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Several years ago, my girlfriend Becky and I were traveling in the Alps and went through the Saint Bernard Pass from France to Italy, stopping in Valle d’Aosta. We laughed the whole time we were there, as we called it Valdosta, a South Georgia town near the Florida border better known more for pine, pulpwood, and turpentine than Roman ruins and fine cheeses. The first evening, Becky and I went out for dinner, wandering the ancient, winding cobblestone streets looking for a restaurant that seemed inviting. We found one. Thinking of the wooded forests nearby, I ordered rabbit. I should have been thinking of the crystal clear streams of melted snow. Becky ordered trout. They brought it to the table whole, on the bone. The waiter then proceeded to fillet it at the table. When done, he asked if she would like it drizzled with olive oil. It was a revelation. Trout is a very user-friendly fish to grill. Not only does its tough, leathery skin help keep the fish from falling apart, but it also insulates the flesh from the direct heat of the grill. This is the time to break out your best extra-virgin olive oil. The smoky, herb-infused fish just needs a little kiss of liquid gold.

Soft-shell crab season starts the night of the first full moon in May and lasts through September. A soft-shell crab is a blue crab fortuitously interrupted (for us, not the crab) in the middle of a growth spurt. A blue crab emerges from the muddy waters to shed its outer covering (exoskeleton). A soft-shell crab is a blue crab before its new shell hardens. Fishermen use baskets to catch crabs known as “peelers,” crabs that are beginning to split at the ends and are about to molt. They bring them onshore and hold them in water tanks until they complete the molting process. Once the peelers are in the tanks, they are watched closely to catch them within one hour of shedding. Softshell crabs that are newly shed and not pulled from the tanks are in danger, since they are immobile and basically dinner to other crabs in the water tank. Another reason to harvest them soon after shedding: if the new shell gets too hard, the fishermen have lost their harvest.

When vacationing as a child on the Gulf of Mexico or along the Atlantic, we would often spend an afternoon crabbing along a shallow pier or rocky jetty, using crawfish nets whose white-cotton webbing was long-ago colored a muddy red-brown. We would tie a bony chicken neck in the center of the net, toss it out into the shallow waters, and wait. Being a child and waiting patiently to pull in the nets do not go hand in hand. Until one of our parents intervened, we would pull in the nets to check them so often that the crabs didn’t have a chance to find them, much less saddle in for a good gnaw on the chicken. When we did catch them, it was important to release the females to help maintain the crab population. I always had a hard time telling them apart until one crusty Maryland crabber explained to me years later, “The male looks like the Washington Monument and the female looks like the Capitol.” Indeed, the underbelly flap of the male is decidedly pointed and long and the female’s is round with a nubbin of a tip. I like crab cakes, not crab-and-bread cakes—there needs to be just enough binder to hold the crab together. Use jumbo lump or lump crabmeat, be sure to keep the crab very cold since it spoils easily, and carefully pick through the meat to remove any bits of shell.

Capers are the preserved unopened flower buds of a prickly shrub native to the Mediterranean. The shrubs thrive on rocky cliffs of arid regions, including southern France and Sicily, where they are farmed as a cash crop. Salted capers are hand-harvested then cured and aged in sea salt. This process preserves the intense floral tones, herbal flavor, and firm texture of the buds. Brined capers are soaked in saltwater, then packed in brine or a mixture of brine and vinegar, which dulls the flavor. The salted capers tend to be a little more expensive, but are hand-harvested and worth every penny. While working for Epicurious television, I was able to travel to Italy to do a story on salted capers. Standing on the rocky hillside of an island, looking out over the sun-drenched Mediterranean, watching the peasant women harvesting the capers by hand while chattering in their local dialect, was pure poetry. When I returned to the States, I was reviewing the rough cut, which is a very basic edit of footage, a visual rough draft. A colleague who spoke Italian interrupted, “Wait a minute, play that back.” Turned out the pleasant chatter was not as idyllic as the scenery. One of the women was talking about her son-in-law, whom she called a worthless bastard and car thief. We decided to replace their conversation with a little music.

Halibut caught in the Pacific Ocean, in the northern areas near Alaska, and in the Bering Sea are caught by long-lining, which uses a central fishing line with smaller lines of baited hooks attached. This method is far less destructive to the marine habitat than the trawling methods used in the Atlantic. So, try to find Pacific halibut; alternatives include mako shark or farm-raised sturgeon. This recipe would also work well with a thick fillet of wild salmon. It’s important to cook the vegetables first to evaporate their moisture and concentrate their flavors. While cooking, the fish makes a lovely, fragrant broth, perfect to serve over grits, rice, or instant couscous in a shallow bowl.

This is one of those dishes that is just perfect for breakfast, Sunday dinner, or a weeknight supper. I usually peel and devein the shrimp, but leave on the tails. My dear friend Gena Berry grew up on St. Simons Island, Georgia, in the heart of the fishing and shrimping community. One day, we were in the kitchen getting ready for a party. She jumped in, helpful as always, and offered to peel the shrimp. When she saw my technique of leaving the tails on, she raised her eyebrows perilously high (as only Gena can do), and informed me that coast folks don’t peel shrimp like that. I still think it looks better. I use wild American shrimp, not pond-raised imports, because I am supporting those very shrimpers Gena grew up with. Save the shrimp shells to make shrimp stock (recipe on page 132).

Po’ boy sandwiches are found all along the Gulf Coast and are a New Orleans tradition. There are various tales about the origin of the name: that it’s a slang version of “poor boy” and the sandwich used to be an inexpensive, yet filling meal; that the sandwich was given out to streetcar workers on strike, who were essentially poor boys; or that it is a bastardized version of the French “pour boire.” This last theory holds that the sandwich was a sort of olive branch that men would bring home after a night of drinking and carousing around town. Whatever the name’s origin, it is an excellent sandwich. Although one can find roast beef and gravy po’ boys or fried potato and gravy po’ boys, possibly the most popular version of this iconic Louisiana treat is fried seafood po’ boys made with shrimp and oysters from the Gulf. The key to light and crispy fried food is to use the right oil. Peanut oil is a great choice for frying: it has a mild, pleasant flavor; does not take on the tastes of foods as readily as other oils do; and has a smoke point of about 450°F, meaning you can safely heat it to a very high temperature.

Cornmeal-coated fried fish is a product of modest country living: fish were free and cornmeal was cheap. You will not feel poor at all if you try these crusty fillets with Grits with Corn and Vidalia Onion (page 156) for a satisfying supper. This fried grouper also makes an excellent fish sandwich accompanied by homemade mayonnaise (page 282), lettuce, and tomato. Or you can dress it up by serving the fish on a bed of vegetable slaw (page 38). Fried fish with grits is another Southern classic that is good for breakfast, lunch, and dinner. If grouper is unavailable (which is likely, since it is overfished), or you would like to use a more sustainable fish, try mahi-mahi, wild striped bass, or wreckfish.

Mama always loved to order this dish when we went to the beach. But many cooks now avoid serving it since the harvesting methods are not considered ecologically friendly. In many instances, the fish are caught using a trawling method. Imagine a bulldozer scraping along the ocean floor, indiscriminately catching intended as well as unintended species. Even though flounder also suffers from overfishing (it seems too many people appreciate one of the best fish in the Gulf): I am calling for flounder here for old times’ sake. But you can substitute flat fish like English or Dover sole and turbot, which get better ecological marks and whose flavors are similar to that of flounder.

A Cajun specialty, étouffée is a succulent, tangy, tomato sauce usually made with crawfish or shrimp. The word étouffée comes from the French étouffer (to smother), and that’s it exactly: rich and tender crawfish tails smothered in a spicy blanket of flavorful sauce. “First, you make a roux” is the start of many Creole and Cajun recipes (it’s also the title of a popular cookbook from Louisiana published by the Lafayette Museum in the early 1960s). Roux is a cooked mixture of fat (butter) and starch (flour) used to thicken many sauces in classic French cooking. A Creole roux is not the classic French butter-flour mixture, but sometimes combines flour with an oil like peanut oil that can hold a high temperature. Unlike a French roux, which can be white to pale golden, Creole and Cajun roux are typically, at the very least, the color of peanut butter and progress to deep, dark brown. This process can take 45 minutes or so of constant stirring. It is dangerous stuff. If any splatters on you, it will be perfectly clear why this fiery, sticky combination of oil and flour is often referred to as “Cajun napalm”!

We moved to Louisiana from Evans, Georgia, when I was three years old. I remember the feeling of the winter’s morning we left; it was cold, and still dark outside. Up to that point I had spent every day of my short life with Meme and Dede, and I think our leaving broke my grandfather’s heart, at least for a little while. One benefit of the big move was that Mama started experimenting with Cajun and Creole cooking. This recipe became a family favorite, and one Dede particularly enjoyed when they came to visit. When buying shrimp, look for firm shrimp with a mild, almost sweet scent. If there is any scent of ammonia, it is a sign that the shrimp is no longer fresh.

To quote the regional cookbook Louisiana Entertains, “Good gumbos are like good sunsets: no two are exactly alike, and their delight lies in their variety.” All gumbos use a roux. However, in addition to a roux, some gumbos flavor and thicken with okra and others call for filé powder. Integral to Creole and Cajun cooking, filé powder is made from the dried leaves of the sassafras tree. It is used not only to thicken gumbo but also to impart its mild, lemon flavor. Filé powder should be stirred into gumbo toward the end of cooking or it will become tough and stringy.

The fish fry is right up on the list of orchestrated Southern feasts, along with the “pig pull” and “dinner on the grounds.” It’s a great party and wildly different from throwing a few burgers on the grill. And fried fish are just flat-out good. My grandparents met at a fish fry in 1930 and were inseparable through almost 65 years of marriage. They were a great team but there was no doubt who was the boss. For as long as I can remember, they had a motor home. They drove as far south as the Yucatan Peninsula in Mexico and to Fairbanks at the far end of the Alaska Highway, where they caught a small plane to the North Pole. I was able to take several long trips with them when I was young. Once the three of us drove north, through Detroit into Canada, east to Nova Scotia, where we caught the ferry to Newfoundland. We were on the one main road in Newfoundland to St. John’s and were about halfway across the island when Meme looked at my grandfather and said, “Sam, pull over in that gas station. I’m ready to go home.” He did, and we did.

When I was young, we spent many weekends at the Indian Creek Recreation Area, about ten miles south of Alexandria, Louisiana. In the spring, at the height of crawfish season, several families would get together and have a crawfish boil. I remember a huge pot practically the size of a bathtub filled with bright red crawfish, halved ears of yellow corn, sweet onions, whole new potatoes in the skin, and thick links of sausage, all bubbling in broth. The picnic tables were covered with newspapers and one of the men would dump a steaming basket of the potent mixture into the center of each. We’d gather around and eat, peeling the meat from the tails and sucking on the heads to get every last bit of the peppery juice. Crawfish are also known as mudbugs, crawdads, and crayfish. These freshwater crustaceans, in season from December to May, range in size from three to six inches and weigh from two to eight ounces. This recipe would be equally delicious made with blue or Dungeness crabs.

Cornish game hens (or Rock Cornish hens) are not as large as a chicken, yet larger than a quail. The French call them poussins, and they are essentially baby chickens. Mama has always cooked game hens for semi-special occasions since we all love them. They are great for a dinner party, too. Plan ahead, however; many grocery stores only sell them frozen. The safest way to defrost meat is in the refrigerator overnight or in the sink under cold running water. Bacteria thrive when food is between 41° and 140°F. So, you can imagine how appalled I am recalling how my mother, not knowing any better at the time, would defrost these hens, as well as chicken and hamburger meat, on the windowsill in the bright sunshine. It is amazing we never got sick (she knows better, now). Or maybe the early exposure just built up our resistance to food-borne bacteria.

Quail and dove shoots are still serious Southern rituals, and my father always hunted when I was growing up. Quail meat is darker than that of dove, which has a tendency to be dry. While I don’t shoot often anymore, I do love to reap the rewards from my friends and relatives who hunt. I can hardly eat or cook quail without thinking about a dinner party Mama hosted when I was young. She was frying the quail and her hand was splashed with hot grease. Instead of going to the hospital, she sat with her hand in a bowl of ice water in her lap under the table so as not to disturb her guests. Some people might think that was incredibly stupid, but all I can think about is her amazing hospitality and selflessness. Mama and I have laughed about it in later years, because the unexpected bonus is she has no age spots on that hand.

The first time Mama and I brined a turkey, it was a revelation. The bird emerged from the oven glistening and a rich, golden brown, like the glorious totemic beast from the Rockwell painting. Meme didn’t brine her bird, so I have taken a little liberty with this recipe. Let’s just say it’s the spirit of Meme with a dash of revised technique. We have never stuffed the bird in our family, but if the turkey is stuffed, make sure the temperature reaches 160°F in the center of the stuffing. When the stuffed turkey is done, remove it from the oven and let the turkey with stuffing stand for 15 minutes. This standing time allows the stuffing temperature to climb to 165°F, for an added measure of safety.

Many years ago, I needed fresh cèpes for a job. When they were delivered, it was obvious there had been some horrible, grievous misunderstanding. I had ordered two pounds and they had delivered twenty! I called and they promised to pick them up the next day. However, my boss at the time was not the sort to take imperfections lightly. This may sound deceitful, but the truth is, it wasn’t worth trying to explain. I just needed to make them go away. So I had eighteen pounds and over $600 worth of mushrooms to hide—no easy feat! It was like hiding a skunk, a deliciously intoxicating skunk, but a skunk nonetheless.

In the heat of the summer, there’s nothing better for keeping the heat out of the kitchen than firing up the grill. Dede would make his barbecued chicken on the Fourth of July, using a potent vinegar bath on grilled chicken that produced a pungent, meaty odor, sending out billowing clouds of steam and smoke as the chicken cooked on the grill. My sister and I fought to help pack the ice and rock salt in the ice cream machine for homemade peach ice cream. I wasn’t nearly as fond at the time of being given the chore of grating the cheese for the pimento cheese. For many years, my grandparents did not have air-conditioning. Meme would stay up late the night before or wake up very early in the morning and work in the cool, quiet hours of the hot July heat to prepare her portion of the feast. The humming of the fan was often her only company before the house started stirring and the cousins started piling out of bunks and cots.

This classic French country dish consists of chicken cooked slowly in red wine with onions, mushrooms, bacon, and herbs. When we were young, Mama used to make a similar dish in her slow cooker. Opening the front door on a cold night and welcomed by the inviting smells of stew from a slow cooker can be a dream come true. But winter is not the only time a slow cooker is useful. As it puts out no heat, it makes a cool substitute for a hot oven in the summer, and it uses less electricity. For this dish, a slow cooker is fine, as is a Dutch oven set on the cooktop. If using a slow cooker, don’t skip the step of browning the chicken, or you will have a flabby, tasteless mess. This is a l-o-o-ng recipe, requiring many steps to create its layers of flavor, which may seem daunting to some cooks, but it’s not a difficult one. Consider making this dish ahead and refrigerating it overnight so the flavors will marry and blend: simply reheat it the next day. Note: A wooden spoon is perfect for telling you when your sauce is finished. The sauce will coat the back of the spoon when it has reached the proper coating consistency (napper in classic French cooking).