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I first discovered bluefish when I was working at Angels, a restaurant in Providence. I was fresh off the boat from California when Jamie, the chef, and Eileen, his sous-chef, began introducing me to all the local food specialties. First they took me to a salumeria on Federal Hill, the Italian district of Providence, where the prosciutto was called “prah-jhute” and ricotta was “rha-got.” Then one day they brought in smoked bluefish. We piled it high on crusty Italian rolls, and topped it with sliced red onions, lemon, and way too much crème fraîche. I was in Rhode Island heaven. In honor of that beguiling and unforgettable fish, here I wrap fresh bluefish in pancetta to give the fish a salty, smoked flavor. Served with a yellow tomato sauce, juicy slices of heirloom tomatoes, and garlicky aïoli, this is my tribute to summer in Rhode Island.

Gnocchi is one of those dishes that many home cooks shy away from. Whether they’re made of potatoes or cheese, the process seems mysterious—until, of course, you finally take the plunge and make a batch yourself at home. These ricotta gnocchi are quick and easy and the perfect launch into your gnocchi-making career. Once you get the hang of rolling them off the tines of the fork, there’s nothing to it. And when you’ve become the accomplished gnocchi-maker you never thought you’d be, you’ll find all sorts of ways to serve them. Try them with a fresh tomato sauce, or simply toss them in this sage brown butter.

My cooks sometimes refer to Lucques as the “house of pork.” I use pork often and in every form I can think of—marinated, brined, grilled, sautéed, confited, braised, ground into sausage or forcemeat, wrapped around fish or poultry, as a seasoning or an appetizer or a complete main course. This recipe is proof: with three kinds of pork packed into one dish, it’s a regular porkapalooza. These burgers completely satisfy my frequent pork cravings, and I think they’ll take care of yours, too. After all, few cultures appreciate pork better than the Latin ones, and these burgers pay homage to that culinary love. And it’s some spicy, decadent homage, too: Mexican chorizo, Spanish romesco, and the coup de grâce, a slice of melted Manchego on top. Do not be afraid to cook these burgers only until pink in the middle, when they are still juicy and delicious. Not only are all dangerous pork parasites killed at 137°F (long before the last pink disappears), but those organisms have been nearly eliminated from modern pork farming, so the risk is extremely low even from completely raw pork.

Please try this recipe if you’re a lima bean hater. I used to be one, too. I detested those dried-out, mealy, frozen beans from childhood. They fell into the “dreaded vegetables” category, along with beets and Brussels sprouts. But oddly enough those very vegetables are the ones I have grown to love the most. Fresh lima beans are a revelation, and especially delicious in this purée.

This warm salad is pure southern France: tomatoes, olives, anchovies, basil, green beans, and soft-cooked eggs. It’s easy to make, but it helps to do some of the steps beforehand. As long as your spinach is cleaned and your haricots verts, potatoes, and eggs are cooked, you won’t have to do much until the last minute, when you’re pulling it all together. While your potatoes are roasting in the oven, light the grill, have a glass of rosé, and look calm, cool, and collected as you wait to finish the last-minute tasks. Recruit an unsuspecting guest or your significant other to grill the halibut while you brown the anchovy butter and finish the warm salad.

My very first chef position was at a twenty-eight-seat restaurant called Alloro, located in Boston’s very Italian North End. At that point in my career, my cooking experience was rooted mostly in French cuisine, but the owner didn’t seem to mind. When I asked him if I had to cook strictly Italian food, his answer was, “No, no, no! Cook whatever you want. We’ll just give it an Italian name.” The French bistro classic salmon with beluga lentils and red wine butter was abbreviated to “Salmone” on the menu, and other quasi-French dishes were likewise masked under short Italian names. The pasta dishes I made at Alloro also strayed from Italian tradition. For my version of the classic spaghetti alle vongole, I added generous amounts of onion, fennel, and olive oil, and sprinkled breadcrumbs toasted with thyme on top. I also finished the sauce with a spot of butter (the French influence again), which thickened and enriched it. In theory, I’m sure my version of spaghetti with clams would outrage purists in both the Italian and the French camps, but one bite ought to be enough to convince them they have lots to learn from each other. Though you might not think of it as such, the water in which you cook pasta is a valuable ingredient, in virtually any pasta recipe. Do your noodles seem a little dry once you’ve tossed them in the sauce? Rather than correcting the problem with stock (which can alter the flavor balance) or oil (which can add greasiness), add a little pasta water instead. Not only will it moisten the dish, but the starch in it (left from the cooking of the pasta) will also help bind the sauce to the noodles. Try it out; it works.

Skirt steak is among those cuts of beef that a novice cook sometimes avoids, despite their excellent flavor and reasonable price. But few steaks will be more delicious when properly cooked, and I assure you it’s not hard to get right. With skirt steak, remember a few key points. Start by caramelizing it well on the hottest part of the grill. Then move it over to a cooler spot to finish cooking just to medium-rare. Any less cooked, and it’s chewy; any more than medium, and it becomes leathery, livery, and tough. Be sure to let the skirt steak rest a few minutes before slicing it. The most crucial thing of all is to slice the meat against the grain to ensure that it’s tender and not rubbery. Though mayonnaise might sound strange as an accompaniment for steak, the aïoli melts into a creamy sauce, leaving behind a trail of olives.

Most people have heard horror stories about the conditions under which calves are raised for veal. Fortunately, today there are thoughtful ranchers raising free-range veal without antibiotics. This contemporary veal won’t taste or look like the pale, white meat your grandparents were accustomed to. The free-range veal we serve at Lucques is rosy red in color, with more character and flavor than its inhumanely treated counterpart. It’s worth pursuing. To keep the chops juicy, grill them medium-rare to medium.

When I was growing up, my mom and sister were obsessed with lobster. My father and I just never got it. But on both their birthdays, my father would take us all to the chosen lobster spot of the moment. While Jessica and my mom happily cracked their way through dinner, hardly glancing up from their plates, Dad and I would glumly saw through our landlubber specials. I admit I felt a little envious watching Jessica and Mom picking apart their matching dinners, knowing that I would never have that lobster bond with my mother. Normally, my mother prefers her lobster plain and simple—steamed and served with lemon and drawn butter. But one Mother’s Day, I took liberty, hoping to entice her with this rendition of a classic chopped salad. It worked; while we’re still on opposite sides of the table at the lobster shack, we both get excited about this salad.

One of my favorite dinners growing up was my mother’s veal piccata. Her recipe came from an old cookbook called The Pleasures of Italian Cooking, by Romeo Salta, a gift to her from my father. My father had been a devoted fan of Romeo Salta when he was the chef at Chianti in Los Angeles in the fifties. Back then, it was a swinging Italian joint with red-checkered tablecloths, opera 78s blasting, and red wine flowing into the late hours. My mother’s (and Romeo’s) veal was pounded thin, sautéed, and drenched in a lemony caper-butter sauce. There’s nothing wrong with that classic rendition, but, to add another layer of flavor, I brown the butter and finish it with salsa verde, a pungent purée of capers, anchovies, garlic, oregano, and tons of parsley. To get the finest, crispy crust on the veal, I dredge it in Wondra, a finely milled flour sold at most supermarkets. This dish is home-style Italian comfort food at its best.

Every summer when my husband, David, and I visit his parents, we arrive at their house to a feast of peel-and-eat shrimp, Jean’s crab salad, and of course enough “softies” to feed the entire neighborhood. On the Eastern Shore of Maryland, soft-shell crabs (blue crabs that have molted their shells) are a grand tradition. The season starts in late spring and continues through the summer. Crabbers must be vigilant: there is only a 4- to 5-hour window during which molting blue crabs are in the “soft-shell” stage, after which their new shells harden if they are not removed from the water. David keeps his Maryland pride alive while living on the West Coast. Every year when crab season starts, his father ships us a few flats of live crabs, and we throw a decadent soft-shell party. We decided that if our humble castle had a coat of arms, it would be two crossed strips of bacon with a soft-shell crab in the center

This soup was inspired by Roger Vergé, who, unbeknownst to him, was one of my first cooking teachers. I was lucky enough to dine at his restaurant Moulin de Mougins with my parents when I was in sixth grade. Set in a restored mill in the hills of Provence, the restaurant was paradise. I remember the thoughtful waiter who spent 15 minutes discussing the cheeses on that beautiful wicker trolley. That summer afternoon, when we finished lunch, my father surprised me with Monsieur Vergé’s cookbook. This soup was one of the first recipes I made from the book when we returned home from our trip. My mother loved it, and now, every Mother’s Day, I make this pea soup for her, to remind us of that amazing lunch in Mougins.

André Soltner is one of my culinary heroes. I admire his interpretations of regional dishes from his Alsatian homeland, which are refined enough to serve in one of New York City’s fanciest French restaurants yet still true to their humble origins. Only a great chef can strike that balance. I discovered his recipe for salmon sautéed in a bacon-and-egg “batter” and served with a brown butter sauce in the middle of summer, so I added corn to the sautéed cabbage for a sweet seasonal touch. The tart brown butter–vinegar sauce beautifully balances the smoky bacon and rich salmon.

I love dishes with catchy retro names. The Green Goddess salad was invented in the 1920s by the chef of the Palace Hotel in San Francisco, who made it in honor of British actor George Arliss. The actor was a guest at the hotel while starring in a local production of William Archer’s The Green Goddess. The basic components of this classic California dressing are anchovies, mayonnaise, garlic, tarragon, parsley, and chives. I add watercress to the puréed herbs, which turns the dressing a deep emerald green and adds a clean, peppery flavor. Thick and rich, the dressing coats the romaine leaves the same way a Caesar salad dressing does. Once you have this dressing in your repertoire, you’ll find yourself using it for all sorts of things. Try a dollop over grilled fish, or spread it on bread instead of mayonnaise when making a sandwich.

As soon we were old enough to fly alone, my sister and I would travel back east for a few weeks every summer to visit our grandmother in Connecticut. Our late-summer arrival always coincided with the peak of her beefsteak tomato crop. Every evening, we’d venture out to the backyard to pick tomatoes for that night’s salad. Still warm from the sun, those juicy red slices, sprinkled with salt, left an indelible impression on me. My next life-changing tomato experience was at Al Forno, in Providence, Rhode Island. The owners, George Germon and Johanne Killeen, would drive 35 miles to a tiny town called Little Compton to pick up crates and crates of big red beefsteak tomatoes from their favorite farmer. Slicing the tomatoes to order, they served them with red onion, salt, basil, oil, and vinegar. Again, so simple, yet one of the best things I’d ever tasted. I didn’t discover heirloom tomatoes until a few years later, when I got a job at Chez Panisse in Berkeley. Amazed by the odd shapes and variety of colors, from white to orange to almost black, I sampled every variety I could get my hands on. At Lucques, our regular customers start asking for this heirloom salad in early June. It’s been on the menu every year since we opened and seems to signal that summer is finally here.

Like a lamb shoulder or veal shank, duck legs require a long, slow braise (in fat in this case, rather than stock) to break down their sinew and make them succulent and tender. Choose an earthenware dish or a roasting pan that will hold the legs snugly (the legs should just fit in the dish, without overlapping). Four cups of duck fat sounds like a lot, but don’t worry, most of it is left behind in the pan, and you can use it over and over again, as long as it’s strained well and kept chilled or frozen. You can also store the duck legs in the fat.

Inspired by main-course salads found in the bistros of France, this dish comprises some of my favorite ingredients—beets, mustard, dandelion, and soft boiled egg. The salmon is covered in minced herbs, seasoned with fleur de sel, and then slow-roasted in a humid oven until it’s moist and custardlike at the center.

This gutsy lamb dish pays homage to two camps of Latin cooking: Mexico and Spain. The lamb is stuffed with a mixture of toasted breadcrumbs and a fresh, spicy Mexican sausage called chorizo. Traditionally stirred into scrambled eggs or used as a filling for gorditas, the chorizo infuses the stuffing with its piquant character. The Spanish accents come from the olives and the romesco, a classic Catalan sauce of puréed chiles, garlic, tomatoes, nuts, and fried bread. Just as the lamb absorbs the spiciness of the chorizo stuffing while it roasts in the oven, the robust romesco saturates the potatoes as they sauté.

This robust stew is best in late winter or early spring, when there’s still a lingering chill in the air. Tomatoes, olives, and red wine, hallmark flavors of the stew’s southern-French provenance, make up its flavorful saucy base. Traditionally, it’s made with a chuck roast, but I find that boneless short ribs yield a more succulent result. The tomatoes help thicken the sauce and add a deep sweetness. This time of year, rather than using mealy, out-of-season tomatoes, I opt for canned San Marzanos. If you can’t find San Marzanos, look for another brand of Italian canned tomatoes.

Since both my parents worked full-time, when I was 2 weeks old they hired a seemingly proper English lady to take care of me. But Ammie was not the mild mannered woman she appeared to be. In fact, she turned out to be the quirkiest third parent you could ever imagine. She fed us forbidden chocolate (despite her belief that chocolate actually “made your blood boil”), and she let us watch TV when my parents were out of town (very illegal). Ammie was nothing if not opinionated. She displayed the nationalist zeal of an expatriate and was completely obsessed with the royal family. She was so pro-British and anti-Irish that every March 17 she would thumb her nose at her enemy by sending my sister and me off to school dressed completely in orange, in honor of the British monarchy. Needless to say, corned beef and cabbage was not a food ritual in our household. I didn’t discover it until I moved back east to college, where I sampled it at the homes of many of my Irish-American friends. The Lucques version is an updated rendition of that classic one-pot Irish meal. Traditionally, the vegetables are cooked alongside the meat for hours, producing dull, mushy carrots and sad, gray turnips. To keep the vegetables bright, I cook them separately in the beef broth. The parsley-mustard sauce (great for sandwiches the next day) cuts the richness of the corned beef and perks up the entire dish.