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Herbata z sokiem malinowymTea with raspberry syrup

In Polish homes a bottle of sok malinowy, the raspberry syrup made each July from garden or forest raspberries, waits in the pantry for winter. When someone comes in from the frost, or lies in bed with a cold, it goes into a glass of hot black tea, sometimes with a slice of lemon; grandmothers insist it makes you sweat the chill out, and the drink is traditionally given at the first sign of a sniffle. It also appears simply after a winter walk or with a slice of cake. The tea turns ruby, tastes of summer berries with a light tannic edge, and is sweet enough without sugar. The usual mistake is pouring syrup into boiling tea straight from the kettle: the fresh raspberry aroma cooks off and only sweetness is left. Let the tea cool for a minute or two first. It is ready when the tea is deep amber, the syrup has fully swirled through and it smells clearly of raspberries. No homemade syrup? Use a good shop-bought raspberry syrup, or make the quick one in the optional steps. Chef's tip: brew the tea weaker than usual, about two minutes, so the fruit stays in front.

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TereréIced yerba mate

In Asunción the hottest part of the day stops for tereré: a horn or cup packed with yerba mate, topped up again and again with ice water infused with crushed herbs, and passed round the group through a metal straw. It was recognised by UNESCO as part of Paraguay's cultural heritage, and the herbs (yuyos) change with the season and the drinker's mood. Yerba mate contains caffeine, so it isn't one for small children. The common mistake is pouring water straight into loose yerba, which then clogs the straw; tilt the yerba to one side first. Chef's tip: for tereré ruso, swap the water for cold orange or grapefruit juice.

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Cocido quemadoBurnt sugar mate drink

Cocido is how Paraguay starts the day: in Asunción, in the villages of Guairá and Itapúa, and in school kitchens, a pot of burnt yerba is brewed and poured into cups with chipa, the cheesy cassava bread, or with a hard galleta. The old way is to drop a glowing piece of charcoal into a pot with yerba and sugar and stir until the sugar burns. On a home stove you caramelise them together in a dry pan instead, which is safer and gives the same smoky, toffee-like taste. The drink is clear amber-brown, with roasted, slightly bitter mate notes over burnt-sugar sweetness; with milk added it becomes cocido con leche, creamy and coffee-coloured. Yerba mate contains caffeine, so treat it like a cup of coffee. The common mistake is letting the sugar go black: it turns acrid and bitter. Pull it off the heat when the caramel is deep amber and the yerba smells toasted, not burnt. It is ready when the liquid is a clear dark amber and tastes of toffee and smoke. Chef's tip: the water will spit fiercely when it hits the hot caramel, so pour it in from the side, at arm's length.

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Mandi'o chyryryFried cassava with onion and egg

Mandi'o chyryry means 'fried cassava' in Guaraní, and it is what rural Paraguayan families make from yesterday's boiled mandi'o: chunks crushed and fried in a big pan with onion until crisp in places, then scrambled with eggs. It comes out for breakfast with cocido or for a quick supper, and costs next to nothing. Use sweet cassava, the kind sold in supermarkets. The mistake is stirring constantly, which turns it to mush; let the cassava sit and brown. Chef's tip: the best chyryry starts with cold, day-old boiled cassava, which fries crisper than freshly boiled.

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MaślankaChilled buttermilk

Maślanka, the tangy liquid left after churning butter, is sold in cartons all over Poland and drunk ice-cold with breakfast, with boiled new potatoes in summer, or blended with fruit for children. On its own it is thin, sour and refreshing; with strawberries and a spoon of sugar it becomes a light pink breakfast smoothie. The mistake is buying "buttermilk" that is really thickened yoghurt drink with added flavourings; look for plain cultured buttermilk with nothing else on the label. Chef's tip: chill the glasses as well as the buttermilk, and blend for no more than 20 seconds so it stays light and doesn't separate.

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Kawa zbożowaRoasted grain coffee

In Polish kindergartens, school canteens and grandmothers' kitchens, kawa zbożowa is the breakfast "coffee" everyone can drink: a blend of roasted rye, barley, chicory and sometimes sugar beet that tastes toasty and malty with no caffeine at all. It is usually drunk milky and a little sweet alongside bread and butter. The common mistake is brewing ground grain coffee like espresso: it needs a few minutes of simmering to give up its flavour, or it tastes like weak tea. Chef's tip: let the pot stand off the heat for 2 minutes after simmering so the grounds sink, then pour gently and you won't need a filter at all.

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Polish-style cauliflower

‘Po polsku’ on a Polish menu means one thing: a vegetable topped with crumbs fried in plenty of butter. In Warsaw canteens and on Sunday tables, a whole cauliflower arrives this way next to potatoes and a salad, and children who claim to hate cauliflower eat it happily. The florets are tender and sweet, the crumbs nutty and crisp. A common mistake is boiling the cauliflower until it falls apart; it should keep a slight bite in the stalk. Chef's tip: a pinch of sugar and a splash of milk in the boiling water keep the cauliflower white and sweet.

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Buraczki zasmażaneWarm grated beetroot

Sunday lunch in Poland has its trio: potatoes with dill, something from the oven, and a heap of these warm, glossy beets. Cooked beetroot is grated, then warmed through with a quick butter roux that turns it soft and spoonable, and balanced with lemon juice and a little sugar until sweet, sour and earthy at once. It goes with dumplings, eggs, fried cheese or a mushroom cutlet as well as with roasts. Where most people go wrong is adding the lemon too late; acid early keeps the beets ruby red instead of brown. Chef's tip: roast the beetroot whole in foil rather than boiling it for a deeper, sweeter flavour.

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Grzybki marynowanePickled forest mushrooms

After an autumn morning of mushroom picking in the forests of Podlasie or the Bieszczady, the smallest, firmest boletes and slippery jacks are set aside for jars of grzybki marynowane. They come out at Christmas and on name days as a zakąska, sharp and sweet with allspice and mustard seed, sliced onion and firm, slightly slippery mushrooms. Only use wild mushrooms you bought from a trusted seller or had checked by an expert; cultivated chestnut or button mushrooms work well too. A common mistake is skipping the first boil in salted water, which leaves the pickle cloudy and the mushrooms soft. Chef's tip: cook the mushrooms until they sink, then pack them while hot under boiling marinade.

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Kluski śląskieSilesian potato dumplings

No Sunday dinner in Katowice, Gliwice or Opole feels complete without a heap of these pale, bouncy dumplings, traditionally next to roulade and red cabbage. Here they are served the meatless way, with browned butter and fried onion, or with a mushroom sauce poured into the little dent each one gets from your thumb. They are made from boiled, riced potato and potato starch, so the texture is springy and smooth, almost elastic, with a clean potato taste. The classic error is guessing the starch: Silesian cooks press the cooled potatoes flat, cut out a quarter and fill the gap with starch, which gives the right ratio every time. Chef's tip: rice the potatoes while hot but let them cool completely before mixing, or the dough turns gluey.

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Ogórki kiszoneFermented dill cucumbers

Every Polish cellar and balcony in late summer holds jars of these, and they are nothing like vinegar pickles: the cucumbers sour naturally in salty water over several days, turning olive green, crunchy and garlicky with a clean lactic tang. Eat them with potatoes and dill, chop them into salads, or drink the brine, which Poles swear by the morning after. Use small, firm pickling cucumbers picked within a day or two. The usual slip is using iodised table salt, which can stop the ferment and soften the pickles; use plain rock or pickling salt. Fermentation takes 3 to 7 days at room temperature, so plan ahead. If anything other than a thin white film forms, or the jar smells rotten, throw it out. Chef's tip: horseradish or oak leaves, rich in tannin, are what keep the cucumbers crisp.

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Lemon verbena tea (louiza)

After a big dinner or before bed, many Moroccan households swap green mint tea for a pot of louiza, lemon verbena, whose long, narrow leaves give a pale golden infusion that smells of lemon sherbet and has no caffeine. The fresh herb is sold in bunches alongside mint and absinthe at market herb stalls, and dried leaves keep all year. Drink it plain, lightly sweetened, or brewed with a few mint sprigs. It is soothing, clean-tasting and fragrant. Chef's tip: pour boiling water over the leaves and let them steep off the heat for 5 minutes; boiling the leaves in the pot, a common mistake, turns the tea grassy and bitter.

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Smen (salted, herbed butter)

Atlas households once kept jars of smen for months, even years, until the salted butter developed a pungent, almost blue-cheese aroma; a spoonful stirred into couscous, harira or a chicken tagine gives a depth nothing else can. Long ageing at room temperature is risky at home, so this is a safer fridge version: pasteurised unsalted butter is simmered with dried za'atar or oregano, strained, salted and then matured in the fridge for 2–4 weeks, which gives a mellow, nutty, faintly tangy smen rather than the fiercely strong old kind. For the real long-aged flavour, buy smen from a reputable shop. Use it a teaspoon at a time; it is meant as a seasoning, not a cooking fat. The mistake to avoid is leaving any milk solids or water in the butter, as that is what turns it rancid or mouldy rather than pleasantly aged. Chef's tip: strain it through muslin until perfectly clear; any milky bits left in the jar are what turn butter rancid.

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Mderbel (tangy aubergine relish)

Where zaalouk is a smoky mash, mderbel keeps its aubergine in soft, silky slices that have been fried first and then stewed down with garlic, sweet paprika, cumin and a sharp splash of vinegar. Old Fez families make it as one of the cooked salads that open a festive meal, and it keeps beautifully for a few days, so it is often made the day before. The flavour is rich from the oil, tangy, a little sweet and deeply garlicky; serve it at room temperature with bread, alongside other salads or next to grilled vegetables. The usual mistake is frying the aubergine in oil that isn't hot enough, so the slices drink it up and turn greasy. Chef's tip: salt the slices and leave them for 20 minutes, then pat them very dry; they drink far less oil and fry to a deep gold.

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Jben (fresh Moroccan cheese)

On the road into Chefchaouen, women from the Rif villages sit with rounds of jben wrapped in palm leaves, a fresh, soft, lightly salted cheese with a clean, milky tang. Breakfast in the north often means a slab of it drizzled with olive oil, sprinkled with dried thyme or za'atar, with olives, honey and warm bread. Traditionally jben is curdled with animal rennet (sometimes with thistle or fig sap), so check if you buy it; this home version uses vegetarian (microbial) rennet and pasteurised milk, and is drained in the fridge. Hands-on time is about an hour; the curd then needs 1–2 hours to set and 4–6 hours to drain. Keep it chilled and eat it within 4 days. Chef's tip: avoid UHT and ultra-pasteurised milk, which will not set into a firm curd; ordinary pasteurised whole milk works well.

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Preserved lemons (l'hamd marked)

No Moroccan pantry is complete without a jar of l'hamd marked, lemons packed in salt and their own juice and left for about a month until the rind softens and takes on a mellow, floral, almost sweet flavour. The rind is what you use: finely chopped into salads, slivered over chicken with olives, added to fish tagines, chermoula and bean dishes. Fez cooks traditionally use small, thin-skinned doqq or beldi lemons, but any unwaxed lemon works. Hands-on work is only 20 minutes; the jar then needs 3–4 weeks in a cool, dark cupboard before it is ready. Chef's tip: press the lemons down hard every day for the first week; as they release juice they shrink, and you can squeeze one more lemon into the jar.

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Panaché (Moroccan mixed fruit milkshake)

Juice bars from Tangier to Agadir list a 'panaché' on the board, which in Morocco means a thick milkshake blended from whatever mix of fruit is in season, most often banana, apple, avocado and orange, served in a tall glass and sometimes topped with chopped dried fruit and nuts. Avocado is used as a sweet fruit here, and it makes the drink extra creamy. It is a favourite after school, as a quick breakfast or after an afternoon in the medina. Make it just before drinking: the orange juice can make the milk turn slightly grainy and the avocado darkens if it stands, which is the usual mistake. Chef's tip: use a ripe, soft avocado and a banana with brown freckles for natural sweetness, so you need very little sugar.

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Ras el hanout

Ras el hanout means 'head of the shop', and every spice seller in the Marrakech souk will tell you theirs is the best: a warm, complex mix of a dozen or more spices that they grind to their own formula. This home version balances earthy cumin and coriander with sweet cinnamon, ginger and turmeric, the perfume of cardamom and dried rosebuds, and the heat of black pepper. Rub it on vegetables before roasting, stir a teaspoon into tagines, lentils or couscous broth, or season chickpeas and roast pumpkin with it. Toasting the whole spices first takes 5 minutes and makes a real difference. Chef's tip: make small batches and store the blend in a sealed jar away from light; it is at its best for about 3 months.

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Moroccan almond milk (sharbat louz)

At Moroccan weddings and engagement parties, silver trays of tall glasses filled with sharbat louz are passed among the guests: chilled milk blended smooth with blanched almonds, sugar and a perfume of orange-flower water. It is also a favourite summer drink at home and is often offered to break the fast in Ramadan. The taste is creamy, delicate and nutty, a world away from carton almond milk, since it is real dairy milk enriched with almonds. Serve it very cold, on its own or with sweets. A common mistake is skipping the straining, which leaves a gritty drink instead of a smooth, silky one. Chef's tip: blend the almonds with the sugar and a little milk first, into a fine paste, before adding the rest; that way it ends up silky rather than gritty. Not for anyone with a nut allergy.

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Nous-nous (half-half coffee)

Sit down at a café terrace in Casablanca, Rabat or Marrakech and order a 'nous-nous' (from 'nus', half) and you will get a small glass of half espresso, half steamed milk, often layered so the coffee floats in a dark band over the pale milk with a cap of foam. It is the default morning and afternoon coffee for many Moroccans, sipped slowly while watching the street, usually with a sugar lump or two on the saucer. It is smaller and stronger than a latte and milkier than a macchiato. A moka pot works fine at home if you have no espresso machine. Chef's tip: heat the milk only to 60–65 °C, hot to the touch but not scalding; boiled milk loses its sweetness and the foam collapses, a common mistake.

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Moroccan spiced coffee

In many Moroccan homes, coffee is bought ready-mixed from the roaster with a spoonful of 'attria', a warm blend of ground spices such as cinnamon, ginger, nutmeg, cardamom, black pepper and toasted sesame, that gives it a rounded, gently peppery aroma. It is brewed in a pan or a pot and sipped black and sweet, or with a splash of milk, after lunch, with pastries for guests, or on cold mornings. The spices soften the bitterness and make the whole kitchen smell wonderful. This home version mixes the spices into ordinary ground coffee. Chef's tip: keep the coffee at a bare simmer and never let it boil hard; vigorous boiling, the usual mistake, extracts bitterness from both coffee and spices.

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Moroccan mint tea (atay)Green tea with mint

Atay is Morocco's gesture of welcome, poured for guests in homes from Tangier to the Sahara, in shops while you bargain and after every meal. Chinese gunpowder green tea is rinsed, brewed with a big bunch of fresh spearmint and sweetened in the pot, then poured from high above the glasses so it froths. The host often pours a glass and returns it to the pot several times to mix the sugar through. The result is sweet, fresh and pleasantly bitter. Chef's tip: rinse the tea leaves with a splash of boiling water and throw that water away first; it removes the dust and the harshest bitterness.

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