Gluten Free

Risotto is Italian comfort food, a luscious dish of tender rice in its own creamy sauce. Considered by many to be labor-intensive restaurant fare, risotto is actually a basic one-pot dinner that pleases everyone. Risotto is made from starchy short-grain rice, which, when moistened with successive additions of stock, gains concentrated flavor and a distinctive saucy texture. Of the special short-grain varieties that have been developed in northern Italy specifically for risotto the best known is Arborio; others are Vialone Nano (an extra-short-grain rice), Baldo, and my favorite, Carnaroli. All these varieties have short, plump grains that can absorb a lot of liquid while retaining some textural integrity (the grains are said to have a good bite), with abundant superficial starch to make the risotto creamy. Because the rice for a risotto is cooked in fat before any broth is added, use a heavy pot, preferably stainless steel or enameled cast iron, or the rice will scorch too easily. Pick a pot with relatively high sides (but not so high that stirring is difficult and evaporation is inhibited) and a diameter that is wide enough so that when the raw rice is added it’s between one-quarter and one-half inch deep in the pot. The first step is to make a flavorful base of sautéed diced onions. The onion is cooked until soft in a generous amount of fat (usually butter, but olive oil, beef marrow, and even bacon fat are sometimes used). Once the onions are soft the rice is added and sautéed for a few minutes. In Italian this is called the tostatura, or “roasting.” The idea is to coat and seal each grain of rice. The rice will begin to sizzle and turn translucent, but it should not color or brown. At this point, some wine is added, for fruit and acidity. For 1 1/2 cups of rice, I use about 1/2 cup of wine, but I never bother to measure it exactly; I simply pour in enough wine to reach the top of the rice, without covering it. This works for any quantity of rice and is much easier than trying to make a calculation. Adding the wine before the broth gives it time to reduce and lose its raw alcohol flavor. Red wine or even beer can be substituted. When you are caught without a bottle of wine, a teaspoon or so of tasty wine vinegar added to the first addition of broth will approximate the acidity of wine. After the wine is absorbed, broth is added. I use light chicken broth most often, but vegetable, mushroom, and shellfish broths also make lovely risottos. Keep in mind that your risotto will only be as good as the broth you use to make it. Unseasoned or lightly seasoned broths are best. Many recipes say to keep the broth simmering (in its separate pan) the whole time the risotto is cooking. This isn’t necessary; in fact, I prefer not to. The longer the broth simmers, the more it reduces, and its flavor can become too strongly concentrated. I bring the broth to a boil while the onions are cooking and then turn it off. The broth stays plenty warm. The first addition of broth should just cover the rice. Adjust the heat to maintain a constant, fairly vigorous simmer. It is not necessary to stir constantly, but the risotto needs to be tended to frequently, and it certainly cannot be left on its own. When the level of liquid has dropped low enough that the rice is exposed, add more broth to cover. The broth should never be allowed to evaporate completely; the starch will coagulate and burn. Keep adding the broth in small increments; the rice should neither be flooded nor be allowed to dry out. Season the rice with salt early on. My personal rule is to salt the risotto when I make the second addition of broth. This allows the salt to penetrate the grains of rice while they are cooking. The amount of salt needed will depend on the saltiness of the broth you’re using. From the time the rice is added to the onion, a risotto takes 20 to 30 minutes to cook. Taste it often to keep track of the seasoning ...

A pilaf is a savory dish of rice that has first been sautéed in fat and then cooked in a seasoned liquid. (It differs from a risotto in that the liquid is entirely absorbed.) Depending on the recipe, a pilaf may also include nuts, spices, a few vegetables, or even a complex meat stew. I make mostly simple pilafs, such as the red rice pilaf that follows, to go with quesadillas and black beans, or a basmati rice pilaf with saffron and onions to eat with a vegetable ragout. Long-grain rice is usually used in pilafs, although some cuisines use short-grain rice. Sautéing the rice before adding the liquid enriches the flavor of the dish and coats each grain in fat. This, along with thorough washing, keeps the rice from sticking together or clumping. Olive oil and butter are the most commonly used fats. To avoid burning the butter while sautéing the rice, add a little oil to it, or use clarified butter (see page 125). Onion is usually sautéed for a few minutes in the fat before the rice is added. After the rice is sautéed, a flavorful liquid is poured over it and brought to a boil. The pilaf is simmered, covered, until all the liquid has been absorbed, about 15 minutes. Depending on their cooking times, vegetables and meats are added sometimes with the liquid, sometimes after the rice has been cooking for a while. The tomato in the red rice pilaf here is added at the beginning to color the rice evenly. When done, pilafs should be allowed to rest for about 10 minutes before serving.

Polenta is a very simple dish of ground corn cooked in water. It is exceptionally tasty and, like pasta, remarkably versatile. When first cooked, polenta is soft; as it cools, it becomes firm and can then be fried, grilled, or baked. Soft or firm, polenta is great next to roasted or braised meats, or sauced with a spoonful of tomato, meat, or mushroom sauce. For variety, fresh corn or fava beans can be stirred into soft polenta. Polenta can be turned into a luscious torta by layering it with cooked vegetables, cheese, and sauce. Whether ground from yellow or white corn, polenta is ground coarser than cornmeal but finer than grits. When fresh it smells sweet and looks bright yellow. Like all grains, it should be stored in a cool, dark place and replaced when old. Cook polenta in boiling water. The approximate ratio of water to grain is four to one. This will vary depending on the variety of corn, how coarse it is ground, and how fresh it is; each batch you buy may be slightly different. Choose a heavy-bottomed pot when cooking polenta to avoid sticking and burning; use a flame tamer if a heavy pot is not available. Bring the water to a rolling boil and add the polenta in a slow, steady stream while stirring constantly with a whisk. Turn the heat down and continue whisking for 2 or 3 minutes, until the polenta is suspended in the water and no longer settles to the bottom of the pot. (This helps keep it from sticking to the bottom of the pan.) Season with salt and cook the polenta at a bare simmer, stirring occasionally, for about an hour. The polenta will be fully cooked and softened after 20 to 30 minutes, but the longer cooking time allows its full flavor to develop. Be warned that the thick polenta is very hot, so be careful when stirring and tasting. I spoon a bit onto a small plate to cool before tasting. Polenta should have a pourable, creamy consistency. If the polenta becomes thick or stiff while cooking, add water as needed to maintain the proper consistency. If too much water is added by accident, and the polenta becomes thin and soupy, just keep cooking it to evaporate the water. Polenta will set up quickly if not kept warm, so turn off the heat and cover the pot to keep it soft and hot for 20 minutes or so, or hold it for a longer time in a double boiler or by setting the pot in a larger pot of hot water. Polenta can be finished with butter or olive oil and cheese to enrich it and add flavor. Parmesan is the classic cheese to stir in, but try others; fontina, cheddar, or pecorino for example. Mascarpone or blue cheese is a luxurious garnish to top a bowl of soft polenta. To make firm polenta, spread hot soft polenta evenly onto a rimmed baking sheet (it is not necessary to oil the pan). A depth of about one inch works well for most purposses. Let the polenta sit at room temperature or refrigerate until set. Don’t cover until it has cooled. The firm polenta can be cut into shapes to bake, grill, or fry. To bake, brush with oil and bake at 350°F for 20 minutes or until crisp. To grill polenta, brush it with oil and place on a grill over hot coals; to prevent it from sticking, make sure the grill is hot. To fry, use shallow or deep fat. Polenta will always set up when cooled, but both very thin polenta and polenta that has been finished with a lot of butter or oil can fall apart when grilled or fried. A polenta torta is made of alternate layers of polenta—either freshly made soft polenta or polenta that has already cooled and set—and sauce, such as tomato sauce, meat sauce, or pesto; cooked greens or other vegetables; and cheese. A polenta torta is a great make-ahead dish, ready to heat up any time.

Fava beans are a harbinger of spring. Like other kinds of beans, they form in pods, but they are also covered in a tough, rather bitter skin. The earliest harvests offer beans that are tiny, brilliant green, and so tender they don’t need to be peeled. When not eaten raw, straight from the pod, these are best cooked briefly with a little water and oil or butter. As the season progresses, the beans continue to mature, and they become larger and starchier. At this point they can be popped out of their pods, skinned, and cooked into a luscious, bright green purée that I adore slathering on crisp croutons or serving alongside roasted meats. Still later in the season the beans turn yellow and dry out and are too mature to use this way. Fava beans do require a bit of preparation, but their delicate taste and splash of color are well worth the effort. Popping the beans from their thick soft pods is an enjoyable group project that even little children can join. An easy way to pop the beans out of the pod is to grasp one with both hands; bend the pod back against your thumbs and press out, snapping the beans out of the pod. After the beans are shelled the opaque outer skin of the bean needs to be removed. (Although in Mediterranean cooking the skins are sometimes left on, this increases the cooking time and results in a different taste.) To do so, plunge the beans into boiling water and leave them until the skin is easy to remove. This will take less than a minute, so check one right away. (If you cook the beans too long they will get mashed when you try to slip them out of their skins.) Drain the beans and put them in a bowl of icy cold water. When they are cool, drain them, and pop out the beans, using a fingernail to slit the skin and squeezing the bean out with the fingers of the other hand. Don’t cook the skinned beans too quickly; medium-low heat is best. Stir them occasionally as they are cooking, and, if you notice that they are drying out, add a bit of water. They are done when they can be crushed into a smooth paste when pressed with a spoon. All kinds of beans, fresh or dried, can be flavored and made into tasty purées. I love cannellini bean purée, fresh cranberry bean purée, and refried pinto beans, too. Another favorite hors d’oeuvre is chickpeas with olive oil and hot pepper puréed and served with flatbread or crackers.

Dried beans cook best when soaked for a number of hours. Overnight is best. Cover the beans with plenty of water to keep them from poking up above the surface when they have absorbed water and swelled. I cover them with at least three times as much water as beans. If all the beans were not completely submerged overnight some will cook at a different rate than others and you’ll end up with overdone and underdone beans in the same pot. Drain after soaking and use fresh water for cooking them. All over the world, beans are traditionally cooked in earthenware pots (and for some reason they seem to taste better when they are), but any heavy nonreactive pot will do. Try to choose a wide pot so the layer of beans isn’t too deep; otherwise the beans are hard to stir and the ones on the bottom of the pot get crushed. Be sure to use enough water that stirring them is easy: the water level should always be an inch or so above the level of the beans. If the water is too low, the beans will be crowded and will tend to fall apart when they are stirred. Worst of all they might start to stick and burn on the bottom of the pot. Salt is best added towards the end of the cooking to keep the beans tender. When done, the beans should be tender but not falling apart, though it is better to overcook them than undercook them! You don’t want them to be the least bit al dente, or crunchy. The best way to test them is to bite one. Start testing after an hour. When they are fully cooked, let right away, the skins will crack and they’ll look shaggy. When cooking fresh shell beans there is no need to soak them. Just pop them out of their shells and put them in a pot. Cover with water by no more than about 1 1/2 inches: the beans will not absorb much water. Add the salt at the beginning and begin testing for doneness after about 10 minutes. Depending on the variety, the beans may take as long as an hour to cook, but usually they are done in much less time. Beans can be flavored at the end of their cooking and served right away; or once cooked, they can be cooled, flavored or not, refrigerated (or frozen) in their liquid, and used later.

The simple soup I make most often starts with a base of softened onions to which one or two vegetables are added. The soup is moistened with broth or water and simmered until the vegetables are tender. First, onions are gently cooked in butter or oil until soft and flavorful. A heavy-bottomed pot makes all the difference for this: it disperses the heat evenly, making it easier to cook vegetables slowly without browning. The amount of fat is important, too. You want enough butter or oil to really coat the onions. After 15 minutes or so of slow cooking, the onions will be transformed into a very soft, translucent, sweet base for the soup. Next, add a vegetable, such as carrots, sliced uniformly for even cooking. (Otherwise you will have underdone and overdone vegetables in your soup.) Salt generously (enough for the vegetables to taste good on their own) and continue cooking for a few minutes. This preliminary seasoning and cooking infuses the fat with the perfume and flavor of the vegetables. (The fat disperses the flavor throughout the soup.) This is an important technique, not just for soup but for cooking in general: building and developing flavor at each step before moving on. Now add broth or water, bring to a boil, and reduce to a simmer. Cook until the vegetables are tender but not falling apart. The soup will not taste finished until the vegetables have cooked through and given their flavor to the broth. Keep tasting. It is wonderful to discover how the flavors change and develop as the soup cooks. Does it need more salt? If you’re unsure, season a small spoonful and see if it tastes better with more. This is the only way you can find out. Many, many vegetables will make great soup when you follow this formula. The only variable is the length of time they take to cook. The best way to keep track is to keep tasting as you go. Some favorite vegetable soups that jump to mind are: turnip and turnip greens, corn, potato and leek, butternut squash, and onion. A vegetable soup made this way, with a flavorful stock rather than water, and served as a rustic “brothy” soup, will be delicious. (In fact, if the broth is rich enough, I sometimes skip any precooking in butter and add both onions and vegetables directly to the simmering broth.) If the soup is made with water instead of broth, and puréed to a uniform texture, the result will be a more delicate soup dominated by the pure flavor of the vegetables themselves. This is especially desirable for soups made from such sweet, tender vegetables as fava beans, peas, or corn. I purée such soups through a food mill, but you can also use a blender, which generates finer purées. Do be careful when using a blender to purée hot soup: always make sure the lid has an open vent hole to let the steam escape so that the whole lot doesn’t explode. Various garnishes and enrichments can be added when you serve the soup. Many cooks finish a puréed soup by spooning in a dollop of cream or stirring in a lump of butter, and a last-minute addition of herbs and spices or a squeeze of lemon can be enlivening. But use discretion; a garnish can overcomplicate or overpower the flavor of the soup itself.

Minestrone means “big soup” in Italian: a big soup of many vegetables. In order for them all to be cooked through at the same time, they’re added in stages. First a tasty soffritto (a base of aromatic vegetables) is made, long-cooking vegetables are added and moistened with water or broth, and the soup is brought to a boil, at which point the more tender vegetables are added. Dried beans and pasta are cooked separately and added at the end. The recipe below is for a classic summertime minestrone, followed by seasonal variations. The soffritto can be made of onions only but often includes carrots and celery. Fennel can be substituted for the celery when a more delicate flavor is wanted. Garlic is always added at the end of the cooking to ensure that it does not burn. Be sure to use a heavy-bottomed pot and lots of olive oil. For a more hearty soup, let the soffritto cook to a golden hue; for a less robust version, don’t let the vegetables color at all. Either way, the vegetables should be cooked through to give the soup the full benefit of their flavors; this will take 10 minutes or more. They’re done when they look and taste good enough to eat on their own. The vegetables added after the soffritto—such as squash and green beans—are cut into pieces small enough to ensure that each spoonful of soup will contain a mixture. They’re added sequentially, according to the length of time they take to cook through without getting mushy. Greens need to be cut into bite-size pieces, too; if they’re cut in strips they can hang down and dribble hot soup on your chin or your clothes. Winter greens such as kale or chard take longer to cook and should go in with the first group of vegetables. Tender greens such as spinach will cook in just a few minutes and should be added towards the end of cooking. Salt the soup as it cooks; this will intensify and improve the flavor as a last-minute salting cannot. Dried beans—and pasta, if you’re using it—should be cooked separately before being added to the soup. Save the bean cooking liquid; it adds flavor and body to the soup. The cooked beans should be added during the last 10 minutes so they have a chance to absorb flavor, but not overcook. The pasta should be added at the very end so it doesn’t overcook and get bloated and flabby. To preserve its fresh flavor, the garnish of olive oil and cheese should be added to the bowls of soup, not to the pot. I always pass a bowl of grated cheese and a bottle of olive oil at the table.

The basis of many soups is a broth (or stock) of meat and vegetables (or vegetables alone), which provides a foundation of body and flavor. A sufficiently rich and fragrant broth makes a wonderful soup all by itself. I love a bowl of chicken broth garnished with a bit of pasta and parsley or a poached egg. Broth is not only easy to make, it’s one of the few things I freeze so as to have the makings of a soup or a risotto always at hand. I use a whole chicken to make broth, which may seem extravagant, but it produces lots of sweet, fragrant, and full-bodied broth. (After an hour of cooking you can lift the chicken out of the pot, remove the breasts, and then return the rest to the pot. The poached breasts make a great meal, especially with a little salsa verde.) It is the meat that makes the difference in the broth. If you use bones, choose meaty ones, such as necks, backs, and wings. Meatless bones yield a thin broth. The leftover carcass of a roast chicken can also be added to the broth. The roasted meat adds depth of flavor. (Leftover grilled chicken bones are not recommended; they make an acrid, smoky-tasting broth.) When making broth from a whole chicken, include the neck from inside the cavity. Also, remove and unwrap the giblets (usually the heart, gizzard, and liver). Put the gizzard and heart in the broth, but save the liver for some other purpose. Always start the broth with cold water; the flavor is drawn out of the meat and bones as it heats up to a boil. The amount of water you use will determine the intensity of your broth. A chicken barely submerged in water will produce a very rich, fragrant soup. Adding more water will make a lighter, more delicate broth. Bring the broth to a full rolling boil and then turn it down right away. The boil causes all the blood and extra proteins to coagulate into a foam that rises and collects at the top where you can skim it off, ensuring a clearer broth. If the broth is allowed to boil for long it will turn cloudy and the fat may emulsify, bonding with the water and making the stock murky and greasy. When skimming the broth, use a ladle and remove only the foam, not the fat. The fat contributes lots of flavor as the broth cooks and it can all be removed at the end. Add the vegetables after you have skimmed off the foam; that way they don’t get in the way. Add the vegetables either whole or in large pieces so they don’t fall apart and cloud the broth. Salt helps develop the flavor as the broth cooks and makes a much more flavorful stock than if you were to add all the salt at the end. Don’t add too much, though. The stock will lose volume to evaporation as it cooks, so it should start out under-seasoned. Cook the broth at a simmer, which means at a very gentle boil with bubbles just breaking the surface of the liquid at irregular intervals. If by accident the broth is cooking too quickly and has reduced, add some more water and return to a simmer. Broth should cook long enough to extract all the flavor from the meat and bones, but not so long that it starts to lose its delicacy and freshness. For chicken broth allow 4 to 5 hours. Taste the stock often as it cooks and turn it off when it is full of flavor. When you taste, spoon out a little and salt it to get a better idea of how it will taste when it is fully seasoned. Try this at different times throughout the cooking process to discover how the flavors develop. Strain the broth when it is finished cooking. Ladle it out of the pot and pass it through a strainer into a nonreactive container. For a very clear broth, strain it again through a clean wet cotton towel or cheesecloth. If you plan to use the broth right away, skim the fat. I only do this if I am using the broth right away. Otherwise, allow the broth to cool and refrigerate it with its fat, which solidifies on top, helping to preserve the broth and its flavor. The cold, hard fat is easy to lift off. Do not cover the broth until it’s cool o...

I wanted to be sure to include a few words about fruit salads—not sweet fruit cocktails in heavy syrup, but savory salads made like other composed salads. These may consist of fresh fruit alone, or fresh fruit combined with lettuces or other salad greens, with nuts and cheese often added for richness and texture. When there are no greens available and I desperately want something fresh, fruit salads are refreshing alternatives, either at the beginning or the end of a meal. Figs, apples, pears, pomegranates, persimmons, and almost all of the citrus fruits make good salads, with or without greens. All these fruits of fall and winter have an affinity for hearty chicories such as escarole, radicchio, and curly endive. Among my favorite fruit salads are an orange salad with black olives; avocado slices and grapefruit sections; persimmons or Asian pears with nuts and balsamic vinegar; and orange slices with marinated beets. Oranges and other citrus fruits need to be peeled and sectioned for a salad. When skinning the fruit, you want to remove all the outer peel and the membranes that enclose the sections, exposing the juicy fruit inside. You will need a small, sharp knife to do this. First, slice off the top and bottom of each fruit, slicing deeply enough to expose the inner flesh. Then, position your knife blade at the top where the fruit and peel meet, and carefully cut down following the contours of the fruit. Continue around the fruit, cutting from top to bottom, rotating the orange, until all the peel and membrane is removed. Trim away any remaining white bits of membrane. You can then slice the orange crosswise or cut between the membranes to free the individual sections. Apples and pears can be peeled or not, but to avoid oxidation, which turns the cut surfaces brown, they should be prepared just before serving. Persimmons must be peeled; this can be done in advance, but keep them covered so they don’t dry out. Fruit salads are usually dressed very simply, sometimes with nothing more than a drizzle of olive oil or vinegar, or with a vinaigrette made of some citrus juice and a touch of vinegar, a little chopped shallot, salt, pepper, and olive oil.

For me, making a garden lettuce salad—washing beautiful fresh-picked lettuces and tossing them together with a scattering of herbs and a vinaigrette—is as much of a joy as eating one. I love the colorful variety of lettuces, bitter and sweet; the flavor and complexity of herbs such as chervil and chives; and the brightness of a simple vinaigrette made with red wine vinegar, olive oil, and a whisper of garlic, which highlights the lettuces and herbs without overwhelming them. For a salad to have flavor and life, you have to start with fresh, just-picked lettuces. I’m fortunate to have a small kitchen garden in my backyard where I grow various lettuces and herbs for salad, but if you don’t have such a garden it can take some real dedication to find good greens. Farmers’ markets are the best places to start. When my garden is not producing, or when I’m away from home, I shop for head lettuces and try to create my own combinations of lettuces, arugula, chicories, and whatever tender herbs I can find. I generally avoid the salad mixes, especially the pre-bagged ones, which usually seem to include one or two kinds of greens that don’t belong with the others. If there is a lovely mixture from a local salad grower, fine, but otherwise try to buy the best head lettuces you can find and make your own mix. Wash the lettuce, gently but thoroughly, in a basin or bowl of cold water. First cull through the lettuces, pulling off and throwing into the compost bin any outer leaves that are tough, yellowed, or damaged. Then cut out the stem end, separating the rest of the leaves into the water. Gently swish the leaves in the water with your open hands and lift the lettuce out of the water and into a colander. If the lettuces are very dirty, change the water, and wash again. Dry the lettuces in a salad spinner, but don’t overfill it. It’s much more effective to spin-dry a few small batches than one or two large ones. Empty the water from the spinner after each batch. Any water clinging to the leaves will dilute the vinaigrette, so check the leaves and spin them again if they’re still a little wet. I spread out each batch of leaves in a single layer on a dish towel as I go. Then I gently roll up the towel and put it in the refrigerator until it’s time to serve the salad. You can do this a few hours ahead. When the time comes, put the lettuce in a bowl big enough to allow you to toss the salad. If you have some, add a small handful of chives or chervil, or both, either chopped quickly or snipped with scissors. Toss everything with the vinaigrette, using just enough sauce to coat the leaves lightly, so they glisten. Beware of overdressing small, tender lettuces: they will wilt and turn soggy. I usually toss salads with my hands. (I eat salads with my hands, too.) That way I can be gentle and precise and make sure that each leaf is evenly dressed. Taste, and if needed, finish the salad with a sprinkling of salt or brighten it with a splash of vinegar or a squeeze of lemon juice. Taste again and see what you think, then toss one last time and serve the salad right away.

A salad of many ingredients, either all tossed together or dressed separately and arranged on a plate, is called a “composed” salad. A composed salad such as the Greek salad that follows is a hearty dish; with some crusty bread, it could be the main event of a dinner on a warm night. Or, a composed salad might be a delicate arrangement of, say, a few pieces of crabmeat, some grapefruit sections, and a little curly endive in a creamy dressing, served as an elegant first course. Almost anything can be an element in a composed salad: all the various lettuces and salad greens, of course, but also raw or cooked vegetables, chopped, diced, or cut into thin shavings; roasted meats cut into cubes or thin slices; tuna and other fish or shellfish; and hard-cooked eggs, quartered or chopped. Tasty leftovers can be delicious in a composed salad. Don’t combine too many ingredients into a single salad or it will have too many conflicting flavors. The components should be chosen thoughtfully with regard to the tastes and textures they contribute, and the dressing must complement them all. Sometimes a vinaigrette works best, when a tangy sauce is needed; sometimes mayonnaise, for mellow richness; at other times, a creamy sauce. A potato salad, for example, can be made with any of these dressings, and each will yield a distinctly different salad. When dressing a composed salad that includes both tender lettuces and heavier ingredients such as artichoke hearts or pieces of fruit, dress all the heavier elements separately and arrange them around the tossed lettuces on a platter. Otherwise the salad is hard to serve because everything ends up at the bottom and the leaves get crushed. Even salads that have no lettuce should be assembled carefully. What’s most important is that each ingredient be tasty on its own. Taste everything and season each element with a little salt or dressing as needed before adding it to the whole. When things are tossed together, don’t overmix, or the parts will start to lose their distinctiveness, muddying the flavors and spoiling the look of the salad. (You can always arrange a salad and drizzle vinaigrette over it, or even pass the vinaigrette in a pitcher.) As for what to include in such a salad and how to dress it, taste each ingredient before you decide. That is really the only rule you must follow, and while it may sound frustratingly vague, as you acquire a little salad-making experience, you’ll begin to recognize and remember the flavors you like and the ones that you like together.

Salsa verde, the classic green sauce of Italy, is a sauce of olive oil and chopped parsley flavored with lemon zest, garlic, and capers. It adds lively freshness to almost any simple dish. Flat-leaved Italian parsley is preferable, but curly parsley is good, too. Fresh parsley—the fresher the better—is the majority herb, but almost any other fresh, tender herb can enhance a salsa verde: tarragon, chervil, and chives are good choices. Use a sharp knife when you chop parsley (and other herbs). A sharp knife slices cleanly through the leaves, preserving both flavor and color, while a dull knife mashes and bruises them. The zest is the thin yellow outer layer of the lemon’s skin; avoid grating any of the bitter white part (called the pith) beneath. The zest brightens the flavor of the sauce, so don’t be shy with it; you may need more than one lemon’s worth. Don’t hesitate to experiment. I make salsa verde more or less thick depending on what I am using it for. I tend to use less oil when it’s for roasted meats and grilled vegetables and more for fish.

This is the sauce I make most often, and if it’s made out of good olive oil and good wine vinegar, it’s the best salad dressing I can imagine. At its simplest, vinaigrette is a mixture of vinegar and oil in a ratio of 1 part vinegar to about 3 or 4 parts oil. Start by estimating roughly how much vinaigrette you will need. This depends on what you’re using it for; a quarter cup is more than enough for four servings of green salad, for example, but you really never need to measure out exact amounts. Start by pouring the vinegar into a bowl. Dissolve a pinch of salt in it and taste for balance. The salt has a real relationship with the vinegar. When you add just enough salt, it subdues the acid of the vinegar and brings it into a wonderful balance. Try adding salt bit by bit and tasting to see what happens. How much salt is too much? How much is too little? What tastes best? If you add too much salt, just add a touch more vinegar. Grind in some black pepper and whisk in the oil. The vinaigrette should taste brightly balanced, neither too oily nor overly acidic. Adjust the sauce, adding more vinegar if you’ve added too much oil, and more salt, if it needs it.

Velvety, luscious, garlicky mayonnaise—what the French call aïoli (pronounced eye-oh-lee)—is another sauce I use all the time: on sandwiches; with vegetables, both raw and cooked; with meat and fish; as the binder for chicken salad and egg salad; and as a base for sauces such as tartar sauce. Most children, even very young ones, love aïoli and will happily use it as a dip for bite after bite of bread, carrots, potatoes, and even vegetables they might otherwise refuse. Two or three small cloves of garlic per egg yolk, pounded with a mortar and pestle, make a fairly pungent garlic mayonnaise—depending on the garlic. The strength of garlic’s flavor can vary a lot, depending on freshness, season, and variety. I always pound the garlic in a mortar and pestle and reserve half of it, so I can add it later if the aïoli needs it. (You can always add more garlic, but you can’t subtract it.) It’s important to pound the garlic to a very smooth purée so the sauce will be garlicky through and through, not just a mayonnaise with bits of garlic in it. One egg yolk will absorb up to one cup of oil, but you can add less if you don’t need that much mayonnaise. Whisk the oil in drop by drop at first, adding more as you go. It is much easier to whisk when the bowl is steadied. To help hold it still, set it on top of a coiled dish towel. Adding a small amount of water to the egg yolk before you incorporate the oil helps prevent the sauce from separating or “breaking.” If mayonnaise does separate, stop adding oil, but don’t despair. Just crack a fresh egg, separate the yolk into a new bowl, add a little water as before, and slowly whisk in first the broken sauce and then the rest of the oil. Make aïoli half an hour ahead of time, to give the flavors a chance to marry. As with anything made with raw eggs, if you’re not going to serve mayonnaise within an hour, refrigerate it. Aïoli tastes best the day it’s made.

Herb butter is softened butter that has been flavored with herbs. It makes a great sauce for meat, fish, or vegetables, providing lots of flavor for next to no effort. I like it to be really green, full of lots and lots of herbs, with just enough butter to bind them together. Poached fish served with an herb butter made with the classic fines herbes of French cuisine (parsley, chives, tarragon, and chervil) is sublime. Either salted or unsalted butter will do for an herb butter. Just remember to season accordingly when you start adding salt. Lemon juice brings out the flavor of the herbs. The cayenne adds a little zing. Almost any fresh herb can be used. The more tender-leafed herbs, such as parsley, basil, chives, or chervil, should be very fresh and chopped at the last minute. More pungent herbs such as sage or rosemary are tastier when they are chopped and gently heated on the stove in a little melted butter. (Allow to cool to room temperature before adding to the softened butter.) Or, with or without herbs, make a butter flavored with one or two salt-packed anchovies (rinsed, filleted, and chopped), lemon zest, and black pepper, or, for an unusual twist and color, with some chopped nasturtium flowers or hot spicy peppers. Serve the butter as is, soft and spreadable; or put it in a piece of plastic wrap or waxed paper, roll it into a log, chill until hard, and cut it into coin-shaped pieces to put on top of hot food. Any extra herb butter can be frozen and used later.

Made in a Bundt cake pan, this half flan, half chocolate cake is a decadent marriage of two dessert classics. The batter for the chocolate cake is made first, then poured into the Bundt pan, followed by the flan batter. The batters may appear to mix but they completely separate while baking, with the flan ending up on the bottom. I like to eat the cake warm, but traditionally it is chilled for 24 hours before serving.

Gloria Linss, grandmother of my editorial assistant, Valeria, was kind enough to provide us with the perfect ratio of sugar and cinnamon to squash for this recipe. She also pointed out that at her house they did not chop the squash; she would literally smash the whole gourd onto the kitchen floor until it broke into pieces. You can keep it old-school and do that, but I suggest you go with a very sharp knife: it makes cleanup easier. For a sweet finish, do as Gloria does and drizzle the squash with chilled evaporated milk before serving. The cold milk is the perfect counterpoint to the extravagantly sweet, melt-in-your-mouth cinnamon-scented squash.

Tequila makes a tangy partner for sweet apricots in this fresh take on ice cream. Although nothing compares to the flavor and texture of ice cream made from scratch, you can take a shortcut and simply fold the tequila-soaked apricots into a half gallon of softened vanilla-bean ice cream from your supermarket.

Using pomegranate juice instead of water to make this nut brittle not only makes for a beautiful magenta-tinted caramel color but also adds a very subtle flavor of the pomegranate. Serve this buttery treat with ice cream, or pack it in cellophane bags and tie them with festive bows for delicious party favors.