Right now I’m relishing all the signs of spring that I can eat. Asparagus and ramps are finally at the local farmers markets, rhubarb is on the way, and I just stumbled upon green almonds yesterday, a sight that perked me up more than any amount of caffeine possibly could.

If you’ve never had them, green almonds are fuzzy green orbs filled with soft jelly-like skinless almonds—soft and delicately nutty with a wholly different texture than fully mature almonds. When fresh, they can be eaten whole. They’re crunchy, tart, and reminiscent of unripe peaches (in a good way!). When the outer layer is removed, the young almonds are delicate, milky, and subtly floral and grassy.

Leave a green almond on the tree and it loses its fuzz, hardens, and turns brown. Crack the hard outer shell and you’ll find a conventional, crunchy almond you’re likely very familiar with. (Fun fact: Botanically speaking, almonds aren’t nuts. They’re actually stone fruits, and the almonds we all snack on are the seeds within the stones of the fuzzy green fruit.)

Where to Buy Green Almonds

Green almonds typically pop up at farmers markets and specialty stores in early spring, and only stick around for a few weeks, so they’re an extra special treat if you can find them. (Here in New York, they’re available at Eataly, Kalustyan’s, and Sahadi’s.) They can be stored in the fridge for up to three weeks, but you’ll want to be sure to taste them as time passes—the longer they sit, the more likely it is their outer husks will harden and turn bitter, in which case you’ll need to discard them and only eat the tender stones inside.

How to Eat Green Almonds

Green almonds are super versatile. I love eating them whole, pressed into flaky sea salt. I also love them with cheese and cured meats. You can chop them up and toss them into salads, or make a chunky, pesto-y sauce by mixing them with herbs, garlic chives or green garlic, and olive oil (spoon this over asparagus, eggs, or fish). Pickle them, even!

They’re good on sweet things, too. A simple dessert could be some dates, green almonds, and flaky sea salt. Tarts and ice cream can benefit from some chopped green almonds sprinkled on top.

I’m also obsessed with pairing green almonds with ricotta and honeycomb, a tip I picked up from the Ducksoup cookbook (another recent obsession). And one of my all-time favorite ways to eat them is poached in olive oil and showered in fresh dill. I first tried them this way at a restaurant in Istanbul and immediately asked for the recipe, which I’ve been using ever since.

The post Green Almonds Are the Super-Seasonal Taste of Spring to Eat Right Now appeared first on Saveur.

Pectin—a naturally occurring polysaccharide in fruit—is what makes jam gel. Different fruits naturally contain more or less pectin, so, while you never need to worry about a Seville orange marmalade or quince jelly getting a proper set (unless you undercook or overcook them), some low-pectin fruits, like cherries and pears, don’t gel so easily. 

High-pectin fruits include apples, citrus, currants, cranberries, gooseberries, plums, and quince. On the lower end of the pectin spectrum are blueberries, cherries, peaches, pears, and strawberries. You must also take the fruit’s degree of ripeness into account, however. The riper the fruit, the less natural pectin it contains. For the best jams and jellies, aim for a mixture of 75% perfectly ripe fruit and 25% slightly underripe fruit. 

This recipe, which can be adjusted to feature a variety of different fruits, is adapted from the basic jam recipe in Camilla Wynne’s book Jam Bake: Inspired Recipes for Creating and Baking with Preserves.

Featured in: “How to Quickly and Safely Can Jams and Jellies.”

The post Plum and Raspberry Jam appeared first on Saveur.

Stuffed grape leaves have always been one of my white whales. While I grew up enjoying the occasional dolma from Greek, Armenian, and Syrian friends and family, and even baked for a stint at a Middle Eastern-inflected café in Cambridge, I had never made my own. They remained in the realm of soup dumplings, kouign amann, and a proper mole: regionally specific foods that I just didn’t have the patience or the cred to make with any real skill or authenticity.

That had to change when my friend Genevieve Brennan gave me some fresh leaves from her family’s Pennsylvania vineyard. You see, when it comes to Yankee thrift, I’m the apple of my grandpa’s eye; never one to let something so perfectly good as those lovely leaves go to waste. Especially since I’d been daydreaming about harvesting the Brennans’ cool fresh vine trimmings from their fledgling winery all winter long.

It was time to conquer the stuffed grape leaf.

Grape leaves are a staple of southeastern Europe, the Middle East, and beyond, with each cuisine bringing its own variations on stuffings and seasonings. So I sought out expert advice from a diverse set of sources:

• Dr. Benefits, a Mediterranean food writer (and pal of our Greece correspondent Katherine Whittaker), for tips on classic Greek rice-and-herb dolmadakia.
• My former bosses, Ana Sortun and Maura Kilpatrick, the creators of a crispy lamb dolma pie for their gorgeous new cookbook, Soframiz.
• Finally, I dug into the Saveur archives and found a Syrian-Jewish recipe for sweet and savory stuffed grape leaves with beef, tamarind, and dried apricots.

After a few rounds of tests and some silly experimentation with a quick and efficient dolma-rolling gadget, I can proudly say I’ve overcome my grape leaf insecurities and added dolmas to my culinary skill set. Here are a few things I’ve learned to help get you there, too.

Leaves Matter

Whenever possible, use fresh grape leaves, which taste, as you might guess, more fresh and vibrant. Choose young tender, blemish-free leaves throughout the spring and early summer and store them flat, layered with paper towels, in the refrigerator until you are ready to use them.

Out of season, chef Ana Sortun uses beautiful salt-cured leaves from Sevan Bakery in Massachusetts, but sometimes the jarred version are all you can find. There is a huge variety of brands out there and they vary wildly in quality; Sortun recommends Orlando brand leaves from California. We used this brand for all of our tests and found them consistent, fairly evenly sized, with very little bitterness.

Whether using fresh leaves, salted, or jarred, you’ll need to blanch them before cooking; fresh leaves need it to tenderize them, and the preserved types benefit from a quick dunk to remove some brine.

Bring a large pot of unsalted water to a rolling boil and fill a large bowl two-thirds of the way full of ice water. Plunge the leaves in the boiling water and cook for one to two minutes, drain, and immediately transfer to the ice water to stop cooking. Drain again and lightly pat them dry before using. Don’t blanch until you’re ready to cook with them.

Free Your Expectations About Fillings

Beef Dolmas with Apricots and Tamarind

You might have eaten a thousand rice-stuffed, olive-bar dolmadakia in your life, but don’t let that ubiquity hinder your imagination when it comes to stuffing your own. Anything wrapped in a grape leaf can be a dolma, and sometimes even the grape leaf part is negotiable. Try orzo or bulgur in place of rice; use any variety of herbs and tender veggies; consider all kinds of meat to dolmafy your life.

But the classic Greek filling of rice with fresh herbs is also the simplest. Served either hot or cold, it pops with chopped dill, spring onions, and citrus. Soaking the rice for 10 minutes prior to mixing the filling will cut down on the amount of time needed to cook the dolmas, preventing the herbs and grape leaves from becoming mushy.

Meat dolmas can include beef, lamb, or a mixture of the two. One of our favorites, a recipe from Syrian Jewish cuisine, includes a fat spoonful of allspice and a sweet and sour apricot-tamarind braising liquid.

Shaping is Important…But There are Many Ways to Do It

Spicy Lamb and Grape Leaf Tarts With Orzo and Feta

The small cigar-shaped dolma is the most familiar, but it is also the most time consuming. Some purists insist that hand-rolled versions taste best, but if you want to cut your dolma-rolling time in half, do as many Mediterranean cooks do and pick up a handy dolma-rolling machine. I loved the efficiency of this Dolmer brand roller, in which you place a grape leaf flat, push in some filling, and then slide a mechanism like a mandoline that pops out a perfectly rolled cigar.

To shape your own dolmas by hand, lay the grape leaf, bottom-side-up, with the tip of the leaf pointing towards you, on your work surface. Use scissors to snip any remaining stem from the leaf. Shape one tablespoon of filling into a loose, two-inch log and place it on the leaf at the base of the stem. Fold the left and then right sides of the leaf over the log, then fold the top down over the filling as well. Without pulling tightly, gently roll the log down towards yourself, forming a two-and-a-half–inch cigar-shaped roll. Place the dolma, flap-down, in your cooking vessel and repeat.

Any Broth Will Do

When it comes time to finish cooking your grape leaves, the general method is simple: Pack rolled dolmas snugly in a heavy pot or baking dish, cover with liquid and a bit of fat, and simmer until the filling is cooked and the leaves are tender. The most basic recipes get by on lightly salted water, olive oil, and a squeeze of lemon juice, but I like to mix it up to add a few more layers of flavor.

Sweet and tangy tamarind and dried apricots brighten up rich meat dolmas, or try adding a splash of dry white wine and a strip of orange zest to vegetarian recipes. Swap out the water for stock, adjusting the salt in your filling as needed, or use butter (or even browned butter!) in place of the olive oil. Just steer clear of dairy-based cooking liquids, which tend to curdle unattractively, and instead serve the finished dolmas with dollops of Greek yogurt or labneh on the side.

Now Make Your Own

As we near fresh grape leaf season, keep an eye out for vines in your area, and make friends with your green-thumbed neighbors. The plants typically produce more leaves than they need and gardeners often prune and discard the extras. As with all foraging, make sure your grape leaves haven’t been sprayed with anything inedible before cooking.

Once you have your pile of leaves, invite a bunch of people over for a dolmadaka/dolmades/sarma finger-food party along with some other mezze. They are lovely at any temperature, but I enjoy them most out in the garden with a glass of cool, young wine.

Beef Dolmas with Apricots and Tamarind

Spicy Lamb and Grape Leaf Tarts With Orzo and Feta

The post How to Make Your Own Dolmas (Stuffed Grape Leaves) for Perfect Mezze Plates appeared first on Saveur.

Warnings to travelers about to visit Syria, I learned when I started planning a trip there, are plentiful—everything from caveats regarding terrorists to rules on the proper etiquette towards women. One rule, for instance, was never to sit next to a Muslim woman traveling unaccompanied. But on my first Syrian bus trip, from Damascus, the capital, to the northern city of Aleppo, near the Turkish border, a woman wearing a Muslim head covering boarded the bus alone and sat next to me. Not only that, but she began to talk to me.

Lubaba, it turned out, was a recent graduate of the University of Damascus, and spoke flawless English—and over the course of our uncomfortable five-hour ride together, we became fast friends. We talked about everything, as we bumped along, from American slang to religion to our professional lives. And when I told her that I was a food writer, researching a book about the history of Mediterranean cuisine, her eyes lit up, and she insisted that I could not leave her country without tasting the most revered food of spring in Syria: the artichoke.

Grilled Artichokes

Syrian cooks, Lubaba told me, consider the artichoke—along with the eggplant—to be the noblest of vegetables. Perhaps this has something to do, she suggested, with the sense of reward it engenders after the labor involved in getting to its heart. And as she continued to describe one favorite artichoke dish after another, it became apparent to me that the Syrian approach to the vegetable was quite unlike any I had known. By the time we reached Aleppo, I was eager to taste the artichoke in as many native guises as possible, and I was delighted when Lubaba promised to introduce me to some of these dishes when we were both back in Damascus.

The popularity of the artichoke, Cynara scolymus, in the Middle East shouldn’t be all that surprising: It might very well have originated in the Arab world, though maybe not in Syria. For centuries, it was assumed that the vegetable was known to the ancient Greeks and Romans. But the word for artichoke in most European languages derives from the medieval Arabic word kharshūf—and according to material that I discovered in the inner sanctum of the Economic Botany Library at Harvard University, it seems more likely that the “artichoke” known in Greece and Rome was in fact its close relative, the cardoon. Arab agronomists in North Africa or Spain probably developed the artichoke as an improvement on the cardoon about a thousand years ago. While only the stalks of the cardoon are edible, the artichoke offers both its stalk and its delicate inflorescence—which has an edible receptacle (the “heart”) and comestible flesh at the base of its bracts (improperly called the “leaves”).

Back in Damascus, and having not yet heard from Lubaba, I placed myself in the capable hands of Mazen, a friend’s brother, who offered to introduce me to some unusual Syrian dishes. An interest in food is basic to Arab culture, and everyone I met in Syria—including Mazen, an aircraft maintenance supervisor—seemed to be a gourmet. He took me to fine restaurants and local hangouts alike, as well as into people’s homes, everywhere introducing me to surprising local specialties—like nukhācāt, a salad of poached lamb’s brains with lettuce and tomatoes; shinklīsh, a dish combining a strong, aged cheese made from sheep’s-milk yogurt with chopped tomatoes, parsley, and lemon juice; and sandūanāt, sheep’s stomach stuffed with finely diced lamb and spiced rice.

And, of course, there were artichokes—bayd bil-thūm wal-ardī shawkī, an appetizer dish of chopped artichoke hearts with eggs, roasted garlic, and yogurt sauce, and a pungent specialty from Aleppo called ardī shawkī bil-hāmid, in which artichoke hearts are bathed in a sweet and tart sauce made with pomegranate molasses.

One morning, Mazen took me on a tour of Damascus. We started in the bustling New City, where the rush of pedestrians was so furious that we were often pushed into the busy streets. More than once, we bumped, almost literally, into vendors marshaling their donkey carts through the crowds, each selling various seasonal foods—fresh almonds, fava beans, and the inevitable plump, round artichokes. Somehow, we finally made our way through the masses and into one of the entrances in the massive wall that encircles the Old City, a section of Damascus that has been continually inhabited for 4,000 years.

The Old City is a maze of souks, or markets. We walked along narrow streets, through the old, delightfully untouristy Sūq al-Hamīdiyya, and into the Sūq al-Buzūriyya, the medicinal-herb market, a collection of dank, dark, dusty holes-in-the-wall, their shelves lined to the ceilings with cans of dried plants, herbs, and powders of all kinds. Emerging from the shadows, we passed the luminous 1,290-year-old Ummayad Mosque, Damascus’s most awe-inspiring example of early Islamic architecture. The mosque, made of cool white stone, seems to radiate magnificence and serenity amid the grayness of the city. We descended Shāri’ Bāb Sharqī, referred to as the “Street Called Straight” in the Bible, and circled around to pass the 13th-century Madrasa al-Zāhiriyya, an impressive building that houses the Mausoleum of Baibars. We continued, passing various goldsmiths’ shops, mosques, and the 18th-century Azim Palace (built for an Ottoman governor of Damascus, and now a museum of arts and customs), until we reached the al-Az restaurant, an emporium of traditional Damascene cuisine, tucked away in a cramped alley overlooking the minarets of the Ummayad Mosque.

From the casual restaurant, decorated with colorful hanging cloths, Bedouin carpets, and cushions, we could hear the muezzins singing their call to prayer outside. Mazen ordered tarkhun—huge stalks of fresh tarragon, which we ate with flat bread while we waited for our appetizers. These turned out to be burak al-jubna, a mixture of spinach and jubna bayda (a plain, white cow’s-milk cheese) baked in very thin dough, and ardi shawki maqli bil-taratur, fried artichoke hearts served with a rich tahini-based sauce. For our main course, we ordered shish tawuq, marinated and grilled chicken, accompanied by ardi shawki wa-ful, a delicious dish of braised artichokes and fresh fava beans that positively smacked of spring. The meal, like the setting, was memorable.

Later in the week, Mazen invited me to the home of his aunt Muheeba, whose extended family joined in preparing a veritable feast to celebrate the occasion of my visit. Little nieces and nephews ran about and went wild with laughter every time I uttered my heavily accented Arabic. The adults at the party were intrigued by my line of work (food-writing as a profession doesn’t exist in the Arab world), and were eager to show me the best that their country has to offer. They served at least ten different dishes, including an elaborate ground lamb and veal casserole called zunud al-bint (“the girl’s forearms”), and a delicious pilaf made with young green wheat (called farik), bits of roasted lamb, fresh peas, and pine nuts, and served with sliced green tomatoes.

Knowing of my interest in artichokes, Muheeba herself prepared yakhnit al-ardi shawki, a simple artichoke and lamb stew whose flavor was an intricate, almost imperceptible mingling of rich meat, delicate artichoke hearts, and spices—cinnamon, allspice, pepper, and nutmeg. She also served her specialty, ardi shawki bil-lahm: hollowed-out artichoke hearts stuffed with ground lamb, pine nuts, onions, and mixed spices, and presented on a bed of fresh peas and diced carrots. After hours of feasting and talking and laughing, a huge platter of apples, oranges, baby cucumbers, and romaine lettuce leaves was set out—the perfect ending to such a lavish meal.

When Lubaba returned to Damascus, she called as promised, and invited me to lunch at the home of her aunt Maidda. I had heard about Maidda during our bus ride, and was eager to try the ardi shawki bil-bayd, artichokes with scrambled eggs, that Lubaba had described in such detail. Though the dining room was set for guests, Lubaba and I crowded into Maidda’s compact kitchen to watch her whip the artichokes into the frothy eggs. When the eggs took on a decidedly odd, grayish color, Maidda announced that they were done, and covered them with an abundance of chopped parsley. We took seats around the little kitchen table and tasted the fluffy eggs and meltingly soft artichoke hearts. The complexity of the simple dish, served with fried white cheese, rich, creamy yogurt, and flat bread, was remarkable.

I now have my own repertoire of Syrian artichoke recipes, which I look forward to making every spring. As I cook, and exotic smells fill my kitchen, I think back to that uncomfortable bus ride to Aleppo—and am thankful that Lubaba took it with me.

Ardi shawki maqli bil-taratur

The post The Heart of the Syrian Artichoke appeared first on Saveur.

We could all use a little more lard bread in our lives. Whether or not you are yet acquainted with this Italian bakery specialty, the words alone are enough to enliven, comfort, and excite. A taste is enough to obsess.

Lard bread is pretty much what it sounds like—an ugly-beautiful concept in which rendered pork fat and meaty morsels of cured or roasted pork are woven into a simple bread dough. The resulting loaf, sometimes doughnut-shaped, usually soft, and ideally with fluffy, flaky layers, leaves grease behind on your fingers and the lingering taste of lard behind on your tongue. The lard gives it body, bulk, and a porky aroma, of which there are few better in life.

Why the Italians married meat with bread is thought to be inspired, like many Italian food traditions, by practicality, scarcity, and genius. Leftover trimmings of roasts or the ends of salumi pieces that weren’t maybe meal enough on their own would instead end up as fortification for the next day’s bread. Depending on regionality and what was available, this might have included sopressata, prosciutto, or even spicy salamis like pepperoni. The lard would be rendered and mixed in to the dough, often leaving behind faintly noticeable ribbons of white bliss in the final baked product, and the chopped preserved pork pieces would be suspended throughout.

Lard Bread Stuffing

Whereas I can hardly call it a “necessity,” lard bread comes in and out of my life based on my proximity to Italian bakeries. If there’s one within a 10-mile radius (lately my favorite is from Parisi Bakery on Mott Street in Manhattan), I quickly redevelop my habit, slicing and rewarming it on a dry pan for breakfast, breaking off hunks of it to nibble on throughout the day, going through loafs like I don’t know how much cholesterol is in one. But since the bread has such a knack for disappearing, I had never experimented with it for dinner, or in a recipe.

This year I premeditated a hefty purchase for testing out lard bread in a Thanksgiving stuffing. Since pork is the guiding spirit of the bread, providing most of the flavor you need in the finished dish, I kept my stuffing simple to let it shine. Supporting players included some thinly sliced fennel—which I thought would lend some sweetness and complexity to contrast the breads pepperiness—and chopped celery, classic for giving color and crunch to stuffing.

If you wanted it even porkier (no judgment), you could grease the baking dish with rendered lard, or drizzle some on top during the second bake where I used butter. One thing’s for sure: after you whiff the subtle smokiness of the stuffing when you slip it out from the oven, and treasure hunt for porky pieces with each forkful, you will never be able to look at plain bread stuffing the same.

The post Our New Favorite Stuffing is Made With Lard Bread appeared first on Saveur.

Featured in: A Unifying Nostalgia for Port Wine Cheese

Equipment

• Small Pot
• Food Processor
• Silicone Spatula
• Shallow Serving Dish

Note: Pounded cheese can be made a few hours ahead and kept at room temperature; or it can be made the day before and stored in an airtight container in the fridge. Just be sure to bring it back to room temperature before serving.

*See our step-by-step instructions for toasting nuts.

The post Amy Thielen’s Old-Fashioned Pounded Cheese with Walnuts and Port Syrup appeared first on Saveur.

When you think of Mexican chiles, you likely first conjure up the fresh, spicy green kinds—jalapeños, serranos, and poblanos. But in our cookbook, Nopalito, we make the case for why dried chiles—which often occupy an entire wall at Mexican markets—are the cuisine’s true workhorses.

Fresh peppers are great for adding color, crunch, and heat to a dish, but it’s the dried versions that offer the most surprising and complex flavors, from smoky to spicy, to citrusy, chocolaty, earthy, and mushroomy. They range from punishingly spicy to sweet and pruney, and the colors from bright, orangey-red to deep purple-black.

In Mexican cuisine, it’s traditional to use combinations of chiles to make salsas (see Gonzalo’s empanadas) and adobos (a generic term for a paste made with reconstituted and puréed dried chiles), the latter of which can be stirred into braising liquids, soup broths, masa for tortillas, and marinades.

The variety and at-times opaque naming conventions of Mexico’s dried chiles can get overwhelming—dozens to choose from; sometimes named after their fresh counterparts, sometimes not—but all it takes is a little experimentation. Here’s a guide to help you shop for them and make the most of them in your kitchen.

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Shop by Color and Size

Dried chiles can be roughly organized into two camps: red and dark. Red chiles (which can range from bright orange-red to deep maroon) will likely have tropical fruit flavors, good acidity, and varying degrees of spice (when in doubt, smaller chiles tend to be hotter). They pair best with white meats such as poultry, pork, and fish. Dark chiles, which range from rusty red to dark plum, are typically chewy and sweet with flavors of dried raisins and prunes and are used mostly for color (as in moles). These pair best with dark meats like beef or duck. Dried black chiles, which have a sweeter, earthier flavor, pair best with dark meats like beef or duck.

How to Prepare Dried Chiles

Many dried chiles have thick, bitter, or spicy seeds; remove them to make smooth, balanced purées and have more control over the heat. To dislodge seeds, snap off the stems or split the flesh lengthwise with a paring knife, then shake or scrape away the seeds.

Soak Always, Fry Sometimes

Skip grainy chile powder for lush chile puree; dried chiles have tough skins and need to soak in boiling water for about 20 minutes before they can be broken down in a blender to release their full flavor. An optional step to take beforehand: fry them in a thin layer of vegetable oil for 30 seconds to bring out their full color and brightest flavors, much like toasting spices in a pan before grinding them.

Types of Red Chiles

Red chiles typically have bright colors, tropical fruit flavors, a good amount of acidity, and varying degrees of spice. They pair best with poultry, fish, and other light or lean meats. These are ranked from mildest to hottest.

Guajillo

Guajillo: Bright red, large and skinny, tough skins, sweet but with some acidity, relatively mild heat.

One of the most common chiles in the Mexican pantry with a crowd-pleasing flavor—a mix of earthy and sweet, and typically little to no heat. They’re large, so a few go a long way to add body to adobos, stews, and sauces.

Guajillos combine well with other chiles and tomatoes without overpowering them with spice or smokiness. Because of their thin but tough skins, they need about 20 to 25 minutes of soaking time in boiling water when reconstituting from dried.

Puya

Puya: Similar to guajillos but smaller and spicier, earthy, fruity but with some acidity, medium heat.

The puya is basically a smaller, spicier version of the guajillo. They’re bright red with thin but tough skins, and because they’re quite dry, they take well to toasting. Once they’re toasted, you can cool them and grind them into a chili powder for sprinkling onto foods to add a dose of heat, or add them to stews, braises, and sauces like you would with guajillos. Just add them a little at a time and taste so as not to overdo it.

Chipotle

Chipotle: Medium sized, tough skinned, smoky, medium heat.

The chipotle is actually a smoked, dried version of one of Mexico’s most common fresh chiles, the jalapeño. They’re red because they are picked at the end of the ripening process, but the smoking and drying process can turn some chipotles an ashy, brown-tan color.

Chipotles have a medium heat, and are known for their distinct smokiness and earthy flavor. By simply soaking chipotles in boiling water, then blending with a few tomatillos, you can have a simple, medium-heat salsa to dip your chips in.

Chiles de Arbol

Chiles de Arbol: Small, nutty, earthy, very spicy.

The árbol is a versatile chile. It goes with everything, and its flavor changes depending on how it is handled—toasting and frying it before soaking it, for example, intensifies its heat and nutty qualities. However you use it, this slender fruit packs a big punch in both spice and earthiness. Look for chiles de árbol with stems (rather than crushed or preground) for the best flavor.

Pequin

Pequin: Tiny, a little smoky, a little fruity, very spicy.

Also called the bird chile, pequins are tiny little chiles that will shock you with their heat. They are great for sharp, spicy salsas and hot sauces, combined with vinegar or tomatoes to tame some of the heat and add sweetness.

Morita

Morita: Petite, smoky, sweet dried fruit flavors, medium to high heat.

Small but substantial chiles that are great to have on hand. They add both smokiness and a decent amount of heat to salsas and sauces. Because of their dried fruit–like sweetness and heat, they fall somewhere between dark and red chiles and are often added to dark moles such as mole poblano or Oaxacan-style moles to add a little heat without taking away from the dark color of the mole.

Types of Dark Chiles

Dark chiles, which can take on tones of deep purple or jet-black, tend to be thicker, chewier, and moister than red chiles, with the sweet ripe flavors of raisins and prunes. Most aren’t that spicy—they’re used more for their color, sweetness, and sometimes smokiness. These are ranked from mildest to spiciest.

Chiles Negros

Chiles Negros: Large and long, with earthiness, mellow dried fruit flavors (raisins, prunes), mild heat.

This chile is very dark, nearly black, and is used frequently in making mole negros. The chile negro is used and loved more for its color than for its flavor since its taste and heat level are relatively mild. Keep an eye out for aliases: pasillas negros, pasilla chiles, or chiles Oaxacas.

Mulato

Mulato: Sweet, lightly smoky, dried fruit flavors.

Mulatos, like anchos, are a relative of the poblano chile, and have a similar smoky-sweet profile, especially when charred. However, they are darker than anchos with a brownish-purple tinge.

Mulatos are thick, meaty chiles, so they make a great addition to moles, pozoles, and other dishes where they can be blended into adobo or thick paste to add body, intense ripe fruit flavors, and dark colors to a dish.

Cascabel

Cascabel: Round, tropical, fruity (dried apricots, dried apples), relatively mild heat.

The cascabel (pronounced “kas-ka-bell”) is a round, hollow chile, and its name comes from the Spanish word for rattle (it is shaped like the end of
a rattlesnake’s tail, and the seeds noisily rattle around inside the dried chile when it is shaken).

What it lacks in heat it makes up in strong aromas and an intense fruity sweetness reminiscent of tropical fruit. A great choice for when you want a chile with flavor but not much heat.

Ancho

Ancho: Ripe fruit flavors, lightly smoky, mildly spicy.

The ancho is a poblano chile that has been ripened to a deep red, then picked and dried. Its spice level fluctuates depending on the individual chile, but in general, the ancho has mild to moderate heat.

Anchos are particularly good for marinating meats as part of an adobo (chile paste), or you can stir some ancho adobo into masa to give a small kick of heat and beautiful dark red color.

Pasilla

Pasilla: Complex, dried fruits (raisins, prunes), medium heat.

The pasilla is named after the word for raisins (pasas) on account of its deeply sweet dried fruit flavors and wrinkly, dark appearance. Compared to the ancho, the pasilla’s texture is a bit tougher, and its heat more intense. They are combined with chiles mulatos and a few dried red chiles in Oaxacan-style moles to create a perfect blend of color, sweetness, and a little spice.

The post 11 Dried Mexican Chiles to Know and Love, and How to Use Them appeared first on Saveur.

So vanilla.

Poor vanilla. Somewhere along the way, this incredibly exotic, wildly expensive, difficult-to-cultivate plant became America’s analogy for boring. Which is strange, because historically vanilla has been revered as exceedingly rare and highly covetable. Did you know that vanilla blossoms can only be pollinated for a few hours a season? (In most places, they’re now hand-pollinated.) And that real, true vanilla—not the derivative called vanillin—costs $115 a pound? (It’s the second most expensive spice in the world, behind saffron.) The stuff is unusual and beautiful and delicate—the inverse of boring.

In the spirit of the most un-basic flavor and ice cream season, we selected a smattering of vanilla ice creams—15 to be exact—ranging from fancy to store-brand, single-origin to generic. Then we lined them up next to one another, covered up their labels, and tasted our way through (in individually randomized order, to keep palate fatigue at bay.

We based our blind tasting on three major criteria on a scale of 1 to 7: flavor (natural or faux, intense or weak); texture (creamy or icy, rich or thin); and melt (clean or gummy, silky or sticky). And while we saw some general trends from the scores, we also quickly realized just how personal our vanilla preferences are. One person’s beloved vanilla is another’s last favorite. And, in some cases, ardent fans were surprised to learn how their supposed picks ranked against the competition when tasting blind.

The widest range in ratings was in the flavor category; people know what they like and don’t like on the spectrum of vanilla. Conversely, texture and melt ratings were much more consistent. In tasting through the very beige rainbow of vanilla, we discovered a lot about ourselves (e.g. one should not be ashamed to love Häagen-Dazs) and even more about vanilla (intensity is good, too much sugar is not). Find the full ranking below.

1. Van Leeuwen Vanilla Bean: By a small margin, Van Leeuwen came in first. Most people were surprised by an unexpected hint of marshmallow. Tasting notes: “Toasty marshmallow.”; “Eerily reminiscent of Lucky Charms.”
2. Jeni’s Ndali Estate Vanilla: In second place, Jeni’s vanilla was liked for its pleasantly dense texture and clean taste. Tasting notes: “A+ texture.”; “Sweet and clean.”
3. Tie High Road Vanilla Fleur de Sel and Smitten Classic Vanilla: Testers enjoyed High Road’s density (“You could cut this ice cream with a knife”) and Smitten’s “pure orchid taste” and “dreamy texture.”
4. Tie Talenti Tahitian Vanilla Bean and McConnell’s Vanilla Bean: Most tasters recognized Talenti as a gelato noting its “smooth texture” over any distinct flavor. McConnell’s level of vanilla was described as “fake,” but also “delicious”; we generally appreciate its rich, dense texture.
5. Häagen-Dazs Vanilla Bean: Overall, tasters liked the standard classic. Tasting notes: “Warm flavor, lovely texture.”; “Perfect thickness that softens to a gentle milk.”
6. Tie Ice & Vice Basic B and Graeter’s Madagascar Vanilla Bean: Split between lovers and haters, Ice & Vice was called “delish” but also “sticky.” Testers found Graeter’s to be icy, bland, and “fake, in a good way.”
7. Tie Breyer’s Vanilla Bean and Capannari Madagascar Vanilla: Breyer’s is, well, Breyer’s. Most people noted its fluffiness, but said little about its flavor. Almost across the board, Capannari was noted to taste “fake,” “neutral,” and like “plastic.”
8. Herrell’s Vanilla: An underdog, we had tasters rooting for Herrell’s, but it didn’t perform as expected. Tasting notes: “Scoops nicely, but loses texture.”; “Tastes like DQ.”
9. Ben & Jerry’s Vanilla: A bodega classic, Ben & Jerry’s may be good when in a pinch, but most testers noted it to be “fake” and “icy.”
10. Tillamook Old-Fashioned Vanilla: Though some testers liked this ice cream’s texture, many thought it was too sweet. Tasting notes: “Too sweet, not enough vanilla.”
11. Molly Moon’s Vanilla Bean: With the exception of one lover, Molly Moon’s was not well liked, owing to blandness and an odd, fluffy texture. Tasting notes: “Stiff and dry like whipped cream.”

The post We Blind Taste-Tested 15 Vanilla Ice Creams appeared first on Saveur.

Gelato is a totem.

Yes, it’s a dessert, but at this point in the collective American unconscious, it’s also an idea. An aspiration. Gelato is the sophisticated European answer to everything crassly American. More pure. More worldly, yet too good for this world. Gelato is everywhere now, but the mystique remains. The idea of the perfect gelato experience still feels rare. And actually making it? Unattainable.

I admit to being a perpetrator of this magical thinking. Despite owning three ice cream machines and spending my Friday nights churning up new flavors on a whim. I’ve made soft serve. Sorbet. Frozen yogurt. Midwestern custard. But gelato’s always seemed out of reach.

Truth is, this has more to do with the Italian delight in yelling at other people for screwing up their food—see: Entire Town Mad at a Chef for Putting Garlic in His Pasta Sauce—than any innate difficulty making gelato. Gelato is just the Italian word for ice cream, and if you can make boxed brownie mix, you can make ice cream.

The key to making great gelato? Knowing what it is and how to overcome its limitations.

What’s the Difference Between Gelato and Ice Cream?

In broad strokes, we all know that gelato is denser and richer than American ice cream. Its flavor is intense and it forms swirly folds rather than pert round scoops. But what does that really mean, and how does it happen? There are three big factors at work:

Fat

Fat: American ice cream has way more butterfat—that is, fat from cream and milk—than gelato. Legally speaking, the FDA requires ice cream to be at least 10% by weight to be labeled as ice cream. Super premium ice cream brands climb as high as 16%, and home recipes—which rely on less efficient machines that require more texture insurance—can climb above 20%. By comparison, Italian law requires gelato contain a mere 3.5% butterfat. It can go higher than that, but doesn’t need to.

Cold fat tastes like pretty much…nothing. It coats and dulls the tongue, impeding the sensation of flavor. Since gelato’s so light in fat, it tastes more intense. The flavor hits you first, not the dairy.

Air

Air: Butterfat also affects texture; the more butterfat an ice cream mix contains, the more air it’s able to absorb during churning, which translates into a billowy scoop that holds its shape and, paradoxically, registers in the mouth as super light. (Consider the light-as-air texture of whipped cream compared to the coarser froth on a carton of shaken milk.)

Since gelato’s so light in fat, it doesn’t suck in much air during the churning process. American ice cream can double in volume during churning, ballooning up with air. Gelato’s overrun, in ice cream speak, is much lower, resulting in an ice cream that feels more dense and rich—because it is. But since that richness is less dependent on fat, gelato melts fast and clean on the tongue.

Temperature

Temperature: When you order a scoop from an ice cream shop, it’s likely sitting in a service freezer that hovers around 0 to -10 degrees Fahrenheit, the temperature at which hard-pack American ice cream is scoopable but keeps its shape.

Gelato’s served much warmer—a good 10 to 20 degrees—which helps keep it soft and dreamy despite its lower butterfat. Cold also dulls the tongue, and gelato’s warmer serving temperature makes its flavor that much more immediate and aromatic.

The result? A scoop that’s potent and pure-tasting and dense but not heavy.

Bringing Gelato Home

Once you understand the basic principles, the rest is just plugging in numbers. Where most home ice cream recipes call for a high proportion of cream to milk, my pistachio gelato recipe uses a 2:1 ratio of whole milk to cream. And to compensate for the lower fat content, I throw in some egg yolks and a fair amount of sugar to help keep ice crystals at bay.

If you’re a particular kind of ice cream nerd, you might read that above paragraph, dart over to the recipe, plug it into this butterfat calculator, then come back here and ask, What gives? That’s a recipe with 10% butterfat! And you’re using so many egg yolks. How dare you call this gelato?

Take a minute. Breathe. Good? Good.

Remember what I said at the beginning of this long story, how gelato’s just the Italian word for ice cream? Well, just as American ice cream comes in all shapes and styles, so does gelato. The broad differences hold, but if you drive your way across Italy eating ice cream (not a bad idea), you’ll notice that the gelato changes from place to place.

In Sicily, what some consider to be the empire of ice cream, gelato tends toward milk to the extreme, often eschewing cream entirely, and it often excludes egg yolks altogether, thickening the base with cornstarch instead. But if you head up north, where dairy cows roam all over and there’s a lot of cream floating around, guess what? The gelato gets creamier. More eggs may enter the picture.

Because of course gelato is a many-splendored thing. Just as there’s no one Authentic Italian Pasta to Rule Them All, there’s no one way to make gelato. Hell, Meredith Kurtzman, one of the greatest gelato makers in the world, makes a ridiculously delicious olive oil gelato with a whopping 10 egg yolks per batch. And if eggs and cream are okay with Meredith, they’re good enough for the rest of us.

You can use this pistachio base, minus the pistachio, as a template for all your gelato flavors. Will it bring to mind that perfect spoonful you can’t forget on that sun-dappled day you strolled down the cobblestoned streets of Milan as a gorgeous Italian winked at you? That’s between you and your god. But will it be sitting in your freezer come 3 a.m. when you’re in need of a middle-of-the-night spoonful of cold, creamy comfort on a swampy summer night?

You better believe it.

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More Tips for Gelato Greatness

Don’t skimp on ingredients. A cliché, but true here. Gelato’s low butterfat leaves no place for subpar stuff. In the case of pistachio, buy the best pistachio paste you can afford. Agrimontana from Sicily is my favorite.

Let it thaw. If your freezer runs cold, your gelato will be hard to scoop after hardening. Thaw it in the fridge for 10 to 15 minutes before serving until it loosens up.

Eat it fast. Gelato isn’t meant to last, and one of the reasons Italian gelato tastes so good is because it’s fresh. Extended time in home freezers causes the ice cream to melt and refreeze, forming crunchy ice crystals. Eat yours within two days of churning, but ideally the day it’s made. If you have leftovers stored for longer, you’re better off melting the gelato down entirely and churning it again.

The post How to Make Real-Deal Italian Gelato at Home appeared first on Saveur.

When he was opening Maialino, a Roman-inspired restaurant in Manhattan, Nick Anderer was determined to cook with the world’s greatest dry pasta. He just wasn’t sure exactly which one that was. The solution was to test every bag he could get his hands on. “We knew the sauces and shapes we wanted to serve,” he says. “It was just a matter of pairing as many different producers with them as possible.” You are probably not looking to open a trattoria in your home, but the process works just as well if you’re deciding which brand to stock in your pantry.

Anderer says to start by watching how a pasta cooks, particularly when it approaches an ideal al dente texture. “Bad pastas never have a great texture. Others are a perfect al dente and then immediately fall apart,” he says. “The best pastas hold their texture for a little longer so they’re easier to work with.” Then, consider how the sauce behaves when you transfer the pasta to the pan to finish the dish. A good noodle will have a sticky, starchy outer layer that encourages the sauce to emulsify and cling to the pasta. Finally, taste: “Some industrial pasta just tastes like nothing—it should taste like wheat.”

Matt Taylor-Gross

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Vertically integrated
Most Italian dry pasta is made from imported wheat, but better brands use homegrown. Massimo Mancini takes that a step further: His factory in Le Marche is in the middle of his wheat fields, and he directs the process from start to finish. According to Nick Anderer, the control-freak approach gets results.

Matt Taylor-Gross

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Brown Bag It
“It’s a glory time for dried pasta,” says Andrew Carmellini, chef-owner of Locanda Verde, Bar Primi, and Leuca in New York. “We’re huge fans of Rustichella d’Abruzzo, particularly the spaghetti. The texture on the outside from their bronze dies really grabs the sauce.” Melissa Rodriguez of schmancy Manhattan Italian spot Del Posto relies on Rustichella d’Abruzzo’s corn pasta for gluten-free versions of her sea urchin spaghetti, among others. “A lot of gluten-free pasta gets slimy or mealy,” she says. “This one holds a really nice texture.”

Matt Taylor-Gross

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The post We Tasted 16 Spaghetti Brands to Find the Best Pasta You Can Buy appeared first on Saveur.

I am a cake person. Some people are pie people, or ice-cream people, or fro-yo people (which are very different from ice-cream people), and some people still are not dessert people at all. And then I’m not sure what kind of people they are.

I did not know I was a cake person until I met Maira Kalman, the artist and author behind The Principles of Uncertainty, And The Pursuit of Happiness, Daniel Handler’s Why We Broke Up, and more New Yorker covers than I can count. When we sat down to discuss her latest book Cake, an illustrated memoir of sorts with recipes from Barbara Scott-Goodman, I wanted to know, as yet uninitiated into the tribe of cake people, why cake?

There’s a certain grandeur in a towering layer cake, enveloped in glistening ganache, studded with candles or buttercream roses, all growing dewy as they come to room temperature. Those are essential to any celebration. But some cakes are more nonchalant, effortlessly cool and quotidien, a single piece of pound cake served with afternoon tea.

Despite the nature of the moment, a slice of cake can create one, even between two relative strangers sitting at a café in the West Village, one of them discussing her most recent book, the other trying to contain his wonderment at sharing a table with a personal hero. It turns out, every cake tells a story, and no two stories are the same.

So, with two slices of cake between us—one chocolate ganache and one lemon meringue—I asked Maira how this story came to be. It begins, as many great stories do, with a dinner party.

Maira Kalman: It’s the serendipity of all things, really. I was at a party with Barbara Scott-Goodman, who wrote recipes to this book, and we’ve known each other for a long time and we were just chatting about things, and talking about how much we love cake and she said, “Wouldn’t it be nice to do a book about cake?” And I agreed. It’s the nature of what cake is, too. I don’t like to cook very much, but I do like to bake. I’m not a ‘baker’ by any means, but if I were to choose something to make for you, I would make you a cake over a brisket.

Alex Testere: And is there a cake in particular that first came to mind when you set out to make this book?

MK: Well, probably my favorite cake is lemon pound cake, in general. Anything with lemon attached to it, but I’ve written before about that honey cake that everybody in my family makes, and so I don’t know if there’s a cake I’ve met that I don’t like, but probably the lemon pound cake was the glorious image.

AT: What is it about the lemon pound cake that stands out?

MK: There’s just something about a lemon pound cake, when I was younger, that seemed incredibly sophisticated. That anything made with a lemon was just very, very chic.

AT: Yes, I can imagine a lemon as a very sophisticated fruit. Was there another kind of cake you enjoyed growing up, one that triggers a certain memory?

MK: The first one that comes to mind is the one in the very beginning of the book, that my aunt Shoshana would make in Tel-Aviv. It was a chocolate cake with no chocolate in it; just cocoa and coffee. We would come home from the beach, and all of us would sit on the terrace—there were five of us, my sister and I and my three cousins—and there was a sense of incredible calm and pleasure and ease. And when you’re a kid and somebody hands you a plate without asking for it, you just think, ‘This is a very good life indeed.’

AT: A very uncomplicated sense of pleasure, in being a kid.

MK: Right, and anything after the beach, I mean, any food you have after a trip to the beach is a delight.

AT: Those moments just automatically imprint into your memory.

MK: It does, just a moment of complete loveliness.

AT: So, does each cake you and Barbara created for this book come from such a moment like that?

MK: Well, we went back and forth. Everybody has opinions about the best cakes in the world, the cakes we couldn’t live without. And many of those are pulled from the history of all those significant moments in life, birthdays, anniversaries, bringing a cake to someone who doesn’t feel well. Our job was to figure out a list of cakes, which is not a bad problem to have, and so we just kept exchanging lists and then we’d make new lists, and finally we said, here are the 16 cakes that everyone should know.

AT: And I bet there are some cakes that tell stories better than others.

MK: And sometimes it’s more about the sense of what it’s connected to, the memories of the cake. There is the cake of the broken heart, one my aunt made me when a boy broke my heart as a teenager. There’s the cake of philosophy, one I made in Rome that had all kinds of texts from philosophers on it because we were thinking a lot then about Spinoza and Lucretius, and all the weighty questions in this world. ‘What’s the meaning of life? Oh, well, let’s have some cake.’ Somehow, that’s always the play in this world; you have the incredibly intense heavy moments, and then you have a celebratory …

AT: … Slice of cake to make them light.

MK: There’s also, especially coming from Israel, but also here, is the sense of a mid-afternoon break. In Israel, it happens at five o’clock. The British were there then, and it was always a bit too hot for tea at four o’clock, so at five, everybody gathered in cafés, or we went to someone’s house the adults would have tea and coffee. We’d have cake and ice cream.

AT: Sounds like a good deal.

MK: Mm-hmm, and that pause, that sort of celebratory pause, or even just a relaxation pause, it’s the idea that whatever has happened to you during the day, whatever catastrophe has befallen you, you can simply stop and have a piece of cake.

AT: It’s exemplary of this idea that we need to take breaks to do good work, to move forward. A friend told me recently, when I told her I was struggling with making new work, and feeling like I needed to take a break, she said, “Every religion has a Sunday.”

MK: Absolutely. People need rest. I say during the day, too, not just once a week!

AT: So you’ve written and illustrated many books, including the 2011 edition of Michael Pollan’s Food Rules. And I’ve seen various scenes pop up in your books over the years, like the woman eating a sliced egg sandwich at a New York luncheonette in The Principles of Uncertainty. Do you feel any affinity for drawing food in particular?

MK: I’ve never done a food book specifically, though I bring food into every single project I’ve ever painted, especially with Daniel Handler and his 13 Words. There are a lot of cakes in that book, because he wrote the book knowing that I love to paint cakes. I’m always painting meals, and people sitting at tables, taking that kind of break.

AT: As an artist, do you find you handle the painting of a cake differently than, say, if you were painting a person?

MK: I’m probably happier painting a cake or a fruit platter, but no, it’s all still painting. But I’m very happy to paint those scenes of eating, or just the table all set, the way it looks, because it gives me great joy. I always think that the moments of family, or gathering around a table—one hopes that they’re moments of great joy, and funniness, and naturalness. And just hopefully you can be yourself when you’re around the table with people that you know pretty well.

AT: Definitely. Food has a way of acting as an equalizer among new people. I think that’s why we all love to have a dinner party more than we love to stand around and make small talk.

MK: Yeah, it’s true. And I, actually, I would much rather serve at a dinner party than sit at a dinner party.

AT: Exactly! That’s something I’ve realized recently too; I love to host people, I love to cook for them and bring them around a table. I like doing that so much more than going to other people’s parties.

MK: Right? There’s something about … It’s interesting. When you’re with your family, or with close friends, it’s very different. But when you’re going to a ‘dinner party,’ there’s some performance aspect to it, and it’s a little bit exhausting, and you think, ‘If I can’t think of one more story to tell, I’m just going to have to go home and get into my pajamas immediately.’ I’m going to one tonight, and I’m hoping that—

AT: —you have enough stories to tell?

MK: Precisely.

AT: Do you cook often at home? Besides the occasional cake?

MK: I’d much rather be the assistant. I’d rather be the chopper, the cleaner, the table setter. I love the world of setting the table and getting flowers and just looking at the colors of the napkins and the tablecloth. I love ironing everything beforehand, that’s a big part of it. I’m the attendant around everything more than the cook.

AT: Who usually does the cooking?

MK: My daughter’s an amazing cook, but she longer lives at home. But my boyfriend is a great cook also, and he cooks most of the food.

AT: I have someone like that too. That’s great to have.

MK: I’m happy to be his assistant. Then, somehow, the week goes by and you’ve managed to eat. I always say that after I’ve gone shopping, and I have to peel a cucumber or something, I’m exhausted. I’m thinking, ‘How has anybody ever worked so hard as to peel this cucumber? I couldn’t possibly make an entire dinner.’ You first decide what you want to eat, then you make the list, then you go shopping, you bring it home, you organize it, and then you have to cook it and serve it. But I really do long to have a repertoire of, let’s say, a dozen magnificent dishes. The perfect lasagna, the perfect short rib recipe.

AT: Did the addition of recipes change anything about your approach to this book?

MK: Well, it’s a useful book, with actual recipes that people can use. I was very happy with that, I love the counterpoint of lyrical stories, or sad stories, or funny stories with something very pragmatic interspersed, like a recipe. I thought, ‘This is a delightful way to make a book, you’re offering some help, and then offering some story and some art.’

AT: Had you considered handwriting the recipes?

MK: We discussed it, you know there’s always a question of the balance of my handwriting in a book, and I think we understood that there should be a separation between the stories and the recipes. And so the recipes are all clear and crisp, and the stories are more lyrical. There’s no wondering ‘what is this word?’ in the recipes.

AT: I’ve been thinking about illustrations in cookbooks a lot recently, specifically after a conversation with Samin Nosrat and Wendy MacNaughton about their book, Salt Fat Acid Heat. We had talked then about there almost being an unfair sense of perfection tied to the big, glossy photographs in many cookbooks.

MK: Right. I’m hoping the nice things about these paintings is the imperfection of life and cake, and all those things. Barbara even mentions in her intro that no matter how good you are, there will always be the potential for a mishap.

AT: A mishap.

MK: A mishap is really something wonderful to contemplate! For unknown reasons, inexplicable reasons, you won’t always get it right, and there’s no reason to despair. I’ve made cakes that are really … I couldn’t even call them cakes. I’d have to call them sludge on a pate.

AT: It can be such a terrible feeling to destroy something like that. To put in all the time and effort—

MK: —You feel like such a failure. But, then again, it’s a nice thing to be reminded that you can fail and still the world will not come to an end.

Cake, by Maira Kalman, with recipes by Barbara Scott-Goodman, will be published by Penguin Press on April 10, 2018.

The post Life, Love, and Lemon Cake with Artist Maira Kalman appeared first on Saveur.