This is a perfect brunch party dish when served with shrimp and a poached or fried egg on each plate. Leftover grits can be used to make griddled grit cakes or saved and warmed for later.
When he’s in charge of pizza night, Saba follows a ritual: He starts the day before, making the dough from scratch, using no other flour but Tipo 00 (which is known for creating dough with a light, chewy texture). He budgets at least 12 hours for the dough to rise, and when he (and the dough!) is ready, he rolls and assembles one pizza at a time, pulling from several bowls of neatly prepared toppings, like a real pizzaiolo. Finally, he heats up his Ooni pizza oven to bake the pies. It’s a whole thing, and he is very proud of it. Needless to say, pizza night my husband’s way is not something that happens frequently. And yes, it’s special for that reason alone.
But this recipe is not that! And you might not approve of calling it “pizza,” but let’s just go with it. This is pizza night my way—lazy but delicious. It takes less than 15 minutes to assemble and does not require time for the dough to rise, nor a special oven. Made in a sheet pan, from phyllo dough and without sauce, it’s definitely not traditional. Yet the phyllo makes a light and flaky base for a simple assortment of veggies and cheeses.
Brother Pedro Alvarez, a monk in his mid-twenties from Mexico, introduced his favorite dish to the monks at Saint John’s. Brother Pedro lived in a Russian Orthodox monastery in Mexico City before relocating to central Minnesota. But this isn’t a recipe he learned at the monastery; he learned it from his grandmother.
As is the case with recipes that travel, this tinga reflects not only its Mexican origins but also its current home in Minnesota. Tinga is typically slow-cooked, shredded meat—anything from beef to pork to chicken—layered with the flavors of chiles, onions, garlic, and tomatoes. Brother Pedro replaced the chicken with wild turkey from central Minnesota. None of the monks hunt, but they do welcome the bounty donated to them from hunters in the area. The honey is the monastery’s own and gives the dish a sweetness that provides the perfect counterpoint to the chiles. Tinga is comforting in the winter and fun for a summertime barbecue, too. Brother Pedro’s advice is to “take it slowly, let the house fill with the smoky aroma. It will bring everyone to the table.”
I’ve made versions of these crispy, delicate little fried cabbage pancakes at restaurants and in my very own home, where they are a breakfast staple. I’ve often watched my mom bulk them up with canned salmon and loads of the week’s forgotten vegetables. We’d eat them over bowls of hot grits or rice. To me, they are reminiscent of okonomiyaki (loosely translated as “grilled as you like it”), a popular savory pancake from southern Japan. I like to drizzle Spicy Sorghum-Miso Mustard (page 110) over them.
This recipe began as a “serves one person” kind of thing. I had half a container of mushrooms, one onion, and one kid who had to eat before a late soccer practice. Looking for something fast that would fill her up but not weigh her down, I threw the mushrooms into a hot skillet and cooked them until they got crispy, and then scanned my fridge to figure out what might add something unexpected. Let me just say that the solution to this quandary in my house is almost always miso paste. Just a spoonful, thinned out with hot water, was all I needed to add that sweet-and-salty hit and win over my unsuspecting athlete . . . and eventually the whole family. Definitely opt for red cabbage when pickling—you’ll want its texture here. Serve these tacos with white rice that’s been tossed with lime juice and chopped cilantro.
Bún cha’ hails from North Vietnam, where the cuisine is much more understated and subtle compared to the boldness and spice of its southern counterpart. I’ve never been up north, but my cousin’s uncle lived there and treated us to bún ch’a when he came to visit. It’s fresh, savory, sweet, and herby all at the same time. Traditional bún ch’a features rice vermicelli noodles served with a vegetal broth, seasoned pork patties, and caramelized pork belly slices. My version presents you with several dining options. You can either dip the noodles in the sauce mixture, pour the sauce all over the noodles, or enjoy it as a lettuce wrap. When you choose the lettuce to use, you can use anything but iceberg—it’s too watery! I recommend seeking out Persian (mini) cucumbers because they’re seedless and add an extra crispy texture to the experience. The pork patties are best when they’re grilled, but if you don’t have easy access to a grill, you can pan-sear them instead.
We wanted to step back for a second and think about the transformation of tteokbokki over the past decade. While so much of Korean cooking got spicier and more extreme, the classic, all-day utility dish made of rice cakes, fish cakes, and fiery gochujang went . . . pink. Enter rose tteokbokki, a gentle, creamy version that has grown in popularity in Korea. Begin with frozen rice cakes. They’re better for this dish than fresh ones, which tend to break down easily and lose their shape. The key to adding flavor to the rice cakes is to simmer them gently in a light bath of salt and sugar in advance. Deuki spotted this technique at a market in Seoul and hasn’t looked back.
Another twist here is the addition of apple preserves or syrup. Layering in subtle sweetness is a good way to counter the heat of the chile paste. Some home cooks like to add ketchup, but the preference here is for apple, a more natural form of sweetness. The final step is the addition of cream, which gives the dish its namesake hue. Use as much or as little as you want, or skip the step fully if fire-engine red is your favorite shade for sautéed rice cakes
In the debate over rice or noodles, I choose noodles. Dishes like this remind me why. Noodles come in so many shapes and sizes and textures. The type of noodle can make one dish feel entirely different from another one. A big favorite is udon, a thick, extra-chewy noodle. The first time I had udon was in Japan, and it was in a noodle soup that was perfectly rich and salty. I ate it so fast. My friend the cookbook author Hetty McKinnon had a similar experience in Tokyo, and this is her ode to that life- changing udon. No exaggeration: this is one of my favorite noodle dishes I have ever cooked, and I think it might be your new favorite dinner, too.
Confession: I’ve always found potato-leek soup to be a little on the gluey side. So, when I make it at home, I try to add a green element, especially in spring months. Asparagus becomes quite subtle in this soup and pairs well with the anise-y fennel and peppery arugula in the background. Any manner of peas (sweet, sugar snap, snow) could be swapped for the asparagus. Because we are pulverizing much of the fiber in this recipe, I garnish the soup with a few raw asparagus spears as a carb companion.
This is the ultimate one-pot meal that feeds many and comforts all. By far, my favorite traditional main course. Essentially a soup made with meat (a combination of beef and pork) or seafood and root vegetables, the dish varies from home to home and town to town.
A whole book could be written about this dish, since it has been adapted and appropriated by many countries across Latin America and the Caribbean. Hence, sancocho recipes are personal, unscripted, often use locally available ingredients , and can be watered down if unexpected mouths show up.
Serving and eating sancocho is particularly personal. I go with how it was always served at my mother’s home: Once the soup is ready, the roots, corn, and meats are taken out of the broth and divided onto large platters. The broth is then strained, skimmed, and reheated to be served on the side along with lime wedges, avocado slices, white rice, and ají.
Each person gets a plate and a bowl, and they assemble their own sancocho as they wish. Some cut the roots and meats up to add back into the broth, while others eat it separately and sip the broth between bites. Whichever way you choose is fine.
Regardless, there is a lot of silverware involved.