by our favorite female authors.

It is history itself that animates the books of Toni Tipton-Martin, a culinary historian, writer, editor and cook who has become a powerful force for amplifying, celebrating and honoring the voices of Black cooks throughout American history.

Toni Tipton-Martin / Photograph by Pableaux Johnson

Toni Tipton-Martin / Photograph by Pableaux Johnson

In 2015, Tipton-Martin published her award-winning The Jemima Code: Two Centuries of African-American Cookbooks, which she followed in 2019 with Jubilee: Recipes from Two Centuries of African American Cooking.

[Read more about Toni Tipton-Martin’s Jubilee.]

Its pages are filled with delicious recognition of the contribution of African American cooks and chefs — and include some of our favorite recipes of the last year. I’m forever attached to Jubilee’s Pickled Shrimp, to Tipton-Martin’s Country-Style Potato Salad and to her Pork Chops in Lemon-Caper Sauce.

Pickled shrimp prepared from a recipe in ‘Jubilee’ by Toni Tipton-Martin

Pickled shrimp prepared from a recipe in ‘Jubilee’ by Toni Tipton-Martin

Its historical depth is just as appetizing — for instance a deep dive into green gumbo — gumbo z’herbes — that inspired an upcoming Cooks Without Borders story.

In September, Tipton-Martin — who began her career at the Los Angeles Times, and later led food coverage at the Cleveland Plain Dealer as its food editor — was named editor in chief of Cook’s Country.

Cookbooks We Love: Marcus Samuelsson’s ‘The Rise’ celebrates Black cooks in America

The Rise Lede.jpg

By Leslie Brenner

The Rise: Black Cooks and the Soul of American Food, by Marcus Samuelsson with Osayi Endolyn, recipes with Yewande Komolafe and Tamie Cook, photographs by Angie Mosier, 2020, Little, Brown, $38.

Backgrounder: A good deal has been written about The Rise — the cookbook super-chef Marcus Samuelsson published late last year. Most of the coverage came right around pub-time, in the form of new-title roundups or best-of-the-year cookbook stories (it made the Washington Post and New York Times’ lists, among others.) Samuelsson and co-author Osayi Endolyn gave an excellent interview to Food & Wine magazine shortly after the book was published.

Many of the universally enthusiastic write-ups did a great job focusing on Samuelsson’s goal for the book. As he expresses it in his introduction:

“Black food is American food, and it’s long past time that the artistry and ingenuity of Black cooks were properly recognized.”

Samuelsson, of course, is the Ethiopia-born, Sweden-raised chef with a nearly three-decades-long history in New York. He made his name in 1995 as the youngest chef to earn a three-star review from The New York Times when he was executive chef of Aquavit; he opened his own restaurant, Red Rooster Harlem, in 2010. The chef has since built an empire of dozens of restaurants in the U.S., Canada, Bermuda, Britain, Sweden, Finland and Norway.

What I haven’t found much of are reviews and stories that dig into The Rise’s 119 recipes (plus 48 Pantry recipes).

Why We Love It: Endolyn’s essays about the chefs, activists and cooks who have inspired the recipes in the book are wonderful, enlightening reads. Spinning through them is a fabulous way to understand something about the future, present and past of Black cooking in America. Endolyn sheds thoughtful light on who has done, and is doing, and will continue informing some of the most exciting cooking anywhere.

Meanwhile, Samuelsson himself is one of the most talented and accomplished chefs of our time, and his recipes — developed with Yewande Komolafe and Tamie Cook — are often thrilling.

Papa Ed’s Shrimp and Grits from Marcus Samuelsson’s ‘The Rise.’ The recipe was inspired by Red Rooster executive chef Ed Brumfield.

We wasted no time weighing in on Papa Ed’s Shrimp and Grits two weeks after the book was published. The dish, inspired by Ed Brumfield, executive chef of Red Rooster Harlem, is heart-breakingly delicious, literally the best shrimp and grits I’ve ever had. Unless you have access to frozen okra, you’ll have to wait till it’s back in season in order to taste what I mean.

Rise Sweet Potato Overhead Landscape.JPG

The very first recipe I took for a spin was the lead-off recipe in the book: Baked Sweet Potatoes with Garlic-Fermented Shrimp Butter. I’m a sucker for a roasted sweet potato in any guise, and as this is Samuelsson’s tribute to David Zilber — a Toronto-born chef who’s the former director of fermentation at Noma in Copenhagen — the recipe beckoned that much louder. It’s almost decadent in its lusciousness. The shrimp paste (which I keep on hand for Thai dishes) gives the avocado-butter a wild and wonderful funk.

Montego Bay Rum Cake, prepared from a recipe in ‘The Rise: Black Cooks and the Soul of American Food’ by Marcus Samuelsson with Osayi Endolyn, recipes with Yewande Komolafe and Tamie Cook

Nor can I resist a boozy dessert, and this one — a vanilla cake soaked in dark rum and frosted with whipped cream — didn’t disappoint. Montego Bay Rum Cake is Samuelsson’s tribute to chef Herb Wilson, whose trail-blazing upscale Caribbean restaurant in New York City’s East Village, Bambou, was an early inspiration for him. As originally published, the recipe requires a stand mixer; I’ve adapted it so you can use a hand-mixer, if you like.

Roasted Cauliflower Steaks with Nola East Mayo, from Marcus Samuelsson’s ‘The Rise: Black Cooks and the Soul of American Food.’ The recipe is Samuelsson’s tribute to New Orleans chef Nina Compton.

You’ve gotta try this: Dressed up with minced dill pickle, onion, sambal oelek, fish sauce, celery salt and paprika, the jazzy mayo that tops these roasted cauliflower steaks is worth making on its own. (What a dip for boiled Gulf shrimp this will be!) And slathering it on cauliflower steaks dusted with the Moroccan spice blend ras el hanout is out of this world. (I do wish there were a recipe for ras el hanout in the book. I didn’t have any on hand, and used this one from Paula Wolfert via the San Jose Mercury News.) The recipe honors Nina Compton — chef and owner of Compère Lapin and Bywater American Bistro in New Orleans. The ingredients in the mayo sauce reflect that city’s “diverse African, Haitian and French populations.”

Still wanna cook: Circling back to okra season, the moment those pods start popping into markets, I’ll make Leah Chase Gumbo. Chase — the legendary chef-owner of Dooky Chase’s in New Orleans, who died at in 2019 at age 96 — is one of the chefs to whom Samuelsson dedicates the book. (You’ll have to pick up the book to read the wonderful anecdote about what Chase did to President Obama when he sprinkled hot sauce on her gumbo without tasting it first.) Samuelsson’s tribute gumbo includes shrimp, andouille sausage and filé powder, along with the okra.

Asparagus season will precede okra season, though, and at that moment I’ll pounce on The Rise’s recipe for Shrimp Fritters with Bitter Greens and Grapefruit — a West African-inspired recipe in honor of Jonny Rhodes. Rhodes is the highly acclaimed young Houston chef behind Indigo, a neo-soul food restaurant “focusing on the history, culture, and social experiences that have shaped and guided African American foodways.”

There are many more enticing recipes besides — and all those cool essays.

Here’s a great way to celebrate Black History Month: Buy yourself a copy of the The Rise. While you’re at it, buy one for a friend interested in exploring the delicious, dynamic diversity that is Black American cooking.


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Gloriously lush but not overly rich, this is quite simply the perfect creamed spinach recipe

The perfect creamed spinach is made with a milk-based béchamel, not cream.

You might think that when it comes to creamed spinach, the richer the better. You’d definitely think so if you took a spin around the internet looking for recipes: They’re laden with daring amounts of heavy cream, sometimes even cream cheese. Often they’re so white from cream that the spinach nearly disappears. That’s not creamed spinach; that’s spinached cream.

I take the lighter view: I love a version that’s creamy in texture, but relatively light on the palate. I want to taste that lovely spinach more than the phat mouthfeel of heavy cream, but still want enough of a sauce to bind it deliciously together and soften the spinach’s astringency. A dash of nutmeg supplies a sweet middle note, a touch of perfume.

This recipe — which is delightfully simple — delivers maximum wonderfulness. For my money, it’s the perfect creamed spinach recipe.

It’s easy to shop for. You need one pound of baby spinach, which is one of those oversized clamshells. Part of a white onion, diced fine. Two tablespoons of butter, two tablespoons of flour, which you probably already have. A quarter teaspoon salt, and a little less freshly ground white pepper and freshly grated nutmeg.

If you have a kid learning to cook, or a pod-mate who thinks creamed spinach can only come from the kitchen of a steakhouse, have them watch; it’s actually pretty cool if you’ve never done it. Next time, you might not even need a recipe because the proportions are so simple.

Start by cooking the spinach on top of a couple inches of boiling salted water, so it doesn’t lose too much volume. Drain it well, but don’t squeeze it dry, then chop it medium-fine.

Now make a béchamel plus onion: Melt the butter, cook the onion in it till soft, sprinkle on the flour (equal to the amount of butter), stir and cook about three minutes, then slowly whisk in the milk. Cook, whisking frequently, until it’s thick and creamy. Add salt, white pepper, nutmeg, then stir in the spinach.

Now taste: It’s shocking that something that delicious can be so easy. Make this a couple times, and it’ll become second nature — something you can whip up without thinking about it to serve with any kind of chop or steak, roast chicken, simple pan-seared or roasted fish. Because it’s almost like a sauce itself, that main thing can be on the plain side — and the creamed spinach is a feather in its cap.

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This quick, easy cardamom-pumpkin spice bread is just the thing for lazy holiday or weekend mornings

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I’m neither a big breakfast eater nor a frequent baker, but on lazy holidays (and regular lazy weekends) I do love to nibble on a cakey bread with my morning coffee.

The sight of an unused post-Thanksgiving can of pumpkin purée in our pantry and a recipe in Karen DeMasco’s 2009 book The Craft of Baking inspired this one, which we’ve been enjoying since Christmas morning. (Damn — it’s almost gone!)

DeMasco, in case you don’t know her, was the opening pastry chef at Tom Colicchio’s Craft in New York, as well as at Craftbar and ’wichcraft; she won the James Beard Award in 2005 for Outstanding Pastry Chef. “It is great toasted and spread with a thick pat of nice salty butter,” she wrote in the headnote. We didn’t get that far at our house: Each slice has gotten quickly gobbled.

Our version is slightly different than DeMasco’s original. I’m always looking for ways to use more whole grains, so I thought I’d try subbing out half the white flour in her recipe for whole-wheat flour. (It worked!) I also cut the white sugar by half, from 1/2 cup to 1/4 cup, suspecting that with the 1/2 cup of brown sugar also called for, it would be sweet enough. (It was!) And finally, I added freshly ground cardamom into DeMasco’s pumpkin spice mix — probably because cardamom always seems so alluring this time of year. (And anytime, really!) Success again — it added something aromatically delightful.

The result is lush, moist, warmly spicy and delicious. The whole wheat flour adds a wee bit of wholesomeness without turning the bread cardboardy or punitive; and even with the reduced sugar, it was definitely sweet enough for Thierry (who has been been successfully taming his sweet tooth), and of course sweet enough for me. A touch of turbinado or demerara sugar sprinkled on top before baking gave it a light sugary crunch (I cut that by a third as well). Best of all, it’s a snap to make.

We’ve enjoyed this cakey bread so much, I’ll be keeping cans of pumpkin purée in the pantry well into the winter. Hope you like it too!

Need a perfect, easy holiday side dish? Try my family's longtime favorite roasted potatoes

The Brenner Family’s Roasted Potatoes

If you’re anything like me, you’re likely to forget something as you plan your special holiday meals, or leave one thing to the last minute to strategize.

If for you that means spuds (during this weirdest-ever pre-holiday moment!), we’ve got just the thing: my family’s roasted potatoes.

The dish couldn’t be simpler, really, and it’s not much of a recipe. Think of it as a method. I usually use Yukon Golds or similar potatoes, but I’ve also used red ones. Most often I use medium-size Yukon Golds.

Here’s what you do: Peel and quarter the the potatoes lengthwise, drop them in a baking dish with a yellow onion peeled and cut into eighths. Drizzle with a couple of glugs of olive oil, liberate the leaves from four or five thyme branches, sprinkle liberally with salt and freshly ground pepper. Pop the dish in a hot oven, stirring once or twice with a wooded spoon to make sure they don’t stick, and roast for 45 to 55 minutes, until they’re crispy-edged and golden brown. Swap in other herbs, such as rosemary or oregano, if you don’t feel like thyme, add garlic cloves if you like, or swap the onions for shallots.

That’s it. I usually keep a big jar of grey sea salt from France in the pantry; I love using it with potatoes done this way. (But any salt will do.)

The potatoes are great with all kinds of rich holiday foods — prime rib, tenderloin and other roast beefs, turkey, ham, duck, goose and so on.

Best of all, they’re easy.

Oh, if you’re wondering about the platter they’re sitting on, it was an early work by my friend the ceramist Christopher Russell. He has since become a big deal artist who shows in galleries and whose work is highly sought-after. (I’m a huger fan than ever; check out his website.)

Back to those potatoes. They’re not just handy for holidays; they’re also brilliant with roast chicken or leg of lamb. Here you go:

RECIPE: The Brenner Family’s Roasted Potatoes

Happy holidays from Cooks Without Borders to you and yours!

All the harvest-box greens: How to make the most of kale, chard, collards and the like

Harvest boxes of greens and herbs from La Bajada POP Farm, part of Promise of Peace Gardens, a Dallas-based nonprofit.

Harvest boxes of greens and herbs from La Bajada POP Farm, part of Promise of Peace Gardens, a Dallas-based nonprofit.

Whether it’s from your own garden, the community garden where you’ve been working a plot, the farmers market — or you’ve picked up or ordered a harvest box from a local farm — you suddenly find yourself with armfuls of greens.

I love greens any way I can get them; this time of year and through the winter, I actively crave them. I especially love mustard greens, for their wonderful spiciness, but kale, chard, collards and spinach are wonderful too — and I love to mix them up.

What to do with them?

Sure, you can drop the leaves in a salad. For that, the youngest leaves are best — especially spinach and tangy beet greens. For tougher customers, like kale, a little pre-salad-bowl massage does wonders for mature leaves. Stack them, roll up and slice into chiffonade, then give those ribbons a squeeze before you dress them.

This time of year, soup is front-of-mind. You could make an earthy, vegan, soul-sustaining, feed-you-all-week soup based on lentils, onions, carrot and celery, punctuated by spices and rounded out by all those greens — thrown in at the last minute for maximum flavor and texture.

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Here’s a master recipe.

And then there is saag paneer. Did you think the Indian braised greens-and-cheese dish was meant only to include spinach? Actually, in India saag refers to any kinds of greens, as Maneet Chauhan explains in her new cookbook, Chaat. (Read our story about it.) Her version of the classic dish includes kale and arugula along with spinach, but in her headnote she urges inclusion of any greens you’ve got.

Or you could shine a bright spotlight on the greens themselves, making a simple sauté that puts them center stage and celebrates their individual flavors.

During The Great Confinement, Wylie has fashioned himself into the greens specialist of our household. As long as chard (his favorite) is involved, it’s his mission to preside over them and add whatever else looks great. The stems, he feels, are all important. “You’re wasting if you don’t use them,” he says. “That’s not cool. They add texture and emphasize the character of each green. Especially chard.” He slices them into what looks like a small dice, and advocates sautéeing those stems with “some kind of allium,” which for him always includes shallots.

The sautéed stems also give the finished dish a confetti-on-top kind of beauty.

Last week, we purchased a harvest box from a wonderful nonprofit educational farm where we live in Dallas – Promise of Peace Gardens — and we found ourselves in possession of a wealth of gorgeous organic greens: two kinds of kale, rainbow chard and daikon greens.

Kale from our POP Gardens harvest box, with more greens in the background

Kale from our POP Gardens harvest box, with more greens in the background

I convinced Wylie to slow down enough to show me exactly how he achieves his greens greatness.

It starts with sweating shallots in olive oil, then adding garlic, then the toughest sliced stems, then the more tender stems, and then the greens — beginning with the sturdiest (kale and collards, for instance). You add them, and cook till wilted enough to make room for the next batch. Then come the more tender — chard, mustard and/or turnip. And finally the most tender – young arugula, spinach and whatnot. After that, he adds a little chicken broth (vegetable broth or water work fine, too, and keep it vegan), to loosen up the the mix and let it breathe. Finally, off-heat, a dash of vinegar.

They’re super delicious on those evenings when a pot of beans and some brown rice or roasted sweet potatoes feel like healthy luxuries. For omnivores, they’re the perfect minerally counterpoint to something like saucy pork chops, or any kind of roasted or braised meat or poultry. (Duck!)

Sautéed greens with shallots and stems in a mid-century Danish white-and-gray bowl. In the background are saucy pork chops.

There you go. If you’ve been hesitating to subscribe to a local farm-box program for fear you’d be awash in stuff you couldn’t use, you have your braising orders.

RECIPE: Sunday Souper Soup

RECIPE: Maneet Chauhan’s Saag Paneer

RECIPE: Wylie’s Greens












Mini-Thanksgiving for a maxi-weird year: Keeping it small, delicious and stress-free

Who says a Thanksgiving turkey has to be ginormous? This roasted beauty is less than 8 pounds.

Who says a Thanksgiving turkey has to be ginormous? This roasted beauty is less than 8 pounds.

Think small.

This year’s Thanksgiving mantra often leads to suggestions of roasting just a turkey breast, or skipping turkey in favor of a jazzy autumn vegan centerpiece, or ordering a complete Thanksgiving menu from a local restaurant.

All wonderful ideas! But if you can’t help but feel that Thanksgiving isn’t Thanksgiving without a turkey, and that leftovers are the best part of the holiday, consider this: You can roast a small turkey. How small? I found a flock at Whole Foods a couple weeks ago that were around 8 pounds, and less. A 10-pound bird may be considerably smaller than what you’re used to; you should be able to find that size pretty easily. You can make just one of two sides. You can skip the cranberry sauce, if you think it clashes with the wine.

Roasting a whole small (or smallish) turkey gives you the luxurious freedom to contemplate that monumental white-meat-vs.-dark-meat decision. (Have both!) You can gnaw on that wing bone, with all that fabulous crispy skin. You can wake up the next morning and eat leftover turkey for breakfast. You deserve it, as this epic annus horribilis crawls to a close.

Another thing you and your family or small party of pod-mates deserve: All the dark-meat-lovers at the table can treat themselves to an entire thigh or drumstick. When has that ever happened?

Then, in the days that follow, you can all enjoy turkey tetrazzini, or turkey soup — or use leftover turkey meat to make turkey enchiladas verdes (swap the turkey for chicken in this recipe). Or do all three, or a combination of endless other possibilities.

As long as there will be eat least two or three people eating that bird, it’s a fabulous (and even thrifty) way of keeping you all fed for a week.

About that crispy skin: I read somewhere this year that no one wants the skin, and that it’s never crispy. Perhaps they’ve never invited a dry-brined bird to the table!

Go ahead — help yourself to a drumstick! You deserve it.

Go ahead — help yourself to a drumstick! You deserve it.

Using the dry-brine method — rubbing it with salt two or three days in advance of roasting — leads to juicy, delicious meat and beautiful crisp skin.

[Hey, are you thinking of dry-brining for the first time? We just created a free mini-course to help you. ]

Another way to think small: You can make just one or two sides. Maybe one fancy, and one super-simple. Skip the made-from-scratch Parker House rolls and buy some frozen ones. Frozen peas are legit. Order a pie from a local bakery that’s struggling, or a pastry chef that’s launched pandemic pie pop-up.

This year, I made some tweaks to a savory sweet potato gratin I’ve been enjoying every Thanksgiving for ages, and I love it even better. The original version was layered sweet potato slices baked in lots of thyme-infused cream; I pulled back the cream a bit, set the slices on their side, rather than laying them flat – for more interesting texture and visual appeal – and added sage butter to the equation. It’s a pretty fabulous indulgence, one that’s just as spectacular the next day. And the next.

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Of course we have other recipes for you. Here is a chestnut-porcini stuffing that you can customize as you like.

Here’s my favorite recipe for Brussels Sprout Leaves with Mirepoix and Pancetta, adapted from a Paul Bertolli recipe in Chez Panisse Cooking. This year, I tried slicing the Brussels sprouts thin instead of separating every leaf — way less time-consuming, and almost as good.

Here is our recipe for dry-brined turkey, for which you can use a small bird (or large).

Happy Thanksgiving. Stay healthy and safe.

And remember that holiday is a time for reflection and redress; the story about Native Americans celebrating joyfully with friendly pilgrims is a myth and a lie, as Brett Anderson’s excellent New York Times story explains.

Head over to our Cooks Without Borders Community Forum with any questions about Thanksgiving cooking; we’ll be happy to answer them.

RECIPE: Chestnut-Porcini Stuffing

RECIPE: Savory Sweet Potato Gratin with Sage-Butter and Thyme

RECIPE: Brussels Sprouts Leaves with Mirepoix and Pancetta

RECIPE: Roasted Turkey (Dry-Brined)

RECIPE: Dry-Brined Roast Turkey with Really Good Cognac Sauce

Rich, luscious and packed with umami, miso-butter sweet potatoes are a spectacular autumn treat

Roasted garnet sweet potatoes, slathered with miso butter and dressed with scallions and furikake

Roasted garnet sweet potatoes, slathered with miso butter and dressed with scallions and furikake

Miso butter is one of those magical ingredients. Creamy and luscious, rich with umami, it puts richness and incredible flavor anywhere you want it, turning the simplest foods into incredible luxuries.

It’s stunningly easy to make: Combine equal amounts of miso with softened unsalted butter. That’s it.

You can use it in a hundred different ways. Plop it on plastic film, roll in a log and chill it (as you would any compound butter), then use slices as needed to melt atop steaks or chops or steamed, braised or roasted vegetables. (Braised kale! Roasted eggplant! Roasted Brussels sprouts!) Stir it into boiled soba noodles or brown rice. Spread it on salmon fillets or chicken breasts before roasting or broiling. 

Roasted sweet potato with miso-butter, scallions and furikake.

The most delicious way to use it, as far as we’re concerned, is slathering it on a hot-from-the-oven sweet potato that’s been roasted till creamy-soft, luscious and caramelized. Three ingredients: butter, miso, sweet potato. Infinite autumnal pleasure, essential winter joy. Sure, it’s a bit indulgent, with all that butter, but it’s so good. And it’s a meal in itself. Sometimes I grind black pepper on top.

Last night, I got a little fancier, skipping the black pepper and adding sliced scallions and a sprinkle of furikake — the Japanese condiment of sesame seeds and nori flakes that has become one of my pandemic pantry essentials. A dash of shichimi togarashi (Japanese red pepper flakes in a tiny shaker bottle) added a happy high note. I didn’t realize it while it was happening, but the furikake-togarashi play was inspired by a José Andrés recipe for Miso-Butter Corn.

You don’t really need a recipe for this, but maybe you’d like one. The pleasure’s all mine. And now yours.