A few weeks ago, someone from Harper Studio noticed that I had a few of Emeril Lagasse’s recipes posted on the site (like zis one and zees) and asked if I’d like to check out a copy of his new book, “Emeril at the Grill.” And I’m all like, free cookbook? Grilling? Emeril? BRING IT.

The book is a fairly small paperback, but it’s packed with 158 recipes (and gorgeous full-page photos) that definitely aren’t the same-old same-old. It’s designed for year-round grilling and entertaining, with recipes like Watermelon Margaritas, Pork and Chorizo Burgers with Green Chile Mayo, Tandoori-Style Chicken Drumsticks, Thai-Style Beef Salad and Grilled Banana Splits. Complex flavors with very simple preparations.

Wait, did I forget to mention the steaks? They’re in there:

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Cookout sides are always a challenge, especially at our house. Jeff hates potato salad, slaw and guacamole. Really anything cold. And I’m not a fan of using the oven while he’s grilling. I don’t want to be cooped up in the house baking anything – potatoes, beans, fries, whatever – when I could be outside, sipping something cold. So, this summer I’m on a mission to find sides that will make us both happy.

Here’s the first winner: a light version of Mexican Grilled Corn or elote.

Traditionally, elote is a Mexican street food, but you’ll find vendor carts in major U.S. cities and across the South, especially in Texas. Vendors serve the roasted corn-on-the-cob either on a stick or with the husk pulled down (to use as a handle) and offer different condiments for your cornsicle – choices like crema Mexicana (a Hispanic creme fraiche), mayo, sour cream, butter, chili powder, lime juice, cheese, hot sauce and lemon pepper. A typical vendor might dip the corn in crema, dust it with chili powder and sprinkle on a little lime juice. Others slather the corn in a mixture of mayo, sour cream, chili powder and lime juice and roll it in crumbled cotija cheese (a Mexican cheese similar to Parmesan or Pecorino Romano). Read More…

About a year ago, Jeff found this Slashed Chicken with Herb Butter in one of my Williams-Sonoma catalogs, and he didn’t just want to eat it, he wanted to make it. And I was not about to stop him. A whole chicken rubbed down with butter, parsley, chives, chervil, thyme and lemon zest? Baby, let me get out of your way.

With a slashed chicken, you slice into the chicken in key places so that the flavors don’t just sit on top of the skin, they get into the meat. You massage the herb butter into those cuts, and then you stuff them with bay leaves and sliced garlic. By the time you close the oven door, the chicken inside is literally bursting with flavor and smells absolutely amazing.

When Jeff makes this chicken, I IRON HIS SHIRTS. Enough said.

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So, I haven’t posted in more than a week, because we were vacationing with family in Arizona, home of the Grand Canyon and an IKEA. One of them was so vast and beautiful, I had to step back and catch my breath. The other was the Grand Canyon. Kidding! But can you buy a lovely blue bowl at the canyon for less than $3? I think not.

Anyway, the great thing is that you don’t have to choose between those particular wonders, you can enjoy them both. The same holds true for these Chipster-Topped Brownies, this week’s Tuesdays with Dorie recipe. A brownie layer topped with a chocolate-chip cookie layer. What could be better, except maybe an IKEA inside the Grand Canyon?

For the recipe, pick up a copy of Dorie Greenspan’s “Baking: From My Home to Yours.”

A little over a year ago, I read Molly Wizenberg’s lovely post about one of her favorite rituals: reading from Edna Lewis’ “The Taste of Country Cooking”at the start of each season. Since then, it has become my ritual, too.

It’s easy to get swept away in the way Miss Lewis (eulogized as “the South’s answer to Julia Child”) writes about her childhood in Freetown, Va., a tiny farming community founded by freed slaves, including her grandparents. Memories and menus organized by season. The sounds of farm animals kept in the kitchen during winter snows. The pleasure of following the plow and walking barefoot in the warm, freshly turned soil. The joy of welcoming the cows home in the fall after they’d grazed in the community pasture all summer. Snapshots of the best memories of country life in the 1920s and 30s. Read More…

The day after we got married, Jeff and I sat down to a romantic New Year’s Day dinner in Hawaii with a huge room full of rabid Hawaii Warriors fans, who were there to rally around the big-screen TV and cheer on the Warriors in the Hawaii Bowl. We were debating whether to head somewhere else when the waiter arrived to give us the lowdown on the day’s special, a buttery piece of walu with a side that he wasn’t too sure about. He apologized, went back to the kitchen, returned and confessed that he didn’t have a clue about the special side: black-eyed peas. Black-eyed peas on New Year’s Day in Hawaii? We stayed.

Black-eyed peas and I go way back. When I was a child in Hee-Haw overalls, I was one of a herd of kids kept during the day by an older neighborhood woman named Jo. Almost every day, she’d serve us the same lunch: pot roast, corn, potatoes, green beans and black-eyed peas with sweet tea. So, I’ve been eating black-eyed peas for three decades. Southerners have been eating black-eyed peas for three centuries. George Washington Carver encouraged farmers to plant black-eyed peas, because they add nitrogen to the soil. They’re also nutritious, which is why we cook them with pork. To balance the scales. Read More…

They make it look so easy. Grandmothers, I mean. They just whip out the chicken and the cast-iron skillet and fry up a batch while they’re listening to “Divorce Court,” like it ain’t no thing. You ask them how they do it, and they act like it’s just country cooking. Natural. Effortless.

Grannies lie.

OK, they don’t lie, but there’s nothing simple about frying chicken, especially for beginners. So many decisions. Fryer versus pieces. Oil versus shortening. Cast-iron skillet vs. large pot. Southern-style versus spicy versus extra-crispy. Paper towels versus wire racks. And then there’s the whole overnight soaking thing. So, it helps to have a dependable starter recipe, like this No-Fail Fried Chicken, and some pointers.

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In a previous life, I made tiramisu almost every day. A rich, creamy, boozy, fully-caffeinated tiramisu. One whiff, and you’d be awake for three days. It was a heavyweight. So, I was looking forward to trying Dorie Greenspan’s Tiramisu Cake, this week’s Tuesdays with Dorie recipe, to see if you could get that tiramisu flavor in a lighter version, one without the hassles of soaking and balancing individual ladyfingers on their ends. Because creating that ring of vertical ladyfingers encircling the tiramisu, with exactly three ladyfingers per slice, was once the bane of my existence. They break. They shift. Swing low, sweet chariot.

On the other hand, Dorie’s Tiramisu Cake is made of two layers of light, buttery cake brushed with an espresso-Kahlua syrup and filled with a creamy mixture of mascarpone, whipped cream and a little espresso. There’s also a layer of finely chopped chocolate in the middle, mainly for color. The assembly is quick, and the cake is much lighter than the original dessert – both in flavor and in the fact that you can actually stand up after eating a slice. Coffee-lovers will probably want to double the syrup to truly soak the cake and amp up that coffee-and-Kahlua flavor. Also … I think it needs the ladyfingers. Next time I try this recipe, I’ll replace the top cake with a layer of delicious, delicate, Kahlua-carrying ladyfingers. Because we go way back.

For the recipe, visit Megan of My Baking Adventures, or pick up a copy of Dorie Greenspan’s “Baking: From My Home to Yours.”

Eating a slice of Hummingbird Cake is like falling in love. It’s sweet and intoxicating, and after you’ve spent a little time together, you start counting down the minutes until you can see it again. Seriously. Like, OK, I had a slice after lunch. Can I have another for dessert? No, that’s too much. Maybe? Like, just a bite? OK, a bite now and one later. Oh, wait, it’s got all the food groups! I’ll  just eat the cake for dinner! Yeah, it’s that good. And I did have cake for dinner. It was my birthday.

Southerners have been making versions of this cake for decades, calling it different names, like Nothing Left Cake, Cake That Won’t (or Doesn’t) Last, Granny’s Best Cake and Jamaican Cake. The name “Hummingbird Cake” probably comes from the cake’s roots as a Jamaican banana cake; the swallow-tail hummingbird is the national bird of Jamaica. So, you could think of this cake as the love child of Jamaica (with its mashed bananas and pineapple) and the American South (with its pecans and cream cheese frosting).

Not only is Hummingbird Cake delicious beyond belief, it’s exceptionally easy to make, with a batter that requires just one bowl and a little stirring and a cream cheese frosting that comes together quickly in the mixer. It also requires very little decoration. Once you assemble the cake, you can sprinkle the pecans on top (or press them into the sides), and add a fresh flower to keep things simple and beautiful. Since Hummingbird Cake stays moist and fresh for days, it’s a perfect cake to make ahead and share with people you love. Or, hide it in the back of the fridge, lie about stray dogs knocking you down and eating it, and keep all of that goodness to yourself. I’m not here to judge you.

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