Saute

Sangrita is actually a spicy cocktail mixer meant to be sipped alternately with shots of tequila. However, it can also make a perfect nonalcoholic option to serve at brunch or as an aperitif. Fresh citrus juice adds a bright note, while the guajillo chile and smoked paprika add earthiness (and, of course, smokiness). Caramelizing the onion instead of adding it raw mellows out the flavor and adds a touch of sweetness.

These delicate, pale-green avocado pancakes come from my former big-city life as executive pastry chef at Anthony’s, owned by Tony Vallone, one of Houston’s top restaurateurs. The recipe for these savory pancakes was shared by a sous chef there, and I fell in love with them. We served them with crab and pico de gallo. In this version, I top them with homemade crème fraîche and trout caviar, a gorgeous, orange, medium-grained roe. (It is also more reasonably priced than many caviars and sustainably raised.) Incredibly simple, the pancakes must be made at the last minute and served warm.

I’ve been making these for parties ever since I joined forces with my old friend Marianna Green. We both had little babies, and together we catered weddings, birthday parties, and more parties. I froze these two-bite nibbles by the dozen—I always had a batch on standby for last-minute events. They’re still one of my favorite party hors d’oeuvres. No fuss, no muss, no sauce needed.

The origin of the name campechana is a mystery, but just about every Texan I know loves this cool, tomatoey seafood cocktail stocked with plump chunks of ripe avocado and served with a pile of crisp tortilla chips. (I hear it is big in some parts of California, too.) I got stuck on campechana at a place run by legendary Houston restaurateur Jim Goode. He parlayed a small Texas barbecue joint into a homegrown restaurant dynasty that includes a Tex-Mex eatery and two Gulf Coast seafood spots. Campechana is incredibly versatile. As an appetizer, serve in long-stemmed glasses set on plates and surrounded with tortilla chips for dipping. Serve as a main course in a huge bowl, surrounded by chips. Offer individual bowls and let guests ladle up servings themselves. For outdoor or beachside festivities, transport in a large plastic container set in a cooler and serve in clear acrylic stemmed glasses or in disposable plastic glasses. Don’t forget plenty of chips.

I’m a longtime fan of Jeffrey Alford and Naomi Duguid, cookbook authors who produce glorious books with a journalistic approach to food writing. Their stories and stunning photographs illuminate the culture behind the food of such places as Southeast Asia and lesser-known parts of China. They’re also great fun to talk to, and when I interviewed them about their ways with fried rice (which they often make for themselves at home when one or the other is traveling), they insisted that for my own eating pleasure I make sure to always have nam pla prik in my refrigerator. This Thai condiment is simply fish sauce and chiles, which sounds like an almost lethally pungent combination, but when you make it, something magical happens. Each ingredient tames the other one, an effect that increases the longer the sauce sits in the refrigerator. This recipe is designed to use leftover rice, such as the stuff that comes in spades with Chinese takeout orders. Fresh rice doesn’t work as well because it sticks. If you don’t have a wok, you can use a nonstick skillet for this recipe, but it will take longer and won’t be as much fun.

I never liked raw spinach that much until I started eating it from my sister’s huge garden in southern Maine, where she and her husband grow almost everything they eat—a year-round endeavor, thanks to lots of canning, freezing, and the smart use of greenhouses and the like. She even brought me spinach seeds so I could start growing it in my own community garden. My garden is a tiny fraction of the size of hers, but the spinach comes out of it just as tender and sweet. This recipe barely wilts the spinach, so it still has that fresh flavor, but helps compensate for the sturdier texture of supermarket spinach, if that’s what you need to use, by softening it slightly. If you have tender garden-fresh spinach, you can feel free to let the topping cool before adding it to the spinach for a cold salad instead.

This is like a taco in soup form. It is not a traditional tortilla soup, but a black bean backdrop for a double or triple hit of corn (stock, tortillas, and fresh kernels), plus just-cooked shrimp. Like a taco, it’s hearty and satisfying without being fussy, and once you have the black bean soup base (page 52) ready and waiting, it’s a snap to put together.

Turn the Sweet Potato Soup Base into a meal with spicy chorizo, hearty chickpeas, and vibrant green kale. This makes a truly beautiful bowl of soup. If you’d rather keep this soup vegetarian, try the grain-based chorizo substitute from Field Roast, one of the first meat substitutes I’ve actually liked. It’s available in natural food stores in almost every state and through www.fieldroast.com.

Try as I might, I just couldn’t leave the bacon out of this omelet. Obviously, nothing goes better with eggs. But beyond that, bacon gives the slightly bitter chard an addictive smoky and, well, meaty flavor, while the goat cheese offsets it all with a tart creaminess. The result: a hearty, one-dish meal.

Whereas my second son was born without a volume control dial, my first son was born without an equalizer. The little one bellows and howls at the ceiling, pounds and slams on the floor. The big one rolls his eyes, giggles, and plays mind games, then lavishes you with smiles. Not surprisingly, their loves and fears and wants are nearly opposite, though not in the way you might expect. The big one, when he isn’t politicking, just wants to create elaborate dioramas of war and space travel. The little one, when he isn’t fighting, just wants to climb into your lap for a cuddle. The younger one loves to cook, the elder is a formidable epicurean. They are made from completely different machinery, as if one was crafted by a Swiss watchmaker, the other by a Tasmanian shaman. But they both love flambéed bananas with smoked salt. Cyprus hardwood smoked salt lends woody glints of bacon to the dish, while the salt’s unique massive crystals lend a perfect crunch. Either way, the dish has everything. Banana sugars caramelizing in hot butter, bourbon exploding into fire, and a globe of ice cream—the whole thing set into a smoky haze, like a carnival entering a battlefield.

We use Benton’s bacon, the meatiest, smokiest bacon around, in our plugs. If you have the Momofuku cookbook, you know the wonders and glories of Allan Benton, the man behind the smoky cured pork down in Madisonville, Tennessee. His product reigns supreme in punch-you-in-the-face bacon flavor. When he answers the phone himself to take your order, you know you are getting a handmade, superior product from a man who loves his art and keeps it simple—even though he has orders from all over the country to fill that day, many from big-name chefs and restaurants in NYC and beyond. I have been known to swap cookies for moonshine with this adorable man—both of us feeling like we’ve made out like bandits.

I love caramelized onions. I make them constantly at home and put them in everything from sandwiches to nachos piled high to scrambled eggs. They add a roasted depth of flavor and an unbelievable sweetness.

You can find ground bean sauce, a gloopy paste of fermented soybeans, salt, sugar, and sesame oil, in Asian grocery stores or order a jar online.

Ajvar is a red pepper spread found in some European and Middle Eastern grocery stores.