A simple, eggless fruit cake made with condensed milk, packed with mixed nuts, dried fruit and cherries and warmed with ginger and cinnamon. The book says it can be used as a wedding cake.
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Fried pies are a staple of Appalachian bake sales, country stores and Grand Ole Opry-era lunch pails across Tennessee, Kentucky and north Georgia, made from apples dried on the porch roof in autumn. The rich filling of stewed dried apple is folded into rounds of tender pastry, crimped with a fork and fried crisp in a skillet. Chef's tip: let the filling go completely cold and use only a heaped tablespoon; overfilled pies burst in the pan.
When the sweetcorn stands in late summer at farm stands from Maine to Connecticut, corn chowder is what goes on the stove. It is a milky, chunky soup of corn, potato and onion, thickened by simmering the stripped cobs in the stock. Many cooks start it with salt pork; this vegetarian version gets its depth from butter, smoked paprika and the cob stock instead. Chef's tip: scrape the bare cobs with the back of a knife to get the sweet corn 'milk' into the pot.
In Austin and San Antonio the breakfast taco is the morning commute: soft flour tortillas wrapped around fillings like crispy potato, scrambled egg and cheese, bought in foil from taquerías and petrol stations and eaten with salsa. Potato and egg is the classic meatless pairing. Chef's tip: fry the diced potatoes in one layer without stirring for the first few minutes so they get a real crust.
Beer cheese soup is a Wisconsin tavern and Packers game-day classic, made with the state's sharp cheddar and a local lager and served with soft pretzels or popcorn on top. It is thick, silky and tangy, with a little mustard and smoked paprika. It contains beer; most of the alcohol cooks off but not all, so for an alcohol-free version use alcohol-free lager or extra stock with 1 tsp cider vinegar. Aged cheddar is often made with animal rennet, so use a vegetarian cheddar. Chef's tip: add the cheese off the heat, a handful at a time, or it turns grainy.
Giardiniera came to Chicago with Italian immigrants, and the city made it its own: a hot mix of chopped chillies, celery, carrot and cauliflower, brined overnight then packed in vinegar and oil. It is what Chicagoans pile on an Italian beef sandwich, a pizza or a sausage, and every deli has its own heat level. Chef's tip: don't skip the overnight salt brine; it draws out water so the vegetables stay crunchy for weeks.
Green bean casserole was invented in a test kitchen in the 1950s and spread across the Midwest via church cookbooks; today it is on most American Thanksgiving tables. This version skips the tins: fresh beans in a homemade mushroom cream sauce, topped with crisp shallots you fry yourself. Chef's tip: blanch the beans only until bright green and still squeaky, because they cook again in the oven.
Castroville, near Monterey on California's central coast, grows most of America's artichokes and calls itself the artichoke centre of the world. Roadside stands and the annual artichoke festival sell them crisp-fried, the tender hearts dipped in a light batter and served with lemon and garlic mayonnaise. Small 'baby' artichokes are best, as they have almost no choke. Chef's tip: drop each trimmed artichoke straight into lemon water; cut artichokes turn brown within minutes.
Fortune cookies are not from China at all: they were first sold in San Francisco and Los Angeles in the early 1900s, probably from a Japanese tea garden recipe, and Chinese-American restaurants made them famous. A thin vanilla and almond batter is baked into a wafer, then folded while hot around a paper message. Write your own fortunes for a party. Chef's tip: bake only two or three at a time; the wafers set in seconds and crack if you can't fold them fast enough.
Along the Atlantic coast, in the fish stalls by Essaouira harbour and in home kitchens up and down the coast, chermoula is the green, garlicky paste that seasons almost everything from the sea: whole fish for the oven, sardines for the grill and fish tagines with potatoes and peppers. It works just as well on vegetables: toss it with potatoes, aubergine or carrots before roasting, spoon it over chickpeas, or stir it into a vegetable tagine. Bright, herby and tangy, it is warm with cumin and paprika and has a little chilli heat. When you use it on fish, marinate in the fridge, never on the counter, and for no more than 2 hours, or the lemon starts to cook the flesh and turns it mushy. Chef's tip: chop by hand or pulse only briefly; blended to a smooth purée, the herbs bruise and taste grassy.
Rziza is one of the showpieces of the Ramadan table in the old imperial cities: a soft dough is stretched into a sheet, rolled up and pulled into a long, thin cord, then wound around the fingers into a skein, flattened into a nest and griddled until crisp outside and tender within. At iftar the nests are pulled apart into their fine strands and drenched in warm honey and melted butter, to eat with harira, dates and mint tea. Making it takes patience and practice; the first one or two may tear, and that is fine. Chef's tip: keep everything well oiled, your hands, the board and the dough balls; too little oil is the common mistake, and the dough then tears instead of stretching.
On the evening Passover ends, Moroccan Jewish families celebrate Mimouna by opening their doors to neighbours and friends, and the star of the table is mufleta: paper-thin rounds of unleavened dough stretched by hand and cooked one on top of another in a single pan, so a whole warm stack comes out at once. Each layer is peeled off, spread with butter and drizzled with honey, and rolled up to eat with mint tea, among sweets, dried fruits and flowers. They are soft, a little chewy and lightly crisp at the edges. The dough has no yeast, fitting for the night bread returns. The usual mistake is stretching the dough with too little oil on the board, so the sheets tear and stick together in the stack. Chef's tip: cook over a medium-low heat; a pan that is too hot scorches the bottom layer before the stack is built.
Before Eid and during Ramadan, Moroccan kitchens fill with the scent of fekkas: logs of a soft, eggy dough studded with almonds, raisins, aniseed and sesame are baked, cooled, sliced thin and baked again until dry, golden and very crunchy. They are offered to guests on trays with ghriba and other biscuits and dunked into mint tea or milky coffee, and they keep for weeks in a tin, so they are perfect to make ahead. The flavour is gently sweet, with liquorice notes from the anise and a little lemon. Avoid slicing the logs while they are still hot from the first bake; they crumble. Let them firm up first. Chef's tip: let the baked logs cool completely, ideally overnight, before slicing; warm logs crumble under the knife.
Cape Cod and the bogs of south-eastern Massachusetts grow much of America's cranberry crop, and this uncooked relish is the sharp, bright alternative to cooked cranberry sauce on many New England Thanksgiving tables. Fresh cranberries are chopped with a whole orange, peel and all, then sweetened, so it is crunchy, tart and fragrant, lovely with roast vegetables, nut roasts or cheese. Chef's tip: make it a day ahead; the sugar draws out the juices and softens the bitterness of the peel overnight.
Kaab el ghzal, 'gazelle ankles' or horns, are the most elegant of Moroccan biscuits: a slim crescent of fragrant almond paste flavoured with orange-flower water, wrapped in a pastry rolled so thin it is almost transparent, then baked only until it sets and stays pale. They are made for weddings, Eid, engagements and any visit that deserves honour, and are served with mint tea. The filling is soft and marzipan-like, the pastry delicate and barely crisp. They take time, so make a full batch and freeze half. Chef's tip: bake them until just firm and barely coloured; browning is the common mistake and makes the pastry hard.
Fried green tomatoes are the early-summer and end-of-season treat of Alabama and Georgia kitchens, when the garden is full of firm, unripe fruit. Thick slices are dipped in buttermilk and a cornmeal crust and fried until crisp outside, while the inside softens and stays tangy. Serve them hot with a spoonful of pimento cheese or a dab of remoulade. Chef's tip: salt the slices and let them drain for 10 minutes so the crust doesn't go soggy.
Pimento cheese is the 'caviar of the South', sold in tubs in every Carolina supermarket and spread in white-bread sandwiches at the Masters golf tournament in Augusta. Grated sharp cheddar, sweet red pimento peppers and mayonnaise are mashed together with a little heat, and it ends up on crackers, celery, burgers and fried green tomatoes. Traditional cheddar is made with animal rennet, so choose a vegetarian cheddar if you need to. Chef's tip: grate the cheese yourself; pre-grated cheese is coated in starch and makes a dry, grainy spread.
Banana pudding is the potluck and barbecue-joint dessert of Tennessee, the Carolinas and Mississippi, scooped from a deep dish next to the pulled pork. Vanilla wafers, sliced bananas and a stove-top custard are layered so the biscuits soften to cake, then the top is finished with toasted meringue the old-fashioned way. Chef's tip: pour the custard on while it is still warm so it seeps into the wafers.
Georgia calls itself the Peach State, and in June and July roadside stands around Fort Valley sell peaches by the basket for this summer cobbler. In the old Southern style, a simple batter is poured over melted butter, then the peaches go on top; as it bakes the batter rises up around the fruit into a golden, cakey crust with crisp edges. Serve warm with vanilla ice cream. Chef's tip: don't stir after the peaches go in; the layers sort themselves out in the oven.
Chess pie is the plain-pantry pie of Virginia, Kentucky and the Carolinas, made with nothing but butter, sugar, eggs and a spoonful of cornmeal, so it was baked year-round when there was no fruit. It sets into a rich, translucent custard with a crackly, golden sugar crust on top. Nobody agrees on the name; one story says a cook called it 'jes' pie'. Chef's tip: the cornmeal and vinegar aren't optional; they stop the very sweet custard from being cloying and help it set.
Sweet tea is the house wine of the South, poured by the jug at every barbecue joint, meat-and-three and Sunday lunch from South Carolina to Texas. Strong black tea is sweetened while hot so the sugar dissolves completely, then cooled and poured over plenty of ice with lemon. A pinch of bicarbonate is an old trick that softens bitterness and keeps it clear. Chef's tip: let the tea cool to room temperature before chilling; putting it straight in the fridge hot makes it go cloudy.
Boiled peanuts are sold steaming from roadside stands and petrol stations all along the back roads of South Carolina, Georgia and Alabama, ladled into paper bags in late summer when the green peanut harvest comes in. Raw peanuts are simmered for hours in heavily salted water until soft as cooked beans, salty and earthy. A Cajun-spiced version with chilli is popular too. Chef's tip: taste a peanut every hour; they are done when the kernel is completely soft with no crunch.
Tomato pie is the high-summer lunch of the Carolinas and Virginia, made when the ripe tomatoes are piling up on the windowsill. Salted, drained tomato slices are layered in a pastry case with basil and spring onion, then covered with a rich topping of cheddar and mayonnaise that bakes golden and bubbly. It is best warm or at room temperature with a green salad. Choose a vegetarian cheddar if needed, as traditional cheddar uses animal rennet. Chef's tip: salting and draining the tomatoes is the difference between a sliceable pie and a soggy one.
Boston brown bread is the dark, moist loaf New England families steam in a tin can and slice next to a pot of Saturday-night baked beans. It mixes rye flour, wholemeal and cornmeal with buttermilk and molasses, so it is sweet, slightly sour and almost cake-like, with no yeast and no oven. Eat it warm with butter or cream cheese. Chef's tip: steam it in clean food tins or a pudding basin covered tightly with buttered foil, because any steam that gets in makes the top soggy.
Anadama is a cornmeal and molasses sandwich loaf from the fishing towns of Rockport and Gloucester on Cape Ann, where it was sold from bakery vans for generations. The cornmeal is cooked into a mush first, which keeps the crumb soft and gives it a gentle sweetness and a golden colour. It makes excellent toast with butter and jam. Chef's tip: let the cornmeal mush cool to lukewarm before adding the yeast, or the heat will kill it.
Johnnycakes are Rhode Island's own cornmeal pancakes, cooked on a griddle at diners and church breakfasts from Narragansett to Westerly, and argued over across the state line. They are made with stone-ground white cornmeal scalded with boiling water, so there is no flour or egg, and they come out crisp and lacy outside and soft within. Serve with butter and maple syrup. Chef's tip: let the scalded batter rest for 10 minutes so the cornmeal swells; skipping the rest gives gritty cakes.
Indian pudding is the old colonial dessert of Massachusetts and Connecticut, still on the menu at historic Boston taverns and at autumn church suppers. Cornmeal, then called Indian meal, is cooked in milk with molasses, ginger and cinnamon and baked very slowly until it turns dark, soft and spoonable, a bit like a spiced polenta custard. Serve it warm with vanilla ice cream melting on top. Chef's tip: pour cold milk over the top halfway through baking; it makes the soft, whey-like layer the dish is known for.
Despite the name, Boston cream pie is a cake: two layers of butter sponge with a thick vanilla pastry cream between them and dark chocolate glaze poured over the top. It was created at the Parker House hotel in Boston in the 1850s and is now the official dessert of Massachusetts, served at birthdays and diners across the state. Chef's tip: chill the filled cake for 30 minutes before glazing so the custard sets and the layers don't slide.
Whoopie pies are Maine's official state treat and a lunchbox favourite in Pennsylvania Dutch country too; you find them wrapped in cling film by the till at petrol stations and bake sales all over New England. Two domed, soft chocolate cakes hold a thick, fluffy white filling. This filling is a meringue buttercream, so there's no gelatine-based marshmallow. Chef's tip: pipe or scoop the batter in even mounds and leave room, as they spread to 8 cm.
In August the barrens of Down East Maine turn blue with lowbush blueberries, smaller and more intense than the cultivated kind, and every diner and county fair sells this pie. The filling is just berries, sugar, lemon and a little thickener under a buttery double crust, so it tastes of fruit rather than spice. Frozen wild blueberries work well all year. Chef's tip: bake until the juices bubble thickly through the vents in the centre, not just the edges; that is when the thickener has worked.
On autumn weekends the orchards of Vermont, New Hampshire and the Hudson Valley fry cider doughnuts by the hundred for families who come to pick apples. Fresh, cloudy apple cider (unfiltered apple juice, not the alcoholic kind) is boiled down to a syrup so the tender cake doughnut tastes of apple, then rolled hot in cinnamon sugar. Chef's tip: keep the oil at 180 °C with a thermometer; cooler oil makes greasy doughnuts and hotter oil burns them before the middle cooks.
These soft, folded rolls come from the Parker House hotel in Boston, where bakers in the 1870s brushed rounds of milk dough with butter and folded them in half like a pocket book. They are the bread basket at New England Thanksgiving tables, pulling apart in tender layers. Chef's tip: fold each round slightly off centre, so the top half overhangs a little; it keeps them from springing open in the oven.
Philadelphians eat more soft pretzels than anyone in America, bought by the dozen from corner bakeries in the morning and from street vendors with yellow mustard. The Philly pretzel is shaped like a figure eight and baked touching its neighbours, so you tear them apart in a row with soft sides. A bath in a bicarbonate solution gives the brown, chewy skin. Chef's tip: bake the bicarbonate of soda first; it makes it more alkaline and gives a darker, more pretzel-like crust.
Bananas Foster was invented in the 1950s at a family restaurant in the French Quarter, when New Orleans was the main port for bananas from Central America, and it is still flamed at the table there for birthday dinners. Bananas are cooked in butter, brown sugar and cinnamon, then flambéed with dark rum and banana liqueur and spooned over vanilla ice cream. It contains alcohol; for an alcohol-free version replace the rum and liqueur with 4 tbsp orange juice and a few drops of rum flavouring and skip the flaming. Chef's tip: use bananas that are ripe but still firm, or they turn to mush.
Maque choux (say 'mock shoe') is a Cajun side of fresh corn smothered with the 'holy trinity' of onion, celery and green pepper, made in the bayou country of south-west Louisiana when the corn comes in during June and July. Cooks scrape the cobs for their milk and simmer everything with butter and a splash of cream until sweet and silky. Many add bacon; this version is meat-free. Serve with rice and beans or grilled vegetables. Chef's tip: let the corn catch slightly on the bottom of the pan before stirring; those browned bits are the flavour.
Chow-chow is the end-of-summer pickle of Pennsylvania Dutch kitchens, a way of using up the last beans, peppers, cauliflower and green tomatoes before the frost. It is one of the 'seven sweets and seven sours' set out on Lancaster farm tables, bright with mustard seed and turmeric, sweet and sharp, and good with cheese, bean dishes and sandwiches. Chef's tip: cut every vegetable to roughly the size of a kidney bean so it cooks evenly and looks right in the jar.
Red beet eggs are on the table at every Pennsylvania Dutch church picnic and Easter lunch, a jar of shocking-pink eggs sitting in the same sweet-sour brine as the pickled beets. The whites take on colour and tang from the outside in, while the yolks stay creamy. Slice them on a salad or eat them whole with a pinch of salt. Chef's tip: two days in the brine gives a thin pink ring; leave them four days for colour almost to the yolk.
Pepper cabbage is the oil-free, vinegar-dressed slaw served alongside chicken pot pie and roast pork dinners in Berks and Lancaster counties, and at fire-hall suppers all over south-eastern Pennsylvania. Finely shredded cabbage is tossed with sweet peppers, celery seed, sugar and vinegar, so it is crisp, cold and sweet-sharp. Chef's tip: shred the cabbage as fine as you can; thick ribbons never soak up the dressing.
Funnel cake started in Pennsylvania Dutch kitchens and became the smell of every American county fair and boardwalk, from the Kutztown Folk Festival to the Jersey shore. A thin batter is poured through a funnel in loops into hot oil, so it fries into a crisp, lacy, golden nest that you tear apart with your fingers under a snowfall of icing sugar. Chef's tip: keep your finger over the funnel until it is right over the oil, then move in quick overlapping circles from the centre out.
Gooey butter cake is a St. Louis institution, sold in squares at south-side German bakeries and baked for church coffee hours and Christmas mornings. Legend says a baker in the 1930s got his proportions wrong and the mistake sold out. A thin, chewy yeast-free cake base is covered with a sweet cream cheese and butter layer that bakes into a crackly, shiny top over a gooey middle. Chef's tip: take it out while the centre still jiggles; the goo is the point, and an overbaked one is just a sweet sponge.
Buckeyes are the sweet of Ohio, made by the tray for Christmas cookie swaps and for Ohio State football parties, because they look like the glossy brown nuts of the state's buckeye tree. A firm, sweet peanut butter fondant is rolled into balls and dipped in chocolate, leaving a pale circle on top. Chef's tip: freeze the balls for 20 minutes before dipping; warm ones slide off the stick and muddy the chocolate.
Kringle came to Racine, Wisconsin, with Danish bakers in the 1800s, and the town's bakeries still ship thousands of these flat oval pastry rings at Christmas. Thin layers of buttery laminated dough wrap a pecan and brown sugar filling, and the top is glazed with white icing. It is the official state pastry, eaten with coffee at breakfast. Chef's tip: keep the dough and butter cold at every fold; if the butter melts into the dough you lose the flaky layers.
Wild rice is the seed of a lake grass that the Ojibwe people of northern Minnesota still harvest by canoe in late summer, and this creamy soup is on every lunch counter and church cookbook in the Twin Cities when the weather turns cold. The long black grains split open and turn chewy and nutty in a velvety broth with mushrooms, carrots and celery. Many versions add chicken; this one is vegetarian. Chef's tip: cook the wild rice separately and add it at the end, or it soaks up all the soup.
Garlic noodles were made famous by a Vietnamese family restaurant in San Francisco's Sunset District in the 1970s, served next to roast Dungeness crab, and now every Bay Area Vietnamese place has its own version. Springy noodles are tossed in a glossy sauce of lots of butter and garlic with a savoury, sweet seasoning and grated hard cheese. Restaurants use oyster and fish sauce; this vegetarian version uses vegetarian mushroom 'oyster' sauce and soy. Parmesan is made with animal rennet, so use a vegetarian hard cheese. Chef's tip: cook the garlic gently until pale gold, never brown, or the whole dish turns bitter.
Gilroy, south of San José, calls itself the garlic capital of the world, and its summer garlic festival made these fries famous; today they are sold at Bay Area baseball games too. Crisp, double-fried chips are tossed while hot with raw garlic softened in olive oil and a lot of parsley, so they are pungent and fresh. Chef's tip: toss the garlic on at the end, off the heat; garlic fried with the chips burns and turns bitter.
Every autumn Pennsylvania Dutch families once gathered round a copper kettle in the yard to stir 'lattwarick', apple butter, all day over a wood fire. There is no butter in it: apples and cider are cooked down for hours until the sugars caramelise into a thick, glossy, deep brown spread. It is eaten on bread with cottage cheese, a combination Lancaster calls 'smearcase and apple butter'. Chef's tip: it is done when a spoonful on a cold plate holds its shape and no ring of liquid seeps out.
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