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Whether the tomatoes are fresh or canned is a seasonal matter: in summer, choose fresh ones; in winter, use canned ones. Both make a delicious, rich sauce for braising meatballs. When using fresh tomatoes, I like to peel them and I don’t bother to seed them, but that is the cook’s choice, depending on time constraints and inclination. The herbs are also a matter of choice: fresh or dried basil (the most usual addition), marjoram, or tarragon all enhance the sauce with a mildly sweet herbal presence; oregano or bay add a more assertive flavor. Spaghetti is traditional for this everyday, home-style dish, but other shapes, such as bow ties, small rigatoni, or penne, will also capture and hold the sauce as the pasta is lifted from plate to mouth. For the meatballs, I like to use my polpette, because their cheese centers add an extra oomph to the dish. But you can also use meatballs fashioned from either sweet Italian or Tuscan sausage with good results.

There’s a certain romance associated with skillet cooking in American cuisine. It conjures campfires or rustic wood-fired ovens, where the cooking vessel must be sturdy enough to withstand the heat. Cast-iron pans fit that bill and more. I routinely use three cast-iron skillets of different sizes to accommodate different types of dishes: a small one for cooking up sausage samples for tasting or for frying up a couple of burgers; a medium size for cooking plate-size pancakes or a fat, juicy steak for two; and a large one for searing meats or fish fillets before finishing them in the oven or for making this skillet tamale pie. Cast-iron skillets offer two more advantages: they are widely available anywhere that carries kitchen equipment, from hardware stores to gourmet cookware shops, and they are modestly priced. The drawback to cast iron is that it is not serviceable for dishes that include tomatoes, wine, spinach, eggplant, or the like, because it turns the ingredient unpleasantly bitter. Romance aside, cooking the tamale pie in a cast-iron skillet offers one more advantage. It saves on pots and dishes: brown the sausage in the skillet on the stove top, spread the corn bread topping over the sausage, pop the skillet in the oven to bake, and then serve directly from the skillet. The quick, few-ingredient sausage is also good for tacos, topping pizza, Mexican-style spaghetti and meatballs, or in place of chorizo for egg preparations. The corn bread batter can be cooked into a tender, light bread without the sausage; use an 8-inch skillet in this case.

In a cross-continental sausage loaf reminiscent of French pâtés, beef, pork, and veal are combined in equal amounts with bread crumbs to make a more pillowy loaf. The California twist is replacing the traditional ketchup “icing” with pavers of sun-dried tomato across the top. You can serve it warm for dinner, American style, with a side of mashed potatoes, or French style, chilled until firm enough to slice thin for an hors d’oeuvre plate. The cooking vessel can be as ordinary as a standard aluminum loaf pan or, if you are serving it warm, a more table-worthy clay pot or round soufflé dish.

In this pan-African menu, disparate parts of the continent are melded in a culinary way. The sausage is inherited from the Dutch colonialists in South Africa; the cashews, which were first brought from Brazil by the Portuguese, import a taste of Nigeria on the west coast and Mozambique on the east coast; and the spiced butter, called niter kibbeh, wafts in gently from Ethiopia. The rice and collard greens are pan-global.

Hamburgers reign supreme in the annals of American food, indeed in the annals of fast food around the world. Establishments that proffer them have made incursions into seemingly unlikely places to the extent that it is hardly surprising to see hamburgers on menus almost anywhere from Paris to Beijing. In fact, the humble beef patties have become such big business that there’s just no stopping them. And what is this icon of American enterprise? The answer is simple: it’s ground beef seasoned with salt. In other words, hamburger is quintessential sausage, and people love it. So do I. In fact, hamburgers-for-dinner is one of my default meals. For my house hamburger, I choose organic, pasture-raised beef, which, though slightly more expensive, is definitely tastier and more healthful than average ground beef. I lightly season the meat with salt and chill it for a few hours to let the salt do its work tenderizing the meat and making it more succulent. The Dijon mayo, pickled onions, and crunchy lettuce are fundamental, as are the artisanal buns, my favorite being ciabatta buns. Where are the tomatoes? I left them by the wayside in the development of my house hamburger. Their acid element and red color is supplied by the pickled onions. But, sometimes I add sliced heirloom tomatoes if it’s tomato season, or perhaps a splash of ketchup on one side of the bun. A hamburger is, after all, a personal thing, subject to whims of the moment.

Lemongrass, a key ingredient in Vietnamese and Thai cooking, contributes a clean, citrusy taste and fragrance to dishes, such as in this Southeast Asian sausage, where it lightens the bold seasoning. Only the pale, tender inside of the bottom part of the lemongrass stalk is used. To prepare lemongrass cut off and discard the long, thin, gray-green leafy tops and trim away the root end. Peel away the stiff, outer leaves down to the tender core. Slice the core into very thin rounds or chop finely.

What traveler to faraway places with strange-sounding names hasn’t become enamored of the street food found along the way? As much as art, architecture, magnificent landscapes, and the people, the food attracts. Street food requires no formal dress, nor a large bank account. It is simply there for eating, either at the spot or on the move to the next point of interest. In keeping with the street-food theme, grill these sausages if you can. Otherwise, a brisk sauté on the stove top works well. The dipping sauce, nuoc cham, is the table sauce in Vietnamese dining, much like a cruet of vinegar and one of oil on an Italian table, a bottle of chile oil and one of soy sauce on a Chinese table, or fresh tomato salsa or salsa verde on a Mexican table. It is important to use a good-quality fish sauce, one that is smooth, rather than sharp. I recommend Thai Kitchen brand, generally available in well-stocked supermarkets these days and certainly available in Asian markets.

Water chestnuts are an underwater corm, and as you might imagine if you consider their natural environment, they are plump with water and crunchy. Their taste, on the other hand, is hard to pinpoint: it’s a cross between jicama and sugarcane with a hint of nuttiness, all diluted with water. In other words, it is somewhat bland. They are often used in Chinese and Southeast Asian dishes, mainly in stir-fries, for their snappy bite. That is also what they contribute to this sausage, which features Asian tastes. I use the sausage for stuffing wontons (page 55), for making small balls to top steamed rice, for mixing into udon noodles, or for wrapping in lettuce leaves as the Thai and Laotians do with minced meats (page 119) and the Vietnamese do with savory meatballs (page 60). Fresh water chestnuts are rarely found in markets, even those geared to an Asian clientele. They are seasonal and as much of a chore to peel as tree chestnuts (not a relative, despite the name). Canned water chestnuts fill that niche. They are available in grocery stores where even only a small amount of space is devoted to Asian ingredients. This sausage recipe calls for much less than what you get in a 6-ounce can, usually the smallest size sold. The remainder can be stored covered with fresh water in the refrigerator and used in homey stir-fries, salads, and slaws.

Somewhere in the land space between Asia and Europe, pork became a rare ingredient in cooking. In most of those lands, it was because pork is proscribed for religious reasons. But then there are noticeable exceptions. In Armenia, Georgia, and Greece, pork appears on menus, though never in the exalted number of dishes that it does in the surrounding cuisines of Europe, Southeast Asia, or China. The disparity remains a mystery to me. There is no religious prohibition in these places, and pigs don’t require vast ranges or grasslands to thrive. Indeed, a small pen in the home yard does nicely. Perhaps it is because of the influence of their neighbors. The Armenians, Georgians, and Greeks are Christians, but they are flanked by Muslims and, if contiguous populations don’t insist on warring with one another, they intermingle, which means, most profoundly, they come together at the table. Thus, if you can’t share a pork dish with your neighbors, you might instead choose lamb or beef for a multicultural, convivial affair. In any case, the Greeks have retained in their repertoire a pork-based sausage that includes a bit of beef and is aromatic with orange zest and coriander and extra zesty with chile flakes. It imports with ease to anywhere such a sausage is wanted.

In the annals of folk medicine, watercress soup is said to be good for soothing a dry throat or for when a general system-cleansing tonic is needed. Here, the nip and pep of watercress infuses chicken broth made rich with slivers of shiitake mushroom and plump sausage-filled wontons to produce a new take on wonton soup that is both healthful and delicious. Hydroponic watercress, meaning watercress grown in water and without soil, closely resembles watercress you might pick alongside a running stream in spring, but it has finer, more delicate stems and far less dirt and sand on its leaves. It is often available year-round in supermarket produce sections.

Pita is a staple flatbread of casual Middle Eastern cuisine. Sometimes the pita has a pocket, which is opened and filled with delicious ingredients. Sometimes it has no pocket, and is merely folded over to contain the ingredients as best it can. The cooling, refreshing cucumber-laced yogurt sauce, called by many names—tzatziki in Greek, jajik in Armenian, cacik in Turkish, raita in Hindi—soothes the heat of a dish and the heat of the day. Following the Greek theme suggested by the sausage, I call for pita without a pocket. I shape the sausage into small balls and grill the balls, their aroma recalling the enticing, smoky scent that wafts from spinning souvlakis (gyros) you find in marketplaces throughout Greece.

In a showcase dish for slow-cooking-meets-quick-and-easy, sausage and lentils come together in a hearty combination for cool weather. The slow part is making the sausage, which is actually a cinch and can be done days in advance. The quick-and-easy part is that the dish cooks in about half an hour. Of all the many, many kinds of lentils, which vary in size, color, and their use in cooking, French green lentils are perfect for preparations such as this one where you want the lentils to cook up soft to the center while retaining their shape and not collapsing into a puree, as would be desirable, for instance, in an Indian dal. The soupçon of balsamic vinegar is stirred in just before serving so its tang and aroma remain bright and boldly present, not faded into the background.

Herbaceous and zesty, this sausage is an excellent all-purpose choice for whenever you want to add a sausage element that is neither too strident nor too wimpy. I especially like it for the vindaloo on page 49, where it stands up to the other forceful seasonings in the dish.

An unassuming regional dish of sauerkraut with various charcuterie meats—sausage, duck confit, salt pork—garnered three stars for the restaurant L’Auberge de l’Ill, located on the banks of the River Ill in picturesque Alsace, and made both the specialty, choucroute garnie, and the restaurant classics in the world of European haute cuisine. It’s one of my favorite composed pork dishes, and I often cook a simple but still lusty version of it with robust Polish sausage. If you’d like to make it more elaborate, add baby back ribs baked until half done and/or the cured duck legs without the Toulouse sausage stuffing (page 35) to the sauerkraut. The juniper berries lend a clear, piney fragrance. If you don’t have any on hand, 1 tablespoon of good gin, the spirit they flavor, can be substituted.

Vindaloo originated in the tiny state of Goa, on India’s southwest coast, which was colonized by the Portuguese in the sixteenth century. Because the Portuguese are traditionally Christian, pork is not proscribed in Goa, as it is almost everywhere else in India. Vindaloo, however, has been embraced throughout India and beyond, reinterpreted sometimes with chicken, sometimes with beef or lamb, so that it can be enjoyed within religious bounds. In fact, vindaloo with any meat, or even as a vegetarian dish, has an irresistible sweet-salty-sour-hot flavor. And though it seems intimidatingly spicy at first, one taste and you are hooked. A fruit chutney, to both soothe and stimulate the palate, is an expected complement for many Indian meals. Here, dried plums fit that bill in a chutney that can be enjoyed year-round not only with this dish, but with nearly any pork, poultry, or game dish, as well. I won’t tell you any lies: this dish is for a day when you feel like cooking. The good news is that it is a one-pot meal and worth it.

The familiar Polish sausage known as kielbasa was introduced to American cuisine in the neighborhoods of Chicago, New York, New Jersey, Pennsylvania, and Michigan, where many Polish immigrants settled during the late nineteenth and early twentieth centuries. Nowadays, kielbasa is widely produced commercially and is marketed to food purveyors nationwide. It is usually smoked and sandwiched in a hot dog bun, tucked into a hearty cabbage borscht, or added to a robust sauerkraut dish (page 46). That is not the whole story, however. Kielbasa is actually the generic term for sausage in Polish and there are many versions. I prefer a fresh, not smoked, sausage, but with a hint of ham to suggest a smoky flavor.

When I was growing up, fried egg sandwiches were one of my mother’s specialties, and we often had them for lunch on weekends. The sandwiches were made in her New Mexico cooking style: The eggs were turned once and fried until the whites were crisp around the edges and the yolks were well set. Then they were transferred to slices of white bread that had been slathered with mayonnaise, and a lettuce leaf was slipped between the egg and the bread. Here’s my contemporary version of that homey sandwich. Its siren call of melted, oozing cheese and added bonus of sausage bits turn my mom’s simpler lunchtime sandwich into a mini-meal on bread. In keeping with the pizza theme, I call for sweet Italian or Tuscan sausage. But American Breakfast Sausage (page 10) or Spicy Garlic Sausage (page 48) would also do nicely.

There’s almost no turn in Tuscany that doesn’t provide some sensory joy. Driving its curvy roads through low hills gently swelling up from narrow, verdant valleys, you discover olive groves that produce some of the world’s finest olive oil and vineyards that yield some of the world’s most renowned wines. Exploring the region’s old towns and cities on foot, you wind your way through dozens of museums full of famous artworks and wander into back-alley churches and quaint shops stacked with Tuscan treasures. And everywhere, there is fabulous food. The Tuscans have long produced delicious salumi, that special form of pork cookery, called charcuterie in France, that comprises prosciutto, mortadella, soppressata, salamis and other cured meats, along with fresh sausages particular to the region. In this recipe, sundried tomatoes, basil, and mozzarella flavor fresh pork sausage to deliver the taste of Tuscany.

One morning, Penny Brogden, my longtime friend and coworker at Pig-by-the Tail, came dancing into the kitchen, exclaiming, “I did the Polish sausages for dinner last night the best way ever! I glazed them with honey and baked them.” We tried the same preparation on the spot, and she was right. It was a fabulous way to give the ordinary a new polish. We advised customers who purchased Polish sausage to make the dish, too, and it was included in American Charcuterie, my book of recipes from Pig-by-the-Tail. If you are not set up for stuffing the sausage into hog casing, form it into links, wrap the links in cheesecloth, and refrigerate overnight (see page 154).

Minestrone has a long history in Italian cuisine and, not surprisingly, many interpretations. Old tales recount how Roman soldiers lived on a diet of minestrone and chickpeas, a strange assertion since many of the soup’s classic ingredients—tomatoes, potatoes, beans—are New World foods that were not available at the time. By the end of the sixteenth century, the core concept had become a tasty mixture of vegetables, including dried beans, with pasta and/or potatoes. If you can find them, use borlotti (cranberry) beans, a specialty of Tuscany. Swirling a pesto of arugula, rather than the more prosaic basil, into the minestrone imparts a refreshing change. Other unusual elements in the soup are a tiny spritz of vinegar and the use of shallot instead of garlic. The pesto is also good for dolloping on plain boiled potatoes or a simply cooked fish fillet or chicken breast, or on bruschetta, for serving as an appetizer.