Scratching together a nourishing, delicious meal at the end of the day is one of life’s greatest challenges. Two staples that make that easier in our household are lentils and sausage, especially the smoked Polish variety called kielbasa.

Lentils are one of the greatest pleasures of the legume world. They cook quickly (and unlike most dried beans, there’s no soaking beforehand), adapt to any number of flavor palettes, and slide from homey to haute with ease. I suppose you could say they’ve been around the block and know a thing or two: After all, they were there in the beginning—er, Beginning—as the pottage for which Esau gave up his birthright in Genesis 25:34. I, for one, have great sympathy for him. Who wouldn’t be tempted by a bowlful of something so simultaneously earthy and rich-tasting?

The pretty green lentils you see above are the renowned French ones called lentilles du Puy. Named for the town of Le Puy, a tile-roofed town in the mountains of Haute-Loire, they have their own appellation d’origine contrôlée. Don’t presume that the tiny “French green lentils” in the bulk-bin section of the supermarket are true lentilles du Puy; look for that A.O.C. seal on the package when buying (Saborat is the brand I see most often). Yep, I know they’re more expensive than the other lentils on the shelf, but they’re worth it. Their characteristic flavor—peppery and minerally yet delicate—comes from the rich volcanic soil and dry, sunny climate in which they’re grown. And because they contain less starch than other varieties, they exhibit a lovely firm-tender texture when cooked. In fact, if your opinion of lentils was formed by one too many mushy stews in bad vegetarian restaurants, then these will be a revelation.

The lentils of Puy make a great bed for slices of duck breast, duck leg confit, or a piece of seared fish. They are lovely scooped into the hollows of a baked winter squash or sweet potato, or tossed with small pasta shells and a crumbly, mild fresh goat cheese.

What I do most often, though, is serve them in a bistro-style warm salad with kielbasa. If I’m fortunate, my fridge may hold one from Eagle Provisions, in Brooklyn, “manufacturers of the world’s finest kielbasy,” but more often than not, I make do with one from the supermarket, or skip the sausage entirely and fry up pancetta or lardons—thick-cut strips of bacon sliced into matchsticks and cooked until crisp—instead.

Warm Lentil Salad with Kielbasa 

Adapted from Gourmet magazine

Serves 4

The mix of aromatic vegetables in this salad is really satisfying, but it varies depending on my time and inclination—as well as the contents of the refrigerator. It’s perfectly delicious with nothing more than onion and garlic, or carrot and garlic. All you need alongside is some good bread and butter, but a green salad is always welcome as well.

2 cups French green lentils (lentilles du Puy), picked over and rinsed

6 cups water

1 bay leaf

A couple of sprigs of fresh thyme or, if you can find it, winter savory

Coarse salt and freshly ground pepper

½ cup plus 2 tablespoons extra-virgin olive oil, divided

1 cup finely chopped onion

1 cup diced carrot

1 cup diced fennel or celery

1 tablespoon finely chopped garlic

¼ cup red-wine or Sherry vinegar

1 tablespoon Dijon mustard

1 smoked kielbasa sausage, cut crosswise into ¼-inch slices

Fresh flat-leaf parsley or celery leaves, chopped, for serving (optional)

1. Bring the lentils, water, bay leaf, and thyme sprigs to a boil in a 3-quart pot. Reduce the heat and simmer the lentils, covered, until they are almost tender, about 15 minutes. Add ½ teaspoon salt and keep simmering until tender but still firm, about another 5 minutes. Meanwhile, heat 2 tablespoons oil in a large skillet over medium-low heat. Add the onion, carrot, fennel, and garlic and cook, stirring every so often, until the vegetables are just softened and smell delicious, 8 to 10 minutes.

2. While the lentils and aromatics are both working, make the vinaigrette: Whisk together the vinegar and mustard in a small bowl and then whisk in the remaining ½ cup oil. Season to taste with salt and pepper.

3. Drain the lentils in a colander, discarding the herbs. Return the lentils to the pot and stir in the vegetables and vinaigrette. Cook over low heat a few minutes until nicely hottened up; remove from the heat and cover to keep warm. Wipe out the skillet and brown the kielbasa on both sides. Stir into the lentils, along with the parsley, and serve.

I greatly admire—scratch that. I’m in awe of those who can talk to a roomful of people about a single subject without benefit of notes. I could practice from now to kingdom come and never achieve their ease, let alone their ability to synthesize complex material on the fly, avoid tangential to-ing and fro-ing, form complete sentences, and be witty and engaging, to boot.

That is why I agonize over any presentation, most recently, for last week’s Roger Smith Cookbook Conference. The topic of our panel discussion was how one transforms the act of cooking into clear-as-a-bell printed instructions on the page. My partners in crime were the masterful Grace Young, who both demystifies and elevates the art of stir-fry cooking, and the equally masterful Tina Ujlakis, longtime executive food editor at Food & Wine. Interestingly, they both spent time at Time-Life; Tina worked on The Good Cook book series, and Grace, as the company’s test kitchen director, oversaw more than 40 cookbooks.

Their connection put me in mind of the extraordinary food writer Eugene Walter (1921–1998), a native of Mobile, Alabama, and bon vivant who wrote American Cooking: Southern Style, part of Time-Life’s beloved Foods of the World series. Mr. Walter was a raconteur of the highest order; to get the flavor of the man, check out the homage here, from the 2006 Southern Foodways Alliance symposium. It’s a star turn from a few gentlemen who are no slouches in the storytelling department themselves.

One of them was Don Goodman, Mr. Walter’s literary executor; along with food writer Tom Head, he assembled and edited the book that Mr. Walter had been working on at the end of his life, The Happy Table of Eugene Walter: Southern Spirits in Food and Drink, published in 2011 by the University of North Carolina Press. I’ve been meaning to write about it ever since, and I may as well seize the moment.

It’s wonderful, of course. There are chapters devoted to eggnog, punch, bourbon, “Juleps, Mint and Otherwise,” and everyone’s favorite, “The Cocktail, or I Feel Better Already.” The section called “Victuals” features dishes that call for alcohol, including many that were almost lost during Prohibition and the Depression. There are also charming illustrations by the author, and enlightening little essays on subjects such as “smears” for roasts. “Most Gulf Coast traditional households have coatings that are spread on meat roasts before cooking—marinades, but what in local talk is a ‘smear,'” Mr. Walter explains. “Roasts are ‘smeared,’ covered with a clean damp towel, and left for half an hour before being grilled or baked. Every household has its private formula for a smear, maybe several smears, differing according to the meat. Almost all smears have bourbon as a kind of coordinator. Most ham or pork smears are sweet.”

Personally, I have had very good luck with the smear for ham outlined below:

“One famous Mobile cook prepared ham in this fashion: Cut some fat from the ham and melt it in a frying pan. Smear ham all over with fat. The night before, or some hours before make the smear mix and keep it in the fridge. This consists of minced sweet onion, a bit of minced kumquat or orange peel, a good glop of unrefined honey or molasses, a dash of Tabasco, and freshly ground black pepper, all well mixed. A half cup of best bourbon was mixed in, and this smear was spread all over the roast before it went into the oven.”

You don’t so much read The Happy Table as sit at it, and not want the party to end. You’re in the hands of a capable cook, one who has a big appetite and considers being in the kitchen great fun. The last time I picked up the book, I enjoyed Mr. Walter’s sharp observations on the interpretative aspect of recipes and realized they’d be a good kicker to my presentation. The audience seemed to like Mr. Walter’s words, and I hope you will, too.

ON RECIPES & MEASUREMENTS

From The Happy Table of Eugene Walter, edited by Donald Goodman and Thomas Head (University of North Carolina Press, 2011)

“No one has ever questioned or expressed uncertainties to me about the use of ‘pinch,’ ‘dash,’ and so on as measurements. In the long run, I feel the ‘pinch’ is much more precise that the ‘1/8 of a teaspoon’ employed in more prissy-proper recipes. The great southern cooks, well aware of differences of altitude, climate, temperament, astrological signs, mood, degree of appetite, type of stove, kinds of kitchen equipment, and, most of all, the eaters for whom they cook, would never specify precisely such a measurement. They know what is meant by splash, dribble, dollop, lump, squirt, and hint, the difference between a dusting and a topping, between a dash and a pinch. Above all they know that recipes are to be interpreted and so read a recipe rather as Wanda Landowska might read a page of Scarlatti for the first time or as Van Cliburn might peruse a newly discovered Mussorgsky prelude. Above all, the serious cook knows who is coming to table, whether a ladies’ luncheon of reducers; a gang of greedy-guts teenage boys; the steak-and-potato set in need of introduction to, say, a grits-cheese-and-garlic soufflé; thin Aunt Mayhem in from gardening, ravenous and tucking in; or fat Uncle Picky, soaked in rum and taking only little forkfuls.

“The best advice to cooks is, I feel, seek fresh, avoid chemicals, keep a light hand, rise to the occasion, try what you don’t know, have fun … and good eating, you-all!”

On a frosty February morning, what brings me to a screeching halt is the sheer richness of color—ravishing purple and celadon green. I’m looking at kohlrabies*, shorn of the whirligig leaves that grant them an interplanetary status for much of the year.

I do not have time for this. For cooking, that is, let alone mooning over produce like there is no tomorrow. It’s below freezing. I forgot my gloves. I should focus on not sounding idiotic at the rapidly approaching Roger Smith cookbook conference. And someone Sam and I love to the moon and back is gravely ill.

So I buy pounds of kohlrabies. They are good ‘uns—very firm, freshly cut at the bottom, and not too small, which means there is a higher ratio of flesh to peel. I know they will be juicy, with a mild, turnipy flavor, and they will come in handy somehow. Or not. Even if I don’t deal with them for a solid week or so, they will be absolutely fine in the crisper. Kohlrabi is a vegetable that knows how to deal with benign neglect and still retain its delicacy.

A smidgen of backstory here: The kohlrabi isn’t a root vegetable, but a bulbous stem that grows above ground. It’s a versatile—and ancient—member of the cabbage family, cultivated in France since Roman times, and in the United States since the 18th century. These days, you’ll find it all over the world, including Hungary, Germany, China, and India. Consequently, it handles an vast array of flavors and embellishments with aplomb.

You can peel a kohlrabi (the purple and green strains are the same under the skin), removing any fibrous layer beneath the surface, and eat it raw with a sprinkling of flaky sea salt or a smear of fresh cheese. If you add it to a crudité plate and not tell people what it is, it will be the first thing to disappear. It is also a marvelous and mysterious element in Bill Telepan’s winter salad of savoy cabbage and grapefruit.

But Eastern European flavors will bring comfort to the people I love. There is time, after all, to quick-braise wedges of the stuff until tender, then toss with enough sour cream to coat, a large dollop of creamy bottled horseradish, plenty of salt and pepper, and a good amount of roughly chopped dill. I hope it will come in handy somehow.

* I know, I know, kolhrabi sounds like the plural. But it isn’t.

It was bound to happen sooner or later: The temperature dipped down into the single digits and made itself at home. Last Saturday’s trip to the Union Square Greenmarket began, then, with swathing myself in Heattech—Uniqlo’s fabulously comfortable thermal line of turtlenecks, T-shirts, leggings, and socks. Forgive the shameless plug, but the stuff really works, and is one of my keys to getting through the winter.

This time of year, my market expeditions are more about foraging than shopping, but never mind. I only needed the basics: potatoes, onions, carrots, perhaps some Nordic rye bread. I didn’t expect to see my apple guy; he won’t transport the fruit in weather like this, or it will freeze in the truck. “A frozen apple is a mushy apple,” he would say. “And worthless.” I found myself hoping that he’d taken the opportunity to sleep in.

And I was eager to see what was heaped on the tables at Northshire Farm, from (way) upstate New York. Grower Jim Grillo is renowned for his greens, among other things, and sure enough, I hit the jackpot: He’s still harvesting savoy cabbages, with their hoop skirts of crinkled leaves, and kale from beneath a deep, insulating blanket of snow. Although the leaves were brittle to the touch and a little worse for wear, they looked like a world of deliciousness to me. By the way, the strappy, inky-green leaves of lacinato kale (at far right in above photo) are also savoyed, or crinkled, and taste like Tuscany.

In fact, even though the summer months bring charming little bunches of young kale to the market, I find them as fundamentally uninteresting as tomatoes in January. Like all brassicas, kale and cabbage need a hard frost to bring out their deeply sweet character: They survive by releasing more natural sugars into the water inside their leaves, thus lowering the temperature at which freezing begins. Pretty tricky … and worth waiting for.

Savoy cabbage and kale cook quickly if you stack the leaves, roll them up into a cylinder, and cut them into thin strips crosswise. If you’ve ever had the Brazilian dish called collards Miniera, you’ll know what I mean. Here, the greens are bolstered with sausages. I used fat, mildly seasoned pork sausages, but a spicier variety would work well, too. And although I call for Savoy cabbage and lacinato kale below because that is what I used, I imagine any pot green that doesn’t shrink down too much would be good. I’ve made variations on this dish for years, but, as always, am standing on the shoulders of giants. I have a feeling that I was originally inspired by Marcella Hazan, who combines her sausages with red cabbage.

Pork Sausages with Cabbage and Kale

This is wonderful with polenta or simply a heap of buttery, garlicky toast.

1 pound pork sausages

Extra-virgin olive oil

About 1½ pounds total Savoy cabbage and lacinato kale

About 1 tablespoon chopped garlic

Coarse salt and freshly ground pepper

1. Prick the sausages in a few places with a fork and put them in a skillet. Brown them well over moderate heat, turning them, and if the fat oozing out of them doesn’t seem like enough, add a little oil. Don’t rush this first step—browning is what provides you with a bedrock of flavor. Plus, it smells wonderful.

2. While the sausages are working, cut the center ribs out of the cabbage and kale if they are especially tough and fibrous; otherwise, don’t worry about them. Stack a few cabbage leaves at a time, roll them into a cylinder, and cut crosswise into thin strips. Do the same with the kale. Keep the greens separate.

3. Sausages done? Good. Transfer them to a plate. If there doesn’t seem to be enough fat in the skillet, add some oil, then sauté the garlic until pale golden and fragrant. The cabbage will take longer to cook than the kale, so add a few handfuls of that first and cook, tossing with tongs, until wilted. Gradually add the rest of the cabbage and then the kale, letting each batch wilt before adding the next. Cover the pan intermittently; the steam that creates will speed things along, and if the pan looks dry, pour in a little water; you don’t want the greens to scorch.

4. Once all the greens are on their way to soft, season with salt and pepper and return the sausages to the pan. Let the sausages and greens get along with each other for a while, uncovered, until the greens are truly soft and yielding, a good 20 minutes.

Perhaps the fact that my husband and I were January babies (we were born three days apart in the same year) is why we both crave sunlight and warmth, especially now. That would be our present to each other in 2013, we decided, and made a run for it. Sam wanted golf and a tropical garden or two; I wanted water, sand, a good book, and no other agenda.

We ended up on Siesta Key, the northernmost barrier island off Sarasota, and it was perfect: There is nothing like a community of (mostly) senior citizens to make you feel young on your natal day(s). Until they blow by you on the Tamiami Trail.

Sam, a bred-in-the-bone New York driver (he doesn’t need Jesus as an excuse to honk) ignored them and happily puttered along at 45 miles an hour. “Look at that view!” he would exclaim, as we made our sedate way over bridges and causeways. “The color of the water! Those palm trees!” He braked for sightings of pelicans, egrets, and (imagined) pythons; women boasting the gravity-defying results of plastic surgery; and roadside stands selling rich, juicy Honeybell tangelos*.

The slower pace made me feel cosseted, and I resisted the urge to interrogate. (“Who are you, and what have you done with my husband?”) Instead, I enjoyed unexpected flashbacks to winter vacations spent in Florida with my mother’s parents. They were truly Happy Campers, and delighted in showing me how important it was to bask in every moment.

It didn’t occur to me until now that maybe those long-ago holidays were what sparked my fondness for living in neat, small, workmanlike spaces. It’s why I feel at home in boats, why a typical Manhattan apartment isn’t much of a stretch, and why editing, curating, and improvising rank high on my list of life skills.

These days, a typical mobile home bristles with brush guards, bikes, sea kayaks, and boogie or surf boards. It bellies into oncoming traffic with the bonhomie of a drunk at a party. That sort of transport holds no appeal for me, but hmm, something vintage might be fun. Sam got into the spirit of the thing. “Next year, let’s take January off and be snowbirds!” he said. “I’ll even let you drive.”

* Honeybells are best enjoyed while sitting on the warm hood of a car and watching the sunset, but take them any way you can get them. My favorite mail-order source is Robert Is Here Fruit Stand and Farm (estab. 1960), in Homestead, Florida.

The year, 2006. The city, Jerusalem.  I was there to help to help a friend celebrate an important birthday; there were six of us in all, and after days filled with sightseeing, we would order a large, satisfying spread of mezes (from beets puréed with za’atar and yogurt to spiced kofta studded with pine nuts), grilled meats, and intensely flavored little stews for dinner. The food was on the rustic side—uncomplicated, pristinely fresh, and completely of the moment. Fragrant pitas, still warm from a wood-fired oven, were the most “processed” thing we ate.

A few years later, I found myself digging into a meal with the same flavors and sense of place, but I wasn’t in the Middle East. I was in Islington, at Ottolenghi, where London chefs Yotam Ottolenghi (from Jewish West Jerusalem) and Sami Tamimi (from Arab East Jerusalem) channel the spirit of their home city. In less-knowing hands, their food—which ranges from age-old preparations to inventive twists on tradition—would be a jumble, a hodgepodge, but instead it’s a mosaic that reminds me of the extraordinary Byzantine floor in the church on top of Mount Nebo, or the Roman floor uncovered in Sepphoris, in Lower Galilee, displayed at the Israel Museum.

Photo courtesy of the Israel Museum, Jerusalem

The third Ottolenghi cookbook, Jerusalem, was published in 2012 to starry reviews. I must admit I spent far too long simply admiring it—the evocative photos are a travelogue in themselves—but one day late last summer, I picked it up and started to cook from its pages. Charred okra with tomato, garlic, and preserved lemon, kohlrabi salad, chard fritters, and, oh, how wonderful, and familiar—puréed beets with za’atar and yogurt—lovely stuff. Now that it’s winter, I’ve turned to dishes such as chicken with caramelized onion and cardamom rice—a one-skillet wonder—butternut squash and tahini spread, and the roasted cauliflower and hazelnut salad below.

Bolstered with flatbread and hummus picked up at the corner store, it makes an absolutely terrific scratch supper. Don’t be alarmed at the list of ingredients: You do need a cauliflower, obviously, but odds are you already have celery, parsley, and the ground spices. If you don’t have sherry vinegar, run out and get some! It’s my go-to vinegar these days. And Yotam and Sami would be the first people to tell you that you should treat their recipe as more of a guideline. On various occasions, I’ve substituted almonds for the hazelnuts, dried cranberries for pomegranate seeds, or sorghum for the maple syrup. It’s always good.

Roasted Cauliflower & Hazelnut Salad

Adapted from Jerusalem: A Cookbook, by Yotam Ottolenghi and Sami Tamimi (Ten Speed Press, 2012)

1 head cauliflower (about 1½ pounds), cored and broken into small florets

Extra-virgin olive oil

Coarse salt and freshly ground pepper

1 large celery stalk, thinly sliced on an angle

5 tablespoons hazelnuts, with skins

1/3 cup small flat-leaf parsley leaves

1/3 cup pomegranate seeds (from about ½ pomegranate)

A generous ¼ teaspoon ground cinnamon

A generous ¼ teaspoon ground allspice

1 tablespoon sherry vinegar

1½ teaspoons pure maple syrup

1. Preheat the oven to 425º. Mix the cauliflower with about 3 tablespoons oil to coat and season with salt and pepper. Spread out the cauliflower on a rimmed baking sheet and roast until the cauliflower is crisp and parts have turned golden brown, a good 20 minutes or more. Transfer to a large mixing bowl and set aside to cool.

2. Decrease the oven temperature to 325º. Spread the hazelnuts on a baking sheet lined with parchment paper and roast until they smell roasty-toasty, about 17 minutes. Allow the nuts to cool a little, then coarsely chop them and add to the cauliflower, along with about 2 tablespoons oil and the remaining ingredients. Stir, taste, and season with salt and pepper accordingly. Serve at room temperature.

Winter. The older I get, the more I appreciate its spare beauty. That is one reason I can’t wait to get out of Dodge for the holidays. We slip out of Manhattan at the earliest opportunity and head for southwestern Virginia, to our corner of the Blue Ridge.

The first few days are hell. When it comes right down to it, I have no idea what to do with myself when I don’t have effortless internet access, let alone a plan, a list, a deadline or two or three. My husband, Sam, and my extended family understand this, and every year, they tease and ease me into a more relaxed state of mind with fireside dinners, a Christmas pageant filled with joy and tenderness, afternoon binges at the movie theater, a trip to the local Kroger—the wine aisle is superb—and long walks in the countryside. As far as I’m concerned, the best sort of walk always ends at a bookstore (or at least a place where I can pick up a copy of the New York Times), but I must admit that a windswept panorama isn’t half bad.

And this year, that’s when it hit me:  What a relief it is to be free of fall’s urgency. There is the holiday frenzy, obviously, but what I’m really talking about is Produce Tyranny. The last of the tomatoes—well, almost—no, really! And then the thrill of the first frost-sweetened collards and kale and just-dug celery root. I love it all, and can’t bear to miss out on a thing, so in the kitchen, I’m at full throttle for months. Winter food, though, isn’t in a rush; it has nothing to prove. “You’re stuck with me for a while,” it says. “Deal with it.”

I know I’ll be dancing with impatience come late March and early April, but right now, I can’t (or won’t) shake the feeling that I have all the time in the world.

Which means it’s time to make soup.

Now because I’m feeling lazy and slow—or perhaps because I’m feeling lazy and slow—I’ve had a revelation of sorts. Think back to the winter lobster stew I wrote about in December. Remember the (counterintuitive) key to success was making it a day ahead of time?

Well, I think the same holds true for soup. I’d made a big pot of minestrone a week or so before Christmas and, as always, cooled it completely (to prevent souring) before covering it and tucking it in the fridge. Normally, I would have immediately frozen most of it, but at the time I was in a terrible rush, and so the soup sat in the fridge for two days before it made it into the freezer. When we finally got around to eating it, earlier this week, it was amazing—the most flavorful minestrone I’d ever made. Go figure.

I suspect the same will be true of this split-pea soup. As you will see, it’s very basic, but shreds of ham give it lushness and smoky savor. It is wonderful with rye-bread croutons.

Split-Pea Soup with Ham

Serves about 8

3 tablespoons extra-virgin olive oil

2 medium-large onions, finely chopped

2 celery stalks, thinly sliced crosswise

3 medium carrots, thinly sliced crosswise

1 pound green or yellow split peas, picked over but not rinsed (otherwise, they can clump together)

1 bay leaf and a couple of thyme sprigs tied together with kitchen string

8 cups water

A meaty ham hock or ham bone

1. Heat the oil in a large pot. Add the onions, celery, and about one third of the carrots, and cook over moderate heat, stirring occasionally, until the vegetables are softened (take care not to let them brown). Rinse and drain the peas. Add them to the pot, stirring to combine and coat them with fat. Add the herbs and cook about 1 minute.

2. Add the water and ham hock, increase the heat to high, and bring to a boil; skim off the froth. Reduce the heat and gently simmer the soup, partially covered, until the meat on the ham hock is tender and the peas start to fall apart, which usually takes a good hour. Toss the rest of the carrots. Simmer until the carrots are just tender and the peas are pleasantly sludgy, about 15 minutes more.

3. Fish out and discard the herbs. Transfer the ham hock to a cutting board. When it’s cool enough to handle, discard the fat and bones and shred the meat. Stir the meat into the soup and reheat before serving.

Christmas Eve morning, 10 o’clock. As always, we are rusticating in southwestern Virginia, where the magnolias are deep glossy green against the brown and the boxwood smells wonderful. Just had breakfast.

And now I need to get serious about making enough cheese biscuits to get us through the next few days, and perhaps gingerbread with stars. You know, the usual. I love the usual.

Merry Christmas! Happy Holidays! See you soon in the New Year!

The pushcart vendors in New York City are amazing. I’m not talking trendy food trucks here, but the unsung produce sellers who stake a claim near subway entrances and corner drugstores. This time of year, they jockey for position with the sellers of resiny Christmas pines, firs, and spruce. Where else can you pick up cocktail fodder and an apartment-sized tree (“It looks a little shrubby,” interjected Sam) all at the same time?

A tree, a shrub, whatever. The point is that stopping to peruse the sidewalk greenery on my usual walk home gave me time to notice a juxtaposed jumble of offerings that included avocados, pomegranates, and persimmons. It triggered thoughts of a longtime favorite treat: Diana Kennedy’s guacamole Chamacuero, which you’ll find it in her book My Mexico—a cookbook, travel memoir, reference work, and, when published in 1998, an instant classic.

Diana credits Leticia Sánchez, a resident of Comonfort (formerly called Chamacuero), a town near San Miguel de Allende, for sharing an old family recipe. What makes it noteworthy is that it contains peaches, grapes, and pomegranate seeds. Those fruits may not sound seasonally compatible to us, but in the local orchards around Comonfort, those fruits all ripen at the same time, in the late summer and fall.

I first saw Diana make guacamole Chamacuero in the Gourmet test kitchens easily a decade ago, and the glint of juicy, ruby-red pomegranate seeds against pale-green chunks of avocado put all of the food editors in mind of Christmas. Peaches and grapes would no longer be seasonal, of course, but Diana exhorted us to improvise with pears. That proved to be a brilliant if inauthentic swap-out, and it’s what I did for ages.

Until the other evening, that is, when the squat Fuyu persimmons I’d just bought spoke to me. Unlike the heart-shaped Hachiya cultivar, which is way too astringent unless completely ripe and soft, a Fuyu can be enjoyed when firm and crisp-skinned. Its flesh is almost apricot-like and faintly spicy in flavor; its acidity is subtle and complex. Cut into wedges, like a tomato, it’s wonderful in salads … and in guacamole.

A rather long aside on pomegranates: The late essayist David Rakoff changed my life when he showed me how he extracted the seeds from the thick-walled fruit; he learned the method from a woman from the Republic of Georgia, where the fruit has been cultivated for millennia. First off, cut the pomegranate in half crosswise—that is, through the equator. Then hold each half in the palm of your hand, cut side up, and (carefully) make deep cuts through the flesh and skin at 12, 3, 6, and 9 o’clock. Holding each half upside down over a bowl, give it a few whacks with a large metal spoon, and lo and behold, the seeds will rain down with a minimum of spatter and pith. My one embellishment on this method utilizes an oyster knife to flick out any stubborn seeds. By the way, whole pomegranates freeze beautifully in a heavy-duty zip-top plastic bag. Play your cards right, and a true guacamole Chamacuero could be yours.

 Guacamole with Pomegranate Seeds and Persimmon

With thanks to Diana Kennedy and the Gourmet food editors

Cilantro is ubiquitous in many guacamoles, but not this one, so resist the urge. Lime juice is common as well, but hold off until you taste. The pomegranate seeds and persimmon generally add enough (and far more interesting) acidity for me.

1/3 cup finely chopped white onion

2 finely chopped serrano chiles

Coarse sea salt

4 large ripe Hass avocados

1 cup pomegranate seeds

½ cup finely chopped peeled firm Fuyu persimmons

Lime juice (optional)

Your favorite tortilla chips, for serving

1. Mash together the onion, chiles, and about 1 teaspoon salt to form a rough paste. Squeeze the pulp from the avocados and add it to the onion paste, roughly mashing to combine. Take care not to overmix; there should be plenty of luscious chunks of avocado.

2. Stir in the lime juice, half the pomegranate seeds, and the persimmons. Sprinkle the remaining pomegranate seeds over the top and serve immediately with tortilla chips.

Around this time last year at a holiday lunch, our friend Elaine Greenstein, an art teacher and author-illustrator of children’s books, gave us a beautifully wrapped but decidedly knobbly present. Intriguing.

The parcel was both heavy and cold. When held up to an ear and shaken cautiously, it sloshed. I freed the object from tissue and ribbon, then lifted it to the light. “What is it—eggnog?” I asked. I tried to sound surprised, but in a good way. The cream-based drink, which has its roots in an English posset, is usually too rich and too sweet for me; I’m more of a milk punch kind of gal.

Elaine has always had my number. “I know you’re thinking yuck,” she said. “But this tastes great. It’s coquito, a Puerto Rican drink. It’s wonderful. And a little addictive.” She leaned back in her chair and beamed.

A few years back, a neighbor gave a bottle of the homemade libation to Elaine and her husband for the holidays. The following December, Elaine found a recipe online, whipped up a batch, and returned the favor. Now her neighbor brings white rum back from his visits home to Puerto Rico for Elaine’s annual effort. Brilliant.

Unlike many eggnog recipes, coquito doesn’t contain whipped cream or beaten egg whites to lighten. Instead, it has an unabashedly heavy, satiny texture. There are many versions of coquito; in this one, evaporated milk gives it a slightly caramelized, dulce de leche kind of vibe, and cream of coconut puts it over the top.

Like last week’s lobster stew or—more to the point—an aged eggnog, coquito shouldn’t be rushed; it needs time to collect itself in the refrigerator for up to a week.

My inaugural batch, made with a reckless amount of Rhum Agricole, has been sitting in the fridge for five days now, which is almost a week, and the suspense is killing me. Sam made my mind up for me. “It’s both dessert and nightcap,” he said. “I’ll pour.”

Coquito

Boil 2½ cups of water with 2 cinnamon sticks and 4 whole cloves. Take the spices out when the water turns yellow. Lower the heat. Add 1 can of evaporated milk and 1 can of sweetened condensed milk and bring to a simmer.

Next, beat 3 egg yolks and add to the mix. Cook, stirring, until the mixture is thickened and coats the back of a spoon.

Pour the mixture through a fine sieve into a bowl. Stir in 1 can cream of coconut and 2 cups white rum. When coquito is cool, transfer to an airtight container and refrigerate until cold, at least a few hours and up to a week, if you can stand it. Serve it straight up or on the rocks. For fun, sprinkle it with freshly grated nutmeg or a smidgen of toasted coconut.