Salad in winter is a tricky proposition. Tender, young greenhouse lettuces are all well and good, but we all know that most other salad swear-bys—tomatoes are an obvious example—are disappointing out of season.

But more importantly, this type of salad doesn’t suit the heartier, richer food we crave this time of year. A plateful of nicely dressed butterhead lettuces that arrives after braised short ribs, say, or polenta and sausage sauce seems tacked on and curiously unsatisfying. People tend to pick at it and wonder what’s for dessert, rather than appreciate the punctuation, so to speak, and feel revitalized.

To provide the sort of clean, bracing counterpoint that’s called for, a winter salad needs drama and edginess. Assertive greens such as watercress, arugula, endive, or springy, spiky frisée will get you going in the right direction, and slivers of sweet, earthy fresh celery root and/or tangy green apple will help matters along.

A few weeks ago, when I mentioned we planned to follow a fettuccine Alfredo blow-out with a satsuma and fennel combination—one of our favorite winter salads—several people wanted the recipe. It is nothing new, of course, but it is always delicious. What appears below is more of a guideline, really. You can include cress or arugula if you like; substitute green olives for the black, or forgo them altogether. Ruby-red pomegranate seeds would add sparkle and texture, and parsley leaves, an herbal punch.

You’ll see I’m not calling specifically for satsumas—their season just ended—but we’ll all be kept happy with other members in the mandarin citrus family. Tangerines, clementines, and a welter of natural and manmade hybrids are all distinguished by a loose, often bumpy, rind and fruit that easily separates into segments.

Frankly, I find mandarins reason alone to avoid becoming a card-carrying locavore—especially when it comes to the new BMOC, the Dekopon. This burly, much-heralded Japanese mandarin-orange hybrid, characterized by a prominent topknot (see below photo), is now being grown in the San Joaquin Valley under the apt name Sumo (click here for availability). Fruit authority David Karp recently described it as “a perfect blend of sweetness and acidity” with an intense lingering flavor. It is all that and a bag of chips: The fruit segments slip easily out of the ultra-thin membranes and keep their shape on the plate.

Sublime flavor comes in small packages, too. Soon there will be Ojai Pixie tangerines, also from California, and odds are I’ll order a box from Friend’s Ranch or Churchill Orchard. They are little bombs of sunshine.

Mandarin-Fennel Salad

Serves 4

Fennel conjures the Mediterranean—Provence and, of course, Sicily. We live on this salad—bask in it, really—until Spring has truly sprung.

1 large fennel bulb, trimmed of its feathery stalk and some fronds reserved

3 mandarins, peeled

¼ cup brine-cured black olives, if desired

Your favorite best-quality extra-virgin olive oil

Fresh lemon juice

Coarse flaky salt (Maldon adds a wonderful crunch) and freshly ground black pepper

1. Cut the fennel bulb in half lengthwise and discard the tough outer layer or two to expose the cream-colored heart. Then cut the bulb into very thin slices with a handheld slicer (mine is a Benriner, which is friendlier to use than a traditional mandoline) or a very sharp knife. Put them in a salad bowl.

2. Remove the webby pith from the peeled mandarins (children love doing this and are very good at it). Separate the segments and, depending on the thickness and tightness of the membranes that enclose each one, remove those or not; it’s entirely up to you. Cut the fruit in half crosswise and add it, along with the olives, if using, to the salad bowl.

3. Drizzle the salad with olive oil and lemon juice to taste and gently combine. Scatter with salt and a few chopped fennel fronds. Season with a few grinds of pepper. Whoever is at the table will eat every bite.

Fat Tuesday. Mardi Gras. Both terms are far more cheerful and indicative of tomorrow’s excesses than the term “Shrove Tuesday,” from the word shrive, meaning “confess.” The only thing I feel like confessing the day before Ash Wednesday is that I prefer cane syrup or sorghum—something with a little whang to it—to maple syrup on my pancakes.

A pancake supper, a traditional way to say goodbye to the rich foods restricted during the fasting season of Lent, was always an event in our family. My mother would usually add cornmeal to the batter and griddle the cakes in a little bacon fat to crisp the edges and tip things toward the savory end of the spectrum. There was often both bacon and sausage, as well as huckleberries from the freezer that were stewed into a compote—my father’s favorite topping.

These days, my go-to pancake has been one made with ricotta, from a restaurant called Bill’s, in Sydney. Some former colleagues at Gourmet brought the recipe back from a research trip to Australia, and one taste had me sold. Any ricotta will do, but if you see fresh ricotta—sweeter and silkier than the usual supermarket brands—pounce. If it’s made the old-fashioned way, from sheep’s milk, then so much the better; it’s more complex in flavor than ricotta made from cow’s milk.

Beating egg whites, then folding them into pancake batter to aerate it may sound like a finicky step or be hyped as a chef’s trademark “secret,” but, in truth, it’s not unusual at all. That egg foam, or meringue, is what gives pancakes their light, properly springy (as opposed to flabby) texture. To fold, scrape the meringue into the batter with a rubber spatula. As you turn the bowl with one hand, cut down toward the center with the spatula and lift up some batter from the bottom of the bowl with the other. The technique has its own natural rhythm, and you’ll find yourself working quickly and gently without thinking about it.

Ricotta Pancakes

Adapted From The Gourmet Cookbook, edited by Ruth Reichl (Houghton-Mifflin, 2004)

This batter is what Sam would call “very receptive,” so we’ve added our own tweaks to the recipe over the years. Serve the pancakes with butter and your favorite sweetener or toppings.

1 1/3 cups whole-milk ricotta (preferably fresh)

¾ cup whole milk

5 large eggs, separated

1 teaspoon pure vanilla extract

Zest of half a lemon (optional)

1 cup all-purpose flour

1¾ teaspoons baking powder

¼ teaspoon salt

1 tablespoon sugar

Melted unsalted butter or bacon drippings for the griddle

1. Preheat oven to 200ºF. Whisk together the ricotta, milk, egg yolks, vanilla, and lemon zest (if using) in a bowl. Sift the flour, baking powder, and salt over the ricotta mixture and whisk just to combine (don’t overmix). Let the batter rest while you beat the whites.

2. Beat the egg whites until they just hold soft peaks. Sprinkle them with the sugar (it will help give the meringue stability) and beat whites just to stiff peaks. With a rubber spatula, fold them gently and thoroughly into the batter.

3. Heat a large nonstick griddle or skillet over moderate heat until it’s very hot. Lightly brush with butter or drippings. Working in batches of 4, scoop batter by the ¼ cup onto the griddle and spread into pancakes about 4 inches in diameter. When the undersides are golden brown, flip and cook until golden brown on other side and pancakes are cooked through. Transfer the pancakes to an ovenproof platter, cover with a kitchen towel, and keep warm in the oven while making more (brush griddle with more butter as necessary).

This year, I’m surprisingly well-organized. After a do-si-do with 365 Live, Gumbo Radio is streaming, and I dug out the Mardi Gras beads. Below is a close-up of my favorite strand. They were strung by my great friend Thomas Jayne, who is very probably standing on his balcony in the French Quarter right this very minute. I need a go-cup.

Better than a box of chocolates. That’s what I thought, at any rate, when I found the dried egg fettuccine in the kitchen cupboard. DeCecco smartly packages theirs in a box, which protects the nests of delicate golden noodles from getting crushed in the pantry supplies. Tucked away in the back of the cabinet, this looked to be in perfect shape.

In a perfect world, I’d make the pasta myself, but that is not in the cards. An alternative to DeCecco, if you happen to see it, is the Cipriani brand of thin egg pastas such as pappardelle or the squares called tagliardi. You can find Cipriani at fancy food shops or on amazon.com. Although it sounds silly to spend almost ten bucks on a box of pasta, it is absolutely delicious. Because eight or nine ounces will feed four people (egg pasta expands more during cooking than eggless pasta does), it falls squarely into my “life’s affordable luxuries” category.

When I took stock of the refrigerator’s contents, I realized all I needed to pull together something really good for dinner on Valentine’s Day was a half pint of heavy cream. Sweet.

Fettuccine Alfredo is what I have in mind. It exemplifies the Italian knack—more of a state of mind, really—of making something sumptuous out of very simple ingredients in practically no time at all. This type of thinking is just what’s needed when a weeknight meal requires a romantic frill or two.

The legendary Alfredo, owner of the eponymous restaurant in Rome, is credited with creating the dish he called fettuccine al triplo burro. It became popular with Americans after he served it to Mary Pickford and Douglas Fairbanks on their honeymoon in 1927. Those two had buckets of joie de vivre and a great sense of occasion—they presented Alfredo with a gold fork and spoon during their visit—and I’ll bet they would have enjoyed this tribute by Katie Melua.

My husband, Sam, and I will be getting home on the late side, so we’ll have this as our main course, with a salad after. We both love a fennel-orange combination after something rich and creamy. As luck would have it, there’s half of a fat, juicy fennel bulb in the fridge, and some satsumas on hand. While I’m dealing with the pasta, Sam can work some magic with those two ingredients, some excellent olive oil, and salt and pepper. Maybe there will be some chocolates for dessert.

Fettuccine Alfredo

Serves 6 as a first course, 4 as a main

Dried egg fettuccine cooks quickly—and it should be ever-so-slightly firmer than al dente—so have the colander in the sink and the sauce ready to go. I know there are only two of us and this recipe serves more, but the leftovers will be come in handy for lunch one day, with any deficiencies in texture camouflaged with a fried egg on top.

8 to 9 ounces dried egg fettuccine

Coarse salt and freshly ground pepper

1 stick unsalted butter

A scant 2/3 cup heavy cream

½ cup finely grated Parmegiano-Reggiano, plus more for the table

A pinch of freshly grated nutmeg

1. Cook the fettuccine in lots of boiling salted water until just shy of al dente. Reserve ¼ cup pasta water before draining the pasta in a colander.

2. Meanwhile, cut ¼ stick butter into thin slices and set aside. Melt the remaining ¾ stick of butter in a deep skillet large enough for tossing the pasta. Add the cream and bring to a simmer over medium-low heat. Season with salt and pepper.

3. As soon as you drain the pasta, add it to the sauce. Add the Parm, reserved pasta water, and reserved butter and toss gently but thoroughly. In Essentials of Classical Italian Cooking, Marcella Hazan stresses the importance of tossing. “Up to the time you toss, pasta and sauce are two separate entities,” she says. “Tossing bridges the separation and makes them one.” How romantic is that? Hazan goes on to recommend using a fork and spoon or two forks for the job, “Bringing the pasta up from the bottom of the bowl, separating it, lifting it, turning it over ….”

4. Season with salt, pepper, and, as Hazan would say, “a very tiny grating of nutmeg.” Toss again quickly and serve straight from the pan.

Douglas Fairbanks and Mary Pickford

A film-obsessed friend sent me a link to the blog A Mythical Monkey Writes About the Movies, which pinched this marvelous photo from the French blog Pictures. Since I can’t find a proper photo credit anywhere, I’m pinching it, too, with thanks.

I never pass up an excuse to get horizontal and read a cookbook. So when I was asked to participate in a couple of panel discussions at an upcoming cookbook conference*, I accepted with alacrity. Then I ransacked our bookshelves, got comfortable … and became re-acquainted with some old favorites.

It was especially hard to tear myself away from what Elizabeth David called “the greatest cookery book in our language”— Modern Cookery for Private Families, written by Eliza Acton, of Tonbridge, Kent, and published in 1845. Written during the Industrial Revolution, it was one of the first cookbooks tailored for the small household and the rapidly expanding middle class.

Acton originated the recipe form we are familiar with today, with a list of ingredients (at the end of recipes instead of the beginning) in the order in which they are called for. She gives quantities of ingredients, estimates the time it takes to prepare and cook a dish, and includes introductory material that is still au courant. In the chapter on vegetables, she leads off with the fact that, “The quality of vegetables depends much both on the soil in which they are grown, and on the degree of care bestowed upon their culture; but if produced in ever so great perfection, their excellence will be entirely destroyed if they be badly cooked.”

The recipes are larded with interesting observations, helpful hints, and concise personal asides when she is particularly taken with a dish: To Dress Dandelions Like Spinach, or as a Salad (Very Wholesome); Carrots in Their Own Juice (A Simple but Excellent Receipt); Ox-Cheek Stuffed and Baked (Good, and Not Expensive); Mushrooms Au Beurre (Delicious).

Acton is often described as a Victorian spinster, but the introduction to my copy, above, rightly points out that she was born in 1799, well before the Queen herself. Consequently, the precision and pungency of her prose have far more in common with Jane Austen and other Regency writers than with Dickens and his crowd.

In a “French receipt” for cauliflower, she writes: “Cut the cauliflowers into small handsome tufts, and boil them until three parts done, drain them well, toss them for a moment in some thick melted butter or white sauce, and set them by to cool. When they are quite cold, dip them separately into the batter … fry them a light brown, arrange them neatly in a dish, and serve them very hot.”

Even if you’ve never picked up a cauliflower before, you know you are in the hands of a friendly, capable home cook—someone with intelligence and insight, someone who was actually in the kitchen. And that is why the book still sounds so fresh and accessible. Only someone who had taken the time to coax the best out of Buttered Apples (Excellent) would think to add, “Particular care must be taken to keep the apples entire; they should rather steam in gentle heat rather than boil.”

Acton was brilliant at writing what often causes you to stop and read a recipe in the first place: its title. Just a few well-chosen words are enough to give you a sense of a dish: A Good English Stew, A Less-Expensive Hare Soup, Gravy in Haste, Sweetbreads Simply Dressed, Excellent Portable Lemonade, A Birthday Syllabub.

She had especially good fun with puddings: The Welcome Guest’s Own Pudding, Small and Very Light Plum Pudding, The Curate’s Pudding, The Elegant Economist’s Pudding, and The Young Wife’s Pudding, which begins, “Break separately into a cup four perfectly sweet eggs…”  “The Poor Author’s Pudding” stands in pointed contrast to “The Publisher’s Pudding,” which starts out by informing you that “This pudding can scarcely be made too rich.”

Acton’s way with words had led her to first try her hand at poetry. A collection published in 1826, which included the possible evidence of a broken engagement in the form of offerings such as “Take Back Thy Ring” and “Go, Cold and Fickle Trifler!,” sold modestly. Her publishers rejected her second volume, though, and suggested she write a household cookbook. She spent years gathering material and testing recipes, and Modern Cookery was an instant success, appearing in a number of revised editions until the end of the 19th century. I’m very fond of my edition, published by Southover Press in 1993, and last year Quadrille published a sparky new edition that will, I hope, appeal to a whole new generation interested in cooking honest, simple food to perfection. Now, that would be (Fabulous).

* A shamelessly self-promotional digression: Happily, the conference, organized in large part by food historian Andrew Smith and taking place this coming weekend here in New York City, is sold out. But, if you are so inclined, 10 panels on Friday and Saturday, February 10 and 11, will be webcast. So tune in, watch the panels, and tweet questions. All 28 panels will be filmed and posted on the same website a week or so after the conference. Click here for the broadcast schedule.

Barley is the oldest cultivated grain in the world for good reason. Because it’s a hardy crop with a relatively short growing season, the Barley Belt stretches from the Arctic Circle to northern India. And its mild, nutty flavor, appealing texture, and fuss-free, relatively short cooking time—it takes about 45 minutes to become tender, with no rinsing or soaking beforehand—make it an easy whole grain to work into your culinary repertoire.

The pearl barley called for below is the type most commonly found at supermarkets; it’s had the hull and part of the bran removed during milling. The degree of pearling varies from brand to brand, so when comparison shopping, know that the darker the barley, the more bran (high in protein, B vitamins, and cholesterol-lowering soluble fiber) it contains.

Pair barley with mushrooms—which are also packed with protein and other nutrients—and you have one great meatless meal. Or not, depending on the leftovers in your refrigerator or your proximity to Sammy’s Roumanian Steakhouse, where the Barley Belt meets the Borscht Belt and it’s always 1939. I don’t care what anyone tells you, finishing the bottle of vodka is not a good idea.

Most everyone has a good recipe for mushroom-barley soup, so I won’t bother with that here. And although you can cook barley, like an Italian medium-grain rice, into a creamy risotto, lately I haven’t had the time or inclination to hover over a pot with a wooden spoon.

Instead, I’ve been playing around with barley pilaf. It’s terrific on its own, simply scooped into the hollow of roasted acorn squash, or alongside brisket, short ribs, or chicken thighs. It’s also delicious with lamb. Serve it hot, with spicy lamb sausages, or at room temperature, sprinkled with pomegranate seeds or toasted walnuts, with leftover leg of lamb and a big green salad. Adding a handful of toasted hazelnuts to barley pilaf will swing the dish toward Italy’s Piedmont and make it especially satisfying alongside chicken roasted with rosemary, lemon, and lots of garlic. Or go in an Asian direction, with shiitake mushrooms, soy, and a lick of the Korean hot red-pepper paste called gochujang.

Barley Pilaf with Mushrooms

Serves 4

There are many mushroom-barley pilafs in the world, but Deborah Madison, in her masterful Vegetarian Cooking for Everyone, sold me on the idea of using both chopped and sliced mushrooms. The chopped ones—a mix of fresh and dried—concentrate the foresty flavor, then spread it throughout the pilaf.

½ ounce dried porcini mushrooms

A 10-ounce box fresh cremini or white mushrooms, washed* and trimmed

Extra-virgin olive oil

Unsalted butter

Coarse salt and freshly ground pepper

½ cup medium-dry Sherry or dry white wine

1 medium yellow onion, finely chopped

2 garlic cloves, finely chopped

1 cup pearl barley (not quick-cooking)

¼ cup chopped fresh parsley

1. Soak the dried mushrooms in 3 cups boiling water 20 minutes to soften. Meanwhile, finely chop half the fresh mushrooms and cut the remaining half into thin slices.

2. Fish the dried mushrooms out of their soaking liquid (they should be pliable), squeezing out any excess liquid, and chop them. Decant the liquid through a fine sieve lined with a damp paper towel into a bowl. Add enough water to the liquid to measure 3 cups.

2. Heat 1 tablespoon oil and 1 tablespoon butter in a large skillet over moderately high heat until hot and the butter is melted and bubbling. Add the chopped fresh mushrooms and cook, stirring, until they’ve released their liquid, taken on some color, and are fragrant, 3 or 4 minutes. Season with salt and pepper, then stir in the chopped soaked mushrooms and Sherry. Reduce the heat to moderate and cook, stirring occasionally, until the liquid has boiled down to nothing and the mushrooms look dry and crumbly, 5 to 7 minutes.

3. Heat 1 tablespoon oil in a 3-quart saucepan. Add the onion and garlic and cook over moderate heat until softened but not browned, about 3 minutes. Stir in the barley, the cooked mushrooms (set skillet aside), and the mushroom-soaking liquid; season with salt. Bring to a boil, then reduce the heat and simmer, partially covered, until the barley is tender and liquid is absorbed, about 45 minutes. Remove the pilaf from the heat and let stand, covered, 10 minutes.

4. Wipe out the skillet and in it heat 1 tablespoon oil and 1 generous tablespoon butter over moderately high heat. Add the sliced mushrooms and cook until they release their liquid and turn golden and fragrant, about 5 minutes. Season with salt and pepper.

5. Fluff the pilaf with a fork, then toss with the parsley. You can either stir in the sautéed mushrooms or, if the slices are particularly large and beautiful, spoon them over the pilaf for serving.

* Conventional sources say to simply wipe mushrooms clean, but these days, I wash all produce. Fresh, close-capped mushrooms are about 90 percent water to begin with, and they’ll absorb very little extra water when rinsed. Wash them just before using, then pat dry with a clean kitchen towel or a paper towel.

My obsession with rye bread began when I was a little girl. My grandmother would help me make dainty sandwiches on pieces of cocktail rye and cut them just so. I served them with tea on the lawn to a motley collection of dolls and stuffed animals. Other offerings included corn-silk or asparagus-frond spaghetti and berries tipped into upturned tomato leaves or hollyhock petals. But my guests always liked my sandwiches, especially the cucumber ones, the best.

Regular deli rye bread must have caraway seeds; that warm spiciness is what saves it from itself. Throughout college, my go-to sandwich was this sort of rye, toasted, with creamy peanut butter and bacon. It is delicious, energizing, and satisfying, which is why I still indulge before the opera or an event where I’m not likely to get fed for hours.

And I always order rye toast in a diner. It’s good with corned beef hash, which I actually prefer out of a can, just as long as it’s crisped around the edges on the grill. Of course, rye toast is wonderful with eggs, too, any which way. Hearing the counter man holler “Whiskey down!” to the guy working the flat top is part of the fun.

For the past year or so, I’ve been indulging in the dimpled, dark rye you see above. Made by Finnish chef Simo Kuusisto under the label Nordic Breads, it is nothing short of spectacular, with a great chew and complex sourdough tang. These days, I usually pick up a supply at the Union Square Greenmarket on Saturdays, but it’s becoming more widely available. Look for it at New York–area Whole Foods markets and Dean & DeLuca; you can also order from Fresh Direct or straight from Nordic Breads.

Commercial brands of dark bread often get their color from molasses or caramel coloring; in fact, enriched wheat (i.e., white) flour usually takes precedence over rye flour in the ingredients list. In terms of flavor, as well as good-for-you soluble fiber, they pale in comparison to the Finnish whole-grain style of ruis (rye) bread Kuuisto calls a “legal addiction.” With a day job as executive chef at the Canadian permanent mission to the U.N., he and his brother, Tuomas, produce their Nordic breads at night, in a Long Island City bakery. Their ingredients include organic New York State rye and a traditional Finnish sourdough starter.

The loaves come in various shapes and sizes, but what I like best are the individual flat rounds, which are about the diameter of a sandwich-size English muffin but more substantial. Split one open, and you’ll discover an interior as rugged as Finland’s magnificent coastline—altogether perfect for holding a generous amount of butter or cream cheese. But don’t stop there.

Lightly toasted or warmed in the oven, ruis bread is wonderful with smoked salmon, sturgeon, trout, or eel. It makes a sturdy platform for herring in sour cream, brandade, or leftover céleri rémoulade. Or you can skim-coat a split round with butter, then add thin slices of sharp Cheddar and seedless cucumber—which is how you’ll find enticements prepared for the curious at Nordic’s Union Square market stall. (It’s always mobbed.) Bread-and-butter pickles or a smear of Branston are able stand-ins for the cuke.

Last summer, I was surprised when I didn’t lose my taste for this stuff; it’s very dense and hearty, after all. But for all its assertiveness, it’s extremely versatile. In hot weather, slather it with fresh, mild goat cheese for breakfast, or try it with good sweet butter and thinly sliced radishes or spring onions—just the ticket alongside a bowl of chilled borscht or the Polish buttermilk soup called chlodnik.

On this January day, for lunch I made open-faced ruis bread sandwiches with slices of cured ham and rich-tasting Gruyère. They were excellent with a glass of apple cider, but on a lazy weekend afternoon, I wouldn’t say no to a beer.

Nordic bread keeps beautifully, but if it gets a bit over the hill, resist the urge to shellac the rounds and turn them into paperweights. Take it from me and make croutons instead. They are fabulous in split-pea soup, a rustic, chunky leek-and-potato, or Broccoli, Red-Pepper, and Cheddar Chowder. Sea salt isn’t really necessary, of course—any coarse salt will do—but how often do you get to conjure the Baltic? It’s part of the fun.

Nordic Croutons

Ruis or other good rye bread, split if necessary and roughly cut into smallish (½- to 1-inch) pieces

Unsalted butter, melted

Coarse sea salt

1. Preheat oven to 350°F. Drizzle bread with enough melted butter to coat well and transfer to a rimmed baking sheet.

2. Bake the croutons in the middle of the oven, stirring occasionally, until they are crisp and smell done, 12 to 15 minutes (or longer), depending on size and how stale the bread is. Season with salt.

Recently, our stove, an increasingly temperamental 35-year-old Imperial range, busted. I mean, really busted. My husband, Sam, and I were philosophical about this turn of events, having seen it coming a mile off. In fact, we’ve talked about a modest renovation of our postage stamp–sized kitchen (it’s 6 by 8 feet, minus appliances and counter) for so long, it’s become a running joke among family and friends. Sam would tell you the axiom “If it ain’t broke, don’t fix it” is just another way to describe Newton’s First Law of Motion. I would add that inertia is very, very comfortable. Until it’s not.

Now that we’ve been forced into action, we are almost giddy with excitement, and we’re making decisions that once seemed overwhelming with confidence and ease. In record time, we’ve had new flooring installed (real linoleum that’s so pretty I want to curl up and sleep on it) and are putting the finishing touches on freshly painted walls before taking delivery of the new stove (with a snazzy over-the-range microwave) and refrigerator (in for a penny, in for a pound). I’ll bet Sam, who has orchestrated almost everything, is going to pass out cigars at the end of it all.

Which I’m hoping is soon. Most of the kitchen’s contents are taking up a good bit of real estate in the living room, and the piles have grown increasingly disorganized. My favorite cutting board, for instance, has gone missing. A 10-minute search happily revealed the pepper mill, though, which disappeared days ago. For some reason, I had tucked it in the bread box, under a chair. Since we’re out of bread, I really have no idea why I was even looking for a cutting board in the first place.

When the Imperial gave up the ghost, I bought an inexpensive hot plate, thinking it would come in handy for coffee and tea. It turned out to be the smartest purchase I’ve made in a long time, for I failed to realize just how quickly we’d tire of sandwiches and take-out meals, or needing, instead of wanting, to go out for dinner.

We’ve used the hot plate for reheating leftovers and for making fried rice, a couple of pan-fried blade steaks, and a quick-cooking lentil soup. But although you would think that with the brand name “Toastess,” it would be good at, well, toasting, think again. For yesterday’s grilled cheese sandwiches, I would have been better off using a technique pioneered by our friend Rick Ellis, a food stylist who often finds himself alone in a hotel room with great ingredients and no way to cook them. Rick, the son of a Marine, is one of the most resourceful people I know. “Grilled cheese?” he said. “Plug in the iron and use a sheet of aluminum foil!” I’ll bet he would get along well with the two stalwart souls in the photo below, published in Camp Cooking: 100 Years, from the National Museum of Forest Service History, in Missoula, Montana.

Cooking on a wood heater at a job site, Chattahoochee National Forest, Georgia

The spiral-bound collection of recipes is a great example of why you should never pass up the chance to visit a museum gift shop. It includes archival journal entries and photographs from fire fighters, young men from the Civilian Conservation Corps, tourists visiting Yellowstone and Pike’s Peak circa 1924, and, of course, park rangers and their extraordinary wives.

In the winter of 1916, one ranger and his bride made their home in a cabin in Utah’s Wasatch National Forest. The temperature was 32 degrees below zero, and a morning fry-up started with “peeling the shell from a frozen egg, dropping it in the skillet, and waiting for it to thaw out.” Yikes.

Sprinkled throughout the book is terse advice on everything from maintaining a sourdough starter to cooking rolls or biscuits in a Dutch oven. “Buy a small aluminum cake pan that will fit inside your oven,” an experienced baker instructs. “Place 3 nickels in the bottom of the oven and then place the pan with the rolls on these (holds the pan up so the bottom of the rolls don’t burn).”

I learned that the blade of a long-handled shovel can double as a fry pan and how to start a fire with two flashlight batteries and steel wool. “This method works very well for starting a fire in windy areas,” I read, completely absorbed. “For safety reasons, always pack batteries and steel wool in separate containers.” Perhaps this book doesn’t belong on the shelf, but in the hurricane/black-out/terrorist attack/earthquake emergency bin in the linen closet. “At least it won’t end up in the breadbox,” Sam muttered.

As much as I’d like to try McDuff’s Dutch Oven Roast (Venison, Elk, or Moose), Pioneer Night Stew (moose, again), or a butterless, milkless, eggless Canyon Cake (made by generations of a ranger family who packed it on horseback throughout the backcountry of the Cache, Humboldt, Salmon, Challis, Sawtooth, and Targhee national forests), I think I’d better keep it simple. Last week, my One-Eyed Buffaloes (a.k.a. Toads-in-a-Hole) were a great success, although we had to eat in shifts. Tonight we’re having eggs again, and I can almost smell the woodsmoke.

Camper’s Omelet

Adapted from Camp Cooking: 100 Years by the National Museum of Forest Service History

This recipe was contributed by Jim Hasbrouck, from the Forest Service’s Region 8, which stretches from Virginia and North Carolina to Texas. It makes a hearty supper for two people who haven’t eaten since breakfast.

½ pound bacon

2 medium potatoes, unpeeled and chopped

1 medium onion, chopped

½ medium onion, chopped

½ bell pepper, chopped

6 eggs (whisked fluffy)

1 tomato (optional), sliced

½ pound extra-sharp Cheddar, grated

1. Fry bacon until crisp in a cast-iron skillet. Remove bacon and fry potatoes in grease until tender; throw in onion and bell pepper.

2. When onion appears cooked, reduce heat to pan by turning down campstove burner. Pour in eggs and cover for 3 to 5 minutes, stirring occasionally to avoid scorching. Place tomato slices, cheese, and crumbled bacon on top. Cover again for a few minutes until cheese melts and the tomatoes are smiling.

3. Remove from fire, slice into wedges, and serve with hot sauce.

Photo: Robert Penn 1963 Eve Arnold/Magnum Photo

The death of the great documentary photographer Eve Arnold on January 4 was not exactly unexpected—she was 99, after all—but it caught many people up short, including me. Eve’s outsize stamina and spirit as well as her matchless ability to “record the essence of a subject in the 125th of a second,” as she put it, fooled us into thinking she could go on forever.

Hers was a familiar name in our household long before I ever met her. My parents, both writers and editors on small southern dailies, always had copies of Look and Life on the coffee table, and I learned early on to pay attention to bylines and photo credits, and to follow a worthy reporter’s work with interest. My mother, in particular, found great satisfaction in Eve Arnold’s groundbreaking photo essays, whether on the road with Malcolm X, in a field with migrant potato pickers, or behind the scenes with Marlene Dietrich or Marilyn Monroe.

In 1978, I landed my first job in New York, at Alfred A. Knopf, and there I was introduced to the intrepid Eve about a year later. A small dynamo with impeccable trousers and equally impeccable manners, she had just returned from criss-crossing mainland China. Accompanied by an entourage of one—an interpreter—she’d logged 40,000 miles to collect material for the book In China. Although Eve had shot her most iconic images in black-and-white, she was an early proponent of color and felt from the start that would best suit her purposes here.

DAWN MILKING / Inner Mongolia

“The eye sees in color,” she wrote. “Black-and-white, beautiful though it is, is an abstraction.” She preferred simple, straightforward compositions and rich, painterly hues. Coinciding with publication was her first solo exhibition, of 104 luminous Type-C and dye-transfer prints made from her 35 mm transparencies, at the Brooklyn Museum.

COOK IN PEKING DUCK RESTAURANT

Born in Philadelphia to Russian-Jewish immigrant parents and a resident of London since the 1960s, Eve was mindful of the effort entailed in fitting in somewhere new. I wasn’t the first assistant she took under her wing.

One day she showed up, dashing as always, for a lunch date with my boss, only to find they’d gotten their wires crossed, and he was nowhere to be found. She looked at me consideringly. “I’m hungry,” she announced, in the deep, gravelly voice I can still hear. “Have you ever been to the Automat?” I hadn’t, and over chicken sandwiches and coffee, we talked about our different southern universes during the civil rights era, the virtues of wearing shoes you can run in, and where passion and hard work will lead you. Every time Eve picked up her cup of coffee, it virtually disappeared inside the strongest, most capable-looking hands I had ever seen.

Fast-forward to the year 1999. By then, I’d found a home at Gourmet, and Ruth Reichl was the newly anointed editor-in-chief. All of us were rethinking what it meant to be a food and travel magazine at the end of the 20th century, and we were all on the prowl for writers who looked at the things we cared about in new and interesting ways.

I don’t know what put me in mind of Eve. I own a number of her books, but In China was what I turned to first. There they were, lots of marvelous photos of ordinary people producing food at its most elemental—from milking a cow, planting rice seedlings, and bringing a pig home from market, to prepping duck and hand-pulling noodles. There was a world of sensitivity and nuance in those pictures.

I knew she’d recently published an autobiography, In Retrospect, and was still working at full throttle. I wondered what she had on her plate at the moment, so I wrote her a letter. And she wrote back, and with alacrity too, which is how these things used to get done.

The finished piece, in which Eve described a recent re-acquaintance with Juana, a nine-year-old Cuban girl she had photographed—and almost adopted—40 years previously, was published in April 2000, at the height of the Elián González case. It’s still available on gourmet.com, but I’ve added the scan below, since, mystifyingly, the photograph that lies at the heart of the story isn’t reproduced online.

Plenty of people found Eve’s point of view clear-eyed, refreshing, and compassionate, but some readers begged to differ. “I was disgusted by the pro-Castro article,” began one letter to the editor. “I did not buy Gourmet for leftist political commentary.” Still fuming, the reader went on to say that we should at least have provided the recipe for rice and beans that were mentioned at the end of the story. (This gave me a pang of genuine anguish—why hadn’t I thought of that? But all is not lost: Click here for a recipe from the masterful Maricel Presilla.)

When I read the letter to Eve over the phone, she gave a joyful shout. “That was delicious,” she rasped. “Come see me the next time you’re in London.”

I did, and we lunched, this time at the Connaught. There was lovely smoked salmon, and Dover sole, and I don’t remember what else. We talked about everything under the sun, including trust, and about the huge difference that makes in the relationship between photographer and subject. The photo we published in Gourmet was what Eve called one of her “caught in action” shots, and the openness you see there (not to mention in her many candids of Marilyn Monroe) is in stark contrast to what you get with the paparazzi style of shooting so popular today. We talked about how important excellence is, and how hard work can get you there, and the genius and beauty that lies within ordinary people doing ordinary things. Her hands were still the strongest, most capable-looking hands I’d ever seen.

Eve Arnold, April 21, 1912 – January 4, 2012 Photo: Jane Bown for the Observer

When does collecting become hoarding? At what moment does ripeness slip-slide into decay? Funny, the things that go through my mind while editing the contents of the refrigerator, especially when I get to the designated cheese corner.

It’s heaped with rather too many odd-shaped little parcels—our entertaining and general all-around indulgent spree began at Thanksgiving—and I unwrap each one with a twinge of apprehension. The wedge of Parmigiano-Reggiano, a staple all year round, is in great shape, so I rewrap it tightly in several fresh layers of wax paper and tuck it back where it belongs. The Cheddar, ditto. The Gruyère should be fine, too …. Actually, no. Jeez Louise, when did I buy that? It’s all dried out and cracked. After trimming, there’s not really very much left.

A slumped crottin of goat cheese—bone-white inside, it’s middle-aged and thus nuttier than fresh chèvre—looks like it was attacked by wolves. There is quarter of a wheel left of a lovely, buttery double-crème from Sweet Grass Dairy, in Thomasville, Georgia. It’s beginning to bulge alarmingly, and will turn overripe any minute. A gift from southern friends, I can’t possibly let it go to ruin.

Dear God, there’s more. Remnants of a tangy, characterful sheep’s-milk Brebis Blanche from Karen Weinburg and Paul Borghard’s 3-Corner Field Farm, way up in the Battenkill River Valley; I buy their cheese and lamb at the Union Square Greenmarket, and their skeins of yarn for sale make me (almost) want to learn how to knit. Oh! And part of a small drum of Langres. Made from cow’s milk, it is rich and big-flavored—one of my favorite smelly cheeses. It’s a special-occasion treat (fabulous with a Rhône red), but there’s not enough here to serve if we invite another couple over to toast the new year.

I could shovel all my bits and pieces back into the fridge and we could nibble on them piecemeal, but where’s the fun in that? Instead, I make the cheese spread called fromage fort (French for “strong cheese”), which takes practically no time at all.

Fromage fort is not your run-of-the-mill commercial cheese spread, with a cream-cheese base and containing emulsifiers and stabilizers along with herbs or other seasonings. And it bears little resemblance to an office-party cheese ball or the stuff cold-packed into earthenware crocks*, either. Fromage fort has backbone, a deliciously barnyard quality that is irresistible. Serve it on crackers or slather it onto slices of baguette and run them under the broiler. Shave curls of it, cold from the refrigerator, over cooked cauliflower or broccoli and watch it become an instant sauce. It’s terrific on steak or burgers as well. And not only will you feel extravagant and economical all at the same time—that is to say, very French—you’ll be amazed at how much room you’ve made in the refrigerator.

Fromage Fort

This isn’t really a recipe but more of a guideline, because you can use leftover pieces of almost any cheeses. Three or four different ones are plenty, and more will take it over the top. I generally taste the cheeses before I toss them into the food processor: Although the spread is famous for its funk factor, it should be pungent, with a nip to it, rather than unpleasantly acrid, and I’m not shy about discarding a cheese that’s a real throat-closer. Take care that the mix isn’t too salty, and if your combination of cheeses has a higher proportion of hard or semifirm types to creamier ones, then consider cutting back on the wine and adding about a half stick of softened unsalted butter.

1 pound leftover cheeses such as Brie, Camembert, Gorgonzola, Gruyère, and/or goat cheese, at room temperature

½ cup dry white wine

2 garlic cloves, roughly chopped

Coarse salt and freshly ground pepper

1. Trim any rinds, dried-out patches, or moldy bits from cheeses. Grate the harder cheeses and cut soft ones into smallish pieces.

2. Whiz up the cheeses, wine, and garlic in a food processor until smooth and creamy, about a minute or so. You can serve fromage fort immediately, or refrigerate it for a few hours, then let soften slightly at room temperature if you prefer a firmer consistency. Unfortunately, I can’t tell you how long fromage fort keeps in the refrigerator because it disappears too quickly at our house.

* Not that this doesn’t have a place, mind you. I like it best in a communal crock on the bar at Sardi’s, alongside plenty of Town House crackers. These days, you have to pay for the pleasure of your own individual crock, which puts a damper on the camaraderie. Settling in to watch the racing at Aqueduct just isn’t the same.

Cards by Robert Warner

We’re heading South to rusticate for the holiday, and if I do nothing else, I’ll fill the house with the rich, spicy scent of gingerbread with stars or one last batch of cheese biscuits. Freshly cut pine and magnolia boughs will decorate the mantel, and the seasonal frenzy will give way to a profound mellowness. That is, if the tree doesn’t fall down, like it did last year.

Meet you back here in early January!