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Huatia

After the potato harvest in May and June, families in Puno, Cusco and across the highlands build a huatia in the field: a little dome of dry earth clods heated with dried brush until the clods glow, then knocked down over freshly dug potatoes and oca so they bake slowly underground. Opened an hour later, the potatoes are smoky, floury and so soft their skins split, and the oca turns sweet and tangy. Everyone eats them with their hands, with salt, chilli sauce and fresh cheese. This recipe gives an oven method for home cooks: a lidded pot bedded with coarse salt and herbs, which traps heat and steam much like the earth. If you do try a real huatia outdoors, use a clear patch of ground away from anything that can catch fire and keep water nearby. Don't uncover the pot early to check: the steam escapes and the potatoes turn leathery. Fresh oca is sold in some markets as New Zealand yam; small sweet potatoes will do. Chef's tip: choose potatoes of a similar size so they all finish together, and serve with uchucuta.

80 min

Peruvian Sides

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Kispiño

Pressed in a fist so each one carries the marks of the cook's fingers, kispiño are small, dense quinoa cakes from the Puno highlands, steamed and then left to dry so they keep for weeks on journeys, herding trips and pilgrimages. Traditional ones are bound with a little lime water (from cal, the mineral) and fat; this home version uses oil and a pinch of aniseed and sugar, so they're vegan and pleasantly savoury-sweet. They're firm and chewy, a little like a grain cake, and good with hot tea, coca tea or a soup on a cold day. The common mistake is making the dough too wet, so the cakes slump in the steamer; it should feel like damp sand that holds its shape when squeezed. Ground quinoa is quinoa flour; grind your own from rinsed, dried and toasted grain, or buy it ready ground. Chef's tip: toast the ground quinoa in a dry pan first until it smells nutty, which takes away any bitterness.

55 min

Peruvian Baking

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King kong

Named, the story goes, after the giant ape because of its size when the film reached Peru, the king kong is Lambayeque's proudest sweet: thick, crumbly biscuit layers stacked with manjar blanco, a sticky pineapple jam and a peanut fudge, then cut into heavy slabs. Shops in Lambayeque and Chiclayo sell them by the kilo in boxes, and travellers carry them home as gifts. It is very sweet, buttery and dense, so a slice goes a long way with black coffee. This home version makes the manjar blanco from condensed and evaporated milk to save hours, then turns half of it into the peanut layer. The usual mistake is overbaking the biscuit until it is hard; take it out as soon as the edges are pale gold, as it firms up while it cools. It is a project, so make the fillings first and let them cool. Chef's tip: wrap the finished king kong and leave it overnight before cutting; the layers settle and soften into each other.

150 min

Peruvian Baking

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Turrón de Doña Pepa

Every October, the month of the Señor de los Milagros processions in Lima, bakeries and street sellers pile their trays with turrón de Doña Pepa: layers of crumbly anise-flavoured sticks drenched in a dark syrup of chancaca cooked with fruit and spices, topped with a storm of coloured sprinkles. Popular lore credits it to Josefa Marmanillo, a woman from the Cañete valley who is said to have made it in thanks after the procession. It is sticky, crunchy and soft at once, with orange and clove in the syrup. Its downfall is usually runny syrup that soaks the sticks into mush; it needs to reach a thick, threading stage before it goes on. Chancaca is sold as cones or blocks in Latin shops; panela or dark muscovado also work. Some coloured sprinkles contain gelatin, so check the label. Chef's tip: make it a day ahead; the syrup sets and the sticks soften just enough to slice neatly.

120 min

Peruvian Baking

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Baumkuchen

Baumkuchen is the king of German cakes, and the little town of Salzwedel in Saxony-Anhalt has baked it on a turning spit over an open flame for two centuries; in December, Baumkuchenspitzen, chocolate-dipped triangles of it, fill the shelves before Christmas. Without a spit you can build it at home in a tin under the grill, one thin layer at a time, and each slice shows the golden rings of a tree. The mistake people make is spreading the batter too thickly, which gives fewer, stodgy layers that cook unevenly; aim for 2 tablespoons at a time. Chef's tip: stand by the oven; each layer turns from pale to burnt within a minute once it browns.

110 min

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Spreewälder Gurken

In the Spreewald, the forest and canal country south-east of Berlin, cucumbers have been fermented in barrels of dill brine for centuries, and in late summer the riverbanks are lined with stalls selling them by the jar. These salt-fermented gherkins are sour, garlicky and crunchy, eaten as a snack, alongside sandwiches or with jacket potatoes and quark. No vinegar is used: lactic fermentation does the souring. The most common mistake is letting cucumbers poke above the brine, where mould can start. Chef's tip: choose small, firm, freshly picked cucumbers and add a few vine or oak leaves; their tannins keep the gherkins crisp.

30 min

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Sweet-sour pickled pumpkin

When the pumpkin harvest peaks in October, from the Rhineland to Saxony, German kitchens turn the firm orange flesh into Süß-sauer eingelegter Kürbis, golden cubes preserved in sweet spiced vinegar. Through the winter they come out of the cellar to sit beside roast dinners, game, cheese boards and cold cuts, or a simple plate of potatoes and quark. Cinnamon, cloves, ginger and a little lemon peel make them taste of Christmas. The mistake is using a watery carving pumpkin, which falls apart; choose a dense one such as Hokkaido or butternut. Chef's tip: steep the raw cubes in the cold vinegar overnight before cooking; it firms them so they stay in neat, glassy cubes.

60 min

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Viennese Gugelhupf

In Vienna the Gugelhupf is the Sunday cake of home bakers, set out on the table for afternoon Jause with coffee, and every family has its own fluted copper or ceramic mould. Unlike the yeasted ring cakes of Alsace and southern Germany, the everyday Viennese one is a Rührgugelhupf, a buttery sponge lifted with whisked egg whites, scented with lemon and studded with plump raisins. It is tender, light and keeps moist for several days under a cake dome. A common mistake is a badly greased mould; every ridge needs butter and flour or the cake tears as it comes out. Chef's tip: soak the raisins in hot water for 15 minutes, dry them and toss them in a spoon of flour so they don't sink.

90 min

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Sachertorte

This dense, dark chocolate torte is Vienna's most famous cake, eaten in coffee houses all over the city with a cup of Melange and, always, a cloud of unsweetened whipped cream on the side. The sponge is made with melted chocolate and whisked egg whites, so it is fine-crumbed and slightly dry by design; a thin layer of sharp apricot jam runs through the middle and over the top, under a shiny, snappy chocolate glaze. A common mistake is pouring the glaze too hot or too cold; too hot and it runs off thin, too cold and it sets dull and lumpy. It is a cake for birthdays and Sunday visits, and it keeps well for days. Chef's tip: bake it the day before and let it rest overnight wrapped; it cuts far more neatly and the crumb softens.

120 min

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Linzer Torte

Linz, the Danube city in Upper Austria, has baked this tart for centuries, and it still fills bakery windows there all year, with extra demand in Advent. It is closer to a soft, crumbly nut biscuit than a pastry: ground hazelnuts, butter, cinnamon and cloves are pressed into the tin, filled with tart redcurrant jam and topped with a lattice. Serve a thin slice with coffee or tea. A common mistake is eating it on the day it is baked; it is much better after two or three days, when the jam soaks into the crumb. Chef's tip: chill the lattice strips on a tray before lifting them on, and they will not tear.

85 min

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Esterházytorte

Named after a Hungarian noble family and claimed by both Budapest and Vienna, this torte is a showpiece of Viennese pastry shops, where it sits in the glass counter beside richer chocolate cakes. Five or six crisp-chewy almond meringue layers are stacked with a vanilla custard buttercream, then topped with white icing and the famous feathered chocolate lines. It has no flour at all, so it suits gluten-free guests. A common mistake is baking the layers too pale; they should be light golden, or they go soft and sticky in the cream. Chef's tip: draw the circles on baking paper first and spread the meringue to the line with a palette knife, so every layer matches.

140 min

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Kardinalschnitten

Kardinalschnitten, 'cardinal slices', were created in Vienna with the colours of the Church in mind: white meringue and yellow sponge baked side by side in stripes. In Viennese cafés they are a light, summery choice with an afternoon coffee. Two baked sheets of alternating stripes sandwich a soft coffee cream, and the result is crisp, airy and cool at the same time. A common mistake is overfilling with cream that has not been stabilised; it squeezes out when you cut. Here a little mascarpone keeps the cream firm without gelatine. Chef's tip: pipe the meringue stripes first and the sponge in the gaps after, so the sponge does not spread flat.

75 min

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Punschkrapfen

Punschkrapfen are the bright pink cubes that glow from every Viennese Konditorei counter, especially in winter. Traditionally the filling of sponge crumbs, jam and chocolate is soaked in rum punch, which gives the cake its name, so the classic version contains alcohol. This recipe makes the alcohol-free version with orange juice and strong black tea, which keeps the fruity, warming flavour that children can eat too; to make the traditional one, swap 40 ml of the orange juice for dark rum. The sponge is moist and dense, the icing sweet and crackly. A common mistake is skipping the overnight press; the cubes fall apart when cut. Many pink colourings use carmine, made from insects, so choose a plant-based one such as beetroot red. Chef's tip: cut with a knife dipped in hot water and wiped between each cut for clean edges.

80 min

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Rosinenstuten

Rosinenstuten is the soft, slightly sweet raisin loaf that Westphalian and Rhineland families buy for Sunday breakfast and for christenings, where a giant one was once the traditional gift. It is baked in a long tin, sliced thick and spread with good butter, sometimes with a layer of cheese on top, which sounds odd and works beautifully. The crumb is fine and fluffy and the crust soft and shiny. A common mistake is adding dry raisins straight to the dough; they burn on the crust and steal moisture. Chef's tip: soak the raisins in hot water for 15 minutes, pat them dry and knead them in only at the very end, gently, so the dough stays light.

190 min

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Zwetschgendatschi

When the late-summer Zwetschgen (small, oval damson-type plums) arrive at the markets of Augsburg and Munich, every Bavarian and Swabian kitchen bakes a Datschi on the biggest tray it owns. A thin, soft yeast dough is covered edge to edge with plum halves stood upright in tight, overlapping rows, so the juices run and caramelise as it bakes. It is eaten in the afternoon, cut in squares, with a big spoon of whipped cream. A common mistake is using large round plums, which flood the dough with juice and leave it soggy; the firm, oval Zwetschgen hold their shape. Chef's tip: scatter a thin layer of fine breadcrumbs or ground almonds over the dough before the plums go on to catch the juice.

115 min

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Silesian Streuselkuchen

Streuselkuchen came west with families from Silesia, where a tray of it was baked for every wedding and church fair, and it is now sold in every German bakery. The point is the crumble: big, buttery, vanilla-scented lumps sitting almost as thick as the soft yeast base underneath. It is served plain with coffee in the afternoon, often a day old, when the streusel has gone crisp and the base slightly chewy. A common mistake is rubbing the streusel to fine sand; it should be squeezed into clumps the size of hazelnuts. Chef's tip: use cold, cubed butter and chill the finished streusel for 20 minutes before scattering it, so the lumps keep their shape in the oven.

120 min

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Brezenknödel

Brezenknödel are what thrifty Munich kitchens make from yesterday's pretzels: the cubes soak in warm milk with egg, onion and parsley, then are shaped into dumplings with a faintly salty, malty crust flavour running through them. They are served on Sundays in place of bread dumplings, alongside a creamy mushroom sauce or a pile of red cabbage, and leftovers are sliced and fried the next morning. The big mistake is adding too much milk: the mixture should hold when squeezed, not drip. Chef's tip: pick off most of the coarse salt before cubing the pretzels, otherwise the dumplings end up far too salty.

50 min

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Thüringer Klöße

In Thuringia, Sunday lunch without Klöße hardly counts: big, pale, springy dumplings made from two-thirds raw grated potato and one-third hot cooked potato paste, each hiding a few butter-fried croutons in the middle. They come to the table beside roasts with lots of gravy, red cabbage or a mushroom sauce, and the texture is unique, smooth, slightly chewy and very good at soaking up sauce. A common mistake is letting the water boil once the dumplings are in, which makes them fall apart; they should only just tremble. Chef's tip: work fast once the raw potato is pressed, because it greys as it meets the air.

75 min

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Schupfnudeln

Schupfnudeln are thick little potato noodles, rolled between the palms into pointed fingers, that turn up at every Christmas market and village festival in Baden-Württemberg, fried in a huge pan with sauerkraut. At home they are a winter supper on their own or a side for roasts. The dough is the same family as gnocchi, but the noodles are boiled first and then fried until browned on the outside. A common mistake is using freshly boiled hot potatoes and too much flour: they need to be cold and dry, so plan to cook them the day before. Chef's tip: rinse the sauerkraut only if it is very sharp; otherwise its tang is what balances the butter.

60 min

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Zwiebelkuchen

When the grape harvest starts in Baden and the Württemberg vineyards in September, bakeries pull out trays of Zwiebelkuchen: a thin yeast base piled with slowly softened onions under a sour-cream and egg custard, sprinkled with caraway. It is traditionally eaten warm with Neuer Wein or Federweißer, the young, still-fermenting wine; that is alcoholic, so pour cloudy fresh grape juice or apple juice instead, which tastes just as right. Many bakers add bacon; this version is vegetarian. A common mistake is rushing the onions on a high heat: they need 25 minutes on low until soft and sweet but still pale. Chef's tip: cool the onions before adding the custard, or the eggs start setting in the bowl.

70 min

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Franzbrötchen

No Hamburg bakery opens without a tray of Franzbrötchen: flaky, buttery yeast pastry rolled with cinnamon sugar, cut into pieces and pressed down hard in the middle with a wooden spoon handle so the spirals splay out into a squashed butterfly. The sugar caramelises underneath into a sticky, crunchy base. They are breakfast with coffee on the way to work and a Sunday treat at the harbour. The common mistake is letting the butter go soft while laminating: it oozes out and you get bread, not layers. Chef's tip: chill the dough between every fold, and press the shape down firmly before the final rise or it will spring back in the oven.

80 min

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Bratkartoffeln

Bratkartoffeln are the potatoes of every German pub and home kitchen, from Hamburg to Munich: yesterday's boiled potatoes sliced and fried slowly in a heavy pan until the edges are crisp and brown, then tossed with onion. They come with fried eggs, pickled herring, Sülze or a green salad, and many cooks add bacon cubes; this version stays vegetarian with butter, onion and marjoram. The mistake everyone makes is stirring too often and crowding the pan: the slices steam instead of crisping. Chef's tip: use waxy potatoes boiled in their skins the day before; cold, firm slices hold their shape and brown far better than fresh ones.

35 min

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Senfgurken

Senfgurken are the big, pale golden chunks of peeled cucumber that German families put up in late summer, when the fat yellow-skinned 'Schmorgurken' are cheap at markets from Brandenburg to the Rhineland. Pickled in sweet vinegar with mustard seeds, dill and onion, they are served through the winter with cold cuts, cheese boards, potato salad or a plate of fried eggs and potatoes. Unlike gherkins they are soft-crunchy and mellow. The mistake is skipping the overnight salting, which leaves the cucumbers watery so they dilute the vinegar and spoil sooner. Chef's tip: scrape out every bit of the seedy core with a teaspoon; it is what turns soft and slimy in the jar.

40 min