Any connoisseur of hot sauce knows sriracha, the garlicky sweet-spicy chili sauce named after a coastal town in Chonburi Province, Thailand. The version produced by Huy Fong Foods, in California—sold in a clear squeeze bottle emblazoned with a white rooster and topped with a bright-green cap—became an instant icon. Its migration from street-food trucks in L.A. and Chinatown restaurants in New York City, to Walmarts across the United States is a classic immigrant tale. And it also guarantees that no one in this country need eat a dull meal ever again.

For years, chefs at restaurants ranging from humble to haute have appreciated what sriracha can do. They use it wisely, inventively, and, at times, brilliantly. I can recognize it in anything, and I suppose that’s my problem. I’m craving a little mystery, a little “What the hell is that?” on my palate and on my plate.

Which is why I want, I need, I can’t live without the hot red-pepper paste called gochujang—one of Korea’s many wondrous gifts to the culinary world. The condiment has a robust yet mellow wallop that is not unlike that of artisanal miso. Or the finest aged moonshine.

Along with fermented soybean paste and glutinous (“sweet”) rice flour, gochujang contains the flat, shiny red-pepper flakes (minus the seeds, unlike the red-pepper flakes common in the U.S.) that give kimchi, the Korean fermented vegetable dish, much of its gutsy exuberance. But chiles, of course, are a relatively recent addition to the ancient preparation; the new-world ingredient wasn’t introduced to Korea until the Japanese invasion of the late 16th century, and the use of chiles in kimchi wasn’t recorded until 1766.

Korean cooks have certainly made up for lost time. You can find gochujang (a.k.a. koch’ujang), the red-pepper flakes (koch’u karu), and numerous other chile-laden products at koamart.com as well as at Korean markets like Han Ah Reum, just off Herald Square, where the produce department revolves around heaps of fresh red and green chiles.

If you are looking for a leisurely, sanctified shopping experience and an exquisitely packaged condiment to impress someone with, Han Ah Reum is not the store for you. I elbowed through the crowd, picked up a 2.2-pound (“This is the smallest size you have?”) red plastic tub* of gochujang and some other goodies, and called it a day. I soon used the chile paste in a short-rib stew, which everyone loved. Then the container got shoved to the refrigerator’s way back and forgotten.

When I unearthed it a week or so ago, I was elated, and I immediately started snubbing my bottle of sriracha for the richer, more lustrous timbre found in gochujang. I’ve added the stuff to chuck roast, spaghetti sauce, lentil soup, a mayonnaise dressing for coleslaw, and a quick garlic-scallion topping for stir-fried tofu. Like anchovy paste and fish sauce—two other great grounding ingredients—gochujang adds body, roundness, and a deep, complex savoriness to almost anything.

I could eat it on cornflakes.

* This brand, distributed by CJ Foods and the “No. 1 seller in Korea” seems to have the fewest additives and, most helpfully, the words Gochujang Hot Pepper Paste written in English on the label. A 2.2-pound tub costs about $8.

This small, stocky Le Creuset saucepan—complete with a lid that doubles as a skillet—should be in the design collection at the Museum of Modern Art. Not only does it perfectly balance utility and beauty, it fulfills what Paola Antonelli, senior curator, department of architecture and design at MoMA, calls her litmus test: If the object had never been designed and produced, would the world miss it, even just a bit?

A fixture in every one of my kitchens for the past 25 years, the pan currently resides on our Imperial range of equal vintage. Evaluating it in a post about the best saucepans for AOL KitchenDaily.com made me fall for this marvel of economy (on several different levels) all over again.

Because the pan is made of enamel-coated cast iron, it heats evenly, is nonreactive to acidic tomato sauces or fruit compotes, and cleans up like a dream. I use it for oatmeal or Wheatena in the morning; for heating soup or hard-cooking eggs at lunch; and for steaming vegetables or making rice, grits, or polenta in the evening. It’s a waste of time, really, to put it away.

The interior is light buff in color, so you can see how brown the butter or chopped onion is getting, and the rounded inside edge literally gives you the inside edge: Made for a whisk, it sweet-talks you into making creamed spinach or something cheesy and comforting to spoon over broccoli or cauliflower à la Barbara Pym.

(Note: You can read all about choosing the best steamer and the best whisk at KitchenDaily.com. They’re among my last equipment reviews for AOL, since there is no way I can give the company what it now wants: the same original content, the same quality, the same research, for less than one-third the money.)

Now, back to this fabulous pan, a true case of kitchen sync-opation. The cover/skillet is handy for heating up a smidgen of this or that, frying an egg for one, or for making an apple crisp for two, which is a dessert even a nonbaker can manage beautifully.

Rub some butter around in the skillet and up the side, then pile in a few layers of apple slices. (You could also use pears—they don’t have to be perfectly ripe—or, in the summer, peaches, nectarines, or plums.) If you think about it, spritz a little fresh lemon juice over the fruit for brightness. In a bowl combine a heaping 1/3 cup old-fashioned rolled oats, a scant 1/3 cup brown sugar (less if your apples are very sweet), 1 tablespoon flour, a pinch of salt, and a dash of ground cinnamon, if so desired. Roughly chopped pecans are a very nice addition as well. With your fingers, work about 3 tablespoons butter (softened until malleable) into the oat mixture until it forms small, moist crumbles and clumps. Average prep time: five minutes.

Sprinkle the topping over the apples (it won’t completely cover the fruit) and tuck the skillet into a 400° F oven before you sit down to supper. Just as you are clearing the plates and thinking, “I really can’t eat another bite,” the crisp will be fragrant and bubbling around the edges, and you will change your mind. Since this dessert is on the homely side, you might want to gussy it up. Vanilla ice cream or heavy cream are obvious choices, but we something with tang, like a dollop of thick Greek yogurt or crème fraîche, is wonderful, too.

Because the pan is such a classic, I was taken aback when a desultory search on amazon.com and lecreuset.com failed to turn it up. After I left a message for Le Creuset customer service, I immediately stopped bashing my pan around on the stove and started treating it like a holy relic, which wasn’t nearly as much fun.

No need to enshrine it just yet. What’s now called the Two-in-One pan is sold exclusively at Sur la Table, where you’ll find it in Le Creuset’s signature Flame and Cobalt as well as in Cherry (what room doesn’t benefit from something red?), Caribbean, Cassis, and new-for-spring Fennel.

Paying $149.95 for a 2-quart pan, even a twofer, may seem exorbitant, not economical. But it will last a lifetime or two, and I can’t think of a better choice for smaller households, or for someone either just starting out or smartly downsizing. Plus, if you leave it out on the stove instead of putting it away, it will look like it belongs there. Or in a museum.

I am not an original cook, but I’ve learned when and how to follow my own instincts. Take soup, for instance. The brilliant thing about soup is that it can be anything you want it to be. Hot or cold. Substantial or brothy. A homey meal in a bowl or something more refined to kick-start a dinner party.

The most wonderful soups I’ve ever had were at my stepmother’s table—very fine mahogany—in a deep-blue room. The space was separated from the kitchen by nothing more than a low, lino-topped bar, and the comfortable aroma of cooking mingled with that of good beeswax candles and the primal smell of dark, oozy pluff mud, from the salt marsh out back.

A big sideboard held napkins and thick woven mats, closet shelves in the hall held plates and bowls that were pieces of memory in and of themselves. The blue-and-white rice bowls I bought her on her first visit to Chinatown were among them. She had been fascinated by the street vendors down on Canal Street—they reminded her of the shrimp and vegetable vendors she remembered from a Savannah long ago—and we staggered home with lychees, oranges, steamed buns, and red pork in addition to what seemed like half the contents of the Pearl River department store. “You bought me too many bowls,” she said, handing me a stack. “You need some, too.”

Ann would pull out oddments from the fridge, all tucked away in battered plastic yogurt or butter tubs. She would peel off the lids and stare at the contents; what didn’t make the cut was returned to the shelf, gently and without comment. There might be leftover pot roast or chicken thighs, a cold sweet potato or two, always braised collards or turnip greens. The dregs of last week’s black-eyed peas or butter beans in ham broth. She might then add okra from the pods growing in the boxes out on the deck, a few of the tomatoes on the kitchen counter, or a cup of rice, specifically the Piggly Wiggly brand, her favorite. She loved adding a few raisins. Plumped up and juicy, they gave her soups an elliptical, mysterious sweetness.

A big part of what made those soups so delicious was the editing, the consideration, that took place. And I liked the fact that no single ingredient dominated the others. Each had something to contribute, and you could settle in and enjoy the conversation, so to speak.

This brings me to the too-small-to-be-useful remnants of lentils and other little dried dals, or legumes, I unearthed in a kitchen cabinet the other day. Combined in a bowl, they started to amount to something. And when I stirred in a half cup of rice (I happened to have white on hand, but brown would be even better), dinner began to take shape. Of course, if you don’t have a variety of dals to play with, don’t let that stop you; plain lentils will work beautifully.

A protein-rich lentil-rice mix is a great basis for a vegetarian meal, but I was not about to waste the cold, easily shreddable poached chicken (and its broth) that just happened to be in the refrigerator.

Chicken Soup with Rice and Dal

1. Put a big swirl of olive oil in your soup pot (mine is wide as well as deep, to give plenty of room for any browning that needs to take place) and add an onion, chopped; a fat celery stalk, chopped; a couple of garlic cloves, ditto; and a bay leaf. If you like, do as I did and nudge the flavor base toward India by adding a fresh red chile, cut in half lengthwise, brown mustard seeds, and ground cumin and coriander. Or you could just keep things simple.

2. Cook all this in a leisurely fashion over medium-ish heat until the onion is the palest golden, adding a splash of water after about a few minutes to gentle the cooking—I like it when the onions and celery taste quick-braised instead of fried. If you are feeling energetic, cook another onion in a small skillet until it is frizzled, for topping the finished soup.

3. Add the lentil-rice mix and equal parts stock and water (about 4 cups each), bring everything to a boil, and reduce the heat. Partially cover the pot and let things simmer away for about 45 minutes or so, until the leguminous bits are tender. Add salt and pepper to taste, along with the shredded chicken. Warm the chicken through, then stir in a handful of fresh spinach. It will wilt in no time and give the soup freshness and flair.

Any flatbread would be good with this soup. I had a package of naan on hand, and in a matter of minutes, it turned soft and puffy in the oven. Along with the soup, it was all we needed on a horrible, sleet-lashed February evening.

A couple of nights later—more sleet, more wind—our thoughts turned to sunny Morocco. I thinned the leftover soup and added a can of chickpeas (drained and rinsed), some chopped preserved lemon peel, and the spice blend called ras el hanout. Raisins went into the pot as well, and once they plumped up, I ladled supper into the very same rice bowls bought years ago. “It smells so good in here,” my husband, Sam, said. “Let’s eat by candlelight.”

I’m not an impulse shopper. But these fabulous melamine plates ($35 for a set of four) at the smartly curated Mxyplyzyk, in the West Village, were impossible to resist.

I had to have them. And I’ll probably have to go back tomorrow for the oval platter ($28) enlivened by a very fetching whale.

What sold me was the fact that I could envision all sorts of wonderful things to eat on them. Lobster rolls (the crustacean is at its best in the colder months). Crab cakes. Peel-your-own Maine shrimp.

Let’s move along into another season, shall we? (February always makes me impatient.) Chicken salad cradled in tender leaves of butterhead lettuce. Strawberry shortcake. The summer’s first BLTs. A perfect triangle of watermelon—or, better yet for these clever repros of the scrimshanders’ art—watermelon sorbet with chocolate seeds, a trompe l’oeil triumph by my former Gourmet colleague Kempy Minfie. I mean, the two were made for one another.

The other reason I bought the plates was that they remind me of boats and of the joy of exploring islands.  They made me reach for one of my favorite childhood reads, Swallows and Amazons, by Arthur Ransome, a master storyteller.

My original copy, handed down to me by my mother, was published in the 1930s. By the time it fell apart, it must have been read a thousand times. It just now occurs to me that the book’s depiction of intrepid, self-reliant children and their adventures on Wild Cat Island, in the Lake District of England, probably influenced my mother’s child-rearing methods more than Benjamin Spock did.

A couple of years ago, a friend visiting from London brought me a new edition, published in the U.K. by Jonathan Cape. The endpapers conjure the same mood as my set of scrimshaw plates. They both make me want to go camp on an island, any island. Even Manhattan.

My father’s favorite seafood dish was something he called “sweetheart oysters,” because it is best when made for two. To prevent the oyster meats from overcooking, he would stir them around in the pan with his finger, something he’d seen his mother and grandmother do. When it got too hot for comfort, he’d immediately yank the pan off the burner and spoon the oysters and the sauce—nothing more than pan juices and melted butter—into warmed soup plates.

Daddy’s pint of shucked oysters often came from Russo’s (estab. 1946), in downtown Savannah, but, if the mood struck, he would hop in the car and ride out along Johnny Mercer Boulevard to Turner’s Creek seafood market and co-op (now closed), on Wilmington Island. It was easy to shoot by the turn-off if you weren’t careful, so wheeling into the picturesque parking lot (see above photo) always had a triumphal air.

Aside from appreciating my father’s remarkable memory for every lyric Mercer ever wrote, I didn’t realize how special this all was until I landed in New York. Although the city prides itself on serving impeccably fresh oysters from waters near and far, the idea of selling the shucked bivalves, packed in their own bracing liquor, by the pint at seafood markets and grocery stores, has never caught on.

Go figure. I suppose I could pay big-city prices for a dozen or so oysters in the shell and shuck them myself, but you and I both know that they would never make it to the saucepan. Which is why, when a friend from Savannah decided to pop up our way for the weekend and asked what he could bring, I didn’t have to think twice.

Monday, after all, is Valentine’s Day, and my gift to my husband will be sweetheart oysters. We’ll eat them with a small mountain of hot toast, followed by a watercress salad with lemony vinaigrette. For dessert? We’ve been getting outstanding pears lately—their juice is so sweet and syrupy—so perhaps that’s all we need. Well, a little Johnny Mercer would be nice.

MY FATHER’S SWEETHEART OYSTERS

Serves 2

Before you begin, set two soup plates or shallow bowls to warm in a low oven and toast as much bread as you want. Some people like to embellish their oysters with a little hot sauce, but the pure rich essence of oyster is enough for me.

Drain 1 pint shucked oysters in a sieve set over a bowl and reserve the liquor (frozen, it comes in handy for sea stock). In a small heavy saucepan, melt an enjoyable chunk of butter (about 2 tablespoons) over moderate heat.

Tip in the oysters and stir them gently but constantly with a (scrupulously clean) finger just until their gills begin to curl and you think, “Ow! This is hot.” This only takes a couple of minutes. Take the pan off the heat and season generously with freshly ground black pepper and a touch of sea salt if so desired.

Spoon the oysters and their pan juices into the warmed soup plates (and over your toast, if you like). Devour immediately with someone you love.

I love my wok. I really love it. I’ve just never actually used it.

Until today, it resided, still in its box, in the hall closet. Sam and I would roll in, stuffed, happy, and inspired after a visit to Chinatown. “We really need to season that wok,” one of us would say. “Is it behind the suitcases? Let’s look tomorrow.”

Push came to shove when Stir-Frying to the Sky’s Edge landed on my desk. It’s the latest dazzler from Grace Young. (Watch her in action tomorrow, February 3, on The Martha Stewart Show.)

I paged through the book. It made me hungry. And determined. Grace, after all, had taught me how to stir-fry*. It was time to step up.

Ah, found it. Lifted out of the box, it was larger than I remembered, 14 inches in diameter. Made of carbon steel, it’s adapted for a Western kitchen, with a (removable) long wooden handle and a small helper handle. It’s about four inches deep, with a small, flat bottom.

I remember our conversation as if it were yesterday. “You don’t want a wide bottom,” deadpanned Grace. “Otherwise, why not use a skillet?” Flatness is key, too. A round-bottomed wok is unstable on a Western stove, and cradling it in a wok ring lifts it too far above the heat source.

And heat is the most important thing of all. Crank it up for a minute, then hold your hand about an inch above the bottom of the pan. It should feel like a hot radiator. If you sprinkle a few drops of water into the wok, they should vaporize immediately.

Grace sent me to The Wok Shop, a crowded, cozy San Francisco emporium presided over by Tane (as in “high octane”) Chan. She is, at heart, a wok therapist, a matchmaker, an expert at pairing the right person with the right wok. More interested in accessorizing a kitchen than cooking in it? No worries, and no moralizing. You’ll be happy with the one with a price tag to brag about. Lost a wok in a divorce settlement? “Woks last longer than marriages,” says Tane philosophically. “But you can start again.”

I sat on the living room floor and stared at my purchase. Solid, utilitarian, unbeatable at $24.95. And unseasoned. It looked immature, almost newly hatched, compared to the blackened, well-seasoned beauty that Grace uses.

There is something intimidating about patina.

I picked up the phone and called Tane. “I know it’s silly, but I just can’t seem to get started,” I said, trying not to whine. “Doesn’t seasoning take years? What if I ruin it?”

“Oh, if you have twenty minutes, you can season a wok,” Tane replied, in that calm yet energizing voice cultivated by all good therapists. “It’s really not a big deal. Have you seen my video?”

Tane’s method of seasoning a wok is a game changer. She’s dispensed with the multiple (and time-consuming) oiling-and-baking ritual that orthodoxy dictates. Instead, she oils and bakes the wok just once. Then she adds a bit more oil and stir-fries a generous handful of chives until they are well and truly charred—a sacrificial offering.

You will see in the video that the chives Tane uses aren’t the thin, tubular wisps we snip and add to an omelet or stir into cream cheese, but another species called garlic, or Chinese, chives. If you live near an Asian market, you’ve probably seen them—the long, narrow, flat leaves are sold in fat bunches. If you can’t put your hands on them, though, don’t let that stop you; Tane emphasizes that any pungent vegetable—scallions or onions, for instance—will do.

“Once you char the chives, you’re done,” said Tane. “The wok is ready to go. As you use it, it will continue to season itself.”

My wok is baking in the oven as I write this, and the kitchen smells of hot metal and, rather robustly, of the garlic chives waiting on the counter. I just peeked, and the pan is already starting to turn the palest bronze. I am reminded of Voltaire’s phoenix, and its thousand shades of gold.

Sam mentioned going out to kick-start the Year of the Bunny, but in for a penny, in for a pound. The fridge holds bits and pieces just made for stir-frying, including skinless chicken thighs, bok choy, and shiitake mushrooms. If I remember correctly, since they grow so quickly, mushrooms are a symbol of rising fortunes. Sold.

*Below are a few quick tips that make stir-frying a snap. They are by no means comprehensive! If you are new to stir-frying, Grace’s previous book, The Breath of a Wok, is a very nice place to start.

• Avoid buying meat precut for stir-frying; you don’t know what you are getting. Instead, slice meat (flank steak is always nice) on the bias so that there will be more surface area to sear.
• Be patient and let the meat get a good sear on before you start playing Iron Chef; otherwise, it will turn gray, stick to the pan, and be absolutely horrid.
• Vegetables should be bone-dry before you add them to the wok—you want them to crackle in the hot oil, and their aroma to bloom.
• Have a pot of rice cooked and ready to go, because a stir-fry is best when eaten immediately.

I came to a screeching halt in front of the seafood counter. The fishmonger at my local Whole Foods carefully tipped out the last of his ravishingly pink treasure behind the sign that said “Native Maine shrimp. $3.99/pound” and stood back to admire his handiwork. Our conversation—equal parts, “They’ll all be gone by 2 o’clock this afternoon” and “I’ll take five pounds”—was immediate, simultaneous, and mutually beneficial.

You can, of course, find this crustacean at sushi bars, where it’s known as ama ebi (sweet shrimp), or at New England supermarkets and the backs of trucks parked alongside local roads. But if you live south of Boston or don’t have an inside track, availability is hit or miss.

Next year, I’ll get it together and buy a subscription to Port Clyde Fresh Catch. Operating along the lines of a CSA (Community Supported Agriculture), which is designed to directly support farmers, this CSF (Community Supported Fisheries) program was developed by the last scrappy little fleet between Portland and the Canadian border. A five-month subscription costs $150; individual monthly shares are $40. Even if you live far from a pick-up site, they ship sustainably harvested wild-caught shrimp, lobster, and fish anywhere in the United States.

Maine shrimp come from one of the most extraordinary bodies of water on the planet. The Gulf of Maine, which stretches from Cape Cod to Cape Sable, at the southern tip of Nova Scotia, is where you’ll find the Bay of Fundy, known for the highest tides in the world (the average: 55.8 feet) and dense fog banks that materialize at will, eliciting quick confabs (“Can you steer in low visibility?”) on many a racer/cruiser. My first experience in this sort of weather was about 20 years ago. I’m seated on the port side, relieved that we are not crossing a shipping lane.

Photo by Andrew Lance

The Gulf of Maine also boasts featureless expanses of cold, deep water. That water is what gives the American lobster, Homarus americanus, its characteristic oceanic tang, and it is what gives Maine (a.k.a. northern, or pink) shrimp, Pandalus borealis, its characteristic sweetness and succulence.

Maine shrimp take about 3½ years to mature as males, then they do a hermaphroditic shimmy before they migrate inshore to deposit their eggs. This year, the season, which began December 1, should last until April 15. The healthy stocks have a “good choice” rating from the Monterey Bay Aquarium Seafood Watch, so you can stifle that attack of the guilts. Personally, I plan on eating lots.

So what did I do with my haul?

Maine shrimp are itsy-bitsy critters—they run 30 to 50 per pound—and are soft-bodied, so although there is no need to devein, they are the very devil to peel when raw. That’s why I made Andrea Reusing’s salt and pepper shrimp with a big heap of them. The chef-owner of Lantern, in Chapel Hill, calls for medium shrimp, but her recipe worked brilliantly with the crustaceans at hand. Everyone at the dinner table was happy.

The next evening, I peeled the rest of the shrimp and sautéed them in olive oil with garlic, dry Sherry, and a spritz of lemon juice until the flesh turned rosy, opaque, and just firm to the touch. It took a couple of minutes.

I was inspired by Charlotte Jenkins, a chef from my part of the world, who wrote a charming, evocative book called Gullah Cuisine. For the photo below, I couldn’t help pairing the book with a papier maché depiction of Mary, who looks to be at wit’s end, and her sweet baby Jesus, by Mama Girl, a folk artist on the Eastern Shore of Virginia. I like the fact that she Thinks Pink, too.

We ladled the shrimp over helpings of the creamy grits that had been working on a back burner. And for the first time, I realized that if I divided my time between Maine and Georgia, I could live near a fishing fleet and eat like this all the time.

I’m pigged out, which is not the same as pigging out. I’m bored with beef. I do not want to see any more turkey for a while, although a fragrant bowl of homemade turkey stock, thick with orzo or tiny pasta stars, does not count. A juicy roast chicken will always have its place, but still.

What I crave is duck. I could eat platefuls of that rosy, tender deep-flavored meat under its mantle of wonderfully crisp, golden brown skin.

You have no idea how far I’ve come.

Don’t get me wrong. I grew up with feathered game on the table. Dove. Quail. Pheasant. Partridge. And duck. I ate it all with gusto, as well as with the abnormally gentle, mindful-of-shot chewing technique that you will see in anyone who was raised on game birds that are not farmed.

But although I’ll happily roast a pheasant (worth it for the stock alone) or a brace of quail, it would never occur to me to cook a whole duck at home. For starters, there’s all that rendered fat that needs to be constantly remove from the roasting pan, in case of fire. Fire, for god’s sake! And because a duck is heavier-boned than a chicken, for instance, there is never as much meat as I expect.

But a duck breast (actually a breast half, if you want to be anatomically correct), now, that’s a different story. It’s much easier to cook than a whole bird, and there is practically no waste. The solid slab of meat usually ranges from about ¾ to 1¼ pounds, and a larger one feeds two people easily. I like to cut any leftovers into slivers and fold them into warmed flour tortillas with scallions, cucumber, and hoisin sauce for makeshift Peking duck.

Duck, sans skin, is leaner than chicken or turkey, yet still manages to be luxurious in its own way. What that means is that you don’t need to fuss over the sides. Acorn squash, cut into quarter moons and roasted is delicious with duck, as are grits or mashed potatoes. Polenta is good, too. Something green adds brightness and balance—an endive and chicory salad, say, or braised Savoy cabbage or little green lentils, simmered until just tender.

My favorite way of cooking duck breast comes from Floyd Cardoz, chef-owner at Tabla, an Indian fusion restaurant here in New York City that recently closed its doors. I was fortunate enough to work on a cookbook with him, and the project was more than great fun, it was a master class with one of the most extraordinary chefs in the business.

Floyd knows how to coax intricate, mysterious flavors out of a simple combination of spices and other ingredients, and what anchors it all is flawless French technique, which, as you will see, is not code for difficult.

The duck breast is cooked on top of the stove and fat side down—it’s not turned over at any point, although I did for the photo, above, to show you how crisp the skin gets. The meat becomes even more succulent because it’s basted toward the end of cooking. In the French manner, Floyd always adds butter to the fat in the pan to give the basting sauce more roundness, but I’ve stopped messing with a good thing: Duck fat is higher in monounsaturated fat and lower in polyunsaturated fat than chicken or turkey fat. It’s also stable, unlike many vegetable oils; it doesn’t turn rancid as fast, and when heated, it doesn’t break down as easily, which is why it is prized for frying potatoes. I refrigerate my leftover duck fat in a tightly sealed jar, and every time I look at it, I think about what a nice emotion anticipation is.

Note: The quantities of spices called for below are enough for three duck breasts, which will feed six. Because the combination of black peppercorns, star anise, and allspice is so adaptable (and also because a spice grinder won’t grind a smaller amount properly), I always grind the full amount and save what remains to mix into burgers or hummus.

SPICE-CRUSTED DUCK BREAST A LA TABLA

Adapted from One Spice, Two Spice: American Food, Indian Flavors, by Floyd Cardoz with Jane Daniels Lear (William Morrow, 2006)

1 teaspoon black peppercorns

2 star anise

1 teaspoon allspice berries

Coarse kosher salt

1 (1- to 1¼-pound) duck breast*

½ tablespoon unsalted butter (optional)

1 unpeeled garlic clove, smashed

1 rosemary sprig

1 tablespoon roughly chopped peeled fresh ginger

Grind the peppercorns, star anise, and allspice in an electric coffee/spice grinder until medium-fine. Put the ground spices in a bowl and stir in ½ tablespoon salt.

Leaving the skin side of the duck breast alone, trim any excess fat from sides. Then score the skin side in a crosshatch pattern, cutting through the fat almost to the flesh so that the fat renders more easily.

Turn the breast over and generously rub the spice blend on the flesh side, pressing it firmly so that it stays put. Refrigerate the duck, covered, for at least 1 hour and up to 6. (This technique is just what’s warranted when you need to pull off a special occasion-y meal on a weeknight. Simply prep the duck in the morning before you head off to work.)

Put the duck breast, skin side down, in a well-seasoned cast-iron or other heavy skillet over low heat. Cook the duck very slowly for about 25 minutes, until most of the fat is rendered and the skin is crisp, browned, and releases easily from the pan. (Halfway through cooking, pour off the rendered fat and set aside.)

Return some of the rendered fat to the skillet and add the butter (if desired), garlic, rosemary, and ginger. Increase the heat to moderately high and start to baste the duck with a spoon, pulling the skillet off the heat briefly and tilting it so that the fat is easy to spoon up and over the meat. Baste frequently for 5 to 7 minutes. Transfer the duck to a cutting board and let it collect itself for 10 minutes. Thinly slice it across the grain to serve.

*I tend to buy Moulard duck breasts from D’Artagnan or Muscovy duck breasts from Grimaud Farms because they are easy to find in Manhattan. Both are large, meaty, and possess deep, almost minerally, duck flavor. If you prefer something milder, try Pekin duck breasts from Maple Leaf Farms, which are widely available at supermarkets. A Pekin duck, by the way, is not the same as a Peking duck. Pekin (a.k.a. White Pekin or Long Island duckling) is a breed of duck that originated in China; one center of production in the United States was, yep, Long Island, New York. “Peking” is a Chinese style of cooking duck, any duck. January 18—just missed it!—is National Peking Duck Day.

I stared at my haul in consternation. Yesterday evening, when the predicted snowstorm pulled into town right on schedule, I made a provision run and scored two splendid lamb shanks (a long slow braise is just the thing for a snow day), along with a few other goodies. But what I had completely forgotten about was supper that night. I felt like a first-class idiot.

It was getting late, and Sam and I were in dire need of something light yet sustaining. An omelet was out; we’d had eggs for breakfast. The refrigerator yielded a head of romaine and the tender, pale inner leaves from the escarole I’d used in soup over the weekend. There were also lemons and sour cream. Hmm.

I opened the cupboard dedicated to pantry ingredients and took stock.

Why in god’s name were there so many cans of tuna sitting there? Oh, right, that last trip to Costco. Tuna salad? Too lunchy. Tuna melts? Too sandwichy, and I didn’t have it in me to hover around the broiler. Maybe what was called for a blast from the past.

Ah, there it was, a handsome faded blue spine high up on a bookshelf—Feasts For All Seasons*, by Roy Andries de Groot. Virtually unknown today, he cut a pretty wide swath through the culinary world a generation ago, and you would never know from his textured, extremely visual writing that eye injuries he received during the Blitz in London caused him to lose his sight about 20 years later.

I made the point, in a little review I wrote a few years back, that De Groot’s books are what you might call fictionalized, a technique with which I am familiar. I’m from the South, where people’s accounts of what they eat for breakfast are routinely embellished, embroidered upon, and enjoyably refined with each telling, so I can’t get too nitpicky here. Besides, like a good novel, there is something utterly true on every page.

I was introduced to Feasts For All Seasons by my friend and former boss Alfred, who, along with his wife, Bruni, is a marvelous cook. Thanks to them, I discovered that a cookbook could celebrate the seasons (a hackneyed concept today, but news to me then) and span the globe in the process. It is where I discovered Pacific king salmon, Hungarian cold cherry soup, Russian kasha, Middle Eastern tabbouleh, and Spanish moros y christianos.

But leave it to De Groot to saddle one of the easiest, most economical supper dishes in the world with a name that is even impossible to write with a straight face: Lemon-Cream Spaghetti with Fish Stuffing, a.k.a. tuna noodle casserole.

This is not the usual potato-chip-topped amalgam, bound together, circa 1965, with canned cream of mushroom soup and a mother’s love. Nor is it ginned up with gratuitous or intellectually stimulating ingredients by someone who is trying too hard. It’s simply one of those dishes that simultaneously manages to be bright and mellow, spare and rich, and there are plenty of evenings when that—followed by a simple green salad and a couple of satsumas—is all you need.

Oh, right, a quick note on canned tuna: Forget about the all-white stuff packed in water. It has no flavor whatsoever. Buy light tuna packed in olive (not vegetable) oil. The only sustainable brand I like is that made by American Tuna, a company formed by six Pole & Line fishing families in San Diego, California, in 2005. It can be difficult to find, though, so I often end up with Genova brand.

LEMON-CREAM SPAGHETTI WITH FISH STUFFING

Adapted from Feasts For All Seasons by Roy Andries De Groot (Alfred A. Knopf, Inc., 1966)

This recipe serves four. It can easily be halved, but the leftovers are delicious for lunch.

¾ to 1 pound thin spaghetti (spaghettini is ideal; capellini is too thin and overcooks in a nanosecond)

coarse salt and freshly ground pepper

3 cans light tuna packed in olive oil (6 or 7 ounces each), drained

1 stick unsalted butter, plus more for baking dish

1 pint sour cream

the juice of 2 lemons

1. Preheat the oven to 400° F. Cook the pasta in about 4 quarts of rapidly boiling salted water. When it tastes al dente (firmly chewy), drain. Meanwhile, flake or chunk the tuna and melt the butter.

2. In a bowl, stir together the sour cream, lemon juice, and melted butter; season with salt and pepper. Butter a large, shallow baking dish and put about two thirds of the drained pasta in it, lifting it up and spreading it with a fork to make sure it doesn’t pack down. On top, put the fish as a single layer. Cover loosely with the rest of the pasta. Pour the sour cream sauce over the pasta and, with the fork, but without disturbing the layer of fish, lift it slightly here and there to encourage sauce to run down.

3. Set the casserole, uncovered,  in the center of the oven and bake just long enough to get everything piping hot and bubbly, usually about 20 minutes. Bring the casserole to the table and plunge the serving spoon straight down, so that each person  gets the proper proportion of pasta, fish, and sauce.

*The book is out of print, but copies can be found at abebooks.com and elsewhere online.

You see them, boxed and piled high at New Orleans supermarkets, bakeries, corner stores, and filling stations: Your typical king cake—a ring of brioche dough splotched with extraordinarily lurid icing, the kind that parks you on a jagged sugar high for days. But in some households, you’ll see something far less common, a galette des rois, a Twelfth Night tradition in France since the Middle Ages.

It’s one of my favorite desserts, and I could eat it all year long. First off, I love its looks: the restrained, geometric shape made joyous by pinwheels. It reminds me of the sun. It makes me want to turn cartwheels.

I also appreciate the accuracy of the name, galette des rois, “cake of kings,” plural. The Three Magi would approve.

And, lastly, you don’t have to be drunk to enjoy it. That’s my real problem with the brioche-style king cake—like bowling (where you put your feet into rented shoes), I have to toss back a few before I can let the good times roll.

Your first taste of a galette des rois, on the other hand, will be, well, an epiphany. It’s bronzed. Buttery. Flaky. Rich with good almond paste (not marzipan, which is too sweet).

Now, when you click through to the recipe above, you’ll see you need to make a “rough puff” dough—basically, a quick puff pastry. Even though it’s not difficult to make, I usually stick to biscuits and cornbread, and leave pastry to my husband, Sam, the dough pro.

But even quicker than rough puff is using store-bought frozen puff pastry.* Because the cake is constrained by the size of the pre-made puff pastry sheets, my rounds were an inch smaller than the diameter specified in the recipe. And even though I got distracted and didn’t really hear the buzzer go off, Sam yanked the cake out of the oven just in the nick of time. So what if one side is dark, not deep, golden brown? It will be absolutely delicious.

And almost as delicious is the prospect of being crowned king or queen for the day—that is, if someone at the table discovers a trinket nestled in his piece of cake. You could use an almond or a dried butter bean.

But I like to use the dear little baby Jesus that resides for the rest of the year in a porcelain dish on my bureau, along with Saint Anthony (patron of lost things), and other treasures.

Happy New Year! Turn cartwheels.

* I’m a big fan of that made by the Bronx-based Dufour Pastry Kitchens. It’s an all-butter dough (i.e., no nasty trans fats), and, happily, it’s becoming more available nationwide. Look for it in the freezer section of high-end supermarkets such as Whole Foods.