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.

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.

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

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

I grew up at the knees of some of the South’s great biscuit makers, but a Sicilian taught me how to cook. My senior year at Auburn University, serendipity introduced me to Flavia Mammana, a visiting mathematics scholar from Catania who was working on her doctorate. After a quick introduction over coffee, we decided to live together and signed a lease on a house. Flavia took it upon herself to take care of me, so, as any Sicilian would, she fed me. Constantly. She made pastas, cakes, breads, meatballs, and vegetables lovingly tended over the rental-house stove. But it was her pasta alla Norma, topped with a snowfall of grated ricotta salata she smuggled into the U.S. from Italy, that spoke to my increasingly pudgy little heart. This pasta is the dish of Catania, hometown of Vincenzo Bellini, and is said to take its name from the heroine of one of his most famous operas. The story goes that after seeing Norma performed, friends of the composer were so awestruck they went around describing everything they deemed outstanding as “una vera Norma” (“a real Norma”). The dish is simple: pasta—often penne, sometimes spaghetti—with tomato sauce; silken nuggets of fried eggplant; aromatic basil; and salted ricotta. But, as with all great dishes, the result is so much more than the sum of its parts. Norma is the kiss of Sicilian summer. It’s a composition that sings of seasonality, when tomatoes and eggplant are at their peak and balconies are overrun with potted basil. To call pasta alla Norma my obsession would be an understatement. If it’s on a menu, I compulsively order it. Through the years, with many, many return trips to this sun-drenched island off the tip of Italy’s boot, I’ve eaten it baked as a casserole, prepared with wide planks of eggplant, in a timbale, deconstructed with modernist flair, and even as arancini. But this version—inspired by Flavia’s mom’s recipe, remains dearest to my heart.

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.  

I had posole for the first time as a high schooler living abroad in Cuernavaca. Most weekends, my friends and would go to bars with my host mother, and she would get us drunk on cheap tequila. On one particular hungover morning, she loaded me into the back of her Jeep, took me to a restaurant in the mall, and ordered me my first bowl of posole. The space was drab and cramped, and there wasn't even a menu, but that posole brought me back to life. t was nourishing like a cup of broth on a sick day—bright with lime, rich from the chiles and pork. It was soup, plain and simple. And in that moment it was everything I wanted. Before posole was my hangover cure, it was a ceremonial dish for ancient Aztecs—corn was considered a sacred crop. Pork was added later when the Spaniards arrived in the 16th century and brought over pigs. These days, the stew is found all across Mexico, typically made by families on weekends or special occasions because there's a lot of labor involved—from cooking the pork to making the chile sauce to the nixtamalization of the corn (soaking it in pickling lime so the kernel softens and sheds its skin). Posole is the choose-your-own-adventure of Mexican cuisine. Start with a stew speckled with chewy bits of hominy and seasoned with lime and braised pork. Depending on the region, that soup could be green from jalapeños and tomatillos (if you're in Guerrero) or red from guajillo or ancho chiles (in areas such as Mexico City and Jalisco). Then, choose from a selection of toppings: finely chopped onions, sliced avocado, lime, radishes, lettuce, queso fresco. Go big, or keep it simple. That's the true beauty of posole: No two bowls look or taste exactly alike.

"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.

I was living in Mexico City the first time I saw tlacoyos, and at first, I had no idea what they were. The thick masa patties—cooked on sidewalk grills in nearly every bustling Mexico City neighborhood—looked like little flattened footballs, puffing with steam on the hot comal almost as if they were breathing. To make them, vendors reached into buckets of freshly ground masa, pulled out hunks of dough, patted them into disks, and stuffed them with a smear of refried beans, salty requesón cheese, or fava beans, then grilled them until crispy. Just before serving, the women topped the tlacoyos with cooked cactus, raw cilantro and onion, crumbled cheese, and salsa. The whole process was mesmerizing. And they tasted as good as, or often better than, anything I'd eaten in high-end restaurants. Shortly after trying them, I became fixated on learning how to make them. Eventually I earned the trust of Rosa Peña Sotres, a street vendor and master tlacoyo maker who invited me out to her house about an hour and 20 minutes from Mexico City for a cooking lesson. Doña Rosa taught me how to shape them by hand. It’s a simple enough technique that a novice like me could make passable tlacoyos to start—but it takes years, if not decades, of experience to do it as quickly and well as Doña Rosa. If you have a Mexican grocery store near you, see if they carry fresh tortilla masa— masa made from nixtamalized, fresh ground corn—which makes the best tlacoyos. If none is available, masa harina (widely available at most supermarkets) makes a forgiving dough that crisps up nicely in a skillet or on a comal. If you don’t have a tortilla press, you can use a rolling pin to flatten and shape each tlacoyo, a tip I came across when researching my book Eat Mexico: Recipes from Mexico City's Streets, Markets and Fondas. Serve them hot, and don't hold back on your toppings—the final tumble of textures is what completes the dish.