Apart from Thanksgiving, when it’s pressed into service for stuffing and the relish tray, celery is the old maid of the crisper drawer. A few stalks are used here and there for soups or stews, or cut into thirds and filled with peanut butter or pimento cheese for a quick snack or down-home hors d’oeuvre. But by and large, it just sits in the refrigerator for weeks, gradually turning limp as suede while other, more compelling, vegetables find their way onto the plate.

It wasn’t always this way. A hop-skip-and-jump through celery’s history reveals that in ancient Greece and Rome and on through the Middle Ages, it was greatly valued as a medicinal and culinary herb; by the end of the 18th century, celery had become a kitchen staple in England, which has the lengthy, cool, moist growing season the vegetable needs to flourish. We don’t know when celery was first  introduced to America, but its successful cultivation requires considerable hand labor and some skill, as Will Weaver noted in Heirloom Vegetable Gardening. “It wasn’t a common garden vegetable in this country until the nineteenth century,” he wrote. “Even then, it remained a specialty crop cultivated more by market gardeners and the wealthy than by ordinary folk.”

I turned to culinary historian Anne Mendelson for more info, and she was happy to oblige. “In the late-nineteenth and early-twentieth centuries, celery enjoyed a great vogue as an elegant, fashionable vegetable usually eaten raw,” she wrote. Indeed, it occupied a prized position on the dining table, in a vase specifically made to hold water and the long stalks crowned with ruffled leaves. Although celery vases were made in a range of materials, including porcelain, what generally comes to mind are examples either blown and hand cut or, more usually, pressed in a high-relief cut-glass pattern to brilliantly refract the light.

Eventually, celery moved into the mainstream (and thus demoted to a long, low, narrow cut-glass dish at table). “It became a highly successful cash crop produced in a more efficient, standardized manner,” Anne added. “For a long time, Kalamazoo, Michigan, was practically the national capital of factory-scale celery growing.” After a blight hit that area during the 1930s, California became the center of production.

It’s worth noting these days, when we turn up our noses at so-called “seasonless” vegetables, with their year-round supermarket availability, that they were once perceived as truly marvelous. In the American Cooking volume (written by Dale Brown and published in 1968) of Time-Life’s landmark “Foods of the World” series, the recipes in chapter II are preceded by a paragraph explaining they are a reflection of America’s bounty. “Not only are they based upon vegetables and fruits available in enormous quantities in this country, but, for the most part, on those found in markets the year round.”

One of the recipes showcased in the book is Celery Victor, created by Victor Hertzler, head chef at the St. Francis Hotel, in San Francisco, and first published in Clarence Edwords’s Bohemian San Francisco: Its Restaurants and Their Most Famous Recipes (1914). Anne surmises that Hertzler might have used leeks vinaigrette as a model; as you can see from the original recipe here, stalks of celery are cooked in a rich stock; once cool, they’re dressed with a tarragon vinaigrette. Hertzler called for one soup hen and five pounds of veal bones for his stock, which may sound extravagant. In reality, however, it was—and is—an example of the thrift practiced by any well-run large, professional kitchen.

The very idea of cooking celery in broth, then eating it chilled is perplexing to many, but when prepared this way, there is something about the vegetable, a subtle herbaceous astringency, that I just love. “It’s clean-tasting even after it’s been sopping up rich juices,” said Zanne Stewart, former Gourmet executive food editor and still-reigning queen of the sound bites. “It’s why I always put celery in the bottom of a roasting pan. It’s great with rich meats.”

Over the years, there have been innumerable variations on Celery Victor. Sometimes whole celery hearts, cut in half lengthwise, are used instead of separate stalks, and garnishes may include slices of hard-boiled egg (sometimes shingled with slices of tomato), strips of pimiento peppers, capers, parsley, and, most famously, anchovies. The version we published in The Gourmet Cookbook was striking in its simplicity—no aromatics in the cooking liquid, no garnish except celery leaves. We did, however, use some of the cooking liquid in the vinaigrette, a waste-not-want-not touch that also appears in Julia Child’s The Way to Cook. It ennobles the dressing and gives it body.

If you’ve gotten this far, I must confess I don’t know where my retro obsession stems from—other than the fact that the spring-crop celery I’ve been buying lately at the supermarket has been so delicious. Organic is the way to go, by the way; according to the Environmental Working Group’s annual “Dirty Dozen” shoppers’ guide, it’s among the vegetables most contaminated with pesticide residues. On a more positive note, celery contains phytochemicals that reduce stress hormones (I feel calmer just typing those words), as well as fiber, folate, potassium, manganese, and vitamins K, C, and B6. It’s far too good to leave languishing in the crisper drawer.

Celery Victor

Serves 4

This recipe is an amalgam of god-knows how many recipes; frankly, I do it a bit differently every time. The classic salad is very nice as a first course, but you can also serve the braised celery warm as a side, with a sauce made by reducing the cooking liquid, or as a gratin—just transfer to a flameproof dish, sprinkle with Gruyère or Parm, and run under the broiler.

3 or 4 parsley sprigs

1 bay leaf

1½ pounds tender (i.e., no strings) celery stalks, trimmed and cut crosswise into 3-inch-long pieces, leaves reserved for cooking and garnish

About 3 cups chicken stock (preferably homemade)

Coarse salt and freshly ground pepper

Tarragon or white-wine vinegar

Mild extra-virgin olive oil

Optional garnishes: good-quality anchovy fillets packed in olive oil and/or strips of pimiento, and/or other garnishes (see above)

1. Tie parsley, bay leaf, and a few of the celery leaves together with kitchen string. Put the celery in one layer in a large heavy skillet. Season lightly with salt, wedge in the bundled herbs, and add enough stock to just cover. Bring to a boil, then reduce the heat. Put a round of parchment paper over the celery (not necessary, but it helps it cook evenly), then cover the skillet and simmer gently until the celery is completely tender when pierced with a knife.

2. Meanwhile, make a vinaigrette with the vinegar and oil to suit your taste (generally speaking, use 1 part vinegar to 3 parts oil). Season with salt and pepper.

3. Transfer the celery to a platter with tongs and arrange in one layer. Drizzle with vinaigrette and refrigerate until chilled, at least an hour or so. Moisten with a bit more vinaigrette and scatter with remaining celery leaves. If you like, decorate with criss-crossed anchovies and/or pimiento strips or otherwise embellish to your heart’s content.

The little bivalve mollusks called cockles are found in sheltered estuaries and tidal flats throughout much of the world, and a flourishing cockle bed may be packed with more than a million of them to the acre. Most of those we see at American seafood markets are New Zealand cockles (Austrovenus stuchburyi; known to the Maori as tuangi), flown in live from halfway around the globe. They can be sustainably harvested year-round, but they’re especially good  from April until August, winter in the southern hemisphere. My carbon footprint’s been extremely light this year, and—why the hell am I making excuses? They looked delicious, so I bought them. I had in mind a light meal that was still big on flavor, and the succulence and clean, briny sweetness of cockles fit the bill.

You can steam cockles like mussels, with white aromatics (leeks, celery, fennel, garlic) and some dry white wine, or with Chinese or Southeast Asian seasonings. A Vietnamese cook once grilled cockles on a sheet pan for me, then drizzled them with shallot-infused oil. They were suave and smoky, and I’ve never forgotten them. Perhaps this summer ….

What I had more immediately in mind, though, was that Italian restaurant classic, linguine with white clam sauce. It is an unfussy dish, perfect, as it turned out, for an impromptu dinner with our friends Thomas and Rick. All we added was bread for mopping up the brothy, garlicky sauce and a simple green salad, for after. And when I say simple, I mean simple. Ours was nothing more than tender lettuce leaves tossed with olive oil and Sherry vinegar. Shavings of Parmigiano-Reggiano (which you would never put on the pasta), “for a faux-Caesar effect,” said Rick, brought it all together.

Linguine with New Zealand Cockles

Serves 4 generously

This recipe is a looser version of that found in The Gourmet Cookbook. It’s originally from Dave Pasternack, the chef at Esca, an Italian seafood restaurant in Manhattan, and takes beautifully to improvisation. I’ve substituted diced cured Spanish chorizo for the pancetta (hold the red-pepper flakes) with great success. And sometimes, I dispense with pork entirely, especially if I’m in a rush; instead, while I’m sautéing the garlic, I add a couple of good-quality anchovy fillets and stir them around until they dissolve into the hot oil. You won’t miss the meat.

Coarse salt

Extra-virgin olive oil

6 to 8 ounces thinly sliced pancetta or prosciutto, cut into thin strips

2 large garlic cloves, finely chopped

About 3½ pounds New Zealand cockles or other small hard-shelled clams, scrubbed under cold running water

1 cup bottled clam juice

A generous splash (or two) of dry white wine

Red-pepper flakes

Just over a pound of linguine

A handful of chopped fresh flat-leaf parsley

1. Bring a pot of salted water to a boil for the pasta. Heat about 3 tablespoons oil in a large deep skillet over moderately high heat until hot. Add the pancetta and cook, stirring occasionally, until golden, about 6 minutes. Add the garlic and cook, stirring, until golden, about 30 seconds. Add the cockles, clam juice, wine, and a scattering of red-pepper flakes. Bring to a boil and boil, covered, until the cockles open, about 5 minutes or so.

2. Meanwhile, cook the pasta until al dente. Drain it and transfer to a serving bowl. Discard any cockles that haven’t opened and shovel the rest of them onto the pasta. Add the parsley, gently toss to combine, and pause a moment to admire your handiwork: The cockles in their green-tinged shells will look so artful, you’ll feel like a food stylist. Drizzle with the flavorful juices and more olive oil. Serve at once.

Every April, my mother and I would spend hours in the woods, wading in bone-chilling mountain streams to pick watercress before it flowered and disappeared until the following spring. Somewhere, my mother had picked up the knowledge that the plant had been used as both food and medicine in ancient times, and each year, I’d be treated to a homily on how brilliant the Greeks were and how miraculous watercress was while we teetered on rocks, midstream. I recall that Mom seemed just as invested in the plots of the Walter Farley books I was enthralled by at the time, and connected the dots with an unexpected present: Xenophon’s Art of Horsemanship. I have it still. Apart from the sentimental attachment, it’s still as relevant as it was when it was written, more than 2,300 years ago.

For a few weeks, before dinner we might be treated to watercress soup served in my grandmother’s thinnest porcelain cups, but mostly we enjoyed the watercress fresh and pungent in salads, with a very light dressing. It was nothing more than a sprinkling of salt and lemon juice, with a final benediction of olive oil—back then, not all that easy to find down South, and, consequently, one of my mother’s most valued condiments.

These days, I tend to avoid the wild stuff unless I know for sure it comes from a very pure stream; in fact, I’ll go so far to say that those people who forage on the outskirts of golf courses are crazy. The (organic) cultivated watercress above is from the grocery store. It was so beautiful, I just had to pounce. In flavor, it isn’t as characterful as the wild green, but it wilts nicely under a juicy steak or roast chicken and adds pep to sandwiches. Because I bought heaps, there will be enough left for a gingery stir-fry, garlic-studded sauté, or that salad. To my mind, it will still taste exactly the same, even though my salt and olive oil are much fancier than any my mother knew.

She was absolutely right, of course, about the healthful properties of watercress. It’s a member of the Brassica family (like those nutritional overachievers broccoli, brussels sprouts, and kale) and one cup of the sprigs contains more than enough vitamin K to get you through the day, as well as vitamins, A, C, E, and B6; in the mineral department, you’ll find phosphorus, magnesium, and calcium. Ounce for ounce, it is richer in antioxidants than apples or broccoli.

Not that it matters, when you find yourself in the wrong place at the wrong time—Monday morning in Boston, for instance.

Perhaps that’s why all I want right now is watercress—such a strong-willed green, it’s something you can brace your back against. Even when served in the thinnest porcelain cups.

April mornings at the Union Square Greenmarket haven’t been quite as warm as the weather reports would have you believe. A light breeze still has the chill of winter behind it, and everyone hugs the sunny side of the street. Tempting pots of jonquils aside, my weekly expeditions remain more about foraging for the least-gnarly potatoes, carrots, onions, parsnips, and apples than about shopping for the pristine produce that telegraphs spring. I don’t want to think about what the farmers markets in California look like by now.

A couple of bright spots, though: Lani’s Farm, from south Jersey, is back with their overwintered broccoli rabe. There is nothing like its rich, assertive flavor, and I selfishly cleaned them out of almost all of it. It’s delicious sautéed with garlic and red pepper flakes and served with chicken, tossed with pasta, or devoured on a thick slab of toast. We’ll enjoy those greens all week long.

And for the first time in ages, Cayuga Pure Organics, from upstate New York, has farro. I’ve had the grain—which can be any one of three ancient wheat varieties first cultivated in the Fertile Crescent and still grown in Italy—on my mind ever since I wrote about it for TakePart.com last month. There I quoted Maria Speck, author of the award-winning Ancient Grains for Modern Meals (available at your local independent bookstore or online). By the time I caught her on Leonard Lopate’s show last Friday (listen to it here), I was well on the way to obsession, but frustrated at every turn. The farro I was finding in stores was Italian (no surprise there) but it was all semi-perlato, or semi-pearled, meaning that it retained some, but not all, of its nutrients. Semi-pearled farro cooks relatively quickly; it makes a delicious hot cereal and, when cooked risotto-style, transforms itself into an earthy farrotto—comfort food with character, so to speak.

But what I craved was the firm resistance and rugged, nutty savor of the whole grain, and Cayuga was happy to oblige. (For that source and others, scroll down below the recipe.) Perhaps its full complement of vitamins, minerals, antioxidants, and protein would push this stubborn head cold, which has been dragging me down for weeks, right out the door.

Like beans, hearty whole grains benefit from a leisurely soak (about 8 hours) before you start fooling with them; not only do they cook more quickly and evenly, but they are also easier to digest. And although many people like to cook their grains directly in the soaking water, I prefer to drain the grain in a colander and get it a bit roasty-toasty before adding any more liquid.

The beauty of the pilaf below is that it is robust enough for a main course. And, like any pilaf, you can customize to your heart’s content. If you don’t happen to have leftover garlicky greens in the fridge, well, then, what is wrong with you? Just kidding. Simply cook some up while the farro and mushrooms are working … or not. You can either chop the greens and stir them into the pilaf or serve them on the side. The next time I make this, I’ll roast some diced carrots or sweet potato along with the mushrooms and fold them into the mix. And a little pancetta sautéed with the shallot wouldn’t be half bad, either. What can I tell you? Supper is always a work in progress. And I don’t have to tell you that refining as you go is part of the fun.

Farro Pilaf with Mushrooms and Greens

Serves 4 to 6

1 cup whole-grain farro, soaked in water to cover 8 hours or overnight

4 tablespoons extra-virgin olive oil

1 shallot, finely chopped

¼ cup dry white wine

3 cups chicken broth or water

Coarse salt and freshly ground pepper

A few generous handfuls (about ¾ pound) shiitake mushrooms, trimmed and cut into meaty slices (about ½ inch thick)

Leftover broccoli rabe, kale, or chard (preferably cooked with garlic and red pepper flakes), chopped

Freshly grated Parmigiano-Reggiano, for serving, if desired

1. Drain the soaked farro, giving the colander a few vigorous shakes to help things along. Heat 1 tablespoon oil over medium heat in a medium saucepan. Add the shallot and cook, stirring, until softened, about 5 minutes. Add the farro and cook, stirring to coat with oil, until the grains smell toasted. Add the wine and cook until reduced by half. Add the broth and increase the heat to bring to a boil. Reduce the heat to find an even simmer and cook the farro, stirring occasionally, until it’s firm-tender—it should be cooked through yet chewy, 40 minutes to an hour. (The time depends on the age and type of  farro.) Season with salt and cover to keep warm.

2. Meanwhile, preheat oven to 450º. Toss the mushrooms with about 2 tablespoons oil on a rimmed baking sheet and season with salt. Roast, stirring once, until crisp and golden, about 20 minutes.

3. Put the farro over medium heat, stir in the greens, and cook, stirring, until the whole business is warmed through. Stir in the roasted mushrooms, and some Parm for richness, if desired. The aroma alone makes me feel better.

Sources for Farro

Semipearled farro is available at many supermarkets and Italian specialty markets, but whole-grain farro can be trickier to find. It’s worth it, though; look for it at your local health foods store or order online from one of the following dedicated domestic producers.

Lentz Spelt Farms, in eastern Washington State, cultivates and sells all three types of farro.

Bluebird Grain Farms (“Organic Heirloom Grains From Plow to Package”) is also in Washington State. They’re renowned for their biodynamically grown whole-grain emmer farro, the cracked grain (great for hot cereal, polenta, or as a stand-in for bulgur in tabbouleh), and freshly ground whole-grain flour.

Cayuga Pure Organics, in upstate New York, sells whole-grain emmer farro at the Union Square Greenmarket, in Manhattan.

Anson Mills, in Columbia, South Carolina, sells a deep-flavored slow-roasted spelt farro as well as a farro piccolo that is a bit lighter in color and texture; it’s great in salads.

The trick to pulling off a dinner party on the fly is the first course: Nail that, and you have everyone at the table in the palm of your hand. This year, my thank-you-Jesus starter (especially appropriate at Easter) has been asparagus mimosa. It is, as my great friend Rick Ellis says, “classic, classic, classic.” It is also absolutely delicious and so easy I could make it in my sleep.

The word mimosa, a fanciful nod to the fluffy mimosa blossoms that punctuate a mild winter in Provence, refers to the delicately textured yellow garnish—hard-boiled egg pushed through a sieve. Spooned on top of just-tender asparagus stalks, I suppose it can look as froufrou as a poodle’s top knot, but don’t you underestimate it for a second. What’s going on is deceptively simple: The richness of the yolk tames, almost seduces, the acidity in a vinaigrette, and, as the egg absorbs the dressing, it turns light and luxe in the mouth. It’s the sort of thing that dazzles people who have never had it before, but please don’t save it for special occasions. It’s an inexpensive way to add a little satisfying protein to a butterhead lettuce salad and more.

In fact, once you wrap your head—and palate—around the concept, the sky’s the limit. Over dinner the other evening, another great friend (and former Gourmet colleague), Paul Grimes, was off and running. “A mimosa topping would be wonderful on a beet salad, with endive—and so beautiful. And on pickled herring and warm potatoes.” He stopped and thought for a split second. “Or what about a tomato salad with a bacon vinaigrette?”

Tomato salad. Oh, I can’t wait for summer.

Asparagus Mimosa

Adapted from (where else?) Gourmet magazine

Serves 4

2 large eggs

1½ pounds medium asparagus, trimmed and lower part of the stalk peeled

Coarse salt and freshly ground pepper

2 tablespoons Sherry vinegar or tarragon vinegar

1 tablespoon finely chopped shallots

1 teaspoon Dijon mustard

1/3 cup extra-virgin olive oil

1. Hard-boil the eggs. You probably have your own method, but I learned this from Paul, and it works for me every time: Put the eggs into a small saucepan and add enough water to cover them by about ½ inch. Bring water to a boil over high heat, then reduce to moderately high; cook eggs at a gentle boil, uncovered, 10 minutes. Pour off the hot water and shake the eggs in the pan (pretend they’re bumper cars) to crack the shells. Run cold water into the pan and let the eggs sit in the water 15 minutes, adding more cold water as necessary to cool down the eggs.

2. Put the asparagus in a large skillet (if the stalks are of varying thicknesses, put the thicker ones in the center) and just cover with cold water. Bring to a boil and add 2 teaspoons salt. Reduce the heat and simmer the asparagus, uncovered, until just tender, 6 to 8 minutes. Transfer the stalks with tongs to a bowl of ice water or to a colander under cold running water. Then transfer them to a clean kitchen towel (not terry cloth) or paper towels and blot dry.

3. Whisk together the vinegar, shallots, mustard, ¼ teaspoon salt, and a few grinds of pepper in a bowl. Gradually whisk in the oil and whisk until emulsified. Peel and halve the eggs lengthwise, then rub them though a medium-mesh sieve into another bowl. Don’t forget that last scraping off the bottom of the sieve.

4. Gently toss the asparagus with a little of the vinaigrette, then divvy it up among 4 plates. Spoon the remaining vinaigrette over the servings. Top each with a spoonful of fluffy egg and think, Spring has truly sprung. Or, thank you, Jesus.

The most efficient pantry I’ve ever had was in the smallest apartment I’ve ever lived in—a studio on the top floor of a brownstone on Berkeley Place, in Park Slope, Brooklyn. The kitchen, which was teensy but shipshape, boasted an old-fashioned porcelain double sink (luxurious suds up to my elbows was how a dinner party always ended), and, on the three-foot expanse of wall between the dollhouse fridge and doorway, narrow shelves from floor to ceiling. They were wide enough, just, for a 28-ounce can of tomatoes, which was absolutely brilliant: Everything could easily be seen and grabbed. My shortages of space, time, and money meant those shelves had to be tightly edited, but that was precisely why they were the key to many a great improv night.

These days, my nonperishables are jammed into a tall, deep kitchen cabinet. There are inadvertent multiples of those cans of tomatoes—”as well as pickled okra,” Sam muttered—but I still believe that a well-stocked pantry is the home cook’s greatest ally.

Jarred roasted red peppers are a perfect example of what I mean. They are typically red bell, pimiento, or cherry peppers that have been roasted, peeled and seeded, then bottled in an acidic brine. They add zest and a shot of color to an antipasto plate, and a suave, smoke-tinged sweetness to a tomato sauce or puréed soup. Top them with a few shreds of red onion and boquerones, the vinegar-cured white anchovies from Spain, for tapas; or pair them with fresh mozzarella on bruschetta or a sandwich. They are also an integral ingredient in the Turkish toasted-walnut and cumin spread called muhammara, which is a great thing to serve with drinks. Guests will take a smidgen of it of it on a pita chip just to be polite, and then devour the rest of the bowl in no time flat.

Now, muhammara is not difficult to make, but you do need actual walnut halves, which you then have to toast and chop fine. So I take the easy way out and rely instead on the dip below, which utilizes walnut oil instead of the nuts. I suppose you could call it a cheat, but I think it belongs in the genius category. It was developed by Gourmet food editor Shelley Wiseman (who is now senior food editor at Fine Cooking magazine) some years back. I asked her for an emergency hors d’oeuvre idea as I was rushing out the door one evening, and what she hollered after me was dead simple. I could easily remember it, in fact, until I snagged a seat on the R train and wrote it down on the dry-cleaning receipt I found in a coat pocket.

Walnut oil, by the way, is another terrific pantry standby, although after you’ve opened a tin, it’s best to keep it in the fridge. Its resonant flavor is fabulous combined with Sherry vinegar in a dressing for endive or asparagus. A little goes a long way: Especially now that the weather is getting warmer (well, hope springs eternal), think about cutting its richness in a vinaigrette with a neutral oil, such as grapeseed or safflower.

Roasted Red-Pepper and Walnut Dip

Bread crumbs give this dip body, and you’ll find that this recipe yields about 1½ cups. If there is any left over, add it to pasta or a sandwich.

1 jar (about 8 ounces) roasted red peppers, rinsed and drained

1 cup coarse fresh breadcrumbs (a baguette works the best)

1 garlic clove

2 pinches of ground cumin

Coarse salt and freshly ground pepper

¼ cup walnut oil

Put everything except the oil in a food processor and add salt (about ½ teaspoon) and pepper (about ¼ teaspoon). Purée until almost smooth, but not quite. With the motor running, slowly add the oil. Taste and adjust the seasoning if necessary. See? I told you it was simple.

Leeks are a slow-growing crop; the beauts you see here were planted last summer. They’re as stalwart and noble as whoever is outside this time of year, digging them out of the frozen ground. I bought plenty—enough for a pot of leek and potato soup and then some.

Beneath that rugged appearance, you see, the leek is a big ol’ softy; when cooked, it turns delicate and complex in flavor and lush, almost velvety, in texture. And once you stop thinking of this vegetable as an aromatic seasoning and grant it a bigger role in the kitchen, you’ll feel as though you have discovered a whole new vegetable.

It’s so versatile, in fact, it took me forever to decide what to do with the rest of my haul. Leeks are always delicious gently cooked in butter and served with scallops, with a little crisp bacon crumbled over. Creamed or in a gratin, they’re awfully good with ham or steak. Belgium is famous for the mashed potato and leek combo called Stoemp met Prei as well as flamiche, or leek and goat cheese tart. I had leeks in the Middle East with a yogurt sauce, and leeks à la Grecque—that is, simmered with coriander seeds, bay leaves, red wine, and honey—has been around since the days of Homer. Talk about a classic!

And how. The leek probably originated in the Mediterranean, although it’s so old, no one really knows for sure. It’s frequently mentioned, however, along with garlic and onions, in the Yale culinary tablets, three compact Mesopotamian clay slabs that date from circa 1750 B.C. They contain what are probably the oldest known recipes—about 40 in all and including rich, sophisticated preparations for stag, gazelle, mutton, partridges, “wildfowl pie,” and grain pilafs—written in tiny cuneiform script and listing ingredients in order of use. And we think we’re so smart.

The first known Roman cookbook, commonly referred to as “Apicius” and compiled in the late fourth or early fifth century A.D., snubs garlic and onions, but contains leek recipes; you’ll find all sorts of delicious treatments in today’s Italian cookbooks as well. Since I spent so much time dithering over (and getting lost in) cookbooks, in the end I opted for Marcella Hazan’s simple braise embellished with some grated Parmigiano—easy to do on the stovetop while a chicken stuffed with rosemary and garlic was roasting away in the oven.

Shopping & cleaning notes: Look for leeks with a long white and pale-green stem, or stalk. That’s the edible part, and the longer it is, the greater your yield will be. I’ll use the dark-green leaves in chicken or vegetable stock, and the tattered top, or “flag,” would go in a compost pail if I were a better person. Instead it goes in the trash. The stem is actually a bundle of tightly bound leaves; the reason leeks always have a certain amount of soil embedded in those layers is because of how they grow. Any soil on the leaves is eventually washed down to where the stem begins; it works its way deeper into the plants as they mature, which is why you need to wash them so thoroughly.

Braised Leeks with Parmesan Cheese

Adapted from Marcella Hazan’s Essentials of Classic Italian Cooking (Alfred A. Knopf, 1992)

Serves 4

4 large or 6 medium leeks (white and pale-green parts only)

3 tablespoons butter, cut into pieces

Coarse salt

A splash of dry white wine

3 tablespoons freshly grated Parmigiano-Reggiano

1. Cut each leek lengthwise in two. Wash the leeks very thoroughly under cold running water, spreading the layers of leaves with your hands and rubbing them to make sure any hidden bits of soil are washed away. Swish them around in a bowl of cold water, just to make sure.

2. Put the leeks in a pan just broad and long enough so that they can lie flat and straight on their cut sides. Add the butter, a scattering of salt, the wine, and enough water to cover. Put a lid on the pan and cook over medium-low heat until thickest part of the leeks feels tender with prodded with a fork, 15 to 25 minutes. Turn them from time to time while they cook.

3. When done, uncover the pan, turn the heat up to high, and boil away all the watery juices in the pan. In the process, the leeks should become lightly browned. Before removing from the heat, add the grated Parmesan, turn the leeks over once or twice, then transfer to a warm platter and serve at once.

By the way, the Romans brought leeks into Britain, where they remain a treasured component of kitchen gardens; the vegetable, in fact, is an emblem of Wales, along with the daffodil. Reason alone to make room in your market basket for those, too.

Saint Paddy’s Day is around the corner, and supermarket meat cases are brimming with vacuum-packed slabs of salty, rich corned beef. In a day or so, I expect Sam will be bringing one home, like he always does.

That came out wrong.

I like corned beef, I really do. Sam goes the extra mile to find a brisket that’s minimally processed, so it’s not quite so pink with nitrites, and his pressure-cooker technique yields tender, satiny meat you can pull apart with your fingers. I’m in charge of the potatoes and cabbage, and often we manage to work a few slices of good brown bread and Irish butter into the meal. It is hearty, honest food—perfect for March, when the wind can cut right through you, even on a fine day. The problem is the damned leftovers.

I’m fond of a thick, squelchy corned beef sandwich, made with Orwashers seeded rye and spicy brown mustard, with a half-sour or garlic pickle on the side. But one will do me for a while; as far as deli is concerned, I’m more of a pastrami kind of gal.

As for hash—reason alone to buy a corned beef for many people—I understand the appeal when expertly made from the remains of a classic New England boiled dinner. But in my experience, homemade versions are never cut into small enough dice; they’re composed of disparate chunks of meat and cabbage-flavored potatoes (or worse, cabbage and potatoes) that don’t ever seem to coalesce into a harmonious whole when cooked.

Which is why I prefer my hash out of a can. I know, I know, this is a travesty of tradition, but it reminds me of camping weekends when I was a child, and, later on, cobbling together fast, inexpensive meals on sailboats. These days, there is generally a small stash hidden high up in the pantry cabinet for emergency rations. On a night, for instance, when Sam is out of town (he can’t stand the stuff), I have a story to file, and good lord, it’s 9:30 at night and I’m practically fainting with hunger.

Relax, I never eat the whole thing. And I don’t find myself indulging all that often, maybe once or twice a year. It’s just nice to know it’s there if I need it, and it’s not like it’ll go bad.

Crowned with two eggs fried sunny side up and until the edges frizzle, this is also my default breakfast at a diner or coffee shop, after I’ve sized up the guy manning the flat top. He has to treat that dollop out of the can with a little respect: That means not leaving it in a mound to steam until warmed through (revolting), but spreading it out with a spatula so it develops a crisp, reddish brown crust and, along the way, kisses up to a little bacon grease. Green tea, my usual morning brew, does not taste at all right with this. Instead, I want hot coffee, and lots of it. Bliss.

Unless you live in a part of the country where things are already green and growing, March can be a long slog, food-wise. I, for one, spend a good amount of time ginning up my own interest in ingredients that are far too familiar by now. There are a number of ways in which one can do this; if you need a pep talk, take a gander at my most recent food-advice column for TakePart.com.

After writing that post, I was starving. Done for the day, I walked into the kitchen, and made myself a drink. I’m liking Old Forester these days, so that over ice, with a splash of water. And then I opened the refrigerator. I was on my own for supper, so no one to please but myself.

Easy pickings there were not—we’d been far too industrious in recycling leftovers—but there were a few staples to work with. What spoke to me that evening was a handful of little Savoy cabbages. I wrote about them a few weeks ago;  from Jim Grillo’s Northshire Farm, they have a deep sweetness that always leaves you wanting more, and so I keep a ready supply on hand. Any cabbage, though, is especially delicious this time of year, and its flavor is handily matched in the nutrition department: It contain cancer-fighting phytochemicals vitamins C, B-6, K, folate, manganese, omega-3 fatty acids, and fiber. Cabbage has got your back, in other words.

I pulled my stash out of the vegetable crisper, then made a beeline for a dim, cool corner of the living room. In our New York City (a.k.a. small) apartment, that’s where our paper sack of potatoes lives. I scrubbed the dirt off a few and was ready to cook.

There are a number of picturesquely named recipes that involve potatoes and cabbage; among them are bubble and squeak, colcannon, and rumbledethumps. Those are time-honored preparations that involve leftover spuds and greens. That is all well and good, but if you’re not careful, you’ll find yourself with nothing more than tricked-out mashed potatoes that still manage to be relegated to side-dish status.

What I had in mind was something much simpler. As far as I know, it doesn’t have a name and it’s not even a proper recipe—it’s just what I do. I learned it from a friend in Glasgow many years ago. And it’s not a side dish, it’s dinner.

First, you cut up as many potatoes as you have need for. Peeled or not, it’s up to you. Put them in a pot and add just enough water to barely cover them. Don’t splash in an extra inch or so, out of habit. Honestly, just barely cover them. Add some salt for good measure and cover the pot. Bring to a boil, then adjust the heat so things stabilize at an even simmer. Meanwhile, cut the cabbage into wedges. When the potatoes are about halfway done, break them up a bit with a fork and place the cabbage wedges on top. Season with salt and a grind or two of fresh pepper and cover the pot. By the time the potatoes are done, the steam in the pot will have reduced the cabbage to a wanton state of tenderness.

Immediately shovel however much you want into a deep bowl and add butter to taste. Or not. This last time, I found myself drawn to the pure, unembellished (well, except for the s & p) flavors of two vegetables that have nourished us for millennia. Their surprising intensity was enough for me, although if Sam had been there, I could have been sweet-talked into a fat sausage or a few slices of crisp-cooked bacon on the side. No matter what, though, you want to eat this while it is hot off the stove, taking small bites from around the edge and working from the outside in. No need to set the table; curl up on the sofa and turn on the television. Somewhere in the universe, Law and Order is on.

We have all been there: Trying to plan a company meal around a guest who is—well, not a picky eater, exactly, but a staunchly unadventurous one. This can be especially fraught when your idea of familiar food is not your guest’s idea of same. Take roast chicken, for instance. One of my favorite things to do is cut up the bird into serving pieces, roast it with pancetta and olives, and serve it with polenta. I have made a successful version with prunes and another one with artichokes.

None of those preparations would do whatsoever for the dinner I had in mind, with a longtime friend and her college-bound daughter, whose culinary inclination is as conservative as her mother’s is experimental. I was still dithering about what to serve when another longtime friend rode to the rescue. “I had the same problem,” Monique said. “So I just cut up a vast quantity of vegetables, put two chickens on top, and roasted everything together.” She is a wonderful cook, and, having lived and traveled all over the world, a very sophisticated one, yet her ability to cut to the chase never ceases to amaze me.

“I used potatoes, red onions, parsnips,” she recited, counting them off on her fingers. “Carrots, of course. Garlic. And fennel, which was exotic to some at the table. But they could simply help themselves to whatever vegetables they wanted. It was lots of peeling and chopping, but that was really all I did. Oh, and I chopped some rosemary and scattered that over the vegetables. The only other thing you need is a big green salad.”

It sounded absolutely brilliant and so that is exactly what I did. Since I had some large Torpedo shallots on hand, I substituted those for the red onions; they taste more like mild onions than shallots, with their more complex flavor, anyway. My weekly expedition to the farmers market at Union Square yielded pretty much everything else on my shopping list.

The prep, as expected, was a no-brainer. All you really need to keep in mind is to cut up the vegetables so that they’re of a similar size, so they’ll finish cooking at the same time. And I found myself thinking that when I do this again, I’ll add a celery root or two. That vegetable has a lovely herbaceous quality that would play well with everything else.

Roasting two chickens on a big, knobbly bed of vegetables is extremely efficient, energy-wise: You’re making maximum use of the oven and the heat it’s generating, and, unless you are serving a crowd, there will be leftovers for another meal. “Those vegetables were even better the next night,” Monique said. “They had absorbed the chickens’ juices, and had even more flavor.”

My supper party was a smash success. The best part, though, was when the unadventurous eater happily scarfed down the last caramelized pieces of fennel. “I don’t know what some of this stuff is,” she said. “But it sure is good.”