Easy

If you've never bought kohlrabi before, here's a great reason to try it.

This one is cheesy, tangy, and a little spicy. Serve with plenty of crackers.

Strisce means strips—any long pasta will work—and Chiantigiana refers to the Tuscan wine used to flavor the sauce.

A dip that proves collards don't have to be stewed for hours to be delicious.

Mom's Russian "Hamburgers" Kotleti for lunch, kotleti for dinner, kotleti of beef, of pork, of fish, of chicken—even kotleti of minced carrots or beets. The entire USSR pretty much lived on these cheap, delicious fried patties, and when comrades didn't make them from scratch, they bought them at stores. Back in Moscow, Mom and I harbored a secret passion for the proletarian, six-kopek variety produced by the meat-processing plant named after Stalin's food supply commissar, Anastas Mikoyan. Inspired by his 1936 trip to America, Mikoyan wanted to copy Yankee burgers in Russia, but somehow the bun got lost in the shuffle and the country got hooked on mass-produced kotleti instead. Deliciously greasy, petite, and with a heavy industrial breading that fried up to a wicked crunch, Mikoyan factory patties could be scarfed down by the dozen. Wild with nostalgia, Mom and I tried a million times to recreate them at home, but no luck: some manufactured treats just can't be duplicated. So we always reverted back to Mom's (far more noble) homemade version. Every ex-Soviet cook has a special trick for making juicy, savory patties. Some add crushed ice, others tuck in pats of butter or mix in a whipped egg white. My mother likes her kotleti Odessa-style (garlicky!), and adds mayo as binding instead of the usual egg, with delightful results. The same formula works with ground turkey or chicken or fish. Buckwheat kasha makes a nostalgic Russian accompaniment. Ditto thin potato batons slowly pan-fried with onions in lots of butter or oil. I love cold kotleti for lunch the next day, with some dense dark bread, hot mustard, and a good crunchy dill pickle.

Consider this sweet and crunchy dessert a free-form fruit crisp. Be warned: The nutty oat topping is addictive.

Don't be put off by the sugar in this recipe—it's balanced by the vinegar and soy sauce.

Umami-loaded ingredients (tofu and miso) make this the most addictive ranch ever.

Giving the broccoli a head start on the salmon in this one-pan dish lets it get nicely browned, coaxing out its natural sweetness.

Baked eggs are great for brunch, and this version is no exception. But with a salad of leafy greens, it's also hearty and satisfying enough to double as dinner.

Country ham is cured, smoked, and aged. We love Benton's, made in Tennessee.

This dish comes together fast for a simple weeknight meal, and it's also elegant enough to serve to any important guest.

Avocado shells make handy vessels for a bright salad made with the scooped-out flesh. Lime juice, garlic, and a pinch of cayenne flavor the dressing. The salad can also be served as a topping for quesadillas or as a fresh filling for tacos.

This is an American-style Italian frittata or Spanish tortilla, an open-faced omelet that's a great last-minute brunch dish. The potato chips are layered throughout yet still retain their firm texture. (You don't even need to add salt to the eggs, because the potato chips provide the seasoning.) You can enjoy this warm or at room temperature, with sour cream on the side. Or if you're a ketchup-on-your-eggs person, use the San Marzano ketchup. (After I came up with this dish, I saw similar versions done by José Andrés and Ferran Adrià. A good idea is a good idea no matter how many people come up with it.)

My wife, Jazmin, is of Honduran descent. When you walk into her mother's house, everything is Latin-inspired, especially the cooking. This dish is a Latin staple, and because Jazmin likes it so much, arroz con pollo has become a staple for us. You can throw in half a bag of frozen peas toward the end to up the nutritional content. We serve it with a bottle of hot sauce on the table and a bowl of yogurt.

When you're making preserves, fully 50 percent of your success is in the shopping—good fruit makes good jam. Technique matters also, and a sound recipe makes a difference. But the crucial remaining factor is organization. Especially when dealing with a large quantity of perishable fruits or vegetables, you have to think through your strategy and plot out your work. If you can't get everything put up immediately, you have to take into account how the produce will ripen—and soon fade—as it waits for you. My strategy for how to use a bushel of peaches would look something like this: First day/underripe fruit: Pectin levels peak just before ripening, so I'd start with peach jelly. If you don't want to make jelly, give the peaches another day to ripen. First day/just-ripe fruit: Peaches that are fragrant and slightly yielding but still firm enough to handle are ideal for canning in syrup, as either halves or slices in syrup. Second day/fully ripe fruit: As the peaches become tender and fragrant, make jam. Third day/dead-ripe fruit: By now, the peaches will likely have a few brown spots that will need to be cut away, so I'd work up a batch of chutney, which requires long, slow cooking that breaks down the fruit anyway. Fourth day/tired fruit: Whatever peaches haven't been used by now will likely look a little sad, but even really soft, spotty ones can be trimmed for a batch of spiced peach butter. Southern peach chutney evolved from an Indian relish called chatni that British colonials brought home during the days when the sun never set on the Empire. According to The Oxford Companion to Food, chatni is made fresh before a meal by grinding spices and adding them to a paste of tamarind, garlic, and limes or coconut. Pieces of fruit or vegetable may be incorporated, but the chief flavor characteristic is sour. The British turned that into a fruit preserve, explains the Oxford Companion: British chutneys are usually spiced, sweet, fruit pickles, having something of the consistency of jam. Highest esteem is accorded to mango chutney… . Chutney later spread across the Atlantic to the West Indies and the American South, where the esteemed mango was replaced by the honorable peach.