American

Editor's note: The recipe and introductory text below are adapted from Elizabeth Karmel's Web site, girlsatthegrill.com . This is the basic recipe for beer-can chicken. The origin of this recipe has as many stories as there are grill cooks. The one I like best goes something like this: A barbecue pit master had been drinking beer—the officially sanctioned barbecue-circuit beverage—all day when he realized that he was going to need to eat something if he was going to last all night and into the next morning tending his slow-cooked barbecue. So, he opened his rig (a smoker-grill that is large enough for several whole hogs) and set his beer down on the cooking grate to get something small to cook from his cooler. He picked up a chicken and put it on top of his half-full can of beer without noticing what he was doing. He looked for his beer, couldn't find it, and popped open another one without a second thought. That is, until he opened the grill an hour later and, lo and behold, perched on the grates of his rig was the first beer-can chicken! Regardless of the story, it is truly the best chicken you have ever tasted!

Editor's note: The recipe and introductory text below are from The Barbecue! Bible 10th Anniversary Edition, by Steven Raichlen. To read more about Raichlen and barbecue, go to our feature The Best Barbecue in the U.S.A. A good barbecue sauce is a study in contrasts: sweet versus sour, fruity versus smoky, spicy versus mellow. Here's a great all-purpose sauce that's loaded with flavor but not too sweet. It goes well with all manner of poultry, pork, or beef. The minced vegetables give you a coarse-textured sauce, which I happen to like. If you prefer a smooth sauce, puree it in a blender.

Editor's note: The recipe and introductory text below are from How to Grill, by Steven Raichlen. To read more about Raichlen and barbecue, go to our feature The Best Barbecue in the U.S.A. OK, this is ground zero—the ur American barbecue rub. Use it on ribs, pork shoulders, chickens—anything you want to taste like American barbecue. Use 2 to 3 teaspoons per pound of meat. A 4-pound chicken will take 1 1/2 to 2 tablespoons. You'll find hickory-smoked salt available in the spice rack of most supermarkets. To make a spicier rub, substitute hot paprika for some or all of the sweet paprika.

Editor's note: The recipe and introductory text below are from The Barbecue! Bible 10th Anniversary Edition, by Steven Raichlen. To read more about Raichlen and barbecue, go to our feature The Best Barbecue in the U.S.A. Pork may be the preferred barbecue east of the Mississippi (think of the pork shoulder of the Carolinas and the ribs of Kansas City and Memphis), but in Texas beef is king—especially beef brisket, which comes moist and smoky and tender enough to cut with a fork. (Not that any self-respecting Texas barbecue buff would use a fork.) Barbecued brisket is simultaneously one of the easiest and most challenging recipes in the world of barbecue. Easy because it requires only one main ingredient: brisket (even the rub is optional). Challenging because pit masters spend years learning the right combination of smoke (lots), heat (low), and time (measured in half days rather than hours) to transform one of the toughest, most ornery parts of the steer into tender, meaty perfection. Over the years, I've found that two things help above all: choosing the right cut of -brisket—namely, untrimmed, with a thick sheath of fat—and then cooking the brisket in a shallow pan. The pan keeps the juices from dripping onto the fire and the meat from drying out, while allowing for the maximum smoke penetration from the top. A whole brisket (the sort cooked by a restaurant) weighs eighteen to twenty pounds. Here I call for a partially trimmed brisket—a cut weighing five to six pounds. Do not attempt to make this with a two-pound trimmed, fatless brisket; it will turn out much too dry. To achieve the requisite smoke flavor, you need to smoke the brisket in a charcoal grill—or in a smoker. A gas grill will not produce enough smoke.

Editor's note: The recipe and introductory text below are from The Barbecue! Bible 10th Anniversary Edition, by Steven Raichlen. To read more about Raichlen and barbecue, go to our feature The Best Barbecue in the U.S.A. It never fails to amaze me how one simple idea can give birth to so many great regional variations. Consider ribs. The pork rib is one of the most perfect morsels ever to occupy a grill. The meat is generously marbled, which keeps it moist during prolonged cooking. As the fat melts, it crisps the meat fibers and bastes the meat naturally. The bones impart a rich meaty flavor (meat next to the bone always tastes best), while literally providing a physical support—a gnawable rack on which to cook the meat. Yet depending on whether you eat ribs in Birmingham or Kansas City, or Bangkok or Paris for that matter, you'll get a completely different preparation. I've always been partial to Memphis-style ribs. Memphians don't mess around with a lot of sugary sauces. Instead, they favor dry rubs—full-flavored mixtures of paprika, black pepper, and cayenne, with just a touch of brown sugar for sweetness. The rub is massaged into the meat the night before grilling, and additional rub is sprinkled on the ribs at the end of cooking. This double application of spices creates incredible character and depth of flavor, while at the same time preserving the natural taste of the pork. Sometimes a vinegar and mustard based sauce—aptly called a mop sauce—is swabbed over the ribs (with said mop) during cooking; I've included one here, for you to use if you like. You can choose any type of rib for this recipe: baby back ribs, long ends, short ends, rib tips—you name it. Cooking times are approximate. The ribs are done when the ends of the bones protrude and the meat is tender enough to pull apart with your fingers. I like my ribs served dry, in the style of Memphis's legendary barbecue haunt, the Rendezvous. If you want to serve them with a sauce, you'll find a number to choose from in this chapter.

Great on polenta, grits, or steamed rice.

For a complete diner-style meal, serve this indulgent main with sautéed green beans and buttermilk biscuits.

Ramps, or wild leeks, are celebrated as a sign of spring in Appalachia. This creamy soup captures the briefly flourishing vegetable's essence: Cooking the oniony bupounds brings out their sweetness, and bright green stems lend a cheerful color.

Lavender adds a floral note. If you're not a fan, the tart would also be delicious without it.

Cumin gives greens and tomatoes an exotic, almost Indian touch.

This cake was inspired by Devil Dogs, the bone-shaped chocolate cakes with irresistible white goo sandwiched between their layers. You'll want to dive headfirst into this version, a tall layer of moist, dark devil's food with fluffy marshmallow frosting.

To prevent curdling, be sure to cool the ice cream custard to room temperature before adding the buttermilk and crème fraîche.

A little cornmeal gives the cake a crunchy texture. The sweet-tangy ice cream and the tart compote help dress up the dessert for this holiday dinner.

"I'm on a mission to get people over their biscuit anxiety," says Chef Peacock. His advice? Knead the dough briefly just until it comes together, but don't work it too much. Also, don't twist the biscuit cutter. The twisting motion seals the edge of the dough, which can prevent the biscuit from rising completely.