Root Vegetable

Either of these flavorful, earthy root vegetables blends with potatoes to make a beautiful accompaniment to so many saucy dishes. And what could be simpler? You cook the two together and mash them with a little butter and cream, and they’re ready.

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.

I concocted these pancakes one night when I happened to have an ear of corn left over and a small piece of salmon I’d cooked the night before. It turned out to be a lovely, natural marriage of flavor

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.

The large portobello mushroom makes a natural saucerlike container for tasty fillings. For modest appetites, one amply stuffed big mushroom will make a satisfying lunch or supper dish, but if you’re really hungry, make two.

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.

Here’s a soup to warm your heart even on the bleakest day of winter. Use it as a guideline, and make your own innovations according to what you have on hand. The beans are very nourishing, the meat accent lends heartiness, and the greens are healthy, giving balance and color. It’s interesting how cooks of the past just knew these things instinctively.

This is ideal to make when you’ve bought too much watermelon.

This is a rich, comforting soup to make if you have treated yourself to a whole steamed lobster (see page 254). You should have about 2 cups of lobster broth left in your pot after steaming, so be sure to save it. Also, check and scrape out any bits of lobster flesh still lodged in the shells, and use them as a garnish.

Don’t throw away your chicken carcass or the package of giblets. Here’s a way of making a simple chicken stock (or broth—I use the terms interchangeably) that you’ll be using in all kinds of soups. This will produce only about 4 cups, so you may want to freeze the chicken elements until you have enough to make at least twice that amount.

This is really another take on the preceding vegetable soup, but it differs enough in detail to warrant a full-dress recipe. It is without question one of my favorite soups, and I usually plant a couple of rows of leeks in my garden so I can indulge myself at a moment’s notice. This is one soup in which I prefer to use water rather than stock, so that nothing interferes with the sweet, pronounced flavor of the leeks.

Here’s a master recipe for a vegetable soup that you can make just for yourself when you have the urge, on a cold day, or when garden greens are in abundance in the summer.

This is a good way to use that extra pumpkin or squash you may have roasted. It makes an unusually pleasing soup.

Make this simple shrimp dish often, but only recently did I discover how good it is served on a bed of farro (see page 190), which Lidia Bastianich introduced me to. It’s also delicious with rice, grits, or polenta. You’ll get a good two meals out of this amount.

Those little bits of fish that you didn’t finish, or that you purposely put aside for another meal, take on new life in these scrumptious fish cakes. My rule of thumb is to use equal parts cooked fish and potatoes. If the fish you are using has been fried, scrape off the crusty exterior, because you want the cakes to be smooth inside.

Bluefish and mackerel are both rather fatty fish, and they take well to broiling, particularly when the fillet sits on a bed of flavorful vegetables and they exchange flavors. I also like this preparation because it requires only one pan. If it’s a handsome fireproof baking dish, it can come right to the table. Otherwise, scoop everything up with a spatula and serve on a warm plate.

This is a nice dish for summer, when zucchini is abundant and the fingerlings are delicate

I recently saw something labeled “Snapper Lake Victoria (Kenya) Farm Raised,” and it looked glistening and fresh through its plastic wrap. Because the slice, just under a pound, was rather plump and not firm-fleshed and fatty, I felt it would take well to braising with some vegetables. I happened to have about half of a small fennel in the vegetable bin, and some roasted red peppers (from a jar, another good standby item, or put away your own [see page 242]), so I decided to make a bed of those aromatics and, when they were cooked semi-soft, to tuck the fish in and let everything finish cooking together. It was particularly delicious with leftover cooked potatoes browned in duck fat.

One cold Saturday in January, I was looking for something that would be a change from the usual—something meaty that would provide good fuel and also stoke some pleasant taste memories. To my surprise, I saw a fresh veal tongue in the meat counter of the local supermarket, and I remembered that as a child I could always find a jar of Derby tongue packed in its own naturally jellied juice on our kitchen cupboard shelf. It was a standby for making a good luncheon sandwich, and I suddenly longed for just that. First I had to prepare the tongue, because, alas, those Derby days are a thing of the past. The tongue was small, just over a pound, and it looked fresh. But since it was shrink-wrapped, I couldn’t give it the smell test. I always remember Julia Child’s admonition: when you get to the checkout counter, just tear off the plastic, and if your fish or meat doesn’t smell impeccably fresh after you’ve given it a good sniff, don’t pay for it. I wasn’t feeling up to such a confrontation that day, but fortunately when I got the tongue home it passed muster. First I scrubbed it under running water, then I soaked it for an hour in water to cover, with a tablespoon of salt mixed in.

This is a favorite dish of mine that I would make often when I lived in Paris in the late 1940s. I’ve learned to simplify it a bit and make relatively small portions. I am partial to leeks, no doubt because of my Welsh husband, who called them the poor man’s asparagus, and they marry particularly well with delicate veal.