I do recall feeling excited as I stared out the backseat window in absolute awe. The hills ahead gradually began to swell into something larger, while the Koralpe mountain range loomed in the distance. As the road narrowed and we began the 25-kilometer ascent, I thought I could just about make out the first vineyards up ahead. The beginning of the Styrian Wine Road.

As we approached the summit of our climb, everything opened to reveal a dramatic sea of rolling, green hills capped by forested ridges. This portion of the road was also the physical border between Austria and Slovenia. I thought it was cool to travel along a road separating two countries by a farmer’s fence. Some refer to this area as the Styrian Tuscany. That’s easy to understand, but I think these regions deserve their own identity.

There were more bicycles on the road now, forcing us to slow our pace. That was fortunate. I was able to catch a glimpse of a Klapotetz (a traditional wooden windmill used to scare away birds, as I later discovered). Authentic.

The slopes were steep. I wondered how those tractors working in the fields kept from sliding off. The vineyards filled my eyes in every direction I looked. And nestled within them were Buschenschank taverns...our intended destination.

We came here mostly for the wine. Sauvignon Blanc...the crown jewel of Steiermark. But also Morillon, a distinctive Chardonnay rich in minerality and acids. The food seemed less promising because I knew it would mainly be platters of meats and cheeses. But once I made my way toward the picnic tables and sun sails and spotted the sign offering a tomato salad, I started to feel different about this experience.

This was not a restaurant or a tavern. It was more of a working farmhouse where a family lived, and workers came to grow and harvest things. And every Friday, Saturday, and Sunday during the summer and early Autumn, tables were put out, shade was organized, and both wine and food were on offer to anyone passing by...but only according to a centuries-old regulation that aims to prevent commercialization and ensure a direct, local connection to farming. This is the Buschenschank experience—a tradition that allows local wine producers to serve their own wines and simple cold foods made with products from their farm or neighboring farms. This is an authentic experience that puts the table right in the farm.

We ordered our wine. Delicious. Context was a main ingredient in these wines, but the fresh acidity was also welcome on this hot day. Our food arrived next. A colorful plate of red and yellow tomatoes adorned with fruity olive oil (from relatives in South Tirol, we were told), snipped basil from a plant a few meters away, and nuts. Another platter arrived, this one with slow-roasted beetroot, pumpkin seeds, and walnuts all sitting atop a kind of white cabbage. Large strands of freshly grated horseradish fell from the grater like cheese. The sharp and sweet aromas intermingled with the essence of the farm, chasing away the curious flies that started to gather. A large loaf of warm bread arrived on a cutting board—an obvious suggestion that the slicing would be our task.

Small bowls of bean salad followed the platters and bread. The beans were Styrian Käferbohne, large, dark beans with blotches of pink. The rest of the salad consisted of sliced green onions, more tomatoes, and horseradish. It was tossed with pumpkin seed oil (the world’s finest, according to me and those who know such things). The smooth creamy texture, and delicate nutty flavor of the beans paired beautifully with the sweet tomatoes, onions, sharp horseradish, and the boldness of the earthy pumpkin seed oil...and dare I say, it was a rich and buttery sensation I hope to never forget.

None of these offerings was plated to impress. The tomatoes were simply sliced, the beans spooned into a bowl with a few chopped ruby-colored tomatoes and sliced green onions, the bread left whole for us to tear at. There were no distracting garnishes strategically placed using tweezers. Everything was meant to be eaten, nothing traveled far, and nothing would be wasted. It was some of the most gratifying food I’ve relished...precisely because no one tried to make it more than it was.

Later, as we were driving back toward Graz, feeling full and a bit sun-drunk, I kept circling back to a thought. Everything we had eaten would, by most people’s reckoning, be called peasant food. It was simple, inexpensive, and charmingly rural. But something was nagging me. I couldn’t work out why that word ‘peasant’ felt misplaced...as if praising and patronizing the food in the same breath.

Diana Henry puts her finger on it in her book Around the Table. She’s right, and there’s a quiet irony in it. We’ve taken the food born out of thrift and necessity and set it on a pedestal. It’s a compliment that arrives with a wink and a faint glance at the ground.

It seemed to me that the cooks who made our lunch weren’t simply making do. The horseradish was grated to order—occupying the same status as freshly grated white truffle. Perfectly ripe, fresh Käferbohne was the only option that could sit in the same bowl as the other ingredients—a sort of freshness pact that only those who grew them could understand. Even the pumpkin oil, made on the farm last autumn from the famous Steirischer Ölkürbis, stood alone as the sole option that could place an exclamation point on a dish no one else could produce. All of this was no accident. It wasn’t built from a place of thrift or necessity; it was knowledge...held onto and handed down through generations.

What’s special about the Buschenschank experience is that it’s unremarkable yet memorable in its simplicity. Everything about the experience felt generous and inclusive. It was an honest celebration without the need for labels.

Which brings me back home, and to a bowl of three Semmelknödel.

These bread dumplings belong to the same world as that rustic Buschenschank table. We visited in summer, but I’m told that just after the wine harvest, when the work eases, and the smell of fermenting grapes fills the air, these places hold a celebration. Workers and customers share the same table...and the Knödel platters come out.

It’s a humble offering made from leftover bread, an onion, and whatever greens and herbs are on hand. Sometimes it’s just that, bound together and poached. Other times, bits of smoky meat or cheese are included. But the point is the same, this is a dish specifically born from leftover bread, just as Diana Henry stated.

Those were the memory threads I carried back from the Buschenschank. Not a recipe, exactly...more a way of seeing and thinking. Nothing was wasted. No apologies for simplicity were necessary. It was simply allowing excellent ingredients to shine... things that were always nearby yet easily forgotten. I thought...this is me...this is how I want to cook at home.

My version of Semmelknödel is how it landed in the real world.

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Semmelknödel

The version I make leaves out the egg that usually binds it. But the spirit and flavors are unchanged: yesterday’s bread becomes a dish worth setting in front of anyone. It’s a dish deserving praise, not a label. It’s the kind anyone would be glad to make.

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“You need to try the fully vegan caponata toastie down the street,” suggested George as we walked through town on the way to Cowes pier.

“Should I, really? George, we had a late breakfast an hour ago.”

“You should.”

G’Day Tiger is a small coffee shop that also sells ‘toasties’ for lunch—a kind of grilled sandwich that’s pressed; something akin to the American grilled cheese sandwich. It has a few indoor dining options, although this was one of those locations that relied more on take-away orders placed through the open window on the sidewalk.

“What does fully vegan actually mean, George? Isn’t caponata always vegan?”

“They say that to indicate everything in the sandwich excludes any animal product, and they cook the sandwich on a grill exclusively used for their vegan sandwiches.”

Still feeling skeptical and slightly haughty about my knowledge and experience with caponata, I asked, “You know, George, caponata is not really a sandwich thing. It’s more of a dip in Sicily.”

“Hmm... It is today,” George replied as our toasties arrived at the window.

I was still feeling a sense of what-do-Australians-know-about-caponata as we sat at one of the sidewalk tables. I peered quickly at the sandwich, expecting to see large chunks of olive burst out of the sandwich as a cloud of vinegar made its way to my nose.

That didn’t happen. “Actually, this looks pretty good,” I confessed. The bread was golden. The filling was generous. Instantly, I forgot I wasn’t actually hungry.

“It does look good, and it is...trust me.”

“I never trust people who say that.”

“You’ll trust me in about four seconds,” replied George as he took a large bite of his portion.

As I also bit into mine, I paused as if I was bracing before delivering the verdict.

“Well?” George asked.

My pause lingered, suspended in thought. “...no olives,” I finally uttered.

“There are no olives. There should be olives. There are no olives.”

“And?”

“And there’s chili.”

“Indeed.”

“There’s chili in this caponata.”

I took another bite. The sweet and sour was there, lifted slightly by the chili heat rather than squashed by too many olives. It felt balanced. The eggplant was creamy instead of chunky...a texture landing between a spread and a stew.

“This is...” I started.

“Quite good?”

“Yes,” I said. “Actually, it’s better than quite good. It might be one of the best sandwiches I’ve ever eaten.”

George took an enormous bite of his own. He smiled, and with the smugness of a fifteen-year-old, he simply said, “I told you.”

“Huh, a caponata toastie on Phillip Island,” I said. “That’s a surprise.”

Here’s the thing about caponata that I should have remembered while standing on that sidewalk feeling snobbish. There’s no right way to make it, and there never was. It’s a rustic dish that came together differently in every Sicilian kitchen. Its regional evolution was largely dependent on what came from the garden and what the family could afford.

The soul of the dish is all about eggplant, onion, and tomato. I tasted one near Marsala that leaned into the tomato with a distinct North African bias. I’ve read about those from around Palermo that are drier and sharper. There are variations with chocolate, some with toasted breadcrumbs, and others with pine nuts and raisins.

Even the name “caponata” causes confusion...a fish in one version, a Catalan word in another. A recipe like this doesn’t come with a rule book. It’s more of a vague set of directions that might list suggested ingredients with a few instructions. But the implications are clear—everything is just an opinion.

Which means the version I enjoyed with George on Phillip Island wasn’t wrong for leaving out the olives or adding the chili heat. It was just a different opinion, born from a path I hadn’t walked yet. I like that thought—it frees me from the burden a recipe sometimes causes me. I began to wonder how I would interpret caponata when I got home. Clearly, the influence from G’Day Tiger would guide me. My hands and cooking sense would do the rest.

I studied the ingredients in my caponata recipe from years ago—a dish I was never satisfied with... and, honestly, it wasn’t very popular with those who sampled it. The ingredient list had a complete cast: eggplant, red onion, sweet pepper, large green olives, capers, tomato paste, red wine vinegar, sugar, seasoning, and a note to garnish with chopped pistachio nuts. Nevertheless, something didn’t work.

I closed my eyes for a minute, trying to picture how that recipe looked and tasted. Too chunky. The olives and capers dominated. The sweet-sour experience was too punchy. It felt greasy. These were the issues I needed to fix. And now I felt more at ease with the idea of caponata as a rustic creation, accepting of different interpretations.

I began with the eggplant. Previously, I used a pear-shaped, dark purple Italian variety. They are similar to the common globe eggplant found in most supermarkets. The Italian eggplant is, by all accounts, the one to use when making caponata. And the first step is to fry the eggplant cubes in olive oil until softened and slightly golden.

It was time for me to throw traditions out the window and to trust my instincts. Changing the eggplant variety and the cooking method felt right...it felt modern.

I decided to use a round, violet eggplant with an intensely white interior. And I chose not to fry them. Instead, I roasted cubes in a hot oven, which allowed me to use far less oil. I also knew this variety of eggplant could easily be mashed into a creamy consistency once cooked.

My next step was to draw a big squiggly black mark through the olives. I really liked the caponata I had in Australia without the buzzkill of olives. So, out they went.

I then tackled the sweet-sour vibe. I cut back on the vinegar and sugar amounts by almost one-half. I also mixed the vinegars, using both red wine vinegar and a lighter apple balsamic vinegar. The sweet-sour in the caponata remained, but my newer version didn’t cause any sort of rapid, involuntary pucker.

Two additions made it into my new variation. The pistachio nuts felt indulgent and without purpose in my original recipe. So, I added ground roasted almonds instead to balance the eggplant, pepper, and tomatoes by enhancing richness and textural depth...and taming the sense of acidity. In a nod to the version I enjoyed so much in Australia, I added dried chili flakes to cut through any lingering fat from the cooked eggplant, and to elevate the fresh notes of tomatoes and peppers...but not too much heat...just enough to tickle the throat.

Mission accomplished. This new variation became the version of caponata I wanted to eat. The one I wanted to use between two slices of toasted bread. The one that took me back to the warm beach feeling of Phillip Island, and George confidently saying, “I told you.”

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Caponata

If you’d like to make the version I landed on, the full recipe is waiting for paid subscribers...roasted eggplant, sweet peppers, a little chili, and the ground almonds that hold it all together. It makes enough for a few toasties, though it’s just as happy on its own with good bread alongside.

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My OCD-self stubbornly uses a calendar to organize my daily tasks to the nth degree, track progress toward my long-term goals, manage self-imposed deadlines, and, hopefully, avoid missing planned activities with friends. I’m not always successful, but the effort is there.

But a calendar in the kitchen feels out of place. It implies strict adherence to seasonality, and nature doesn’t function consistently from year to year. Consider asparagus. These lovely spears generally emerge from their underground world in Central Europe sometime in mid-spring. The time is not defined because there are too many variables. It is simply impossible to say, “Oh, it’s March...I should roast some asparagus.” Nevertheless, I know I can walk into my local supermarket on March 2nd and find a prominent display of asparagus at the front of the fresh food section. They will be there, right next to the out-of-season strawberries.

I may crave something Spring-like to wash away the stains of winter, but I know something doesn’t feel right when I cook to the supermarket’s schedule. The flavors won’t be fully developed. The nutrients will be lost. And by the time local asparagus season arrives in late March or early April, I will be tired of them and ready for ratatouille vegetables.

So, I wait...and pay attention to what’s in my kitchen now, what’s beginning to appear at the local farmer’s market, and what’s emerging from the thawed earth. These signals feel more reliable than what the calendar suggests.

I open the bottom drawer in my pantry to take an inventory. I have potatoes—the kind that hold their shape when cooked. Hmm...I’d better do something with them; they are showing signs of sprouting. The white onions, too, I can see dark layers beginning to form under their thin skins—a sure sign of fast approaching mold. The yellow Spanish onions look fine...they can hang out for a few more days. The garlic bulbs look okay, but I can feel some of the cloves turning soft. It’s definitely time to use them.

I know I can use these key ingredients in many different soups. Vichyssoise. Tamatar Dal. Ribollita. Chowder. Hold on... Didn’t I spot some early Italian sweet peas at the market yesterday? And didn’t I see the year’s first wild garlic pushing through a layer of dead leaves while walking along the river yesterday? Suddenly, a bowl of my spring pea and wild garlic chowder sounds like a suitable match to the unexpected warm sunshine.

I made my way through the farmer’s market and toward my favorite vendor, who specializes in bringing the latest Italian products to my more northerly location. My mind was on those fresh peas, maybe even some washed wild garlic, which would save me the trouble of foraging. As I began my mental inventory to stimulate my mind into thinking what I might make next week, I noticed how wonderful the artichokes looked. I noticed Citron, lemons from Sorrento, three different blood orange varieties, and...and in a crate, soaking in lemon water, was puntarelle.

Puntarelle...right there next to the last of the season’s blood oranges.

Puntarelle (the plural form is more commonly used) is the shoot of a specific variety of chicory (Catalogna) that forms a dense cluster of hollow, pale green spears at the heart of the plant. It belongs to the broader chicory family, which means it carries that characteristic bitter edge, though the spears are more delicate and less aggressive than relatives like radicchio or endive. The texture is crisp and watery when raw, almost like a cross between celery and fennel, and it softens only slightly when soaked in cold water. It’s a resolutely Italian ingredient, most closely associated with Roman cuisine. Its seasonal window is genuinely open for two or three weeks in late winter to early spring before the plant bolts and the spears lose their tenderness. Miss it, and you wait another year...and that kind of seasonal urgency becomes part of its character.

The idea came to me instantly...why not combine the oranges with the puntarelle? I could add some sliced fennel...and toss everything with a Verjus vinaigrette, which leans closer to a sweet-sour-spicy pickling liquid. I could feel my mouth watering. “Posso avere 500 grammi di puntarelle, per favore… e poi, quattro arance tarocco?” I suddenly asked in my somewhat broken Italian. “Ma, sicuramente,” came the answer, and suddenly, I was off with a full bag of fresh produce.

The time between seasons is full of surprises and inspiration, but patience must be part of the ingredient list. A calendar is not an accurate tool for deciding what to cook. Our eyes perform that task far better if we can remember that the season doesn’t need chasing. It needs receiving.

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Spring Pea and Wild Garlic Chowder

I like to prepare extra-vibrant, explosively tasty soups to celebrate the increasingly warmer days, using whatever the season offers. During the early days of Spring, plenty of wild garlic, fresh peas, and new potatoes are available. They blend into a vibrant green soup with subtle textural contrasts and a gentle punch of wild garlic flavor — potent enough, legend has it, to rouse a bear from hibernation.

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Puntarelle and Shaved Fennel Salad

Puntarelle and shaved fennel salad is a wonderful Italian combination appearing in late winter. The dish pairs the crunchy, slightly bitter shoots of puntarelle (think chicory) with thinly sliced, crisp fennel. I chose to intertwine seasonal citrus flavors, salt-cured capers, and chopped pistachio nuts to push this salad toward Sicilian flavors. The salad is dressed with a tangy, sweet-sour vinaigrette that complements the salty, slightly bitter aromatic ingredients.

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I remember working in my professional kitchen loft fifteen years ago, trying to make tofu interesting. I was preparing for a course on vegan cooking during this early stage in my vegan journey. It was a period I look back on with a mixture of fondness and mild horror.

I had limited experience with tofu, but I was convinced that a good dose of teriyaki would do the heavy lifting, and I would create an amazing dish. I reached for the soy sauce, a sweetener, mirin, a splash of sake, a pinch of chili pepper, and, inexplicably, more salt for seasoning (I was obviously in default chef mode).

I marinated the tofu pieces, then pan-fried them. Once cooked, I added the marinade to the pan and reduced it to a glaze that clung to the tofu the way I remember teriyaki sauce was supposed to. I tasted my creation and immediately thought, “Something has gone very wrong.”

The hit of salt on my palate was aggressive and overwhelming. The sweetness amplified the salty attack rather than balancing the tastes. It was a cloying, one-two punch that left my palate confused and offended. The pan-fried tofu deserved better... and I felt deflated. I did everything my instincts and knowledge taught me, and they let me down.

(Lab Note: What eventually fixed my tofu teriyaki creation was embarrassingly simple in hindsight. I pulled back the soy and sweetener amounts, and added a splash of Chinese black vinegar—an idea I picked up from making a gyoza dipping sauce. The acid pierced through the sauce, lifting it to new heights. Suddenly, the dish had a depth and coherence completely lacking before. What I didn’t realize until much later was that I stumbled into my first real encounter with umami synergy—balancing glutamate-rich ingredients with something that could amplify rather than compete with them. I arrived at the right answer before I understood the question, which is, I suppose, one way to learn.)

I’m sharing this story because that dish, and the specific way it failed, planted a question I’ve been quietly working on ever since: why do some combinations of umami-rich ingredients produce something flat and unbalanced, while others produce something that tastes complete?

I don’t think the issues I had with my teriyaki tofu dish were unique. I think these issues continue to plague cooks in kitchens everywhere. The word ‘umami’ feels like the problem, instead of the answer. I see it everywhere. It’s on menus, packaging, short blurbs on social media platforms, and increasingly, in articles I read from trusted food writers. It seems umami has become a sophisticated synonym for tasty...a word trying to explain everything, without explaining anything.

BUZZWORDS AND THE BACKSTORY

Umami hit the western culinary scene yelling, but somewhere along the way, it stopped being a useful concept and became a marketing term...or perhaps worse, an excuse.

I understand how it happened. Plant-based cooking always had a reputation for being bland. Poorly dressed salads, flavorless slabs of soft tofu, dry and insipid brown rice, and endless offerings of roasted frozen vegetables created a style of food that was difficult to defend.

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As I stood over the pot and gazed into the bubbling, reddish-brown chickpea stew, I knew—I just knew—something wasn’t right. It smelled the part. It looked like something I’ve enjoyed thousands of times. But deep in the back of my mind, where echoes of my mother could be heard, a muffled voice kept trying to tell me the secret I had missed.

“It’s just a simple stew. Why are you making such a fuss?” These were the words I uttered, and I wasn’t sure if it was me or my mother’s spirit speaking.

To a Moroccan Jewish mother, simple is a loaded word. It’s used to disguise forty years of intuition, create an ongoing defense against the Evil Eye, and to ensure that even if I followed her instructions precisely, her version would always remain the better one. It took me years to understand that her silence on certain steps was a shield, protecting the magic I was trying to capture.

When I was much younger, and my mother was alive, I often sat on a stool in our kitchen just to watch her prepare a meal. She didn’t use measuring spoons or scales; she relied on her fingers to determine the amounts. She didn’t use a timer; she used her eyes to see if the spices looked right, and her ears to know when the onions sounded right.

I rarely took notes, but occasionally I wrote down ingredients and techniques in my own jumbled way. Years later, when I tried to re-create some of my favorites, I realized she didn’t really tell me everything. Every recipe had a glaring hole...something I may have missed, but more than likely, it was something she intentionally left out.

At first, I thought she was distracted that day. Now, I realize something completely unexpected—she gave me a gift. She wasn’t teaching me how to make her version of Pois chiches; she was forcing me to find my way and create my own.

Cooking with the N’fous

There is an ancient concept in Moroccan culture called N’fous. It literally means the “breath” or soul of the cook. It is the belief that flavor doesn’t come from the spice jar, but from the spirit of the person stirring the pot.

It is, I believe, why my mother glared at me with a mixture of pity and confusion whenever I asked for specific measurements. I was on the receiving end of this same glare whenever I asked the same of her sisters...and even once from my grandmother. From their perspective, a measuring spoon was a barrier to intuition.

Sometimes, while cooking, my mother would suddenly blurt out that the dish needed El Baraka—or something similar in her dialect, which means a blessing that arrives only when a person begins to feel. It’s like this...You don’t add salt because a book says “one teaspoon”; you add it because the food asks for it. In my mother’s kitchen, excellence wasn’t about precision; it was about having a conversation with the ingredients.

I’ve found these same concepts throughout the Mediterranean—always with the chefs I consider my mentors—which tells me my mother wasn’t being difficult. She was, in essence, passing on a universal truth about cooking that I experienced in my professional life. I fondly recall how Angelo would scream from across the kitchen to add more salt to the risotto I was preparing before he even tasted it. Then there was Peter, who was constantly harping about using all the senses—reminding me that we taste with our ears, smell with our tongues, and see with our hands. I can also hear Ugo as he taught me how to look at hazelnuts gently toasting in a pan and know they were done simply by the scent of their invisible steam.

The Gift of Strategic Sabotage

As I stared into the chickpea stew I just made, I realized there was a more tactical side to my mother’s culinary vagueness. The forgotten steps weren’t accidents. By leaving out crucial information—like exactly when to add the garlic or how long to bloom the spices—she was forcing me to move on from being a “recipe follower” and becoming a creator of flavor.

This gift of strategic sabotage was the same form of tough-love apprenticeship she (and her 9 sisters) received from their mother. It made them... and eventually me... better cooks. If she had given me the detailed, 100% version, I would never have developed my palate or my unique ways. By giving me 90%, she gave me the freedom to discover the final 10% on my own. It’s a wonderful gift of culinary autonomy...she didn’t give me a stew, she gave me the ability to fix one.

Intentional omissions weren’t exclusively a teaching tool. These acts were also a spiritual security system. I’ve learned that, in an authentic Moroccan kitchen, being too helpful with a recipe becomes an invitation for bad luck to show up.

Keeping the Evil Eye at Bay

Perfection is a dangerous thing in Morocco. It invites the Ayin Hara—the Evil Eye. It’s an invitation for envy and a creator of a competitive spirit. If my mother shared one of her perfect recipes, she wouldn’t have simply given away a family secret—she would be practically begging the universe to come along and knock the pot over.

Leaving out a step or an ingredient was a way to build a kind of spiritual insurance policy. A recipe with a flaw was a recipe that stayed safe. If the neighbor’s version—or even one of her sister’s—didn’t taste as good, it wouldn’t be because my mother was stingy about sharing. She knew it was because they didn’t have her touch. She won. And the universe remained in balance.

The Inherited Glitch

I used to laugh at these superstitions until I caught myself doing it. In my own cooking courses, I found myself using intentionally vague terms. “About that much,” I’d say when a student asked how much salt to add. “Keep grating the nutmeg until you can smell it,” when another asked for a measurement. “Until it’s done,” my personal favorite, is what I say whenever someone asks for a precise cooking time.

These weren’t conscious lies...they were more like reflexes. I was also protecting the magic. I was gatekeeping my intellectual property, just as my relatives in Casablanca had for generations. I realized then that we don’t just inherit family recipes; we inherit the glitches that keep them special.

As I stared back into my pot, the chickpea stew suddenly had clarity... and a soul. It had my unique twists, stemming from years of attempting to fill the gaps my mother intentionally left for me.

The Beauty of the “Almost”

But that clarity came with a realization about what we’ve lost. We now live in an age of digital precision. We want every dish to look like that photo or 30-second video we saw somewhere online. It’s exact and lacking soul. It’s as if we want our flavors to be replicated by a machine, consistent and always perfect.

But I see more beauty in the almost. The fact that my chickpea stew will never taste exactly like hers isn’t a failure—it’s the point. That missing cumin, hint of preserved lemon, and that timely sprinkle of salt shall remain out of sight. These glitches are where the memories live. It’s worth remembering, excellence isn’t found in a perfect replica... It’s found in the soul-filled attempts we make to create our own unique variation.

Moroccan-Style Chickpea Stew (as my Mother might have written it, and mostly intact)

Enough for a small family

Ingredients

• Cooked Chickpeas with some of the cooking water

• Garlic

• Bay Leaves

• Lemon

• Salt

• Oil

• Paprika

• Cayenne Pepper

• Cumin

Method

1. Put the chickpeas and cooking water in a pot. Bring to a boil.

2. Add garlic, bay leaves, lemon, and salt.

3. Heat the oil and add paprika and cayenne. Cook.

4. Add cumin to chickpeas. Add spices and oil. Continue to cook until thickened.

The Casablanca Clause...

Please read carefully before making the recipe.

By attempting this recipe, you (the Reader) acknowledge that you are entering into a sacred, albeit slightly deceptive, contract with my Moroccan mother’s legacy. While the ingredients listed above are technically accurate, I cannot guarantee the final result will taste exactly like the original.

Please be advised of the following:

• The Sabotage Warranty: If your stew lacks a certain je ne sais quoi, please assume I have chosen to honor the Moroccan tradition of ‘The Omission.’ Somewhere between the chickpeas and cumin, a vital secret has been withheld to protect my family’s honor. If your version tastes better than hers, I have failed her; if it tastes worse, she has succeeded in training me.

• The ‘Ayin Hara’ (Evil Eye) Protection: This recipe is intentionally written with 78% perfection. The remaining 22% of ‘flaw’ is included for your safety... remember, a perfect dish invites envy... slightly off results invite peace of mind. If it’s too spicy, consider it a spiritual insurance policy.

• The Casablanca Vibe Variable: This recipe was designed to be prepared while multitasking—ideally while debating with a first cousin, drinking tea with a neighbor, and keeping one eye on the clock. If you follow her vague instructions with too much quiet focus, the flavor may become too clinical. Please add a pinch of chaos for authenticity.

• Final Result: If, after all of your effort, the dish is still missing something, do not call or write me. Look at your spice drawer and ask yourself, ‘What would a woman who survived a world war in the Casablanca heat while catering to a stubborn Irish husband do right now?’ The answer is usually add more cumin, a pinch of salt, or a dash of lemon. But she’ll never tell you which.

Spicy Moroccan-Style Chickpea Stew (as I’ve developed it...mostly)

My mother’s version was a masterpiece of intuition, but it was also a riddle designed to keep me guessing. For years, I chased that elusive “Casablanca soul” in my own kitchen, stumbling through the gaps she intentionally left behind.

In this version—the one I’ve finally written down in full—I’m breaking the terms of the “Casablanca Clause“. My version is a simple, foolproof method that ensures your dish is spicy, tasty, nourishing, and satisfying. It will also beg for a few slices of bread to soak up the liquid.

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I’ve been quietly working behind the scenes over the past 12 months to develop ideas, principles, and techniques... in short, a comprehensive guide to vegan cooking. This is not about recipes; it’s about understanding how to build flavor, how to construct your own recipes, and how to build confidence to convert existing recipes.

What is The Lab?

Like any lab environment, this is the place where I test hypotheses, endure failures, and enjoy successes. It is my personal workbench, packed with kitchen equipment, ingredients, and my notepad. It’s where I share the raw results. It’s my breeding ground for my evolving book project.

This is not a serialized book where I share finished chapters. Instead, I’m sharing the birth—the lab reports and blueprints that will eventually form the foundation of my published work.

What You Can Expect

I’m expanding VeganWeekly to ensure I’m providing a consistent stream of inspiration, education, and opinion essays.

My new focus will include:

• 2x Per Month | The Vegan Lab: I will release a new “Element” or “Lab Report” that is a deep dive into technical mastery, covering topics like “How to Build Flavor” and “Beyond the Shell,” my investigation into egg-free cooking.

• 2x Per Month | Feature Recipes: I will continue to provide the seasonal, high-quality vegan recipes you already love.

• Occasional | My Junk Drawer: I will offer roughly 3-4 opinion essays throughout the year that will touch on topics of interest to anyone interested in a vegan lifestyle.

How to Join or Opt Out

This new feature is automatic for all paid subscribers. Free subscribers will have a short preview of articles appearing in this section.

Users can easily choose which elements of my publication they want to view. You can visit the Support Page for instructions.

Why I’m Doing This

I have a burning passion to share tasty, healthy food that happens to be vegan.

I also want my work published and shared widely, a goal I’ve been working toward for a few years. I shall continue that pursuit.

In the meantime, I want to figure out new ways to share my passion that go beyond marketing shortcuts, social media buzzwords, and trends that have become pervasive in today’s vegan world. I want to take apart recipes and ideas to expose every element, then analyze what can stay and what must go. I want to document how I use tools like Shio Koji to unlock new flavors, or how I layer concentrated funk to create a kind of richness in food that leaves a bit of saliva dripping down the chin.

This kind of work is much more fun when others are present. I welcome everyone to join me in the Lab to become a peer reviewer of my work...to get a first look at how I develop techniques and recipes, and understand what I do when a dish feels flat or off.

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My first Lab Report—a deep dive into how I build umami sensations—will arrive in inboxes soon. While you’re waiting, I popped my favorite cookie recipe out of the jar I hid behind the paywall...so go ahead, grab one and give it a try!

I hope to see you at the workbench.

Jack

The joy of the holidays has ended. The reality of snow falling gently onto the frozen sidewalks seemed unusually loud. Each unique snowflake screamed, as if I needed a reminder that winter’s grip would be upon my shoulder for another couple of months.

I shivered in my otherwise warm kitchen. The view outside crushed my enthusiasm. On my work table, a wilted bunch of fresh cima di rapa looked up at me with contempt, as if wondering why I had absent-mindedly left it out last night.

The beginning of January—for me, that is usually January 6^th—is a stark contrast to the period between Christmas and New Year’s when I take a long, deep breath and prepare to launch myself with renewed vigor into the new year. Until...

Until the cold reality of the 6^th of January arrives, and my enthusiasm is replaced by the quiet recognition of early winter. The first hint of Spring’s wild garlic emerging from the thawing soil feels a long way off. I closed my eyes and tried to shake the dreariness from my bones. I looked—again—at the wilting greens on the table and decided I needed a hot bath.

The bath I was thinking about was not the soak-in-the-tub kind. Instead, I thought of that funky, briny kind of bath called bagna càuda from the region of Piemonte.

Bagna Càuda literally translates to ‘hot bath.’ It’s a rustic dish that’s traditionally served during the post-harvest celebration. The dip is made from an emulsion of olive oil, far more garlic than should be permitted, and plenty of salt-cured anchovies. Everything slowly melts into one another and creates a savory creaminess that’s both alarming—even offensive, and also addictive. I like to describe it as the culinary equivalent of a blazing fireplace that feels too dry and overbearing, yet somehow comforting. Once tasted, it’s easy to imagine this dip was specifically designed to push back against the damp, gray chill of a foggy Piemontese December.

The first time I prepared Bagna Càuda was in my small Alba apartment. The aromas filled the room, wrapping themselves around me like a warm embrace from a friend I haven’t seen in a long time. It wasn’t just the garlic overload; there were fragments of a salty ocean hanging in the air despite being 100 kilometers from the Mediterranean Sea. And something else...something ancient, like ghosts of garum savoriness permeating the dip.

The scant list of ingredients suggests a strong garlic-fish sensation, which was certainly the case. But the slow cooking softens the harshness, and the actual taste transforms into a velvety explosion of salt and savory... pushing it well beyond umami. Bagna càuda is intended to be borderline offensive. It is so bold, in fact, it easily tames the peppery crunch of a cabbage leaf. And this kind of boldness is exactly what I crave as a psychological shield against the winter blues.

Most food historians agree that winemakers and farmers served Bagna Càuda to celebrate the end of the grape harvest. The saltiness, no doubt, created enough thirst for people to drink the new wine amongst friends and neighbors in what must have been joyous celebrations. It is a dish unique to Piemonte that has become a cultural anchor to the region’s sense of resilience and community spirit. Its popularity is tied to its reputation as a hard-earned reward, a defiant dish for the working class—something belonging entirely to them that resisted aristocratic refinement, and a dish that could only be eaten with trusted friends or family.

I didn’t have a fujot (a small terracotta warmer) to serve my first Bagna Càuda, so I left it in the small pot and placed it in the center of our small wooden table, which occupied most of the kitchen space. The six of us sat down with platters of cardoons, radicchio, fennel, cauliflower, and plenty of crusty bread. We shared several bottles of Barbera, and we laughed. We licked our fingers to ensure any stray drips would be sopped up at once. It was a simple meal, but I knew my first bagna càuda experience would permanently scar my food memories...in a good way.

The memories of that evening raced through my mind as I considered how to create the same sort of dish that would honor its soul, even without anchovies. I wasn’t trying to disguise their absence. Instead, I wanted to recreate the reason they were there in the first place.

I sat at my table and began making notes:

1. How could I replace the taste of anchovies?

2. How was I going to impart a fish sense to my dip that would have a salty characteristic and a briny funkiness?

3. How would I prepare the dish? The traditional method of slow-cooking the three ingredients over a low heat works well to dissolve anchovies and emulsify the ingredients. Without anchovies, how could I emulsify my ingredients to create a velvety texture that isn’t too fine?

Slowly, my strategy began to emerge. I’ve used salt-cured capers to replace anchovies in my Caesar Salad recipe. It worked well, so that became my starting point. Salt-cured capers have a brininess...and they are certainly salty. But capers obviously lack a fishiness...or that essence of the sea, so I needed something else.

Sea greens add the essence of the sea and a good dose of natural MSG. But sea greens work best when simmered in a liquid, like kombu in Japanese dashi, because most people only have access to dried seaweed. Nori sheets seemed like an obvious exception. Although their flavor is mild, they dissolve easily and are widely available.

The first few attempts were okay, but the sauce lacked something in the flavor and texture. It needed more punch...more boldness...more balance.

I experimented further, deciding to use a teaspoon of dehydrated black olives¹ from my refrigerator, which I sensed might be bold enough to add the necessary funkiness. I also decided to simplify the preparation method by warming grated garlic in olive oil, mixing in the salt-cured capers, dehydrated olives, and some toasted nori sheets. I pulsed the mixture in a small food processor, lifted the lid, and instantly...I knew the ghosts of garum had placed their stamp of approval on my plant-based interpretation of Piemonte’s classic Bagna Cauda.

Outside, the clouds eased a bit for the first time in several days. Patches of blue sky emerged from the gray. I felt a flush in my cheeks...the kind of warm flush after a warm bath. I finally felt ready for 2026 to begin.

I decided to give the cima di rapa a bath as well...a very cold one to revive the wilting leaves. I boiled a pot of pasta...sea shell shaped to bring me closer to the sea.

I quickly cooked the revived cima di rapa in salted water, then tossed it together with the pasta and some Ligurian extra virgin olive oil. I topped the dish with my Bagna Càuda and sat down with my wife to recall our time in Alba.

Bagna Cauda

My vegan variation of Bagna Càuda was designed to preserve the soul of the original Piemontese classic. It is a bold interpretation rather than an imitation that’s packed with generous amounts of garlic, plenty of briny funkiness, and the salty essence of the sea.

Serve it warm as a dip with raw or cooked vegetables and plenty of crusty bread. Alternatively, use it to finish a pasta dish or spoon it over roasted vegetables. It’s simple to prepare and deeply flavorful. Make it once, then adjust it to your own taste. Bagna Càuda isn’t about precision… it’s about warmth and communal eating.

Paid subscribers can find the recipe by clicking on the button below…

Bagna Càuda Recipe

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Panforte is my kind of celebration cake…mostly because it refuses to act like a typical cake. It’s dense, chewy, packed with nuts, fruit, and spice—it feels like someone compressed an unmistakable Tuscan vibe into a single slice.

I first stumbled into the world of real panforte in Siena, where every other doorway seems to hide a specialty bakery. I told myself I’d only try one. Naturally, I ended up tasting my way through several…of course, all in the name of research. In my tasting notes, I wrote: “It’s more like a dense, spiced fruit-and-nut confection held together by tradition and charm than anything resembling bread.”

For me, it’s the perfect afternoon companion to coffee or tea, and honestly, a thoughtful little gift that makes people think you spent far more time in the kitchen than you actually did.

A Walk Through Siena, Where Panforte Rules the Streets

Siena is one of those places where history doesn’t linger in museums. It leans over your shoulder and walks with you. The medieval streets twist and narrow as if designed to slow you down. They insist you notice what eight centuries of footsteps have worn smooth.

And then there’s the smell.

It drifts out of pasticcerie like a warm exhale: cinnamon, clove, nutmeg…the kind of aroma that lingers and feels instantly recognizable. Panforte’s scent settles into your coat, your hair, your afternoon plans. Yes, I’ll try another slice. No, I won’t pretend to resist.

In the windows, panforte discs sit in tidy stacks, dusted with powdered sugar like old manuscripts preserved under glass. Some are pale and perfumed (Margherita), others are darker and more dramatic (Nero). All of them look as if they’ve been made the same way for centuries—which, more or less, they have.

How Panforte Found Its Place

Panforte’s story begins in 1205, when it appeared as panpepato (peppered bread). Spices felt like a luxury. Baking with them wasn’t treated casually. They signaled wealth, generosity, and a willingness to offer guests something extraordinary.

For centuries, panpepato held that ceremonial role. But traditions evolve.

By 1879, a gentler version emerged in Siena: Panforte Margherita, created for Queen Margherita of Savoy. It was paler, less forceful with the spices, and carried a more elegant, almost confectionery personality.

That shift coincided with a broader change underway in Italy. As sugar and spices became more accessible, panforte gradually stepped down from its ceremonial perch and into ordinary kitchens. It didn’t lose its sense of occasion, but it did become something people could enjoy beyond the domain of nobles and clergy.

Today, panforte is deeply rooted in everyday Tuscan life. You’ll find it in pasticcerie year-round. It’s not tied to a single holiday, but it has become part of the region’s culinary landscape. Yes, it appears on many Christmas tables, but it’s just as likely to show up with an afternoon espresso in April or as a small gift any time generosity strikes.

Somewhere along the way, panforte stopped being defined by who could afford it and simply became part of the fabric of Tuscan life. And that shift is what makes it compelling today. It’s a recipe with centuries of history that still feels utterly approachable in a modern kitchen... and an idea worth sharing.

Why Make Panforte?

Panforte is one of those rare confections that works in nearly any setting. It’s as at home on a festive alpine ski weekend with friends as it is at a backyard barbie in central Melbourne. It’s not about seasonality. It simply shows up, smartly dressed, wherever it goes.

Part of its appeal lies in the straightforwardness of the process. Lightly roasted nuts, chopped candied fruit, and a handful of spices bound together with a hot syrup feel manageable. Press, bake, dust with icing sugar… and that’s the whole operation.

Once made, it rewards patience rather than fuss. It keeps for months, travels easily, and when wrapped as a gift, it creates the illusion you’ve spent hours in the kitchen honoring some old family ritual. In reality, you’ve made something simple, yet thoughtful enough to feel meaningful.

And that may be its greatest strength: a dessert that asks for your attention once, then waits quietly on the counter, improving with time and never demanding recognition. Some pastries insist on being served immediately. Panforte is content to be ready whenever you are.

A Final Thought

Panforte has lasted eight centuries not because it’s fashionable or photogenic, but because it tastes like memory and intention. It’s the kind of food that stays rooted. It’s never in a hurry.

You make it once. Slice it when you feel like it. Share it when the moment calls for it.

And maybe that’s the quiet invitation this old Tuscan confection offers: to gather a few good ingredients, bind them with a spiced syrup, and create something sturdy, fragrant, and generous. A panforte doesn’t wait for a holiday. It simply becomes part of the day you make it.

So perhaps push back your chair, consider your pantry, and think… well, why not?

Before You Begin

A couple of details help keep the experience calm rather than chaotic:

• Wafers or Parchment: Traditionalists line the pan with thin communion wafers. If you can’t find any, parchment paper works. Lightly oil the pan and dust the paper with cocoa. This will prevent the panforte from sticking and add a gentle bitterness to balance the sweetness.

• Candied Fruit: Orange and citron are classic, but this dessert allows room for improvisation. Use what you have, stay within the world of citrus, and slice everything thinly.

• Spices: Think gingerbread. Let instinct guide the blend. Panforte isn’t law; it’s interpretation.

• Sugar Temperature: If you don’t have a thermometer, use the old-world technique: dip a toothpick in the bubbling syrup, plunge it into cold water, and see if it forms a semi-hard little bead. If yes, proceed confidently.

• Shaping: A spatula gets you most of the way there. Wet hands do the rest. Don’t fight the dough; just nudge it into place. It behaves better than it looks.

Panforte isn’t difficult to make, but it does ask for a few moments of focus while toasting the nuts, slicing the fruit, and watching the syrup with mild attention. Do that, and the rest comes together with surprising ease. This version is true to the traditional style of Siena. It’s sturdy enough to travel and generous enough to share.

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How difficult is it to mix cornmeal, salt, and boiling water to make a batter similar to porridge, then drop spoonfuls onto a hot, lightly greased pan to cook on both sides?

Yep, these are humble and rustic relics of American cuisine...poor people’s food...or dare I say, slavery food. They were shaped more by circumstance than by culinary ambition. They belong to the long tradition of foods that arose because people needed to eat and stretch the little they had.

Nevertheless, Johnnycakes are rarely mentioned in historical cookbooks, even though they played an essential role in helping European settlers survive harsh winters in a new land.

They were especially popular among soldiers during the American Civil War. Both the Union (North) and the Confederacy (South) relied heavily on this simple, cornmeal-based flatbread because it was cheap, filling, and easy to cook over a fire.

Despite those important American roots, only the essence of the Johnnycake soul has found its way into cookbooks. The authentic preparation has fallen into obscurity, and what we now commonly call a ‘johnnycake’ is just a faint shadow of the original dish.

You can feel the absence when thumbing through old cookbooks. I recently grabbed my copy of Fannie Farmer’s iconic American cookbook, The Boston Cooking School Cook Book, from the dusty top of my bookshelf. I easily found what I suspected. There were recipes for Corn Meal Gems, Susie’s Spider Corn Cake, Virginia Bread, and Southern Pone, plus many more variations on the same theme. And no mention of Johnnycakes.

Why?

The dish slipped from view for several reasons. As industrial milling made wheat inexpensive and widely available, people moved toward lighter, softer, sweeter foods. Buttermilk pancakes took over American breakfasts. Cornbread emerged as the dominant corn-based staple across much of the country. Johnnycakes, with their dense texture and survivalist roots, faded into the background.

Regional differences also played a role. Rhode Island held onto one style, the American South preferred another, and the Caribbean added its own twist. No unified version ever settled into the larger culinary imagination. The name itself remained local before eventually falling out of everyday use.

And yet... the story of this small corn cake is far from unremarkable. It is simply rarely told.

Long before settlers leaned on it for sustenance, Indigenous communities along the East Coast were grinding dried corn, mixing it with water, and cooking it on hot stones or directly in the ashes of a fire. These early cakes required skill and timing. They weren’t seasoned or enriched. They didn’t rely on wheat flour or leavening. They were grain, water, heat... and cooking instinct.

Later, enslaved Africans adapted the method using the tools at their disposal. They cooked thin, crisp-edged corn cakes on the flat of an iron hoe held over open flame. These hoecakes became a symbol of resourcefulness...making something edible from almost nothing.

When corn cake ideas spread to the Caribbean, they evolved into something different. Cooks added fat, adjusted thickness, and incorporated local spices and ingredients.

The flavors and textures may have changed, but the soul remained intact. Resourcefulness. Preservation. Making do.

My vegan version leans into that lineage. I kept the core intact: cornmeal, water, salt. Then I added a few modern touches that respect the grain rather than overshadow it. A blend of fine and coarse polenta for texture. Smoked paprika and chili powder for warmth and depth. Spring onions and diced red pepper for brightness. The result sits somewhere between cornbread and pancakes; it’s thicker than one, thinner than the other, with a crisp crust giving way to a soft, tender interior.

The most interesting development came from the technique rather than the ingredients. On instinct, I covered the pan as the cakes cooked. It was a small decision, but the effect was immediate. Steam created lift and softness inside while the hot pan created a gentle crust on the cake’s exterior. They felt more generous, more open, yet still grounded in their rustic past. It reminded me that even the simplest foods leave room for intention.

I paired the Johnnycakes with a salad of thinly sliced fennel, radicchio, and golden raisins. Bitter, sweet, and truly seasonal. The plate felt autumnal without trying too hard. Honest food. Straightforward. The kind of meal you can make when the cupboard looks sparse, yet you still want to cook something that respects tradition.

When I trace the path of Johnnycakes through history, I imagine Indigenous hearths, colonial winters, Civil War encampments, enslaved kitchens, Caribbean cooks, and the long thread of frugality connecting them all.

And now this small cake of corn has wandered into my kitchen...vegan (like the original), seasoned, lifted by steam, and still carrying the imprint of all the places it has been.

Johnnycakes may never have achieved the fame of cornbread or the nostalgic softness of pancakes. They remain mostly anonymous, overshadowed by dishes that fit more comfortably into modern expectations. But anonymity doesn’t diminish their importance. If anything, it reveals something essential. Foods that endure are often the ones that began with the least.

As the winter season approaches, I find myself gravitating toward dishes like this. Foods that speak quietly of ingenuity, thrift, and the simple dignity of feeding people well. Foods that remind us how little it takes to eat thoughtfully and how far a simple corn cake can travel when pressed into service by generations of cooks.

My take on classic American Johnnycakes — rustic corn cakes sitting between cornbread and pancakes. This version blends fine and coarse polenta, smoky spices, and chopped vegetables for a crisp exterior and soft, fluffy center—simple, nourishing, budget-friendly food made from ingredients that carry history and real flavor.

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Catching Up On Polenta...

Corn has a way of following me. Last week, it was polenta simmering over an open fire… the scent of toasted grain, the slow thickening, the steady rhythm of stirring. Cooking that pot reminded me how deeply a simple food can anchor you — especially in times when patience and intention feel like endangered species.

Link to last week’s article, The Scent of Polenta

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The ritual of cooking polenta over an open fire is a profound, multi-sensory experience that begins long before the first taste.

The olfactory experience establishes the mood. It’s dominated by the fresh, resinous scent of burning hardwood, which blends with the earthy, rustic aroma of dry cornmeal. When the polenta meets simmering water, I notice a gradual transformation. The sharp smell of smoke begins to merge with the warmer, comforting scent of toasted corn.

My keen sense of smell notices deeper aromas as the starches gelatinize. Others might only notice rich, nutty undertones reminiscent of caramelization. It’s the fundamental smell of comfort, sustenance, and home.

The senses begin to trade places. A compelling soundscape accompanies the evolving aromas.

The rhythmic sounds of the deliberate thump-scrape of the mestolo (wooden paddle) against the copper pot are set against the backdrop of the crackling fire. Coals sigh...dry wood pops...and the rhythm of constant stirring fills the air like a well-rehearsed street act.

I wait...anticipating the auditory climax: the slow, satisfying plop of a large air bubble escaping from the increasingly thick mass. It’s a signal that the polenta is nearing completion. My stomach grumbles with anticipation.

Visually, the scene is one of natural beauty and contrast.

The flickering, dancing flames cast a warm glow, constantly licking the pot’s blackened underside. I can see the polenta changing from a pale mixture to a shiny, golden-yellow porridge. The stirring creates a captivating swirl on the surface before the mass settles back into the increasingly dense polenta. This is my cue to add a splash of extra-virgin olive oil to soften the polenta’s texture.

The final visual cue—the moment when the polenta pulls away smoothly from the sides of the pot—is the satisfying end of my patient pursuit of a rustic, wholly satisfying meal.

The experience is a shared effort between me and the elements.

My face and arms feel the intensity of the radiant heat of the fire. My hands feel tired after gripping the wooden paddle, and stirring, stirring, stirring, while the resistance of the thickening polenta intensifies.

Finally, I’m rewarded by the pure, earthy, and subtly sweet corn flavor. I detect the faintest hint of smoke. It’s a mouthful of memories influenced by cultural generations.

The scent of polenta cooking over a fire is a powerful link to history. Every aroma echoes generations past. Burning wood mixed with corn connects me to the poor man’s kitchen that dominated this part of Northern Italy for centuries.

That smell has filled kitchens from Lombardy to Liguria for centuries. During the war years, when rations were scarce, families turned to cornmeal as their ancestors had. They stirred hope into their pots of polenta to replace the more luxurious bread. In America, hominy grits (similar to Italian polenta) served the same purpose... humble, comforting food that stretched limited money without surrendering dignity.

The aroma of cooked corn evokes an even older heritage.

Before maize, the pulses of Ancient Rome and the polenta of the Middle Ages were made from grains such as spelt, millet, buckwheat, and chestnut flour. This shared, ancient smell of cooked grain porridge gently whispers of an unbroken tradition of sustenance spanning centuries.

The most transformative aromas emerge as the polenta nears its finish. The grain’s starch, cooked slowly and patiently, releases the aroma of deep nourishment and warm comfort from carbohydrates.

For peasant families who relied on polenta as their daily bread, this sweet, rich smell was a promise of a full stomach—nourishment without extravagance—a lesson worth remembering in our own uncertain times.

Today, when food insecurity has become a quiet global reality, the scent of polenta reminds us that good food doesn’t require abundance. It requires intention.

At its heart, polenta is nothing more than ground corn cooked in water and salt. What makes it special isn’t the recipe…It’s the rhythm, the time, and the patience to let it bloom.

Choosing the Corn

Skip the instant variety. Its convenience sacrifices flavor and integrity. Stone-ground cornmeal contains the germ, the soul of the kernel. Coarse meal takes time, but delivers the most flavor. Fine or medium polenta cooks in 20-30 minutes, making it perfect for creamy dishes like [Polenta with Pan-Roasted Mushrooms].

(photo: three bowls of different polentas — caption: “Each grind tells a different story.”)

Hydration and Texture

Polenta’s texture depends on the amount of liquid used. The following ratios of liquid to polenta provide a good guide to textural outcomes:

• 3:1 – firm and sliceable, the base for crostini or tarts.

• 4:1 – soft but steady, ready for layering or grilling.

• 5:1 – creamy, the classic comfort texture.

• 6:1 – loose, almost soup-like… the kind that soothes.

The secret isn’t precision, it’s patience. Stir gently, wait longer than you think necessary, and you’ll find it thickens when it’s ready.

Cooking: Hands-On or Hands-Off

The stovetop version rewards attention. Stirring keeps you present. You can hear the grains swell, smell them as they start to toast, and feel the texture shift beneath the spoon.

The oven method trades movement for ease. Combine everything, cover tightly, and let slow heat do the work. The result is nearly identical...one meditative, one practical. It makes little difference which method is used...both are honest expressions of polenta.

The Price of Comfort

A bag of cornmeal still costs less than a cup of coffee. Pair it with a few vegetables or greens, and you have a complete meal — simple, nourishing, and grounding.

Polenta—or grits, as it’s called in the American South—has long lived as a rich, poor-man’s food. A bowl of it offers as much comfort as any feast if prepared with care.

Polenta teaches the same lesson it has for centuries — patience, thrift, and the quiet dignity of feeding others well.

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Coming Up Next...

Next week, I’ll follow this thread across the Atlantic — to the cornfields, hearths, and histories that gave rise to the American Johnnycake. It’s a tale of Indigenous ingenuity, resilience, and adaptation… and of how those lessons still echo in a modern kitchen.

What Dish Carries You Through Tough Times?

Most of us have a simple dish that carried us through tough times…something affordable, filling, and quietly respectable. Polenta is that food for me. I’m curious about yours and what it taught you about nourishment when life demands simplicity.

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If you feel chatty, hop over to Substack Notes to comment or restack. Even a small story or passing thought is welcome.

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A Final Thought…

Do you want more woodsmoke in your life? Be sure to check out the latest from - Woodsmoke…a delightful piece to listen to when a gentle fire and warm blanket are all that’s important!

The air carried a faint chill—the kind that signals change—yet the sun still clung to its summer warmth.

I could see the fast-approaching seasonal shift in the dew fading from maturing pumpkins. I could feel the sun’s stubborn strength—like me, it wasn’t ready to give way to the inevitable gray autumn fog.

I stepped into our shared garden space wearing only a t-shirt and shorts. The shadows stretched longer across the garden, but the vibrant colors shimmered in the morning sunshine, briefly defeating the encroaching autumn darkness. At the far end, the tall Jerusalem artichokes swayed — not from wind, but from life. I wasn’t alone.

The peep-peeping sound was unmistakable: goldfinches, dozens of them, darting from flower to flower, then to the box of drooping sunflowers heavy with black seeds. Suddenly, a blue tit joined the commotion, trying to snatch its share of the nutritious seeds.

I was glad I brought my camera. The scene felt alive—a kind of wild choreography I desperately tried to capture in one cool shot.

I noticed several people waiting for their bus just outside the garden. All were busy on their mobile devices—except one woman. She caught my eye and casually asked if I managed to get a good photo. Was that envy or curiosity? It didn’t matter. I replied, ‘I hope so.’ Her bus arrived, and I moved on to check my garden boxes.

I brushed the basil leaves next to the climbing cucumber plants. My nose filled with warm, sweet, minty, and slightly peppery aromas. I swore I could almost detect a hint of clove or anise, but I wasn’t sure.

My bay laurel tree—now easily eight meters tall—glistened in the morning light. I plucked a leaf and crumpled it between my fingers. Its herbal, spicy notes reminded me of eucalyptus and of early hikes through the hills south of San Francisco...and later, along the cliffs of Cinque Terre, where bay laurel features in Ligurian soups and sauces.

My brief mental journey ended when I saw a hummingbird hawk-moth hovering near the lavender. Its extended proboscis reached deep into each flower—a tiny marvel that looked just like a hummingbird. I lifted the camera again. This was a fortunate moment, and I knew it.

Then the crows arrived. Three of them — one on the willow, one on a fence post, and one hopping on the ground near the playground. I’ve been watching this trio almost daily for the past year and a half. The one on the ground is crippled, but it manages well enough with its vigilant companions. The mother and sibling guarded it faithfully from cats and curious children. I admired their loyalty — another demonstration of community within our shared space.

Soon after, Rosemary, a fellow gardener, arrived. We greeted each other, both remarking on the beauty of the morning. I showed her a few photos. She told me about her successful potato harvest—and her fury over a vole attack that had wiped out her carrots. She asked how Silvia was doing. I inquired about her daughter’s adventure in Australia. We casually admired the dahlias.

A few minutes later, Volker, our unofficial garden steward, showed up. We shared the usual greetings, talked about the weather, our spouses, how our vegetables were doing, and swapped tips. These chats often drifted — never rushed, never forced. Just quiet acknowledgments that we were part of something shared and alive.

I stayed longer than I had planned. That morning, nature and conversation felt more important than anything else...a quiet reminder of how deeply human it is to find connection and purpose in a patch of soil.

Our urban garden arrived unexpectedly in 2017 — a quiet surprise in a city of straight lines and gray façades. The city installed a children’s play area, a small parking lot, five birch trees, and about a hundred boxes filled with soil. Together, they filled one of the last open spaces in a modern development that replaced established farm and swamp land on the edge of Zürich’s city limits.

Against the monotonous geometry of concrete, the garden stood out as something alive, while the rest of the neighborhood felt sterile and uninspired. Over the years, it has taught me how to grow food, helped restore local biodiversity, offered solace during the pandemic, and connected me to this small community of growers.

I’ve experimented with many fruit and vegetable plants over the years. Lately...let’s say, the past five years...I’ve focused heavily on chili peppers. This garden obsession has inspired a series of kitchen projects: brining jalapeños, fermenting and aging brick-red tabasco peppers for my version of Tabasco Sauce, drying and grinding sweet Hungarian peppers (I’ll never buy paprika again), and pickling round fiery Calabrese chilis to stuff with whatever feels right.

But the chili peppers aren’t the whole story.

In one corner stands a mulberry tree—no one knows where it came from. Last year, it produced an enormous harvest, which I turned into jam (a painstaking process) and shared with the other gardeners.

Each year, I plant turmeric and dry it into a fragrant, golden powder. I’ve had generous harvests of pumpkins, potatoes, sweet potatoes, green beans, cucumbers (endless cucumbers), courgettes, herbs, Jerusalem artichokes—and even salsify this year.

This is a garden that gives. It’s a mini-biosphere of wildflowers providing enough nectar and food to keep everything thriving and buzzing with activity. I also make gifts. I produce small bottles of Tabasco sauce, jars of paprika and turmeric, jams, and much more. These are all gifts I share with fellow gardeners, neighbors, and friends...and there’s nothing better in life—reminders that giving is always a form of receiving.

But like the seasons, everything changes. And when that cold wind of change blows in from an unexpected direction, life shifts with it.

This year, these gifts from the garden will vanish — a victim of the idea that profits supersede everything. The space will be cleared in a few weeks to make way for another six-story concrete building.

I am deeply saddened to lose it, but grateful I had the chance to witness what it offered—a living classroom, a refuge, a shared community space. When the construction crews arrive, they’ll obliterate the garden but not the gifts. Its seeds—the memories, the friendships, the lessons—are already rooted in my mind

Civil Eats recently published an article on How to Start a Community Garden: Successful projects need land, people, sun, water, money and infrastructure.

I believe we need more urban garden spaces...and starting one in your community will bring unending gifts!

Fermented Tabasco Sauce

Every autumn, when the peppers turn their final shade of red, I bottle a bit of summer. This fermented Tabasco sauce captures the brightness and generosity of the garden — its slow transformation a reminder that flavor, like friendship, deepens with time. A few bottles stay in my kitchen, but most are given away — small, fiery tokens of gratitude that carry the season’s warmth into someone else’s hands.

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The gifts we tend, the gifts we share...

This garden may fade away, but its lessons endure through shared hands, flavors, and stories.

Tell me about the gardens or places that have shaped you — even those that only exist in memory.

Sometimes, the act of remembering is its own form of planting.

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Many years ago, I read the following description for an interesting dessert called Flan à l’Orange:

“This is simply marvelous—one of the great high points of Sephardic gastronomy. I found a similar dessert called ‘budino di arancia’ in Italy. Orange flans, like orange cakes, are part of the Iberian legacy. This one has the texture of a crème caramel with a little crunchiness produced by finely chopped almonds, and refreshing orange flavor.”

The idea came from Claudia Roden, and it appeared in her fabulous cookbook, The Book of Jewish Food.

It captured my imagination, and I was immediately drawn to the idea of adding orange flavor to an eggy custard to offset a bittersweet caramel. The ground almonds heightened my curiosity. This was a dessert idea I knew I needed to try. And I wasn’t disappointed.

Years later, my professional life took a dramatic turn, and I suddenly found myself working in a Michelin-rated restaurant in the heart of Zürich. This is also where my love for a quivering flan with caramel cascading down its sides took on a deeper meaning. What was once just a few notes in the sketchbook of my mind now became something like a published recipe that would be read and critiqued by the public.

The sudden exposure began about six months into my first professional cooking job. I was asked to prepare the staff meal – one of the most nerve-wracking tasks a young cook can face. “What the hell was I going to make?” became my mantra as I stumbled through my morning tasks.

I can’t remember everything I decided to prepare. I only recall thinking I could make that delicious orange flan—a risky proposition considering I didn’t have the recipe with me. Nevertheless, I had made it enough to remember the key elements, so I got to work.

When it was time to serve the meal, all I could think about was that flan...and hoping the custard would release and the sugar would gently ooze over the caramel. This was no guarantee, but in the end, it worked perfectly. The dozen or so staff members were delighted—it was an unexpected reaction.

That evening during dinner service, the Chef approached me to let me know he wanted to serve that orange flan the next day as a special. That was also unexpected... and I wasn’t sure I was ready to receive public judgment of my cooking. “Oh shit,” I whispered to myself as I made my way home in a nervous, but tired state.

The flan special was hugely successful, and I was greatly relieved...until the new seasonal menu arrived. My Orange Flan recipe was on the menu for the next 2 months...and I felt, for the first time, like a real Chef.

That defining moment of making flan is now more than 25 years old, yet it still feels like it happened just last week. The ingredients have changed, but the lessons I learned to trust my instincts continue to guide me as I work on a vegan version. And always lurking in the back of my mind is the thought that it’s one thing to have my flan on the menu of a Michelin-rated restaurant; it’s another to recreate one from scratch without the very ingredients that made the original.

Unlike crème brûlée, flan is more unforgiving. It must unmold cleanly, retain its shape on the plate, and still dissolve softly on the tongue. Without eggs, those expectations become the most significant challenge: what gives it structure, what keeps it creamy, and how do you preserve the drama of unmolding it without the custard collapsing?

Flan seems like just another set custard. But unlike crème brûlée, it doesn’t remain in its ramekin. It has to survive the inversion and stand on its own, which makes the margin for error extremely small.

In my earlier article, I explained how removing eggs shifts the whole equation: proteins no longer form the network, and starches—with their very different behavior—become the foundation instead.

That extra demand changes everything. Too little starch, and the custard slumps the moment it’s turned out. Too much, and you’re left with a rubbery block that has nothing in common with flan’s delicate wobble.

The foundation was the same as my crème brûlée experiments — soy milk for protein, oat cream for body, a touch of unprocessed rapeseed oil for richness — but the starch balance had to shift. Flan required more backbone: more cornstarch for firmness, reinforced with a bit more arrowroot for silkiness.

The increased starch wasn’t sufficient; I needed additional stabilizer. I opted for my new best friend—sweet potato purée. It provided just enough starch to hold the custard, while adding subtle color and a richer depth of flavor without dominating.

Creating a unique and interesting flavor profile was the next breakthrough. Infusing cinnamon into the milk base produced warmth, but the real surprise came from replacing citrus zest with orange blossom water. This choice leaned into my Moorish heritage and its influence on Spanish sweets — floral, elegant, and perfectly balanced against the caramel’s bittersweet edge. It was also a reflective nod to that orange flan that’s bookmarked in my mind.

Technique was the final piece. I learned to cook the custard gently on the stovetop until the first hint of steam appeared. I finished by baking it in a water bath for an extended period at low temperatures (140 °C oven, 70 °C water). This prevented the dreaded soufflé rise and collapse, and resulted in a smooth and even set.

A small but crucial detail was brushing the ramekins with oil before adding the caramel — a chef’s trick that made unmolding far less dramatic.

💡Pro Tip – Easy Release

Lightly brush ramekins with neutral oil before adding caramel. It’s a small step, but it makes unmolding much smoother and keeps the custard edges clean.

The final version looked and behaved like the flan I remembered. The caramel released with a sheen and flowed over the inverted custard, pooling at the edges and soaking into each spoonful. The structure held without sagging. My spoon slid through the custard effortlessly. Even the tiny crack in the custard after unmolding felt just right, a hallmark of flan rather than a flaw.

The flavor brought everything together — warm cinnamon in the background, lifted by the floral note of orange blossom water, with caramel’s bittersweet edge balancing it all. It was the kind of dessert I would happily serve in any restaurant.

But flan, like many recipes, is never truly mastered. Each attempt teaches something new; every unmolding carries both risk and reward. The goal isn’t perfection but balance—in texture, flavor, and the patience it takes to achieve it.

And that, I’ve come to realize, is where the joy lies: in doing the work with care, and allowing the result to stand on its own as the bittersweet caramel envelops it.

Spanish-Style Vegan Flan

After all the testing, this version finally captured what I love about flan: the caramel sheen, the clean wobble on the plate, and the layered flavors of cinnamon and orange blossom that give it both depth and delicacy. It’s a custard that holds its Spanish soul while finding a new balance in a vegan kitchen — and it’s one I’m proud to share.

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Next in my Custard Tales series is Part IV – Savory Custards

If flan is about drama and sweetness, savory custards are their quiet, understated cousins. They don’t rely on caramel for spectacle but on balance, restraint, and depth of flavor. My challenge was to translate the techniques I’d honed with desserts into a custard that could hold its own as part of a meal — smooth, delicate, and deeply savory.

Have You Tried Flan at Home?

Flan can be unforgiving, but also unforgettable. Share your experiences — the wobbles, the successes, even the caramel that refused to let go.

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There’s no need to plate it, or pair it with anything – although a cup of tea would certainly be welcome. Slice it while it’s still warm and eat it from your hand – not because it’s rustic, but because that’s the most honest way to experience it.

It began, like most things in late summer, with too much zucchini still clinging to its vines. My ideas were fading as quickly as the squash leaves. I wanted something new — something more interesting than the usual zucchini bread. Something that didn’t treat the vegetable like a burden.

So I flipped the idea. Rather than hide the zucchini behind sugar and spice, I made it the focal point. I wanted it to be present in the loaf — visible, textural, essential.

I started with roasted walnuts to bring contrast — a dark, nutty crunch that keeps each bite interesting. I introduced sweet potatoes. They were growing right next to the zucchini box, and I wanted to keep them together — a subtle reminder that one season was nudging the next.

The smooth purée folded into the batter added tenderness and depth, while acting as the perfect egg replacement. I added a modest amount of muscovado sugar — just enough to round the edges, but not enough to nudge this into cake territory. Soy milk and a splash of oat cream softened the crumb, mellowed the walnuts, and made the loaf feel whole.

To keep the zucchini in the foreground, I reached for a rösti-style grater. I didn’t want to disguise it — I wanted it visible. Present. Proud.

The scent from the oven filled the kitchen with warmth. Spice, nuts, and something else — not quite nostalgic, but deeply familiar. A quiet kind of comfort. As the loaf rose, a few walnuts surfaced and began to caramelize at the edges. The top split slightly on one side — the kind of imperfection that makes a loaf feel honest. Homemade. Intentional.

When it came out of the oven, I let it cool only as long as necessary. I was eager to figure out what I had. The loaf felt substantial – structured, but with a certain spring in the crumb. I sliced off a piece from the end, then broke it in half, just to feel the warm interior. It felt pliant, not dense. Moist, but not heavy. It was the kind of structure that holds together, but still lets a few crumbs fall softly to the table..

The first bite offered exactly what I was hoping for. Not sweet — just flavorful. The sweet potato added a mellow depth that lingered after the chewing. The walnuts… what a good call that was...they were fragrant and pleasingly bitter — a lovely reminder that this was not cake.

The zucchini’s coarse green strands held their place. Just enough to add texture, to show up, and to belong.

I served it that afternoon with a few friends who popped in for a visit. There were no plates. No napkins, either. The loaf, still warm, sat on the cutting board with a bread knife nearby. Everyone sliced off what they wanted. Some stood, some leaned on the counter, another sat on the stool. I hung back and took in the scene, just listening.

There wasn’t much talking at first – just that quiet purring sound of contentment. It’s not quite a hum, but rather the sound that happens when something lands in the right place. That’s the sound I trust more than anything else. It means the flavors don’t need explanation or labels.

And that’s the point, really.

Sometimes instincts open the door to more interesting flavors. Spices, grated vegetables, smooth purées — all of it balanced by a tender suggestion of sweetness. No glaze. No icing. Just a slice. Slightly warm. And a hand to hold it with.

Sweet Potato & Zucchini Bread

A moist and semi-savory vegan sweet potato and zucchini bread made with roasted walnuts, oat cream, and warm spices. This easy quick bread is gently spiced with cinnamon, ginger, and allspice, and naturally sweetened with a touch of muscovado sugar. Perfect for late summer or early fall, this loaf has a tender crumb, visible strands of zucchini, and a rich, nutty depth — ideal for breakfast, snacking, or afternoon tea.

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What does “not too sweet” mean to you?

This loaf walks that fine line — enough depth to feel like a treat, but grounded in something nourishing.

Do you lean into the sweet or the savory when you bake? Have you tried working with vegetables like sweet potato or zucchini in your quick breads?

Tell me what you’re baking lately — and whether this one might find a place on your kitchen counter.

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The gentle tap on the caramelized sugar with a dessert spoon to crack the crust. The first spoonful melts away, leaving thin sugar shards that dissolve into bitter-sweet memories. The contrasting flavors and textures form a luxurious combination — a taste of decadence.

I can pinpoint the exact moment I fell in love with crème brûlée.

It was February 1998. I was working the dessert section in a bistro restaurant in the heart of Burlington, Vermont. Like most kitchens at that time, it was an open plan, with diners often sitting just meters away from the cooking action. As a young chef, this was both daunting and invigorating.

My heartbeat increased every time I heard the printer hum into action to print the latest orders—four crème brûlée. Oh shit...it was go-time. Put an even coat of sugar on the top of the custard, light the blow torch, pick up the ramekin with my left hand, then carefully work the flame around the edges to liquify and caramelize the sugar, before finishing in the middle while gently rotating the ramekin to swirl the sugar and create an even layer.

What a rush...an ego rush. I was an actor confidently delivering my lines with the right amount of dramatic pauses and poised smiles. I watched the diners sitting two tables away from me, their anticipatory smiles developing rapidly. A tap of the spoon to crack the sugar...and then laughter, giving way to pleasing ‘mms’ with each mouthful.

The only thing interrupting my moment of self-congratulation was the sound of the printer going off—four crème brûlée. My heartbeat pounded a bit harder, and I was off, looking forward to another show of gently twirling the ramekin in one hand while expertly using the blow torch in my other hand.

This dessert still symbolizes a bit of flashy showmanship whenever I serve it. But it’s more than ego. What lies beneath the caramel lid represents precision cooking to get the ‘right’ set on the custard. It’s careful attention to flavor detail to balance the right amount of vanilla in the custard. It’s patience and skill to create a perfect thin layer of caramelized sugar that holds the right amount of bitterness. It’s pure taste and texture – the critical elements that turn into smiles.

Those core elements are the joy I needed to replicate in developing a vegan version of this classic custard. And, of course, how could I successfully replace the magic of eggs? Take those eggs away, and suddenly, I was left with nothing but questions: How do I thicken custard? How do I ensure the custard sets with the right balance of creaminess and structure?

Crème brûlée is one of those desserts that looks deceptively simple. Classic versions have short ingredient lists – milk, cream, eggs, sugar, and vanilla. The eggs do most of the heavy lifting. The yolks help create a satiny texture. The proteins (mostly in the whites) set during gentle baking to create a custard that is firm enough to support a caramel crust yet soft enough to melt on the tongue.

Take away the eggs, and the center of gravity shifts.

Plant-based milks don’t have the same proteins, and most dairy alternatives bring their own quirks — sometimes too thin, sometimes too heavy, sometimes carrying flavors that distract from the vanilla. More importantly, without eggs, there’s no natural network to hold the custard together.

Starches work, but the margin between crème anglaise and custard is razor-thin. Use too much, and you create chewy gummy bear textures.

That was the real challenge: not just swapping ingredients, but recreating the precise balance of texture, flavor, and structure that makes this iconic dessert feel like crème brûlée. I wondered if I could deliver a spoonful of vegan custard that kept the dessert’s soul intact?

The answers didn’t come all at once. They came in minor adjustments I made after every failed test. Eventually, I learned what to keep and what to let go of until I finally constructed a custard I was searching for.

💡Kitchen Bonus – Make Ice Cream from a “Failed” Custard
If your custard experiments don’t work, don’t throw them out — blend and freeze the mistakes for a surprisingly good no-churn vanilla ice cream.

I started with starch — the obvious replacement for eggs in terms of structure. Cornstarch gave me backbone, but too much turned the custard chalky and set too much. Even worse, after a day in the refrigerator, the cornstarch broke down and the custard wept, causing liquid to gather on the surface.

I decided to create a starch mix, adding arrowroot to cornstarch. I knew that arrowroot brought silkiness to the custard, and that was appealing. But early tests showed me that too much arrowroot caused an unpleasant, rubbery texture.

Eventually, I found a balance between the two starches that created the texture I was looking for: stable enough to bear the sugar crust's weight, yet soft and satiny on the spoon.

I combined unsweetened soy milk with oat cream for my liquid base. The soy provides a similar protein amount as milk, which helps the custard to set cleanly. The oat cream brought body, without the heaviness of coconut or the distraction of nuts.

I added a small amount of unprocessed rapeseed oil as a stand-in for the fat of egg yolks, creating a smooth mouthfeel that carried the vanilla across the palate.

Figuring out how to replace an ingredient’s function in a recipe speaks to my general cooking nerdiness. Working out new techniques is proving to be much more difficult; it’s challenging to move the mind away from previously learned cooking methods...to shed how things are done and make room for new ideas.

I always defaulted to how I learned to make a traditional crème brûlée when I began my tests. But traditional recipes relied on proteins, and I was relying on starches. My initial failures were directly related to the fact that proteins work differently from starches. I had to adjust my thoughts and methods.

I started by blending all of the ingredients cold, then straining them into a pot to ensure a silky start to the custard process. I cooked the mixture over medium heat until I observed the first wisp of steam. This was my cue that yielded a smooth and slightly thick consistency.

I baked the partially thickened custards in a water bath, making sure the water I used was 70°C/160°F. I kept the oven temperature at a much lower temperature of 140°C/285°F. Using these lower temperatures kept the sides of the custard from setting too quickly, and eliminated the dreaded soufflé rise (and subsequent fall).

My success wasn’t a matter of replacing the ingredients, but rather, working a series of minor adjustments to the ingredients and techniques, that eventually brought me to that day. Finally, there it was, and I couldn’t wait to tap my spoon on the caramelized sugar and dive into that same silky decadence that hooked me all those years ago.

The custards came out of the oven without the puffed, soufflé-like rise that plagued earlier versions. They cooled flat and elegant, with no sunken centers. After a night in the refrigerator, the set was clean and, dare I say, confident — firm enough to support caramelized sugar, soft enough to melt into creamy satin with the first spoonful.

The flavor was as satisfying as the texture. Vanilla perfumed each bite, carried by the gentle richness of plant-based fats. The sugar crust...well...there was no need to figure out a replacement, and I’m thrilled I never forgot this skill perfected years ago. There’s something magical in having those thin shards of caramelized sugar dissolve into the creamy custard below.

This recipe wasn’t a compromise or a good-for-a-vegan version. It was crème brûlée – decadent, elegant, and worthy of its name.

Reimagining this dessert in a vegan kitchen turned out to be less about replacing eggs and more about rediscovering balance. Every adjustment — in starch, in technique, in patience — was a step toward recreating the joy of that first spoonful I fell in love with.

Ultimately, what makes this dessert special isn’t the eggs or cream. It’s the contrast: brittle sugar yielding to satiny custard. It’s a tap of the spoon to crack the sugar...and then laughter, giving way to pleasing ‘mms’ with each mouthful.

That’s what I wanted to preserve. And now, it’s what I can share.

Crème Brûlée

After all the testing, this is the version that stayed true to what crème brûlée should be — rich, creamy custard beneath a caramelized sugar crust that shatters at the touch of a spoon. The formula is straightforward, the method approachable, and the results are elegant enough to serve anyone without hesitation. It’s everything I wanted to preserve from the original, just made with different tools.

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Next in my Custard Tales series is Part III – Flan

If crème brûlée is about showmanship and satin elegance, then flan is its dramatic cousin.

It’s a demanding dessert that needs to be unmolded, releasing a cascade of caramel over custard that quivers on the plate. My challenge was to preserve the flan’s Spanish roots while giving it a suggestion of North African flavors — with surprising results.

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Your Kitchen Adventures

Have you tackled a recipe that seemed impossible to recreate in your own kitchen? Maybe it was a family dessert that relied on ingredients you no longer use, or a restaurant dish that haunted your memory for years. I'm curious about the culinary puzzles that have challenged you—and whether you found ways to honor the original while making it your own. Sometimes the most satisfying victories come from the recipes we almost gave up on.

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Updated Recipe Index

The VeganWeekly Recipe Archives just got a facelift. No more text-only lists — now each category has thumbnail images. It feels like moving from a list of ingredients to a plated dish.

Recipe Index Starting Point

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I picked up the pair of cherries. They were firm and dark, like tiny, polished hearts falling from the sky. I could feel the warmth of the sun on their skin. How did the birds miss these perfectly ripe pair of cherries?

I recalled picking cherries like this when I was 12 or 13 years old. They left a pleasing stain on my fingers as I harvested…and ate as many as I desired. I yearned for those days of innocence as I held those two cherries in my hand, wishing that moment would last just a few more minutes.

A squawking crow brought me out of my trance, and suddenly, I couldn’t resist the thought of eating the warm cherries. I popped one in my mouth, carefully biting around the pit and savoring the intense depth of flavor. The refreshing tartness cut through the sweetness, as the juices spray-painted the inside of my mouth. I spit out the pit, like a mischievous little boy attempting to reach world record distance. Then I popped the second cherry into my mouth. It was an intensely satisfying moment, one that blended memories with the present.

As I emerged from the tree’s shadow and returned to the sunshine, I thought about change and all the forms it takes in a lifetime filled with constant change. The cherry tree experience felt like the perfect metaphor for my thoughts. The nearly empty tree signified the end of cherry season, which always marks the start of late summer. I felt pensive…and slightly melancholy. How did summer pass so quickly? How did cherry season vanish without taking advantage to make all of those dishes I craved just a few months earlier?

It's fascinating how much time I spend on should’ve, would’ve, could’ve, when there are equal portions of actual accomplishments in my life. Sure, I could have made a cherry pie last month—or roasted cherries with a hint of rosemary to garnish a big bowl of vegan vanilla ice cream. I certainly could have made a cherry parfait or popped some cherries into those scones I made last month. I could have simply snacked on more cherries.

But standing there, I realized that accepting change doesn't mean abandoning what we love — sometimes it means finding new ways to honor it. Instead of dwelling on missed opportunities, I turned to one dish that always feels like summer's last embrace: cherry clafoutis.

A perfectly made cherry clafoutis is one of those desserts that sits between rustic comfort and refined elegance. I immediately notice a gentle breath of baked cherries filling my nose as I remove the clafoutis from the oven. The surface has a light golden hue that is dusted with a whisper of powdered sugar. I catch a faint scent of vanilla that merges with fruity aromas. This feels like the perfect dessert for a late summer evening.

My fork slides into a silky, barely set custard that holds just enough firmness to be sliced. The custard dissolves almost instantly on my tongue. It’s not as rich as a crème brûlée, or as bouncy as a flan. It feels like a thick pancake with a delicate interior.

The edges are my favorite. They have a subtle chewiness, where the batter caramelizes against the baking pan. The contrast is gentle and pleasing. Every bite brings a burst of cherries...a juicy divergence from creamy custard to something tart and intensely fruity.

Sometimes, I detect a faint wine-like depth of flavor with a delicate hint of almonds. There’s a soft echo of vanilla warmth lingering on my palate after every bite. It’s like putting on a light sweatshirt on a cool late summer evening. It’s the kind of finish that makes you want another bite – not because of indulgence, but because it’s so harmoniously balanced. It’s the essence of a summer orchard wrapped in the comfort of a custard.

Of course, achieving that custardy texture without eggs or cream turned out to be its own adventure..

Traditional clafoutis are simple to make. It’s mostly eggs, milk, sugar, flour, and cherries, all mixed and baked together.

But here's where the universe had other plans. Making a vegan version is trickier than I thought. Every ingredient substitution must effectively replicate the role(s) and create the right look, texture, and mouthfeel. The eggs and milk in a clafoutis are the ingredients that need to be replaced, and they serve multiple functions.

Eggs perform four crucial tasks in custards: structure, tenderness, color, and richness. Achieving these results requires multiple ingredients to create a set custard that holds the cherries, with a melt-in-the-mouth texture, and rich depth of flavor.

I learned quickly that starches alone make for a clafoutis that’s more rubbery than custardy. Flax eggs, chickpea flour, or aquafaba shift the balance the other way and produce dense or beany-flavored custards. When I relied solely on protein-rich ingredients like silken tofu, the custard became watery, almost curdled, and lacked the golden richness I wanted.

The next obstacle is replacing the milk and cream. Classic clafoutis often combines whole milk with cream to create a rich body. Plant milks are frequently thinner and lower in fat, which causes custards to bake weakly and become watery, rather than lush and creamy.

Eggs and dairy contribute a subtle background savoriness and fatty mouthfeel. A vegan batter without adjustments might taste flat, starchy, or one-dimensional. The cherries aren’t well-integrated into the custard; they become a separate entity.

Naturally, I managed to make almost all of these mistakes during my first attempts, eating way too many gooey or overcooked clafoutis — more than I want to admit here. In some ways, I became an unwilling expert in custard disasters, and I learned that optimism alone doesn’t bind a batter. Nevertheless, each failure still smelled wonderful coming out of the oven, which only made the first bite more disappointing. But each mistake also taught me what the next version needed.

Then something clicked. Those failures taught me what was missing and how to make the necessary adjustments. The breakthrough came when I stopped searching for a single “egg substitute” and instead layered together different elements, each playing its part. I took a 'replace the function, not the ingredient' mentality...and that meant that binding, texture, richness, and overall look had to be substituted.

This is what cooking teaches us, if we're paying attention. We learn to work with constraints as creative partners rather than obstacles to overcome. Every limitation becomes an invitation to think differently — to see potential where others see problems. The absence of eggs wasn't a deficit to mourn; it was a puzzle to solve with curiosity instead of frustration.

Flax gel[1] became my anchor, providing the binding strength that kept everything in place. Combining silken tofu and sweet potato purée offered creaminess and body, giving the batter that custardy smoothness and color I was chasing. A touch of olive oil contributed richness, so the texture felt indulgent without being heavy.

For the dairy element, I found the balance in combining soy milk with oat cream worked the best. The soy brought a clean, neutral base with enough protein to set correctly, while the oat cream rounded out the flavor and supplied just enough fat to mimic the lushness of milk and cream.

To prevent the batter from becoming dense, I relied on a blend of flour and cornstarch, with a hint of baking powder to keep the structure light and slightly airy.

Finally, there was flavor. Without egg yolks or the almond note from cherry pits, the clafoutis risked tasting flat. Macerating the cherries in sugar and kirsch brought back that winey, almond-like depth I remembered from the traditional version. A touch of ground vanilla gave the custard its warm, aromatic backbone.

The result was everything I wanted: a clafoutis that baked golden at the edges, with a tender, custard-like center and cherries bursting through the surface. It looked the part, it tasted the part—and most importantly, it felt like clafoutis.

And once I removed that first successful version from the oven, I realized this wasn’t just about swapping ingredients—it was about proving that the essence of clafoutis could survive change and still feel entirely true to itself. The cherry tree had already shown me that change is inevitable—but it doesn’t have to mean loss. Sometimes, change simply reshapes tradition, allowing it to carry forward in a new form. My clafoutis was different, yes, but it was still clafoutis—still carrying the soul of summer, cherries, and memory.

My clafoutis adventure makes me wonder: what traditions in your own kitchen have you been afraid to reimagine? What recipes sit in that mental file labeled "impossible to recreate" simply because they require ingredients you no longer use?

Clafoutis is just the beginning...

Next in my series on pursuing perfect vegan custards are my tales of creating crème caramel and crème brûlée — two desserts that seemed even more impossible than this one. Be sure to subscribe now and receive the next part (with recipes for paid subs) sent directly to your inbox.

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Cherry Clafoutis

This vegan version of the classic French dessert closely resembles the original in texture, flavor, and appearance.

The key to making the pancake-like batter is using flax gel, which replaces the binding role of eggs. The flax gel is easy to prepare. It can be made up to 5 days in advance. Silken tofu and a small amount of oil help achieve a smooth texture that rivals custard.

Black cherries are traditional, but any cherry will work—including frozen ones. Sour cherries deliver the most extraordinary flavor—especially when combined with a small amount of sugar and optional kirsch.

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Share Your Experiences

Have you ever found yourself staring at a recipe, wondering if it's worth the risk of potential failure? Sometimes the dishes that challenge us most teach us the most about ourselves. What's the last recipe that made you question everything you thought you knew about cooking?

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[1] Flax gel differs from a flax egg. Cooked whole flax seeds release a gel-like substance to the water, which is strained. The resulting gel has more binding power than a simple flax egg. Substitute 3 tablespoons (45 ml) flax gel for every egg in a recipe, then deduct the amount of flax gel used from the liquid ingredients. Be sure to whisk the flax gel into the liquid ingredients before adding any fat.

My default breakfast typically includes a handful of nuts and dried fruit, oats, granola, seasonal fresh fruit, ground flax seeds, a pinch of turmeric, cinnamon, and oat milk. It delivers the right amounts of macronutrients, antioxidants, and fiber...and it’s delicious.

There is no doubt it’s a satisfying breakfast, and I’m generally okay with my default choice. It’s a breakfast that aligns with a ScienceDaily study, which reminds us that eating breakfast can trigger the release of dopamine in the brain and potentially improve mood and reduce cravings.

But it’s boring to eat the same thing every day.

Some days, I simply feel like a caterpillar yearning to become a butterfly. I sense a deep, intrinsic desire to transform into a different, more complete form that closely aligns with my Mediterranean roots.

I close my eyes and taste a salty, gentle sea breeze. I become intoxicated with the scents of wild rosemary, sage, and mastic. Lemons and pomegranates fill my imagination. I’m inebriated with sunshine. In my mind, I’m a butterfly flying from bush to bush and sampling a variety of the region’s best morning nectar.

I arrive on the shores of Italy, France, and Spain. I quickly discovered that these European countries favor speedy breakfasts, often accompanied by a strong cup of coffee, fresh juice, a piece of seasonal fruit, and a sweet pastry. It feels rushed, like someone who woke up late and is now frantically searching for something to wear.

I fly away, catching an easterly breeze and landing in Greece and Turkey. Here, breakfast includes an even stronger cup of coffee or black tea, with plenty of build-your-own-bowl ingredients on hand: yogurt, honey, dried and fresh fruits, nuts, jams, salty cheeses, and perhaps a room-temperature slice of pie filled with greens. The nectar from these central Mediterranean countries appeals to me. The morning’s pace is slow and deliberate. I take time to gorge before crossing the sea and landing on a new continent.

I discovered that North Africans prefer a sizzling pan of spicy peppers and tomatoes, typically including piquant meatballs and poached eggs. It’s very much a Maghreb Shakshouka vibe that’s not far from a western-style fry-up to cure a hangover. There are lighter alternatives, of course, such as yogurt, fresh fruit, dates, and a piece of fish for those preferring a lighter start to the day. It’s hyperstimulation in a crowded souk. I’m intrigued, but I don’t spend a lot of time here.

I catch a ride on the blowing levant and glide on the dusty winds east to Lebanon, Israel, Palestine, Syria, Iran, and Egypt. Breakfast suddenly feels different; it has a more savory attitude. Legumes, vegetables, and cracked wheat are infused with a variety of aromatic spices. Fresh fruit is served on the side. Hummus and spicy tahini dips accompany fresh pita-style bread, sliced onions, tomatoes, and olives. I feel renewed. My wings are strengthened. My spirit soars, ready to take on the world. I’ve returned to my inner sanctuary...my inner cocoon. Everything about this food is the nectar I crave. It’s the stimulation I need to confront my day.

When I emerged from my butterfly trance, all I could think about was having a bowl of Ful Medames, the classic Egyptian dish that famed cookbook writer Paula Wolfert once described:

“The rich eat ful for breakfast, the poor eat ful for lunch, but only animals eat ful for dinner. So goes the Egyptian proverb. Ful, pronounced ‘fool,’ is made from dried fava beans and is the national dish of Egypt. In Syria and Lebanon, it is eaten as a soupy mass for breakfast, along with glossy black olives, cucumbers, and plenty of pita.”

I was intrigued after reading her vivid description, so I set out to develop my version for breakfast, brunch, or late lunch. To puréed fava beans, I added chickpeas for added texture and nuttiness, then topped everything with chopped rocket (arugula), sliced green onions, and sumac-brined red onions. For an extra punch of Mediterranean vibrations, I added whole olives – the glossy black ones with pits I can suck on – and chopped tomatoes.

Don’t get me wrong, I love my default version of muesli. But when I take the time to pack a bowl of Ful Medames into me at the beginning of the day, I feel a powerful injection of energy. I’m alert and focused throughout the morning. I’m properly fueled and ready to meet the day’s challenges with mental clarity and physical vigor, rather than feeling sluggish or drained.

Perhaps the real metamorphosis isn't just what happens to our taste buds, but what happens to our entire day when we choose to feed our bodies like the complex, deserving creatures we are.

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Ful Medames with Chickpeas

Ful Medames is a hearty dish originating in Egypt but also enjoyed throughout the eastern Mediterranean. It is mainly made with dried fava beans – and sometimes stewed in a tahini sauce. I incorporate cooked chickpeas for added texture and nuttiness in my vegan version.

I like to top my ful with chopped rocket (arugula), sliced green onions, and brined red onions. For an added Mediterranean punch, I include whole olives and chopped tomatoes.

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What’s Your Morning Ritual?

Have you ever wanted to change your breakfast but didn't know where to begin? I'd love to hear about your morning transformation—whether it's a dish that changed how you start your day or simply a moment when you realized your usual routine no longer served you. What does your ideal breakfast look like when you close your eyes and imagine feeding yourself like the complex, deserving person you are?

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I was awake and alert, although somewhat worried about losing my footing on the smooth and slippery stones. By the time we returned to Casa Bellavista, a short 20-minute drive, I could feel my eyes beginning to droop.

When we arrived, I slipped into the nearby hammock and gently swayed in the afternoon breeze. I still tasted lingering notes of lemon and garlic. My throat felt alive with the subtle effects of chili peppers. Everything slowed. I suddenly felt like a sloth hiding from the midday heat.

Sloth? That seems a bit over-the-top, I thought, as my eyes closed, and I drifted away for 45 minutes.

We both felt refreshed after that brief afternoon nap. Our lunch and short snooze felt more authentic to the true Italian lifestyle than aimlessly wandering the hilly streets of Cortona, looking for a souvenir to take home.

Pasta tends to sit heavy in the stomach as the digestive system works to process the carbohydrate load. The sudden urge to nap becomes inevitable, especially on hot summer afternoons. Mind you, this is not necessarily a bad thing, especially if the napping mood hits while nestled in a hammock under one or two large shady trees.

Over the years, I've learned that pasta is mainly consumed in Italy during midday. People don't seem to mind giving in to a nap after a bowl of pasta at a local Osteria. A notable thing to remember, as Giuseppe Marotta, a Neapolitan writer, once pointed out, is to "adapt your dish of spaghetti to circumstances and your state of mind." He wrote this in defense of southern Italians, who consider pasta an inexpensive and versatile daily food to be enjoyed during the midday meal.

Circumstances change, and wise cooks adapt their ingredients accordingly. When the weather turns scorching, creating pasta that feels light on the palate is essential. The key lies in three allies: lemon, chili peppers, and garlic.

Lemon, of course, is full of acid…and acids neutralize the sensation of fats in the mouth. Consider dishwashing soap for a moment. Many products contain lemon or citrus. Why? Because the acids contained in citrus cut through fats that stubbornly cling to plates, glasses, and silverware. In other words, acids neutralize fats.

But just to be clear, acids do not get rid of fat in the food we eat; they simply neutralize the fatty sensation in our mouth. One experiment I once conducted with aspiring cooks proves this: taste heavy cream, then compare it with cream mixed with lemon juice. The fat didn't disappear, but the sensation did – and that matters on a hot day.

Chili peppers have a unique summer logic. The popular notion of a 'cooling effect' suggests that peppers make you sweat. As sweat evaporates, a cooling sensation follows. The evidence supporting this idea remains thin, but cultures in hot climates tend to favor fiery foods for good reason.

As a chef, I've observed that chili peppers pair beautifully with acidic and fruity elements. Adding spicy chili flakes to tomato sauce enhances the tomato’s natural fruitiness, while the acids and sugars from the tomato tame the chili’s heat. The result? Food that feels lighter, flavors that cut sharper and cleaner, and perhaps a bead or two of sweat that embraces summer.

Garlic, as far as I can determine, has no obvious cooling effect on food. In fact, for those who follow Ayurvedic rules, garlic is considered a food that induces warmth.

My chef's experience tells a different story. Garlic pairs beautifully with lemon and chili peppers, and sometimes, the best culinary logic is simply that ingredients want to be together.

It will always be challenging to eat a big plate of pasta on a hot summer day. An overworked digestive system demands energy, and energy creates heat. The afternoon riposo exists for good reason.

But like many Italians, I've learned to embrace summer rather than resist it. I create dishes that feel light, despite their substance, that brighten the palate while satisfying hunger. The inevitable nap that follows? That's just confirmation that the meal was worth it. In my kitchen, that's the definition of cool.

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Creamy Lemon-Garlic Rigatoni

This creamy pasta dish relies on cooked cannellini beans to produce its signature texture. The idea stems from making a silky white bean purée, sharp with garlic, and served on toast with a few tomatoes – a delicious crostini. For the pasta dish, I thinned the puréed beans with lemon juice, water, and garlic purée. The result is a creamy sauce punctuated with spicy notes of garlic and chili pepper, and brightened with a squeeze of lemon juice. It’s an unusual preparation, and perfect for summer when served with a few ripe tomatoes and freshly torn basil leaves.

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Pasta alla Mediterranea

I gave this pasta dish a name that clearly emphasizes the flavors of the Mediterranean, which remind me of my sun-splashed adventures exploring the regions of Italy that border the salty seas of the Mediterranean. For me, that means combining something green with assertive garlic and fruity extra-virgin olive oil, then accented with hints of spicy chili peppers, lemon, and salty capers.

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Lemon Pasta with Zucchini

It’s hard for me to think of a summer pasta dish better than this one. The lemon lightens the carb-load sensation. The grated zucchini, laced with a touch of piquant chili pepper and pine-like marjoram, adds an unmistakable summer squash sensation that sits somewhere between a cucumber and a pumpkin. The salted capers burst in the mouth every third or fourth bite, washing the palate clean. And a few roughly chopped hazelnuts add a bit of texture and nuttiness.

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Your Summer Pasta Confessions

Have you tried any tricks to lighten pasta during hot weather? I'd love to hear about your summer pasta victories (or disasters). Share your go-to combinations in the comments below

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Even thoughts of food contributed to my overall sense of discomfort. I’ve been in these situations before. I knew I had to recalibrate my expectations for eating well during my stay. Those of us who prefer to eat plants generally succumb to the path of least resistance...in other words, roasted vegetables, unseasoned boiled potatoes, and large chunks of tasteless tofu.

The focus of the weekend was writing, and that meant I spent the majority of my time questioning my abilities. I lost count of how many times my mind would suddenly break into “yes, but...” moments. On the other hand, the food part of the weekend turned into a massive surprise, allowing me to gently slip into a state of increased comfort.

I began pursuing a career in writing roughly three years ago. Transforming from an active chef life to a passive writing life has been challenging. My new vocation trapped me between uncomfortable solitude and my ingrained need for order and control. My mind has been a constant, messy cacophony of messages reminding me of every possible insecurity known to humans. I often head to the safe confines of the kitchen to escape – to be in an environment where I know all of my knives and forks remain in the same place.

As time relentlessly moved on, I felt stuck in my internal battles. I knew I had to find a way to negotiate a truce within my mind. I chose to invest time in attending a workshop focused on food writing to directly confront the obstacle standing in my career path.

As the 22 attendees and two instructors gathered on the first evening, the loudspeaker in my mind blared, “What the hell are you doing in this space?” The room was filled with accomplished writers, most of whom had already been published many times over. I felt like a tramp crashing an exclusive food writer’s guild.

My anxieties only increased as I walked into the dining room after the introductions. Everyone appeared comfortable and in their element. People were laughing and sharing stories of their published works. There was a clear connection happening. I kept my distance, fearing I would cause a short circuit in the room.

I was the outsider. I was older than most. I was from a different country (one of only two who traveled from abroad). I was ‘the vegan’ (I later discovered one other in our group). Everything happening in that moment kept feeding my insecurities with cruel precision. I wanted to clutch onto something familiar as a counterbalance. I found myself thinking about the logistics in detail – who needed what, how I would handle the service, and multiple dietary needs. Old habits, I suppose.

I wiggled uncomfortably in my chair as delicious-looking bowls of rigatoni arrived. I was hungry. The long plane and train journey didn’t provide me with any decent dining opportunity; vegans still have limited choices in travel food.

Despite my grumbling stomach, I didn’t expect much at dinner. Past experiences kept reminding me that vegans tend to get served the literal crumbs of a chef's creativity – tasteless food made with the least amount of effort.

My food appeared without fanfare – I wasn’t the first served, or the last. The food just arrived like everyone else’s. I was delighted, even overjoyed, when I looked at the bowl in front of me. It was packed with asparagus, peas (I think), fregola, and a broth that smelled homemade.

Each spoonful tasted fresh, with an occasional welcome burst of mint. Every crunch of perfectly cooked asparagus was balanced—slightly sweet with hints of bitter. The fregola, too, held that authentic al dente bite. That was the sign, I thought, any chef taking the time to add a hint of herbal flavor to surprise and please the diner is a chef that cares. I was getting a secret message from the kitchen telling me to “relax, I’m happy to take care of your needs.

Dessert arrived next. Plates of ruby red strawberries, cream, and thin shortbread biscuits were placed in front of everyone, including me. The server quietly informed me that the cream and biscuits on my plate were vegan. I was, once again, delighted. My plate looked exactly like all of the others. Nothing stood out. My food was not a beacon, signaling to everyone that I was different...an outsider. The simple act of presenting my dish like all the others sent another message from the kitchen. “You are welcome here, and you don’t need to feel like an outsider.”

The first meal removed any anxiety I had about the food I would be served during my weekend stay. It also eliminated the need to think I was any different...or that my food choices were, in any way, out of place.

Meal after meal, snack after snack, I was always presented with delicious options. Most of the time, the food was served family style on platters. Cleverly, the chefs in the kitchen chose to use a technique I’ve endorsed for many years – serve the food in modular components. There were platters of vegan-friendly offerings like salads, stuffed peppers, lentils, and roasted potatoes. The animal-based inclusions, such as cheese and meats, were typically served on separate platters, allowing everyone to make their own choices. Brilliant.

The entire concept and menu planning were designed to ensure that everyone felt comfortable and satisfied, regardless of their unique dietary choices. And I’m happy to report that avocado on toast is just as popular as a sausage roll for breakfast.

The table I ate at all weekend symbolized respect instead of neglect. The food nourished everyone’s body, mind, and soul – even the jittery ones trying to find comfortable ground to stand upon. At the end of the seminar, smiles, laughter, togetherness, understanding, and inclusion were the crumbs left on the table

Special Thanks...

I managed to work through many issues during the weekend. In many ways, my commitment to facing my fears allowed something magical to happen.

Steven Pressfield put it this way in his marvelous book, The War of Art, “A crack appears in the membrane. Like the first craze when a chick pecks at the inside of its shell. Angel midwives congregate around us; they assist as we give birth to ourselves, to that person we were born to be, to the one whose destiny was encoded in our shell, our daimon, our genius.”

Thank you, Mark and Diana, for this workshop. It has helped me crack the shell holding me back and allowed me to safely emerge, take a look around, and find my way.

Follow Mark on Substack to discover more about his writing seminars — and to immerse yourself in some excellent writing. Follow Diana on Instagram to find out what she’s currently working on...or get her latest book.

Thank you, fellow food writers, for allowing me a place at the table. You may never know how much it meant to feel included.

Finally, I would like to extend a special thanks to Joss and Ella, both seasoned food stylists who have worked in the industry for many years. They have compiled impressive resumés...but in my mind, nothing compares to the respect, creativity, and enthusiasm they showed us during this weekend catering to food writers. There was a part of me that wanted to join them in the kitchen – to return to my safe place. But in the end, I’m happy I got out of my way, allowed the weekend to flow...and to simply enjoy some really tasty food!

As a special sign of gratitude and respect for the wonderful food experiences I enjoyed, I decided to recreate the unique flavors of that very first dish of fregola I was served. Though I never asked for the recipe, I used what I remembered to create a version that honors the original – a version I choose to call Fregola di Prima Estate (Fregola of Early Summer). And as any chef will tell you, the biggest compliment ever given is the one that attempts to duplicate a recipe.

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Fregola di Prima Estate

Fregola with vegetables is a typical first course offering in Sardinia. It’s simple to prepare – about the same time as it would take you to make a pasta dish – full of flavor and texture, and honestly…just a bit unusual.

Fregola (also known as fregula in Sardinia) is made from strong durum wheat, formed into tiny pellets (similar to couscous, but much larger in size). It is commonly toasted very slowly to give it an unusual chewy texture and sort of a biscuit-like flavor. It is often used in soups and stews and is mainly served as the first course – much like risotto dishes within the Italian mainland.

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Fregola con Verdure

I have previously written about Fregola and offered a recipe idea that includes a nod to the typical ratatouille vegetables: eggplant, zucchini, sweet peppers, and tomatoes.

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Your Turn at the Table

Have you ever felt like an outsider in a room full of experts? I'd love to hear about a time when unexpected kindness or inclusion turned your day around. Or maybe you're a fellow plant-eater with horror stories (or pleasant surprises) from dining events?

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Do you recall the Robert Frost line about choosing a road less traveled? Its symbolism could be interpreted as an endorsement of individual choice, regardless of uncertainty and potential regret. At least, that’s how I see it.

This fork in the road is also what I often face in the kitchen when piles of ingredients sit on my table. Do I make something recognizable, perhaps something I’ve made dozens, if not hundreds, of times? Or do I yearn for something new—something challenging that might work?

These were my thoughts as I sat and stared at the pile of freshly cut rhubarb sitting on my white laminated Saarinen tulip table.

I consider rhubarb a trusty old friend. It visits me every May, and then vanishes a few weeks into June. We usually hang out together and play the same game that ends in pie or compote. These are joyous and delicious times, but also far too predictable as I grow older. Sorry, rhubarb, but I’m feeling bored this year and I want something new.

As I sipped my morning coffee, cake came to mind.

Cakes are typically reserved for celebrations or to satisfy an urge for chocolate. Creating one makes me nervous; I'm not that good at making them, and they seem complicated to get just right.

Sometimes, despite my sincerest attempts, cakes turn out dense and heavy, like a 10-month-old fruitcake. They can also turn out wet, collapsing under their weight.

Moreover, there are separate bowls for the dry and wet ingredients. There are spatulas and whisks. It all feels like too much effort to clean up. And while the cake bakes away in the hot oven, my sun-warmed kitchen grows hotter.

But...

Chunks of sour rhubarb pieces suspended in a spiced batter began to take shape in my imagination. The color of the sponge intrigued me. Could I make it earthy – perhaps a color that would remind me of the ruby stalks emerging from the sandy, rich soil? I could employ an old trick I once learned, and coat the springform pan with sugar that would melt into the cake’s exterior to create a crunch. Yes, that would be a nice touch. Most of all, I want to pack the batter with fruit that would begin to melt into the cake’s interior. This should be a cake that needs no sauce, although I wouldn’t blame anyone if they wanted a scoop of something creamy on top.

As my plan crystallized, ginger seemed to whisper from somewhere nearby...maybe even cloves or vanilla. And I swear, I thought I saw the pile of rhubarb dance with anticipation. Suddenly, I was off and running, and my old friend rhubarb and I shared a most delicious slice of cake in about 90 minutes.

Success breeds ambition. A bowl of early-season apricots replaced the rhubarb on my table, and I suddenly found myself at that familiar crossroads again. The rhubarb cake had shown that straying off the beaten path could lead somewhere worthwhile. Now these apricots seemed to whisper the same challenge: a paved road or barely visible trails?

Apricots arrive when rhubarb season is in full swing. But early harvests of apricots – probably flown in from Spain or Italy – arrive at the local markets in a state of fruit puberty; they are not fully mature, but they are far enough along to annoy anyone daring to eat one. I liken them to a 13-year-old boy struggling with a squeaky voice. Artificially ripened apricots lack aromas, have an apple-like texture, and massive amounts of tannins and acids. Like drinking a young red wine from the Rhône region, the potential is there, but the experience isn’t enjoyable.

But every gardener knows that patience and heat can work miracles.

I typically enjoy eating apricots raw. It’s almost a game to try and nab one that’s in the sweet spot of ripeness. Even a day or two on either side usually satisfies. Alternatively, I’ve always enjoyed roasting apricots (especially the slightly hard ones) and dressing them up with rosemary, which complements their natural flavors and aromas. They match up well with almost anything coming off a grill.

These days, I tend to keep apricots safely in the sweet section. It’s crumbles, pies, ice cream – any and all, adorned with a dash of herbs and enough sugar to balance their pesky acids.

But this year, the path less traveled calls again. And thanks to rhubarb's encouragement, I know where it leads—to more cake, more risk, more discovery.

Sometimes the road less traveled turns out to be less traveled for good reason. Other times, it leads to exactly where you didn't know you wanted to go. Either way, you've moved forward. Either way, there's cake.

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Rhubarb Cake

At first glance, this cake reminds me of a French clafouti – the rhubarb pieces push their way through the top just like cherries in the classic clafouti recipe. But after slicing into the cake, there will be no confusion – this is a cake with a moist and crumbly interior that bears no resemblance to an eggy clafouti.

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Apricot Cake

This simple cake celebrates the goodness of apricots. Baked in a sponge batter with hints of almond and vanilla, ripe apricots are enhanced and morph into fruity goodness that’s almost citrusy.

This recipe is based on the famous German Aprikosenkuchen, a traditional treat commonly enjoyed during late spring in many parts of Germany, Austria, and Switzerland. The cake is typically served on its own – it’s so light and juicy, and a sauce or anything creamy is not necessary.

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Your Turn!

Have you ever found yourself staring at familiar ingredients, torn between the comfort of a tried-and-true recipe and the thrill of culinary adventure? I'd love to hear about your own kitchen crossroads moments—did you take the safe route or venture into uncharted territory?

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I sip my coffee, breathing in the air from a brand new day. Looking west, sunlight scatters through the atmosphere, painting the horizon in dark blue and violet—colors soon surrendering to yellow, orange, and red. From the distant forest comes a series of barks and screams: foxes scrambling to return to their den's sanctuary.

Temperatures rise quickly outside, and I feel the heat intensify in my kitchen as the sun fires its rays directly through my window. I head across the street to check my urban garden space before the day's warmth robs moisture from fragile new plants.

This spring has been too warm. Buds and flowers explode on branches. Apricots – still small enough to take in one bite – begin showing color. The ants have been industrious, gathering at the foot of my dwarf pear tree, poised to encircle aphids and feast on their sugary excretions. I make a mental note: prepare more soapy lemon spray to deter those tiny invaders.

Satisfied the garden will survive another day, I allow myself a few minutes to read what others are writing.

The Other Gourmand enthralls me as she reflects on recent meals enjoyed in Italy. The food looks enticing...it awakens my creativity. I begin to think about food. I lose myself for ten minutes in Mark Diacono’s latest entry – his writing always captivates me. His Sprouting Broccoli, Asparagus and Spring Flower Gratin gets me thinking...and imagining. I navigate to Buono Domenica – a regular destination when seeking Italian inspiration. Of course, her Sicilian potato salad with wild oregano, capers, and olives grabs me. Memories begin to stir inside my head. I go there, giving those memories my full attention.

I pause...and allow my smiles to fully develop.

Reading on, I visit Stir the Pot, My Morning Muse (always a visual feast), and Sydney Michalski’s Nature Moments. I lose myself in Roselle’s In the Beautiful Middles of Nowhere, and I find inspiration (again) through the works of Ben Green, Wil Reidle, Will Rankin, and Will Cooper. Finally, I acknowledge there's too much to read—too many perspectives worth exploring, and I make my way to the door.

My head is filled with ideas as I walk toward the local market. A song emerges, springing to life like new shoots reaching for sunlight. Brian Wilson playfully sings in my mind, "I'm gonna be 'round my vegetables - I'm gonna chow down my vegetables." I chuckle quietly.

Booker T. and the M.G.’s suddenly pops into my head with a slowed-down version of Green Onions. I hum along, contemplating asparagus, morel mushrooms, new potatoes, peas, fava beans, and green onions.

I’m nearly at the market, and everything points in one direction...the song of the fricassée.

Fricassée

Spend enough time with French recipes, old or new, and you'll inevitably encounter Fricassée. This cooking method—combining vegetables, potatoes, and a white sauce with meat or fish—earned high regard throughout France and Europe.

According to Larousse Gastronomique, the word fricassée evolved from fricot, describing any simple, tasty, and popular dish – quite a broad definition that leaves plenty of space for individual interpretation. Precisely what I intend to explore.

Making a spring fricassée coincides with the arrival of bright yellow rapeseed flowers checkering the landscape, offering striking contrasts to greens and blues. I typically use any fresh spring vegetable available – 5 to 7 varieties is what I aim for. I include early-season Italian potatoes and, if the season is kind, a handful of fresh morel mushrooms.

I prepare each vegetable separately, taking my time. This allows for leisurely completion at the final moment, bringing everything together in a flavorsome white sauce.

Fricassée is my ideal spring dish. It represents the essence of plant-centric cooking: local, seasonal, fresh, and nourishing. It's everything I embrace from my vegan lifestyle...it’s like painting a picture of spring on my plate.

My mind feels fully engaged when I leave the market with a full bag of worth ingredients. Spring moves swiftly, and I want to preserve as much as possible. I stroll in the general direction of home, making sure to inhale wild garlic, lilac blooms, linden flowers, and freshly cut grass. In the distance, I spot a rapeseed field in full bloom. The colors saturate my eyes. I wonder...could I create that kind of visual appeal on a plate?

I contemplate what I read earlier. I visualize what I want to create in my kitchen. Suddenly, as Larousse suggested, everything in spring feels like it could be a fricassée...and out of nowhere, I find myself humming: everything is a fricassée.

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Spring Vegetable Fricassée

A vegetable-based fricassée broadly describes cooked vegetables and potatoes served with white sauce. While this interpretation suits any season, I prefer staying within spring's boundaries. I delight in barely-cooked young spring vegetables paired with early mushrooms and young steamed potatoes. Much of this preparation can happen a day or two in advance.

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Engagement

Does a particular dish make you sing or hum? Tell me about it—what culinary creation inspires and moves you like your favorite song?

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