Easy

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.

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.

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.

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.

Tomatillos are a member of the nightshade family, which includes New World tomatoes and potatoes and such Old World relatives as eggplants. Although those wide-ranging kin have become familiar around the globe, tomatillos remain something of a country cousin, not much appreciated or grown outside Mexico and its neighbors to the south in Central and South America and to the north in California and the American Southwest. Tomatillos are an everyday must in Mexican cooking and dining, however, especially for one of Mexico’s great table sauces, salsa verde. Here the sauce, usually used as a dip for tortilla chips, becomes the medium for simmering meatballs. Make this recipe in summer, when tomatillos are in season. Canned versions are available, but they should be reserved for thickening chile verde and the like, much as okra is used in southern cooking.

Mexican meatballs are typically made with a mix of pork and beef (or veal) and include bread crumbs or rice to plump them and egg to bind the ingredients. From there, seasoning variations abound: garlic and/or onion, or not; herbs and/or spices (usually cumin and oregano, sometimes mint); elements such as raisins and/or olives (a Peruvian variation); and so on. Zucchini, the “special ingredient” I use here, was suggested by Mexican cooking maven Diana Kennedy. It lightens and freshens the sausage in a way I find pleasing, so I use it for my basic recipe.

Chorizo, at home in many cuisines, appears with multiple ethnic faces from Spain and Portugal to Mexico, South America, and the Latino-inspired cooking of the American Southwest. It can be stuffed into hog casing and used fresh, or briefly aged in the casing to dry out and intensify the flavors. Sometimes it is smoked, becoming more like a salami in texture. Often it is used fresh in bulk for dishes that benefit from a hit of red and spice. This version comes from Anzonini, a flamenco guitarist and world-class chorizo maker, who generously offered his recipe to Pig-by-the-Tail. We made tons of it, and it was always special! On chorizo-making day, the links were hung on the baking-tray rack for a few hours to dry and compact. The dangling sausages festooned the kitchen like chile-red curtains. It was a spectacle of hospitality and appreciated, judging by the number of customers who came to purchase some to take home when they were “done.”

In the early eighteenth century, Spanish colonists brought a paprika-and-cayenne-seasoned sausage to Louisiana, where they added fresh red chiles and a dash of vinegar to create what is now known as Creole sausage. It is an assertive sausage that rings out “Let the good times roll!” It dances sprightly in gumbo with shrimp and oysters (page 21) and lends vivacity to a New Orleans plate with crab cakes and Cajun rémoulade (page 128). It is also delicious formed into appetizer-size balls, sautéed, and served with rémoulade for dipping.

Rice, plainly steamed, is an underpinning, accompaniment, or ingredient for many dishes, both in this book and in kitchens around the world. In order to avoid the confusion that can result because of the many kinds of rice available, I have come to rely on a basic method for preparing steamed rice that works whether you need cooked rice for adding to a recipe or serving as a side dish. It is easy to do, though you must pay attention to when it comes to a boil and then promptly turn down the heat before it boils over, makes a mess on the stove, and turns out mushy rather than in beautifully individual grains. For other rice recipes in the book, see South African Sausage with Collard Greens, Ethiopian Spiced Butter, and Cashew Rice (page 69), Paella with Chorizo, Shrimp, and Baby Artichokes (page 130), and Brown Rice, Walnut, and Dandelion Green Veg “Sausage” Wrapped in Cabbage Leaves with Tomato-Caper Sauce (page 151).

Breakfast sausage, in patties or links, is a staple of the great American breakfast plate. It’s an important player in the hearty, stoke-up-for-the-day meal that includes eggs, cooked anyway you’d like; toast or pancakes; and mugs of hot java. It is served on the road as early as 4 a.m. to truckers and workers off to the fields or factories. A bit later, it feeds tourists fueling up for a day’s adventure of skiing, mountain climbing, and other energetic activities. And on Sunday mornings, home-style cafes are filled with customers looking to splurge calories on a big breakfast out. But you don’t need to stop at breakfast when using this sausage. It also makes a delicious taco filling or pizza topping. As often as not, breakfast sausage is served in patties, but if you prefer links, you can stuff it into sheep casing.

Homemade broth makes a world of difference for the better in any dish that calls for chicken broth. Happily, a light and flavorful one can be made with only chicken backs and wings and water, no other elements—carrots, onions, celery, herbs—required, and briefly simmered for one unattended hour. It’s worth making a large amount to have on hand because it stores well in the refrigerator under the protective layer of fat that solidifies on the surface when it is chilled. If the fat seal is not broken, the broth will keep for 3 weeks in the refrigerator. If you break the fat to use just part of the broth, reheat the remainder until the fat melts completely, then cool and refrigerate it, checking to be sure the fat seals the entire surface again. The broth can also be frozen for up to 6 months. In this case, the fat layer prevents ice crystals from forming across the surface. For thrift, I use backs and wings for broth. But, you can also employ legs, thighs, and breasts, use them to make the broth, then remove them to serve as part of another dish.

These are dead easy to make and have endless applications in the kitchen. Use them to baste or brown ingredients and they will add pizzazz and excitement to stews and roasts. Likewise, they will jazz up a panful of onions or other vegetables for a soup or sauce and impart character to fish dishes. Herb oils come into their own when drizzled over summer or winter salads; they are also excellent used in mayonnaises and dressings. The basic principle is to choose robust flavorings and leave them for long enough to impart their mighty characters to the oil. Always use a good-quality oil as your base (see pp. 30–31). In all cases, to prevent the oil from becoming rancid, store in a cool place and use within 6 months.

Contrary to what you might think, making a fine vegetable broth is not a matter of tossing any vegetable matter into a pot and boiling it up. The vegetables you start with need not be picture perfect, but starchy vegetables, such as potatoes, should not be part of the mix or the broth will turn out murky, and brassicas, like cabbage and broccoli, are also not good to use or the broth will not be clear tasting. Then, don’t stint on the amount of vegetables for the amount of broth you would like to wind up with. One tomato and one chard leaf do not a tasty broth make. There should be enough water so that the vegetables barely float, but not any more. Cook the broth until the vegetables are very soft but not disintegrating; this helps make a clear broth. Following is a mix and method I use to make a good-size batch of vegetable broth that is rich enough to serve on its own as a bouillon or use as a base for any soup.

These are dead easy to make and have endless applications in the kitchen. Use them to baste or brown ingredients and they will add pizzazz and excitement to stews and roasts. Likewise, they will jazz up a panful of onions or other vegetables for a soup or sauce and impart character to fish dishes. Herb oils come into their own when drizzled over summer or winter salads; they are also excellent used in mayonnaises and dressings. The basic principle is to choose robust flavorings and leave them for long enough to impart their mighty characters to the oil. Always use a good-quality oil as your base (see pp. 30–31). In all cases, to prevent the oil from becoming rancid, store in a cool place and use within 6 months.

These are dead easy to make and have endless applications in the kitchen. Use them to baste or brown ingredients and they will add pizzazz and excitement to stews and roasts. Likewise, they will jazz up a panful of onions or other vegetables for a soup or sauce and impart character to fish dishes. Herb oils come into their own when drizzled over summer or winter salads; they are also excellent used in mayonnaises and dressings. The basic principle is to choose robust flavorings and leave them for long enough to impart their mighty characters to the oil. Always use a good-quality oil as your base (see pp. 30–31). In all cases, to prevent the oil from becoming rancid, store in a cool place and use within 6 months.

There’s no reason to settle for the sorry excuse for bread crumbs available commercially. All you need to make your own is a food processor and some day-old bread. Since I use a lot of bread crumbs in my cooking, I use my freezer for stockpiling bits and pieces from unfinished loaves, eventually to be turned into crumbs. In fact, if I’m out of my freezer inventory, I deliberately “stale” fresh bread for crumb making by drying it out in a low oven until it’s no longer squeezable. The best bread for all-purpose crumbs is bâtard, ciabatta, or a similar artisanal French or Italian bread without seeds, walnuts, olives, or the like.

Season: July to August. The big, platelike leaves of the nasturtium plant (Tropaeolum majus) are abundant throughout the summer and often well into the golden months of autumn. With their peppery flavor, they make the perfect base for a fiery pesto. Add a sprig or two of garden mint, a few golden marigold petals, and some spicy nasturtium seeds and you have a wonderful sauce to stir into pasta, swirl on soups, or just smear in a sandwich. Pick the leaves on a warm, dry day–ideally, earlier in the summer, before the caterpillars have decided to feast on them. Whenever I make pesto, I replace the traditional Parmesan with a hard goat’s cheese, matured for a year. It makes an excellent alternative to Parmesan in all kinds of dishes.

Season: June to October. This is also known as officer’s jam, but it’s really not a jam at all. The German name, Rumtopf, seems far more appropriate for what is actually a cocktail of rum-soaked fruit. The idea is that the mixture of fruit, alcohol, and sugar is added to gradually, as different fruits ripen throughout the growing season. This preserve is usually prepared with Christmas in mind, when the potent fruity alcohol is drunk and the highly spirited fruit can be served on its own or with ice cream and desserts. You will need a large glazed stoneware or earthenware pot with a closely fitting lid and a small plate, saucer, or other flat object that will fit inside the pot and keep the fruit submerged.

Season: September to October. This is undoubtedly the best-known of the English hedgerow liqueurs. The sloe, or blackthorn, is a small, black, mouth-puckering plum that is native to Britain plum will do. If your plums are quite sweet, reduce the amount of sugar, or try some of my other favorite variations on this theme (below). There is no reason why you cannot use vodka instead of gin.