American recipes, state by state
Explore regional dishes from across the United States. Pick a state, discover its recipes, and bring a local favorite to your kitchen.
American cooking Recipes & regional stories
Skillet & SageA culinary journey through the fifty states
Explore regional dishes from across the United States. Pick a state, discover its recipes, and bring a local favorite to your kitchen.
The orange restaurant dip of central Arkansas: mild green chiles, cumin and a pound of American cheese taken to a pour that holds all night over a low flame.
A top round rubbed with salt and paprika, burned black over open charcoal in under an hour, shaved paper-thin and piled on a kaiser roll with raw onion and a cold horseradish sauce.
A pot of red beans cooked slowly with onion, garlic and Spanish chorizo, where the sausage fat and the paprika do all the colouring and nothing is fried first.
White beans cooked slowly with onion and garlic while whole chorizos poach in the pot, then come out to be split and crisped and laid back on top.
Lamb shoulder browned hard, then stewed down with onions, sweet peppers and paprika until the meat gives and the sauce turns the colour of the peppers.
Ground bison cooked with a purée of toasted dried chiles and enough added fat to carry them, then simmered with pinto beans until it is thick enough to stand a spoon in.
Bison chuck browned in fat it does not supply itself, then braised low and slow with onion, root vegetables and red wine until the collagen gives way and the meat stays short of dry.
Whole russets cut into batons, fried once to cook them through and once more to set the crust, salted while they are still dripping and doused from a vinegar shaker into a paper cup.
Flour tortillas rolled thin, cooked dry in a hot skillet, and filled from the same pan with potatoes, chorizo and soft eggs — the argument is the tortilla, and the tortilla is northern.
Diced sirloin, potato and onion mixed together, wrapped in plain pastry and baked hot, then eaten with brown gravy poured over it — the Butte version, written from the recipe a Cornish woman gave the Montana Writers' Project in 1943.
A thin boneless loin cutlet dipped in a loose batter, fried hard and fast, and put on a small soft bun with mustard, pickle and raw onion — nothing else, and no bone anywhere in it.
Pork shoulder buried overnight in a thick purée of whole dried red chile, garlic and oregano, then braised in the same purée until it falls apart under a fork.
A king salmon fillet salted, dried and cooked on a soaked cedar board over an indirect fire, pulled at 120°F while the fat is still in it.
A whole chicken simmered down to broth, then squares of unleavened dough rolled thin and boiled in that broth until the dumplings go slick and the pot thickens itself.
Cubes of lamb fried hard in deep fat, hit with garlic salt the second they come out, and eaten off toothpicks with saltines — the official nosh of South Dakota by act of the legislature.
Cocoa, sugar and flour cooked into a thin sweet gravy and poured over split hot biscuits — the Ozark breakfast that is built exactly like sausage gravy and tastes nothing like it.
An overnight sourdough sponge cut with cold fat and lifted the next morning by soda meeting the acid the night put there, baked hard and fast in a cast iron pan.
A cake doughnut leavened with soda and powder, where two cups of sweet cider are boiled down to half a cup before they go anywhere near the flour.
Warm picked lobster turned through melted butter off the heat and piled into a griddled split-top roll — no mayonnaise, no celery, and nothing else in the bun.
A thick beef patty cooked through in a steam cabinet instead of on a griddle, with a block of sharp cheddar melted to a sauce in its own tray and poured over it.
The stripped cobs boiled for twenty minutes to make the broth, salt pork and onion for the fat, and no flour anywhere — the chowder of the towns that had no clams.
A pound of lump crab folded into a thick cooked milk sauce, filled into shells or ramekins, glazed with mayonnaise and baked until the edges bubble and the top browns in patches.
The state dessert of Delaware by statute: ripe freestones, sugar, lemon and a double crust, with the fruit drained and its juice boiled down first so the slice stands up instead of flooding the plate.
Twice-fried potatoes under melted low-moisture mozzarella and a dark brown gravy, finished under the broiler in a metal dish — the North Jersey diner order that exists for two in the morning.
A pound of pinto beans soaked overnight, thrown into fresh water with salt pork and dried chile, and left in a low oven under a lid until the pot liquor thickens by itself.
Strips of beef in a thin beer batter, fried hard and fast and served in a basket with fry sauce, the way every Idaho roadhouse has sold them since at least 1964.
Raw seasoned beef sealed thin inside a soft buttermilk dough and deep fried, so the meat cooks in its own steam while the pastry blisters — the fried filled pastry of German-Russian North Dakota.
Mature green tomatoes sliced thick, salted until they weep, dredged in cornmeal and fried in bacon fat, with a cream gravy made in the pan they came out of — the way the syndicated columns had it a hundred years before the novel.
Dried peaches stewed back to a stiff dark paste, sealed in a lard crust and fried in an inch of fat — the winter pie of the upland South, built to be carried.
A pot of pork broth thick with cabbage, potato and dill, finished with cream off the heat and a spoonful of sour cream at the table — the borscht of German-Russian North Dakota, which is not the beet soup the word makes you expect.
A yeast-raised fruited loaf, spiced with nutmeg and mace, wetted with brandy and wine and frosted white — the Connecticut election-day cake, cut down from eight pounds of flour to one loaf.
A double-crust pie of wild mountain huckleberries, set with tapioca and sweetened just enough to stop short of jam, because the fruit is not a blueberry and should not be treated as one.
Vanilla ice cream shaped into a russet, frozen hard, rolled in cocoa and split open with whipped cream for butter and chocolate for the bacon bits.
Cornmeal cooked into scalded milk, sweetened with molasses and ginger, and left in a slow oven for three hours until it sets dark and soft.
A centre-cut pork loin chop an inch and a half thick, brined, seared hard and finished in the oven in the same pan it browned in.
The point of a brisket cooked once for tenderness, cut into inch cubes, tossed with rub and sauce and cooked a second time until every face has its own crust.
Little flour dumplings cut off a rope and dropped into a thick potato and cream broth — the soup of German-Russian North Dakota, and a dish whose whole argument is how the dumpling gets into the pot.
A sweet yeast base pressed into a pie tin, fruit laid over it and a cream custard poured on top, dusted with cinnamon — the official state dessert of South Dakota, carried through two legislatures by the town of Eureka.
Four thin white layers split by a cooked filling of eight egg yolks, sugar, butter, clipped raisins and a wine-glass of whiskey, iced in boiled white icing — printed under this name, by the woman whose name it is, in Clayton, Alabama, in 1898.
Shrimp poached four minutes in a seasoned pot, shocked cold, and packed into a stemmed glass over a sauce built on horseradish rather than sugar.
Riced potato worked cold with a little flour, rolled paper thin and baked dry on a hot griddle until it freckles — the Norwegian half of North Dakota, in a soft grey sheet.
Ground beef steamed apart in its own liquid until every crumb is separate, spooned into a steamed bun and eaten with a spoon in the other hand.
Cold picked lobster barely dressed with mayonnaise and lemon, piled into a split-top roll whose flat sides have been buttered and griddled crisp.
Two soft domed chocolate cakes baked like drop cookies and sandwiched around a white filling beaten from butter, shortening and confectioners' sugar.
A double-crust pie built on small sharp lowbush berries, sugared lightly and thickened with a spoonful of starch, so it sets without turning into jam.
A beef broth run through crab shells, loaded with corn, lima beans, cabbage, potato and tomato, and given its crab meat in the last five minutes.
Chopped smoked pork shoulder simmered into a tomato-and-molasses base, with spaghetti boiled, drained and finished in the pan until it has drunk some of it.
Corned beef simmered until it gives, then the root vegetables cooked in its broth in the order they take to soften, and the beets kept out of the pot so the dinner stays its own colour.
A thin, blistered, coal-dark crust with no tomato on it at all: littleneck clams shucked raw over the dough, their liquor, garlic, oregano, grated cheese and olive oil.
Two pounds of full-fat cream cheese, a little cornstarch and five eggs baked slow in a water bath until the middle still wobbles, then chilled overnight so it sets dense rather than fluffy.
Small veal-and-pork wieners in steamed buns under a dry, dark, tomato-free meat sauce, yellow mustard, raw chopped onion and celery salt, dressed three and four at a time.
Deep-fried hot dogs and deep-fried potato rounds packed into a quarter of a round pizza bread with fried peppers and onions, built as a pocket rather than a sandwich.
A whole pan-dressed rainbow trout in a cornmeal crust, cooked in bacon fat in a hot skillet for four minutes a side, which is all a fish this size ever needed.
A whole pan-dressed trout in white cornmeal, fried hard in lard in one skillet and turned once — the fish a federal dam put in an Arkansas river that never had one.
Ribeye sliced thin against a hot griddle, onions cooked down beside it, cheese melted into the pile and the whole thing scooped into a long roll — fifteen minutes of cooking and a great deal of argument nobody has ever settled with a document.
Pork shoulder rubbed with garlic, rosemary and fennel, roasted slow, sliced thin and wetted with its own pan juice, then packed into a long roll with bitter greens and sharp provolone — the other Philadelphia sandwich, and the one the city's own agency says is exactly as old as the famous one.
Thick slices of cured, smoked pork roll notched at the edge so they fry flat, a fried egg, American cheese melted on the meat in the pan, all of it on a kaiser roll.
A soft white roll split along the top, laid with ham and cheese and then loaded with raw onion, green pepper, tomato, sour pickle and black olives, finished with oil, salt and pepper.
Whole lime-treated corn simmered with pork until every kernel bursts open, with red chile stirred in for the last hour rather than the first.
A flat round of risen dough pulled thin between the hands, dropped into deep fat and thrown hot into sugar. Four things in the dough and nothing at all in the middle.
Two young birds blanketed in bacon, roasted hot and fast so the breast does not dry out, and a gravy built in the pan with cream — the method South Dakota's own extension service wrote down in 1960.
Calf testicles peeled of their outer membrane, sliced, soaked in salted water to draw the blood, and fried in a cornmeal crust until they are crisp outside and pale and firm within.
Peanut butter and boiled sugar syrup stirred through puffed rice cereal, pressed flat and covered with melted chocolate and butterscotch chips.
Pork scraps simmered to shreds, the broth thickened with equal weights of cornmeal and buckwheat, seasoned with sage and summer savory, set in a loaf overnight and fried in slices — printed in Pennsylvania in 1880 and defined by the federal meat regulations in 1970.
A grilled frankfurter in a toasted bun spread with cream cheese and buried in griddled onions, built the way the street carts build it, in half an hour on a home griddle.
Boneless thighs soaked in soy, mirin and brown sugar, grilled until the sugar blackens at the edges, then sliced across and laid over short-grain rice with a heap of vinegared cabbage.
One enormous round loaf baked in a greased Dutch oven, where the dough rises until it lifts the lid and then browns against the iron on every side.
A cooked custard of sour cream, sugar, yolks and spice, thick with plumped raisins, poured hot into a baked shell and sealed under meringue — the pie South Dakota gave a state contest and a crowned queen.
A thin yeast-raised coffee cake base under a topping of butter, sugar and corn syrup that sets soft and stays soft, baked until the edges are firm and the middle still moves.
Cheese ravioli breaded in a fine dry crumb and fried straight from the package, showered with Parmesan while the oil is still on them, with red sauce alongside rather than over.
Tenderloin medallions cooked hard in butter with garlic and basil, set on French bread so the bread takes everything the pan gives up.
Maple syrup boiled past syrup to the wax point and poured in ribbons over packed snow, eaten off a fork with a sour pickle and a plain doughnut between mouthfuls.
Corn tortillas rolled around grated cheese and raw onion under a gravy that starts as a roux: fat and flour cooked together, chili powder bloomed in the fat, beef stock whisked in after.
An egg foo young patty fried lacy at the edges and laid hot on cold white bread with mayonnaise, pickle, tomato and lettuce — the St. Louis takeout sandwich named after a city in Minnesota.
Cheese on the dough first, then uncooked crushed tomatoes dropped over it in ladlefuls — a thin pie built in the opposite order to a pizza, and baked hot enough to finish in twelve minutes.
Six ounces of two-year cheddar grated into the pastry instead of laid on the plate beside it, over sour apples sweetened with maple sugar the way the state's own 1915 bulletin does it.
Yellow-eye beans baked six hours with salt pork and dark maple syrup, half the syrup in at the start and half in the last hour, because maple loses its flavour long before beans lose their chalk.
A bone-in ham warmed gently over cider, then finished in three coats of maple syrup reduced with vinegar and mustard until it is thick enough to stay where you put it.
Molasses, boiling water and soda poured into a pastry shell and buried under flour-and-brown-sugar crumbs, so the bottom stays dark and sticky while the top bakes to cake — the construction printed in a Pennsylvania German recipe book in 1915, under a different name.
Sliced apples cooked down in sweet cider until the two stop separating, sweetened late and spiced off the heat, dark enough to stand up on a saucer.
Boiled custard poured hot over vanilla wafers and sliced bananas, with the leftover whites beaten into a meringue and browned on top — the dish as the southern church cookbooks printed it in the 1920s.
Top round roasted rare and shaved thin onto a hard roll baked under coarse salt and caraway, the crown dipped in the roast's own jus, horseradish underneath.
Sharp cheddar ground smooth with garlic, dry mustard, cayenne and flat beer, then left overnight so the heat comes up — the snappy cheese of the road houses on the Kentucky River.
A roux carries the cheese, the cheese goes in off the heat, and the beer goes in last of all — which is the order the oldest printed version of this soup already gave in 1962.
An enriched yeast bun sealed around beef, cabbage and onion and baked shut, from the Volga German villages of Ellis and Rush counties.
Green peanuts simmered in heavy brine for hours until the shells go soft and the kernels inside turn savory and beanlike, eaten hot out of the pot.
Pea beans boiled soft before anything sweet touches them, a scored block of salt pork buried rind up, and six hours in a slow oven with the lid off for the last one.
A butter cake baked in two pie tins, split by a cooked cream filling, with powdered sugar on top — the way every nineteenth-century book that prints it prints it.
A single-crust pie with a butter-and-brown-sugar filling set just firm enough to slice, loaded with toasted walnuts and chocolate and cut through with bourbon.
Browned first, then held in a pan of beer and sliced onions kept deliberately under the boil, so the casings stay whole and the onions become the sauce.
A slice of boneless pork loin pounded out to twice the width of its bun, breaded in cracker crumbs and fried until the crust is rigid — the sandwich Indiana names after a muscle it does not contain.
Chicken and pork simmered down with salt pork, onion, tomato, corn and butter beans until a spoon will nearly stand in it, the way the stew sheds at a Georgia barbecue have always made it.
Peanut butter and powdered sugar rolled into balls, frozen hard, and dipped in chocolate all the way but for a circle at the top — a portrait in candy of a nut nobody can eat.
Mutton, beef and chicken boiled off the bone and cooked down with corn, limas, potatoes and tomatoes until the meat is in shreds and a spoon stands in it — the stew Kentucky cooks by the barrel at political gatherings and race meets.
Small shrimp through a milk dip and a thin flour-and-cornmeal dredge, fried two minutes in hot peanut oil so the coating shatters and the shrimp inside is barely set.
A whole packer brisket, salt and coarse black pepper and nothing else, cooked over post oak the way the Central Texas meat markets cooked what they could not sell raw.
A cheese sandwich made with mayonnaise, dipped in batter, rolled in crushed corn flakes and deep fried until the crust cracks and the inside has gone to liquid.
A short, oily dough pressed up the walls of a steel pan, lined with sliced mozzarella, filled with sausage and covered with barely cooked tomato — built upside down so that half an hour in the oven does not burn the cheese.
An all-beef natural-casing frankfurter steamed rather than boiled, laid in a steamed poppy-seed bun, and buried under seven things added in a fixed order, finishing with celery salt over the lot.
A lean round roast cooked rare, chilled hard overnight, shaved to the thickness of paper against the grain, then warmed through in its own seasoned juice and loaded into a roll that gets dipped in the same juice on the way out.
Cube steak dredged twice, fried in half an inch of oil until the crust blisters, and served under a milk gravy built on the crumbs left in the pan.
A thick beef-and-bean chili with a soft iced cinnamon roll on the same plate — the Kansas school-lunch pairing, built the way the federal meal pattern built it.
A fine-grained meat sauce simmered three hours with cinnamon, clove and unsweetened chocolate, chilled overnight and skimmed, then ladled over spaghetti under a mound of shredded cheddar.
A smoked kielbasa in a soft bun under a load of hot fries, a thin sweet-hot barbecue sauce poured over them, and cold slaw on top — assembled in that order and eaten standing up.
A quarter-inch slice of dry-cured Virginia ham fried until its edges buckle, and the brown crust left in the pan loosened with hot black coffee into a thin, salty, bitter gravy.
Peeled crawfish tails and the orange fat from their heads smothered in butter and onion, thickened with flour cooked pale rather than brown, and spooned over rice.
A soft egg-yolk dough pressed into wells, filled with thick stewed prune and buried under posypka, the crumb topping that keeps the fruit from drying out.
Small cornmeal tamales rolled in shucks, tied three to a bundle and simmered standing up in seasoned liquid, then served in that liquid with saltines.
A natural-casing beef frank in a steamed bun under a loose beanless beef sauce, a stripe of yellow mustard and a handful of raw onion, built in that order and no other.
A wet dough pressed into an oiled steel pan, brick cheese laid to the walls so it fries into a lace of crust, and the sauce striped over the top after it comes out.
Shoulder and belly cooked slowly over low heat, chopped together with their crisped skin, and dressed with nothing but vinegar, salt and two kinds of pepper — the eastern sauce with no tomato anywhere in it.
Small perch fillets in a cold beer batter, fried hot and short, with tartar sauce, rye bread and a wedge of lemon — the plate a Wisconsin Friday is built around.
A plain yeast dough cut small and dropped into deep fat, where it puffs hollow in ninety seconds, served hot by the basket with cold apple butter to put inside it.
Pond-raised fillets in a fine cornmeal crust, fried hot and drained standing up, with the orange garlic dressing that Jackson's Greek restaurant families put on everything.
Cheddar stopped halfway through its own making — salted, never pressed, never aged — chilled hard, dropped in a cold beer batter and fried for ninety seconds.
Small pods cut into rounds, soaked in buttermilk, tumbled in seasoned cornmeal and fried hard, so the slipperiness that ruins boiled okra becomes the glue that holds the crust on.
A four-ounce ball of chuck with a fistful of paper-thin onion smashed into it on a hot griddle, cooked until the onion has fried into the crust and become half the burger.
A deep dish of sliced freestone peaches under one sheet of butter pastry, baked until the juice boils up through the vents and sets.
Cincinnati's pork and pinhead-oat loaf: shoulder simmered to threads, oats cooked three hours in the same broth, set overnight in a pan and fried in slices until both faces are black-brown and brittle.
Red peas simmered with bacon until the water turns to broth, then the same pot measured out to steam a cup of rice in it, one grain at a time.
Whole soft-shell clams, belly and neck together, through evaporated milk and corn flour and ninety seconds of hot fat.
Two thin patties of plain ground chuck sealed around a folded slice of process American, griddled hard on both sides and rested until the cheese inside stops being dangerous.
Condensed milk thickened by lime acid, set briefly in the oven, under a meringue made from the yolks' own whites.
Shoulder alone over hickory, cooked without basting, chopped with its outside brown and served with a thin tomato-touched dip — plus the red slaw that the same dip turns pink.
Two dozen live crabs stacked above a half inch of vinegar and water, seasoned between every layer, steamed twenty-five minutes and tipped out onto newspaper.
St. Louis-cut spareribs over charcoal and hickory, basted with nothing but vinegar and water, and shaken with the rub a second time as they come off the fire.
A Boston butt held at 275°F until it pulls apart under a fork, dressed with the yellow mustard sauce that belongs to the middle of South Carolina and nowhere else.
The baked version the state's own encyclopedia describes: butter, chocolate, sugar and eggs in a pastry shell, with a thin cracked crust over a soft chewy middle.
A round sesame loaf split and packed with provolone, Genoa salami, mortadella and capicola, under an olive salad that is made the day before and pressed into the bread for two hours.
Fried chicken lacquered with a paste of cayenne and the fat it just came out of, served the way north Nashville serves it: on white bread, under pickles.
Skinless walleye fillets in a thin coat of crushed saltines, fried three minutes a side in oil with butter added at the end, and eaten with lemon and nothing else.
A beef navel cured a week with salt and nitrite, crusted in cracked pepper and coriander, smoked to 160°F and then steamed for hours until it gives — the last step being the one everybody leaves out.
A pie built on toasted halves and dark brown sugar, with cream in the custard and less syrup than the standard, baked until the centre reads 200°F and moves as one piece.
Soft white bread baked around sticks of cured pepperoni, so the fat renders out in the oven and soaks into the crumb instead of running off the plate.
Pulp from the native persimmon, taken when the fruit is soft enough to look spoiled, baked flat in a pan with sugar, flour and milk until it sets dark and sinks in the middle.
Potatoes fried hard in bacon fat in one skillet, with ramp bulbs going in near the end and the leaves barely a minute before it leaves the stove.
Kidney beans started in cold water with a ham bone and simmered until a spoonful mashes against the pot, served over rice boiled dry and separate the way the Picayune insists on.
Corned beef, Swiss and drained sauerkraut between buttered rye, griddled slowly so the cheese goes before the bread burns.
Quahogs steamed open, their broth turned into the whole liquid of the chowder, and the same broth beaten into a batter and dropped into hot fat for the cakes.
A sweet yeast dough folded around beef, cabbage and onion cooked down until dry, then baked shut so the filling steams inside its own bread.
Long-grain rice cooked in tomato fried down in bacon fat until it darkens, then steamed until every grain is separate and stained through.
Crab, milk, a little cream and sherry, held together by puréed rice and sieved egg yolk instead of the roux that turns this soup to paste.
Stone-ground grits cooked slowly in water and shrimp stock, with headless shrimp turned in butter for four minutes and tipped over the top, pan butter and all.
A thin ground-beef patty stretched with soy flour and mashed potato, fried crisp in deep fat and dressed with yellow mustard, dill pickle and raw onion.
A split bird smoked over hickory until the skin can take a wetting, then lowered whole into cold mayonnaise, cider vinegar and cracked black pepper — the north Alabama finish, which goes on after the fire and never over it.
Salt-cured mullet smoked over hickory until the fat runs, then flaked coarse into cream cheese with lemon, scallion and enough hot sauce to keep it awake.
White cornmeal scalded into a mush, slackened with milk and eggs and baked in a buttered dish until it rises, cracks and has to be served with a spoon because it will not hold a slice.
Two slabs of thick toast, a horseshoe of carved ham laid over them, a pile of hot fries banked around the plate, and a beer-and-cheese rarebit sauce poured over the whole platter.
Whole dried red chile pods soaked, blended and strained into a sauce, then corn tortillas passed through hot fat and laid flat on the plate with cheese and raw onion between the layers.
Cold cracked claws and a cold mustard sauce sharp enough to stand up to them — the only cooking is a short boil, and often that has already been done for you.
Cream, sugar and a spoonful of flour stirred together, poured into a baked shell, dusted with nutmeg and baked until it barely holds — a pie made entirely of things that keep on a shelf in February.
Baked sweet potato warmed and mashed with butter, pressed through a sieve, and bound with eggs, sugar and nutmeg — the 1907 Raleigh method, with the sugar brought down to something a modern mouth can stand.
Mojo-marinated roast pork, sweet ham, Genoa salami, Swiss and pickle on Cuban bread, pressed flat in a dry pan until the crust shatters.
Browned beef and a can of condensed soup under a single close-packed layer of frozen potato tots, baked uncovered until the top is gold and the underneath is bubbling at the edges.
Roast turkey on hard-toasted bread under a Mornay sauce, run under the broiler until the top blisters, finished with bacon and a roasted tomato half.
Sour Montmorency cherries, frozen rather than fresh, set with cornstarch under a lattice — a pie built from the one fruit too sour to eat and too fragile to ship.
Diced beef, potato, rutabaga and onion sealed raw in a lard crust and baked slowly, so the filling cooks in its own steam inside the pastry that carried it down the shaft.
Dry-curd cheese dumplings boiled and then browned in butter, under a cream gravy built on ham fat — the Low German Mennonite Sunday dish of Harvey, Marion and McPherson counties.
Oysters cooked in their own liquor only until the edges ruffle, dropped into milk warmed with country ham and onion, and salted at the very end so they stay tender.
Onion and celery softened in butter, thickened with flour, loosened with chicken stock and ground roasted peanuts, then pushed through a sieve until it pours like cream.
Mobile's cold crab salad, which is four things and one rule: a pound of lump blue crab and a sliced onion layered in a bowl, doused with oil, cider vinegar and ice water, and then left alone in the refrigerator overnight without being stirred.
A steamed bun, mustard, a fine-ground beef sauce simmered soft rather than browned, raw onion and a cold sweet slaw laid over the top of all of it.
Hand-harvested lake rice cooked apart in its own water, then finished in a mushroom and turkey broth with a little cream stirred in off the heat.
A rich little roll with a second ball of dough thumbed into its back, from the Mennonite settlements of central Kansas that brought hard winter wheat with them.
Seared chicken cutlets in a garlic cream sauce with sun-dried tomatoes, Parmesan and spinach. One skillet, thirty minutes.
Chowder-size quahogs steamed open, chopped, bound with their own liquor and stale bread, and baked back in the half shells with linguiça.
Shrimp in a lemon-garlic butter sauce, with orzo cooked in the same pan. One skillet, twenty-five minutes, no pasta pot.
Clams steamed open in the pot the chowder is built in, salt pork rendered in the same pot, and milk that never comes to a boil.
Wings fried naked, no batter anywhere, then tossed in an emulsion of cold butter and cayenne pepper sauce that hangs on the skin instead of running off it.
Beef chuck cut into cubes by hand and simmered in a sauce squeezed out of whole dried chiles, built from the recipe the army printed in 1896: no beans, no tomato, no powder.
Pork shoulder simmered with two cups of roasted, peeled New Mexico green chile and potatoes, thin enough to eat with a spoon and never thickened with flour.
A pound of jumbo lump crab held together with half a cup of cracker crumbs and one egg, shaped by hand and run under the broiler so nothing ever has to be flipped.
A dark-roux gumbo of chicken on the bone and smoked sausage, built in the order the Picayune gumbo chapter lays down, with the filé stirred into the bowl and never into the pot.
Canned cannellini beans braised in garlic, rosemary and their own broth until creamy, with kale stirred through and a lot of lemon at the end.
Salmon started skin-down in a cold pan so the skin renders crisp, with broccolini charred in the fat it leaves behind.
Bone-in thighs roasted on top of potatoes so the skin crisps in the oven while the fat runs down into everything underneath.
Cabbage charred hard in a dry skillet, then tossed with noodles in a peanut sauce loosened with the water they cooked in.