Recipes

Ligaya Mishan · NYT Cooking

The origins of the fruit sandwich are believed to go back to Japan’s luxury fruit stores and the fruit parlors attached to them. This version comes from Yudai Kanayama, a native of Hokkaido who runs the restaurants the Izakaya NYC and Dr Clark in New York. Fresh fruit — fat strawberries, golden mango, kiwi with black ellipses of seeds, or whatever you like — is engulfed in whipped cream mixed with mascarpone, which makes it implausibly airy yet dense. (In Japanese, the texture is called fuwa-fuwa: fluffy like a cloud.) Pressed on either side are crustless slices of shokupan, milk bread that agreeably springs back. The sandwich looks like dessert but isn’t, or not exactly; it makes for a lovely little meal that feels slightly illicit, as if for a moment there are no rules. Ligaya Mishan

Ligaya Mishan · NYT Cooking

Bibingka is a Filipino cake traditionally made with rice flour and coconut milk and baked to supreme fluffiness over banana leaves in a terra-cotta oven. These versions are built to fit in the palm of the hand. Ray Luna, who ran the much loved coffee shop Mountain Province in Brooklyn, adapted the recipe from his lola (grandmother), using self-rising flour instead of rice flour and coconut cream for extra richness. The cakes are delicious when made with just the requisite five ingredients, but for a touch of refinement, follow Luna’s lead and bake in banana leaves, to infuse a green-tea scent. The final touch: macapuno, opalescent strands from rare, prized coconuts with jellylike flesh. Ligaya Mishan

Ligaya Mishan · NYT Cooking

On Thanksgiving night, with dinner pillaged and in ruins, Joshua Mangerson picks off the remaining meat from the turkey carcass, submerges it in chicken stock and lets it simmer. The next day, turkey leftovers are transformed into turkey ramen, with mushrooms, scallions and a six-minute egg in each bowl. The rich, cloudy broth is an ode to the Strongbow Inn, the turkey restaurant that Mr. Mangerson’s great-grandmother opened in 1940 on the family turkey farm in Valparaiso, Ind. Mr. Mangerson, who worked summers at Strongbow as a teenager, makes his own chicken stock first, with chicken backs and necks collected over a summer of grilling, but you can use store-bought stock and still get a strong boost of flavor. The recipe may look labor-intensive, but “I wouldn’t want anyone to be scared away,” he says. “It’s not difficult to do. It just takes time, and you have to care.” Ligaya Mishan

Ligaya Mishan · NYT Cooking

In 1927, a former insurance agent in Los Angeles was fiddling obsessively with ingredients in his home kitchen when he came up with a cake that was weightless yet rich — angel and devil at once — which we know today as chiffon. His secret: Instead of butter, he used vegetable oil in a batter thick with yolks, folded together with glossy peaks of whipped egg whites. The cake’s kinship to clouds makes it an ideal dessert for Christopher Tan, who lives in Singapore, where the temperature and humidity are enemies of more traditional, butter-based cakes. Here, he uses mandarin oranges, packing in as much juice and zest as possible. The most difficult part is beating the egg whites properly. Tan has a baking secret of his own: He mixes a little potato starch (which absorbs more liquid than other starches) into the meringue, to guard against deflating. Ligaya Mishan

Ligaya Mishan · NYT Cooking

The sour orange, unlike the sweet orange, is too tart to eat straight. But the peels, when cooked, lend a bright tang and profound fragrance. To make norinj pilau, a celebratory Afghan dish of lamb and rice, Shazia Saif Naimi recruits her husband, Asadullah Naimi, to harvest sour oranges from their backyard. He cuts the peels into skinny strips using a razor blade and brings them to a boil three times, to make sure that most (but, crucially, not all) of the peels’ bitterness is leached out. Then he stirs in sugar, saffron and cardamom, and the scent of honey and white flowers expands through the house. Ms. Naimi braises the lamb and soaks the rice, massaging the grains to release the starch. At the end, lamb and rice are mounded together in a platter of abundance, with one cup of rice — simmered separately with the orange-peel syrup — spread over the top like spilled sun. Ligaya Mishan

Ligaya Mishan · NYT Cooking

Three decades ago, the first shrimp truck rolled out on the North Shore of Oahu, Hawaii. It served jumbo shrimp, a dozen to a plate with two scoops of rice, crackly shelled and dark with paprika and a rubble of garlic and butter — so much butter that the sheen stayed on your fingers all day. Rivals soon appeared and today, at least a dozen trucks vie for customers, both locals and tourists who drive an hour from Honolulu. When Kathy YL Chan, the writer behind the Onolicious Hawai‘i blog, reverse-engineered the recipe, she dredged the shrimp in mochiko (sweet rice flour) for extra crispness, although all-purpose flour works, too. She calls for one head of garlic here but uses two heads herself; feel free to adjust according to your taste. Ligaya Mishan

Ligaya Mishan · NYT Cooking

In the Middle Ages, monks on Italy’s Amalfi Coast were tasked with preserving anchovies, the local catch. They discovered that the amber liquid exuded by the aging fish — colatura di alici, literally “anchovy drippings” — could be used as a briny seasoning. Nodding to this tradition, the chef Diego Rossi, at the acclaimed trattoria Trippa in Milan, unites colatura and bottarga di muggine (cured gray mullet roe) in a pasta that is powerfully marine. The sauce isn’t cooked: Instead, he lets the ingredients — bottarga, yellow tomato sauce, colatura, basil, garlic, lemon and chile — melt among the strands of hot spaghettini. The sweetness of the tomato tempers the bitterness of the bottarga. (It’s best to make the pasta in single servings, to control that bitterness, and to eat it immediately.) The umami is everywhere, in the bottarga, the tomato, and, delicate yet insistent, the colatura, calling back to a remembered sea. Ligaya Mishan

Ligaya Mishan · NYT Cooking

This vegan version of a traditional Bolivian soup is made with a base of puréed peanuts but has none of the heaviness of peanut butter. Instead, it’s creamy yet delicate, hearty without heft. Patrick Oropeza, the chef of Bolivian Llama Party in Sunnyside, Queens, primes the stock with a powder of locoto chiles, gutsier than jalapeños, and quilquiña, an herb that delivers the sunny grassiness of cilantro, with a sly kick. (Both may be found at Latin markets and specialty grocers online.) Then he drops in potatoes, and tubes of penne that are toasted first in a dry pan to draw out their nuttiness and change their texture just enough that they hold firm in the soup. In Bolivia, a bowl of sopa de maní typically comes topped with thick wedges of fried potato, like steak fries. Mr. Oropeza uses matchsticks instead, which fry faster and stay crispy. Ligaya Mishan

Ligaya Mishan · NYT Cooking

In this simple cheesecake, the luscious filling is held together between two layers of flaky pastry, generously dusted with cinnamon sugar. The recipe is a Southwestern tradition, taking inspiration from sopapillas, pieces of dough dropped in hot oil until they puff into little pillows with origins that go back to Latin America and regions of the United States that were once part of Mexico. Maria Kitsopoulos, a cellist with The New York Philharmonic, created her recipe for the cheesecake with extra cinnamon (and less sugar) based on a version by the blogger Deborah Harroun. Ligaya Mishan

Ligaya Mishan · NYT Cooking

Pastillas de leche are Filipino candies traditionally made by cooking down carabao (water buffalo) milk for hours. (Although the recipe is native to the Philippines, the name comes from Spanish: Pastilla describes the lozenge shape and leche is milk.) Abi Balingit, the author of the dessert cookbook “Mayumu” (Harvest 2023), offers a beautifully simple, no-cook shortcut: You sift whole milk powder and salt, then mix in condensed milk until a dough forms. Roll into snowy white logs, then dust the soft, creamy treats in sugar. That’s it — there’s no waiting; you can eat them right away. Ligaya Mishan

Ligaya Mishan · NYT Cooking

Sherbet is lusher than sorbet, more ethereal than ice cream. This recipe — a creamy, frozen concoction of soda and condensed milk, no ice-cream maker required — comes from Neale Asato, who runs the Asato Family Shop, a cult favorite in Honolulu. For people in Hawaii, Mr. Asato’s sherbet is a nostalgic callback to guri-guri (goodie-goodie), the nearly century-old specialty at Tasaka Guri Guri on Maui. Mr. Asato’s version for home cooks is easy and fun to make: Bring strawberry soda to a boil (you can do it in the microwave), add a packet of gelatin as a stabilizer, stir in condensed milk and spike with vanilla extract. Freeze to a slush, then whip on high speed, letting in the air until it expands, a pink cloud rising. Mix in more strawberry soda (and evaporated milk, if you have it on hand, to temper some of the sweetness), then freeze again. Break out an ice-cream scoop. Shiver. Ligaya Mishan

Ligaya Mishan · NYT Cooking

The roots of this recipe, an ancestor of modern hummus, date back at least as far as the 13th century, as the Iraqi food historian Nawal Nasrallah writes on her blog, My Iraqi Kitchen. As adapted by Lucien Zayan, a Frenchman of Egyptian and Syrian descent who runs the Invisible Dog Art Center in Brooklyn, you boil chickpeas until their skins loosen and they reveal themselves, tender little hulks with souls of butter. Then you mash them in a swirl of tahini, olive oil, vinegar, spices and herbs, and fold in a crush of nuts, seeds and preserved lemon, sour-bright and tasting of aged sun. Notably absent from the recipe is garlic. Here, instead, the nuts — Mr. Zayan uses hazelnuts, for more butteriness, and pistachios, with their hint of camphor — fortify the chickpeas in their earthy heft, so close to the richness of meat. Ligaya Mishan

Ligaya Mishan · NYT Cooking

Some dishes are showstoppers, while others are ordinary, unfussy and exactly what you want on a slow evening when nothing need be achieved or sought after. This is a simple salad, with the smallest exalting touch: rounds of goat cheese coated in beaten egg and the sheerest veil of bread crumbs, then gently pressed in a hot pan until dark gold. They come served over a careless toss of greens — you can add fresh herbs like dill or parsley for featheriness and a bright lift — in a dressing that requires no more than oil, vinegar, mustard and a single shallot. Eat immediately, when the greens are fresh and cool, and the cheese is still warm, faintly crackly on the outside and oozy within.

Ligaya Mishan · NYT Cooking

In the Spanish-speaking world, the technique of cooking ingredients and then immersing them in vinegar is called escabeche. Anything can be made escabeche; it brings a lovely little shiver of sourness to the table. The writer and cultural critic Alicia Kennedy, who lives in Puerto Rico, likes to use chickpeas, simmering them in vinegar, olive oil and sofrito, a potent blend of garlic, onions, sweet peppers, grassy-bright cilantro and its swaggering cousin culantro. Just before serving, she adds Spanish stuffed olives, for extra richness. The beans are meaty enough to sate and small enough to scoop up with a chip — or, as Ms. Kennedy prefers, to be spooned, almost daintily (‘‘like caviar,’’ she says), onto a delicate strip of crisped plantain, hot from the skillet. Ligaya Mishan

Ligaya Mishan · NYT Cooking

Stew is a luxury because it demands what we seem to have the least of these days: time. When making miyar taushe (also known as miyan taushe), this earthy-sweet stew from northern Nigeria, you stand vigil while lamb simmers on the stove, slowly coming undone, and butternut squash softens in the oven, its skin ready to cave in. The squash is rendered velvety in a blender, with a dusting of calabash nutmeg — woodsier and mustier than regular nutmeg — then united with the lush lamb stock. Yemisi Aribisala, a Nigerian writer and the author of “Longthroat Memoirs: Soups, Sex and Nigerian Taste Buds” (Cassava Republic Press, 2016), notes that the pot should be big enough so the stew reaches only halfway up, because it splatters. At the end, you deliver to your guests bowls of tamed sun, hot, creamy, melty, thick and earthy-sweet. Ligaya Mishan

Ligaya Mishan · NYT Cooking

The marquee dessert at Golden Diner, in Manhattan’s Chinatown, is a take on tres leches, a Latin American cake soaked in three kinds of milk, as the Spanish name attests: whole milk, condensed milk and evaporated milk, its unsweetened cousin. Sam Yoo, the chef and owner, infuses the milk with Thai tea powder, a blend of black tea and vanilla that yields a signature tiger-orange hue. The longer the cake soaks, the better it is. (Mr. Yoo lets it rest for as long as two nights, with a flip in between so the liquid that’s pooled at the bottom has another chance to run through.) The cake is finished with whipped cream, coconut flakes toasted near gold and lime zest lending a bright sting. Keep the cake in the refrigerator until the last moment, so it’s as cold as possible and melts in the mouth, almost like ice cream. The faint bitterness of the tea checks the sweetness of the cake, so it’s just enough. Ligaya Mishan

Ligaya Mishan · NYT Cooking

At Tiffany’s in the small town of Wailuku in central Maui, hamachi sashimi comes with a sauce so good, diners keep spooning it up long after the fish is gone. Bright and briny at once, it draws from the cuisines of island nations across the Pacific, combining elements of Japanese ponzu and fina’denne’, a CHamoru condiment from Guam that is a blend of shoyu (soy sauce), vinegar or citrus, onions and chiles. The chef Sheldon Simeon adds sweet local onions and ginger in lieu of chiles, for a gentler kick, plus shiso for “effervescence,” he says. To finish, he simmers lemon peel and olive oil over low heat, then strains out the peel so just the olive oil is left, only now sun-possessed. Drizzled at the very end, it gives the fish the vividness of lemon without curing it. Ligaya Mishan

Ligaya Mishan · NYT Cooking

Chocolate fondue is not a traditional dessert but a creation of the 1960s, first conjured up at Chalet Suisse, an alpine-themed restaurant in New York, by Konrad Egli, a Swiss chef and restaurateur far from home. This version is a simple equation of chocolate and heavy cream — essentially ganache, but in different proportions. Warm the cream, pour it over the chocolate and stir. A touch of salt brings the flavor into focus. You don’t need a fondue pot or even a double boiler: Just jury-rig a heatproof rack over a candle, or fill a pot or bowl with boiling water and tuck a smaller bowl inside it. (The key is not to melt the chocolate directly over flame, as this may result in scorching or a grainy, broken mixture.) Serve with whatever you think a little gilding with chocolate makes better: maybe bright crescents of clementines, candied yuzu peel, chewy stubs of mochi, butter-heavy pound cake or whole strawberries like fat little hearts. Ligaya Mishan

Ligaya Mishan · NYT Cooking

In this sophisticated take on ricotta toast, Raquel Villanueva Dang, the chef of Baby’s Kusina and Market in Philadelphia, roasts grapes with fresh thyme and salt until the skins pucker and the flesh grows slouchy, verging on collapse. Taste and texture become almost one: jammy and louche, with a tinge of dark wine. She tumbles the grapes over velvety whipped ricotta, with hunks of sourdough on the side. Deepening the contrast of flavors is a salty-sweet glaze of balsamic vinegar cooked down with honey and fish sauce, a nod to her Filipino heritage. If you like, add ¼ teaspoon mushroom seasoning (an umami-rich blend of pulverized dried mushrooms and salt) to the grapes before roasting, to lend earthiness, and finish the ricotta with a flourish of flaky sea salt and scattered torn mint for a touch of freshness and color. Ligaya Mishan

Ligaya Mishan · NYT Cooking

Rundown is only one of many names for this earthy Jamaican stew of fish and vegetables simmered in coconut milk. It's “an easy dish with big rewards,” says Melissa Thompson, a British writer and the author of the “Motherland” cookbook (Interlink Books, 2022). She begins by slackening onions in a pan, followed by garlic, yellow yam, tomatoes and red bell peppers. Spices are half the transformation: ginger, allspice and cumin, built to warm; thyme, with its kiss of camphor; bay leaves for a piney depth. Coconut milk is poured over, and the heat is left to do its work. When the yam turns tender, the fish goes in — in Ms. Thompson’s version, adapted for life in England, smoked mackerel takes the place of more classic salted mackerel — and then the coconut milk gets another 10 minutes to “run down” and thicken to near cream. This dish is also known as dip-dip, because diners traditionally scoop up the stew with the likes of boiled dumplings and, here, green bananas, not yet sweet. Ligaya Mi

Ligaya Mishan · NYT Cooking

When ripe, jackfruit is sweet and golden. But unripe, it’s almost a blank canvas, game to take on whatever seasonings you throw its way. Sturdy enough to hold up in the heat of a pan, it has a satisfying chew that makes it an excellent filling for tacos. In this recipe from the poet and essayist Aimee Nezhukumatathil, skinny strips of young jackfruit soak up an earthy marinade before a turn in the skillet — keep a close eye on the stove, to be sure it doesn’t dry out; you want it saucy — then get folded, still dripping, into warm tortillas. A heaping of raw carrots and cucumber gives you a little crunch, and a spoonful of sour cream brings a rich finish. (If using fresh unripe jackfruit instead of canned, wear gloves and rub your knife with oil before chopping, because the sap is very sticky, and boil the flesh until tender. Note that the sap contains latex, so those allergic to it would do best to avoid eating the fruit.) Ligaya Mishan

Ligaya Mishan · NYT Cooking

A Salvadoran quesadilla, unlike the Mexican dish of the same name, is a sweet bread verging on cake, just savory enough for breakfast or a midafternoon pick-me-up. There are variations based on rice flour, yuca flour or masa harina; Karla Tatiana Vasquez, in “The SalviSoul Cookbook” (Ten Speed Press, 2024), suggests all-purpose flour as an accessible starting point. Traditionally, the quesadilla’s salty kiss comes from queso duro blando, an aged Salvadoran cheese, but Parmesan, equally funky, makes a good substitute. Crema Salvadoreña, the thick top skimmed off fresh cream and left to turn gently sour, brings a touch of tang. It’s akin to crème fraîche, which may be used instead. (In a pinch, Ms. Vasquez has improvised with diluted yogurt.) Ideally, she says, you whip up the quesadilla after lunch, bake it until there’s browning at the edges, let cool, and by 3 o’clock it’s yours for the taking, between sips of hot, dark coffee. Ligaya Mishan

Ligaya Mishan · NYT Cooking

Mastic “tears,” as they’re called, are translucent fragments of tree resin that give off the scent of high, sweet pine. The fragrance is the flavor, suffusing this version of mouhalabieh, a delicate Arab milk pudding, from the French Palestinian chef Fadi Kattan's cookbook, "Bethlehem." Requirements are few: a pot of milk over flame; a whisking-in of sugar; mastic pounded down to a shimmery powder; cornstarch, for firming; and vigilance. As an early recipe in the 10th-century Baghdadi cookbook “Annals of the Caliphs’ Kitchens” warns: “You should never stop stirring.” Mr. Kattan suggests repeatedly tracing the number “8” with a spoon over the bottom of the pot, so the milk won’t scorch. When the mixture is near custard, pour it, still hot, into individual bowls. “It goes from liquid to quite solid in a few seconds,” he says. Let rest an hour at room temperature, then another two or more in the refrigerator, until it wobbles. Ligaya Mishan

Ligaya Mishan · NYT Cooking

Lazi ji, a specialty of the sweltering city of Chongqing in southwestern China, might appear at first glance to be all chiles, spilling rim to rim in reckless abundance. But you’re not meant to eat them. They’re fried briefly, just long enough to give off their fragrance and lend a little sting to the cooking oil. Part of the fun of the dish is hunting for the small, crispy nubs of chicken, which in Chongqing are served with the bones left in, for happy grappling. (If you prefer to use boneless chicken thighs, cut them into pieces no bigger than popcorn.) You’ll want your ingredients premeasured at the start, since everything comes together quickly at the end: garlic and ginger turned golden and toasty, Sichuan pepper with its tickling buzz. The culinary scholar Fuchsia Dunlop advises staying away from the most powerful chiles; instead, seek out the long, slender, medium-hot variety sold by the bag at Chinese groceries. Be careful they don’t blacken in the wok. You want that red, untai