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White gazpacho is a soup from the time long before there were tomatoes in Spain for making chilled red gazpacho, a familiar and beloved paean to summer. But there were almonds, garlic, chickens, and bread. White gazpacho is essentially a mild chicken soup made forceful, filling, and hearty with a garlic-almond mayonnaise and bread soaked in the broth. To make it more sumptuous, I add chicken and almond meatballs, echoing those same ancient ingredients. It is ultrarich. A bowlful with a side dish of sturdy-leaf salad garnished with orange slices suffices for a meal. A tip: The recipe calls for a total of 3/4 cup slivered blanched almonds, divided into 1/4 cup portions for three different steps. To facilitate the division, toast the whole amount of almonds in a microwave or toaster oven until the nuts begin to brown and have a toasty smell, 5 to 6 minutes, depending on how fresh they are. Set aside 1/4 cup of the toasted slivers for garnishing the soup. Pulverize the remaining 1/2 cup in a food processor until reduced to a paste. Divide the paste into two parts, one for the sausage, one for the soup.

Uncomplicated, straight from the heart of the cook to the mouth and belly of the diner via the stove, a bowl of matzo balls in chicken soup is a sure-bet comfort food. With chicken in the matzo balls and the homemade “twice-cooked” broth, that simple bowl of comfort food becomes a substantial meal. It is a good idea to make the broth and meatball mixture the day before, so that when you’re ready to eat, there’s not a long wait. Also, that way you can use the fat that congeals on top of the broth, the schmaltz, in place of butter in the matzo balls.

I adore pearl barley, yet seldom remember to cook it. But at least once a year, in late spring leaning toward summer, when the weather is still chilly, I suddenly have a notion to make Scotch broth. It is essentially a homespun celebration of root vegetables bolstered by and enriched with lamb. The usual vegetable selection includes leeks, carrots, turnips, rutabagas, kohlrabies, and parsnips. Hamburg parsley, which is grown for its root rather than its leaves and is popular in northern European cooking, is also a good addition, adding herbal appeal. Unfortunately, it is so far not widely available in U.S. markets, but a garnish of fresh parsley nicely fills the herbal niche. Lamb neck and bone-in shoulder chops, the customary cuts for Scotch broth, create a meat broth as the soup cooks. Here, I turn the lamb into sausage and use a quick and convenient-to-make vegetable broth. That way the meat is thriftily stretched while still providing its depth of flavor to the soup. I add a tablespoon of tomato paste for color and a hint of acid: perhaps a shocking sidestep to staunch traditionalists, but I think the soup appreciates it.

Crépinettes get their name from the veil fat that is used to wrap them. They were a classic at Pigby-the-Tail, one of the most requested of our sausages for uncountable neighborhood and family potlucks and summer grilling parties. It’s no wonder. A crépinette patty wrapped in its transparent caul with a whole basil leaf showing through is a thing of beauty. Caul fat is difficult to find, though that is changing with the renewed interest in charcuterie (see page 154). If you prefer to keep it simple, here is the modified recipe, caul optional. Made without caul, the crépinettes are equally delicious, though somewhat less mysterious without the umami the caul provides, and the lovely look is simulated by pressing a basil leaf on top of the patty just after cooking.

Shepherd’s pie is a signature dish in the pubs of England and Ireland, sometimes made with lamb, as here, and sometimes with beef, in which case it is called cottage pie. The idea is the same: a simple meat pie made with a mirepoix—onion, carrot, celery—under a top crust of mashed potatoes. There’s no cheese in the mashed potatoes, but when the pie is baked, the crust is somehow enriched through the alchemy of cooking and tastes as though there were. Shepherd’s pie is usually made with leftover cooked lamb. Swapping that for quick and easy homemade lamb sausage is my revisionism, to give the humble pie a fresh and lively taste. Also, to gussy it up, I use tiny pearl onions so the onion element has a more defined presence in the pie. The horseradish is also my whim, to give the dish an acrid lilt that helps lift it above what might otherwise be humdrum fare. Fresh horseradish root is often available in produce stores and supermarkets around Passover for Jewish customers; wasabi root, though not exactly the same botanically, is similar and it is available around the New Year for Japanese customers. Like fresh ginger, horseradish root can be stored in the refrigerator almost indefinitely, as long as it is kept dry.

The highland sheep of Scotland and Ireland graze in rugged terrain with sparse vegetation. Fittingly, the seasoning for a lamb sausage one might find in those northern isles is somewhat understated. A few well-chosen aromatics, along with salt and pepper, suffice to make a tasty sausage that evokes that landscape and its restrained fare.

Tagine is the signature dish, harissa is the signature hot condiment, and merguez is the signature spicy sausage of North Africa. Quince would be more usual for the fruit, but they are only fleetingly available in late fall, and the stew is quite divine throughout the year. So, I use apples, available all the time. Couscous, the signature tiny-bead pasta of North Africa that fluffs up in a hot-water soak without further cooking, is the accompaniment, the bed, in any variation.

When chorizo crossed the Straits of Gibraltar from Spain to North Africa, the meat of it, pork, was swapped for lamb. The mostly Muslim North Africans don’t eat pork. The feisty essence of chorizo was not lost in the translation, however: the seasonings remained pretty much the same, with regional and personal variations, as always. A touch of cinnamon here, dried whole red chiles instead of milder ground paprika, maybe some cumin, maybe not, and always garlic. On either side of the straits, it’s a vivacious sausage to use in dishes that want definite sausage input. Here is the lamb version called merguez; for the pork version, see page 24.

The Vendy Awards began in 2004 as a benefit to raise funds for New York street food vendors who were struggling to establish their right to operate in the city. The issue in dispute was that the city wanted to tax the street vendors even though they didn’t operate from brick-and-mortar venues. (The issue of who has to pay tax to whom is, of course, age-old.) Fortunately, it was finally settled, and the awards became an annual New York City celebration of street food, with an informal competition for best stand decided by popular vote. On a given day in early autumn, vendors from all around the city assemble in a park (a different one each year) and proffer their take-away delights to an ever-growing number of fans. The flavors and aromas of Pakistani and Indian cooking aced the show three out of four times, sort of: In 2006, Sammy the Halal Man won the prize for his Pakistani chicken and rice biriyani. In 2007, the Dosa Man won for his vegan dosa. In 2008, though the Calexico burrito and taco vendor won the juried prize, the popular vote went to Biriyani Cart’s Meru Sikder for his Bangladeshi lamb and rice dish. In other words, the populist Vendys confirm the wide appeal of foods from countries along the ancient spice route. Note: You can also serve the meatballs and topping and garnish elements as a biriyani dish, over steamed basmati rice rather than folded into a flatbread.

Although I’ve never been to Singapore, preparing this dish leads me there in fantasy. Heady with the fragrance and the flavors of India and Malaysia—cumin, fennel seeds, curry powder—and punctuated with coconut milk and almond, it parlays into a perfect balance of hot, sweet, salty, and sour. The touch of fresh lime juice for the sour element points toward the Southeast Asian contribution in a crossroads cuisine that translates smoothly to American kitchens.

Lamb sausage spiked with pine nuts and raisins, masterful fare from Turkey found around the Mediterranean, is exactly right for a summer grill party. The figs and fennel practically insist on being combined into a marmalade to accompany the lusty sausage. It can also be used as a compote for pork or chicken dishes or as a topping for toast or scones. If you happen to have a fig tree, or know someone who does, use its leaves to wrap the sausage. They impart an aroma and flavor of cinnamon that greatly enhances the lamb and evokes the Garden of Eden, after the Fall.

This lamb, green bean, and tomato soup-stew, known as fasoulia in the home of my childhood, was the by-product of a regular event: my father dissecting a leg of lamb into its parts, from the most highly treasured, neatly cubed pieces for shish kebab to the fattier but still tender parts for grinding into sausage. A sidebar of the ritual was putting the bone and all the gristly bits into a pot, covering them with water, and gently simmering them into a broth for fasoulia. Even though the dish was a by-product of making shish kebab, it enjoyed a humble stature on our dinner table. These days when I desire a taste of lamb home cooking and am not deconstructing a leg of lamb, I use a bit of purchased ground lamb for meatballs. The green beans are key here, and though I usually turn up my nose at frozen vegetables, I make an exception for fasoulia, so that it can be enjoyed throughout the year. I find this soup-stew doesn’t need anything in the way of a side dish. A slice of bread, a spoon, and family company suffice, but Armenians would include pilaf on the side.

Nowadays, dolmas are standard fare throughout the eastern Mediterranean and Caucasus. But it is interesting to ponder how they became so in ancient lands that never had New World ingredients until seafarers carried them to the Old World on their return journeys. To complicate the story, they put ashore in Atlantic ports, so it was still a long trek to get to the eastern Mediterranean. Nonetheless, they did, once again demonstrating the scope and power of food as a pathway of global interconnections. Adding a bed of potatoes as infrastructure in this dolma is a particularly Greek touch, and a good one. The potatoes soak up the juices rendered as the vegetables cook and collapse into them, making a crude sauce on the bottom of the dish. I prefer green bell peppers, but it seems these days red bells are equally, if not more, favored, so I make a mix of them, including some yellow and orange ones that add sunny color to the array.

Hmong farmers, fleeing Laos to escape persecution, began arriving in the United States in the latter half of the 1970s, with the majority arriving in the 1980s. Most of them eventually settled where they could continue their agrarian life: Minnesota, Wisconsin, Ohio, North Carolina, and California, especially in the fertile land around Fresno, California. This occurrence is especially remarkable to me because it is where my Armenian relatives also settled three generations ago to farm in one of most bountiful growing places in the world. And I benefit still from that abundance. Notwithstanding the lengthy trip to the Bay Area, Hmong-grown vegetables from Fresno appear in glorious array at my local Oakland farmers’ market every Saturday, alongside the Armenian stand from the same area with its effusive display of fruits, heirloom tomatoes, eggplants, and Armenian cucumbers. Among the Hmong staples for sale are sturdy Asian brassicas, such as Chinese cabbage, Chinese mustard greens, and choys of several kinds; luffa (ridged gourd) and Chinese bitter melon; okra and small pickling cucumbers for my holiday pickle jars; and long beans for my Asian-to-new-Californian dishes. Together these two vendors supplement each other and pay tribute to the marriage of Asian and Mediterranean culinary ingredients in California’s hot and prolific Central Valley. It’s enough to incite a food frenzy and cook up something healthful and delicious, such as this hearty yet delicate Hmong-style main-dish soup.

Faced with a surplus of leftover bread—enough crumbs stockpiled and nothing requiring croutons at the moment—I turn to a savory bread pudding. Since bread puddings remind me of British cooking, I whip up a sausage with typical English aromatics, add dried pear for tasty curiosity, and ecco!—a pudding-pie for dinner. The dried pears should be unsulfured, rather than sulfured, because they are less sweet, making them more suitable for this dish.

By curious circumstance, I found myself in Vienna in 1968, shortly after the Soviet invasion of Czechoslovakia and just over a decade after the Soviet invasion of Hungary. I was there for the International Philosophical Congress, which didn’t hold my interest long. There was much more to see and experience outside the confines of academia. Aside from the eternal beauty of Vienna as a center for music, the fine arts, and fine pastries, the streets were filled with people—Czechs as well as Hungarians—who had taken refuge in the welcoming city following the invasion of their countries. The energizing buzz over the politics of the time was everywhere, expressed in Czech, Russian, Hungarian Magyar (a language unrelated to nearly all other European languages and incomprehensible to ears unfamiliar with it), and in other tongues as well. But, as always, the food served as a binding, cohesive force. The city’s dining establishments, casual bistros and more formal restaurants alike, were filled with east Europeans, Viennese locals, and tourists like me, all looking for something good to eat. In addition to the impossible-to-resist Viennese fare, there were many Hungarian dishes which had become a familiar part of Viennese cooking. That is when and where I discovered the essential tastes and food combinations of east European cuisine, and, more important, that no matter what, food of the homeland is never left behind.

The countries of east Europe are a disparate lot, continually at odds over issues of religion and governance. But, as nearby neighbors, they share a cooking culture over and above those differences. This sausage and the following recipe for Hungarian meatballs in a sour cream sauce are my imaginative combining of the foods that this corner of the world can share without rancor or strife. The sausage, formed into balls and sautéed, can also be served with cucumbers in a light vinaigrette and potato salad dressed with dill and sour cream for a meze plate.

Imam bayildi, as this dish of Turkish origin is called in Bulgaria, Albania, and Greece, and its story have a special place in my cooking repertoire and in my heart. It was introduced to me by Susanna Hoffman, my longtime friend and sometimes cookbook coauthor, who is, among other things, an esteemed social anthropologist whose special field of endeavor is Greece. The story of imam bayildi has many versions, but details aside, it is essentially a tale of love and household thrift. A bride new to the house of her new husband, an imam, came with a dowry of olive oil. But there was only a certain amount. And the imam loved eggplant above all other foods. In practice, because eggplant, as it cooks, is a great gulper of olive oil, and olive oil is the equivalent of kitchen gold, the dish was using up too much of the bride’s dowry. What to do? How to please the husband and keep the eggplant rich and unctuous without blowing the kitchen budget? Susanna solved the dilemma by having the thoughtful bride coax the eggplant into softening with the addition of some water, thereby requiring less of the precious olive oil and with equally excellent results. Was the imam thrilled? Did he faint as the original story line suggests? We don’t know, but we presume the clever, money-minded bride kept her place and the imam was happy. In yet another, latter-day telling of the story, I call the beef and eggplant filling a sausage and the eggplant shells the casing, and imam bayildi winds up in a new sausage cookbook.

Partially cooking the potato and chilling it before grating serves two purposes: the potato gets thoroughly cooked within the sausage mix, which it won’t if it is added raw, and the sausage doesn’t turn out soft and mushy, which it will if the potato is cooked and mashed first. I prefer to get a jump start on this dish by preparing the potato a day ahead and chilling it overnight. But if you’re in a rush, several hours will do the trick, in which case, use the freezer to hasten the chilling. Rather than the standard Swedish accompaniment of mashed potatoes, I serve the sausage with a side of colorful, almost candylike roasted beets topped with sour cream.

I dub my Italianate beef meatballs with a nugget of cheese in the center polpette, which in Italian means “round food”—as in meatball, fish ball, rice ball—because it is a fun word to say and it describes their jolly, amenable nature. They accommodate meatball needs from cocktail-size tidbits for dipping into cherry tomato chutney (page 17) to large balls bouncing in a hearty red pasta sauce (page 73).