European

Jane Grigson points out in her book English Food that this dish, borrowed from a Hindu creation of rice and lentils called khichri, became a favorite breakfast item among the Brits. However, she warns, it is only as good as the fish that goes into it, so don’t use tired leftovers. But good fish that has been recently and carefully prepared (i.e., not overcooked) is fine, and be generous with the butter and the cream. I have made this with salmon, flounder, and red snapper—all good.

“Tian” is a Provençal word for a shallow pottery dish, and there are almost as many tians as there are vegetables. The common ingredient is usually cooked rice enlivened with a green vegetable, aromatic seasonings, and cheese. To make it for one, use a shallow, single portion baking dish.

This is a sauce to have on hand at all times. It keeps well in the refrigerator for at least a week if you film the top of it with olive oil (and refilm after you have dipped into it and taken some from the jar), and it keeps its bloom for a couple of months frozen. It’s a good idea to freeze it in an ice tray, and then store the cubes in plastic storage bags. That way, you easily can get at just the amount you need.

I prefer this sauce to any other for cold meats, fish, and poultry, or those innards that I like so much.

One of my favorite suppers is a good sausage with warm potato salad. I love the way the sausage juices mingle with the tender new potatoes bathed in a mustardy vinaigrette—a very French taste that makes me nostalgic.

Here’s a sparkling salad that makes superb use of that one-third or so of a plump fennel bulb that you couldn’t consume in one sitting.

Endive is an overlooked vegetable in America—at least, few people cook it. But it makes a very special lunch or supper dish when done this way.

It is so easy to make a vinaigrette, the classic French salad dressing, that I can’t fathom why so many people living alone go out and buy bottled dressings. Not only do they pay more, but the dressing never tastes as fresh, and you can’t vary the seasonings as you wish. So I beg you to make your own vinaigrette as part of your cooking life. The amounts I’m giving will be enough to dress two or three small salads, but you can double or triple the quantities if you’re an avid salad consumer and want enough dressing to see you through the week. Just refrigerate the extra in a jar, tightly sealed.

Once, when I was in Cambridge working all day nonstop with Julia Child, as we often did, it was almost 11 p.m. when she finally swept away the manuscript and announced we’d make dinner. She then turned to me and said: “Judith, you make a nice little potato dish while I fix the meat.” Slightly unnerved, I managed to rise to the occasion and put together what I would call a fast stovetop version of the classic potatoes Anna. As I mashed some garlic and salt together and smeared this between the layers of sliced potatoes, Julia was looking on a bit skeptically, and although I used lots of butter, of which she always approved, it wasn’t clarified butter. But when we sat down and she took her first bite, she pronounced the potatoes delicious, and her husband, Paul, toasted me. I was in cook’s heaven. I probably made my potato dish that night in a standard round 5- or 6-inch skillet for the three of us, but in recent years I’ve made it regularly for myself in a 4 1/2-inch-square cast-iron frying pan, which once belonged to my father. After he retired, he liked cooking for himself, and I remember his acquiring this little pan with pride so that he could make himself one perfect fried egg. It’s unlikely that you’ll have such a pan, particularly one imbued with fond memories, but any very small skillet will do.

Here’s another way of giving leftover lamb new life. I’d always thought that this sumptuous Middle Eastern dish that envelops lamb in eggplant was quite a production, but done this way it takes less than half an hour to put together and is worth every minute of effort.

Recently this hard-to-pronounce French dish became a household word in America overnight, when the delightful movie Ratatouille swept the country and won our hearts. Not many Americans would begin to know how to make a ratatouille, but that such a dish had the power to evoke an overwhelming taste memory was something we could relate to. I fell in love with ratatouille when I was a jeune fille living in Paris, and I have been partial to it ever since. There is a classic way to make it—cooking each of the ingredients separately, then putting them all together—but that is time-consuming, and I’m not really sure that it produces such a superior dish. I feel that rules are made to be bent in cooking, and that there’s no harm in simplifying and putting your own imprint on a dish. So here is my version, subject to variations according to the season. I always make triple the amount I’m going to eat immediately, because I put it to so many good uses.

Treat yourself once in a while to homemade mayonnaise prepared in a food processor. This simple version is delicious and light—and it takes about 5 minutes to whip up. It will keep about a week, but mine usually vanishes before that, particularly if I use some of it to make the Mediterranean Pistou Sauce that follows.

There is something pleasantly sensual and mindful about eating an artichoke all alone, dunking each leaf in a tart, buttery sauce and scraping off that little bit of flesh, then getting to the bottom and carefully removing the prickly thistles to the heart. I remember loving this as an adolescent and always asking for an artichoke when I knew I would be home alone and could relish each bite. If you’re feeling in a cooking mood, make yourself a little hollandaise sauce (page 110) to go with this treat.

The other day, at a French brasserie across the street from our offices in New York, I ordered their single soufflé served with a green salad. It was a perfect lunch, and I went away wondering why I didn’t make soufflés anymore. It’s not only a good way to use up some of the bits of cheeses you may have around, as well as other leftovers that need reincarnation, but it’s lovely to behold and scrumptious to eat. But to make it for one? I was sure it could be done, so I purchased myself a one-person, fluted soufflé dish, 2 3/4 inches high and 4 inches in diameter, and proved that it could. My recipe for one is based on the eight pages of careful instructions that Julia Child devoted to making the perfect soufflé in Mastering the Art of French Cooking.

Every now and then, I get a yearning for a bit of warm, smooth, buttery-lemony hollandaise sauce to dip artichoke leaves into, to top a poached egg with so that I can enjoy that delicious flavor play of eggs Benedict, or to spread over a piece of grilled salmon—or other fish. But to make a small amount for just one or two servings of this tricky sauce (and then reheat what’s leftover)? Impossible, the pros would say. However, where there’s a will, there’s a way. So I experimented and managed to work out a method that served my purposes beautifully. Here it is.

Once you’ve made your small amount of hollandaise sauce, it is simple to put together that heavenly creation, egg (or eggs) Benedict,and enjoy it all alone for a Sunday brunch.

Don’t let yourself be frightened at the prospect of making an omelet. The more you make, the easier it will be, and it only takes minutes to produce a seductive oval mound of yellow eggs wrapped around a filling that provides just the right complement. An omelet can make a whole meal and is a great receptacle for whatever little bits of things you’ve stored in your fridge. So I’ll give only proportions and suggestions for various fillings, not specific directions for preparing each one. That way, you can use mine as guidelines to make your own. It is important to have a good nonstick omelet pan. Mine is 6 1/2 inches in diameter at the base and 8 inches across the top, the size I like for a two-egg omelet, and I reserve it for only that purpose. If you prefer a slightly thinner, more spread-out omelet, get a pan with an 8-inch bottom diameter.

I’ve loved shirred eggs ever since I first sampled them in a Paris brasserie years ago. But I didn’t know exactly how to make them until I came across the carefully instructive recipe in Julia Child’s masterful tome, Mastering the Art of French Cooking, where they were called oeufs sur le plat or oeufs miroir (in deference to their shimmering surface). Here’s my favorite version, which I invariably make when I have plucked the packet of giblets from the cavity of a chicken. It should always include a plump liver—the cook’s treat.

The difference between a frittata and an omelet, as I see it, is that the frittata cooks very slowly and will be somewhat more firm, so that it can suspend a number of different garnishes nicely arrayed in a pattern, with their flavors complementing one another. I always slip my frittata under the broiler at the end, so that the cheese scattered on top browns. This is another dish that welcomes improvisation.