Polenta

Smoked mozzarella flavors these chops from the inside; an easy cherry tomato pan sauce and creamy polenta round things out.

Rich, sweet, moist and yet completely free from flour and refined sugar, this Italian lemon and almond cake is a great way to end a meal. It is technically a cheesecake, but has very little in common with the heavy American versions. In Italy, most delis have their own version of ricotta. The most delicious one is made from sheep's milk–try it in this recipe, if you can find it. We often prepare the cake a day in advance. It makes it even creamier and enhances the flavors.

The polenta crust needs to chill at least 2 hours before baking, so prep it the night before (or in the morning before you run to work—it's that easy).

Serving Size: 8

This is one of those serendipitous, stumbled-upon creations. I had made a big pot of polenta, and I poured the leftovers into a baking dish in a thin layer. The next day, foraging in the fridge for lunch, I came upon the polenta, a little fresh mozzarella, a little Parmesan (or was it Pecorino?). To make a pizza of sorts, I layered on the cheeses, added a splash of oil, crumbled over a handful of dried sage leaves, and put it into a hot oven. The result was completely satisfying. So what if it's not truly a pizza?—though perhaps it has a culinary ancestor somewhere, since there's really nothing new under the sun.

These savory puddings work as a brunch or side dish, with their corn husk "handles" making them look like cheerful sunflowers. After you remove the kernels from the cobs, you scrape the corn milk from the cobs with the back of a knife, then simmer the cobs in cream and milk. This mixture forms the base of the pudding batter, which you pour into corn husk–lined muffin tins. The result is part corn muffin, part soufflé.

This dish comes together fast for a simple weeknight meal, and it's also elegant enough to serve to any important guest.

Parmigiano-Reggiano adds salty, nutty richness to this ratatouille, which rivals the best oven versions. To speed preparation, feel free to skip the first step of salting and rinsing the eggplant and zucchini (this process draws off any bitter juices). Instead, just remove any particularly seedy and brown parts of the eggplant, or use smaller Japanese eggplants (which also do not need to be peeled). For pizzazz, add chickpeas and pitted, chopped oil-cured black olives. To make this dish vegan, swap in olive oil for the butter and skip the cheese (adding olives will make up for cheese's saltiness). When reheating the polenta, add liquid (such as chicken stock or milk), then adjust the seasoning if necessary with more salt, pepper, and butter.

Polenta, a staple of northern Italian cooking, is coarsely ground cornmeal that is cooked very slowly simmering on top of the stove (or in the oven). Because of the frequent stirring and the incremental additions of liquid, the cooking method is very similar to that used for risotto. Polenta can be served right away, as in the recipe that follows, or allowed to set and then cut into shapes and fried, grilled, or baked. Water is the most common liquid, but for a richer, more flavorful polenta, replace all or some of the water with chicken stock (page 41) or vegetable stock (page 56), reducing salt accordingly, if necessary. Or substitute half the water with milk (preferably whole) for a creamier consistency. This recipe calls for two pots of water for cooking the polenta: one for the initial stage when the cornmeal is whisked into hot water, and the other for additional water that is added gradually while the polenta cooks to reach the desired thickness. Having less water in the first stage helps the cornmeal reach a creamier consistency earlier in the cooking process, so lumps are less likely to form. Once you become familiar with the method and know the thickness you prefer, you won’t need to measure the amount in the second pot. The longer the polenta cooks, the creamier and tastier it becomes (up to a point). The recommended cooking time here is merely the minimum required for the polenta to cook through. If you choose to cook it longer, simply add small amounts of hot liquid as necessary to achieve the desired consistency, making sure that you let the polenta absorb all of the liquid before adding more. The method described below can be used to cook other types of meal, including semolina (coarsely ground durum wheat often used to make puddings) and grits (coarsely ground corn, also known as hominy grits).

In the last few years, it seems like there have been two requirements to opening a successful restaurant in Los Angeles. You have to offer a selection of decent wines by the glass, and you have to offer braised short ribs. You see short ribs served on the bone and off the bone; cooked with Indian spices, Asian spices, and Latin American spices; and served over mashed potatoes, polenta, and who knows what else. I don’t roll my eyes when I see them on a menu because I know how good they can be. Once they’re cooked, they’re good for a few days, so they’re convenient for the home cook. Braise them today; reheat them tomorrow. In the Italian spirit of not wasting any bit of food, shred the leftover meat to make Francobolli di Brasato al Pomodoro (page 177).

You can make the polenta through step 1 ahead of time; let cool, then cover and refrigerate.

Water or stock can be substituted for any or all of the milk, but milk makes a creamier polenta.

Look for precooked polenta logs in the refrigerated section of your grocery store. If using fresh plum tomatoes, peel them by scoring an X in the bottom with a paring knife and plunging them into boiling water for several seconds; transfer to an ice-water bath, and let cool. Slip off and discard the peels and seeds.

Creamy, cheesy polenta tops a chunky mixture of vegetables in this hearty casserole.

Many dense cakes such as pound cake can be grilled with great success. The grilling lightly toasts the cake and adds depth to the flavor. Here, Joanne Weir shares her favorite Mediterranean version, grilled polenta cake topped with seasonal berries tossed in a fruit sauce. Note: Make the cake a day in advance, and the berry compote several hours in advance so the flavors have time to blend.

In the Sard dialect, the town of Villagrande is called Biddamanna. There, a vast parcel of Sard earth is su cumonale—owned by everyone of the community. Shepherds can pasture their sheep, townsfolk can collect wood for their fires, a family can cultivate a small orchard, a garden of vegetables. The Biddamannesi can walk kilometer after kilometer through forests, into the mountains, onto the moors, hunting, foraging, gathering, as they have done forever in this town with no walls, no fences. And, too, they cook for each other over great fires laid in the piazza near the village hall on feast days. Cauldrons of thick soups, mutton poached with wild grasses, and beautiful handmade pastas are offered with baskets of pane carasau and barrels of rough, purply cannonau. Though all Sards seem passionate about making packets of their food, these Biddamannesi seem more devoted, even, to the pursuit. They urge rough doughs into pouches and pillows plumped with all manner of savories and sweets, the bundles tumbled into gurgling oil or baked over wood embers or gently poached. Culingionis are raviolo-like pasta typically stuffed with bitter greens and an acidy, fresh ewe’s milk cheese or a paste of potatoes, nutmeg, cloves, wild mint, and pecorino. Though these are luscious, it is a half day’s ceremony to make them. Hence, I sometimes wrap the good potato paste in a crisp quilting of cheese pastry, a quickly done deed that gives up all the savor of the culingionis plus the prize of a gorgeous scent as the crostata bakes to crispness.

Historically the Napoletani have been able and brilliant friggitori—fryers of food. Until only a few years past and sometimes, still, in the quarters of the poor, the very air was thick with the scents of food being crisped to a light gold in boiling oil. The humble kiosks of the friggitori, traditionally wagons fitted with cauldrons, were wheeled about the dank alleyways, the friggitori wailing out the worth of their salty wares, promising them to be “nuvole ricoperte d’un manto dorato”—“clouds mantled in gold.” Sometimes, the offering was a nugget of simple bread dough stretched out and fried, then dusted in sea salt and anointed with oil, other times there might be little croquettes of rice and cheese or fritters of broccoli or artichokes. Often, though, the friggitori brought forth lusciously crunchy half-moons of dough plumped with mozzarella and known as panzarotti. Our favorite kiosk sits, still, in front of the Pizzeria Bellini, just down the street from the Accademia delle Belli Arti in Via Costantinopoli, a tiny quiver of space where one can stand, at nine in the morning, even, to bite at hot, too hot, savories while listening to two violins, a viola, a violoncello, and a Baroque guitar working through Boccherini. Here follows a version of panzarotti made from course dough rolled thin, laid with mozzarella, pecorino, and bits of salty meat or tomato or anchovy, folded over and cast into whorls of bubbling oil.

…in the manner of Ellisabetta. Abruzzesi women seem congenitally beatific. They endure, they temper, they are faithful to their own notion of life and betray none of the gnashing dramatics of those Italian women who seem to burlesque passion, who remain in pain eternal, fanned if only by the postino’s tardiness. The Abruzzesi are intrinsically more dignified than those. As wives and mothers, the Abruzzesi seem more revered than leaned upon. Not the archetypal massaia, farmwife, a woman of the Abruzzo historically worked the fields, made bricks, and piled them up into rude buildings with the same good sentiments with which she told fables to her children and suckled her baby. There are many stories, in fact, of women of the Abruzzo that I might tell you. I could tell you about Francesca Cipriani. Well into her seventies, slender, of fine bearing, her long, silver hair pinned up under a kerchief, she speaks eloquently of what it is to live in an isolated mountain village at the end of this millennium. She knows very well that hers is the last generation with the will to stay there inside the small rhythms of its solitude. She is of the village of Campotosto, long and still famed for its plump, rough-textured sausages. She is one of the last artigiani—artisans—who build, by hand, the mortadelline di Campotosto. We were hard put, though, to talk her into selling a few of them to us. She said that this last batch had not yet had time to age properly and that she simply would not sell them in their unfinished condition. We told her that we had a woodshed much like hers and that we lived, not so high up as she, but nevertheless, in the mountains and that we would promise to hang the little sausages there in our own crisp, cold, oak-scented air. She consented. As we were driving away, she raced after the car, counting on her fingers and calling to us, “Lasciatele appese fino al giorno di Pasqua e a quel punto saranno perfette”—“Leave them to hang until the day of Easter, at which point they will be perfect.” We did exactly as she said, taking Francesca’s mortadelline from the woodshed on Easter morning, slicing them thickly, and eating them with a soft, buttery pecorino bread for our Easter breakfast. And then I could tell you about Elisabetta. We found her in the countryside between Anversa and Cocullo. We saw a sign fixed to a tree, penned in a child’s hand, we thought, that read, LA VERA CUCINA ABRUZZESE. COME ERA UNA VOLTA. THE TRUE COOKING OF ABRUZZO. AS IT ONCE WAS. It was, after all, nearly noon, and the invitation was, indeed, irresistible. We pointed the car, as the sign’s arrow indicated, down the narrow, scraggly lane. We stopped in front of the only house. There was a puppy sitting among the weeds and wildflowers, a starched, white napkin laid before him like a tablecloth and beset with various little dishes. After wishing him a buon appetito, we turned to the door. Another sign, in the same child’s hand, invited us to ring the bell if we were hungry. We rang the bell. And there came Elisabetta. A rosy wool skier’s cap pulled low over her brow, her thin, tiny body swathed in long skirts—one piled over another for warmth—and scuffed black boots composed her costume, all of it ornament to her caffè-latte-colored skin and the great, gray sparklers she had for eyes. Elisabetta, now seventy, began her career as a restaurateur at sixty-one. She was just coming into her stride, she told us. Since we had arrived much too early for lunch, she sat us down in the kitchen in front of an old whisky bottle filled with cerise-colored wine and two tumblers. She puttered about, chopping and stirring and such, talking about her life, her adventures, how, when her then twenty-year-old son was sent to Sicilia for his military service, she went along. Because she feared the boy would miss her too much and because she feared, too, she migh...

White asparagus, ramps, and morels are the caviar, foie gras, and truffles of the vegetable world. Simply sautéing them together in brown butter and serving them with creamy polenta is one of my favorite ways to enjoy these edible trophies of spring.

When you live in Southern California it’s hard not to be influenced by the spicy, vibrant flavors of Mexican food. People might imagine chefs spending their few and precious nights out wining and dining on five-course meals, but in reality you’re far more likely to find me at the sushi bar, Korean barbecue house, or my favorite taqueria. This spiced pork stew satisfies my cravings for the spicy, robust flavors of ethnic food. I start with some of the Mexican spices I love so much—cumin, cayenne, coriander, and chile—tossing them with chunks of fatty and flavorful pork shoulder and braising it into this succulent pork stew. Pork shoulder is one of my favorite cuts to cook with. As an added bonus, it’s one of the few meats that are still pretty inexpensive. People go crazy for this tender, slow-cooked pork bathed in its own spicy sauce, but don’t worry—it’s so impressive, they’ll never know you did it on the cheap.