It’s been highs of 96 in Los Angeles every day this week, and we don’t have air conditioning in the main living space or kitchen. Every evening, I gear up to sweat, hoping I can come up with something that eschews the oven or boiling water (somehow worse?). I am rarely successful, possibly because even something that sounds like it will be nice and cool often involves turning on the stove.

For instance, last Thursday, after enjoying a delicious mango and eggplant soba noodle dish from the Ottolenghi vegetable tome Plenty not once but twice while on a two week trip back east, I got it in my head to find another recipe from that same cookbook that would lead Colby and I to scintillating delights of “Can you believe it’s just plants? The earth is so amazing”. I leafed through, glazing past soups and dishes that call for ingredients that require their own glossary and commute, finally landing on a recipe that not only seemed simple enough but that I had apparently made once almost exactly 14 years ago (“Yum! 8/23/12”): Lentils with Broiled Eggplant. Should I have dismissed this at the word “broiled?” Absolutely. But my heat-addled brain had something else in mind. Plus, I didn’t have to turn on the oven – you can broil them directly on the stove! Friend, I did not think it through. How could I? I was in a state of hot madness! This thing had me charring eggplants directly on the gas burner, picking hot onion and carrot out of boiled lentils, and burning my thumbs on blackened eggplant skin as I attempted to scoop out the smoky flesh. Roughly two hours later, setting the dishes on the table with massaged kale and seared tilapia, I warned Colb not to get too excited (about the meal or the stack of pots and pans that awaited him—we practice separation of church and state). A new note was entered beside the one from 2012: “too time consuming and not special, 8/20/26.” Apparently, one’s ability to make sound dinner decisions dissolves when the temperature climbs above 85 degrees.

Not only is it hard to think of new dishes when it’s hot, but even tried and true favorites lose their luster. Last night, I made one of my favorite dishes from NYTCooking, Chan Chan Yaki: steamed salmon with miso butter, cabbage, onion, and carrot that gets sticky in the pan, served over rice. It’s a 20 minute meal that is unbelievably satisfying, yet spooning into it yesterday with a fan blowing warm air directly on me and an open door that offered nothing but the dream of a breeze, it just didn’t hit the way it usually does.

The idea that cooking and eating becomes undesirable in the heat is not new or merely observational. According to Beth Czerwony, a registered dietician quoted by the Cleveland Clinic Newsroom, this phenomenon is due to the thermic effect of food: “We’re not as hungry because our body doesn’t want to get overheated, so we end up eating less calories...so we don’t produce as much internal heat.” This is the same reason why, in winter, we crave cozy soups and stews to keep us warm. While this internal barometer is satisfying in the wintertime (who wouldn’t want to make and enjoy a cozy stew), it is less exciting in the summer for cooks and those who love to eat. When it’s this hot, I should probably just be eating greens, fruit, and quinoa salads. But that doesn’t feel me with glee like the idea of make a lasagna with fresh zucchini from the CSA or roasting a bunch of baby potatoes does.

I guess it’s a choice: turn on the stove and suffer the temperature or keep thing simple for a while in an attempt to stay cool. All throughout this current heatwave, I have chosen the former. But, looking at the bowl of gorgeous farm-fresh tomatoes beside me, I think I may change my ways. They’d make a pretty damn good gazpacho.

And they’re not alone. Beans are, by all accounts, having a moment. There’s “Beantok” the TikTok trend in which health-food influencers tout the benefits of “dense bean salads” (which are just bean salads) and review pricy jars of beans that, like the UK brand Bold Bean Co, can be priced at $25 each. There is the rise in popularity of the Bean Protocol, a diet created by a nutritionist in the 90s to aid detoxification that, among other guidance, requires that one eat ¼ cup of beans 3-6 times a day (with many TikTokers going for 2 full cups a day). NPR even covered the bean moment, reflecting on its cyclical popularity in times of financial stress but also emphasizing the ironically luxe nature of this craze, perhaps best exemplified by the Rancho Gordo Bean Club, which has 30,000 members paying $49.95 (+tax) every 3 months for a box of six 1lb bags of heirloom beans, with another 32,000 people on the wait list. (For reference, a 25lb bag of pintos goes for $16 at Costco). As someone who has eaten and loved beans for her entire life, this newfound zest for beans made me feel a mix of annoyance and self-satisfaction, like when the shoes you’ve always worn go suddenly in style. Yes, clogs are cool, but you guys know I’ve always worn these, right?

Part of what irks me about the fad is that it seems to focus on “special” beans, while undeniably, one the best things about beans is their communal, accessible nature. Dried ones especially are cheap as hell and almost impossible to make in small quantities, encouraging meal sharing and thus community building. They were a staple at my communal home in Brooklyn, where we bought 25lb bags and housemates regularly cooked up giant pots to be enjoyed by hungry kitchen-goers over the days to come. I was even once tempted to skip my dinner plans after my housemate made a batch, such was my love of the legume.

Although dried beans invariably yield a richer and more texturally satisfying bean, canned beans rightfully earn their place as a pantry staple. Black beans and chickpeas are perennially stocked in my kitchen, in flats of 8 under my rolling counter, ready to be pulled out for a quick lunch or dinner. As I’ve written before, while I appreciate the merits of a takes-all-day meal, I tend to be more on-the-fly in my cooking habits, and, for that, canned beans are a great friend. I throw chickpeas in Greek salad for a little protein, toss together a black bean and corn mélange to bring to the beach, and mix cannellinis into a favorite breakfast of pesto kale hash with sunny side up eggs. Hummus comes together in minutes with canned garbanzos, and refried beans (Amy’s are my favorite) form the base of quick tacos with cumin-sautéed onions and peppers.

Beans are also, for many, a comfort food. As a child, my mother had certain meals that met us weekly without fail, and black bean chili was one of them. Her recipe is simple, made with black beans, onions, cumin, coriander, canned tomatoes, and frozen corn; thick enough to be piled onto fresh cornbread without falling off; and delicious when topped with sour cream. Once I started cooking for my friends and housemates, this meal was one of the first I could do on my own without following instructions, a right of passage for any home cook.

*

Though I am an avowed bean socialist and bristle at the idea of a “gourmet bean”, I decided I should meet my enemy in the field and try a jar for myself. Los Angeles’s most prominent gourmet food store is called “Monsieur Marcel” and has been in business since 1993 at the Original Farmer’s Market, adjacent to The Grove, one of these upscale outdoor malls LA is ga-ga for. My first time visiting the shop, I was browsing with the goal of getting the bathroom code, when an employee saw me looking at the olive oils and took it upon herself to explain how “all supermarket olive oil is rancid” and that the only way to buy olive oil was in small quantities that were pressed within the year. She didn’t scare me into purchasing a very expensive bottle of what I’m sure is a very delicious oil (I do have a soft spot for good olive oil; I just also think it’s okay to have your really nice oil and your everyday oil and if the everyday oil isn’t super super nice it’s okay), so I bought a pack of Haribos, got the code, and was on my way. I haven’t returned to Monsieur Marcel since, but here was a perfect opportunity to go with purpose: finding a really pricy, really special jarred bean.

Monsieur Marcel is across town from me, so I jammed it into a day where I had about 5 minutes to shop before I had to get to my next engagement. Luckily, I had a mission. I navigated to the bean aisle and crouched down, squatting at the bottom shelf to inspect the jars. Almost immediately, two (TWO!) sales associates appeared at the top of the aisle to ask if I needed any help. I assured them I was fine, I had a mission, I knew what I was doing. There were $27.99 jars of rare Italian controne beans and $5.99 jars of cannellinis, but I went for something in the middle: a $8.99 jar of Belazu Judion white butter beans. This is more than I’ve ever spent on beans, but, hey, suffer for fashion. This morning, I popped it open, expectations low. Reader, I humble myself: these beans were divine. Creamy but not overcooked, salty but not too salty, perfectly glossy—a truly delicious white bean. Will they become a regular purchase? No. But will I relish them with my current lunch of cherry tomatoes, cucumbers, feta and beans over pesto toast? Absolutely.

I now wonder why I didn’t tear away a number myself when I saw 1-800-BEAN-DIN day after day. There was something sort of freaky and experimental about it, so I guess I was nervous what would happen if I called, but now I find myself thinking…was 1-800-BEAN-DIN my chance to meet like-minded people, maybe even make new friends, all bonded together with the communal love of the bean?

Then again, it could also have led to an insufferable cadre of new bean-thusiasts, beanfluenced by Beantok, flashing their new clogs while the rest of us clomp around in 10-year-old Danskos. I guess I’ll never know. At least not until the next flyer goes up.

10. The Curly Fry

    

These, frankly, are just too much. Double fried, battered, seasoned, AND a wacky shape?! Just pick one! They are too strong in flavor themselves to be a satisfying vehicle for a dip, which is, in my estimation, one of the most important qualities of a fry. A maximalist failure.

9. The Waffle Fry

   

I’ll say it: these things are TOO BIG. Impossible to make something so spread out crispy enough to be fun. I hate how I have to contort them into shape to dip. I’d rather dip 15 straight cut fries than have one ginormous waffle fry. Even worse when it’s sweet potato.

8. The Steak Fry

   

Steak fries are just bigger, softer fries that lack the crispiness of other smaller (or in the case of the wedge) bigger fries. I also feel that these are often criminally underseasoned.

7. The Tater Tot

   

Technically a fry, though so different in shape as to be another species, the tater tot is a delicious if infantile fry. I associate these with college and late night bar snacks in my 20s. They are completely plebeian, which is, indeed, their charm.

6. The Shoestring Fry

   

Ah, the teensy-tiny, eeny-weeny shoestring fry. I admittedly don’t think I’ve ever had the truly technical shoestring fry, sliced almost so thin as to be Utz Potato Stix, but more often, restaurants will call any slightly thinner-cut fry a shoestring. These are good for funneling into one’s mouth by the clawful (picture it).

5. The Sweet Potato Fry

   

Tasty, warming, and delightful—albeit often limp. I love sweet potato fries, though I am always on the hunt for a crispy one, a hard feat to accomplish due to something with chemistry that someone could probably explain. This said, a perfect vehicle for textural ketchup or chipotle aioli.

4. The Cottage Fry

   

I love the cottage fry for its excellent surface area for dipping, which is arguably the best part of the fry experience. The round shape places this fry in between potato chips and fries in a way I think is cheeky and fun. I first fell for these at a Greek place in Bushwick called Yia Yia Taverna, where they serve them with tzatziki, my absolute favorite dip.

3. The Crinkle-Cut Fry

   

This is a contentious fry, but one that I think is not celebrated enough. It is a very comforting fry, the fry of frozen bags of childhood and Shake Shack alike. This is a fry that is almost anything but crispy but is still deeply satisfying. It’s the mashed potatoes of fries, in a good way.

2. The Potato Wedge

   

I anticipate that I will get some heat for putting this so high up, but I really do love the heft of a potato wedge. Crispy on the outside, creamy on the inside, LOTS of surface area for dipping, which, as we know, I love. A fry for true potato-heads.

1. The Straight-Cut, Sculptural Fry

   

Like I’ve said, nothing is more iconic than a well-formed, straight-cut fry. Points if skin is kept on. The paragons of this fry are Goldburger (above) and Lowboy in LA and, of course, McDonalds. Do you have a favorite sculptural fry?

Thank you for tuning into The Great Fry Ranking. Please respond with ire or celebration as you see fit.

A SCHEDULING NOTE: As you may have noticed, I am moving to a bi-weekly publishing schedule. Expect a continuation of all-things-food content in a very digestible(!) two week cycle.

And…THANK YOU FOR READING! Keep sharing with your friends, peers, neighbors. I am deeply appreciative of your support.

Reflecting back, I think the reason I was able to make this thing look so damn cute, aside from the fact that I had way more squash to use than I could fit in, hence the flower pattern around the edge, was that, since much of this meal is cobbled together with already-made ingredients (the meatballs and marinara are both store-bought), I had the time and mental energy to spruce things up a bit.

There is a bit of a masochistic elitism in today’s food culture that celebrates cooks who make everything themselves, down to the flour that makes the pasta. I have nothing against this, and I agree that, generally, things taste better homemade, but I do think it’s unfair to the home cook to look down on the store-bought ingredient. It’s the difference between the clout of Cook’s Illustrated, which touts the “best” way to make everything from scratch, and the laughability (to some) of Better Homes and Gardens, which has recipes filled with Philadelphia cream cheese and packaged cookies. I, for one, have been a subscriber to both, and I think it’s time that food lovers acknowledge that sometimes we just don’t have time or desire to make the pasta sauce and that jarred Rao’s marinara is actually very good.

So join me in taking it easy some weeknight with this amalgam of fresh summer produce, store-bought hacks, and home cooking that make for a quick and delicious weeknight supper. Use the time you saved to watch an ep of Widow’s Bay (fantastic) or take a summer stroll. Enjoy!!

Skillet Baked Zucchini and Meatballs

adapted from Monica Stevens Le

INGREDIENTS

• 2 medium zucchini, sliced into half moons

• 2 pattypan squash (or one large zucchini) sliced into ¼ in. rounds (add another if you wanna make this vegetarian)

• 1-2 Tbsp olive oil

• ½ yellow onion, sliced into half moons

• 4 garlic cloves, minced

• 1 pound of premade meatballs (any protein or skip if you wanna stay veg!)

• 1½ cups marinara (Rao’s is my fave)

• 1/3 cup chicken or vegetable broth

• ½ cup grated parmesan or pecorino

• fresh mozzarella, torn or sliced (optional)

• chopped fresh parsley or basil to garnish

• Pasta to serve

PROCESS

1. Place the pattypan squash or large zucchini rounds in a colander and toss with kosher salt. Leave in the sink to drain.

2. Preheat the oven to 400 degrees F.

3. Heat the oil over medium in a 12 in. oven-safe skillet

4. Sautee the onion until softened, about 5 min.

5. Add the garlic and cook until fragrant, 30s-1m

6. Add the half moon zucchini, season with salt and pepper, and cook until softened slightly

7. Spread the mixture out evenly in the pan, then top with marinara.

8. Rinse the squash rounds in the colander and dry completely.

9. Place the squash rounds around the edges of the skillet, half submerged in the sauce. (If you are going the vegetarian route, place the rest standing up throughout the sauce!) Spray or brush them with a little oil if you desire.

10. Evenly space the meatballs throughout the skillet, then pour the broth around them, add the mozzarella (if using), and top with parm or pecorino

11. Bake for 22m, until the squash is golden around the edges, then low broil for another 3-5m. The cheese and meatballs should be golden and toasty.

12. Top with fresh parsley or basil and more grated parm or pecorino.

13. Serve warm with pasta, or garlic bread (yum), or both!

NEXT WEEK: Perhaps I will be inspired by the July 4 spread…we shall see…

And now, onto this week’s offering.

I love the idea of a peach. Round and fuzzy, perfectly juicy, vibrant yellow flesh—it sounds like heaven. But as any stone fruit enjoyer knows, rarely does the peach attain these heights. Too often, it is mealy or inconsistently firm, hard in some places and soft in others. The letdown when you bite into a peach, hoping for perfection but ending with disappointment.

It is because of this mercuriality that, several years ago, I disavowed the peach and made a firm switch to its more constant cousin, the nectarine. Nectarines are tarter, delicious at almost any stage, and do not mold as easily. Though I have always felt I was in the minority with my commitment to the nectarine, a recent piece by Yotam Ottolenghi in the New York Times Cooking section expressed the feeling I’d had about the fruit for years.

Ottolenghi begins by sharing how he intended to write about apricots but found them hard and lacking fragrance at the market. As “nature had other plans for [him],” he switches to nectarines, both for his recipe, a “Roasted Nectarine Mess,” and its accompanying article. He touches on the peach’s ubiquity and influence, from T.S. Eliot (“Do I dare eat a peach?”) to the peaches in the garden of Ancient China’s Jade Emperor to James and his Giant one. On the other hand, “the nectarine”, he writes, “has no poets, no state, no mythology.” Truer words ne’er spoke. Why, I wonder, has the peach been lifted to such heights while the nectarine has been so roundly ignored?

The easy answer is that the peach has been around longer. It originated in China in 6000 BC, where it was a symbol of immortality (hence the Jade Emperor’s garden). According to Frog Hollow Farm, the peach blossom specifically was thought to “fend off evil sprits and provide vitality,” leading emperors to be preceded by the flower when on procession and for boughs to be hung on doorways on the New Year. In the early 17^th century, Nicola Lamb of Kitchen Projects writes, the first peach was said to be planted in America by an English colonist in Virginia. 100 years later, they began to be grown commercially in the south.

Nectarines also originated in China and began simply as a genetic mutation of the peach that swapped its fuzzy skin for a smooth one. This variation was then bred on its own starting around 4000 BC, though the name “nectarine,” meaning “nectar-like,” wasn’t used until 1616 in Britain (Lamb). While the experience of eating them is relatively distinct, nectarines and peaches, according to OSU’s Agricultural College, are nearly identical genetically, the texture of the skin being the only difference. This said, nectarines tend to be firmer and tangier, which is probably why I, who prefers an apple so tart it might as well be sour, like them so much.

So, the peach is the original, which explains its reverence. Its smooth sibling may lack a long literary history or a state moniker, but, reading Ottolenghi’s tribute, I felt justice was finally being done for the nectarine.

I asked my friends about their all-time top picks, and their answers reflected a reverence for the evergreen. Friend #1 went for Club crackers with cheese. Classic upon classic: a buttery, almost flaky cracker, perhaps with a lovely square of cheddar? Send me to the steak house in a tux, baby! Friend #2 practically made love to Wheat Thins before remembering Cheez-Its. Friend #3 landed on the proletariat of crackers: Saltines and Oysters. Both gorgeous, the former especially with butter and salt. This was also my preferred for topping Stoned Wheat Thins, which were tragically discontinued in 2022 after “months of diminishing supply” (The Takeout). Luckily, many other excellent options continue to adorn the shelves.

Henceforth is a new undertaking for The Cider: a ranked list. My 10 favorite crackers, nearly half of which are gluten free, for my celiac and otherwise gluten-avoiding friends.

Make it to the end and let me know: what’s your favorite cracker and why?

10. Trader Joe’s Savory Thins (GF)

    These are my favorite version of the ubiquitous sesame-flavored rice cracker. Tasty, affordable, eminently snackable.

9. Trader Joe’s Fig and Olive Crisps

   While dry on their own, these are a gorgeous cheese cracker. The fig and olive precludes the need for jam or compote. I love to pair these with goat gouda, but brie or any other soft or rich cheese would be delicious.

8. Triscuit

   Triscuits, what is there even to say? Salty and textural, these are a classic for a reason. For a throwback, enjoy with a wedge of Laughing Cow.

   

7. Crunchmaster Multi-Seed Original (GF)

   These are another great snack cracker that—bonus—you can get at Costco. I love these on their own.

   

6. Breton

   A regular on the party cheese plate, Breton’s are the crumbly, wheat-y, savory sister to Digestive Biscuits, my favorite British cookie. I’m always surprised by how much I like these.

5. Carr’s Table Water Crackers Cracked Pepper

   A cracker ranking would be nothing without Carr’s. The cracked pepper version adds a little spice, making these delicious with cheese or on their own.

4. Firehook Rosemary Sea Salt

   These are so f’in good (thin, crispy, olive oil & herby) that although I have only had them a few times, every time I pass them in the supermarket I am overcome with longing. They are expensive, however: a cracker for special occasions.

   

3. Blue Diamond Almonds Nut Thins Hint of Sea Salt (GF)

   These are incredibly versatile gluten free crackers, very flavorful but simple enough to go great with cheese or dips. Perfectly salty, they are also delicious on their own.

2. Trader Joe’s Multigrain Pita Bite Crackers

   These are the snackiest, most deliciously addictive bite-sized crackers. I sampled them for the first time at my grandmother’s house from her cracker jar (yes) and was instantly smitten. They’re crispy, crunchy, subtly seedy, and perfect.

1. Simple Mills Almond Flour Fine Ground Sea Salt (GF)

   Yep, my favorite cracker is also gluten free. SORRY! These almond flour crackers are undeniable, especially on their own. They have a subtle garlicky flavor and go great with hard cheeses like manchego or dips like hummus or tzatziki. These are also available at Costco, for my fellow Kirkland Queens.

We did it! We ranked the crackers! Now, I want to hear from you: do you agree? Do you disagree? Have I gone wildly astray? Or have I hit the nail?

Whatever the answer, we have celebrated the cracker, and that’s enough.

NEXT WEEK: Something about stone fruit, probably.

Granola is so intertwined with health-food and progressive culture that lefties with a yen for natural lifestyle are often described as “crunchy” and/or “granola”. This moniker originates from Woodstock, where, Alexis Ferenczi at Vice writes, hot granola was handed out in dixie cups to thousands of hungry festival-goers. Granola’s origins, however, go back 100 years earlier; it is arguably the first breakfast cereal—more classic than corn flakes, one might say to those who pooh-pooh it as a vestige of 60s counterculture. As Kat Eschner at Smithsonian Magazine reports, in 1863, Dr. James Caleb Jackson, the proprietor of a sanatorium/health spa in upstate New York, came up with the recipe for a “cold cereal as a cure for illness” called “granula”, twice-baking graham flour into crumbles that were only edible after spending the night soaked in milk. A competing health spa owner, John Harvey Kellogg—yes that Kellogg—heard about it and made a version of his own, causing Jackson to sue him over the name; Kellogg changed one letter and “granola” was born. According to Kate Springer, it disappeared for a while, until the late 1960s when Layton Gentry conceived of the first modern granola recipe. He sold it, and in 1972 the first corporate granola, Heartland Natural Cereal, hit the market.

Despite countless store-bought options, granola is one of those items that is best and healthiest when you make it at home, as most mass-market versions are too sugary and laden with oil to even dream of reaching Dr. Jackson’s goal of a cold cereal cure. Homemade granola is also quite easy, as long as you’re up for keeping an eye on your oven. I’ve experimented with several granola recipes over the years but I always come back to one from Jeanne Lemlin’s Simple Vegetarian Pleasures. This is a recipe for those who eschew overly sweet options and aren’t insistent on the cluster trend: it produces individually toasted oats, enhanced with cinnamon, honey, and your choice of nuts/seeds/dried fruit. I’ve copied my adapted version below for your baking pleasure. Make a health spa of your kitchen and enjoy.

Just-Sweet-Enough Granola

Adapted from Dried Cranberry and Almond Granola, Jeanne Lemlin

Makes 6 cups

• ¼ cup neutral oil (grapeseed or coconut are favorites)

• ¼ cup honey

• 4 cups rolled oats

• ½ cup unsweetened coconut (shredded or flakes, up to you!)

• ½ cup pumpkin seeds or ¼ cup each of pumpkin and sunflower seeds

• ¼ cup chopped pistachios, almonds, or walnuts

• ¼ tsp salt

• 1½ tsp cinnamon

• 2/3 cup currants, raisins, or dried cranberries

1. Preheat oven to 335 degrees

2. In a large pot, heat the oil and honey over medium-low heat until just combined. Do not let boil. Remove from heat.

3. Meanwhile, stir all other ingredients except the dried fruit together in a large bowl. Pour into the stock pot and stir!

4. Spread most of the granola into a single layer on a baking sheet. I can usually fit the majority on a standard half sheet and then I use a quarter sheet for the remainder.

5. Bake 9-10 minutes. Remove from the oven and toss the granola, paying attention to the sides of the pan, which will toast more quickly. Return to the oven and bake for 3-5 minutes. Once it starts smelling warm and toasty, it’s time to check. The granola should be a light golden brown when you remove. All ovens are different – yours may need more or less time.

6. Pour the granola back into your mixing bowl and cover with a cloth. Let it cool for several hours. It will crisp as it does so!

7. When it’s completely cool, mix in the dried fruit. Store in an air-tight container.

8. Serve however you like! A weekend favorite is atop pancakes or waffles with yogurt, maple syrup, and almond butter ;)

Many of the pages are hand-bordered, with garlands of stars, tomatoes, or macaroni, and each dish has its own illustration, though they skew more interpretive than literal representations. Minestrone, for example, features cloves of garlic casting shadows on an invisible table; for Vegetable Chowder, curtained windows look out to scenes of, variously, a starry night, moon, and rainbow; Cauliflower Marranca gets a detailed drawing of a 19^th century woman’s profile declaring “yum yum,” while Perfect Protein Salad is surrounded by cherubic winged faces floating in the clouds. Who wouldn’t want to make a heavenly soybean and wheat berry mélange after seeing that?

The homespun, artistic nature of this book is very much in contrast to contemporary food culture’s emphasis on digital recipes. With the rise of food blogs, and the ubiquity of New York Times Cooking app, finding 13 options for that eggplant burning a hole in your vegetable drawer has never been easier, but these recipes, read off our phones, accompanied by pristine photographs, don’t offer the personal touch of a cookbook that literally started with the touch of another person. Digital outposts offer the comments section, as well as videos that ostensibly connect us to the recipe’s author, but there is still something inherently unsatisfying to me about pulling a recipe from an app or website. Perhaps this is because cooking is one of the only daily activities I engage in that is firmly offline. I love to cook partly because it’s a chance to put away the screens and do something with my hands and nose and tastebuds—be human, or touch grass, one might say. As much as I appreciate the convenience of thousands of potential dinners at the tap of a finger, the experience is just different when you’re using a tangible recipe.

Today, physical food media presents itself mostly through typed and photographed cookbooks (Samin Nosrat’s Salt Fat Acid Heat, illustrated by Wendy MacNaughton, is an exception), many of which are breathtaking. Flipping through one of these highly-curated photo books while eating lunch is a cherished activity—dreaming up the next meal while savoring the current one. Food stylists make salads come alive with a jauntily placed fork and perfect shaved radishes or curate soups that beckon with a jagged piece of bread emerging from a bath of warm beans and tomato. These objects are deeply aesthetic and a joy to have around, but, as a home cook, I can’t help the feeling that something is lost when you take away one’s mental picture of the recipe and replace it with a perfectly staged image. Like a movie adaptation of a book that casts someone you never pictured in the leading role, once you see the styled dish, it’s hard to forget that that’s what it’s supposed to look like. On the contrary, you can never fail at recreating a dish when there is no paragon of the dish to replicate. Katzen’s Zucchini Feta Pancakes, illustrated only with a zucchini plant growing in a terracotta pot and a pepper mill, have no perfect example for you to hold yours up to. You can serve the dish wonky but delicious or carefully rendered and artfully garnished. Either way, there is no version in your head to quarrel with your creativity.

Ultimately, cooking at home shouldn’t be about recreating the dish exactly the way the author made and presented it. Home cooking, to me, is about improvising—following a recipe, sure, but putting yourself in it—i.e., using less pasta water in the sauce because you don’t have enough spaghetti, adding green beans because you medically cannot eat a meal without some aspect of verdure, covering everything with a blanket of pecorino romano, even though there’s tuna in the dish, and you know what they say about fish and cheese: never the twain shall meet. My meals are relaxed, casual affairs, never impeccably styled or meticulously sexy. Maybe those features are what excites you about cooking, and yours are! That’s beautiful! That’s your perpetual verdure.

In the end, it doesn’t matter how you express yourself creatively in the kitchen but that you have the opportunity to do so. What handwritten books like Moosewood offer is the invitation to discover who you are culinarily—your version of kugel or pilaf, tempura or mushroom quiche, guided lovingly along by Katzen’s hand but never shown exactly what the dish must be. Like good teaching, you are led to the answer, but never given it, so your ratatouille is just that: your ratatouille.

Despite being most firmly associated with movie-going, popcorn was once—can you believe it—forbidden in movie theaters. How it came to be the snack of AMCs and local cinemas alike is a tale of, well, profit. As Natasha Geiling at the Smithsonian magazine explains, popcorn was one of the first variants of maize grown in Central America. It eventually ventured north through trade, and once the crop landed on the east cost, it quite literally popped off: by 1848, popcorn was available everywhere, including entertainment outposts like circuses and fairs, though, ironically, it was prohibited at the one place with which we most identify it, movie theaters. At the time, they were what the hilariously dry usher at LA theater The New Beverly deems “temples of cinema”; the owners modeled their spaces after real theaters, with crimson carpeting, velvet seats, and the clientele to match—not the ideal home for the noisy, plebeian mess that is a box of popcorn.

When sound came to film in 1927, however, the movies became much more utilitarian, as you didn’t have to be literate to see a flick anymore (the fact that they were once tied to the ability to read is fascinating considering how unintellectual most popular movies tend to be these days). Even with the increased viewership, owners still were shutting the door to popcorn; that is, until the Great Depression hit. The public wanted cheap entertainment and even cheaper snacks, and popcorn fit the bill. Vendors would set up shop outside and movie-goers would smuggle it in. Eventually, the theaters invited the vendors inside, until they kicked them out and set up shop themselves, recognizing the incredible financial potential of the snack: it’s cheap-as-hell to make and the people, as we know, will pay. Pop-pop, cha-ching.

Of course, the movie theater isn’t the only place we can get our fix. It can be made at home with just a pot and oil or from a neatly folded microwave bag or even over a fire. My own methods of popcorn-making have changed with the decades. In the 90s, when I was growing up, we used an air-popper, a truly genius appliance that made perfect popcorn with just hot air. Despite eschewing cooking oil, the air-popper had a little dish on top in which you could melt butter as the hot air escaped. That sizzle as the freshly melted butter hits the kernels might be one of the most deliciously anticipation-laden sounds in the kitchen. In the late 00’s, my parents got a Whirley Pop, a sort of hurdy-gurdy-looking instrument which consisted of a lidded metal pot with a crank that turned a a metal prong at the bottom. You’d heat up oil, add your corn, then crank until the kernels popped. This made delicious stove-top popcorn, without the burning that can happen when you’re just using a simple pot, which was my method in the ‘10s, post-college years of minimal appliances. Microwaved popcorn, which hit the shelves in 1984, laces it way through the decades—I didn’t eat much of it in my natural-foods-centric home, but gobbled my way through steaming bags emptied into giant plastic bowls at friends’ movie nights. Even now, seeing an un-popped bag gives me a thrill, knowing that just two and a half minutes later, I could have a mouthwatering snack of exponential proportions.

While self-cooked popcorn dominated from the 1850s through the 21^st century, it seems that now, pre-made bagged popcorn, which entered the marketplace in the 2010s, is all the rage. Indeed, in 2025, RTE (ready-to-eat) popcorn made up 68.2% of the popcorn market, and companies are cashing in on the enthusiasm. Forty years ago, Smartfood was essentially the sole “healthy” RTE popcorn on a shelf dominated by pretzels and potato chips. Today, bagged popcorn brands proliferate in the snack aisle. Indeed, At Lazy Acres, my local organic grocery store, I counted 25 unique flavors. Of course, it’s undeniably more economical to buy your own and pop it yourself: a 30z jar of Orville Redenbacher kernels will run you $7.49 and yield a whopping 147 cups of popped corn. By contrast, a regular-sized bag of SkinnyPop costs $4.79 and includes only 13.5 cups, a tenth of the output for more than half the price. Even so, bagged corn dominates, leading to a glut of options from organic coconut oil to classic cheddar to weirder shit like peanut butter caramel or Harry Potter-themed Butterbeer kettle corn.

In 2016, likely in response to this influx of options, America’s Test Kitchen did a eponymous test of available bagged popcorn. At the top of the list was a popcorn I have never purchased and rarely seen in-store, Cape Cod “Seaside Pop”, and at the bottom was SkinnyPop, a bag I buy in gargantuan Costco-sized bags, despite the cringey name. Apparently, they rated based on the unilateralism of the kernels, preferring the “octupus-shaped” kernels with starches that pop out all in one direction (the kernel is the head of the octopus and the starches the tentacles), which are more crunchy than their bilaterial (diametrical starch-wings from a popped center) or multilaterial (several starches popped out in all different directions from the center) counterparts. This is all rather scientific for snacks, but I guess that’s not surprising given America’s Test Kitchen’s whole Making Cooking Science Again thing. By their criteria, I can see why Skinnypop landed low—they do tend to be a little limp—but the flavor and saltiness makes up for the lack of crunch. I am, after all, shoveling handfuls of this in my mouth, not daintily sampling pieces one by one to admire their form.

In an effort to create my own data, The Cider Test Kitchen, if you will, I polled some of my popcorn-loving friends about their favorite popcorn. Here are the results:

[Note: if they said homemade or movie theater, I asked for a store-bought favorite if they had to]

POLL:

• Homemade: 6

• Movie Theater: 3

• Smartfood: 3

• Bjorn Qorn Classic: 2

• Indiana Kettle Corn: 1

• Trader Joe’s Movie Theater Popcorn: 1

• Trader Joe’s French Onion Soup: 1

• Trader Joe’s Cheddar Popcorn: 1

• Lesser Evil Himalayan Gold: 1

• Boomchickapop: 1

• Garrett’s Cheddar + Caramel Mix: 1

It seems, based on my conservative sample size, homemade is not just the most economical, but the most popular way to pop your corn. I was intrigued to see Smartfood, the original bagged popcorn, top the list of RTE. Nostalgia? Quality? Both? Almost everyone who said they make theirs at home touted nutritional yeast as the preferred topping, but one of my culinarily-minded friends offered a combination of cinnamon and garlic powder, which I tried yesterday and can report is a warming, umami-laden take on the snack.

I realize now that one of the best things about popcorn is its adaptability—some lather it in butter, some in good olive oil and dried oregano, others prefer simple salt and pepper, while still more want it sticky and sweet. At risk of getting maudlin, one could say it has the quality of a perfect American snack: the freedom to express yourself.

The show is not an expert’s guide to gardening but rather an enthusiast’s quest for knowledge. In each, Galifianakis spends time riffing with elementary school students, interviewing a practitioner of that week’s topic (such as a root vegetable farmer or compost-bin inventor), and making blithe mistakes while speaking to camera that are endearingly kept in the edit. I cannot stress enough the coziness of the watch. He visits an apple grower who explains that the only way to grow certain varieties of apple is to graft a branch of that type onto the trunk of another (educational!). He is gamely shut down again and again by a stoic corn farmer who eventually lets him drive his state-of-the-art tractor (hilarious!). He makes tea out of foraged ingredients with a bunch of 5-year-old nature schoolers (adorable!). There are animations illustrating, for example, edible mushrooms and their poisonous lookalikes, bedecked in false eyebrows and mustaches to emphasize their nefarious disguise (clever!).

The whole thing is utterly charming, but it is in a segment of the corn episode that Galifianakis proves his mettle. This will get a little “then HE said” but please stick with me; I promise there is a point! Perched on one half of a swing set, with a nigh-8-year-old occupying the other swing, Galifianakis talks into an ear of corn like a phone, which his counterpart ruthlessly deems “not funny.” Moments later, he hands the corn-phone to the boy, who puts it to his ear and answers with “Me name is corn.” Galifianakis immediately cracks up, and the boy giggles uncontrollably with the elation that comes with making someone laugh. They do some more corn riffing, Galifianakis scaffolding the kid’s idea with comments like “That’s what you say? Me name is corn?” and the kid continuing to snicker and beam. Then, the boy says “I think you’re getting another call,” and I was struck with both Galifianakis’s irresistible warmth and the power of supporting children’s ideas: this kid went from cynical naysayer to comic collaborator in the span of a few minutes, all because his naturally goofy instincts were celebrated. Galifianakis didn’t retort, balk, or challenge when his first joke didn’t land; he simply invited the child to get in on the fun. I immediately understood what Davina Sashkin meant when when she wrote on Threads (there’s gotta be a more elegant way to say this–“threaded?”), “Perimenopausal girls be like ‘I needed this,’ and it’s just Zach Galifianakis being earnest and joking with kids about root vegetables.” So true, yet she’s casting her net too narrowly; you don’t have to be a perimenopausal girl to need this.

While Galifianakis’s show is delightfully non-expert, it reminded me of another gardening personality of the expert variety, the one and only Monty Don. I’m not sure how many Americans are aware of Mr. Don, but he is Great Britain’s foremost authority on gardening and horticulture. I fell in love with him during the pandemic, when my then-boyfriend’s roommate was enamored with an unbelievable show called Big Dreams, Small Spaces (you can find some episodes on Youtube). Big Dreams, Small Spaces features profoundly British characters from all over the UK who have a small space in which to garden and, you guessed it, a big dream about what to do with it. Monty Don visits them, looks at their plan, invariably tells them that no one will walk on their romantic curved path, and overhauls their design with a placidity that betrays not a whiff of “what are these fools thinking,” which he could very easily express.

What distinguishes this show from the HGTV variety is that he doesn’t do any of the gardening for them; this is no series of magical transformation. He just shows up, tells them what’s wrong with their vision, gives them a pat on the back, and then comes back to see how well or badly they did. Sometimes they don’t listen, as with a couple obsessed with having a Mediterranean retreat in their totally-not-suitable-for-Mediterranean-flora soil, and sometimes they do, and a scrubby, empty plot is transformed into a Japanese garden oasis. Sometimes Monty even rolls up the sleeves of his blue work shirt, exposing the suspenders and red socks he wears every day, and literally rips brush out of the ground, to the barely-muffled coos of the garden-owner and her mug-clutching friends. It is, in short, an incredible watch.

What both of these series have in common is their almost provincial nature—their emphasis on the everyday person and their connection to the earth, whether it be for growing food or having a little, flowery corner in which to have your tea. They are both totally entertaining, but more so, they inspire one to find a little square to till and make food or tranquility out of the pure goodness of the land, which I guess is what Galifianakis was hoping for, when he espoused that “for human beings, and the world itself, the only future is agrarian.”

*

Because I have drifted ever so slightly from my promise to discuss all things food, here’s a delicious and easy recipe for beet salad adapted from Yotam Ottolenghi’s Ottolenghi Simple.

Tangy Beet Salad

Serves 2-3 as a side, takes roughly 1h-1h15m

• 1 lb beets, washed with skins left on

• 2 tsp olive oil

• 1½ tsp coriander seeds

• ½ cup red onion, mandolined or thinly sliced

• 1 Tbsp (plus a squeeze or two) lemon juice

• 1 tsp tahini (my fave brand is Al Wadi)

• ¼ cup Greek yogurt

• Salt and pepper

• ½ cup chopped dill, parsley, cilantro, and/or mint (use what you have/like!)

1. Preheat the oven to 450 degrees F.

2. Wrap the beets individually in foil and roast for 45-60m until tender. A knife should be able to go through them easily.

3. While the beets roast, mandoline or thinly slice your onion, and squeeze a wedge or two of lemon juice over it to reduce the sharpness. Chop your herbs, and mix the tahini and 1 tsp of olive oil into the yogurt.

4. Let cool slightly and then rub off the skin (use a paper towel to avoid becoming red-fingered). Cut into ¼ inch slices and set aside to cool in a bowl.

5. Heat 1 tsp of olive oil in a small pan on medium-low heat. Put in the coriander seeds and toast, stirring, until they are fragrant and turn a slightly darker shade of brown, 2-3 minutes. Pour the oil and seeds over the beets, then add the onion, lemon juice, most of the chopped herbs, ½ tsp salt and a few grinds of black pepper. Mix together. Adjust lemon juice and salt to your liking.

6. Spoon the yogurt-tahini over the beets in a few places and stir just slightly. Drizzle EVOO on top if you’re feeling crazy, sprinkle with flaky salt, and garnish with the remaining herbs.

NEXT WEEK: Popcorn, the greatest of American snacks?

I am currently laid up at home with the inevitable cold that descends after major travel in one’s thirties. Sitting on my couch, surrounded by tissues and half-drunk cups of herbal tea, my mind wanders to the furthest thing from my sordid reality and the best dish I ate while abroad in England and France: sticky toffee pudding. I know, English food over French? What blasphemy is this? Here’s the thing: French food is unbelievably good, but after days of endless bread, buttery sauces, and a menu as short as a haiku, I just want to cozy up to a lunch counter and order a gigantic kale caesar. Or, in this case, a psychotically good dessert.

English food gets a bad rap, but as elevated London pub-restaurant The Devonshire proves, it’s all in the execution. In the spirit of “eating a few bites of real food” before something sweet, a few words about the meal itself, which was impeccable and included angel-ass soft rolls topped with flaky salt and served straight out of the tin by a server wielding giant bread tongs (I had three), skirt steak grilled on the wood fire to a perfect medium rare, carrots that took on their “buttered” quality so deeply that there seemed to be no distinction between the fat and the root itself, and a light salad of gem lettuce and my personal favorite, radicchio. Portions were reasonably-sized (I, after all, chose to eat three rolls), such that by the time dessert arrived, I was gleefully ready to, as the Brits say, tuck in.

Sticky toffee pudding, if you haven’t had the pleasure, consists of a moist sponge cake made with dates, a toffee sauce, and some kind of creamy accompaniment. I haven’t had much sticky toffee pudding in my life (in fact, this was only my second foray), but I don’t think “light” is usually a word used to describe it. This STP verged on straight-up fluffy. Elegantly square-cut, three inches tall, richly caramel-flavored but not overly sweet, and complemented by a choice of ice cream or custard (I chose the latter, but I think my husband got it right with the former for textural variety), it may have ruined me for all STPs to come.

And come they will because, apparently, sticky toffee pudding is, as the Economist reports, having a moment: a TikToker aptly named “STP Guy” rates versions across the UK, and restaurants from Australia to New York are putting their spin on the classic. It’s not surprising that diners the world over can agree that cake covered in dark butterscotch sauce and cream is delicious. The origin story of this dessert, however, is less agreed upon. One account has an early iteration being passed from Canadian pilots in World War II to a Lancashire innkeeper who later gave it to the inventor of the dessert as we know it, Francis Coulson, who, most sources agree, put it on his menu at the Sharrow Bay Hotel in Cumbria (Northwest England) in the 1970s. So much for an ancient British pud — this thing is positively groovy, baby!

Whatever its past, STP is having a very real present. Ever since English cafe-restaurant Wilde’s opened around the corner from me in Los Angeles, I have been curious about this spot that The Infatuation claims “makes British food sexy.” When I finally went, my first thought upon receiving a tasty but meager $18 green salad was, well, I’m not sure about sexy, but Wilde’s sure makes British food expensive. But when their version of fish and chips, lightly battered skate with a bright mint sauce and truly gigantic steakhouse frites (sold separately), hit the table, I could see what they meant. It was probably as sexy as a piece of fried fish could hope to be. We cleaned our plates, as we often do, which must be rare, since our server presented the possibility of dessert in the negative, as in “No dessert for you tonight, then?” which was odd though not uncommon for this brand of brusque-verging-on-rude LA server. I countered effusively, and several minutes later, the STP was delivered.

I cannot claim to be an expert in this dessert by any means, but unfortunately, it appears that The Devonshire’s did ruin me for at least this version stateside. Wilde’s STP is humongous but dense and much paler in color and flavor than its London counterpart. I enjoyed the crispy bits of burnt sugar on top, a welcome bit of texture, but the cake didn’t nearly reach the depths of warm toffee goodness I was hoping for. I missed the pool of caramel sauce, and crumb-wise, my estimation that “light” isn’t usually achieved in an STP was substantiated. At least the decaf drip was strong and good.

With the pertinent disclaimer that I’ve only ever had two, there’s seems to be only one way to conclude: it was the best of sticky toffee puddings, it was the worst of sticky toffee puddings.

NEXT WEEK: Pleasures of the gardening show, feat. Zach Galifianakis & Monty Don, and a yummy beet salad

Asparagus heralds the coming of spring to me more than any other vegetable, in part due to the fact that I grew up in a town that borders Hadley, Massachusetts, once known as “the asparagus capital of the world”. If you’ll allow me to don my historian’s cap, ahem… For much of the mid 20^th century, this area along the Connecticut river was one of the top asparagus growing regions in the country. It was supposedly even shipped overseas to be served at Queen Elizabeth II’s annual spring garden party. Fancy! Locals still refer to the vegetable as Hadley “grass” (originally from “sparrow grass”, a bastardization of “asparagus” from 1600-1700s). Only a handful of farms remain of the many hundred that once flourished, but if I’m ever home in April or May, we will no doubt pick some up from a farm stand, grill them simply with olive oil and S&P, and savor that distinctive mouthful that tells us spring is here.

At the aforementioned Datil (an incredible investment in a vegetable-forward meal if you find yourself in the City of Light, as I did last month for my overdue honeymoon), asparagus was served, by my count, three ways: steeped in an infusion, dried in a lentil cracker, and blanched in a deeply satisfying interpretation of a caesar salad. Of all the preparations listed above, I’d like to take a moment to, well, celebrate the infusion.

This was not a term I was particularly aware of before enjoying it three times that evening—the first, as noted, with asparagus; the second in a post-dessert made with datil, a type of plum that, in an echo of Hadley grass, almost died out after once enjoying plentiful cultivation in the south of France; and the third in sobacha, a delicious Japanese tea made with buckwheat. Sampling the first course, a savory broth, light green with specks of herb oil and served in a pleasingly tiny colored glass cup, then later alternating sips of chilled, sweet plum and warm, nutty buckwheat, I appreciated the slow intentionality of both the method and its enjoyment; it takes almost as long to drink as it does to make.

While the word “infusion” evokes a chemist belaboring over bubbling beakers, the process really couldn’t be more pedestrian. Infusions are made from steeping whatever you like – roots, bark, tea leaves, dried fruit – in liquids to “infuse” them with flavor. Tea, flavored oil, and gin are all infusions, as is garlic vodka, which I had the somewhat unfortunate experience of sampling at a friend’s recent potluck of all things garlic. It is an incredibly flexible preparation, one that can be both simple (a cup of Earl Grey) or complex (a whisper of asparagus water, say).

At Datil, the infusions distilled the pure flavor of their ingredients softly and thoughtfully, in a way that felt perfectly suited to a restaurant that is both incredibly nice (they have a Michelin star) and mission-centric. In their website’s manifesto, they emphasize the primacy of the ingredient: “our producers supply colors, materials, textures and raw tastes — then we continue their work”. Their intentionality continued at the table: after we sat down to eat, the server handed us what could best be described as a zine — a little booklet of art and poems, chosen by all members of the team and reflecting their shared vision. This was the first time I’d ever begun a meal that way, and I liked it! Ultimately, the nuances of this purposeful dining experience set me up to appreciate the infusions more than I ever could when sipping my afternoon tea.

This said, as the server poured my datil infusion and explained the significance of the heritage plum to the chefs’ childhoods, I was reminded of my first cooking foray at 5 years old, making “soup” from sticks, leaves, and rain water. I realize now that, despite the aloofness of their name and the preciousness of their delivery, infusions are just the product of one of the oldest of cooking techniques: put two things together and see what happens.

NEXT WEEK: The best thing I ate while across the pond (it might surprise you)

As someone with an irregular schedule, I relish the habits of the kitchen: I may not know what my day will look like, but I know I’ll have to feed myself, a burden to some, but to me – possibility! Often, when I should be working, I’ll instead be plotting a use for the kohlrabi that shows up—without fail, like, why am I always getting kohlrabi—in the CSA or researching new marinades for roasted salmon beyond the tried-and-true miso-maple-soy. Basically, I think about what to eat a lot.

While I don’t have a resume filled with professional kitchens or a degree in gastronomy, I genuinely love food and hope to share my enthusiasm with like-minded cooks and eaters of all stripes. The name The Cider is an homage to my favorite fruit, the apple, common yet capable of immense flavor and diversity of preparation. My hope is that, like the apple, this is a cozy everyperson’s newsletter that takes its subject seriously but not too seriously, that embraces decadence but is modest at heart.

So, how did I get here, poised to write odes to gremolata? My journey in the kitchen started in earnest at my college co-op, where I would make 26 liters of stew for 80 ravenous peers, insatiable after burning all their calories writing 10-pg papers on Beyoncé for their “Performing America” seminars. This undertaking, as well as my childhood diet, was mainly vegetarian, so it follows that most (though not all) of my passion lies in plants. In my youth, I would eat kale straight out of the garden, and not much has changed since. If you’re strictly a carnivore, I must sadly direct you elsewhere – perhaps to the OutbackStack, which doesn’t yet exist, but damn have they got the title already.

Each entry will offer a take on something food-related, whether it be a particular ingredient, preparation, recipe, cookbook, restaurant, or general missive on hours in the kitchen, and it will land in your inbox on Wednesdays.

I hope that this project delights your mind and get you excited to open your fridge, finally try that new place in your neighborhood, or, hell, chomp down on a stalk of raw kale.

Hallie

TOMORROW’S ISSUE: Asparagus & A Parisian Eatery’s Embrace of the Infusion

P.S. You’re getting this because you are on my mailing list and you’ve opened one of my emails :) If you’re into it, stay subscribed and share with your foodie friends galore! If for whatever reason you’re not interested, please feel free to unsubscribe. xx