Blender

Dried porcini are expensive, but even a small handful added to a soup will bring with it a wave of smoky, almost beefy notes. A general instruction with parsnip soup is to prevent the vegetables coloring, presumably to keep the soup pale, but I suggest the opposite. You want the parsnips to cook to a gentle golden color before you add the stock; that way the soup will have a deeper flavor and a color reminiscent of heather honey.

The tools for my winter gardening sessions tend to lie on the kitchen floor from one week to the next: the pruning knife, my leather-handled pruning shears, the largest of the two spades, the rake. They serve as a reminder that even though the garden may look crisp and neat from the window, there is still work to be done. It is during these cold, gray-sky days that I sometimes feel as if I live on soup. Roots—fat carrots, artichokes, and woody parsnips— are part of the lineup, along with onions and the occasional potato. I take much pleasure in the way something can be both earthy and velvety at the same time. Rather like my gardening gloves.

Good cooking often comes from simply going with what is around at the time. Ingredients that are in season at the same time tend to go together—in this case, the last of a hat trick of leek soups made with all that is left in the depleted winter vegetable patch.

Onions have always had a slightly awkward relationship with fish. They seem particularly ungainly and rough edged alongside the white varieties or shellfish. Shallots work better, with their milder notes and less significant dose of sugar, but of all the alliums it is the leek that marries most successfully. The white of the leek has an elegance and subtlety that is unlikely to overpower any fish you put it with. In a soup or pie, it dances with the piscine ingredients where an onion would tread on their toes. Chowder is traditionally a hearty bowl of food. The one I make with mussels and bacon is a short step away from the big clam and potato numbers I have eaten in Boston, in that it is somewhat lighter and less creamy, but it is still essentially a big soup for a cool day.

The potato and the leek are happy bedfellows, as anyone who has eaten a good vichysoisse will know. Softer than potato and onion, more graceful than a chowder, warm potato and leek soup has a peaceful, almost soporific quality. A silky, cool-weather soup that somehow manages to taste creamy and rich with only the smallest amount of butter and no cream in it.

I have long made a simple artichoke soup by adding the scrubbed tubers to softened onions, pouring over stock, and then simmering until the artichokes fall apart. I often add a little lemon juice, bay leaves, and sometimes a thumb of ginger. I blitz it in the blender, then stir in lots of chopped parsley. Some might introduce cream at this point but I honestly don’t think it’s necessary. The soup is velvety enough. It has become a staple in this kitchen over the last few winters; its warm nuttiness is always welcome on a steely-skied January day. Late in the winter of 2008, possibly having had one day too many of what Beth Chatto calls “dustbin-lid skies,” I changed the soup’s tone by adding a stirring of bright green spinach. As often happens, it came about by accident—a bowl of creamed spinach left over from a boiled ham lunch—added to the soup just to use it up. The magic in this soup is in the marriage of earthy cold-weather food and a shot of mood-lifting chlorophyll. Spring is obviously stirring.

Hot, clean, and vibrant, a mouth-popping stew for scooping up with soft, warm naan or, if you prefer, rice. Should you want something richer and less spicy, then stir in a carton of yogurt, about 1 cup (250g), at the end and simmer for a further seven or eight minutes.

A lovely, deeply flavored vegetable stew. This is one of those dishes that is all the better for a day in the fridge, during which time the flavors seem to mellow. I have kept it quite spicy but the final seasoning will depend on how hot your chiles are, and you will need to adjust it accordingly. Something to take your time over. I eat it with steamed basmati rice.

Long associated with the finale of the Christmas meal, Stilton and celery is a fine combination and there is every reason to turn it into a soup. I’m not sure it matters which blue cheese you use but the saltier types tend to be more interesting here. A good Stilton will work well enough, but something with more punch—say Picos, Roquefort, Stichelton, or Cashel Blue—would get my vote, as would good old Danish Blue. Cream is usually a given with celery soup, but I am not sure you need it.

You could measure my life in bowls of soup. Each New Year’s Day brings a pot of lentil soup (a good-luck symbol throughout much of Europe); pea and mint soup is to celebrate early summer; cabbage soup for colds and crash diets; parsnip soup for frosty weekends; chicken broth to cleanse my soul. You probably don’t want to know about the parsimonious soup-stew I put together from the weekly fridge cleanup. I do believe in the power of soup to restore our spirits and to strengthen and protect us. Steaming, frugal, yet curiously luxurious, soup replaces many a meal in this house. With a good loaf on the bread board and fresh salad in the bowl, I have no shame in serving soup to visitors (only amusement in watching them looking round in vain for a main course). I first came up with the idea of this soup years ago, and have watched it do the rounds, yet it has never made it into any of my own books until now. It has something of the Welsh rarebit about it.

A good use for the older, tougher specimens. I have made this with those plastic-entombed bunches from the late-night corner market and you would never have known it.

I have lost count of the number of appreciative emails and blog mentions about the brownies and the chocolate almond cake in The Kitchen Diaries. They are received gratefully. It is true that I am rarely happier than when making chocolate cake. I especially like baking those that manage to be cakelike on the outside and almost molten within. Keeping a cake’s heart on the verge of oozing is down partly to timing and partly to the ingredients—ground almonds and very good-quality chocolate will help enormously. But there are other ways to moisten a cake, such as introducing grated carrots or, in this case, crushed beets. The beets are subtle here, some might say elusive, but using them is a lot cheaper than ground almonds, and they blend perfectly with dark chocolate. This is a seductive cake, deeply moist and tempting. The serving suggestion of crème fraîche is not just a nod to the sour cream so close to beets’ Eastern European heart, it is an important part of the cake.

In the 1980s, puréed beets, snipped chives, and swirls of sour cream made a startling chilled soup that became an almost permanent fixture at the café in which I cooked for much of the decade. The most outrageous Schiaparelli pink, it was a picture in its deep white-porcelain tureen. I wish now I had had the nerve to include the finely chopped gherkins whose sweet-sour pickle notes could have lifted the soup from its candy-cane sweetness. One glance at a Russian or Swedish cookbook would have been enough.

Okay, I’ll admit it: Although I’m known primarily as a bread guy, I’ve been eating far more crackers than bread lately—probably always have, actually, and it’s a safe bet that I always will. Sure, artisan bread is the sexy sister, but a good cracker is the hardworking Cinderella of baked goods, and I think it’s time to bestow the glass slipper. In fact, I have a feeling that there are many other undeclared cracker freaks out there just waiting for crackers to be validated as a significant player in the exploding American culinary renaissance. A quick look at supermarket shelves shows that the real growth for both crackers and bread is occurring in the whole grain category. Even iconic brands such as Ritz are coming forth with whole grain products. I’ve spent nearly twenty years trying to convince folks to bake bread at home, even tilting at windmills by trying to encourage them to make 100 percent whole grain breads at home, but I’ve encountered far less resistance in urging that same audience to try making their own whole grain crackers. Why the receptivity? It’s probably because crackers are far easier and faster to make than bread (and the dough doesn’t even need to be held overnight in the refrigerator). But I also think there are deeper reasons. Crackers are so versatile, and so easily substituted for chips and other guilt-laden snacks. Whole grain crackers are the perfect, guilt-free snack. Not only do they have a satisfying, toasty flavor, they’re also loaded with dietary fiber, which helps lessen cravings for sweets and reduce mindless eating between meals. When properly made, crackers have a long finish. Eat some now and you’ll still be enjoying the lingering, earthy flavors in 30 minutes. Crackers can be naturally leavened with yeast, like Armenian lavash; be chemically leavened with baking powder or baking soda, like many commercial crackers; or be completely unleavened, like matzo or Triscuits. They’re usually crisp and flaky but don’t have to be. They can be buttery (with real or fake butter), or lean and mean, like saltines and other variations of water crackers. Whole grain crackers, regardless of the leavening method, have one major factor going for them: fiber, lots and lots of fiber. This cracker recipe is easy to make at home, even if you’ve never baked a loaf of bread in your life. It’s a variation of one of the most popular recipes from my previous book, Peter Reinhart’s Whole Grain Breads, and is especially fun to make with kids. I’ve adjusted the recipe so that these crackers, which are unlike any crackers you can buy, are even more crisp than the original. I’m ready to start a home-baked cracker revolution to match the bread revolution of the last fifteen years and hope I can enlist you in the cause.

This bread can be used for anything that you’d make with white bread, including buns, rolls, and toast. You can use either traditional “red” whole wheat flour or the new “white” whole wheat that is lighter in color and slightly less bitter. If you choose the honey or agave nectar option in this recipe, you’ll need more flour than if you use sugar, probably an extra 3 1/2 to 7 tablespoons (1 to 2 oz). Assess the texture as you mix and adjust accordingly.

We have Mexico to thank for the tangy flavor combination of cilantro, jalapeño, and lime, although this sauce complements all types of cuisines. Pair it with crispy appetizers like the Chickpea Cakes (page 39) or Indonesian Corn Fritters (page 155), or serve it alongside the Indian Spiced Scrambled Eggs (page 75). Try pouring it over grilled chicken or fish for a zesty finish. Serve this sauce in the first hour after blending, when its color is brightest.

Watercress (shown below) gives these mashed potatoes a peppery bite. They are a perfect accompaniment to fish, chicken, and mushroom entrées. Try serving them with the Grape and Ginger–Glazed Chicken (page 56). If you have leftovers, add hot stock to make a warming soup. Alternatively, whisk in milk or cream and serve as the classic cold potato soup vichyssoise.

Tamarind provides acidity with a delicious fruity tartness. It is mainly used in Indian, Thai, and Mexican cooking, although it grows in many tropical climates, including Florida. Look for the caramel-colored tamarind concentrate or paste in markets, as extracting the fruit from the pods is labor-intensive. Use the ketchup on the Indonesian Corn Fritters (page 155), Indian Spiced Scrambled Eggs (page 75), and burgers or grilled shrimp. For all of the preserving recipes, including this one, use kosher salt; unlike table salt, it is free of additives that can discolor ingredients.

Banh mi sandwiches are a Vietnamese street food. Instead of the typical pork and mayonnaise, this version features baked tofu, an anchovy-miso dressing, and cucumber pickles. A key element of banh mi sandwiches is fresh bread—day-old bread is too dry. The best bread to use is a thin-crust white flour baguette that won’t overwhelm the sandwich fillings. Try making these sandwiches for a July picnic.