Versatile pork tenderloin has a number of admirable attributes—it’s easy to prepare (just don’t overcook it), it plays well with endless global flavors (from lemongrass to Creole mustard), and feeds a crowd without blowing your budget. But let’s be honest: pork tenderloin will never make your heart race the way a well-marbled rib eye or glistening red snapper does. That is, unless you partner it with a hot grill, wood-fueled fire, and a seductive ally. The lean, mild-tasting meat is made for punchy sidekicks. In this recipe, grilled pork tenderloin is paired with one of my favorite supporting players: a tangy green salsa made from blistered tomatillos, onion, garlic, and serranos, which takes on a complex, caramelized depth from all of the charred and blackened bits. Finishing the sauce with a splash of thickened cream isn’t essential, but it makes everything better, bringing the tart, bitter, and spicy flavors together beautifully. This green salsa can be made up to five days in advance, so it’s a great opportunity to make the most of a lingering fire (from, say, last night’s dinner) and cook ahead—a time-efficient practice that I encourage in my books. Or, you can char the vegetables in a grill basket first, toss them in a food processor, and then puree them into a sauce while the meat rests. Another reason to direct pork tenderloin to the grill? You can use your tongs to roll the meat over the grates for even browning. That means more crispy, delicious exterior—and no panic about flipping, say, a fish fillet or chicken breast without tearing the skin. Serve thinly sliced rounds of pork over a pool of the tomatillo sauce, or pour the salsa over the top. When it’s paired with warm corn tortillas or steaming white rice, I ask you, dear reader, would you call this meal boring? Never.

As a cook, it takes a certain kind of confidence to keep things simple. When I was a food editor reviewing recipes submitted by staff or freelancers, I noticed that less-experienced cooks often had a hard time showing restraint. Ingredient lists were long, with superfluous touches that distracted from what should have been the star on the plate. As with so many things in life, the KISS principle—Keep It Simple, Stupid—is a good one to go by. It doesn’t always hold up, of course; special-occasion dishes might require more flourishes. But for weeknight cooking that makes you and your family happy, pucker up. That mantra is at play here in this one-pan chicken thigh recipe. The only seasonings are salt, pepper, and thyme—no kitchen-sink spice rubs or all-the-condiments dumps. And you know what? It’s delicious. That’s because it’s all about the chicken. Bone-in, skin-on chicken thighs start out in a skillet over medium heat so the fat slowly renders as the skin crisps up. And not one bit of that fat goes to waste; sweet onions and zucchini cook in it, soaking up all that good chicken-y flavor as they melt to an irresistibly silky texture. I’ll typically bring the skillet out to the table for everyone to serve themselves, and we’ll spoon the vegetables over brown rice or quinoa. Or I might set out some crusty bread to swipe through the drippings. For best results, seek out air-chilled chicken. Air chilling (as opposed to submerging chickens in water during processing) means flavors aren’t diluted, and the skin isn’t waterlogged—which translates to crispier results, the kind of chicken skin you dream about. (Or is it just me?) I use this technique as a template, swapping out veggies based on what’s in season. I always start the chicken as described here, then proceed with the onion, garlic, and thyme. But in place of zucchini (salted and drained to remove excess liquid), I might toss in torn kale, fresh corn kernels, cherry tomatoes, or—one of my fall favorites—red grapes. My kids adore every incarnation, and I attribute that to the buttery-soft texture of the onions. Well, and some chicken fat doesn’t hurt. Not one bit.

Some people think cilantro tastes like parsley dusted with Bar Keepers Friend; others love it so much they want to rub their snouts in it. I belong to the latter group. If a bunch of cilantro would hold up as a bouquet, I would have carried it at my wedding. I wish someone would market a cilantro tincture that I could dab behind my ears. I make this salad, which is about 75% cilantro, at the end of winter when I’m daydreaming of my summer herb garden, where I plant cilantro every spring—and every July, and again at the end of August. It grows quickly; I harvest it by the roots, and plant it again. Unlike other soft herbs like basil and tarragon that can withstand regular picking and keep on producing, cilantro is what we garden-nerds call a bolter. It speeds quickly to the harvest zone, pausing like a new teenage driver at a stop sign (the rolling stop) before rushing straight to seed. After the leaves begin to frill, the flavor is gone. So when I see cilantro sold with its roots still attached—and in the winter, this can only mean that I’m shopping my favorite Asian market in nearby Fargo, North Dakota—I snatch up a few bunches. Any place that sells root-bound cilantro understands that the pungent perfume concentrates in cilantro’s roots, runs like nectar up through the stems, and dissipates through the leaves. As if that’s not enough to earn my devotion, Asian markets also sell sushi rice and toban djan (Chinese chili bean paste), ingredients essential to making this powerhouse of a salad. Built on a lump of leftover rice, this dish comes together as quickly as a fire built in my wood stove. Chili paste for kindling, onions and peanuts stacked crosswise to burn, and tons of quick-fire cilantro on top. The lime juice is like lighter fluid here, setting the whole thing aflame—a false igniter that at the end of the winter I’m not averse to using. Feel free to throw something grilled on top of this cilantro bed and call it dinner, but truth be told, I prefer it the next day, cold from the fridge, eaten straight from its storage container.

With the first sign of pea shoots at the market, I grant myself permission to act like a gleeful schoolgirl. Pea shoots, sometimes called pea greens or pea tips (and not to be confused with pea sprouts) are the tender young tendrils of pea plants like sugar snap peas or snow peas. Their appearance feels momentous to me, as they are the first shots of green I’ve seen in months. They even look coy for taking so long to show up. With their wispy, bouncy tendrils and delicate demeanor they seem to say: “Apologies for the late arrival, but we’re so happy to be here.” I start cooking them with abandon: pea shoots tossed with lemon juice on top of a frittata; with grassy olive oil and shaved Parmesan; sautéed with lots of ginger and garlic to accompany shrimp. Sometimes I even just crunch on pea shoots raw like a grazing rabbit. I’m just very happy they finally made it to the party. Given their highly anticipated entrance, I suppose they deserve a recipe worthy of a celebration meal, so I’ve gone ahead and planned them one. I hope they’ll be pleased. I toss the pea shoots with pasta and tender crabmeat in a bright, lemony butter and white wine sauce, and finish the dish with mint and other tender herbs. The resulting crab and pea shoot pasta makes a simple but very special supper that has everything to do with the quality of the ingredients. If you can find fresh tagliatelle, use it. The delicate texture is a fine match for the crab to get tangled up in. But if another long, dried, ribbon-like shape (such as linguine or fettucine) is in closer reach, use it—it will also work well. An easy salad composed of endive or fennel and radishes would be a nice addition to this meal. To drink, white is always a safe bet with crab; Saumur Blanc,Manoir de la Tête Rouge, “Tete d’Ange” 2017 (Chenin) retails for around $22 and is perfectly delicious. But for this dish, I think pink and preferably bubbly, such as this Free Mousse Pet Nat from Manoir Tétede la Rouge. It’s a blend of Cab Franc and Chenin Blanc grown in Le Puy-Notre-Dame in western France and truly coincidentally imported by my friends at Goatboy Selections—a small but mighty natural wine import company that has an impressive roster of producers. Sometimes it’s a good idea to pick a wine based on the back of the bottle, not the label on the front. If it’s stamped with a seal of approval from a distributor you like, you’ll more often than not be pleased with your selection. This wine is plainly just darn delicious. It smells subtly of tart, red fruit, has good acidity to cut through the richness of the butter, and plays nicely with the sweet salinity of the crab, but above all is playful and easy to sip on—we can all drink to that.

A classic green salad—one featuring crisp lettuces and a few raw, seasonal vegetables, tossed with a barely-there vinaigrette—instantly elevates any meal. The trick to serving a properly dressed, but not wilting, salad is in the technique in which you build the salad, starting with the dressing, in a large wooden salad bowl.

Salted pumpkin seeds, toasted shell-on, are a super-popular snack all around Mexico. They form the base of pipián, a minimalist, savory mole sauce famous in states like Puebla, and they are an indispensable ingredient in Yucatán’s famous “pumpkin seed guacamole” called sikil pak. While they aren’t the most celebrated Mexican ingredient, they certainly deserve to be, especially when you taste these albóndigas (that’s Spanish for meatballs) made from ground pumpkin seeds, cooked rice, and tomatillos. We first sampled these vegetarian albóndigas at Planeta Vegetariano, a hidden-away, old-school vegetarian buffet that's been open for a couple of decades now in Puerto Vallarta, my wife Paola's hometown. This dish is a weekly staple for its loyal customers—it’s served every single Tuesday. We didn't know what to think about a meatless meatball, but at first bite, we fell instantly in love with the surprisingly meaty texture and satisfying flavor. They were so delicious and so memorable that one night Paola found herself thinking, why don't we try to make these at home? In Mexico, albóndigas are traditionally served in a stew with vegetables, which is how I grew up eating them. The broth includes mint as an aromatic, and the actual meatballs are typically made of ground beef, chicken, or pork, with rice to hold them together. (In coastal parts of Mexico, albóndigas tend to be much more delicate and made of fish or shrimp.) My mother would make a steamy one-pot meal of albóndigas in broth to eat on cold days. It easily fed the whole family, and we still had leftovers. These albóndigas are every bit as comforting, but don’t have a bit of ground meat in them. The ground toasted pumpkin seeds impart flavor and aroma, so the “meatballs” actually kind of smell like freshly crisped chicharrones. How?! That's the magic of this rich, savory seed. Tomatillos keep the albondigas moist and add an enticing flavor while the tomato broth (whether you go with vegetable or chicken stock) adds a layer of umami goodness. But perhaps the best part of this whole dish is how it comes together so quickly with things that you may already have in your pantry, and how many times it will feed you. We like to eat a bowl of these meatballs alongside some homemade or just really good-quality corn tortillas, fresh guacamole (the baller version without tomato fillers, just minced red onion, lime juice, and cilantro), and if you’re really, really hungry, some quesadillas. They make fantastic leftovers: albondigas taste even better the next day—and even tastier the day after that. (If you have any left, that is.)

I didn’t taste my first Taiwanese oyster omelet—a Taiwanese street food classic—in Taipei. Sadly, I’ve never been there. My first encounter with this extraordinary dish occurred in a frantic underground corridor in the New York subway system. Passing a small stall, I watched a chef toss oysters with eggs, add a sweet ketchup sauce, and flip it onto a paper plate. It seemed so incongruous in that setting that I simply had to try it. It was love at first bite.

Oh, how I love a snack cake. It just feels so… friendly. It’s doable, casual, and unassuming—and thus you’ll find one in my house way more often than a layer cake (which suits my kids just fine). Don’t be fooled by their less-glamorous looks; snack cakes are every bit as good. They’re certainly easier to make, so I can whip one up with little effort—and more frequency—and make everyone in my house happy.  

As with all good movie or TV franchises, snack cake deserves a sequel. If my first snack cake recipe (Carrot-Almond Snack Cake with Cream Cheese Frosting) didn’t catch your fancy, maybe this one will. The story line is the same—8-x-8 format, whisk-together batter, thick layer of yummy frosting over tall, moist cake—but the cast is completely different. You can think of these cakes as the True Detective of recipes (just seasons 1 and 3, please). What’s new in snack cake #2 is the incredible chemistry of the two main players, which work in sync quite beautifully: peanut butter and banana. (Well, there’s chocolate, too, but it’s in a supporting role). The fruity banana batter is bolstered by browned butter for caramel-like richness that’s echoed by the butterscotch notes of brown sugar. Chocolate chips make an appearance, too, and even though their role is small, it’s impactful—especially if you frost and cut the cake before it’s completely cool and the chocolate is still a little gooey. And here’s the real twist—this snack cake is completely whole-grain—but not in an obnoxious, hit-you-over-the-head sort of way. Whole-wheat pastry flour has a fine texture and mild flavor that blends seamlessly into baked goods like this. Though its flavor is milder than the earnest wheatiness of standard whole wheat, there is still some nutty nuance to it. And that’s great, because it intensifies the richness of all the good flavors in this cake (the browned butter, brown sugar, and peanut butter), instead of diluting them the way that white flour would. As for the salted peanut butter frosting, well, be still my heart! Peanut butter behaves quite similarly to butter here, beating to a fluffy consistency that gives the frosting a smooth, creamy, buttercream-like texture. And the decision to add a good hit of salt? It makes the peanut butter taste more peanut buttery, as if you’d concentrated the flavor of four times as much as you actually use. And it’s a delicious way to cap off snack cake #2—because a good sequel needs to stand up to the original and make you want even more.

A snacking cake—a simple dessert meant to be eaten unadorned—may seem like an odd between-meals treat, but this version, perfectly balanced between sweet and savory, fits in just right. Made from a simple, five-ingredient batter, this cake gets its bright acidity from extra-virgin olive oil and an earthy sweetness from maple syrup. Chopped bananas play well with both, making the cake a slightly more virtuous answer to all those overly sweet, dense banana loaves on bakery counters. Eat this cake as-is for breakfast. For a snack in the afternoon, though, a simple dusting of powdered sugar over the top dresses it up nicely for dessert with a scoop of ice cream.

Like so many kids, summers at the beach were everything to me: freedom, friends, fresh air, and most of all—frozen treats from the truck that pulled into the beach parking lot each afternoon, which we’d run to meet with crumpled bills clenched tightly in our fists. There was nothing better than those sticky sweets and the satisfaction that came from choosing whatever you wanted from the familiar menu. I usually opted for a strawberry shortcake pop, but once in a while I relished a rocket pop. Who could resist those bright, sugary layers, as well as the bonus of the deep blue your tongue turned? Perfect for showing off to your siblings. Flash forward 30 years and I still get nostalgic for those pops. Of course, they’ve now become a favorite of my 5-year-old daughter, too, on our annual family pilgrimage to beautiful Good Harbor Beach on the North Shore near Boston. But, as a mom, the ingredients don’t thrill me as much as they once did. So I decided to make a version of my own, still bursting with deep hues and summer flavor but with a slightly more adult approach. Mine are layered with strawberry-lime, coconut-banana and ginger, and blueberry-mint. Making the simple base for the layers is easy using a home blender; just be sure to freeze each layer sufficiently before pouring in the next, and use a small funnel to get even layers and keep the sides of your popsicle mold clean. Rest assured, the kids will still come running!

April in the Hudson Valley is unpredictable. Yes, it’s technically spring, but I’ve seen snow this time of year more often than I want to think about. After months of braised pork shoulders, roasted root vegetables, baked pastas, and stews, I want dishes that offer comfort but aren’t necessarily heavy. Enter this brothy Pernod-braised chicken thigh recipe, which offers the satisfaction of a slow-cooked meal but comes together in about 45 minutes.

Lobster tails are at their most delicious when the sweet, luxurious meat absorbs a whiff of smoke.

“Why are you making fried cardboard?” my first husband asked the first time he watched me make matzo brei. He had never before encountered this classic Jewish dish. Then he tasted it, his eyes went wide, and he asked for more. I have never known anyone who could resist it; even my son, the world’s pickiest eater at the age of two, was in love with it. As for me, if I could eat only one food for the rest of my life it would be this remarkably simple dish in which a few basic ingredients are magically transformed into something comforting and compelling. Rumors are floating about that there are people who like their matzo brei sweet. This, of course, is an abomination: Matzo brei should never mix with sugar. While I tend to be a purist—nothing but matzos, eggs, butter, and salt—I occasionally add caramelized onions which, in my opinion, make almost everything taste better. And now, on to my matzo brei rules: 1. Do not use those fancy new handmade matzos. Store-bought is fine. 2. Caramelize the onions slowly and for a very long time. You want them to be on the dark side. 3. Good butter is the secret to great matzo brei. 4. When in doubt, use more. 5. Break the matzos into a strainer set over a bowl so you catch all the tiny crumbs. They make the texture more interesting. 6. Don’t get your matzos so wet they go limp. 7. Some people cook their matzo brei in one piece, as if it were an omelet. Don’t. One of the great things about this dish is the textural variation: Some bits are fluffy as clouds, others crisp enough to crackle. 8. Do not use a nonstick pan because it will prevent you from achieving the results in rule 7. 9. This recipe serves 4, but the proportions are 1 egg and 1 matzo per person, so adjust to your needs. 10. Say the word right: “brei” rhymes with “fry.”

At my house, we often have what we call Snack Dinner, a meal that lets everyone enjoy a little bit of this and bit more of that—you know, snacking! It’s sort of like a mashup of a cheese board (but with less cheese), a charcuterie board (but with less meat), and a crudités platter (but with more heft).

I like to keep things simple for dinner prep because I don’t always feel like making a large, intricate meal—especially during the week. Depending on the day, I may be developing recipes, interviewing someone for a profile, going to the market to buy ingredients to test recipes, or writing a few thousand words for a cookbook chapter. By dinner time, simplicity is my mission. If I’ve been running around all day, I come home and change clothes, pour myself a glass of wine, put on music I want to cook to, and begin to prepare my supper. This recipe combines three simple things that I enjoy and turn to again and again when I’m cooking solo: seafood, an assortment of vegetables, and a mini sheet pan. Fish is a great main ingredient for a solo dinner—it’s inexpensive to buy in single portions, and it cooks quickly. I’ve trained myself to love vegetables and now I genuinely enjoy them—on an aesthetic level I like the color they add to a meal and the different textures they provide. In this recipe I pair salmon with three vegetables: brussels sprouts (because it’s wintertime and they’re everywhere), red bell pepper (for color), and red onions (for flavor and a little crunch). Using hoisin as a base, I made a quick and simple spicy sauce by adding minced ginger, garlic, cayenne pepper, lime juice, and olive oil. I get excited making this dinner because it’s easy, full of flavor, and a good balance of sweet, sour, and spicy—depending on how much cayenne pepper you add. Start with a small pinch to start, then add more if you prefer a spicy kick. That’s the great part about cooking for yourself—you can crank up the heat as much as you want! But the true beauty of the recipe is that it all cooks on one sheet pan and just takes about 20 minutes. So when dinner’s done, there’s just one pan to wash. Then you can get back to unwinding with your favorite tunes and that well-deserved glass of wine.

Ten years ago, my friend Jessamyn Rodriguez envisioned a nonprofit that would change the face of the culinary industry by training immigrant women for good jobs in food. She set up a wholesale bakery and teaching kitchen in East Harlem. She called it Hot Bread Kitchen. Three years in, she invited me to join the board of directors, and I’ve proudly been watching its ranks of bakers, cooks, and managers expand ever since. As of today, Hot Bread Kitchen (or HBK) has helped hundreds of women and small food businesses get off the ground while significantly raising the bar on NYC’s carb game with its globally themed bread, from stollen, and babka to challah and parker house rolls—all inspired by the recipes of the women who train there. But it’s their  M’smen—an intensely buttery Moroccan flatbread—that i’m addicted to. I buy it online or at their bakery whenever I can. It’s a challenge not to rip it apart and eat it on the spot, but if i bring it home,  M’smen becomes the basis for a slew of delicious meals. It’s the ideal vehicle for almost any dip and a gorgeous base on which to pile a salad or braised vegetables and meat. Crisped up in a pan with a little (more) butter or oil, my most recent  M’smen revelation is for breakfast, served with harissa-spiced yogurt, merguez sausage, and eggs. With every bite, i give a quiet nod of thanks to the fearless women of HBK who have taught me so much about reinvention, resilience, and the barrier-breaking power of well-baked bread. You can get the recipe for  M’smen here or order it online at hotbreadkitchen.org.

With the smooth, nutty peanut butter filling, glistening ganache, and salty roasted peanuts on top, this pie evokes all the sweetness of a childhood memory, delivered in the form of an elegant, nuanced dessert that adults will want to savor.

From beating the eggs in a bowl with salt, pepper, and herbs, to scrambling them in the non-stick pan, breaking up their fast-cooking curds, to tracing the edge of omelet to loosen those pesky wispy bits, then finally sliding them under the lip of the egg crepe to roll the omelet over on itself into a tight football shape, chopsticks make every step easier.

"I would love to have your mom's cooking at my birthday," my partner, Rob, said to me last fall. He always loved certain dishes that she made, especially her beans and rice. My mother had passed away earlier that year, in June. This would be the first time cooking her recipes without her. I grew up in Cuba with my mom's cooking. Later, when we lived in the U.S., we would cook together whenever she visited from Florida. But neither of us wrote anything down. Nevertheless, I took the challenge on. There was a freshness in my mom's cooking. It was homely and not overly fussy. Her black beans are a perfect example. They begin by simply cooking dried black beans with onion, green pepper, and bay leaf in a pressure cooker, which makes quick work of dried beans, infusing them with flavor while turning them very tender and soft. She would then make sofrito: garlic, onions, and green pepper gently cooked for a long time in olive oil. She would add the sofrito to the beans, which enriched the cooking liquid and gave them a mellow flavor that didn't hit you over the head and really went well with everything else she served them with—the toasted rice, the sweet fried plantains, the boiled yuca, and the tender shredded beef of the ropa vieja. She served an achingly sweet caramel flan for dessert. And for me, all of these things together made the perfect meal. And so I did cook my mother's recipes for 30 people on Rob's birthday. I’ve made a career out of being a professional food photographer, and when I was making her recipes, there was a moment when I thought, Let me add the yellow and red peppers instead of the green, for color. But you know what? That's not the food that I remember. I started embracing the brown colors and tones and the earthy richness of each element. I wanted the beans to look and taste as they did when I grew up eating them. And so they did, and the meal was a huge success and a perfect tribute to her. I hope you enjoy this dish as much as I still do. A pressure cooker speeds everything up, but is not essential. If you use a regular heavy pot, soak the beans overnight, then simmer until nearly tender before adding the onion and pepper mixture.

My love of cooking for one runs so deep that I wrote a book about it, Cooking Solo: The Fun of Cooking for Yourself. Fundamentally, I believe that making a delicious meal is a powerful way to nourish and nurture yourself. It’s an exercise in creativity and self-care. You can also think of it as a rehearsal of sorts, testing a recipe out before you make it for other people. Another overlooked advantage to cooking for oneself is that you have the freedom to make whatever you please. You don’t have to compromise or worry about whether or not someone else approves of your menu. In short, you can allow yourself the pleasure of giving into your cravings. Which leads me to one of my favorite wintertime indulgences: making a solo dinner that can double as a hearty, comforting breakfast. Here, the potatoes and sausage remind me of the first meal of the day, but I often swap out pancakes and eggs for kale and onions to make it feel more like dinner (and more grown-up, since there are vegetables). The brilliant thing about this recipe is that you can cook it all in one skillet. The key is adding each ingredient at the right time so that everything cooks without burning. You start by cooking the potatoes and sausage (I recommend small red potatoes and spicy Italian sausage, but you can use your favorite) and then once those start to brown, you add the sliced onions and then the kale. The bonus to using fresh sausage is that you get some of the delicious rendered fat as it cooks, which flavors the potatoes, onions and kale. To brighten the dish, once everything is cooked, I squeeze lemon juice over the top, and sprinkle the whole shebang with chopped parsley. This is a single-serving recipe, but it can easily be doubled—just use a bigger skillet so you have plenty of room. Klancy Miller is the author of Cooking Solo: The Fun of Cooking for Yourself. She earned her diplôme de pâtisserie from Le Cordon Bleu Paris. She has appeared in theNew York TimesFood section, on Food Network’s Recipe for Successand Cooking Channel’s Unique Sweets. She has written for Cherry Bombe, Bon Appetit, Food 52 and The Washington Post. Klancy is an advisory board member for Equity at the Table.

When cooking for famished friends in a kitchen of modest means, the key is to make hearty food that satisfies a crowd and can either be made ahead or pulled together quickly after a long day on the slopes.

As the workday fades and I begin to build dinner in my mind, and I’ve come to realize that my most creative and delicious weeknight dishes are born from what’s on hand waiting to be used. My dinner plan begins with one ingredient and expands from there as I consider what’s lingering in my cupboards and crisper. As a resident of the Pacific Northwest, it’s my self-imposed duty to eat the local wild salmon on a regular basis. Over many years of cooking the jewel-toned fish, my go-to method has become a low-heat roasting technique, which yields a delicate, buttery texture throughout. You’ll want to be sure to adjust the cooking time according to the thickness of your fillet. While a sizable Chinook, or king, salmon can be quite thick, sockeye salmon are relatively smaller fish with thinner fillets. I prefer them for their stunning carmine color and moderate fat content. This rich fish deserves a bright foil, and the blood oranges and mandarins that fill my fruit bowl right now are the perfect pick. Shingled slices underneath the salmon impart flavor during roasting; carefully cut supremes come together with the remains of a bunch of parsley to create a tart and bright salad for topping the finished dish. I like to lean on one or two robust pantry staples to build flavor; in this case, a bottle of pomegranate molasses and a nearly-forgotten tub of Castelvetrano olives. Tart and just barely sweet, the pomegranate molasses cuts through the richness of the fish while creating a gorgeous, shimmering glaze; the olives balance the bright flavors of the salad with their soft salinity and luxe butteriness. One good pairing for wild salmon is Oregon Pinot Noir, but here, a dry or slightly off-dry Oregon Riesling is perfect. Replete with zingy acidity, it perfectly counterbalances the richness of the fatty, flavorsome fish and stands up to the bright salad and tart, fruity glaze.

I’m a cook who loves to hover over a pot and observe the transformation of ingredients, but let’s face it, most people just want to get into the eating action. That’s where modern, time-saving appliances like pressure cookers such as the Instant Pot come in. They can’t do everything well, but they’re fabulous for certain things, like dishes that normally require long simmering and slow cooking. This Vietnamese beef stew (bo kho, pronounced “baw caw”) from my book, Vietnamese Food Any Day, is the perfect example. It appeared in the February issue of Food & Wine prepared in a Dutch Oven with a three-hour cook time. This French-inspired stew is a dream simmering on your stovetop with the aromas of lemongrass and star anise wafting through your home. But you can still enjoy the same flavor in about half the time with a little help from your Instant Pot. I quickly discovered that adapting traditional recipes for the pressure cooker isn’t as simple as cutting regular cooking time. Appliances require you to adjust to their functionalities. Here’s a quick rundown of the changes I made to the recipe and why. And don’t worry if you don’t own an Instant Pot; you can get the original Dutch oven version of the recipe here. Pressure cookers extract and meld flavors fast. But there’s a lot of hedging and guessing because once the lid is locked in place, you can’t see what’s going on inside the pot. Cooking happens as pressure builds, during actual pressure cooking, and while the pot depressurizes. From past experiences with pressure cookers, I guesstimated that the beef would require about 40 percent of the normal cook time (1 hour and 15 minutes) for the beef to become tender-chewy. That’s why in the recipe below, the beef is cooked at high pressure for 10 minutes and naturally depressurized for 18 minutes; also factored in is a little cooking time at the front end as the pressure builds. There’s a difference between a regular stovetop pressure cooker that ventilates and whistles while it works and an electric multicooker like the Instant Pot that operates in silence. Whereas some evaporation happens in stovetop models, there’s little to no moisture loss in machines like the Instant Pot. To compensate, I cook with less liquid in a multicooker than in a regular pressure cooker. During the last step, when you’re simmering the beef with the carrots, that’s when things start to slide back into comforting and familiar. The lid is off while things bubble away—you can the verify the meat’s tenderness and witness the cooking first-hand. At the end of the day, the Instant Pot recipe conversion was a success. My home still smelled wonderful—and I had an entire extra hour all to myself. Combining old-school recipe with a modern appliance turned this weekend project into a deliciously doable weeknight ditty.

If you have ever had the pleasure of indulging in a Nanaimo bar, you know just how intoxicating it can be: that chocolate-coconut cookie base made with chopped nuts, layered with creamy vanilla custard, and topped with dark chocolate ganache. It’s a distinctly Canadian creation—and the thing I’ve craved the most since I settled in New York 20 years ago. 

I'm a butter person; a world without butter would be a very dreary place. But my family loves coffee cake for breakfast, and one day it hit me that the butter and sour cream cake I routinely baked for them was a remarkably rich way to start the day. So I decided to come up with a cake that was both light and satisfying. I began with oranges and then added eggs. Instead of butter I used grapeseed oil, which I love for its neutral flavor. You could also use a fruity olive oil, which will give you a cake with a vaguely Spanish accent. I think of this as orange juice and eggs rolled into a single dish and puffed up with hot air. I think it’s a perfect way to start the day. What I like most is its sheer simplicity; this cake is about as basic—and easy— as they come. But one word of warning: don't open the oven too early. This cake will fall if provoked.

At home, this dish is dinner party gold: Assemble it ahead of time in the biggest, prettiest bowl you own, and pass it around the table with tongs, or serve it tableside with a butler’s flair.

Popovers are America’s answer to British Yorkshire pudding. Festive and comforting, they’re made by adding hot fat (butter, beef drippings, bacon grease) to the bottom of individual popover or muffin tins before pouring in a rich, eggy batter, which causes them to puff up and “pop” over the sides of the pan. Having grown up in Canada, I had never had a popover until I moved to the States. I quickly fell in love with them, especially when I realized how easy they are to make, and how satisfying when eaten still steaming right out of the oven. This past year, around Thanksgiving, I decided to put my own spin on the popover. As a Canadian living the United States, I can’t help but be envious of my American friends around Thanksgiving. More than any other adopted holiday, this one comes with boat loads of (nondenominational, bipartisan) family traditions, mostly centered around the kitchen. Family and friends gather from every corner of the country to spend a day cooking favorite recipes, many of which are passed down through generations, and enjoying a veritable feast. (Sure, Canada has its own Thanksgiving, modeled after its American counterpart, but it’s not nearly as obsessively food-focused, nor as widely celebrated.) So, this past year, around Thanksgiving, I decided to put my own spin on the popover. Over the two decades I’ve lived in New York, my husband and I have observed “American Thanksgiving”, as we Canadians call it, in different ways: joining friends at their family tables, making our own “friendsgiving” or, on occasion, using the long weekend as an excuse to travel, without the obligation to family that the holiday would otherwise require. But now that I had two (American) children, I felt the need to establish our own traditions that would teach them about their country’s history, as well as to understand and be grateful for the food we are so lucky to enjoy together. And so, I came up with these Maple Bacon Popovers—my first attempt at starting a family Thanksgiving ritual. My version includes maple syrup and bacon in the batter, as well as more maple brushed on top, giving the adapted American dish a distinctly Canadian accent, just like me. To make them, you’ll want a popover pan or a muffin tin. Preheat the pan in the oven—that step is key to the popover’s dramatic rise. We served them for Thanksgiving last year (and hope to for many years to come), but they’re so good—airy and eggy, sweetly glazed from the maple, with salty and crunchy bites from the bacon—they’re sure to become a favorite for weekend breakfasts all year long.

You could call them scrambled eggs, although that word doesn’t really do them justice. They’re scrambled, yes, in technical terms, but moreso coaxed—led gently through the cooking process with saintlike patience. I prefer to call them Slow Scrambies, and they’re a staple dish in the a.m. ritual I’ve dubbed #baroquebreakfast. Slow Scrambies are a morning indulgence nonpareil, not only because they are suffused with lots of good French butter, but also because making and eating them is a shamelessly decadent use of an hour. Everything about Slow Scrambies is an exercise in intention, starting with the eggs I get at the Greenmarket in my neighborhood each week—always a half dozen so nothing sits in my fridge too long. Whisking in a few spoonfuls of cream before cooking (or a scoop of ricotta afterwards) dials up the decadence, but they’ll get plenty creamy without it. Note that the less you stir while they’re in the pan, the larger the curd; I like to whisk them consistently so the end result has the texture of soft polenta. When everything’s ready, I drag my favorite sunny yellow chair over to the window where a few prisms catch the morning light, throwing trippy little rainbows around my kitchen. From there I sip coffee while keeping an eye on the Scrambies, checking in to break up the curds and make sure that my how-low-can-you-go flame hasn’t given up the ghost. Whether I’m making Scrambies, or my other other-top favorites Oatsies and Toasties, #baroquebreakfast and all its languid trappings is a gift to myself from myself of my most rare commodity—time.  

As a cookbook author and test kitchen cook, I make it my business to learn as much as I can about the recipes I test and develop. I can easily spend hours a day researching the history of a dish or reaching out to experts in their field. I even scour popular blogs (and their comment sections) for whatever information might be useful.   Along the way, especially in the comments, I’m often shocked at what I discover: unceasing aggression between people who have strong opinions on food and cooking. Opinions on everything from tomato sauce and puree to hard-boiled vs. hard-cooked eggs.   I don’t make it my business to argue with anyone—whether via email, on social media, or in the comments about what makes certain recipes what they are or should be. For instance, what makes a “chili” a “chili” and not just a stew? Some say it has to have meat and meat alone—such as Texas chili con carne—while others insist it must have beans. The quarrels can become quite heated, trust me. But I think it’s safe to say that everyone more or less agrees that a chili must have chile peppers (or chili/chile powder). And I agree. So, I am pointing to the chipotles in this dish and calling it: This recipe is a chili.   This smoky, rich chili is one of my go-to weeknight dinners, and for good reason. It’s a one-pot dish that has 10 ingredients (not including salt and pepper) and comes together in just 30 minutes. Plus, you can make it a day or two in advance because it reheats beautifully. If that isn’t enough, it’s also relatively healthy—bacon adds plenty of smoky flavor, but also renders enough fat to cook the aromatics, that way there’s no need for any additional oil. So, give this recipe a whirl—keeping your mind open to what “chili” really is—and remember to not read the comments.   Slideshow: More Chili Recipes

Before John Becker knew Megan Scott's real name, he was already a little smitten with the "cheddar scallion biscuit girl." Everyone who worked at the Dripolator Coffeehouse in Asheville, North Carolina, were devotees of Greenlife Grocery's signature savory biscuits—and the lovely baker who made them. They'd been nudging John to ask Megan out on a date, and to his surprise, she came into the coffee shop looking for him, only she didn't know it.   Megan had spent the summer learning from The Joy of Cooking—a book she'd heard regarded as the bible. When she heard that the original author’s great-grandson worked at Dripolator, she marched over and asked the barista to confirm the rumor. John turned beet red. She asked him out, he made coq au vin for her soon after, and within a week, the two were living together.   The couple is now taking on the monumental task of updating the much-beloved cookbook for the first time since 2006, and they're well aware of the place it holds in people's hearts. Some sections and recipes will be lovingly relegated to past editions, others will remain unchanged, and still others will be refreshed. Under John and Megan’s careful stewardship, new recipe, ingredient, and technique additions will reflect the changing face of American cooking, but at least one recipe will be making its debut in Joy's pages for sentimental reasons: these cheddar scallion biscuits.   The buttermilk dough bakes atop a pile of grated cheddar, bringing not just a wonderfully caramelized flavor, but a clever textural element in the form of crisp, lacy "feet" that form around the bottom or each biscuit. Add a hefty amount of chopped scallion into the mix and it's a savory, joyous match for the ages. —Kat Kinsman

For Daniel Humm, chef-owner of New York City’s Eleven Madison Park (EMP), comfort means the flavors of his Swiss childhood in the Alps: soft pretzels with mustard, veal schnitzel, spaetzle. I was lucky enough to taste his elevated takes on these dishes (and more) at EMP’s sister restaurant The NoMad last winter in the form of an elaborate smorgasbord he called Sunday Fondue Nights. In true Humm style, each plate was more decadent than the last, every detail fully considered then playfully crafted. I left the meal blanketed in a cozy haze. This winter, Humm and restaurateur Will Guidara will decamp to Aspen, Colorado—the summertime home of the Food & Wine Classic—to create a cold-weather pop-up. Situated in the restaurant of The St. Regis Aspen Resort and across 10 coveted yurts in the interior courtyard, EMP Winter House will allow Humm even more room to play with the après-ski dishes so close to his heart. Grab a table while you can, or do as I will: While chef Humm and his team are spreading good cheer in the Rockies, I plan to hunker down in my Brooklyn kitchen and re-create my new favorite comfort food: Humm’s simple, golden potato rösti, blanketed in crème fraîche and layered with pastrami and whole-grain mustard. It doesn’t get cozier than that.   For Daniel Humm, chef-owner of New York City’s Eleven Madison Park (EMP), comfort means the flavors of his Swiss childhood in the Alps: soft pretzels with mustard, veal schnitzel, spaetzle. I was lucky enough to taste his elevated takes on these dishes (and more) at EMP’s sister restaurant The NoMad last winter in the form of an elaborate smorgasbord he called Sunday Fondue Nights. In true Humm style, each plate was more decadent than the last, every detail fully considered then playfully crafted. I left the meal blanketed in a cozy haze.   This winter, Humm and restaurateur Will Guidara have decamped to Aspen, Colorado—the summertime home of the Food & Wine Classic—to create a cold-weather pop-up. Situated in the restaurant of The St. Regis Aspen Resort and across 10 coveted yurts in the interior courtyard, EMP Winter House will allow Humm even more room to play with the après-ski dishes so close to his heart. Grab a table while you can, or do as I will: While chef Humm and his team are spreading good cheer in the Rockies, I plan to hunker down in my Brooklyn kitchen and re-create my new favorite comfort food: Humm’s genius take on potato rösti, a beautiful, pan-sized potato pancake. To create make it, use a spiralizer to cut starchy russet potatoes into long shoestrings, rinse them to wash away extra starch, salt them to draw out their moisture, then pat them dry. Once the potatoes are in the pan, make sure to shake and give the skillet a quarter turn every 2 minutes or so to help the pancake brown evenly. Once finished, you can blanket it in smoked salmon and crème fraiche, or layer it with pastrami and whole grain mustard. Or even simpler: enjoy it under a gently fried egg for breakfast. It doesn’t get much cozier than that. EMP Winter House (in partnership with American Express) runs until mid-March; empwinterhouse.com