Cinnamon

There’s a song I sang as a child with the words: “Arroz con leche, me quiero casar con una senorita que sepa planchar,” which means: “Rice pudding, I want to marry a lady who knows how to iron.” I do not know how to iron, but I think my Mexican rice pudding more than compensates for my lack of certain domestic skills. You’ve got three delectable choices here: Serve this warm, as is done traditionally; serve it cold; or, once it is cold, churn it in an ice cream maker for a scrumptious ice cream, scooped and served on a sugar cone.

This is a decadent and classic Mexican cake that you have to make at least once in your life (and if you do, I guarantee you’ll make it again). A firm-textured cake, it holds up to being soaked in three kinds of milk/cream (hence the name tres leches). Traditionally it’s topped with sweetened beaten raw egg whites, which could be dangerous for small kids and pregnant women, two groups that really enjoy this cake. An Italian meringue, which is made of cooked egg whites, is the perfect solution.

This delectable fritter was a happy accident. My friend (and loyal assistant) Valeria suggested I prepare a mango ravioli for this book. She envisioned a dough made with mango puree, but I misunderstood and made a mango filling. This miscommunication, coupled with my obsession with the very versatile wonton wrapper, brought a new dessert to life!

The smell of fried tortillas and cinnamon engulfed our home during the Christmas season as my mom made dozens of these crunchy treats and wrapped them in cellophane to give to friends and family. I’ve now taken over the tradition, and my son loves to help me cut the tortillas into holiday shapes with cookie cutters or scissors before I fry them. Using authentic Mexican tortillas (lard and all) makes all the difference.

I never really had waffles growing up in Italy, but Todd loves them, so when we got together I knew I had to find a way to incorporate them into our breakfast routine. The result is an impressive-looking brunch dish with all the elements I think a great waffle should have: these are salty, sweet, and crunchy in every bite.

Moscato is not well known in this country, but this sweet, fizzy wine is very often served at the end of Italian meals along with dessert or just some cheese and fruit. Here I use it to poach beautiful whole pears; the cinnamon poaching liquid is then reduced to a syrup. It’s the perfect ending to a Thanksgiving dinner because it’s not too sweet or too heavy, and it’s absolutely gorgeous on the plate—not to mention how it fills the whole house with holiday fragrance. Serve flutes of chilled Moscato alongside for a very elegant finish to a fancy meal.

A logical combination and glorious once you taste it, with the sweet juice of the peaches deftly cutting through the richness of the lamb without being piercing. A hint of cinnamon (or an even smaller one of allspice—maybe an eighth of a teaspoon) gives the dish a great aroma as it cooks and a slightly mysterious flavor at the table. A pinch of cayenne or other red pepper makes a nice addition. Whereas most braises begin with browning, this one ends with it, like the Braised and Grilled Lamb Shanks on page 188. This method reduces both spattering and time—since the lamb’s liquid is mostly gone by the end of cooking, it doesn’t go flying from the hot fat, and the meat browns faster. And the peaches, browning lightly in the same cooking liquid, contribute some of their juices to the pan while becoming meltingly tender.

Horchata (which can be used to describe any sweet drink, but has come to mean, by default, this one) is sold all over Mexico (and throughout southern California). It’s an addictive, deliciously creamy drink that contains no dairy but is based on ground rice. Traditionally it’s made in a mortar and pestle; you’ll be glad you live in the age of blenders.

Make sure you don’t skip the last part of this classic—the wonderful frothiness is one of the two things that make Mexican hot chocolate special (the cinnamon is the other). For a great dessert, serve this with Churros (page 655). The chocolate sold in Mexican stores for hot chocolate already contains cinnamon and sugar, so you can just melt it with some milk and beat until frothy. You can actually make it with water if you like, and it isn’t half bad.

Though this is traditionally and usually made with persimmon, I find the flavor of cinnamon so overwhelming (and the availability of persimmon so limited) that I do away with it. An unusual but super meal ender, always served ice cold.

One of the classic moles of Oaxaca, now popular throughout Mexico. Though no mole is simple, this is among the easiest and most straightforward, something you can actually consider making on a weeknight (especially if you’re an experienced cook and can brown the chicken and make the sauce at the same time). To be entirely authentic—or, at least, more authentic, since true authenticity is never really possible north of the border—you should roast most of the sauce ingredients before combining them in the skillet. Toast the almonds in a dry skillet, shaking occasionally, until fragrant; heat the peeled garlic in a dry skillet until lightly browned; roast the onions and tomatoes in a hot oven until blistered; and so on, right down to toasting and grinding fresh whole spices. (In fact, old-style cooks brown unblanched almonds and then peel them.) All of this does make a difference, and if you have the time, please try it. Believe me, though, the mole will be sensational without these steps. If you’ve never cooked with lard, have no fear: It has less saturated fat than butter and is still sold in virtually every supermarket. It remains a wonderful cooking fat. Serve with rice or Arroz a la Mexicana (page 517).

A recipe that beautifully demonstrates the affinity that beef and cinnamon have for each other. If you use fresh pearl onions, parboil them for about 30 seconds to loosen the skins, which will make peeling far easier (or use frozen pearl onions; they’re quite good). Serve this over rice or broad buttered noodles. Other cuts of meat you can use here: lamb, pork, or veal shoulder, all of which will cook a little more quickly; boneless chicken thighs, which will cook much more quickly; lamb shanks or short ribs, which will require much longer cooking time.

Like any “curry,” this one contains several spices. But in this one, although it can be made quite hot, the flavor of cinnamon is dominant—and wonderfully offset by the addition of vinegar. If you can find mustard oil at an Indian or Pakistani market, use it here; not only is it the oil of choice for many Indian dishes, but it’s great for simply sautéing vegetables. Serve this with white rice or a simple pilaf. Other cuts of meat you can use here: Beef chuck or brisket (cooking time will be longer); chicken thighs, bone in or out; or lamb shoulder.

I thought Lent was a time of self-denial, but in Sweden it’s when these absolutely delicious buns appear, filled with almond paste and whipped cream. They certainly could be served as dessert, but in Sweden people eat them as a midmorning or midafternoon snack.

This is a sweet, mild, but very complex curry powder; you can add a bit of cayenne if you want some heat. You can chip pieces off a whole nutmeg with the blunt edge of a heavy knife or crack the whole thing by pressing on it with a heavy skillet.

Generally speaking—but not always—garam masala is milder than curry, containing little or no pepper or chile. Again, it’s a matter of taste. This garam masala has a load of cardamom in it, because that’s the kind I favor. It’s delicious with fish.

Classically used for Cochinita Pibil (page 351), this gorgeous, bright red paste can be smeared on any meat you’re about to roast or grill. Its color belies its flavor, which is not at all hot (though you can throw a chile in there if you like). Annatto—or achiote—is something you’ve probably encountered unknowingly, since it colors processed cheeses, margarine, and lipstick. The triangular, brick-colored seeds of the annatto tree have been especially important in the Yucatán peninsula and South and Central America for centuries; make sure the seeds you buy are bright red, smell earthy or musky, and taste slightly peppery. Whole seeds keep for a year or more in a tightly covered container.

The classic custard of Spain, widely made throughout Latin America, is like crème brûlée, but upside down and lighter. Like any custard, it must not be overcooked. The center must be quite jiggly when you remove it from the oven—for beginners, this is a leap of faith, but it’s the only way to keep the custard smooth.

Crème brûlée may seem mysterious, but it is actually quite straightforward and simple. Just remember two things: One, like almost all custards, this one is done before it appears to be; remove it from the oven when it is still jiggly. And two, brûlée means “burnt,” not browned. It’s important that some of the topping blacken; the best tastes of campfire-toasted marshmallows. Chefs, and many devoted home cooks, use a propane torch to melt and brown the sugar in the final step. If you have one lying around, give it a shot—just hold the flame so it touches the sugar, which will react quickly. Move the flame around so it touches all of the sugar; when the melted sugar begins to blacken, it’s done.

If you’re tempted to replace the butter or heavy cream in this recipe, don’t; just make plain old pain perdu, or French toast. But if you’re ready for the creamiest, most custardy French toast you’ve ever tried, give these babies a go. This recipe comes courtesy of Jose Andres, a Washington, D.C.–based Spanish chef and good friend.