I’m about to pick a major bone, so if you’re not in the mood—and I’m not talking about steak for dinner—turn away now. There’s been a media pigpile on Paula Deen this week and I’ve got to get in my licks. It’s not just that she has consistently used her Food TV show to promote unhealthy (and foul) food and been a longtime paid shill for industrial-meat giant Smithfield (whose inexcusably raised products are proven to increase the risk of diabetes), but now she’s a spokesperson for Novo Nordisk’s diabetes treatment Victoza (the 2010 FDA approval of which came amidst powerful evidence of a link to thyroid cancer), after disclosing that she was diagnosed with the disease three years ago. I find this all so deeply disturbing. And then I read a review by Nigella Lawson on the Piglet, Food52′s wonderful Tournament of Cookbooks, where she writes about being suspicious of Heidi Swanson’s excellent Super Natural Every Day “because I always fear a certain smuggery, and words like ‘my natural kitchen’ set off the alarm bells.” How have we come to this place where natural and healthy are deemed “smug,” and doughnut burgers for breakfast are the order of the day? As I used to say in junior high, gag me with a fork. I think you know where I stand on all this. Bacon and kale are both welcome in my kitchen…

set your cap

…as is my fabulous new dehydrator, a Christmas gift from G, who knew I had been coveting one for some time. (How’s that for a segue?) It’s yet another way of preserving food, something I am increasingly interested in as the apocalypse approaches. Kidding. Sort of. People have been using this method since antiquity; think jerky, figs, tomatoes, chiles, salt cod, etc. It essentially removes the water content, which inhibits the growth of microorganisms and hinders decay. Dehydrated foods retain a great deal of their nutritional value so, at the risk of sounding smug, I’ll point out that they are quite healthy. I’m looking forward to using my new machine to make fruit leathers, vegetable chips, even yogurt.

a good ribbing

I read about a portobello mushroom jerky made by this company, but apparently it’s been discontinued. Not to be deterred, I decided to attempt my own. Mushrooms are inherently meaty and also rather spongelike, so they absorb flavors well. Don’t have a dehydrator? You can try making this using the lowest setting on your oven. Maybe prop the door open with a wooden spoon. Just watch carefully so the mushrooms don’t crisp up. You want the texture to be dense and leathery, with the right tooth-tugging chew.

shroom for more

The slices will shrink as they dry, so cut them about three-quarters of an inch thick. Incidentally (she said smugly), mushrooms are low in fat, relatively high in protein, and full of vitamins and minerals. If you’d like to find out more about the wonderful world of fungi, listen to this fascinating interview on Fresh Air with botanist Nicholas Money.

soak it up

I made a tangy marinade with maple syrup, tamari and pimentón, but you can play around with any flavors you like. Assertive ones work best, as does a combination of sweet-tart-salty-spicy. I love Dickson’s beef jerky made with an addictive mix of star anise and red chile, and may try recreating that next time. When using meat, lean is best as fat turns rancid more quickly (see: Paula Deen).

into leather (one of the all-time great move lines: watch this)

This is a really satisfying snack! The texture is addictive. Too bad it’s so fucking healthy. How uncool. Paula and Nigella would not approve. I guess in a pinch you can always stick it between a couple of doughnuts and call it breakfast.

Even though it may seem like I am the most organized kitchen bitch on the planet, there are definitely times when I reach for something and it’s not there. Although once I was not above keeping canned (or boxed) stock in my pantry, I now resist that easy (and nutritionally challenged) out. Tragically, my source for chicken feet dries up in the winter and though I’ll make stock from whole birds, it’s just not as good. Dashi, the Japanese broth made with kombu and bonito flakes is one option, but its flavor is very specific. So when I came across a recipe in The River Cottage Preserves Handbook for a homemade vegetable bouillon, I got very excited. It’s basically just a bunch of vegetables ground into a paste and preserved with salt. You stir a bit into hot water to make an authentically flavored stock for soups, stews, curries, whatever you like.

the quality of your vegetables does matter

Pam Corbin, the author, says you can use just about any herbs or vegetables you like, so long as they are fresh and taste as “vegetable-y” as possible. In addition to the ingredients in this recipe, you could also use young turnips, shallots, celery, rutabagas, beets or peppers, as well as bay leaves, thyme, lovage or mint, bearing in mind that the character of the stock will vary depending on what you include. Ingredient quantities for this recipe are given in weights, so do yourself a favor and get a scale if you haven’t already. This is the one I use; it’s efficient, handy and doesn’t take up much room.

how dry i am

Sundried tomatoes were such a fad in the 80s that they really fell off hard. It’s too bad because, skillfully employed, they are quite wonderful. I like to store mine in good olive oil, so they become soft and gooey. Then you can toss them with goat cheese, black olives, fresh thyme and pasta; throw a few into soup; slice them thin and add them to an arugula salad…

chop chop

A food processor is essential to make what Pam calls her “souper mix.” You grind the ingredients into a fine paste that is dense and granular.

the colors make a lovely mosaic

This makes quite a lot of the stuff, so you may need to process in batches. Or grind a few ingredients at a time, so they condense and make room for others.

jarring effect

Run your jars through the dishwasher, or wash them with boiling water and soap, and dry with a clean towel. Fill and seal the jars, then keep one handy in the fridge. The rest can be stored in a cool, dry spot as the high concentration of salt acts as a preservative.

into the soup

Just moments after making my batch, I pressed it into service in a very light and simple vegetable soup. I heated 4 teaspoons of it in 4 cups of water and added some minced celery root, carrot and fennel, a few handfuls of arugula and a crumbled dried chile. I simmered this until the vegetables were tender, tossed in some grated parmesan and sat down to the perfect winter lunch.

Hoary old chestnuts. Those are well-worn aphorisms and anecdotes, close kin to the cliché. Curious as to the origin of this phrase, I searched online and found a long-winded reference tracing it back to an English play of the mid-19th century. I had thought it would refer to the fact that chestnuts, encased in their hard shells, last a rather long time. Did you know the chestnut is also called chinkapin or chinquapin? By any other name, it’s still the nut of a tree that belongs to the same family as the beech and the oak. I’d never prepared chestnuts, nor particularly enjoyed eating them on the rare occasion they appeared on my plate. They’re always so dry and chalky. People do seem to love them, though—Americans in their Thanksgiving stuffing, the French obsessed with their marrons glacés. Vendors with carts full of roasting chestnuts—a romantic throwback to sweeter times—are still a common sight in many cities (London, New York, Rome), but I have to confess that acrid and sooty smell has never been my favorite. So it’s no wonder that the jar I convinced myself to buy last year sat forlornly at the back of my cupboard these long months, getting hoary. Then I came across a recipe for chestnut and parsnip bisque. A vegan recipe, no less.

also known as sardian nut, jupiter’s nut and husked nut

You can roast the chestnuts yourself, but it’s easiest to buy them in a jar or package, already prepped. They are low in calories and contain no cholesterol, no gluten and very little fat, mostly unsaturated. With twice as much starch as potatoes, they do a beautiful job of thickening and are also made into flour which is used for dense, rich breads and cakes. The only nut that contains vitamin C, chestnuts lose almost half of it when heated.

headline

Chestnuts, quite popular in Asia, are traditionally served around the New Year in Japan, so this seemed like the perfect time to try this bisque. The recipe, posted on Tasting Table, is from a new “vegetable restaurant” in Philadelphia, Vedge. The chefs—a husband-&-wife team named Richard Landau and Kate Jacoby—have been getting lots of praise for their inventive and delicious food. I followed their recipe pretty closely, which meant buying tofu sour cream, something that is not usually found in my fridge. It doesn’t taste anything like “real” sour cream, but it did add a rich smoothness to the soup and a dollop of it even made a very nice garnish.

parsnips are related to carrots

The chestnuts are paired with parsnips, which have a slightly buttery, sweet flavor with a subtle hint of cardamom. These are sauteed in olive oil with some onions or shallots, and cooked down with a splash of sweet Marsala wine. Vegetable stock is added and some warming spices—allspice, clove, nutmeg; a light hand is essential here as these can be overwhelming. Once the parsnips are tender, you puree everything together with some tofu sour cream or cream cheese. I used my new Vitamix, which is amazingly efficient at creating a frothy liquid in no time.

black beauties

The soup was delicious—rich, velvety, subtly nutty—but it looked a little drab in the bowl. This is where finishing touches make all the difference. I toasted some black walnuts in a small skillet (regular ones would also be lovely) and sprinkled them on top along with a flurry of flaky Maldon sea salt and a generous blob of the tofu sour cream. Alongside a radicchio-&-apple salad cloaked in a sharp mustard dressing, this was dinner last night.

finish it off

In addition to this lovely recipe, I’ll leave you with a couple favorite old chestnuts:

Slow and steady wins the race.

This, too, shall pass.

I’m sure it will come as no surprise to you that the firm white head of the cauliflower is referred to as “the white curd,” for it looks like nothing so much as a big virginal cheese. Of course it comes in other colors—orange, green, even purple—but it is the white that is the most common, the most classic and perhaps the most invitingly pristine. It’s lovely baked with cheese sauce, pureed into a creamy soup or steamed whole and dressed with a caper vinaigrette and toasted breadcrumbs, but it’s also a rather surprisingly capable foil to far more assertive flavors. This Indian “dum,” a type of steaming done in a tightly sealed pot, traditionally over a wood or charcoal fire, transforms the cauliflower into a velvety heap cloaked in a fragrant and highly-spiced sauce. You can make a simple meal of it along with a pile of nutty basmati rice, or serve it as part of a larger repast with braised lamb or grilled chicken. Either way, it’s certainly no wallflower.

a head of its time

Cauliflower was introduced to France from Genoa in the 16th century, and has been well loved for centuries. Its name is from caulis, the Latin  for cabbage, and flower, acknowledging its unusual place among a family of food plants—Brassica oleracea—which normally produces only leafy greens.

ghee up

After breaking a large head up into florets (Floret would be a great name for a sweet white kitten, no?), you brown it on all sides. You can use vegetable oil (preferably something less refined but good for frying) or ghee. Still a mystery to you? I really recommend that you pick up a jar of this Indian clarified butter, or order one here. (The Niter Kibbeh flavored with cardamom, cinnamon, coriander, cumin, turmeric and nutmeg is divine melted on a piping hot sweet potato.)

hot & crusty

Use a long pair of tongs to keep turning it around in the pan, so that it browns all over, much like prepping a piece of meat for braising. This brings out all sorts of toasty, caramelized notes that you want.

mincing steps

Then you pull the browned florets out of the pan, set them aside, and set to frying the aromatics and spices. As always, I counsel you to do your mincing and slicing ahead of time.

thai one on

The recipe, yet another winner from Naomi Duguid and Jeffrey Alford’s wonderful Mangoes & Curry Leaves, calls for long green cayenne chiles. I only had the slightly smaller Thai green chiles; these were fine, or you could even substitute jalapeños, serranos or any dried spicy chile—just stay on top of the heat factor.

cut & paste

Adding onions and tomatoes to the ginger, garlic and spices, you’re essentially cooking up a loose flavor paste.

rice queen: brown basmati

If you haven’t yet discovered the joys of brown basmati rice, now’s your chance. What you want is imported brown basmati from northern India, an unhulled variety with a rich, nutty aroma and flavor; it’s superior to the one grown in California. White basmati is not as nutritionally complete as brown, but it’s still healthy and delicious.

vegetarian delight

G requested Indian food for his birthday, so I served him this cauliflower and rice along with some highly spiced, Pakistani-style lamb kebabs. He was satisfied.

A while back, I believe I mentioned a desire to explore some lesser-known ingredients with you. I’ve been keeping a running list—including pickled tapioca, sorghum molasses and dried Persian limes—so do let me know if there’s anything you’re curious about. This is kohlrabi—from the German “kohl,” meaning cabbage and “rabi,” meaning turnip. It’s a brassica, like cauliflower, kale and collards, and has all the same nutritional benefits: low in carbs and calories, high in fiber and antioxidants. It also comes in a deep purple color. Slightly sweet and fresh, with the faintest peppery bite, kohlrabi can be eaten raw or cooked. If raw, it needs to be peeled, but after cooking the tougher outer skin softens up plenty. With all the cozy soups and hearty braises we’re eating at this wintry time of year, it’s nice to have some cool, crunchy salads as a counterpoint, (here’s one with celery root, and another with radicchio and grapefruit), so I used my kohlrabi in a crisp, sprightly slaw.

like the happy marriage of a cabbage and a turnip

Look for kohrabi bulbs no larger than 3″ in diameter with healthy green leaves which can also be eaten. The tenderest, smallest bulbs won’t even need to be peeled, and can be snacked on out of hand like an apple. Try grating kohlrabi raw for salads and slaws, slice thinly and sprinkle with salts and herbs, or cut into sticks to use with dips. You can steam it, either whole for about 30 minutes, or thinly sliced for 5-10, or dredge in flour and briefly fry. It goes well with lemon, butter and herbs or curry. Add it sliced or cubed to soups, stews or stir-fries. Kohlrabi will last for a few weeks in plastic in the fridge; store the leaves and bulbs separately.

the fine art of chopping

I can’t tell you what a difference my new knife makes with any slicing and chopping tasks. (It makes me so curious about this one!) With any slaw, texture is quite important. It’s nice to have all the ingredients roughly the same shape/thickness. If you don’t have the time/patience to julienne like this, you can always use a hand grater or food processor.

in the pink

The Pink Lady apple is among my favorites. It’s a blush apple with a firm texture and a balanced sweet-tart flavor that offsets the mild, slightly radish-y kohlrabi.

in the sticks

Leave the skin on, so the slaw is not quite so albino.

flavor boosters

To spice things up, I used what I had on hand: jalapeño, lemon zest and tarragon. I was inspired to build on the slight licorice flavor of the tarragon with the addition of some fennel seeds.

ready to go

There is something very satisfying about setting out all your ingredients—your mise en place—as you prepare to assemble a dish. It eliminates all that frantic scrambling about when you haven’t properly read the recipe.

seeds of an idea

Toasting the fennel seeds in a dry skillet brings out their oils and creates a richer, more complex flavor and smell. They brown very quickly, and will taste bitter when burnt, so cook over low heat and watch them carefully.

back to the grind

I have a dedicated spice grinder for this, but you can also use a hand mill or a mortar and pestle, especially if you don’t need a very fine powder.

good to the grain

I felt like a good strong mustard would complement the Germanic roots of the kohlrabi, and I’m always looking for ways to use my Kozlik’s. This Canadian company makes so many delectable mustards, it’s tempting to collect them all. The one above is their Triple Crunch, made with three kinds of seeds and Canadian Club whiskey. It’s almost like a spicy, vegetarian caviar.

see slaw

As you work, be sure to drop your slices of kohlrabi and apple into the waiting lemon juice, to prevent browning. Once you toss everything together, the flecks of red apple skin, yellow zest and green tarragon and jalapeño make a very pretty combination for the eye as well as the palate. This slaw couldn’t be healthier, more refreshing or more delicious.

Like other legendary odd couples—Harold & Maude, Oscar & Felix—sweet and salty rub up against each other and achieve a sort of sublime friction. Not exactly opposites, they speak the same language but with very different accents. It’s now well-known that the trifecta of sweet-salty-fatty proves virtually irresistible to the human palate, making things like Doritos and kettle corn the equivalent of edible crack. A decidedly much more highbrow—and indeed healthier—precursor that plays with that same equation is the delectable scourtin. A close cousin of shortbread, these crisp, buttery biscuits studded with briny black olives were originally made at Les Vieux Moulins in Nyons, France, an ancient Provençal olive mill. The owner, Jean-Pierre Autrand, shared his family’s recipe with Susan Herrmann Loomis, an ex-pat expert on French cuisine. And I’m sharing it with you. For very little effort, you get a truly great cookie whose pitch-perfect sweet-salty flavor goes just as well with a dry martini or a glass of prosecco as it does with a cup of chamomile tea. (Much like these inspired cookies.) Make a batch immediately.

black beauties

Known as la perle noire—the black pearl—olives from Nyons are from a French olive cultivar called the tanche. It is said to have been introduced to France by the Greeks in the 4th century B.C. The fully mature olives are a striking violet-black color with a slightly wrinkled skin, and have a mild, salty bitterness. They are usually dry-cured and packed in olive oil.

roughly chopped

mix master

Although I’m not much of a baker, I do possess a KitchenAid which makes these endeavors rather easier. The dough is a simple affair of butter, flour, powdered sugar and a touch of olive oil. Naturally, the quality of all these ingredients matters very much. I used cultured butter from Vermont that I bought at Il Buco’s new Alimenatari e Vineria. After eating a wonderful dinner (grilled octopus, fresh fettucine with ragú, lots of wine) at a long communal table, I couldn’t leave without picking up “a few things” from the little grocery in front: mortadella, Il Buco’s own grassy olive oil, calabrian chiles in oil, almond cookies, Italian sea salt… I admired the vast white mountain of whipped lardo flecked with rosemary, but went for the aforementioned butter instead.

dough-eyed

The dough comes together in a flash, then you stir in lots of chopped Nyons olives. I saw a couple of recipes that added some lemon zest, which sounds good; I’ll bet a little chopped fresh rosemary or a few toasted fennel seeds would also be nice additions.

rolling, rolling, rolling

I admit to getting a little panicky when it comes to rolling out dough, but this couldn’t be easier because you do it between two sheets of parchment paper. So nothing sticks and there’s no need to be anxiously throwing on more flour.

nice pins

I used my new rolling pin handcrafted of New Hampshire red oak, a gift to myself this holiday season. (I confess to falling prey to the “one for you, one for me” approach to gift-giving.)

tray tray delicieux

Once it’s rolled out, the dough must chill. This makes it much easier to handle, so don’t skip this crucial step. Next, the recipe calls for you to cut out rounds, which I did with a small glass. Other people cut rectangles, or simply press the dough into a pan, score it before baking, then break it apart like shortbread. Another way to go is to roll the dough in parchment into a couple of logs, chill that, then slice it into coins for baking. I think you can experiment, but the point is not to subject the dough to a lot of rolling or handling.

these will turn you into a cookie monster

Remove them from the oven just as they begin to turn golden. Giovanna, the dear reader who recommended this recipe, says that too dark and the flavor turns. I remain forever indebted to her for introducing me to the wonder that is the scourtin.

*Update: I forgot to mention that I sprinkled pinches of turbinado sugar and Maldon sea salt atop each cookie before baking, and it added yet another level of sweet-salty crunch.

Oil is one of the iconic symbols of Hanukkah, meant to remind us of the oil that kept the Second Temple of ancient Israel lit with a long-lasting flame. This miracle is celebrated with the consumption of all manner of fried treats, and the latke is front and center. Latkes are usually made from potatoes, but can often incorporate other vegetables, including sweet potatoes, celery root, apples, beets or whatever’s on hand. This type of pancake is found in the cuisines of Luxembourg (gromperekichelcher), Latvia, Lithuania, Austria, Belarus (draniki), Germany (Kartoffelpuffer), Poland (placki ziemniaczane), Ukraine (deruny), Hungary, Slovakia, Persia and the Czech lands (bramborák)—not to mention India and Korea (pa jeon), among others. It’s a simple fritter—easy to make and easy to enjoy—with a very universal appeal. I made some last night for the first night of Hanukkah, and wished my dad were alive so I could share them with him.

grate expectations

The nice thing about this recipe is that you can adapt it to include whatever vegetables you like. Even carrots or zucchini would work. You can play with the combination of vegetables and the spicing; throw in some fresh herbs; make them  spicy, sweet or savory; and adjust the size. A pancake is an incredibly versatile thing. And it’s the perfect vehicle for sauces, chutneys, aiolis, syrups…

golden rules

Make sure your oil is hot enough (it should shimmer) and don’t flip too soon. A couple of minutes on the first side should give you a nice brown crunch.

on the fry

Latkes have a lot in common with hash browns and röstis. The main difference is that the grated vegetables are tossed with a little egg and flour to bind them together. I could see getting crazy and adding some cheese, maybe even a jalapeño. (As you can see, my Mexican roots are deeply entwined with the Jewish ones…)

white on rye

I made small latkes, about 2 1/2″ in diameter, and topped them with sable (a smoked, buttery black cod) and a dollop of sour cream into which I stirred some ground caraway. This was my riff on the classic flavors of a Jewish deli, where rye bread is never far away. It was a pretty stellar combination.

all dressed up

If you made the latkes bit-size, they would be excellent as hors d’oeuvres at a cocktail party. Other toppings to consider: caviar and crème fraîche; garlicky aioli; pepper jelly; applesauce; mustard… These might sound like sacrilege, but latkes aren’t just for Hanukkah—or Jews. I encourage you to try them since they’re a breeze to make, and to customize. Don’t be put off by the whole fried-in-oil thing. It’s been demonized by ignorant food nazis. Just be sure to use a good quality oil that’s meant for high heat, preferably sunflower or peanut.

a fritter by any other name

All this talk of latkes made me think of this.

Are you gearing up for the holiday? G has requested bouillabaisse on Christmas, followed by my coconut sorbet. What special things will you be cooking?

From the time that I was 11 until I left for college at 17, I lived with my parents in an extraordinary architectural house in the redwoods at the top of a mountain looking down over rolling hills and the town all the way to the ocean. My father was the provost of Stevenson College at UC Santa Cruz, and that house came with the job as did a mandate to do lots of entertaining for both students and faculty. Fortunately for my father, he was married to my mother, a consummate hostess. She threw many legendary parties, not the least of which was the annual Christmas party—really two parties. While the adults got plastered on Fish House Punch upstairs, the children ran amok downstairs. There was a 20-foot tall Christmas tree, a visit from Santa bearing a huge bag of gifts, live music, and an endless stream of cookies and savory delights, including little phyllo-wrapped pastries. Someday I hope to have a big house that I can fill with loads of people (I can only manage it in my screened-in porch on July 4th), but for now I will content myself with making burek.

chalky cheese

I can still hear my mother, a stickler for grammar and correct pronunciation, saying “spanakopita” and “tiropita” in a perfect Greek (via Spain) accent. One, filled with spinach and feta, and the other, filled with cheese and egg, come from the burek (or börek) family of filled pastries made with thin, flaky phyllo dough. Böreks may be prepared in a large pan and cut into portions after baking, or as individual pastries. Clearly the latter is more fun at a party, the perfect grab-&-go hors d’oeuvre.

filling station

I made two different kinds to bring to some friends’ party the other night and they were a hit. One was filled with a mixture of goat cheese and caramelized onion, the other with the classic combination of spinach and feta. Although they can be eaten at room temperature, I really prefer them warm from the oven.

feta will crumble for you

I love the salty chew of feta, it perfectly offsets the mineral quality of spinach. I added some fresh mint to this mix; a little lemon zest would also be nice.

get it together

Have you incorporated the concept of mise en place yet in your kitchen? Prepping in advance and having all your ingredients ready and handy makes cooking much more pleasant. All you need are some small bowls.

fire it up

I prepared both fillings a day ahead of time and stored them in the fridge. The process of wrapping the individual triangles is a bit time-consuming, but once you get the hang of it you can move very quickly. As you know, I love to have entertainment in the kitchen. I’m still working my way through Nip/Tuck (a nasty little habit), but I also like to listen to NPR (mostly Fresh Air) and I’m partial to TED talks.

popeye’s delight

It’s shocking how much spinach reduces down when you cook it, isn’t it? The key here is to get as much water as possible out of your cooked spinach. I find the best way is to simply wrap it up in a clean kitchen towel and squeeze the bejesus out of it.

tri-cornered treats

I made and baked about 90 of these babies in less than two hours. A little blob of filling gets folded up in a long strip of layered dough that you’ve brushed with melted butter. The folding process is exactly like the one you learned at camp for putting away the flag. Place the finished triangle on a baking sheet and brush it with more melted butter. Butter and phyllo are the perfect couple, each enhancing the other’s best qualities.

flaky, but in a good way

Pass these around, warm from the oven, at your next cocktail party. Another great thing about them is that you can make them ahead of time and keep them frozen, ready to be baked (no defrosting required) for an impromptu gathering or your own personal pleasure. Party of one. Why not?

My friend Jim has been chomping at the bit for this mushroom lasagna. I mentioned it in passing on my GFL Facebook page (Still haven’t “liked” me yet? Hustle over there and help me boost my numbers, yo!) and he started drooling and envisioning a cozy Christmas Eve gathering with this as the irresistible centerpiece. Never mind that I basically kiped the recipe from a recent article in the New York Times in which editor Sam Sifton waxed eloquent about “a gooey thrill of savory sweetness, salty astringency and the meaty pong of wild mushrooms”—a lasagna made by Monica Byrne of Brooklyn’s Home/Made. Sifton adapted her recipe for home cooks with a few shortcuts, including no-boil noodles, and I adapted it further to use what I had on hand. Living in the sticks, you can’t just run out to the corner store for a ball of smoked mozzarella or some truffle oil whenever the whim strikes. But one of the many beauties of lasagna is that it’s pretty forgiving, as long as you’re using a light touch and very fresh ingredients, whatever they may be. Personally, I’m not the biggest fan of those leaden layers with all kinds of meat and sausage and an overly seasoned tomato sauce. But this recipe eschews meat altogether in favor of radicchio (though I could definitely see adding in some pancetta or bacon), and the sauce is a garlicky béchamel. It’s a rich and creamy dish that’s pretty much exactly what you want for dinner on Christmas Eve—unless you’re making tamales. Or duck. Or paella, which is what I’ll be eating on the 24th.

the world is your oyster mushroom

I think by now we’re all pretty clear about my passion for mushrooms, wild-foraged or not. The more I learn about them, the more I want to incorporate them into my life. Still skeptical? You absolutely must listen to this TED talk by mycologist Paul Stamets. In 18 minutes, he will blow your mind with all the ways that mushrooms are literally saving the world. For the moment, have faith that they can save dinner.

the sponges of the culinary world

Mushrooms can take quite a bit of cooking. Toss them in a pan and they will release lots of liquid. The secret is to keep cooking them so that liquid evaporates, then add more—like wine or butter or olive oil or vinegar or all of the above—and watch as the mushrooms soak it all back up. They become juicy flavor bombs with caramelized edges. I added about half a teaspoon of thyme as I was sauteeing the mushrooms, and a few pinches of red pepper flakes.

cream of the crop

If you already glanced down at the recipe and started to panic because of the long list of ingredients: don’t. I didn’t use herb oil or truffle oil or smoked mozzarella or Gruyère or Fontina, and my lasagna was still incredibly good. If you’re making a special meal, you may as well go out and shop for all the right items, but a real cook (and you’re either that already, or aspiring to be that) can look at a recipe and mold it to her own tastes and pantry. I used good olive oil; gluten-free flour for the béchamel; a combination of goat and cow milks; ricotta instead of the mozzarella; and whatever odds and ends of cheese I had—some pecorino, some Parmesan and something melty, I can’t remember what. The radicchio’s sharpness is a wonderful counterpoint to all that, but I could see substituting chard or kale, if that’s all I had.

oodles of noodles

As for the pasta, I used some gluten-free no-boil noodles, and the top layer turned into something approximating a roof tile. I’m guessing that really good quality pasta would make this an extraordinary dish instead of merely a totally delicious one topped with a disposable cracker. And I recommend finishing the dish with a thin layer of sauce and plenty of cheese, to protect your top layer of pasta. By the way, if you are going to make the herb oil, the recipe is here.

I’m not sure this is a lasagna that you would find in Italy. And on Christmas Eve, real Italians are probably all eating the feast of the seven fishes. But those of us without religious and cultural constraints can freely roam the culinary landscape.

To serve alongside? A crisp and refreshing salad. Maybe escarole with a lemony dressing. Or spicy arugula tossed with marinated artichoke hearts. Or thinly sliced fennel and bits of grapefruit drizzled with almond oil. Of course some crusty bread slathered with peppery, garlic-infused olive oil. And a dazzling red wine to drink. Dessert? Dried apricots poached with ginger. Fresh pomegranates. Some little biscotti to dip in vin santo. I’m drunk on the possibilities…

My friend Andy Jacobson died on Saturday. He was only 52, and he left behind an incredible wife and two amazing teenagers. I saw it coming but I wasn’t prepared. I wanted more time with him, a chance to fix him the Brussels sprouts salad that was the subject of his last tweet to me. In response to my posting this video on the subject, he wrote: “Looks so good! Will you make them???? Pleeeeeze.” I never got around to it. Like my father, he had stomach cancer, so he might not have been able to eat it anyway. But still. I’m making it now, Andy, and I’m hoping that whoever else tries the recipe below will think of you, too. An aesthete, a mensch, a quibbler, a devoted father and husband, a loyal friend, a merry prankster. One of G’s pals from way back, and like family to us, he got himself licensed so he could perform our wedding ceremony, and he milked that crowd for laughs. The gods are surely smiling today.

photo by Sarah Shatz for Food52

The Fudehouse video pretty much says it all as far as a shaved Brussels sprout salad goes, but I’m also including a version from Merrill Stubbs of Food52. Hers uses pecorino instead of Fudehouse’s Parmesan, and red onion instead of walnuts. The point is to shave the sprouts very finely—a super-sharp knife works well if you don’t have a mandoline—and then add a pungent dressing. I like a combination of walnut and olive oils, the tartness of lemon, the bite of mustard and the tang of pecorino. But I’ve also used capers, pine nuts, olives, champagne vinegar and even mustard oil (not all at once). As with everything, once you learn the basic technique, you’re free to experiment.

I’ll miss Andy terribly and my heart feels as heavy as a knish. But I’ve learned that grieving takes place while life continues on, and sooner or later it’s time for dinner.