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I was inspired by my friend Erik, who has for the past seven years been making Swedish meatballs as a holiday party snack from his heritage (can you guess from the name?). Well shoot, I thought. Everyone has some type of meatball in their family’s culture. Whether it’s a starch-bound meatloaf or a springy Vietnamese ball ‘o beef, a congealed mixture of minced meat with seasonings is an ideal application for food anywhere. So I was reminded of the Chinese Lion’s Head — which is essentially like a pork and chive dumpling without the skin.

This dish apparently skipped a generation in my family. I learned that it was something that my grandmother would always make for my mother when she came to visit her apartment growing up. If that sounds weird, it is; my grandparents were divorced, and my mom was mostly raised by my grandfather. Hence, my Chinese cooking repertoire stems from my Hunanese grandfather, by way of my mother (and her environment in Taiwan). My grandmother had lived in Shanghai for years, and Lion’s Head Meatballs is a signature of the city. But my mom never learned to make it from her, so I didn’t eat them growing up.

I can appreciate that when I’m making a small weekend breakfast, or snack before dashing out the door. The slower process really slows me down, letting me enjoy the simple act of cooking deliberately, yet not laboriously or for a long time. You have to pay attention; letting down your guard may wind you up with just scrambled eggs, which we’ve had plenty of before. But a simple change in ideal outcome makes you take notice of each step.

Top it with some flecks of grated parmesan and a twist of black pepper. It almost resembles mealy polenta, with its drooling consistency. Add any vegetable that you please for contrast (in the summer, some diced fresh tomato, perhaps). This weekend it was spinach, the warbled, wintery type that has lasted through frost but tastes sweeter in the end. This takes even less time to wilt in a pan first than the eggs.
Get some bread you really enjoy as toast, and warm it meanwhile. Smell its sugars browning on the pan as it crisps up. Then, just stir your eggs. Reduce the heat and stop if must be. Then stir some more. Stir and cook it until it almost resembles polenta (but takes much less time than cornmeal). Sure, you can poach an egg for breakfast, but a soothing change of pace is always nice.

The last time I ventured into this staple American sandwich stuffer, it was studded with piquant capers and spruced up with plenty of fresh lemon juice and herbs. But heading east from the Mediterranean, we come to a vibrant palette of flavors to awaken it also. I’m talking curries. You know–spicy, sweet, sour, salty, something. Oh it’s winter alright, but you can be in a tropical place quickly with a can of Thai green curry paste. I’m not even opposed to the yellow mustard deli standard egg salad, but I am opposed to doing the same thing every time the same way for no good reason.

Armed with cilantro to add as fresh garnish (and lots of garishly blue flowers from a bodega), I arrived at the baby shower’s venue, my friend Kara’s place. After arranging some of those flowers into vases, I settled into the kitchen to assemble the triangle-shaped bites. (Our hostess’ cat seemed to approve this decision, defiantly claiming the bags I had brought the flowers in as his makeshift bed.) Karol arrived and helped me to prepare a large stack of tuna salad tea sandwiches, which I decided to add just in case people were really hungry. She also brought a picture-perfect savory tart with sweet potatoes and goat cheese. Then Melissa came with a cardamom-spiced butternut squash soup, replete with a squirt bottle of herbed sour cream to drizzle on top. Jennie made Special K bars, a riff on Rice Krispies treats, for dessert. Those along with the other delicious offerings from friends grounded our spread in a distinctly nuanced yet traditional direction that I thought couldn’t be more fitting for our guest of honor, the baby-bloated Jordan.

Scones are a great beginner-baker’s project because its basic pastry can be re-interpreted in so many ways: as biscuits, or a crust for a chicken pot pie. At least, that’s the way I make scones–like a buttery biscuit, with any number of additions. Just get some cold butter chunks crumbled with flour and have a go at the many different directions. Leavening, like baking powder, will yield a fluffier result, while leaving this out will give you more or less pie pastry crust. If you’re making this recipe sans shredded apple (or carrot), just use milk or some other liquid to moisten the dough enough that it just comes together to form a ball. You can add raisins or better yet, gratings of orange or lemon peel and a sprinkle of sugar on the surface before baking to make a sweeter variation.
Since we were shredding things, I went with some shredded, sharp white cheddar to mix in as well. Apples and cheddar–a nice fall combo, why not? Finally, some freshly snipped rosemary from an overgrown houseplant was tossed into the dough for an herbal touch. To avoid over-mixing your dough, which will make it become tough, keep the shredded apple and beaten egg separate from the flour, butter, cheese and seasonings until the very end, when you’re ready to combine them. I picked up another trick about good pastry-making from a guest last year on Eat Your Words: Allison Kave of First Prize Pies, who encouraged letting dough rest in the fridge for a good half-hour at least before shaping or rolling out. This time will allow the moisture from the liquids to seep into the flour throughout.

Nothing against greasy or fried foods, but when you’re cooking at home, it’s often just so much easier, more intuitive, and less expensive to make the best of fresh ingredients with minimal preparation. And no, it doesn’t have to be a salad.

I wanted to use up a bunch of stray summer ingredients like bell peppers and cherry tomatoes by cooking them into a savory pot of black beans. This was eaten one night; the next day, there were more beans leftover and still more tomatoes to use up. Fortunately, salsa roja, or roasted tomato salsa, doesn’t take labor-intensive steps to make at all. You don’t even need to chop these tomatoes; you can just plop them on a pan and stick it under the broiler for 10-15 minutes to get blackened. Then you don’t even need to peel them, although you can, before transferring them to a blender or food processor. I was encouraged by Pati Jinich’s sensibility about this in her recipe for salsa roja in Pati’s Mexican Table. She doesn’t always peel the tomatoes, adding that the blackened specks will add character to the salsa. I love this lady. (Listen to Pati chat with me on Eat Your Words.)

And it happens to be one of my specialties. I love it when you can claim not just a signature dish, but a type of dish as your forte when it comes to bringing stuff to parties. I’m the salsa master, one person might say, and everyone else will back off in reverence from bringing said specialty of another. Or, I’m the soup killah so you better watch out in the winter, because you never know what I’m going to put in a pot! Okay, maybe no one’s going to challenge that place your routine when the time comes, but it’s still a matter of pride, and principle.

Most of the time, you don’t even know how such responsibilities happen. But I know precisely how this chicken salad responsibility fell into my lap. I sort of claimed it so, one time, and it just kept. I called for a picnic one day in late May or early June about six years ago, in Prospect Park. I said I was making chicken salad for sandwiches, and invited others to make their own chicken salads and we’d have plenty of freshly-baked bread to sample all of them, for fun. I called it a “Parknic” and wrote about it on this blog. Then I held another, which I wrote about as well. (In the time in between these posts, two people who had met at the first Parknic got married, and have remained my closest friends since.)

While duck is a waterfowl that certainly shares more similarities with a seahawk than a New England colonial, that’s not the reason why I chose this poultry to put in a taco. It’s because I had a whole duck that I plan to enjoy every last part of fully. I can’t recommend enough buying a whole duck (ditto for a whole chicken), because you’ll have so many delicious meals to make with it–and it’s more economical, too. With a whole duck, simply remove the breasts and sear them skin side-down one night, until golden brown on the bottom and medium-rare, like a juicy steak. It’s better than a steak, actually.

Then, remove the legs and wings, and you could either confit them in true French fashion (by letting sit in salt and herbs overnight and slowly roasting them in a pool of fat). Or you could braise them as I did with the rest of the picked-apart carcass. Yes, this taco filling recipe was made from just the scraps of meat from the back and bones that were left after the breasts, legs, thighs, and wings were removed. Even the extra pieces of skin can be cut to squares and slowly roasted to become duck skin cracklins. (They’re great for placing on your tacos as crunchy toppings, too.)

Now that it’s been chilly pretty consistently in New York City (which means, of course, no wildcard highs in the 70s for a couple weeks), it’s time to cozy up to slow-cooking routines. Stews, soups, and something-in-betweens are convenient weekend projects to feed you throughout the week. I was looking for something a little more exciting this time around, which could keep me entertained each time it would be reheated. It’d have to be less-familiar, and really flavorful. An intensely red, brothy Korean stew, or jigae, sounded right to me.

This type of dish is homestyle Korean cooking — no fancy barbecue. I’ve never made a version of this stew with chicken before, but had tried it not too long ago on an outing with friends. Instantly soothing, the milder taste of chicken (compared with seafood, kimchi, or hearty chunks of pork shoulder in other jigae) really allowed me to enjoy the rich flavor of the gochujang chili paste, and the dried red pepper flakes. This dish often includes peeled chunks of potato and carrot, which absorb all those flavors from the broth. It’s earthy and inviting, and no, it’s not knock-your-socks-off spicy, as its deep red color might suggest. (Or it doesn’t have to be unless you want it to.)

You gotta have ‘em. I wasn’t in the mood for schlepping all the way to an Asian grocery, but fortunately in New York City, there’s a Korean-owned deli or produce market in just about every neighborhood, on every block. I went into mine with this hunch, but fell short of finding the chili powder on the shelves. So I asked the lady who owned the shop if they sold Korean chili powder. “Korean chili powder? How much do you need?” she responded without missing a beat. The store didn’t sell it, but she ended up giving me a knotted plastic bag of Korean chili powder from her own stash in the basement. Even refused to allow me to pay for it. I’m not saying everyone will have this kind of luck when hunting down ingredients, but one home cook to another is a pretty good way to go. As I was leaving, she asked me what I was making with the powder and I told her jigae. Tofu? she asked. Actually, not this time.

Once you’ve secured both your Korean chili flakes and another essential ingredient, the gochujang chili paste (made with fermented bean paste and slightly sweet), it’s just chicken, and a few homely vegetables. I’ve added a small amount of chopped green pepper and scallion to this recipe, which almost melt into the dish once fully cooked. The chicken will reach that stage of falling off the bone with the slightest touch, so that you could eat the stew with only a spoon. It might seem tempting to opt for boneless cuts of chicken instead of bone-in for ease of eating, but whole, bony chicken pieces add much more flavor to the broth. I’ll let you decide which pieces of the bird to use for yours.

Heat the oil in a heavy-bottomed pot with a lid or Dutch oven. Once oil is hot, arrange the chicken pieces in the pot and let sit for 10 seconds or so before turning to lightly brown the undersides. Increase heat to encourage a gentle browning or reduce if the chicken is sticking too much. After just 1-2 minutes, the pieces should be whitish and hopefully a little golden-brown on their skins but far from cooked. Remove from pot with tongs and transfer to a dish.

Mix the gochujang chili paste with about 1/4 cup of the water until thoroughly blended and smooth.

Heat the same pan over a medium flame and add a small amount of vegetable oil if it appears very dry. Once oil is just hot, add the scallion, chopped pepper, grated garlic and ginger and cook, stirring frequently, 1-2 minutes until very fragrant. Pour the rice wine into the pan and bring to a boil while scraping the bottom of the pan to release any browned bits. Return the chicken pieces to the pan. Pour in the the water-diluted chili paste, the chili powder, and the remaining water. Bring mixture just to a boil, then reduce heat to a simmer. Drop in the potatoes and carrots, followed by a few pinches of salt, and try to ensure that all the chicken and vegetable pieces are mostly submerged in the liquid. Cover and simmer for 1 1/2 – 2 hours. Add salt to taste. Serve with or without rice.

Nevermind carving jack-o-lanterns, then! Actually, butternut squash are one winter squash variety that’s vastly recognized as food, because its meaty interior has little room for illumination. They’re easy to peel and chop into cubes, strips, or to roast whole and scoop out. This dish could be made using just about any squash, though denser varieties like this or kabocha would be optimal over stringier types like traditional pumpkin or (a no-no) spaghetti squash.

This unexpected ingredient gives a fiercely flavored dish like kung pao chicken a sweeter, softer edge. The classic version from Sichuan province gets its heat from whole, dried chilies and numbing effect from Sichuan peppercorns. The numbing-hot combination is commonly referred to as ma la and is a signature flair of the region. It can be as spicy as you like, depending on how many chilies and peppercorns you add. Even with a mild dose, though, these flavors infuse the dish for a really unique sensation.