Cookbooks

Editor's note: Use this sauce to make Suzanne Goin's Sticky Toffee Pudding with Blood Orange, Tangerine, and Whipped Crème Fraîche . NOTE You can make the toffee sauce ahead of time and warm it up when you are ready to use it.

These intensely flavored dark chocolate brownies are spread with a layer of caramel then topped with bittersweet chocolate ganache.

You will be surprised at how quick and easy it is to make real homemade caramel sauce.

This cheesecake has Classic Caramel Sauce swirled into it, which makes it flavor-rich as well as visually exciting. The crust, made with toasted walnuts, provides a perfect balance of both flavor and texture. Because the cake needs time to cool and chill, I recommend making it at least a day in advance of when you plan to serve it.

In Latin America, achiote-colored lard or achiote-infused oil is part of any well-stocked pantry, traditionally stored in an achiotera, a special metal container with a spout. My friend and mentor Felipe Rojas-Lombardi, the brilliant Peruvian-born chef and author who created the Ballroom restaurant in Manhattan, loved the sunny color and subtle smoky flavor of achiote-infused olive oil. He used it for everything from marinating the luscious suckling pigs that he proudly displayed at the counter of his tapas bar to enhancing the color of his spicy mayonnaise to giving his lamb empanadas a gilded look. This recipe gives you both a seasoning and a coloring.

I have written a recipe for panettone dressing before: the sweet seasonal fruit bread was cubed, toasted, and mixed with Italian sausage; this is very different, not least because I see it not as an accompaniment to turkey (which has its own interior stuffing) but to be served, at parties or over cocktails, in small squares, like savory brownies. As ever, feel free to substitute the plainer pandoro if you wish, though I do think the rich fruitiness is part of this unconventional appetizer's charm.

As with biscotti there is an undeniable American-Italian influence at play here but, once again, I embrace this. Actually, though, American-Italian food has had its own influence on the cooking of the Old Country: these days, I am reliably informed by my Italian publisher and celebrated food writer, Csaba dalla Zorza, you can find dried cranberries with relative ease in Italy. The true Italian Christmas dinner is very much about the capon. Yes, you can find capons outside of Italy, although not everyone can quite cope with the idea of eating a castrated cockerel. Many understandably view old-school caponization with distaste, although it is considered ethically acceptable if the rooster has been chemically rather than surgically castrated. I don't know about you, but the idea of eating meat that has been flooded with the types of hormones necessarily involved here gives me the willies. Besides, my Christmas Dinner is my Christmas Dinner: unchanging, ritualistic, an intrinsic part of me. When in Rome, and all that, but if I'm cooking at home, I don't fiddle with my time-honored menu. I'm not going to give an evangelical tub-thump about my turkey brining techniques, as I've done enough of that in the past, but I am still open to other ways of celebrating the Big Bird and this recipe is a case in point. For me, it is perfect for any sort of seasonal supper party, but really comes into its own on a buffet table, as it carves fantastically and is as good (maybe even better) cold than hot, so you can make it in advance and then be the world's most unharried host on the night. You need to go to a butcher to get a while breast joint and you need to ask for it to be butterflied and boned and make sure the skin is left on. I know it might sound a bit of a faff, but take it from me that stuffing a while double breast joint is very much easier than stuffing and rolling a single breast joint, as is more commonly found in supermarkets. Basically, all you're doing here is opening out your boneless turkey joint, smothering it with stuffing, and folding it over. What you end up with, for all the ease of its creation, is nothing short of a showstopper.

If you've never encountered struffoli before, they are best described—visually at any rate—as the croquembouche of southern Italy: small dough balls, and I mean really small, the size of marbles, that are deep-fried and then rolled in honey before being assembled into a cone—as in the French piled-up profiteroles model—or a bulging wreath. Since I was taught the recipe by a pair of Calabrian sisters, I make mine as their Mamma makes hers; and this takes the wreath form. I'll be honest: you don't make these because you're seeking some exquisite taste sensation; struffoli are about custom, celebration, and sweetness. This, in effect, is the festive centerpiece of Christmas in the south of Italy. You get a very real sense of this if you make the struffoli not alone, but in company, with other hands to roll out the dough with you. Children love doing this, by the way, and their little hands are much better suited for rolling the small marble-sized dough balls you need. Obviously, children are best kept away from the deep-frying part of the operation. As for the decoration, I've seen not only the regular cake-decorating sprinkles used but also candied fruit, glacé cherries, almond dragées, and cinnamon-preserved pumpkin pieces. It's the former, solely, for me. And although I've seen only the multicolored ones in Italy, I go for the festive and flag-resonant Christmas sprinkles in red, white, and green. The struffoli would look more beautiful, perhaps, left burnished but otherwise unadorned, although gaudiness not elegant restraint—I'm firmly told—is in order here; I have tried to maintain some balance between the two.

Editor's note: Use this with Maricel Presilla's Boiled Yuca (Yuca Hervida) . Ajilimójili (ah-hee-lee-MOH-hee-lee) is the wonderful whimsical name for this Puerto Rican–inspired sauce. How to translate this tongue-twister? It seems that it is a composite of the words ajo (garlic) and moje (sauce), but much more can be drawn from it. In Cuba and the Mexican state of Tabasco, ajilimójili is a colloquialism for the Castilian Spanish intríngulis, a hidden reason that is suddenly revealed, or the workings necessary to pull something off, or the key to making a difficult feat look simple. Why was this sauce called ajilimójili? Perhaps because it has its own ajilimójili—the "inner workings" to make any food it touches splendid. Serve with Puerto Rican Pasteles .

The Christmas season in Puerto Rico is blessed with balmy weather and clear skies. There is nothing like dining under the shade of a gourd tree on Christmas Eve, savoring every morsel of the earthy tamales called pasteles and adobo-flavored pork while looking at the sea. Puerto Rican women get together with their families to prepare pasteles by the hundred, freezing them until needed for Christmas Eve, Christmas Day, family reunions, the Fiesta de Reyes, and the religious season called octavas that follows the Feast of the Epiphany. It is the blend of the tiny pepper ají dulce and broad-leaf culantro in the fragrant sofrito (cooking sauce) that gives an unmistakable Puerto Rican identity to these earthy tamales. A dash of vinegar lends the sofrito just the right amount of tang against the mild dough of malanga and plantain tinted orange-yellow with achiote-infused lard. I learned to make these in the traditional kitchen of the Puerto Rican side of my family. While one person took care of trimming the plantain leaves, others were busy grating the vegetables and making the sofrito. There the vegetables are grated by hand, though you can find machines designed specially for this purpose in any market or use a food processor. Puerto Ricans are extremely fussy about the wrapping—it has to be perfect and watertight because pasteles are normally boiled. But I prefer to steam them.

Watercress is the green of choice in Cuba, its peppery taste a perfect foil for the avocado and the sweet pineapple in this classic Cuban salad. I serve it with shrimp in a spicy tomato sauce called enchilado de camarones. In Cuba, the pineapple is never roasted, but this technique adds another dimension of flavor I find very appealing.

For seven centuries, Moors and Christians fought one another in Spain, but in the guise of black beans and rice they surrendered to each other's charms within the all-embracing New World pot. Like the hybrid culture that flourished in medieval Spain, the rice dish known as moros y cristianos is an exemplar of exchange between civilizations. It is feast food in Cuba, where you'll find it in the western provinces. Considering that there is a Veracruzan version of this dish and that Cuba always imported black beans from Mexico, we are left in doubt as to which version came first. Regardless of its place of birth, it is one of the most felicitous rice and bean combinations I have ever tasted. The flavors of all the other ingredients are absorbed seamlessly by the rice, the vinegar providing point and counterpoint to the mealy beans, the aroma of cumin and oregano a subtle backdrop for the meaty smoked bacon, which in turn joins forces with the olive oil to add aroma and sheen to the rice. And then the color, a dark brown or hybrid of white and black.

Editor's note: Pair this with Maricel Presilla's Puerto Rican–Style Ají Dulce Sauce (Ajilimójili) . Boiled yuca is a small miracle. I can hardly think of another vegetable so transformed just by simple boiling. The impenetrable tuber, which starts out fibrous and as hard as the tusk of an elephant, becomes a creamy and supple vegetable. Boiled yuca is also the stuff with which many other preparations start, and you will come back to it time and again. There is no single rule that will help you figure out how much time it will take to cook fresh yuca until fork-tender. A general estimate is 30 minutes, but it might take less time or much longer, depending on the type of yuca. Start testing the vegetable with a fork 15 minutes after the water comes to a boil and continue to test until you reach the desired texture. Usually I prefer to remove the central spindle after rather than before cooking. It takes some force to whack through it when you're cutting the raw yuca into chunks, but it is much easier to detach the spindle from cooked yuca. Serve the yuca with a sauce of your choice or with just a sprinkling of olive oil and some salt.

I love how the fruitiness of Cluizel Concepción chocolate, mellowed by a little cream cheese, plays against the caramel and the flowery, slightly musky acidity of the blossoms (actually, calyces) called "Jamaica flowers" in Mexico and red hibiscus in this country. (They are what gives Red Zinger tea its color.) When I first developed this recipe, I used hibiscus to flavor the caramel, but now I include it in a separate sauce where its red color makes a gorgeous contrast with the dark flan. You will find that this flan is reminiscent of the classic cream cheese–fruit paste pairing that Latin Americans like in other contexts. For this recipe, do not use the spice marketed as "cinnamon" in American stores (it's really cassia). Look for the soft, flaky true cinnamon from Ceylon (Sri Lanka), which has a much subtler and more delicate flavor. You can find it in Hispanic markets under the name canela.

A sensuous variation on the theme of bread and chocolate is a silky ganache flavored with a garlicky Cuban-style olive oil mojo, smeared over slices of Cuban bread. Because the ingredients are so few and basic, it is important to use a not-too-bitter premium chocolate. I also like the effect of a mellow Spanish extra-virgin olive oil made with Arbequina olives, with their slight accent of apple peel. Sea salt sprinkled on the bread right at the moment of serving brings out all the flavors.

This heirloom family recipe has the distinctive allspice aroma of the cooking of my hometown, Santiago de Cuba, the only part of Cuba where this complex spice is used in a pork marinade. The combination of cumin and allspice is especially characteristic of my family's cooking. Originally a Christmas dish, cerdo brujo is now one of the most popular dishes at my restaurant Zafra, where we celebrate Christmas every day.

This garlicky sauce is the traditional accompaniment to the starchy root vegetables of the Hispanic Caribbean, especially Cuba. The acidic medium is usually Seville, or bitter, orange juice, though lime juice or white vinegar can be substituted. The mojo is at its best spooned or brushed over piping-hot boiled yuca, plantains, or other starchy tropical vegetables.