Just like the narrow streets, weathered architecture, and unhurried pace of life, cafés are part of the fabric of small town European culture. They line thoroughfares and alleyways, peaking out from sloped awnings and sprawling unapologetically across sidewalks. They are so commonplace, I managed to overlook taking a single photo of one on our recent trip to Puglia (oops).

But I don’t get the sense these unpretentious places rely on the business of tourists like me anyway; these cafés seem to belong to the locals who amble in throughout the afternoon to enjoy a coffee or a beer, to smoke a cigarette and to chat with friends. They are the kind of place where, if transplanted to the old West, the music would come screeching to a halt and heads would turn and glare if a stranger walked in the door. Luckily, in my experience, everyone usually just ignores you altogether.

A quaint courtyard in Matera

Which is all fine by me, because these loyal patrons fascinate me most. They explain what otherwise seems like an astronomical rate of cafés per capita in small villages and residential neighborhoods across the continent, a density that would drive half of them to bankruptcy here in the US. These local haunts thrive because going to cafés is part of the culture there—a culture completely opposite to the take-out, fast food industry here where Starbucks franchises serve as caffeine gas stations for people in a hurry (or an internet connection to be milked for everyone else) but rarely as a community gathering place.

I don’t mean to paint with too broad a brush; the feel and ambiance of cafés vary greatly between countries. In Denmark, I discovered it was standard practice to provide blankets at the outdoor tables so you can carouse and drink Carlsberg through the long, harsh winter. In France, I relaxed at refined cafés along quiet canals and car-less cobbled streets. In Italy, coffee shops buzzed with the hisses and clanks of espresso machines and the boisterous conversations of customers. But everywhere, people seemed to revel in the café culture.

Mr. Practical with an espressino in Monopoli

In the US, taking an hour out of our afternoon to sip coffee on a quiet side street is an activity reserved for vacations and maybe summer weekends, although even then, house projects and other duties usually crowd out such leisurely indulgences. Aside from Portlandia-esque pockets of the country, just finding an inviting place poses a formidable challenge. And after Puglia, I have to say, that’s a shame.

There, although we did most of the cooking ourselves, we frequently made mid-afternoon stops for espressino, a delightfully perfect mini cappuccino, or on one lucky day, for caffè speciale. We happened to be passing through the town of Polignano a Mare, a spectacular enclave of white-washed buildings perched on top of towering sea cliffs and gaping caves, when our hosts suggested we stop for a drink.

Polignano a Mare

I confess, we had already visited this café once before to sample their world-class gelato (they stuff the cone with fresh whipped cream, then fill it with superb gelato, then dip the whole thing in cream one more time). Our first experience was so extraordinary, we happily returned to Il Super Mago del Gelo, which means the Super Wizard of Frost, probably the best café name ever. We wormed our way through the throngs of customers spilling out of the wide café doors onto the central piazza, and claimed one of the few free tables. Most of the floor space, intended for the famous upright espresso-drinking culture of Italy, was being well-used.

Our hosts ordered our drinks, which involved a lot of yelling over the bustling counter, and soon we had steaming hot caffè speciales before us. Made with espresso, amaretto, lemon rind, and whipped cream, there’s not much to say except yum. Since we got back, Mr. Practical and I have been making our own version which we enjoy in our own backyard café, savoring a few days of unseasonably warm weather here in Oregon. Unfortunately, the only local patrons here are of the furry or feathered variety. There’s no trick to these delectable coffee drinks, so brew up some thick, strong espresso and take a break from life to sip a simple caffè speciale.

Caffè Speciale
(1 drink)

1 oz. amaretto
2-3” strip of lemon rind
2 oz. espresso
1 dollop of whipped cream

Make the espresso in an espresso machine or get one of these handy (and economical) stove-top espresso makers, a staple of every Italian kitchen.

Pour the Amaretto into a clear coffee glass with a handle (it doesn’t have to be glass, but it sure is pretty that way!).

Cut a strip of lemon rind using a bartender’s zesting tool or a vegetable peeler (I used an old pottery tool used for trimming pots). Twist the rind over the glass to expel the oil from the pores and toss it into the drink.

Add the espresso and top with whipped cream. That’s it!

In the middle ages, the peasants of Alberobello had it rough. Many of them lived in cramped cone-shaped huts called trulli, shelters hewn from the local limestone that lie scattered across the forests and fields of central Puglia. The nearest cousins of these cone-shaped houses dot the deserts of Eastern Turkey and probably appeared in Italy after some ancient skirmish stranded Turkish soldiers amongst the gnarled olive trees of Puglia along with their architectural traditions. They were not, by any measure, luxurious.

The trulli of Alberobello

As legend has it, the Count of nearby Conversano mandated that the laborers who worked his land live in these peculiar houses because they possessed one dubious advantage: they could be dismantled in a matter of minutes by simply removing the keystone that held the roof arch in place. This benefited the Count when royal tax collectors came calling, charging a fee for every household under his domain. Instead, they found only piles of rubble where trulli had stood not long before–piles of rubble which were conveniently untaxable. The inhabitants of the trulli, however, were greatly inconvenienced as they razed and rebuilt their homes every time one of the king’s men came through town.

A “crown” of burnt wheat flour for making pasta

And things were no better a little further to the north in the town of Foggia. Here, farmers slaved away growing durum wheat to make semolina flour for bread and pasta, turning over the majority of their yields to the lords who owned and managed the land. After the harvest, they burned the fields to prepare them for the next year’s planting, and only then were they allowed to scavenge any remaining grains to keep for themselves. They ground these toasted grains into farina arso, or burnt wheat flour, to make pasta and bread. After all, beggars can’t be choosers.

Freshly made sea shell-shaped cavatelli

But today, both of these traditions are treasured pieces of Pugia’s history. Twenty years ago, UNESCO declared the trulli of Alberobello a World Heritage Site, protecting the two thousand conical houses of Puglia and regulating their restoration to preserve their unique heritage. Hoards of tourists now flock to the sleepy village, slung in the gentle fold of the Itria Valley, while historians now marvel at the practicality of trulli. For instance, each house collected precious rainwater from the roof, storing it in an underground cistern beneath the building to sustain its inhabitants through the dry season. The 2 meter-thick walls kept residents warm in chilly winters and cool in hot summers, while a small gap between the inner and outer walls allowed air to circulate through the house. This warded off the kinds of illnesses that thrived in damp, stuffy environments; even the plague stopped in its tracks before reaching Alberobello.

The perfectly stacked stones of a trullo roof

Likewise, burnt wheat pasta is now considered a delicacy by foodies far and wide; the charcoal-colored flour cooks to a striking dark green hue, and its taste is even more unconventional. It brims with complex savory flavors, peppery spice and nutty overtones. And don’t worry, nothing about it tastes unpleasantly singed. While burnt wheat flour and pasta are hard to find outside of Puglia, let alone in the US, you can make it by simply toasting semolina in a pan or in the oven. In my opinion, the flavor and the experience are well worth the effort!

Burnt Wheat Cavatelli
(Serves 8)

250 g burnt wheat flour
250 g semolina flour
250 g water, plus more if needed
20 g salt

We brought burnt wheat flour back from Italy with us, but it is hard to find here in the US. Luckily, it’s very easy to make. Simply toast some semolina flour on a dry baking sheet at 350°F for 25-40 minutes, until browned. Cool to room temperature before using.

Next, combine the regular and burnt semolina and pour into a mound on a wooden work surface (see the photo above or this post on focaccia). Scour out a well in the middle about 8″ across, forming a ring of flour around the outside. Place the salt in the middle of the ring.

Add water gradually, first dissolving the salt and then slowly incorporating the flour. Continue to add water whenever the mixture in the well reaches a pasty-consistency, but never breach the walls of the ring. Eventually, when the dough is almost finished, the ring will be very small and you can incorporate all the flour by kneading gently and rolling the dough around the board.

After you have added all the water, the dough should be slightly tacky. If not, add a little more water, a tablespoon at a time, squeezing the dough between your fingers to help it absorb the liquid.

Next, form the dough into a ball and knead it for 8-10 minutes. We learned a very good technique that I had never used before during our trip to Puglia. To use this method, hold the ball with your left hand and push down and away from you with the heal of your right hand. Push the dough out 4-5″ from the main ball, ripping it in the process. Then roll the dough back up onto the ball and push down to reseal it. Rotate the dough a quarter turn and repeat. Do some gentle kneading in between rounds of ripping to help the dough hold together and flip the ball over every minute or two to knead evenly.

When you are finished, the dough should be smooth and not sticky at all. If you poke it with your finger, it should bounce back quickly. Wrap it tightly in plastic and let it rest in the refrigerator for 20-30 minutes.

Remove the dough from the refrigerator and cut off a 1″-thick strip using a bench knife. Cover the remaining dough with plastic to prevent it from drying out. Roll this strip into a long snake, about ¼-½” in diameter. Then use the bench knife to cut the snake into little rectangles, about the size of chiclets or Captain Crunch cereal.

Using a butter knife, shape the pasta as shown. Place the blade of the knife on one edge of the rectangle, leaving a little dough showing. Push down and pull towards you, stretching and squishing the dough. At the very end, twist the knife inward, releasing the dough and forming a curved shape called cavatelli. Don’t worry if you don’t get it right away. It all tastes delicious! Just try to make pasta of a uniform size and thickness so that they cook evenly.

Place these in a single layer on a cookie sheet to dry. Cook as much as you plan to serve. Freeze the rest on the cookie sheet to prevent them from sticking together, then transfer to a closed container when solid and store for up to a month or so.

To cook, boil in salted water for 2-3 minutes, until soft. Drain and serve immediately.

Serve this pasta any way you like. I used the recipe below, inspired by a dish we had in the town of Locorotondo. I based my first attempt on this recipe from Bon Appetit, and it comes highly recommended!

Burnt Wheat Cavatelli with Chickpeas and Olive Oil
(Serves 4)

½ batch of burnt wheat cavatelli, around 2 c. of fresh pasta
1 onion, quartered
1 carrot, roughly chopped
1 celery stalk, roughly chopped
5 cloves garlic, minced
4 sundried tomatoes
¼ c. parsley
pinch of chili flakes
½ c. olive oil, divided
salt
3 c. water, divided
1 can chickpeas
pinch of sugar
splash of vinegar

Heat a large pot of salted water over high heat.

In a food processor, combine the onion, carrot, celery, garlic, parsley, tomatoes, and pepper and process until finely chopped.

Then, in a large pan over medium heat, cook the vegetable puree in ¼ c. olive oil until browned.

Add 1 c. water and simmer until evaporated, about 5 minutes.

Then add the chickpeas and remaining 2 cups of water and cook for 10-15 minutes more, until desired consistency is reached. Season to taste with sugar and vinegar.

When the pasta water reaches a boil, add the pasta and cook for 2-3 minutes, until soft. Drain and divide into servings.

In a separate pan, cook the minced garlic in ¼ c. olive oil until golden brown.

Top the pasta with the chickpea sauce and olive oil and serve immediately.

Now that I am back home and getting settled, I think I should tell you that one of the reasons I was abroad last month was to attend cooking classes in Italy. I know, I should have mentioned it sooner. Yes, it was amazing and yes, I am eager to recreate everything I ate. But it has taken me until now to feel ready to eat Italian food again—and to feel the first grumbles of hunger. Suffice it to say the food was delicious, but copious, and the meals were delightfully long and leisurely, but my taste buds went a little numb after a week of 5-course lunches and dinners.

Enough eggplant for just one course of dinner…

Anyway, I am ready now and I plan to work through some of the fantastic recipes we learned in Puglia, the southern tip of Italy that forms the boot heel of its stiletto shape. This little-visited region is full of friendly warmth and hidden surprises. Few elements of modern culture have intruded on its ancient rhythms and almost no one speaks English. It has sunny coastlines of bony limestone brimming with sea anemones, dense villages of remarkable cone-shaped trulli houses, and 15 times more olive trees than people. And like everywhere in Italy, it boasts amazing food that can’t be found anywhere else.

The trulli houses of Alberobello, a UNESCO World Heritage Site in Puglia

To start with, though, I wanted to recreate the most amazing focaccia I have ever had in my life. After spending the morning backstage in a bakery in the neighboring region of Basilicata (a whole other story!), we stopped in the city of Matera, famous for its sassi, or cave dwellings. Its medieval white-washed houses seem to grow out of one another like a dense coral reef colonizing its rocky promontory. A spider web of narrow alleys and steep stairways winds between dwellings, snaking past ancient churches and secret courtyards.

The medieval city of Matera, famous for its sassi, or cave dwellings, and for its focaccia

As we quickly learned, every village in Southern Italy is known for some kind of local specialty: semolina bread in Altamura, custard pastries in Lecce, gelato dipped in whipped cream in Polignano a Mare. Inside the stony walls of Matera, the local specialty is focaccia. This version is thick and spongy, aromatic and savory, with a crunchy crust infused with copious amounts of olive oil. It has nothing to do with the hard rounds of bread offered at American bakeries and it is simply amazing.

Focaccia from a bakery in Altamura, near Matera

Since we did not have the chance to make focaccia ourselves, I sought out this recipe from a chef who visited Matera herself and tried to recreate the experience back home. In my opinion, it turned out pretty well, but not perfect. I have a hunch that some of the bakeries in this region add mashed potato to the dough for extra moisture and use primarily semolina flour, the kind of wheat grown around Matera that has an exceptionally high protein content and makes incredibly springy bread. You can look forward to focaccia 2.0 when I’ve tried these variations, but this version will certainly do in the mean time.

Stacks of semolina flour at a bakery in Altamura. Semolina gives pasta its characteristic yellow color.

I also made this focaccia by hand, since nothing about Matera gives the feeling that anyone there has a KitchenAid mixer. I used a technique we learned in Puglia for all doughs where you place the wet ingredients inside a ring of flour and slowly mix them with your fingers. Kneading this particular dough presented a special challenge, since the focaccia dough is very wet, but it worked out fine and I would recommend it to anyone who doesn’t mind getting a little bit dirty. I give special instructions for the low-tech method below, but if you feel intimidated or pressed for time, go ahead and use the mixer (I won’t judge). Experiment with toppings as you go and remember the cardinal rule of cooking in Puglia: never, ever skimp on the olive oil.

Focaccia, based on this recipe
(makes two 9” rounds)

450 g bread flour
16 g rye flour
100 g sourdough starter (100% hydration) or sponge
1 tbsp. + ½ c. olive oil, plus more for topping
12 g fresh yeast cake or 1¾ tsp. active dry yeast dissolved a small amount of water
15 g salt, plus more for topping
310 g water (~70°F, it should feel neutral to slightly cold on your finger)

Fresh rosemary in bloom!

Toppings:

Fresh sage and
¼ white onion, cubed

~or~

Fresh rosemary and
10 small garlic cloves, halved

Note: I prefer to use weights when baking, but you can reference the original recipe for volume measurements if you don’t have a scale.

To use a mixer, follow the original recipe. To venture on by hand, read on. On a large, clean wooden cutting board, pour the bread flour into a mound and mix in the rye flour with your fingers. Then hollow out a ~8” well in the middle by pushing the flour into a high ring.

In the center, pour the starter, 1 tbsp. olive oil, yeast, salt, and a small amount of water. Mix these well with your fingers until the yeast is broken up and the salt is dissolved. Add a bit more water and slowly start incorporating flour from the ring into the wet ingredients.

Continue to do this, adding more water as the dough becomes thicker, but being careful not to breach the walls of the ring and make a giant mess. Mix until all the water has been added and the dough is thick but sticky.

To knead, wet your hands and remember that you want a wet dough to get big bubbles, so you must resist the urge to add any more flour than is absolutely necessary.

Use a kneading motion, but expect that the dough will adhere to the board. Stretch a handful of dough 6” into the air and then fold the stretched segment back into the center. Repeat, working your way around the dough. Occasionally, use a bench knife to clean the dough from the board and flip it over and work the other side.

Knead vigorously for 5-10 minutes. Even if you feel like you are getting nowhere, you are building strong gluten chains and developing the dough. You will know that you are making progress because you can stretch the dough further without ripping it, and because the surface will start to look smooth. Eventually, it will begin to pull away from the board, and this is when you can stop.

Place the dough in a glass bowl and seal tightly with plastic wrap. Leave it in a warm, draft-free place to rise for 1½ hours. I like to put a baking stone in the oven, heat it to 350°F for 1 minute, turn off the oven, and rise my dough in there. It produces very even, reproducible results.

From right to left: the dough after kneading, the dough after the first rise, and then the second.

When the dough has doubled, do one round of stretching and folding, flip the dough, and return to the bowl. Cover it in plastic wrap and let rise for another hour.

When it has doubled again, turn the dough out onto a lightly floured surface and divide in two. It should be soft and bubbly, so handle gently. Prepare two round cake pans by coating each with ¼ c. olive oil. Place half the dough in each, cover with a clean towel, and let rise for another 30 minutes.

Preheat the oven to 450°F (remove the baking stone if you used it for proofing) and prepare the focaccia.

Press the toppings into the dough, pushing down and outwards to help the dough fill the pan. Brush with copious amounts of olive oil (more than you think you need), sprinkle with salt and top with fresh herbs. Let rise another 30 minutes.

Bake for 30-40 minutes, until the top and bottoms are golden brown. Cool in the pans (this is how we saw it done in Italy) until it won’t burn you, then enjoy it warm!

Fresh Yeast Cake

These can be found in specialty baking stores or gourmet markets, or surprisingly, in Fred Meyer next to the butter! Is it at your local grocery store? They are used all over Europe (in fact, there is no such thing as dry yeast there), and they add a wonderful flavor to breads. They can be used just like dry active yeast, with one cake roughly equivalent to a package of dry yeast.

In my last few posts, I alluded to the fact that I have been traveling in Europe for the last three weeks. What I neglected to mention is that spring was nowhere to be found in the olive orchards of southern Italy, the cobbled streets of Copenhagen, or the banks of the Danube as it winds through central Vienna. Instead, winter has dragged on stubbornly—the worst in 43 years—leaving behind relict patches of snow in shadowy alleys and warning new leaves not to adorn the bare branches of trees with vernal green.

Somewhat paradoxically, this anomalously cold weather could actually be due to global warming and the reduction of Arctic sea ice. The proposed mechanism behind such a connection is this: less sea ice in the Arctic allows more heat to escape from the ocean, warming the polar atmosphere. This reduces the temperature and pressure differences between the Arctic and the mid-latitude locations of Europe, weakening the Westerly winds that draw strength from this gradient (see this old post on the jet stream to learn more). Without strong winds blowing across Europe and holding the polar weather off to the north, cold air from Siberia can seep down, sinking its claws into milder climate zones.

Looking out the window somewhere between Greenland and Baffin Island on my Amsterdam-Portland flight

And this year, the observations suggest the link is real. The National Snow and Ice Data Center reports that Arctic sea ice extent was below average all winter, contributing to high pressure and a strongly negative phase of the Arctic Oscillation (scientific parlance for the factors that weaken the Westerlies described above). The ice has already begun to melt, and I was lucky enough to look out the window at the right time on my flight home to see the first cracks opening up in the sea ice between Greenland and Baffin Island. As you can see below, this is well below the average extent for this time of year.

Source: National Snow and Ice Data Center (http://nsidc.org/articseaicenews/)

Global warming aside, flying over Greenland and Arctic Canada was an amazing experience—I have rarely made the trip in such spectacular weather! But after 10 hours of looking out my window at endless stretches of ice and snow, I was tremendously relieved when I arrived home in Oregon to find spring had arrived here with a vengeance. The yard had sprung skyward into a sea of swaying grass, flowering bushes sagged under the heavy weight of profuse blossoms, and the garden was well on its way to edible-ness. The whole state seemed engulfed in the manic fecundity of sun, warmth, and spring.

But my favorite thing about spring is that it heralds the beginning of the seasonal eating cycle. For so much of the winter, the local produce on offer consists of storage potatoes, papery onions, and squash. The apples have grown mealy, the frozen berries are running low. Even the lettuce from California is limp and shrunken. But now, we have green garlic and broccoli raab. Soon, there will be spicy mustard greens and radishes, then asparagus and scapes, then strawberries will usher in the kaleidoscope of summer treats. I cannot wait!

Because of this, green garlic has a special place in my heart as the true mark of spring. It can be harvested early before the bulbs start to form, and offers a sweeter, subtler garlic taste than its mature, dried cousin. This week, I made an Austrian Garlic Soup that I discovered just last week in a chilly café in Vienna. It is delicious and creamy, lightened up for the warm weather by substituting some green garlic for traditional garlic cloves. Enjoy it with a salad or, in the Austrian way, before a heaping main course of schnitzel, sausage, and potatoes. I cooked an extra thick version as a kind of garlic gravy and served it with a chard scramble. Be brave, be creative, but whatever you do: be grateful for spring!

Austrian Green Garlic Soup (Knoblauchcremesuppe)
(Serves 4)

4 tbsp. butter
10 cloves garlic, minced
⅓ c. flour
1½ c. milk
2½-3 c. vegetable stock, to taste
2 stalks green garlic, sliced
2 tbsp. parsley, plus more for garnish
olive oil for frying
1 c. rustic bread, chopped coarsely

In a large soup pan, heat the butter over medium heat. When melted, add garlic and cook until translucent and soft.

Remove from heat and whisk in the flour. Return to heat and slowly add the milk, whisking constantly.

Add the vegetable stock, half the green garlic, and parsley and simmer until thickened. The texture is up to you—the version I had in Vienna was thick enough that the soup would not run at all but I made a slightly thinner version here.

In a separate pan over medium-high heat, fry the remaining green garlic and bread. When crispy and brown, add to the soup and serve immediately garnished with parsley.

From the picture, you might guess this post is going to be about beets, but you’d be wrong. While those hearty root vegetables provide the substance and vivid burgundy color of this easy spread, a heaping dollop of yogurt is the ingredient that will pique your palate with its tart tang as you savor its incredible lightness and complexity.

But tasting delicious is just an incidental bonus of yogurt; it really sets itself apart by providing unrivaled nutritional density, maintaining a happy ecosystem of beneficial bacteria in our digestive tracts, and possibly, lengthening lives. Did I mention it’s a breeze to make at home?

Homemade yogurt and honey, which was referred to as “the food of the gods” in ancient India, along with some local hazelnuts and raspberries. Not a bad breakfast!

To understand how fantastic yogurt really is, let’s start at the beginning. Yogurt is just cow’s milk that has been fermented by a group of helpful bacteria (Lactobacilli and Streptococci) into a thicker, more acidic substance. You can strain it or flavor it after the fact, but this is how all yogurt starts. These beneficial organisms partially digest the sugars and proteins in the milk,  turning them into compounds like glucose, lactase, and lactic acid, among others. Practically, this has a major benefit: yogurt keeps longer than milk because of the acidity it develops during fermentation.

More recently, though, scientists have begun to realize other advantages of the fermentation process: people who suffer from lactose-intolerance can often handle yogurt because the offending molecule has been broken down beforehand by the bacteria. The same goes for the protein casein, another allergen found in milk that becomes more agreeable after fermentation. And all this pre-digestion (I know, that sounds gross) may also make it easier for our bodies to absorb and utilize all the good vitamins and minerals found in yogurt, like calcium and B12, nutrients which can be elusive for vegetarians.

Cup for cup, yogurt has twice as much protein and calcium as milk, and a third more B12, even though it contains just 30 more calories and a few more grams of naturally-occurring sugars. I should note that super sweet fruity yogurt does not count. This stuff is in a different category altogether. As I recently learned in Michael Moss’ fascinating article in the New York Times Magazine, a serving of Yoplait contains twice as much sugar as a bowl of the quintessential breakfast junk food, Lucky Charms. There’s nothing healthy about that.

But nutrition aside, it is the powerful medicinal qualities of yogurt that interest me most. Eating yogurt has been clinically proven to reduce diarrhea in people taking antibiotics. This problem occurs often because, in the name of killing the few bacteria responsible for your illness, antibiotics essentially annihilate all microbial life in your body. Unfortunately, most of these organisms work on your behalf doing helpful things like suppressing the growth of harmful bacteria in your stomach. The live cultures in yogurt, however, help replenish the ranks of the good guys in your digestive ecosystem, preventing you from getting sick. Even beyond the gut, regular consumption of yogurt seems to promote general immunity for reasons that remain unclear.

Which leads us to an even bigger mystery: eating yogurt (the good kind, at least) is associated with long-term weight maintenance or loss. This was demonstrated most robustly in the Nurses’ Health Study, a twenty-year project that tracked participants’ weight, eating habits, and exercise regimens at four year intervals. Along with shoo-ins like fruits, vegetables, legumes, and whole grains, yogurt stood out as being a favorite food of those people who gained the least weight over the decades of midlife that typically coincide with slow but steady weight gain even in normal weight individuals.

Why an animal product with naturally occurring fats, sugars, and even a smidge of cholesterol helps people stay slim is anyone’s guess. Advocates of fermented foods, like the evangelist Sandor Katz, would probably argue that it’s no coincidence: fermented foods have been part of the human diet for millennia, and the benefits of live cultures may very well outweigh any caloric “penalties” of yogurt.

And this brings me to the most intriguing possibility of all: eating yogurt might even help you live longer. Though this has not been scientifically proven (and is probably impossible to test), it has been rumored since biblical times to be true. Anecdotally, there is some circumstantial support for this claim. There are a few places in the world with unusual densities of extremely old folks, like the Greek island of Ikaria, nearby Sardinia, and a smattering of small villages in Bulgaria. In all of these places, yogurt is a staple of the cuisine. There are admittedly other factors that contribute to their longevity, like spending lots of time being active outside, having strong familial relationships, and eating the revered “Mediterranean diet.” But I think it’s safe to say that indulging in yogurt won’t do any harm. Plus it just tastes good.

So the best part, which I’ve been saving to last, is that yogurt works like sourdough—once you have a starter, you can make as much yogurt as you want for nothing more than the price of your milk. And all you need for a starter is some yogurt with live cultures. From here, I will simply refer you to this excellent resource on making your own yogurt. I’ve been making mine with a starter from a brand of skyr, a deliciously creamy yogurt made in Iceland that I got hooked on while living in Copenhagen. Beet spread or not, I hope you give this healthy, simple experiment a try!

Beet Yogurt Spread
(makes ~2 cups)

4 medium beets
½ c. plain Greek yogurt (find the recipe here)
2 tbsp. olive oil
3 cloves garlic, minced
½ tsp. salt

In a large pot, bring several inches of water to a boil, enough to cover the beets. Scrub the beets and cook them until a fork easily pieces the flesh, 30-40 minutes. Drain and let sit until cool enough to handle. Peel the beets by running them under a cold tap and gently sloughing off the skin. Chop coarsely.

In the large bowl of a food processor, combine all ingredients. Puree until very smooth.

Serve with bread or use as a vegetable dip or eat it straight. It will keep for several days in the refrigerator.

One of the most problematic issues for people who like to think of themselves as discerning and sophisticated is the paradox of authenticity. When we travel, for instance, we want to have authentic experiences. The only problem is that we are tourists, no matter how much we try to hide it, and in some sense, our very presence precludes the possibility of engaging in anything truly authentic.

For context, I am in the middle of a three-week international voyage—the outstanding culinary details of which will come in due time—so this thorny topic has been festering in the back of my mind for a while now. It has been asking me difficult questions like: why is something authentic objectively better than something that’s not? Can everyone participate in authenticity, or does it expressly rely on you being one of only a few outsiders to bear witness to a special experience? This is tough stuff.

Aside from travel, the other domain that prizes authenticity is food. We want to make authentic food with authentic ingredients using an authentic recipe from someone’s grandma’s grandma. Or at least I do, and I suspect you might too. Somehow, adhering to tradition feels respectful. And you know whatever it is will taste exactly the way it’s supposed to taste. But then again, the evolution and fusion of cuisines is the lifeblood of cooking, what keeps it new and interesting. And all those new fangled dishes taste pretty good too.

So here’s where I come down on the issue of authenticity: as long as someone involved knows what’s authentic, whether they adhere to it or not, everything is going to be just fine. Someone with inside knowledge can share an authentic experience with you, even if you are an outsider, while innovations can be equally satisfying since, as the saying goes, you have to know the rules to break them. Problems arise when no one knows—or cares—how things are supposed to go. This is true in tourist traps where some watered-down version of culture is offered for mass consumption and in food, when egregious compromises are made in the name of laziness, thrift, or ignorance.

All of which leads me (obviously) to chilaquiles. This delicious Mexican breakfast food is so authentic, it has retained its pre-Colombian Nahuatl name. Traditionally cooked as a way to use up stale corn tortillas, I first tasted it in Mexico, in a town somewhere along the Pacific Coast between Puerto Vallarta and Acapulco and I have loved it ever since. In addition, I now use it as a litmus test for the authenticity of Mexican restaurants in the US, which as you probably know, vary considerably in quality and adherence to traditional Mexican cuisine. As far as I can tell, if a restaurant serves chilaquiles, they are the real deal.

On a final note, I feel compelled to make the somewhat hypocritical disclaimer that I am by no means an authentic source of traditional knowledge about chilaquiles. They did, however, inspire this post and provide the opportunity to reflect on authenticity, a segue I hope you will find satisfactory. Because this dish is so simple and because Mexican ingredients are widely available in the US, my goal is merely to introduce chilaquiles into your culinary landscape without doing too much harm in the process. May your own quest for authentic chilaquiles begin from here!

Chilaquiles
(Serves 4)

12 corn tortillas, preferably stale
oil for frying
salt
16 oz. salsa verde or red chile sauce
1 c. queso fresco, crumbled
2 tbsp. cilantro, chopped
1 avocado, sliced
4 eggs, sunny side up
2 c. refried or whole pinto or black beans

Cut the tortillas into strips ½-1” wide by 2” long. Fry in a wide pan with ½” oil until golden and crunchy. Drain on a paper towel and sprinkle with salt.

In a separate pot, heat the salsa until warm. Add the tortillas and cook until the desired crunchiness is achieved (I like a bit of bite left in the tortillas, but it’s up to you).

In another skillet over medium-high heat, heat a tsp. of oil and fry the eggs as you like. Covering the skillet will help cook the whites without flipping the eggs if you like your yolks runny like me.

Sprinkle with queso fresco and cilantro, and serve topped with avocado and egg along with a side of beans.

Place your bets: what color is the raspberry cake on the inside?

I recently had a birthday, and because I am crazy and starved of the opportunity to bake lavish desserts, I volunteered to make my own birthday cake for my own birthday party. From the start, my internal gustatory compass pointed toward raspberry cake and could not be swayed. More than the tart, refreshing flavor of fruit, I was intrigued by the idea of a beautiful, naturally tinted bright pink cake.

So I did some Googling and found no results for what I had in mind. As in, truly not a single result in the whole vast expanse of the Internet, which I assumed contained every possible realization of all Earthly creations. At that point, I should have known something was amiss. But I was confident, the same way I am confident every time I smugly ignore the GPS directions barked from my phone and get myself stuck on some dead-end road in a bad neighborhood that I was sure was going to turn into an on-ramp to the freeway. Just like this, raspberry cake wasn’t going to be quite so simple.

I’ll spare you the suspense: I did not get pink cake. No, I opened the oven to find two startlingly blue rounds puffed up in all their cake-y glory. I felt consoled only with the thought that I may have finally uncovered the mysterious origins of the ever-elusive blue raspberry!

Finally, blue raspberry!

A little bit of scientific sleuthing revealed the chemistry behind this surprise. It turns out there is a compound in raspberries (and other fruits) called anthocyanin that transforms like a chameleon into a deep blue pigment when the acid balance of the batter becomes too basic, or if trace amounts of metals are present.

As you can probably guess, armed with this knowledge, the temptation was too great—I had to try again. For my second attempt, I modified the recipe in two ways. First, I cut back on the baking soda, which is a weak base. In the first cake, I actually thought the batter rose too much, to the point of being a little dry and overly airy. With plenty of baking powder and my super fresh eggs already in the batter, I wagered that I could get by with much less baking soda.

Just to be sure about the pH, however, I also added a dash of lemon juice, nature’s favorite acid. I incorporated this into the raspberry puree to make sure that wherever fruit ended up in my batter, there would be some acid with it. In the end, I think it also improved the fruity flavor of the final product, so it was a win-win decision in my book!

A promising start…

So for a second time in a week, I whipped up some cake batter, this time making cupcakes for a small gathering of friends. As I watched my mixer spin away, I anxiously waited for bruises of blue to appear, but saw none. I filled the paper cups with rosy batter, still unwilling to call it a success. Only when I pulled these beautiful berry bites out of the oven did I rejoice. One small step for chemistry, one big step for raspberry cake!

Raspberry Swirl Cake, inspired by this stellar recipe
(Makes two 9” rounds or 24 cupcakes)

4 c. pastry flour
2 tsp. baking powder
½ tsp. baking soda
1 tsp. salt
1 c. butter, room temperature
2 c. baker’s (fine) sugar
2 tsp. vanilla
4 eggs, room temperature
1 c. raspberry puree (see note) + ¼ c. for swirling
2 tbsp. lemon juice
1 ½ cups buttermilk

2 c. frosting (I used this faux-chocolate ganache frosting for version 1 and cream cheese frosting for version 2, both were great!)

Note: I made the raspberry puree by running the berries through a food mill to remove the seeds. You can achieve the same result by pushing them through a fine mesh sieve. Alternatively, include the seeds if you like the crunch.

Preheat the oven to 350°F. Grease cake pans and line the bottom with parchment paper or insert cupcake liners.

In a stand mixer with the paddle attachment, cream the butter and sugar at medium speed until pale and fluffy, several minutes.

While you mix, combine the flour, baking powder, baking soda and salt in a small bowl. Combine 1 c. of the raspberry puree with lemon juice in a separate bowl.

Next, add the vanilla and eggs, one at a time, to the butter, mixing until just incorporated.

Add the raspberries to the wet ingredients. Then, with the mixer on low, alternate between adding dry ingredient and buttermilk, scraping down the sides of the bowl occasionally.

Divide the batter evenly between the cake pans or cupcakes. Spoon a bit of the remaining berry puree on top of the batter and cut into the batter with a few perpendicular slices of a butter knife.

Bake until a toothpick comes out clean, 40-50 minutes for rounds, 20-30 minutes for cupcakes.

Cool completely before frosting and serving.

So I bet you’re wondering, what exactly is PB&A? It is, of course, the classic combination of peanut butter and apples, my favorite snack of all time. I adore the perfect juxtaposition of rich and tangy, smooth and crunchy, sweet and…not as sweet. I have loved apples and peanut butter since before I can remember, and for a while, around the time I was 5, I even believed that some alchemy ignited by their union could cure headaches. Unfortunately, I must report that this belief was later debunked by numerous throbbing brain squeezes that persisted unabated through enjoyable but useless treatments of apples and peanut butter.

Failed medicinal benefits aside, it is an undeniable truth that I am not alone in my love of apples and peanut butter. There is an entire tumblr page dedicated to smartphone photos of people’s post-workout or midnight indulgences in this beloved snack and an eponymous nutrition blog. But I would argue that the world’s number one fan of apples and peanut butter is none other than my humble dog, Maddie.

Apples and peanut butter are, to my knowledge, some of the only foods that Maddie and I both consider edible. To be fair, I am the finicky party in this equation. Displayed as a Venn diagram, Maddie’s circle of potentially ingestible substances would be almost universal, including all manner of dead, rotting, and excreted ingredients (but not, incidentally, cilantro). Mine, in this context, would be an infinitesimally small circle of significantly less putrid items.

Maddie’s love of peanut butter developed early on, when we used it to disguise pills or to keep her busy for a few hours by stuffing a few tablespoons into a rubber toy. Apples came later, when we discovered that our four-legged hiking partner was also a walking garbage disposal, a willing receptacle for soggy apple cores and any other tasty tidbits you might find inconvenient to pack out of the backcountry. (For full disclosure, I should say that I always break the cores in half and remove the seeds, since they contain traces of naturally occurring cyanide.)

Maddie on one such hike, wearing her most innocent expression in hopes of securing an apple core

Little did we know that when we gave her that first apple core on a backpacking trip long ago, we unwittingly created a monster. Now, her ears perk up at the sound of the fruit drawer sliding open in the refrigerator. The first crisp bite of an apple’s flesh rouses her from the deepest slumber. Before you have time to chew and swallow it, she has materialized from the ether and attempts to bend you to her will with indecently pathetic puppy eyes and profuse salivation. All of her excitement builds in anticipation of a bite of food, which as far as I can tell, she will inhale instantaneously and never even taste. But because we are suckers, she almost always wins.

So you can imagine that she was beside herself while I baked these goodies. She frantically paced the kitchen—her toenails tapping out a nervous rhythm on the floor—while I spooned peanut butter in the mixing bowl. She snorted loudly as I peeled and sliced the apples, making sure I hadn’t forgotten she was there. The rich smells emanating from the oven sent her over the top and into a state of resigned depression. She crawled through a labyrinth of chairs into her den beneath the dining room table, where she regarded me with a rueful gaze while I baked.

You’ll be glad to know that, in the end, we both got our treats: she devoured her precious core and I gobbled up these rich and tangy dessert bars, a welcome twist on the trusty old standard of apples and peanut butter.

Peanut Butter Apple Bars
(Makes 1 dozen)

1 c. peanut butter
½ c. butter, room temperature, plus 1 tsp. for brushing
½ c. brown sugar
½ c. white sugar, plus 2 tbsp. for sprinkling
2 eggs, room temperature
1 c. flour
½ tsp. baking powder
½ tsp. salt
8 oz. jar of apple butter
2 granny smith apples, peeled, cored, and thinly sliced

Preheat oven to 350°F.

In a stand mixer fitted with a paddle attachment, mix the peanut butter and butter at low speed until combined. Add the brown sugar and ½ c. white sugar and cream at medium-high speed until light and fluffy. Add the eggs, one at a time, incorporating thoroughly in between, and scraping down the sides of the bowl.

In a separate bowl, combine the flour, baking powder and salt. Slowly add to the butter mixture while mixing at low speed.

In a greased 13×9” baking dish, spread the dough into a ½” thick layer. Top with a layer of apple butter followed by a layer of overlapping apple slices.

Melt 1 tsp. of butter and brush over apple slices. Sprinkle with remaining 2 tbsp. of sugar.

Bake for 40-50 minutes, until a toothpick comes out clean and the apples have started to brown. Cool slightly before cutting and serving.

I have a problem that perhaps some of you readers might share. My problem is that I am an incorrigible, uneducable perfectionist. I try to suppress it, but I fear that it is coded into the very fibers of my DNA. And while this compulsive tendency bleeds into many aspects of my life, it is currently most acute in the department of bread baking. I am obsessed with baking the perfect loaf of bread.

The reason I know I have a problem is that I no longer even care if I eat the bread. I am much more concerned with the size of its bubbles, the crispiness of its ears (the flaps of dough that you cut open when you score bread before baking), and the golden hue of its crust. I admit that things have gotten a little out of control. Last weekend, for instance, I baked 12 baguettes for no particular reason. I just wanted to see if making lots of bread was much different from making not as much bread. The result, shockingly, was that it was basically the same except we were left with a lot of extra bread.

I took a few loaves to work, and we tried our best to scarf down more for lunch, but we couldn’t make a dent in the shopping bag of baguettes I had created. In a rare moment of anxiety, Mr. Practical turned to me on Tuesday, pointing an accusatory loaf in my general direction, and cried, “They’re getting stale! What are we going to do?”

We are going to make bread pudding, that’s what! It’s an excellent use for stale bread. In fact, where bread pudding is concerned, the staler, the better! I realize that you all may not share my particular problem with bread baking, but I’m sure you find yourself with a rock-hard half a loaf from time to time. It just comes with the territory of eating fresh bread. Artisan loaves have only 4 ingredients—flour, water, salt and yeast—and a shelf life of just a few days. Luckily, rustic loaves make excellent bread pudding in my book, light and creamy, but with plenty of crunchy bits to keep things interesting.

Although I’m a big fan of more traditional sweet bread puddings, I made a savory version for dinner because, well, all we had in the pantry was a shopping bag full of bread and some eggs from our ladies. As I think you’ll see, this French-inspired variation of a classic English dish is surprisingly easy to make (most of the cooking time is spent baking), and it makes a satisfying rustic meal out of food that would otherwise have gone to waste, quite a feat of practicality. Swap in any vegetables, herbs, or cheeses you like, for bread pudding is nothing if not forgiving!

Olive Herb Bread Pudding with Emmentaler
(Serves 4-5)

4 c. coarsely chopped stale bread
½ small onion, sliced
½ c. kalamata olives, pitted and sliced
4 eggs
1 c. cream or half and half
1 c. milk
2 tbsp. herbs de Provence
½ tsp. salt
dash of pepper
1 c. Emmentaler cheese, shredded

Baby arugula (roquette) and béchamel for garnish

Preheat the oven to 350°F.

If the bread has any moisture left in it, toast it in the oven for 10 minutes while you prep the other ingredients. It should be crisp but not brown.

In a lightly greased cast iron pan or pie dish, combine the bread, onion, and olives.

In a medium bowl, whisk together the eggs, cream, milk, herbs, salt, and pepper. Pour over the bread mixture. It should be almost completely covered.

Top with cheese and bake for 40-50 minutes, until no liquid is visible when you pierce the crust. Serve warm over a bed of arugula and topped with béchamel.

Béchamel
(Makes 1 cup)

1 tbsp. butter
1 tbsp. flour
1 c. milk
¼ tsp. Worcestershire sauce
dash of nutmeg
dash of salt

In a small saucepan, melt the butter over medium heat.

Add the flour, remove from heat, and whisk vigorously until combined.

Return to heat and slowly add the milk, whisking constantly to prevent lumps. Bring to a simmer over medium heat and cook until thickened to desired consistency, stirring often.

Season to taste with Worcestershire, nutmeg, and salt.

Here’s a Practical Pantry first: a recipe for meat. I’ve never written one before because, truth be told, I’m a fairly strict vegetarian. I haven’t made a big stink about this on the blog because I don’t want it to be that kind of a blog…There is nothing less appetizing—or irritating—than a proselytizing plant eater.

I think about it like this: everyone would be better off if we ate just a little less meat. Americans consume a staggering 8 oz. a day, which takes a heavy toll on our health and our planet. Meat production stealthily emits more greenhouse gases than transportation or industry, and a recent study reported that 80% of harmful fertilizer runoff (which leads to massive dead zones in rivers, lakes and oceans) stems from the production of feed grains and from meat animals themselves. As if that weren’t enough, raising meat is incredibly resource intensive (NPR has a fantastic graphic). Guess how much water it takes to make a single burger…got a number in mind? More than 52 gallons are consumed to produce a single patty! And let’s not even get into issues of animal welfare.

Hang on one second—I have to subdue my inner soapbox vegetarian.

Here’s what I am really trying to get at: I think it would be good if we ate less meat than we do now, and if we were conscientious about where it came from, but there’s nothing magical about cutting it out altogether. Meat once a week is better than meat once a day, and meat once a month is better than that. I think every person has to decide for themselves where they come down on the spectrum of carnivorousness. I myself lean far toward the vegetable side, mostly because I just don’t like meat very much, and I am happy to offset the environmental footprint of the folks who eat it at every meal.

However, I have one weakness. I know what you’re thinking, and it’s not bacon. I am pretty sure that the nausea that overwhelms me when I smell it smoking on the griddle has been the key to staying the meatless course for nearly two decades. No, the meat I miss the most is undoubtedly fish. I confess; I really, really like fish.

You might think that fish are not so bad. After all, they don’t produce greenhouse gases and it’s fairly easy to steer clear of farmed fish (which are associated with a whole host of environmental problems). Unfortunately, the oceans are the original tragic commons; they belong to no one and thus the most profitable way to harvest them is to take as much as you can before someone else beats you to it. The world’s great fisheries, which were bountiful beyond comprehension for millennia of human existence, are crashing violently and undeniably before our very eyes. For a beautifully sad overview, see this recent article in Orion, or for a more in-depth look (and offseting the doom and gloom, for some useful suggestions), I strongly recommend an excellent book by Paul Greenberg called Four Fish.

I realize we are getting down in the dumps here, but I like to think about all this another way: there are few choices I can make in my daily life that have a greater impact on the environment than what I choose to eat. I feel empowered by the ability to vote with my dollars and my stomach.

So I compromise, and eat fish once a year at a very, very fancy restaurant where I know it will knock my socks off, and once a year, I cook it for a special meal. I never do either of these things, however, without first consulting the indispensable Monterey Bay Aquarium Seafood Watch recommendations, a pocket guide to sustainable seafood choices that lives in my wallet. My favorite fish, Halibut, has long lead the group of best choices.

It shines here as a rich centerpiece for the complex sweet and sour flavors of Thai tom yum soup (whose exotic-sounding ingredients can be found at most Asian food stores), and its flaky layers pair elegantly with deceptively simple coconut risotto. In fact, this whole meal is surprisingly easy to prepare, considering it comes off rather dashing, if I do say so myself. All the better, I think. The quicker it is to make, the more time you can spend savoring a delicious, well-earned, heartily-enjoyed meal of meat.

Tom Yum Halibut
(Serves 4)

2 c. vegetable stock
2½ c. water
5 kaffir lime leaves, pounded
2 stalks lemongrass, pounded and sliced into 2″ sections
3” galangal or ginger root, peeled and julienned
2-4 Thai chilis, deseeded and sliced
1 tsp. nam prik pao (Thai roasted chili paste)
1 tsp. sambal oelek (Thai pickled chili paste)
2 tsp. sugar
4 cloves garlic, sliced
½ onion, sliced into thin strips
4-6 mushrooms, sliced
1 tomato, cut into vertical sections
2 tbsp. cilantro, chopped, plus more for garnish
juice of ½ lime
salt

1-1½ lb. halibut or other white fish

Coconut risotto
Cilantro and green onion for garnish

Preheat the oven to 350°F.

Combine in a medium saucepan the stock, water, spices, garlic, onion, and mushrooms. Cover and bring to a boil. Reduce heat and simmer for 20 minutes, until the spices bloom. Season to taste with salt.

Wash and pat dry the fish, then cut it into four pieces of equal thickness. Place these in a large baking dish along with the tomatoes.

Add the lime juice and chopped cilantro to the soup, then pour it over the fish. Bake uncovered, rotating once, until the fish is cooked through, about 20 minutes.

If you are like me, and never cook meat, this is the most nerve-racking part of the whole process. I use a thermometer, and follow these guidelines, cooking it until the internal temperature reaches 145°F and the flesh is opaque and flaky.

Serve over a bed of coconut risotto with ample broth and a garnish of cilantro, green onion and lime juice. Remind your guests that kaffir lime leaves, lemongrass and galangal root are better left uneaten. And I can’t help but mention this: tom yum is an excellent vegetarian soup, just add tofu!

Coconut Risotto
(Serves 4)

1 tbsp. olive oil
1 shallot, minced
1½ c. Arborio rice
½ c. mirin (Japanese cooking wine)
1½ c. coconut milk (1 can)
1½ c. water

Preheat the oven to 400°F.

In an ovenproof skillet, heat the oil over medium-high heat. Add the shallot and sauté until translucent, about 5 minutes.

Add the rice and cook for 1 minute, stirring occasionally. Add the wine and cook until absorbed and evaporated.

Add the coconut milk and water and bring to a gentle boil.

Transfer to the oven and bake, covered, for 30 minutes or until the rice is soft and creamy, adding more water if necessary.