I’m sure I’m like you when it comes to dinner planning. I sometimes have something I’ve been planning for about a week, thinking about a lot and excited to get started. I make sure to have all the time I need carved out to cook, with a built-in buffer for the expected small interruptions. Those are usually weekend days, once or twice a month. I don’t know what I’m eating for dinner most nights. And don’t let those super-organized food influencers fool you, they don’t, either. Usually, if I haven’t given up altogether and decided to order food, I’ll look for help. I either head to my cookbook library or, more often lately, use one of the countless digital options available. Sometimes I search by an ingredient I already have. Sometimes I just look stuff up.

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I love randomly, or not so randomly, buying one ingredient and building around it. I think, for the same reason, that’s part of why people are drawn to farmers markets. Usually, I’ll make the one thing the chosen ingredient might be best known for. That’s what happened with the jar of tahini which is currently sitting a little less than a third full on one of my pantry shelves. Hummus is delicious, available at pretty much every grocery store next to the refrigerated salsa, and by now doesn’t feel particularly foreign or exotic. None of the ingredients intimidated me. I knew tahini—not in depth, but we’d been introduced once or twice. It’s a seed butter made from sesame seeds—think peanut butter…but not at all. I was committed to making hummus. I didn’t predict anything out of the ordinary. I’ve made so many recipes, and usually they work out if you pay attention and follow the recipe to the letter the first time. What could go wrong with such a simple task? The ingredients were lemon, garlic, tahini, chickpeas and their liquid, along with some seasonings I don’t remember. It was so long ago that the recipe itself is lost to time. All I remember are the things that don’t really change from one hummus recipe to another. Maybe I blocked it from memory.

I was excited because one of the great things about making a condiment from scratch is discovering how different—and usually how much better—it tastes than the version you’ve been buying. I thought I had everything I needed, so I didn’t do the kind of research I tend to do now, cross-referencing recipes and watching how-to videos before I start cooking. I pulled out a small Cuisinart food processor, the kind you might use for a small batch of pesto, and followed each step of the recipe to the letter. The result was a textural nightmare. The “Hummus” tasted bitter. It was mealy and gritty. And somehow oddly liquidy. Multiple warning lights came on at the same time, not just the check engine. There wasn’t just one, easily diagnosed problem. One problem I might have been able to fix. This had several. I tasted it again. Lisa tasted it. Barf city. We didn’t have to confirm with each other. It was headed to the disposal.

As the mess poured down the drain and the disposal motor ran, I distinctly remember commenting to Lisa that the disposal was doing a better job making the hummus than I had. Alas. What’s sad is that, whether or not I consciously decided it, I didn’t attempt to make hummus again until a couple days ago. Maybe somewhere along the way I decided I just stunk at making hummus and it wasn’t worth trying again.

Years passed since Hummus Version 1. Yes. Years. The sad jar of tahini I’d bought specifically to make hummus sat unmoved for a long time. I can’t imagine how sad it must have felt watching all the other ingredients on the shelves get attention while it received none. How many times did I open the pantry door, light pouring in after hours or days of darkness, only to leave it with the predictable disappointment of not being needed? Time was ticking. On top of its red plastic lid was a best-by date, not a use-by date. Then a miracle happened.

I have a lot of dried beans. Like a giant Costco bin filled with one- and two-pound plastic bags of beans, organized by variety. It’s completely full…and yet, there is not a little overflow. One variety I have in extreme excess is garbanzo beans, or chickpeas. I periodically cook them for other dishes. There are a ton of uses—actually, way more off the top of my head than most of the other varieties living in my bean bin. Or at least more applications I’ve thought of or been introduced to.

Sometimes I don’t plan as much as I should. But when you have a ton of dry chickpeas, and the outcome carries way less weight because you’re not really “planning” anything and “this could just be an experiment,” it doesn’t matter as much. So I measured out a cup of dry beans, threw them in a bowl, covered them with water and put them on the kitchen counter before going to bed.

Two days went by.

Whoops.

I guess I didn’t get to the beans. No real loss. Down the garbage disposal they went.

…wait a second.

Lisa was standing in the kitchen with me. I joked, “Disposal hummus.”

Somewhere in my brain, it all made sense. I almost felt like this first batch of beans was a prelude to the real reason I was drawn to those garbanzo beans.

The door to my garage pantry opened. Light poured in. A sideways, almost invisible plastic jar sat dejected on the top shelf of my wire racks, as it had for years. A new bottle of yellow mustard was muscling him to the side a little, confident that he was almost guaranteed to be sitting in the refrigerator in a matter of weeks. This was routine, but not today. I reached for the mustard, but only to get better access to the tahini. One of two things must have gone through its head: Have I finally expired? Or, You must have me mistaken for someone else. The look on Yellow Mustard’s face must have been one of utter confusion as Tahini was chosen instead. And it wasn’t a mistake. Mustard might be useful, but this wasn’t his moment. I also grabbed some more of the surplus garbanzos.

We went inside so I could get some better light. The writing on the lid was so faint and smeared I could barely make it out. Then I saw the number 25. But it also said best by, so maybe there was a chance. I put that out of my mind for the moment and decided to move forward anyway with soaking the beans.

I had some research to do. Could I still use that poor tahini? Even if I could, should I? I also wanted to find a handful of hummus recipes and cross-reference them before deciding how I wanted to make mine. I consider this kind of research part of cooking. Like knife skills or any other technique, it’s something I’ve gotten better at with practice, and my cooking has improved along with it.

First, the tahini. Being a year past its best-by date didn’t automatically mean it had gone bad. The bigger concern was rancidity. Tahini contains a lot of sesame oil, and oils eventually go rancid. Apparently, I was looking for smells like old nuts, crayons, paint, cardboard or stale cooking oil.

Please don’t be rancid.

After stirring the tahini, which was about 75% full, it looked like it had just gotten a makeover. No longer separated under a pool of oil, the tahini was smooth and the color of khaki. I sniffed. Very nutty. No paint or crayons.

I had to taste it.

Tahini is naturally a little bitter, so that alone wasn’t going to tell me much. I was looking for something stale, sour, soapy, waxy or just unpleasantly sharp. I’d gone this far. I lifted the small, angled spatula I’d been using to stir the jar and dragged my tongue across the tahini still clinging to it.

Bitter, but the way it was supposed to be.

This jar wanted to live. It refused to go gently into that good night.

After finding a recipe I liked and deciding to use my Vitamix for the blending, I got to work boiling and softening the garbanzo beans. It doesn’t take all day, but it does take a considerable amount of time to get them to the texture you’re looking for. I checked mine after two hours, and they weren’t there yet. They should mash almost into a paste between your fingers, or easily squash against the roof of your mouth with your tongue. Mine needed at least another hour. I remember cooking the beans for Hummus 1, too, and honestly, I think I probably took them off the stove too early.

Next up, those skins. Seriously, I saw people performing the tedious task of removing the skin from every garbanzo bean and probably groaned out loud. Good news: the Vitamix I own is super powerful, and I could just blend those skins right in. Everything is coming up Milhouse.

Are we really going to have good hummus? How is Hummus 2 not pushing back at all yet?

I saved the cooking liquid from the beans, about two cups total, just in case. I added the garlic, cumin and other spices, lemon juice and—most importantly—the tahini to the blender pitcher. Did a little zip to combine everything, and then I added the soft beans. I was making half a batch and expertly estimated my cooked beans to be 450 grams. They turned out to be 445, and I DID eat one or two to check doneness, so yeah, I’m pretty much a genius.

I started blending slowly, then ramped up the speed. Eventually the blades did that thing that sometimes happens when whatever you’re blending gets too thick. The sound changed. Instead of grinding and blending, the blades were just spinning, unhindered by beans.

Okay, not enough cooking liquid.

I added more, little by little, until everything started moving again and I got the consistency I wanted. It turned out to be about twice as much liquid as I originally expected.

I’m glad I saved it.

Hummus 2 really looked like hummus. That’s awesome. I transferred it to a bowl and adjusted the salt and lemon juice before topping it with olive oil and some smoked paprika. It was such a huge improvement that I immediately started talking with Lisa about other variations. Hummus is a great launchpad for different flavors. Lisa asked if we could make a spicy red pepper one next. Sure! That sounds delicious. At this point, a third of the hummus was already gone.

All the while, Tahini was still proudly sitting on the kitchen counter, watching everything unfold.

Guess what? I made roasted eggplant with a lemon-tahini dressing last night.

I was originally going to list all the things I discovered about what obviously went wrong during the making of Hummus 1. I don’t think it really matters. Maybe the beans weren’t cooked enough. Maybe the ratios were wrong. Maybe I screwed up several things at once. Whatever happened, I made terrible hummus.

What I didn’t realize at the time was how much cooking I still had ahead of me.

I’ve cooked more in my home over the last five years than I ever have. Repetition is a great teacher, but so is recognizing the lessons that carry over from one meal to the next. I research differently. I plan differently. More importantly, when something doesn’t go according to plan, I’m better at recognizing what’s happening and adjusting. A blender suddenly spinning freely doesn’t mean the hummus is ruined. It means it probably needs more liquid.

I don’t think I ever consciously decided I couldn’t make hummus. I just made a really bad batch once, and somewhere along the way that became something I didn’t make.

Until I did.

And now I’m noticing things I didn’t before. Tahini, for one. I spent years barely noticing that jar unless I was moving something around it. Now I think it’s great. It’s nutty and a little bitter, works in way more things than I’d given it credit for, and even looks beautiful sitting there in that ornate container. There’s probably a lesson in that, too. You can’t pay attention to everything all the time, and I don’t think you should feel bad about the things you didn’t notice before. Sometimes you just notice them when you’re ready to.

I’m apparently making up for lost time with tahini. It went from sitting untouched for years to making Hummus 2, followed almost immediately by that lemon-tahini dressing. I’m already thinking about what else I can do with it.

And Yellow Mustard is still an arrogant jerk.

VITAMIX HUMMUS

Yield: About 4+ servings • Tested batch: 445 g cooked chickpeas

INGREDIENTS

• 445 g very soft cooked chickpeas, preferably still warm

• 90 g tahini

• 60 ml (¼ cup / 4 Tbsp) fresh lemon juice

• 1 medium garlic clove

• ¾ tsp kosher salt, plus more to taste

• ¼ tsp ground cumin

• About 120 ml (½ cup) reserved chickpea cooking liquid, divided, plus more as needed

• Extra-virgin olive oil, for serving

• Optional: paprika, sumac, chopped parsley, or a few whole chickpeas

NOTES FROM THE FIRST BATCH

Chickpeas 445 g cooked made a generous amount—more than enough for four. A smaller batch may be difficult to blend efficiently in a full-size Vitamix.

Liquid The 60 ml starting estimate was not enough; this batch needed about 120 ml total. Start conservatively again and add more according to texture.

Vitamix volume At roughly half the original Vitamix recipe volume, the batch may have needed extra liquid to establish a vortex. This needs further testing.

Tahini Brands and batches vary in thickness and may change the amount of liquid needed.

METHOD

1. Cook until very soft. Take the chickpeas beyond normal bean doneness. They should crush effortlessly between your fingers or against the roof of your mouth with your tongue. Splitting chickpeas and loose skins are fine; there is no need to peel them.

2. Reserve the cooking liquid. Before draining, save at least 1 cup. Drain the chickpeas but do not rinse them.

3. Start the hummus base. Add the tahini, lemon juice, garlic, salt, cumin and about 60 ml (¼ cup) cooking liquid to the Vitamix. Blend for 30–45 seconds, until smooth and slightly aerated.

4. Add the chickpeas. Add the 445 g warm chickpeas. Start on low and quickly increase to high, using the tamper to keep everything moving.

5. Adjust the consistency. While blending, add more cooking liquid 1–2 tablespoons at a time. This batch used about 120 ml (½ cup) total. Continue until the hummus is very smooth, silky and moving freely. Leave it slightly looser than desired because it will thicken as it cools.

6. Taste and adjust. Add lemon for brightness, salt if the flavor seems flat, tahini for more sesame flavor, or additional cooking liquid if the hummus is too thick.

7. Serve. Spoon into a shallow bowl and make swirls with the back of a spoon. Drizzle generously with good extra-virgin olive oil and garnish as desired.

KEY TEXTURE CUE The hummus should blend freely and look slightly looser than the final serving consistency.

I usually plan my meals. Dinner, almost always; breakfast, typically as I’m getting ready for bed; and lunch…well, lunch is so easy I don’t really care about my own, but for others, I’m great at providing mid-day nourishment. The weekend days start as they usually do, and the question about dinner comes up no later than 11:00 am. And I’m generally the one asking. “What are you thinking for dinner?” What I’m really asking is, “If you want something that’s going to take a while, please let me know now so I can plan accordingly.” I’m not trying to be rude about it. I’m actually much more excited if we’re making something fun. So, 11:00 a.m., usually well after the last of the coffee has been drunk and the kids are starting to get hungry again, is an imprinted last call. This, to me, is the cut-off. It gives me time to run to the store if I need anything and also will allow for almost any recipe.

Some days, you have too much going on, and errands take over, and you make some snap decisions. Despite being at the grocery store as a family, we really didn’t have any solid idea what we were having for dinner when we walked in. Although I think, much like going to the grocery store on an empty stomach can be crippling to your wallet, trying to come up with one cohesive plan for dinner while marking off food items from your digital shopping list and making sure your kids haven’t grabbed a handful of fruit-flavored Tootsie Rolls from the bulk area and stuffed them in your back pocket can be an almost impossible ask. Anyway. Coming up with dinner usually starts with a protein. Pork loin. Done. Got a big one. So big, I thought it might be one of those packs where there are actually two cuddling in the same pack. What else? Rice? We have plenty of that, and the kids will eat it. Great. Lisa offers some help, “I made that guava preserve and it’s still in the fridge. Want to do something with it?” “Oh yeah, it’s good and I think I can make something like a barbecue sauce with it.” Great. We can grab a cucumber on the way out for a salad, and we’re done.

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The thing is. Dinner is rarely that simple. Yes, I absolutely could have done all the things I was loosely planning at the store; guava is really awesome and I wish I could use it more. But when you’re not following a recipe strictly, you kinda start to drift. I started with the cucumbers and made a salad, which turned into a Greek salad. No biggie. I could eat Greek salads most nights by themselves and be super happy. I set the bowl aside by the sink. There it would wait, a handful of yellowish-green pepperoncini sitting on top wondering what other plates they would be joining.

Pork loin. For sure. That didn’t change, except that I decided not to actually use that guava in the fridge—I think it’ll be better with some kind of breakfast. Plus, Lisa worked so hard on it and we don’t have a ton of it to be futzing around with, trying to see if it’s a good substitute for peaches or something. I’ll try again another day. I grabbed a couple of small sheet pans and put them by my cutting board. I like to season my proteins as early as I can, especially if I’m grilling them. I want at least 30 minutes so the salt has some time to penetrate into the meat. The pork was seasoned with some Creole seasoning because it happened to smell good to me at the moment. Did it make sense? Not really, but I was on a roll. Now the rhythm is starting to kick in and we’re figuring out some stuff. Next, I washed the rice, got it started in the rice cooker, and headed outside to start the propane grill.

I keep produce on my counter close to my salt and other things I’m always grabbing, like garlic and avocado oil. As I came back inside, I could see a happy little habanero looking at me from across the room. Come over here, chop me up and eat me for dinner, it said, in an almost sassy way. What do you expect? And who was right next to the habanero troublemaker? His friend, a perfectly ripe mango who didn’t know what he was being roped into. Yeah. Now we’re talking. I love both of these flavors, and they just happened to be at the right place at the right time. First I was excited for the pork, then the Greek salad, and now my entire focus and joyful anticipation were centered around the soon-to-be mango-habanero relish.

I’ll add the recipe for the relish here since it’s still fresh in my mind. I guess one benefit of cooking for as long as I have is that I don't always have to rely on recipes or videos. Oftentimes, restaurant chefs have to improvise on the fly when they’re out of an ingredient or some minor tragedy happens in the back of the house. You just kind of know what slots in for what and what’s missing, if anything. Sometimes you see some ingredients that want to party with you and you have to just go with it. It’s a reminder not to take home cooking too seriously and that improvising gets easier the more you do it.

And finally, the pepperoncini peppers let out a sigh of relief when their bowl was placed on the table, where they, peeking over the rim, saw a grilled and sliced pork loin topped with a bright and deliciously acidic mango-habanero relish.

A lot of what I write about is how a dish opened my eyes to another culture or how a trip with friends introduced me to a place I never expected to love. But every so often I drift into a memory that has nothing to do with travel or fancy dinners with loved ones. Sometimes I find myself daydreaming, making connections I wasn’t expecting. I’ve come to realize that the meals that stay with us aren’t always the ones that inspire us how to better approach cooking, but the ones that remind us who we once were.

I’m a father now to two young children, Henry and Alma. Henry just turned five, and Alma is three. We haven’t yet had the kinds of dining experiences that I hope they’ll someday remember, but watching them grow has made me think differently about the dinners I shared with my family when I was young.

Around the time when I was about seven or eight years old, going out to eat wasn’t something we did because no one felt like cooking. It was an event. At least it felt that way to me.

Looking back, I doubt we went nearly as often as it seemed. If I had to guess, probably once a month. But to a seven or eight-year-old, those evenings felt special simply because I looked forward to them so much.

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One restaurant stands out more clearly than the others.

It was called H.T. McDoogal’s

The theme was vaguely Scottish, I think. Their mascot was a droopy-eyed bloodhound wearing a plaid deerstalker hat and smoking a Sherlock Holmes pipe. I also remember, like a lot of places of the time, if you went on your birthday, you would be given a toy. I wouldn’t be surprised if, after I left for college, my parents donated two or three stuffed bloodhounds. Like so many restaurants in the 1980s, the place had far too much brass, Tiffany-style lamps hanging from the ceiling, and a large central bar. The dining room sat a few steps above the entrance, while on the opposite side was a mostly empty room with a small stage, a DJ booth, and the obligatory disco ball.

Tucked away in the corner were two arcade machines. That detail probably tells you exactly when this story takes place. Every restaurant we went to as a family had them then. Ms. Pac-Man. Donkey Kong Jr. Popeye. Q*bert. Zaxxon (that one was especially brutal and I was convinced was impossible to get past the first level).

As a kid, I thought those arcade games were there for me. It never occurred to me until I became a father that they also gave my parents fifteen or twenty uninterrupted minutes to eat while their dinner was still warm, finish a conversation, or simply enjoy being together. That realization didn’t come until decades later. Back then, I had much more important things on my mind.

I'd climb onto my chair, my feet dangling, and order a Shirley Temple—or maybe another soda that I was only allowed to have when we went out to eat. Then I'd open the menu and immediately turn to the page I already knew by heart.

Fettuccine Alfredo. Every single time.

Even though I already knew what I was ordering, studying the menu was part of the ritual. It felt grown-up somehow. I waited while my parents ordered, then my older sister Gretchen, because manners mattered and there was an order to these things. Finally, I’d say the words I probably repeated four or five times every visit.

“Can I please have a quarter?”

What I didn’t know then but 100% am certain of now, is that my father had a pocketful of quarters. I’d scramble over to the arcade machine and back probably 3 or 4 times, repeating the same request to satisfy my undying need to play more games. By the time I returned for what was probably the fifth time, there would be a steaming plate of Chicken Alfredo waiting in front of me and I’d temporarily abandon my attempts at finally beating level 1.

I don’t remember what anyone else ordered or if they had their own go-tos like me. Each restaurant we’d dine at had its own arcade games, and each had my dish. It might be a burger at one place, or pizza at another. At this restaurant it was always, without deviation, Alfredo.

Creamy. Rich. And, most notably, a lot of black pepper. Exactly the kind of meal that felt impossibly sophisticated to a seven-year-old.

What I remember even more clearly now isn’t the pasta. It’s everything surrounding it. My parents had spent the week working, getting us ready for school, paying bills, and doing all the ordinary things that never seemed important to me as a child. They loaded two kids into the car, drove us to dinner, and somehow made an ordinary evening feel special. At the time, I thought the magic came from the restaurant. Now I suspect it came from them.

It’s funny how becoming a parent changes old memories. As children, we remember the arcade games, the Shirley Temples, and the excitement of ordering our favorite meal. As parents, we notice the things our own parents were probably thinking about instead: whether everyone would eat, how much dinner would cost, and whether they might enjoy a few uninterrupted minutes while their children happily disappeared toward the flashing lights of an arcade cabinet. But what remained was that my family knew how to make it special for all of us, whether they were explicit about it or not.

I still try to make my Alfredo the same way I remember having it there – super creamy, and more black pepper than you’ll see at most places. Whether that’s actually how H.T. McDoogal’s made it, I honestly couldn’t tell you anymore. And if I had their version today, I suspect it wouldn’t taste nearly as incredible as it did when I was seven. What I do know is that it captures the version I remember. And every time I make it, I’m reminded that the recipe was never really the point.

It was simply the meal that accompanied some of my favorite evenings with the people who made childhood feel a little more magical than I realized at the time. And yes...I eventually got past level one.

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This Chicken Paprika recipe came from my mother. Although I'd been eating this dish for years, I found this copy in the recipe binder I inherited after she passed away. Like many family recipes, it was written more as a reminder than a set of instructions. It assumed you already knew what “cook until soft” looked like, when to lower the heat, how to keep sour cream from curdling, and why a pan full of browned bits deserved a splash of wine before anything else happened.

None of those things were written down because they didn’t need to be. She already knew them.

When I began making this recipe myself, I started adding notes in the margins. At first they were small reminders, bloom the paprika gently or don’t return the chicken until after the sauce comes together. Later they became observations about technique: temper the sour cream before adding it to the pan, use chicken thighs for more consistent results, let the onions cook long enough to become sweet instead of simply soft.

Eventually there were more handwritten notes than printed instructions. None of the changes were dramatic. Most solved little problems I hadn't noticed until I'd cooked the recipe a few times. Others were simply choices born from experience. The original recipe simply calls for garlic without any further designation. Was it garlic powder? I don’t know for sure, but every time I made it, I reached for a fresh clove instead. It was a small judgement call, but one that made the dish feel more like itself.

At some point I realized I wasn’t changing my mother’s recipe so much as documenting the way she had probably made it all along. The recipe on the page stayed the same. The recipe in the pan continued to evolve.

That’s how so many family recipes survive. They aren't static documents. They're conversations, with each cook adding a little more understanding before passing them along.

The image below is the copy that was in her recipe binder. The blue and red ink scattered across the page tells the story better than I can. Every note came from me, making the recipe again, asking why something worked, and finding a way to make the next batch a little better than the last.

I considered publishing both recipes side by side, but in the end I decided against it. The original recipe has already done its job. It taught me how to make my mom’s Chicken Paprika. The version that follows is where that journey led.

It isn’t intended to replace my mother’s recipe. It’s an attempt to preserve it—not just the ingredients and measurements, but the techniques, little decisions, and pieces of experience that never made it onto the original page. I hope it becomes the kind of recipe my children (or perhaps someday their children) cover with handwritten notes of their own. Because if they do, it will mean the recipe is still alive.

In the first part of this series, we stocked the pantry with ingredients that can patiently wait on the shelf until inspiration strikes. The refrigerator is different.

Unlike a pantry, a refrigerator is constantly changing. Ingredients arrive, get used, and need to be replaced. That’s why I don’t think of a well-stocked refrigerator as one that’s full. I think of it as one that’s ready. Ready for breakfast, a quick pan sauce, a vinaigrette, dinner, or even an unexpected dessert without another trip to the store.

Open my refrigerator and you'll learn a lot about the way my family lives.

Not because it’s filled with expensive ingredients or every condiment imaginable, but because almost everything inside has earned its place over time.

I don’t expect anyone else’s refrigerator to look exactly like mine. In fact, I hope it doesn’t. Every cook eventually develops their own habits, favorite ingredients, and little comforts. This is simply where I’ve arrived after years of cooking for my family.

Don’t build my kitchen.

Build yours.

As you cook more, you’ll begin to notice the same thing happening in yours. You’ll reach for certain ingredients so often that replacing them becomes second nature.

One of the biggest differences between a pantry and a refrigerator is that a pantry is something you build over time. A refrigerator is something you maintain.

Your pantry changes slowly. Your refrigerator changes every week. Ingredients come and go depending on the season, what's on sale at the grocery store, or simply what you've been excited to cook lately.

Unlike dry goods, perishable ingredients ask a little more of you. They have a shorter lifespan, so a well-stocked refrigerator isn't necessarily the fullest one—it's the one where everything has a purpose. Over time, I've found myself buying many of the same ingredients because they give me the flexibility to cook almost anything without another trip to the grocery store.

One habit that’s helped me more than anything else is keeping a simple shopping list. Anytime I finish the last of something I know I’ll use again, I write it down immediately. I use an app called AnyList. I’m not sponsored by them, but it’s what works for me, and Lisa can share the same list on her phone. I’m sure there are plenty of other apps that do the same thing, but this has become one of those little habits that quietly makes cooking easier.

It sounds almost too obvious to mention, but it’s amazing how often you’ll forget that you used the last of the butter or fish sauce until you’re halfway through making dinner. A running list takes the guesswork out of grocery shopping and keeps your kitchen ready for whatever you decide to cook next.

The Refrigerator

Dairy & Eggs

Eggs

If I had to choose the one ingredient I consider most important, it would be eggs. They're used in almost every culture and cuisine for good reason. More breakfasts, lunches, and last-minute dinners have probably been saved by eggs than by any other ingredient in my kitchen. I almost always keep two dozen on hand because they seem to solve more problems than almost any other ingredient. Breakfast is the obvious answer, but eggs also become fresh pasta, fried rice, cakes, custards, and countless quick dinners.

Whole Milk, Half-and-Half & Heavy Cream

These are ingredients I use often enough that they rarely go bad. Whole milk is for everyday cooking, while half-and-half and heavy cream often find their way into soups, sauces, mashed potatoes, homemade ice cream, and desserts. Keeping them on hand means I don’t have to plan every meal days in advance.

Unsalted Butter

I almost always keep at least two pounds of butter in the refrigerator and several more in the freezer. One is for everyday cooking. The others are there because I never want to discover I’m out halfway through making pie dough, cookies, or dinner. Butter has earned permanent residency in my kitchen.

Sour Cream, Yogurt & Cream Cheese

These are key ingredients that frequently become whatever the meal needs. Sour cream finishes soups and baked potatoes, yogurt becomes marinades and sauces, and cream cheese is just as comfortable in a cheesecake as it is spread across a toasted bagel or a surprise inclusion in an omelet.

Cheese

If there’s one section of my refrigerator that probably gets visited more than any other, it’s the cheese drawer.

Parmesan & Pecorino Romano

Freshly grated Parmesan finds its way into pasta, soups, risotto, salads, roasted vegetables, and pan sauces. I even save the rinds in my freezer because they’re too flavorful to throw away. Drop one into a pot of soup or homemade stock and you’ll understand why.

Everyday Cheeses

Sharp cheddar, mozzarella, provolone, Monterey Jack and whatever else we’re enjoying that week round out the drawer. I don’t keep them because recipes demand them. I keep them because they make everyday cooking easier.

Condiments & Flavor Builders

If someone wanted to understand the way I cook, this shelf would probably tell them more than anything else.

Tomato Paste

Few ingredients build flavor as quickly as tomato paste. A tablespoon can completely change a soup, stew, chili, or pasta sauce. Also, don’t throw away the leftover tomato paste from the can you opened—store it in a plastic container and label it. Personally, I prefer the tubes, but I keep the small cans in my pantry, too.

Mustards

Yellow, Dijon, stone-ground, and Chinese mustard all have their own personalities. Dijon disappears into vinaigrettes and pan sauces. Stone-ground belongs beside sausages. Chinese mustard has a sharpness that completely changes the right dish.

Worcestershire Sauce

This is one of those ingredients you rarely notice until it’s missing. It adds depth to burgers, meatloaf, gravies, marinades, and sauces.

Cooking Wine

I almost always have at least half a bottle of dry white wine in the refrigerator. Not because I plan on drinking it, but because I never know when I’ll want to deglaze a pan, build a quick sauce, or add another layer of flavor to soup, seafood, or chicken. It’s one of those ingredients that solidly earns its place over and over again.

If the bottle happens to disappear before I cook with it, I suppose that’s okay too.

Asian Pantry

Soy sauce, tamari, fish sauce, ponzu, sambal, sriracha, and sweet chili sauce have all earned permanent space in my refrigerator. Together they open the door to dozens of different dishes without requiring an entirely separate pantry.

Better Than Bouillon

Whenever I have homemade stock, that’s usually my first choice. But I almost always keep both chicken and beef Better Than Bouillon in the refrigerator because it's one of the few convenience products that truly earns its place. Weeknight cooking is simply easier when it’s there.

The Classics

Ketchup, mayonnaise, A-1, and real maple syrup have never left my refrigerator for very long. Sometimes the classics still deserve a place.

Fresh Vegetables

Some of the vegetables I use most don’t actually live in the refrigerator. Onions, garlic, tomatoes, and citrus stay near where I cook because I reach for them almost every day. If I use half an onion or half a lemon, the remainder goes into the refrigerator. Otherwise, I like having them within arm’s reach.

Mirepoix

Celery and carrots almost never leave my refrigerator because I always want to be ready to make a mirepoix. Countless soups, stews, sauces, and braises begin with onion, celery, and carrots. Having those ingredients waiting for you makes cooking feel much less like starting from scratch.

Bell Peppers

I almost always keep one green and one red bell pepper. Yellow and orange usually appear only when I have a specific recipe in mind.

Greens

There’s almost always a couple heads of romaine lettuce in my refrigerator, but I also keep iceberg lettuce around because I think it’s one of the most underrated ingredients in the grocery store. It’s crisp, refreshing, inexpensive, and there are some salads that simply aren’t the same without it. After all, can you imagine a wedge salad made with anything else?

Fresh spinach is another staple. It disappears into omelets, soups, pasta, casseroles, and side dishes with almost no effort.

Brassicas

Most weeks you’ll also find either broccoli or cauliflower waiting in the crisper drawer. Which one depends on what looked best that week, but one of them is almost always there.

Fresh Herbs

Flat-leaf parsley and thyme are probably the two herbs I buy more than any others. When I find fresh bay leaves, I’ll usually buy those too and freeze what I don’t use. They keep remarkably well. If I haven’t yet, by the time you’re reading this, I plan on writing a kitchen note on great and easy ways to lengthen the life of your fresh herbs and what to do with them when they start to wilt.

Fruit

Fresh berries almost always make their way into our refrigerator. They’re delicious on their own, but they also remind me to eat fruit before reaching for something less healthy.

Proteins

If I’m planning ahead for a particular dinner, whatever protein that recipe calls for is usually waiting there too.

I don’t try to keep every cut of meat imaginable on hand, but there are a few things that make cooking throughout the week much easier.

Bacon and guanciale almost always have a place in the refrigerator because they don’t simply add flavor—they often become the foundation of an entire dish.

I’ll usually have a pound of 80/20 ground beef and a pork tenderloin as well. They’re versatile starting points that can become dozens of different meals depending on what else is in the kitchen.

You'll also almost always find hot dogs tucked into the meat drawer. They're one of those ingredients that can rescue a busy weeknight, and our kids certainly don't complain when that's dinner.

Living Ingredients

One thing in my refrigerator isn’t really an ingredient at all.

It’s my sourdough starter.

I’ll save the story of why I keep it for another day, but I enjoy knowing it’s there. It reminds me that not everything in a kitchen is meant to be convenient. Some things ask for patience before they give something back.

Lisa has her own version of this. Every so often she’ll make homemade pickles or a batch of kimchi. Like a sourdough starter, they continue changing long after they’re placed in the refrigerator.

I love that.

Some of the most interesting things in our refrigerator aren’t simply being stored.

They’re still becoming.

A Few More Refrigerator Staples

There are also a few ingredients that I don’t remember ever being out of—because my heart would break if I reached for them and they weren’t there. Capers add a bright, briny punch to everything from chicken piccata to smoked salmon. Prepared horseradish brings just the right amount of heat to roast beef, sauces, and holiday dinners. And you’ll never find sweet pickles in our house—only kosher dill pickles. Some preferences become family traditions, and that’s one of ours. Lisa has strong opinions about kosher dill pickles. Only the good ones make it into our refrigerator, and once they do, they're lucky to last a couple of days.

None of these ingredients get used every day, but when the right recipe comes along, they’re exactly what it needs.

Bread

Just as important as what’s inside my refrigerator is what sits on top of it. There’s almost always a loaf of sliced wheat bread for sandwiches and toast, a package of hot dog buns for quick family meals, flour tortillas for everything from tacos to wraps, and either a sleeve of English muffins or a bag of bagels waiting for breakfast. And, if we’re lucky, there’s a loaf of sourdough that Lisa baked herself.

Bread has a way of turning simple ingredients into a meal. A grilled cheese on homemade sourdough, eggs on a toasted English muffin, a quick breakfast bagel, leftover chicken wrapped in a tortilla, or a sandwich on a busy afternoon all become possible because we keep a few staples on hand.

The Freezer

I don’t have a particularly large freezer, and honestly, I think that’s a good thing. It encourages me to keep ingredients I’ll actually use instead of turning it into a place where forgotten food slowly disappears beneath bags of ice.

Everyday Staples

You’ll almost always find frozen peas and frozen spinach. They’re inexpensive, last a long time, and can be added to countless meals without much planning.

We also keep frozen fruit like berries, peaches, and mangoes for smoothies, desserts, and the occasional sauce.

Proteins

There’s usually a whole chicken, at least another pound of ground beef, some ground pork, and whatever cuts of beef happened to be on sale. Buying meat when prices are good instead of when I immediately need it is one of the easiest ways I’ve found to save money over time.

Things I Save

My freezer is also where odds and ends get a second chance.

Parmesan rinds.

Chicken scraps for homemade stock.

Sometimes shrimp shells after a seafood dinner because they make an excellent shrimp stock.

Even overripe bananas waiting to become banana bread.

None of those things look particularly exciting on their own, but every one of them has taught me that flavor is often worth saving.

Family Favorites

Not everything in our freezer exists to become an elaborate dinner.

There are usually Dino Nuggets, Otter Pops, and a few other things that simply make our kids happy.

I think that’s important.

A well-stocked kitchen should reflect the people who live there, not an idealized version of cooking.

Ice

One final thing you’ll find is a couple different ice cube trays. Large cubes, smaller cubes... different drinks and different occasions call for different ice. It’s a tiny detail, but one I’ve come to appreciate over the years.

A well-stocked refrigerator isn’t about collecting ingredients. It’s about removing obstacles between you and dinner. Over time, you’ll discover your own favorites. Some of mine may become yours, while others won’t fit the way you cook, and that’s exactly as it should be.

Each ingredient in my refrigerator has earned its place. Not because someone told me I should keep it. Because over years of cooking, it proved useful often enough that replacing it became second nature.

Don’t build my kitchen.

Build yours.

One day you’ll open your own refrigerator and realize it no longer looks like someone else’s shopping list. It looks like your family.

A well-stocked kitchen isn’t impressive because of how much it contains.

It’s impressive because of what it makes possible.

In the final part of this series, we'll step away from ingredients and talk about the cookware and equipment that make everyday cooking easier. You don't need a kitchen full of gadgets to cook well, but there are a handful of tools that have earned a permanent place in mine.

There are recipes that become part of your life because your grandmother made them. Others arrive through cookbooks, restaurants, or videos. Every now and then, though, a recipe enters your life because of a person.

For me, Red Beans and Rice will always remind me of my friend Scott.

When I was in college, I lived in Charleston with two roommates, Lee and Jay. We were all close friends with Scott, who grew up in Lafayette, Louisiana. One Friday before a long holiday weekend, we were talking about music, food and social life—as college students often do. Scott mentioned crawfish boils, describing them with the sort of confidence that only comes from someone who assumes everyone already knows what he’s talking about.

We’d eaten seafood boils before. Charleston has its own version, Frogmore Stew, so we assumed we knew what Scott meant. We didn’t.

Scott smiled. “I guess we need to remedy that.” He suggested that we leave the next morning, drive to Louisiana, eat crawfish at a restaurant called Black’s near Lafayette, spend the weekend at his parents’ house, and be back before classes resumed on Tuesday.

Instead of laughing and changing the subject, we agreed without hesitation.

Looking back, I'm convinced only twenty-one-year-olds would think twelve hours in a car for dinner sounded reasonable. We didn't know it then, but we were living inside one of those weekends that only exists once. The destination mattered, but in hindsight it wasn't the point. It was about being twenty-one, saying yes to ridiculous ideas, and not yet knowing how precious those moments would become.

Saturday morning came and I’m sure we didn’t get the sleep we should have. We ate our McDonald’s breakfast as was customary for road trips and we were off. We left Charleston before sunrise.

Road trips in the late nineties were very different than they are today. If you weren’t there, it’s difficult to explain why without making it sound miserable. Power windows weren’t standard. Some cars didn’t even have air conditioning. GPS didn’t exist. Neither did streaming music. Whoever wasn’t driving unfolded a road atlas across their lap, and the person holding the map also had the honor of being the DJ. They controlled the cassette deck and radio, a responsibility that somehow felt just as important as finding the right exit. They had absolute control over what music was played, and everyone knew that you don’t argue about it.

The miles disappeared beneath pine trees, truck stops, gas station coffee, and conversations I wish I could remember. But oddly, I remember that Scott loved the band, Phish and we tolerated it even though none of us would tell him we didn’t like it. Lee, Jay and I also probably listened to the album Pinkerton, by Weezer half a dozen times.

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That evening we arrived in south Louisiana and, a relatively short while later, pulled into the parking lot at Black's.

In front of each of us, five pounds of crawfish were dumped directly onto the plastic-covered table. We looked like toddlers in our oversized bibs, smiling like it was Christmas morning. A few minutes later, after peeling crawfish for the first time, our faces looked just as childish, smeared with Cajun spices and butter.

At the time, five pounds sounded impossible. A few minutes later it sounded about right.

Scott showed us how to twist the tails from the bodies, peel away the shells, and—something I politely declined—suck the juices from the heads. I stuck with the tails, sweet and impossibly fresh, imbued by spices that somehow managed to be both fiery and balanced. It was unlike anything I’d ever eaten.

The next evening, Scott’s family made crawfish étouffée. What I remember most isn’t necessarily the food, although it was extraordinary—I remember being welcomed.

Four college kids had shown up unannounced for a holiday weekend, and somehow we were treated less like guests and more like family. I doubt Scott’s parents thought much about feeding four hungry college kids that weekend. To them it was probably just dinner. To me it became one of the meals that quietly changed the way I thought about food. I had already fallen in love with Charleston. Its shrimp and grits, she-crab soup, oysters, and Lowcountry cooking had taught me that Southern food was something I’d barely understood growing up in New Jersey.

Louisiana taught me something else—There isn’t one Southern cuisine. Drive a few hundred miles and the ingredients change. The history changes. The accents change. Even the rice changes. Every place tells its own story through dinner.

When we returned to Charleston, I started asking Scott to cook some of the dishes he grew up with and thought we might also like. One of them was Red Beans and Rice. At first glance, it’s difficult to imagine why anyone would become attached to a pot of beans. Red beans, smoked sausage, onion, celery, bell pepper, garlic, spices, rice.

Humble ingredients.

Nothing expensive.

Nothing flashy.

And yet generations of families have built traditions around this meal.

Years later, while writing this article, I realized I wanted to share a version of Red Beans and Rice that felt as honest as the memories surrounding it. I could have used my own recipe, but I wanted to hear from someone who grew up with the dish.

Over the past couple months, I've gotten to know Lauren through Substack. She's a Louisiana native and the writer behind Yap and Lagniappe and Lauren from Scratch. One of the things I admire most about her writing is that it feels lived in. When I asked if she'd let me share her family's recipe, she graciously said yes.

It felt fitting. This recipe had entered my life through friendship once before. Somehow it was doing it again.

Historically, Monday was wash day throughout much of Louisiana. While clothes were scrubbed and hung to dry, a pot of beans could quietly simmer for hours, often flavored with whatever remained from Sunday’s ham. The recipe wasn’t born from luxury. It was born from rhythm. Life dictated the menu.

One of the reasons I think Red Beans and Rice resonates with so many people is that almost every culture has its version of this story. Somewhere in your family’s history there was probably a meal born from practicality instead of extravagance. A soup that stretched leftovers. A stew that simmered all afternoon while other work was being done. A loaf of bread made because flour was inexpensive. Those recipes survive because they were repeated, not because they were special. Eventually they became special because they were repeated.

That’s how traditions are made.

Red Beans and Rice transcends class and money. On Monday evenings, you’ll find it on dinner tables across Louisiana regardless of background or income. Few recipes can claim that. It wasn’t created to impress anyone. It existed because people had work to do, families to feed, and leftovers that deserved another life. They don’t feel invented. They feel inevitable. And eventually, it becomes a part of a culture’s identity.

Over the years I’ve cooked several versions of Red Beans and Rice. Some finish with mustard. Others lean more heavily on herbs. Some people swear by ham hocks, while others insist on smoked sausage. Lauren’s recipe, the one I’ve shared here, reminded me immediately of Scott’s cooking. It’s deeply savory, wonderfully meaty, and finishes with just enough brightness to balance everything.

When I asked Lauren about those differences, she told me something that made me smile.

“My grandpa always put a scoop of mayonnaise in his.”

She doesn’t.

She prefers a splash of red wine vinegar or sometimes pickled onions. I love stories like that. Recipes aren’t museum pieces. They’re conversations. One generation adds mayonnaise. The next adds vinegar. Neither is wrong. They’re simply continuing the discussion. That’s probably why I enjoy cooking regional food so much. Not because I’m trying to recreate someone else’s childhood. I’m trying to understand it.

Every truly regional dish begins as someone’s ordinary dinner before the rest of us discover it. Red Beans and Rice wasn’t invented to impress anyone. It existed because families needed to eat. Then those families passed it to their children. Then to friends. Then, eventually, to curious college students willing to drive twelve hours because someone mentioned giant stockpots of boiled crawfish and we all understood there was a fleeting moment which would never come again. At least not this way, and not with the same people.

Looking back, I don’t think that weekend was really about crawfish.

Or étouffée.

Or even Red Beans and Rice.

It was about discovering that recipes carry much more than ingredients. They carry places. They carry families. Sometimes they even carry us.

Every time I make Red Beans and Rice now, I think about Scott. I think about Louisiana. I think about a road atlas spread across someone’s lap, cassette tapes piled between the seats, and four friends who believed twelve hours wasn’t too far to drive for a good meal.

Every family has recipes that tell its story. Sometimes we inherit them. Sometimes we’re lucky enough to be invited into someone else’s. Maybe that’s what regional cooking really is.

Not a collection of recipes.

A collection of people generous enough to invite you to their table.

You can find Lauren’s Recipe here.

I grew up in central New Jersey, where Italian American restaurants, neighborhood bistros, and pizzarias shaped the way I thought about food. Where I grew up is close to places like Philadelphia and New York City, so it’s not as though it was some isolated area of the world. It wasn’t until I moved to Charleston, South Carolina that I realized what I had been missing.

Shrimp and Grits is a dish I grew to love while living in Charleston. If pressed, I think it might be the most important dish to me because of the history we share. The very first place I had it is a place named, Slightly North of Broad, or SNOB as the locals call it. It’s a slightly fancy restaurant on the Charleston peninsula. Through the Charleston Green doors, open to the foot traffic outside, the dining room sits in a centuries-old building, ornate ceilings and old hardwood floors reminding you of how important keeping traditions alive is. Dimly lit for dinner, its timeless aesthetic elements haven’t changed much in the years it’s been in operation. I went to SNOB with my family, likely when they were visiting me for the first time as a college student. Going out to nice dinners for us was routine whenever we would go on vacation or when they’d visit, so as a broke student I was luckier than I knew at the time. After finding our table, we took our seats - in the same order as we always had at our circular dining table growing up. As always, I remember taking my time with my menu. I knew this was a special place and I didn’t want to rush anything. I knew what Shrimp and Grits was, but I don’t think I’d ever seen it on a menu before. Maybe it was my desire to try something new, or maybe something divine moved me to choose it for my dinner. I look back and think about how I viewed Shrimp and Grits then and how I understand it now – just like most meals in nice eateries, I am sure I had assumed that it was an extremely complicated dish, only prepared by talented cooks and chefs respecting history and heritage. After all, I was beginning to realize that Charleston, a city steeped in American history, was also a culinary hotspot with just as long of an important food history.

While having dinner conversations, most likely about how school had been going, my dish arrived, slathered in a gravy, shrimp topping a shallow bowl of grits – yellow or white, I can’t recall, and a cast of veggies including green bell peppers and mushrooms and garnished with bacon and sliced, green onions. I pushed my fork through one of the shrimp, separating it in two. Gathering some scallions and bacon I remember excavating a small amount of grits and assembled what may have been the most meaningful bites of my life. It wasn’t magic. It was familiarity, the kind you get when you hug your mother after not seeing her for months. Everything made sense. Things were different now.

Looking back, I wasn’t falling in love with Shrimp and Grits. I was falling in love with Charleston.

From the many different recipes which I consider worthy of Charleston, what remains as a constant are great ingredients. It also isn’t a recipe I’d recommend as someone’s first attempt. I think a lot has to happen before you’re ready to cook it well. Shrimp and Grits isn’t technically difficult, but it rewards experience. The recipe is simple enough. Knowing when the shrimp are perfectly cooked, how loose the grits should be, and whether the sauce needs another squeeze of lemon or another pat of butter—that comes from cooking, tasting, and paying attention. That being said, there are a few elements which make eating it in Charleston a treat. You guessed it, the local shrimp and the local grits.

It’s hard to explain how great the local shrimp is from the Low Country, the area surrounding Charleston. If you haven’t had them, you’re probably used to shrimp purchased at the grocery store, injected with salt water to plump them, and previously frozen and thawed at least a couple times. Charleston shrimp were likely swimming in the wild hours before they arrived on your plate. They’re plump, sweet, juicy and clean. They stand alone, and to compare them to something you’d get in the freezer section is a disservice to them.

The warm water does something to the seafood there; the blue crab and shrimp are two of the biggest stars in local cuisine. There are many other shrimp dishes besides Shrimp and Grits, and crab dishes, like She Crab Soup, all which deserve an in-depth conversation.

Grits are a touchy topic for people who live or have lived for any significant time in the south. What I mean is that anything but high-quality grits for dishes like this aren’t worth being used. At all. Don’t even mention quick grits. In a pinch, you can use polenta or coarse corn meal, but never quick grits. I actually have my grits mailed to me from across the country and have several varieties stored in my freezer. The grits I use come from Anson Mills in Charleston. Arguably the gold standard.

Before we were married, I took Lisa to Charleston for Thanksgiving – my mother and father happened to love visiting me in college so much that they decided to build a house there after they retired. Maybe it was the weather and getting away from the harsh winters or perhaps the beach. In my heart I know the truth is that it must have been the food. Lisa is an even bigger fan of seafood than me, so I was so excited to share with her some of the food I was lucky enough to enjoy for so long. Don’t get me wrong, the salmon and crab where we live is also amazing, but there’s something really magical about what’s harvested from the waters of Charleston. The first restaurant we went to is called The Obstinate Daughter, on Sullivan’s Island. I don’t remember what I had, but I knew Lisa would order something with shrimp. I think she had some peel and eat shrimp which were, if I were to guess 16-20 – that’s a standard measurement for jumbo shrimp, but in my opinion, they were just the average size for the area. Fingers glistening from the seasoning and butter, Lisa smiled ear-to-ear, delighting in what I imagine I must have experienced years ago while having dinner with my parents. Watching her discover Charleston through its food was strangely satisfying. It felt like introducing two old friends.

Shrimp and Grits is on menus everywhere – even here in the Pacific Northwest. Seattle is also a pretty big food city, so it’s not a big surprise that there are several decent southern food restaurants. Oddly, in those restaurants, the Shrimp and Grits always veer very far from being authentic. I don’t get angry anymore, I just accept it. And I think that some recipes, like barbeque feel like they have to change depending on where they are made. And there have been times where people have tried to convince me that real Shrimp and Grits are made in New Orleans, or somewhere in Georgia. I’m sure those versions are fine. I have no connection to those, even if they are made mostly the same way. My heart sings when I connect with great food. I feel alive and want to share that feeling with anyone and everyone. To love a place’s food is to love its culture. Every time I enjoy Shrimp and Grits with new friends or family, I’m reminded that home isn’t always where you’re from. Sometimes it’s the place that taught you how to eat.

Black beans, all beans really, taught me some of the most important lessons in the kitchen. Just slow down! I happen to really like black beans. You can’t cook them from dry fast, even in an Instant Pot. They, at a bare minimum, with prep, will take at least one and a half hours to cook. That’s probably not what most people expect from a pot of beans, but the longer I’ve cooked, the more I’ve come to appreciate foods that refuse to be rushed. Great black beans aren’t difficult. They simply ask for your attention.

The thing is, usually when I’m making beans, I’m having them with something else which I’ve planned, usually a main course - and so, I tend to align my method of cooking beans in that planning. If I were cooking a pork shoulder, I know it will take a long time, and beans from dry can be cooked in tandem with the pork. And because I really love the creaminess and flavor of beans, I want to showcase them. I want to treat them with the same respect the farmer did when growing them. Cooking beans fast - or anything else for that matter - isn’t inherently disrespectful; I’ve noticed that the more you connect with your food over time, the more you understand it, and the more delicious it will be. Something just feels lost to me when you don’t impart this good intention and pay attention to the food you’re cooking.

Black beans are magical. When dry, they’re small, black, and shiny - avoid really dusty beans, as it usually means they are old. When you soak them, they double in size and leave behind a dark purple, squid ink-like liquid. When cooked, they take on a brown/black hue. Each stage is telling you something, and if you follow what they’re saying, you’ll end up with one of the most versatile foods in the world.

THE MORE YOU EAT...

I definitely recommend mastering cooking beans from dry before regularly making them in a pressure cooker. I’ll say it again, the more you understand about the food you’re cooking, the better it will be. The first step is always to sort through the beans, looking for debris like little pebbles or anything which doesn’t belong. I used to skip this step until I gave some soup to a friend once and saw him bite down on a rock. It wasn’t good. After picking through the beans, wash and then soak them overnight. A good rule is to put them in a bowl, and just cover them with cold water and sprinkling of baking soda. This will allow the beans to cook faster by softening the pectin in them. The baking soda also helps break down some of the sugars responsible for the reputation beans have earned over the years.

In the morning, or whenever you start cooking your beans, you have the option of draining off the purplish water that hasn’t been soaked up by the beans. Since I add baking soda to this water, I usually give the beans another wash, but I’m not convinced you need to do that since the baking soda left over won’t affect the flavor of the beans. If you don’t drain them, just add less cooking liquid. I like to use chicken stock, but using water is fine too. You’ll just want to add some more aromatics to compensate for what you’re lacking by not using stock. In this case, I highly recommend sautéed onions.

Another fun thing about beans is that they take seasoning and fats really well. For my method of black beans, I like to start off by rendering a decent amount of bacon or salt pork. You may transfer out the crispy bacon to be added later, but I elect to leave it in the pot, mingling with the beans. Next, in the rendered fat, I’ll cook some garlic and sometimes red or white onion. Honestly, any allium will work in this situation. Optionally, adding a pinch or so of cumin is a welcome addition. Not only is it a delicious spice, but frying ground spices in hot fat releases fat-soluble flavor compounds which are more easily distributed throughout the dish. It’s also very good for you. After a few turns of black pepper, I add the soaked beans and a large pinch of salt to the pot, swirling to coat everything. Finally, I cover the beans again, this time with chicken stock if I have it. Please note that although I love products such as bouillon, I recommend keeping track of the salt you’re introducing. I know I said that beans can take a lot of salt, but you should always be careful when using concentrated ingredients. Bring the beans to a simmer, reduce to low, and cover.

Periodically, take off the lid, admire how things are coming along in the pot, and give your beans a stir. After about two hours, you should be able to get away with serving them. However, I am a firm believer that you can leave your beans on the burner all day and they’ll be great, as long as you’re tending to them and tasting them along the way. I’ve never had beans I’ve made this way have a texture that was unpleasant. To serve, my go-to dishes are usually tacos or as a dip. I also make black bean soup from time to time. Generously garnish them with torn cilantro, freshly squeezed lime, and queso fresco.

It used to surprise me that I’d get more compliments for my beans than other dishes I was cooking, but looking back, I also think I was always having a dialogue with the beans while I was working in the kitchen, prepping for other elements of the meal. They’d tell me how they were doing, and if they’d like to have a little more salt, or perhaps a tad more cumin. Sometimes a little more cooking liquid and to be stirred a little. Our relationship would deepen, a journey that lasted an entire day. As dinner would approach, I would be assured that the beans were ready, and I would be happy. I wasn’t saying goodbye, I was saying thank you. And it’s no question why I’d received the compliments I did.

Is it shrimp season? Apparently, yes. Shrimp season generally runs from June through December, which is great news because I love shrimp, and I have a feeling you do, too.

The classic dish we’re sharing today, Shrimp Scampi, might just be the perfect seafood recipe for anyone who’s new to cooking. It’s fast, approachable, and in my humble opinion, has all the things that make food delicious: garlic, butter, lemon, and of course, shrimp. Add some fresh herbs and a little heat, and I am completely sold.

I like serving mine over pasta, but some crusty bread for soaking up that incredible sauce—or even a bowl of rice—would be equally at home on the table.

We hope you enjoy!

Summer is my favorite time of year for many reasons. Where I live in the Pacific Northwest, the warm weather is a welcome break from the months of overcast days. The average temperature in Seattle only exceeds 70°F between late June through early September and is rarely over 80°F. With the specific climate we have, we have a lot of farms growing apples, cherries, grapes, and hops. Washington’s farms are a huge part of what makes summer here so special. The state produces an incredible variety of crops, but apples remain king, with Washington responsible for roughly 70 percent of all apples grown in the United States. We enjoy incredible farmers markets. Summer is the season of glorious fruits and vegetables, transformed into recipes acting as ambassadors for the region.

Many cultures around the world have their own classic recipes which have evolved based on their local agriculture. So famous are these regional dishes and/or their agriculture that some cultures are defined by them. Take, for example, Georgia, known as the Peach State, which has around 70 roads in the state named after peaches. In Atlanta, Peachtree Street is one of the city’s major routes. Similarly, Idaho is known for potatoes, and Nebraska is known for corn. If you want to know more about a region and its people, it’s wise to first look at what the people there grow and eat.

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Summer salads are ubiquitous. Undoubtedly, you can travel anywhere in the summer and enjoy a salad comprised of delicious local ingredients. Most people think of greens when they hear salad, but my favorites almost always omit or limit them. Lisa and I are lucky enough to live close to a farm stand that is open all summer. There’s something super inspiring that happens when you walk around a farmer’s market, and I always end up blowing past any budget I had going in. In mid-August, our farm stand has great peaches and tomatoes. I picked some up, not knowing what I was going to make, but certain that whatever salad I used them in would be wonderful.

Welcomed summer salad contenders include Caprese, Tomato Cucumber Feta, Mango Salad, along with salads made with grains like tabbouleh and pasta salads. Lisa and I landed on a Grilled Peach salad. Just typing this makes me drool. It is the best meal I’ve had all summer. After the first bite, I was sad that we only made enough for two people. The recipe was found in one of my America’s Test Kitchen books, The Complete Salad Cookbook. Although I made some changes – let’s be honest, mistakes, I feel the finished salad I made reflected the recipe’s vision. Just like when I’m at the farm stand, recipes like this inspire you to use other ingredients in new and exciting ways, at least until the end of summer.

Grilled Peach and Tomato Salad with Burrata and Basil

The peaches I bought were a little bit on the small side and also not quite ripe. Luckily, peaches continue to ripen even after they are picked. I had some time to figure out their destiny, which was as a part of the Grilled Peach Tomato Salad. To ripen, leave peaches out at room temperature. If you want to slow down this process, you can put them in the fridge - they will last for about one week. If they start getting wrinkly, they will also likely be mealy and headed toward smoothie town. To tell if your peach is ripe, it’s as easy as checking how soft it is. Hard and firm are not adjectives that describe a ripe peach. You’re looking for soft, enough for your thumb to leave a small impression when pressed. It will be juicier, and the pit will also be less resistant to removal. There is nothing on this planet like a perfectly ripe peach.

After gathering all the ingredients we were going to use - peaches, tomatoes, burrata cheese, and basil - I got to work. This was the easy part. Despite my phone predicting perfect weather, it decided to rain, and thus, grilling peaches on my Weber was out of the question. My first instinct was to wait until the next day, but according to the reports, it was going to rain for the next couple of days. Anyone with kids will tell you that you’re constantly pivoting and “making it work.” The same philosophy holds true in any kitchen. So we decided to try cooking the peaches on our grill pan and finish them in the oven. Despite having grilled peaches before, I was a little nervous cooking them inside for some reason. I guess that’s why I forgot a simple step, which I am telling you right now: Don’t forget to butter your peach halves before you put them on the pan. Even though I didn’t ruin the peaches, I didn’t achieve the quintessential grill marks I was looking for, and they stuck to the pan enough to be annoying. If you watch our video, you’ll see what I mean. Finally, I covered the pan and put it in the oven for around 15 minutes. The skins slipped right off, and I was on to the next step.

The rest of the recipe is straightforward. I diced, then seasoned a giant heirloom tomato with salt, chopped some basil, and made an unbelievably simple vinaigrette - so simple I’m not sure salt, oil, and vinegar qualify. I had to remind myself that simple is good and even if you’re tempted, you don’t need to meddle with it. I mixed up the diced tomato and peaches with the vinaigrette while I tore up a few balls of burrata cheese, my current favorite cheese. Everything was plated up, and after topping with the cheese and basil, I drizzled just enough olive oil to make the salad even more gorgeous.

Looking back, I think the thing I remember most about this salad isn't the burrata or even the peaches. It's that everything about making it required adjusting. The peaches weren't quite ready. The weather didn't cooperate. My original plan went out the window. But that's cooking, and honestly, that's life. Sometimes the best meals happen because you stop fighting circumstances and work with what you've got. Summer eventually ends, the farm stands close, and the peaches disappear. That's exactly why meals like this feel special when they come around.

For most of my life, chicken wings meant one thing: Buffalo wings. Sure, you could order barbecue or teriyaki if you felt adventurous, but the gold standard was always a basket of crispy wings swimming in buttery hot sauce. Lemon pepper wings existed somewhere in the background of my culinary consciousness, but I never gave them much thought. Then I learned about Atlanta's obsession with "lemon pepper wet," and suddenly everything I thought I knew about chicken wings was up for debate. The idea of lemon pepper wings wasn't entirely alien to me; they just conjured up visions of the stale plastic bottle of lemon pepper seasoning sitting in the back of my spice cabinet. Occasionally I'd sprinkle some on vegetables or chicken breasts, but it never felt particularly exciting. To think lemon pepper would completely change the way I thought about one of my favorite foods was unimaginable.

Not too long ago, I was reading an issue of one of my many back issue copies of Cook’s Country, which is part of America’s Test Kitchen. Within the April/May 2022 issue, I kept going back to the recipe and article on page 9. I was fascinated that the people of Atlanta prefer wings prepared in a way other than what I expected to be the last word on hot wings. I read that their favorite variation is known as “lemon pepper wet,” in which crispy fried wings are coated with a zesty, peppery dry seasoning blend and topped with either clarified butter or buffalo sauce. How good could it be? The dry ingredients list alone was as long as my arm and included dehydrated lemon zest. The perfectly classic Buffalo wings I have made for the last many years only required a dusting of flour with salt and pepper before frying up and slathering with a bottled hot sauce and melted butter. I was ready to dismiss the recipe as gimmicky until I read one interesting ingredient - citric acid.

Citric acid is the kind of ingredient you see in sour candy that makes it so good. If the recipe I was making needed more acidity, I would usually add vinegar or lemon juice. I tend to steer away from adding ingredients that seem unnatural, but as it turns out, citric acid is found in lots of baking and canning recipes. Citric acid is a concentrated powder that raises the acidity level of a food or solution it is added to. To give you an idea of how to measure the sourness, ¼ teaspoon citric acid = 1 tablespoon bottled lemon juice. Be aware, citric acid is not as good as lemon juice when controlling oxidation, so it isn’t an ingredient you should substitute if you don’t have lemon juice. When I looked for it in the grocery store, I couldn’t find it, so I ended up ordering some online. Later, I found out that you can usually find it in the jarring and canning section and not the spice aisle.

I like to have my wings wet. I don’t mind them swimming in sauce. There’s a perfect balance of texture, though. You run the risk of a soggy or slimy chicken wing if it’s drenched the way I like them. The article I read has a solution for this - flour, baking powder, and cornstarch are added. If you’ve ever fried anything with cornstarch, you know it gets puffy and crispy. The first time I did this was when making General Tso’s chicken and it was amazing. The coating stayed crisp and crunchy and the puffy coating held on to the sauce. At this point, I knew I would give the recipe a shot. Afterall, I almost always have chicken wings in my freezer.

I wasn’t sure I’d have Buffalo style wings ever again.

For the most part, I followed the America’s Test Kitchen recipe to the letter, but since I didn’t own a microwave oven at the time, I dehydrated the lemon zest in my oven. That step only added about 20 minutes, and I’ll be sure to explain how to do both methods in the recipe. And even though the list of dry ingredients is long, you should already have most of the spices. The only outliers are maybe dried coriander or turmeric. I think it took me a little over an hour from beginning to end to make this recipe for the first time. And if you don’t have a deep fryer like me, cooking in a Dutch oven or shallow frying are definitely recommended options. I just wouldn’t bake them since the wings rely on the texture you can only achieve by frying.

The wings obviously knocked me out. The vibrant orange and flecks of dried lemon zest were more inviting than any wing I had ever been acquainted with. Being used to bright red, burn-your-face-off wings to mild and saucy wings with celery sticks and blue cheese, this newcomer had a lot to say. Holy cow. I want to be honest with you. These wings are the best wings I’ve ever had. It’s not even close. I had the kind of feeling you get when you look down at your plate before you’ve even swallowed your first bite, and feel bad because you wish you had made more. I wanted to call people to tell them about this joyous meal. I hugged my wife and kids and remember it like it was yesterday. I wasn’t sure I’d ever have Buffalo-style wings again. That part, of course, isn’t true, but you still get the idea.

I’m a firm believer that you shouldn’t get stuck in a routine, eating the same food all the time. Changing it up is healthier for every aspect of your life. I know I say it a lot, but having a connection to what you eat is super important, and you tend to not do that when you’re on autopilot in the kitchen. I’m happy I tried an old favorite, reimagined in an exciting new way. It allowed me to rethink all the recipes I tend to think are solved and don’t need improving. Using different spice blends, techniques, and flavor profiles doesn’t always work when you’re making something you already cook well, but you start to see the connection in everything when you venture into uncharted territory. Sometimes it does, and it is one of the most satisfying things you can imagine. I had almost convinced myself that making this recipe was a waste of time, but I’m happy that some mystical force convinced me otherwise. Cooking this meal helped me realize why I love chicken wings so much - the texture and ritual of it, and it didn’t only have to do with the Buffalo sauce I have known my whole life - which I still adore. So call your friends and family, give them the good news that you’re cooking up some wings, and prepare yourself for something very special.

We recently published a video for this recipe on YouTube, and instead of a full blog post, we’re keeping things simple with the recipe and a short introduction.

Going forward, I think you’ll see two types of posts here. The first will be the longer-form stories I enjoy writing—recipes tied to memories, techniques, ingredients, and the reasons they found their way into our kitchen. The second will be more like this one: a great recipe, a few thoughts, and straight to the cooking.

This Cheesy Chicken and Broccoli Bake is adapted from a recipe I found in a cookbook I picked up from the bargain bin at one of my local grocery stores for about three dollars: Delish: Eat Like Every Day’s the Weekend.

One of the reasons we chose to make a video for it is that, while the recipe itself is very approachable, it includes several useful techniques that carry over into all kinds of other dishes. It also checks another important box in our house: finding ways to get vegetables in front of two small children who don’t always agree with our dinner plans. If you know, you know.

The best part is that this recipe is also a great starting point for experimentation. Once you’ve made it once, it’s easy to swap ingredients in and out and see what combinations work for your family. We had a lot of fun with this one, and we hope you do too. Let us know if you make it!

A lot of people at some point in their life realize that learning to cook at home is one of the most important home skills you should invest a significant amount of time in. You don’t need to love cooking, but whether you’re just one person, or part of a large family, the better prepared you are in the kitchen, the better life tends to be. Not only does it save you money in the long run, but you get to eat whatever you want without the restriction of a restaurant’s menu. This is the first part in a series to help anyone just starting out or someone just trying to fill in any gaps. I’ll try to explain the hows and whys of everything so it’s not just a list of items. The first part is about the pantry and dry items. It is a breakdown of those staples—and why building a pantry slowly and intentionally changes the way you cook every day. The second part will cover perishable items and refrigerator management along with maintaining a shopping list. Finally, the third part will cover equipment like cookware and gadgets – and how to use them. I truly hope you get something out of it.

Starting a pantry—whether you’re in your first apartment or settling into a new home—is one of those small things that meaningfully changes how you cook.

A well-stocked pantry isn’t just for seasoned cooks. It’s arguably even more helpful when you’re just starting out, because it removes friction. It means that when you open a recipe or decide to cook something on a whim, you’re already halfway there.

The goal here isn’t to buy everything at once. It’s to slowly build an inventory of ingredients you reach for often—things that live in your kitchen long enough that they start to feel like part of your routine.

Most of the items below will last a long time in your pantry, sometimes a year or more. Because of that, it’s never a bad idea to grab one or two items when you’re at the grocery store just to keep things topped off.

And truthfully, there have been plenty of times where I’ve had a little too much of something sitting around. But even that ends up being useful. An overstocked pantry has a funny way of pushing you toward creativity—you start cooking based on what you have, instead of what you planned.

Yellow Onions, Garlic and Russet Potatoes

I group these together because, in my kitchen, they basically live together. They’re stored in mesh bags, usually in the garage or pantry space, and they get used constantly. They’re also some of the most economical ingredients you can keep on hand.

Even though they last longer than most fresh produce, they still need attention. The general rule is simple: use the oldest first. In restaurant kitchens this is called FIFO—First In, First Out—and it’s one of the easiest habits to bring home.

As I’m writing this, I somehow have more than 10 pounds of russet potatoes sitting around. It wasn’t intentional, but here we are. I told my wife, Lisa, that I was going to make a batch of potato chips in the deep fryer this weekend to make a dent in them. We had originally planned scalloped potatoes, but at this point I’m just trying to bring the inventory down to something reasonable—somewhere in the 2–5 pound range feels right for normal life.

Same idea applies to onions and garlic: enough to cook freely, not so much that you feel like you’re running a small farm.

• Potatoes

  They are useful in so many ways that it’s hard not to spend this entire list writing about them. Commonly, I like to use potatoes as starch to naturally thicken sauces, in roasting, mashing and frying. Their versatility is almost limitless, as is the ease of prepping and cooking them. For people relatively new in the kitchen, they are also great to practice basic knife skills like dicing. And best of all, they’re super inexpensive.

  STORING:
  Keep potatoes in a cool, dark, dry place—garage, pantry, or under a sink if it stays dry. Avoid refrigeration. If they turn soft, sprout heavily, or develop green patches, it’s time to let them go.

• Yellow Onions

  Like potatoes, onions are super versatile. They are the base and foundation of so many recipes, along with other ingredients like carrots and celery, traditionally. But like potatoes, you can make them the showcase of many recipes. Their forgiving nature also allows you to cook them, using many methods like sauteing, frying, roasting, and stewing. They are the most used aromatic in almost every culture’s cooking. Their natural sweetness is perfect for recipes like French Onion Soup and Onion Rings along with many classic sauces.

  STORING:
  Keep onions in a ventilated, dark place. I usually suspend mesh bags of them in my garage pantry area. Don’t refrigerate whole onions unless they’ve already been cut. If they begin sprouting or developing soft spots or mold, toss them.

• Garlic

  Garlic is an ingredients which has earned a permanent spot on my kitchen counter, at least a few heads, that is. It’s sharp when raw, sweet and mellow when cooked, and it supports almost everything it touches. It’s rarely the center of a dish, but when it’s missing, you notice immediately. A few heads go a long way if you cook regularly.

  STORING:
  Keep garlic in a cool, dry, well-ventilated place—never sealed tightly in plastic. Mesh bags or open baskets work best. Garlic likes airflow. Once the cloves become soft or heavily sprouted, it’s time to replace them.

Flour and Cornstarch

Flour is one of those pantry staples that unlocks a lot more cooking than people expect.

All-purpose flour is the one I always recommend starting with. It’s versatile enough for baking, thickening, dredging, and general cooking without requiring too much thought. Once you cook more regularly, you can branch into bread flour, self-rising flour, or alternative flours like almond or gluten-free blends.

Cornstarch plays a different role but is just as useful. It’s one of the simplest ways to thicken sauces or soups and can completely change texture with very little effort.

• Flour

  There’s something comforting about always having flour around. Even if you’re not a big baker, flour solves a lot of kitchen problems.

  STORING:
  Keep flour in airtight containers somewhere cool and dry. Flour absorbs odors and moisture pretty easily, so sealing it properly matters more than people think. Whole grain flours spoil faster and are often best kept in the refrigerator or freezer.

• Cornstarch

  Cornstarch is one of those ingredients you don’t think about until you need it, and then suddenly it feels essential. It thickens sauces beautifully, helps create crispy coatings when frying, and is useful in everything from gravies to desserts.

  STORING:
  Keep cornstarch sealed tightly and away from humidity. It lasts a very long time as long as moisture stays out.

Baking Soda, Baking Powder, and Sugars

Even if you don’t consider yourself a baker, these are pantry staples worth keeping around. Most people think of them only in the context of cookies and cakes, but all three show up in plenty of savory cooking applications too. Like many pantry ingredients, they don’t take up much space, aren’t particularly expensive, and have a habit of saving you an unexpected trip to the grocery store.

I’ve also found that keeping these ingredients on hand makes it much easier to say “yes” when inspiration strikes. Whether it’s a last-minute batch of pancakes for the kids, homemade biscuits with dinner, or a dessert you decide to make on a rainy Sunday afternoon, you’ll already have the foundation ready.

• Baking Soda

  Baking soda is one of those ingredients that does a lot of work behind the scenes. In baking, it reacts with acidic ingredients like buttermilk, yogurt, lemon juice, or vinegar to create lift and help baked goods rise. But it has uses outside of baking too. A small amount can help brown foods more effectively, tenderize certain ingredients, and even help beans soften more quickly during cooking. Because recipes usually call for relatively small amounts, a single box can last quite a while.

  STORING – Keep baking soda in an airtight container in a cool, dry place. While it has a long shelf life, it does lose potency over time. If you’ve had the same box for years, it’s probably worth replacing.

• Baking Powder

  Baking powder serves a similar purpose to baking soda, but it’s a little more self-sufficient. Because it already contains an acid, it doesn’t need additional acidic ingredients to activate. It’s responsible for the rise in everything from pancakes and muffins to biscuits and quick breads. I always keep a container around because there are few things more disappointing than deciding to bake something only to discover your baking powder expired years ago.

  STORING – Store baking powder tightly sealed in a cool, dry pantry. Like baking soda, it gradually loses effectiveness with age. If you’re unsure whether it’s still active, a quick internet search will show you a simple test using warm water.

• Sugars

  Most people think of sugar as a baking ingredient, but I use it in savory cooking all the time. A pinch can balance acidity in tomato sauces, help vegetables caramelize, or round out a vinaigrette. It’s less about making food sweet and more about creating balance. For most home cooks, I recommend keeping at least two types on hand:

  • Granulated sugar for everyday baking and cooking.

  • Brown sugar for baking, sauces, marinades, and barbecue applications.

  From there, you can branch into powdered sugar, turbinado sugar, demerara sugar, or specialty sugars if you find yourself using them regularly. One thing I’ve learned over the years is that sugar lasts a very long time. It may harden, clump, or become inconvenient, but it’s remarkably resilient.

  STORING – Keep sugars in airtight containers to prevent moisture from getting in. Brown sugar is notorious for drying out and turning into what feels like a brick. A sealed container will dramatically extend its life and keep it easy to work with.

One thing I appreciate about these ingredients is that they don’t demand much attention. Unlike produce, they won’t complain if you forget about them for a few weeks. They’re simply there when you need them, patiently waiting to help turn a handful of pantry staples into breakfast, dessert, or dinner. That’s exactly the kind of ingredient I like having around.

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Spices (Cayenne, Cumin, Granulated Garlic, Kosher Salt, Black Peppercorns)

Spices are where cooking starts to feel personal.

Even the simplest dish can shift completely depending on how it’s seasoned. A well-stocked spice shelf means you’re never starting from zero—you’re just deciding which direction to take something.

At minimum, I like keeping cinnamon, paprika, chili powder, chili flakes, oregano, cayenne, garlic powder, and ground ginger around. From there, it builds naturally based on what you cook most often.

Spices last a long time, but they do lose intensity, so refreshing them every so often makes a noticeable difference.

• Cayenne, Cumin, Granulated Garlic

  These are the backbone of a lot of everyday cooking—heat, depth, and familiarity across cuisines.

  STORING:
  Keep spices away from heat, moisture, and direct sunlight. The cabinet directly above your stove is honestly one of the worst places for them, even though almost everyone stores them there at first. A cool cabinet or pantry shelf will keep them flavorful much longer.

• Salt and Pepper

  Kosher salt and whole black peppercorns are non-negotiable. If everything else disappears, these are the first things I replace. Freshly cracked pepper tastes dramatically better than pre-ground, and once you notice the difference, it’s hard to go back.

  STORING:
  Salt lasts essentially forever if kept dry. Peppercorns also keep their flavor for a surprisingly long time if stored whole in airtight containers.

Dry Beans, Rice, and Pasta

These are the pantry workhorses.

They’re also some of the most globally significant ingredients you can cook with. I spent time in Charleston, South Carolina, and the rice and bean traditions there are deeply rooted and worth exploring. There’s a lot to learn from chefs preserving heritage grains and techniques—I recommend anything written by Sean Brock.

Beans especially are worth keeping both canned and dried, but I’ve started leaning more toward dried beans when I have the time. They take longer, but the texture is better, the flavor is deeper, and you control the seasoning completely. They’re also more economical.

• Beans

  Versatile, filling, and a reliable source of protein. A little patience goes a long way here. The dried beans which I always have are: Black beans, Pinto, Garbanzo, and some kind of red bean. There are others on my shelf, but these are always there.

  STORING:
  Keep dried beans in airtight containers somewhere cool and dry. Older beans can take much longer to cook, so it’s worth rotating through them rather than letting them sit untouched for years.

• Rice

  Rice is one of the most universal staples in cooking. It can be a base, a side, or the center of the plate depending on how you treat it. I almost always keep multiple varieties around because different dishes really do benefit from different rice. I keep brown, long and short grain white rice, Arborio, Basmati, Jasmine and occasionally, some variety of wild rice.

  STORING:
  White rice stores extremely well in airtight containers. Brown rice has more oils and spoils faster, so it’s often best refrigerated if you don’t use it regularly.

• Pasta

  Fast, dependable, and endlessly adaptable. One of the easiest ways to turn pantry staples into a full meal. Some pasta I always have: long pasta like angel hair, spaghetti or bucatini, penne or ziti, elbow or shells, and finally lasagna.

  STORING:
  Dry pasta is wonderfully low maintenance. Keep it sealed and dry, and it’ll last for a very long time.

Acids: Lemons and Vinegars

Acid is one of the most underrated tools in cooking.

It’s what makes food feel finished. Without it, even well-seasoned dishes can fall a little flat. A squeeze of lemon or a splash of vinegar can completely shift the direction of a dish. For a really great explanation and in much better detail, I recommend the book, Salt Fat Acid Heat: Mastering the Elements of Good Cooking by Samin Nosrat. It’s outstanding and I have given it as a gift more times than I can remember – Seriously, I’m not exaggerating!

• Lemons

  Fresh lemons brighten almost anything—vegetables, sauces, roasted meats, even simple grains. They show up more often than you’d expect once you start reaching for them regularly.

  STORING:
  Lemons can sit on the counter for several days, but they’ll last much longer in the refrigerator. I usually keep a bowl out for the ones I’m actively using and extras in the fridge.

• Vinegars

  Balsamic, red wine, white wine, apple cider—each brings its own character. A small splash can cut richness, balance sweetness, or sharpen flavors in a way nothing else quite does.

  STORING:
  Vinegars are incredibly shelf stable. Keep them tightly sealed in a cool pantry or cabinet away from direct sunlight, and they’ll last a very long time.

Oils: Neutral and Not-So-Neutral

If onions are the foundation of many recipes, oils are the vehicle that gets everything moving. Whether you’re sautéing vegetables, making a vinaigrette, frying potatoes, or finishing a dish right before serving, having a few different oils on hand is one of the easiest ways to set yourself up for success in the kitchen.

I don’t think you need a dozen different oils crowding your pantry shelves, but having at least one neutral oil and one flavorful finishing oil will cover most of your cooking needs. Over time, you’ll probably discover favorites and start collecting a few more.

• Neutral Oils

Neutral oils are exactly what they sound like. They contribute very little flavor of their own and allow the ingredients you’re cooking to be the star of the show. Because of their relatively high smoke points, they’re also ideal for high-heat cooking methods like sautéing, roasting, shallow frying, and deep frying.

Some common examples include:

• Canola oil

• Vegetable oil

• Avocado oil

• Grapeseed oil

• Peanut oil

If I could only keep one neutral oil in my pantry, I’d probably choose avocado oil because of its versatility and high smoke point. That said, I regularly use canola oil because it’s economical and readily available.

One thing worth mentioning is that oils aren’t immortal. Unlike dry goods, they can eventually become rancid. If you open a bottle and it smells off, stale, or oddly bitter, it’s time to replace it.

STORING – Keep oils in a cool, dark place away from direct sunlight and heat sources. A pantry shelf or cabinet works perfectly. Properly stored, most oils will maintain their quality for several months after opening.

• Olive Oil and Other Flavorful Oils

Some oils are ingredients all by themselves.

Extra virgin olive oil is probably the most common example. Depending on where it’s produced, it can be grassy, peppery, fruity, or even slightly bitter. I use it constantly in salad dressings, marinades, pasta dishes, and as a finishing oil drizzled over vegetables, soups, or good bread.

Sesame oil is another pantry staple I always like having around. A few drops can completely transform a dish. Its nutty aroma is unmistakable and adds tremendous character to stir-fries, noodle dishes, dipping sauces, and dressings.

Other oils worth experimenting with include:

• Toasted sesame oil

• Walnut oil

• Chili oil

• Garlic-infused oil

• Pumpkin seed oil

The nice thing about flavorful oils is that a little goes a long way. They’re often less about cooking and more about adding a final layer of flavor.

STORING – Like neutral oils, store these in a cool, dark place. Some specialty oils are more delicate and may benefit from refrigeration after opening. Always check the label and trust your nose if you’re unsure.

A Quick Word on Fat

One of the biggest lessons I learned as I became a better cook is that fat isn’t something to be afraid of—it’s a tool. Fat carries flavor, creates texture, and helps ingredients reach their full potential. The goal isn’t to use as much as possible. It’s to use the right fat for the job.

A well-stocked pantry isn’t just about having ingredients. It’s about having options. A bottle of neutral oil and a bottle of good olive oil can open the door to hundreds of recipes and techniques. That’s a pretty good return on investment for two ingredients that take up very little shelf space.

Final Thoughts

Building a pantry takes time. And please use my pantry as nothing more than a starting point. I intentionally left out plenty of ingredients—breadcrumbs, cornmeal, dried peppers, additional grains, nuts, dried fruit, nut butters, and the seemingly endless variety of canned and jarred goods. Of course I keep canned tomatoes, preserves, beans, and plenty of other staples, but at some point the list becomes more overwhelming than helpful. I wanted this to feel manageable, not exhaustive. Maybe one day I’ll be lucky enough to write a cookbook and have room for all of it.

My pantry certainly didn’t happen overnight, and honestly, I’m still refining it depending on how I’m cooking and what has captured my interest lately. But having these ingredients around changes your relationship with cooking in a meaningful way. It gives you freedom. Instead of feeling like every meal begins with a trip to the grocery store, you realize you already have the foundation for dozens of meals waiting in your kitchen.

I also think it changes the way you think about cooking. You stop asking, “What do I need to buy?” and start asking, “What can I make?”

That’s a pretty great feeling.

In the next part of this series, we move from the pantry to the refrigerator and freezer. If the pantry is what you build over time, the refrigerator is what you maintain. Together, they become the foundation of a kitchen that’s always ready for whatever you decide to cook next.

There are so many parts of cooking I love talking about beyond just recipes—kitchen habits, techniques, ingredients, food history, mistakes I’ve made, and the little things that slowly make cooking feel more natural and rewarding over time. I hope you’ll join me for the rest of the journey.

—Andrew

Recipes really do travel in strange and wonderful ways. Sometimes they come from old cookbooks or clipped magazine pages, and sometimes they come from a friend of a family member on the other side of the world, told mostly from memory during a holiday gathering. That’s exactly how this Shakshuka recipe found us.

My brother-in-law Kevin told us about it after mentioning a dish he used to make all the time when he was living in Australia with his husband, Gregg. While they were there, they made a lot of close friends, and during an Australia Day celebration, one of those friends, Mieke, shared her version of Shakshuka with him. Kevin doesn’t really remember where she originally learned it, and honestly, I kind of love that. Some recipes stop belonging to one place or one person after enough years of being passed around kitchens. They just become part of people’s lives.

And now it’s become part of ours too.

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What I love about Shakshuka is that it feels impressive while being incredibly approachable. Eggs poached in a spiced tomato sauce somehow manage to feel comforting, hearty, and a little dramatic all at the same time. It works for brunch, dinner, or honestly anytime you want something warm with a big piece of bread nearby.

The real backbone of the dish is the spices.

Cumin does a lot of heavy lifting here, bringing this warm, earthy depth that works perfectly with tomatoes. Coriander brightens things up a little with a citrusy, almost floral note that keeps the whole dish from feeling too heavy. And turmeric, which I think people sometimes underestimate, adds this gentle bitterness and warmth that helps tie everything together. I also almost always want black pepper nearby when using turmeric. They just belong together.

One thing I think makes a huge difference with dried spices—and something newer cooks often skip—is blooming them first. It sounds more technical than it is. Really, you’re just briefly cooking the spices in oil before adding your liquids or vegetables. Thirty seconds can completely change how a dish tastes. The second those spices hit hot oil, your kitchen fills with that smell that tells everyone nearby something good is happening.

It’s one of my favorite parts of cooking.

This recipe also gave me another excuse to talk about aquafaba, which still feels a little magical to me. If you’ve never heard of it before, it’s simply the liquid left over from canned chickpeas. Most people pour it straight down the drain without thinking twice, but it’s surprisingly useful. It behaves a lot like egg whites and can be whipped, folded into recipes, or used as a binder in all kinds of cooking.

I love little kitchen discoveries like that—things that make you stop and rethink ingredients you’ve ignored for years.

But more than anything, I think I’m drawn to recipes like this because they remind me how connected food really is. A dish that may have roots somewhere in North Africa or the Middle East ends up being shared in Australia, passed to my brother-in-law, and eventually cooked in our kitchen in the Pacific Northwest. Along the way, it changes a little. Different cooks adjust spices, ingredients shift, techniques evolve. The recipe keeps moving.

That’s how good food survives.

And honestly, I think that’s why I enjoy cooking so much. It rarely feels like you’re just following instructions. You’re participating in something much bigger—something built by countless people cooking for friends, family, and strangers over generations.

This Shakshuka absolutely deserves a spot in that tradition.

It’s simple, deeply flavorful, and the kind of meal that naturally makes people gather around the stove asking when it’ll be ready. And if you happen to tear up some bread and eat it straight from the pan while talking with people you care about, I think you’re probably doing it correctly.

RECIPE

When we started brainstorming ideas for the theme of Recipes Recommended, the first idea we had was to fine-tune recipes we would find on the back of packages of food we would buy from the grocery store, grading how good, well-thought-out, or lazy they were. Lisa and I had a mix of both good and bad, and a fair amount of confusing ones. We actually still plan on making a few of them. For instance, there is a really great chicken casserole we found on the back of a bag of rice. I scanned it, and it’s been sitting in our general “food” folder, where I periodically go back to, wondering if I’ll ever get to half of them or if it’s even worth it. After some honest discussion, we realized that food and recipes are, more than just something that is a part of your day-to-day, extremely meaningful. And making recipes for a laugh and writing about it, albeit kind of fun, isn’t what we aim to do. We also realized that the best cooking inspiration happens when you talk with real friends and acquaintances casually about their lives and the food they grew up eating. Times were different for our parents and their parents, where recipes have been passed down and taught over the years. I love receiving scans, photos, or actual handwritten recipes from the people in my life, and I am almost always touched by the heart that went into making them, even if it was a recipe transcribed from the Better Homes and Gardens cookbook. So, when I invariably start talking about our Substack and YouTube channel with anyone, the topic of heirloom recipes comes up, along with stories about the relationship they had with the person they got them from. Sometimes it’ll stir up memories of licking batter from one of two hand mixer beaters, sharing the other with a sibling, and sometimes it’s memories of meaningful meals after a graduation or other equally joyous celebration. This is the real meaning of cooking for me, and when my oldest and closest friend Noah gave me two recipes he received from his grandmother, Evie, I polled some friends and put her Lemon Delight Pound Cake at the top of our queue.

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Described as a “family favorite,” this recipe has ingredients I was excited to work with, namely apricot nectar. I truly didn’t know what I’d find when I searched online to research it. I thought it might be something like rose water. But as it turns out, and you may already know, it’s made from the puree of apricots. It is known for its sweet and tangy flavor and is often used as a base for cocktails, smoothies, and other refreshing drinks. I found some in the juice aisle at my regular grocery store, and the only other ingredient I didn’t already have in my pantry was lemon extract. No big deal, and also not expensive like vanilla extract.

Also, to be clear, I only have a fraction of the experience in baking and pastry compared to all other cooking. Eager to improve my skills, and with this being a great beginner recipe to understand some things to watch out for, I ended up seeking advice from my friend Mandy, who used to be a head chef, baking in several high-end establishments. I am always in awe of her expertise, and she definitely gave me some good advice when reviewing this recipe. She gave it the thumbs up and confirmed some techniques I had questions about, and I was then comfortable making my first pound cake.

There are really only two steps: making the batter and pouring it into a Bundt pan or loaf pan, and making the icing. We made our batter, apricot nectar and all, and instead of just pouring it in, I lined it with parchment paper first, ensuring that I’d be able to use it as a cradle when removing the cake. After the cake was baked, and the skewer I used to check the doneness came out clean, I made the icing with just lemon juice and powdered sugar. As easy as that. When the cake was still warm, I used that same skewer and poked about 2 dozen holes in it, and poured the icing over the top, letting it soak into the cake. Lisa confirmed to me that this is really common, despite me not previously knowing about the technique. Side note: if I were to use the recommended Bundt pan, the idea is that you pour the icing this way over the bottom of the cake, and when cooled, then pour the rest over the top. I just let it cool on my loaf and poured as much of the remaining icing as I could on top.

This wasn’t an especially complicated recipe, but like I said, it’s a great recipe to learn some basic baking, and I’m always thrilled to learn new things. Also, connecting with a lifelong friend and learning a little more about his family was great. The cake was delicious and got rave reviews from my own mother-in-law, Kim. She even boasted about it on Facebook.

RECIPE

Whenever I get going talking about cooking with friends—especially new friends—the conversation almost always finds its way to stocks and broths eventually. It doesn’t matter if we start with soup, sauces, or just weeknight cooking in general. At some point, I’m probably going to start talking about chicken stock.

And honestly, if nobody stops me, I could probably keep talking about it for hours.

Stocks and broths are the backbone of so much cooking. They quietly sit underneath countless dishes, adding depth, richness, and flavor in ways people don’t always notice until they’re missing. From simple soups to more complicated sauces, they make food feel fuller and more complete. Any time you have the option to cook with stock instead of water, you probably should.

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Because I use chicken stock in at least a third of the meals I make, it’s become one of those kitchen staples I think about constantly. And luckily, making it really isn’t complicated.

The basics

At its core, stock is just a combination of a few simple things working together: aromatics, bones or trimmings, and water.

That’s it.

The aromatics are where a lot of the personality comes from. In a classic chicken stock, you’re usually working with mirepoix—onions, carrots, and celery. It’s one of those foundational combinations that shows up everywhere for good reason. Other cuisines build flavor differently. You’ll see ginger, chilis, and garlic in some broths, or things like lemongrass and shallots in Thai cooking. Different ingredients, same idea: building flavor from the ground up.

Then you have the bones and trimmings. This is where the body and richness come from, especially if you roast them first. Roasted chicken bones add color, texture, gelatin, and depth that water alone could never dream of bringing to a dish. Some stocks come together quickly, like delicate seafood stock, while others—especially beef stock—can simmer for a day or two before they’re really finished.

And finally, water.

I usually use filtered water because our tap water at home isn’t my favorite, but if your tap water tastes good, use it. Stock only has a handful of ingredients, so every part of it matters.

Your sad vegetables still have purpose

One thing I’ve learned over the years is that stock is incredibly forgiving.

That limp celery sitting in the crisper drawer? Perfect. The carrots that are looking a little tired? Throw them in. Parsley stems you’d normally toss? Save them.

My wife probably still thinks it’s strange that I keep bags of vegetable scraps and herb stems around specifically for stock, but working in professional kitchens really changed how I look at food waste. Chefs don’t like seeing usable ingredients thrown away when they can still contribute flavor somewhere else.

That said, not every vegetable belongs in stock.

Beets can completely overpower everything and turn your stock bright purple. Potatoes release too much starch and make things cloudy and strange. Zucchini and squash don’t add much flavor and mostly just muddy things up. Generally, if I’m unsure about something, I’ll look it up before tossing it into the pot. Stock is forgiving, but it still benefits from a little restraint.

Whole chickens make more sense than you think

If you cook with chicken stock regularly, it’s worth getting comfortable with buying whole chickens and breaking them down yourself.

It’s significantly cheaper in the long run, and you end up with exactly what you need for stock—backs, wing tips, bones, and trimmings. Over time, you naturally build a freezer stash without even trying very hard.

Rotisserie chicken carcasses work great too. Anytime we finish one, the bones go straight into the freezer instead of the trash. Once you get into the habit, you start looking at leftovers differently.

Not as scraps. As future stock.

Stock vs. broth

People use the terms “stock” and “broth” interchangeably all the time, and honestly, in home cooking, it’s usually not a huge deal. But there is a difference.

The simplest explanation is that stock is typically made with roasted bones, while broth focuses more on meat and vegetables. Stocks are usually simmered longer, which pulls gelatin and collagen from the bones and gives them a richer texture and deeper flavor.

When I refrigerate homemade stock, it usually turns into something close to Jell-O by the next day. That’s exactly what you want.

Broths tend to be lighter and thinner, which makes them great for things like rice, beans, or grits where you want flavor without too much richness. Stocks, on the other hand, really shine in soups and sauces where that deeper body matters.

Of course, you can use either for almost anything. I definitely do. But it’s worth thinking about what role the liquid is playing in the dish and how much you want it to stand out.

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You should always have stock around

I really believe making homemade stock is one of the best habits a home cook can develop.

It’s inexpensive, incredibly useful, and honestly just satisfying to make. There’s something rewarding about turning scraps and leftovers into something genuinely valuable. It makes you feel more connected to your food and to the process of cooking itself.

And once you start keeping stock in your refrigerator or freezer regularly, you notice the difference immediately. Soups taste better. Rice tastes better. Sauces taste better. Even simple weeknight meals feel a little more thoughtful.

It’s one of those small things that quietly improves almost everything you cook.

I’m not really sure where I got the idea, when I was younger, that elegant food was somehow off-limits to me. Somewhere along the way, I convinced myself there were certain dishes only highly trained chefs or people with extraordinary skill were allowed to make. If I saw something in a restaurant that felt fancy or refined, I immediately assumed it existed in a world I wasn’t invited into.

I think part of it came from wanting to respect ingredients, which isn’t a bad instinct on its own. But back then, it was misplaced. Instead of inspiring me to learn, it made me hesitant to even try. So I stuck mostly to comfort food, boxed meals, and recipes that felt safe and impossible to ruin.

That mindset didn’t really start to change until my mid-twenties, around the same time I got serious about cooking and enrolled in culinary school. But it wasn’t just school that changed things. I also became a little less afraid of trying new foods and cooking with ingredients I’d built up in my head as intimidating.

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Seafood was one of those things.

And somehow, I had convinced myself that mussels in white wine sauce were wildly expensive and reserved exclusively for anniversary dinners or special occasions. Like they belonged in candlelit restaurants and nowhere else.

I could not have been more wrong.

I have to imagine I’m not the only person who feels intimidated by unfamiliar food. Honestly, I still catch myself doing it sometimes. But these days, I’m much more willing—almost obligated—to challenge those weird assumptions I’ve built up over the years. If you’ve ever looked at something like foie gras and immediately thought, absolutely not, was it because it seemed strange? Too expensive? Too complicated? Or did it just feel like something you weren’t supposed to cook yourself?

I’ve felt all of that. And now, a lot of the things that once intimidated me have become some of my favorite meals to make at home for my family.

So I want to talk about mussels.

More specifically, I want to talk about a mussels dish that completely changed the way I thought about cooking “fancy” food at home. Once you make it once, not only does it stop feeling intimidating, but it opens the door to trying all kinds of new techniques and ingredients you might’ve avoided before.

I love ordering mussels at restaurants during happy hour and sharing them with my wife, Lisa, but I honestly love making them at home even more. Most grocery stores carry them now, usually in those netted sacks packed on ice, and if you live near the coast, they’re even easier to find. I stopped into a local Asian grocery store recently and found a beautiful bag for under ten bucks. That alone completely shattered the version of this dish I’d built up in my head over the years.

As soon as I bought them, I started mentally flipping through recipes I already knew while also thinking about ways I could tweak things or combine ideas. I eventually landed on Moules Marinières, the classic French preparation with mussels steamed in white wine, butter, shallots, and garlic. It’s one of those dishes that sounds impressive but is built almost entirely on simplicity. Good ingredients, treated carefully, with some crusty bread nearby to soak up the broth.

That said, before you cook mussels, you do need to prep them properly.

I’m not trying to scare anyone off, but seafood deserves attention. Bad shellfish can make you seriously sick, and there are a few steps you really shouldn’t skip. First, when you’re buying mussels, make sure they’re stored on ice. That’s non-negotiable. Next, take a quick look through the bag. If a bunch of them are already hanging open, pick a different one. Open mussels are often dead, and dead mussels should never be eaten.

Once you get them home, keep them cold until you’re ready to cook. Luckily, mussels cook incredibly fast, so you won’t be waiting long. Before cooking, rinse them under cold water and scrub off any grit or debris stuck to the shells.

Remember those open mussels from earlier? Here’s how you double-check them. Give them a gentle tap against the counter or cutting board. If they slowly close back up, they’re alive and perfectly fine to use.

Then there’s the beard.

If you’ve never worked with mussels before, you’ll notice these little wiry fibers sticking out from some of the shells. Those are called byssal threads, or the “beard,” and they’re how mussels attach themselves to rocks and other surfaces in the water. Fascinating? Sure. Appetizing? Not especially.

Thankfully, they’re easy to remove. Most pull right off with a quick tug, though stubborn ones sometimes need a little encouragement from kitchen scissors.

The final step is the float test. Put the mussels in water, and if any float to the surface, toss them. Floating mussels are usually dead, and at that point it’s not worth taking chances.

After that, you’re ready to cook.

And honestly, that’s kind of the point I’m trying to make here. Once you get past the intimidation factor, none of this is actually that complicated. It just requires a little care and willingness to learn something new.

I love thinking about people living along the coast of France casually making mussels at home with good bread and wine like it’s no big deal. Because really, it shouldn’t be. Food shouldn’t feel unreachable or reserved for special occasions or more qualified people.

You’re allowed to make beautiful things.

And the more you push yourself outside your comfort zone in the kitchen, the more confident you become—not just with one recipe, but with cooking in general.

I know firsthand how easy it is to build strange mental barriers around food. That’s part of why it means so much to me seeing my son and daughter already wanting to help in the kitchen. They’re still young, but they’re curious about ingredients and excited to participate. They see cooking as something joyful instead of intimidating.

I hope they keep that feeling.

And honestly, I think more adults should try to get back to it too.

RECIPE

Hungarian mushroom soup ended up being a lot more than just something warm to make on a cold day—it’s one of those recipes that quietly pulls you in. It’s rich, a little smoky, and somehow feels both simple and layered at the same time. I first came across it in the Moosewood Cookbook, which, if you’ve ever flipped through it, has a way of making vegetarian cooking feel approachable without watering anything down. In this post, I wanted to spend a little time not just making the soup, but understanding where it comes from, how to treat the ingredients right (especially the mushrooms), and why recipes like this stick around.

Where this soup comes from

Hungarian mushroom soup has roots in a place where mushrooms aren’t just an ingredient—they’re part of the landscape. Hungary has a long tradition of foraging, and a lot of its cooking reflects that kind of closeness to what’s seasonal and available. This soup leans into that, building flavor with things like paprika, which gives it that unmistakable warmth and depth.

It’s the kind of dish that feels like it came out of someone’s home kitchen, not a restaurant. Nothing flashy, just thoughtful. The Moosewood Cookbook, which came out in the ’70s, does a great job of bringing recipes like this to people who might not have grown up with them. It’s very much in the spirit of what I’ve been drawn to lately—recipes that travel through people, not just pages.

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Cleaning mushrooms (the part I used to overthink)

Before actually making the soup, I had to get past something that used to weirdly intimidate me: cleaning mushrooms. It turns out it’s a lot simpler than I made it.

The biggest thing is starting with good mushrooms—firm, not slimy, nothing questionable. From there, don’t soak them. I know it’s tempting, but they really do just absorb the water and get weird. A damp paper towel or a soft brush does the job just fine.

If they’re especially dirty, a quick rinse right before using them is okay—as long as you dry them right away. And trimming the ends of the stems is usually all they need. Nothing complicated, just a little attention.

Why I keep coming back to vegetarian recipes

Cooking this also reminded me why I’ve been leaning more into vegetarian dishes lately. It’s not really about cutting anything out—it’s more about paying attention to what’s already there.

You start to notice how much flavor you can build with things like mushrooms, onions, herbs, and spices. And yeah, there are the obvious health upsides, but for me it’s more about how these recipes feel. They’re often a little lighter, a little more intentional.

There’s also something to be said for the environmental side of it. Without getting too deep into it, plant-based meals just tend to ask a little less of everything—water, resources, all of it. And if it still tastes this good, it’s kind of an easy choice.

Why this one sticks

At the end of it, this soup fits into that category of recipes that do more than just feed you. It’s tied to a place, a way of cooking, and now, at least a little bit, to my own kitchen.

Making it is straightforward, but it still feels like you’re part of something bigger. From taking a minute to clean the mushrooms properly to that moment when everything comes together and the kitchen smells like paprika and butter—it all adds up.

And that’s kind of the whole point for me. Not just making something that tastes good, but making something that feels like it came from somewhere.

The Recipe: Moosewood’s Take on Hungarian Mushroom Soup

With all that in mind, this is Moosewood’s take on Hungarian mushroom soup—creamy, comforting, and packed with the kind of flavor that doesn’t need much explaining once you taste it.

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Probably in the top 5 favorite foods of many Americans, lasagna is without a doubt a crowd pleaser. Nobody has ever groaned after asking, “What’s for dinner?” when the answer is maybe the most delicious Italian casserole you can think of. And yes, it’s definitely a casserole. Also, lasagna can be adjusted to fit just about anybody’s taste and dietary restrictions. I have had plenty of vegetarian and non-typical lasagnas which were on equal footing, taste-wise. Also, being a dad, I know that this is also the type of dish you can get your kids to help with. Who doesn’t love piling up layer upon layer of cheesy awesomeness? And when it comes to cheese, this recipe I found sometime in the last year blew me away. I love it so much that it has replaced - almost entirely - my go-to pork and ground beef, classic lasagna. With some fun and unexpected twists, this recipe will have you asking where you can incorporate some of these ideas when making your other favorite recipes. Allow me to tell you a little bit about this cheesy tomato lasagna.

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I’m not sure why I first decided to make this recipe. I think I’m wired to look at similar recipes and always choose the meat version over the vegetarian (or pescatarian as the case is here) version. So, it must have been something else. Maybe what caught my eye was that almost every element was familiar, but changed significantly. What the heck am I talking about? Well, lets start with the cheese sauce, or cream element which almost all lasagnas have. I almost always expect these to be comprised of something along the lines of the following ingredients:

• Egg

• Grated Parmesan Cheese

• Salt

• Pepper

• Ricotta Cheese

• Chopped parsley

• *periodically something less common, but not all together wild like nutmeg

This simple sauce sounds great. But also kind of uninspired. It’s totally fine and I’ll make plenty more recipes with exactly these ingredients many more times, I’m certain. But the cheese sauce for this one isn’t just different, it doesn’t look like it belongs. But it does. Trust me. It has you mix corn starch, as a thickener and also to add a silkiness (instead of eggs), cottage cheese, heavy cream, raw garlic (wowza!) and pecorino romano cheese instead of parmesan. Turns out there’s zero parmesan or mozzarella in this whole recipe. Bananas, I know. Off to a heck of a start.

If you were scratching your head with the cheese sauce, the tomato sauce will get you super excited for where this is headed. There’s a not-so-secret ingredient. But I’ll get to that and, of course why it’s important. We start with finely chopped onion. In the corresponding video for this recipe we made, I regret that I didn’t chop it finer, because when you do, the texture is a little bit better in my opinion. And after that’s cooked down in some olive oil with typical seasoning: salt, pepper, oregano and chili flake, the magic starts to happen. First a good amount of minced garlic joins the party, as you might expect. But all of this is just prelude to the next ingredient. An umami explosion, which for some reason belongs in more dishes, but remains an ingredient some people are timid to use: Anchovies. Seriously, I thought it would be utilized for some salt and a little brininess, but oh no, my friend, this is the glue that holds this recipe together and the only reason I keep coming back. You add about half a tin of anchovies, minced and cooked with the onions for several minutes before adding the tomato products. After that point, it melts into the sauce, and you promptly forget about it until you taste the sauce later for seasoning....which you definitely won’t need.

While I was researching anchovies, I came across a factoid which I think pop culture is to blame for: Apparently anchovies, at 50% are the most hated food by Americans, followed closely by black licorice at 45%. I guess I’m lucky that I like both. I also have a strong suspicion that most people who try this recipe wouldn’t have a clue anchovies were the crucial ingredient. I blame the movies from the 80’s, always emphasizing no anchovies on pizza. If you’re old enough to remember those days, I’m sure you saw a movie starring Patrick Dempsey and Kirstie Alley called, Loverboy where practically the whole movie revolves around women ordering pizzas from Señor Pizza with “Extra Anchovies.” I can’t remember if I’ve ever even seen a pizza with anchovies, let alone seen it as an option as a topping. I’d totally try one if offered.

The last clever cooking technique applied to this recipe is in the cooking of the noodles. While the sauce is cooking, this recipe will have you soak your lasagna noodles in hot water instead of par-cooking them. I really like this method, not only because it works, but you can and should soak the noodles in the casserole pan you’ll be cooking the lasagna in later.

Assembly is super easy and aligns with every other lasagna you’ve likely made. However, instead of mozzarella cheese, we use fontina in its place. The flavor of the cheese works way better than mozzarella would here, and you definitely notice that when you finally dig in. Plus, fontina cheese deserves more of a spotlight. It’s great on pizza bagels, sure, but it’s also totally legit here, too.

After finally coming out of the oven, let it rest, hard as that may be, for at least 30 minutes. This is true with other similar recipes. If you fail to heed this warning, you’ll most certainly end up with a sloppy slice of lasagna, falling apart and not the tight and decadent slice you worked so hard to make.

Open a big red wine with this beast and luxuriate in all it’s goodness. It’s hard to really describe the taste. It’s so rich and, although it’s cheesy and garlicy, the tomatoes and anchovies really do all the heavy lifting. Did I say it’s rich? So share this with friends, family, your neighbor... hopefully someone who says that they hate anchovies.

RECIPE

Recipes Recommended was inspired by collecting handwritten recipes, usually from friends and family. It’s a tradition in many families for parents to pass along recipes to their children and also teach them how to cook and feed their families. My mom was teaching me throughout her whole life. Growing up, I always assumed that she wrote all of the recipes she made for us. When I got older and thought back on it, I quickly realized that my mom collected recipes from all over the place. Nowadays, if I see a recipe on the back of a box or in a magazine that I really want to try, I’ll write it down in one of my recipe notebooks. I think the following recipe may be just like that.

Grandma Sue

I have a good friend, Dustin, and when I told him about our new blog and how we are making recommended recipes and sharing our thoughts, he was happy to ask his grandma, Sue, for her Pea Salad recipe. She married her husband six months after meeting him on a blind date when she was 16, then traveled around while he was in the Navy. Eventually, she and her husband settled down on Vashon Island, Washington, to start a family. Dustin recalls having this salad at all big family gatherings and holidays. Grandma Sue was married for 49 years and cooked every meal in the house except breakfast for Dustin’s Grandpa. If this recipe is the one that stood out, we’re happy to make it!

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Of the ingredients that don’t typically jump to the front of the line when I’m developing recipes, seasoned salts are one. Let’s be clear, there is nothing wrong with using them, and I don’t want to come off as snobby by recommending making your own dry spice blends. You just don’t have as much control over what the blends are made of and they may contain added artificial colors. Additionally, seasoned salts and other blends tend to be old and may have been on your grocery store’s shelf for much longer than you would think. Here’s a recipe to make your own seasoned salt:

That being said, a bunch of recipes from my parents’ generation and earlier aren’t what they are today. My mother and father were both Baby Boomers and grew up eating more food from cans than I did. They also saw the advent of convenience cooking like TV dinners. It was a different time, and it’s always a good idea to keep that in mind when you’re reviewing a new recipe. Rest assured, I do draw a line and will never share a recipe starting with boxed rice or pasta requiring a helper.

Pea Salad that has it all

Dustin texted me a picture of the recipe given to him by Sue. I love handwritten recipes and like to think that she’s had it for many years; the paper stained by past meals made following this recipe like many of my own cookbooks. I am quickly realizing that handwritten recipes are often in shorthand, for the person who wrote it down. This pea salad recipe needed a little bit of cleaning up as the ingredient amounts and steps were lacking. I was immediately curious about exactly how much 5 bacon was, and also I knew I was going to convert the dried herbs amounts to fresh, which is typically 3 to 1 fresh to dry. And finally, I knew that 1/8 cup of sliced green onion was far too little, so I upped that amount to twice that.

Here is how we cleaned it up:

YourTube Short Here!

So how was it?

I had tempered expectations, which wasn’t fair. I looked at the amount of salt and was nervous that the herb’s flavor would be completely lost, but I was wrong. Finishing the salad with crumbled bacon reminded me of salad bars -- don’t let Lisa get started talking about how much she loves salad bars and any restaurant that still has them. There was a lot of texture, crunchy water chestnuts and bacon, creaminess from the dressing, and the peas being the undeniable star. Usually, peas taste muddy and mealy to me. Not here. They were bright and complemented the other components amazingly well. The seasoning was a little salty, but nowhere near what I was fearing. I think we honored the original recipe with the addition of fresh herbs and we’d be happy to make this again. It would be perfect for a picnic or, as Dustin’s family enjoyed it, during holidays.

I love how simple this recipe is. Lisa asked her mom if she had any pea salad recipes, so we could compare them, and Kim, Lisa’s mom, told her that she thought it was a pretty common recipe, which may have been included on the back of a frozen bag of peas or maybe a jar of mayonnaise. Be that as it may, it stuck with Sue, and she wrote it down. Dustin has fond memories, and now I’m here writing about my experience with it. Regardless of its origin, I’m happy to have been a part of its history.