Vegetable

When my wife, Julie, and I got married, we knew there was only one place to go for our honeymoon: Italy. I was excited to take her to Gombitelli, the tiny town in the mountains near Lucca where my dad's side of the family came from. My great-grandparents, Angelo and Olimpia Gemignani, had left Gombitelli for America at the turn of the last century, and my Grandpa Frank was born right after they got off the boat. We meandered through the Tuscan countryside, following increasingly sketchy gravel roads and finally ending up on a narrow donkey trail that wound up the side of a steep mountain. I remembered this road from a visit I'd made seven years earlier. Since then, it seemed to have eroded and gotten even narrower. It was barely wide enough for a car, with a sheer drop along one side and, naturally, no guardrail. We came to a dead end, the front of the car facing a deep ravine, and an old man came out of his house, waving violently and screaming at us in Italian. I rolled down the window and said "Gemignani?" His expression changed from rage to joy as he motioned to follow him and raced off, back down the road, yelling "Gemignani! Gemignani!" I made the most terrifying U-turn of my life and followed him. The minute I saw the little house and farm, I had the same overwhelming feeling I'd had the first time I'd been there. It was like stepping into my grandpa's farm in California. Although he'd never even been to Italy, he had the blood of a Tuscan contadino—and there in front of me was his backyard in every detail: the same flowers, the lemon tree, the dogwood, the fava beans, the big wine jugs wrapped in straw, the rusty tools scattered around. That California farm and my grandpa are long gone, but in that moment, I was home again. My cousins had decided there was one thing they absolutely had to serve us for our welcome meal: pizza, of course. And this is the one they made. It was quite thin, almost like a toasted flatbread, and I've replicated that in this recipe by rolling the dough out and docking it, so you get a light, crisp crust that's just right with the gutsy puttanesca-style combination of crushed tomatoes, olives, garlic, and anchovies.

In 2013, I was a judge at a big pizza competition in Paris. In two days, I tasted seventy-three pizzas, most of them too rich and fussy for my taste. Let's just say that almost every entry featured smoked fish, foie gras, gold leaf, or edible flowers. But one extravagant ingredient that I thought really did work was truffles, and that inspired me to come up with this pizza that makes the most of truffle paste, wild mushrooms, and two of my favorite French cheeses: nutty Comté and triple-cream Saint André. If you like, you can top the fully baked pizza with paper-thin slices of prosciutto or speck. And if you can get your hands on a fresh truffle, shave it on top right at the table. That's the kind of simple, earthy luxury I can really get behind.

This popular Thai dish has been cooked regularly in our kitchen ever since we first tried it in Bangkok. The first time we made it at home, we stayed true to the original recipe by stir-frying rice noodles in a sweet and a slightly spicy sauce, but through the years, it has slowly transformed into something new. Instead of stir-frying rice noodles, we now simply peel a daikon radish (courgette/zucchini also works fine) into thin strips that we toss with carrot strands, tofu and fresh herbs and cover with a peanut butter and lime dressing. Even though we have changed both cooking method and ingredients, it still has that wonderful flavor combination of sweet, nutty, tangy and a little spicy and the experience is light, fresh and, in our opinion, even tastier.

Swap in veggie stock and make all your vegetarian relations happy.

Brighten up simply broiled salmon steaks with an unexpected salsa of poblano chiles, capers, and lemon.

Prettiest when not piled too high; divide the salad over two platters and put one at each end of the table.

Choose a country-style sourdough, preferably not too tangy, and if you prefer hot Italian links, go for it.

This is our hands-down favorite way to make mashed potatoes for Thanksgiving.

Vibrant greens, handfuls of fresh herbs, nuts for crunch, and horseradish for bite. Ingredients are suggestions; feel free to mix it up.

Two Halloween favorites—candy corn and pumpkins—meet in these irresistible blondies.

Don't have a spice mill? You can use a blender or food processor for this one.

To learn how to cut endive into long, layered spears for an elegant look.

Silky, with a texture somewhere between pudding and panna cotta—and no water bath required.

A colorful and spicy (but not fiery!) side breaks up all the heavy, rich dishes on the table.

These knobby-looking tubers (a.k.a. sunchokes) are sweet and nutty when browned. Balsamic vinegar smacks some sass into them.