Anise

An intriguing bread both sweet with honey and anise and savory with pepper and pancetta, versions of it have been baked for pagan and sacred and secular festivals since the epoch of the Greeks. Giuseppe Fazia sometimes bakes the gorgeous, fragrant bread at his forno in Via Tommasini in Reggio Calabria.

Beautiful breakfast biscuits with hot anisette-sparkled milk, caffè, or cioccolata calda.

Il Pane della Ninna Nanna (Lullaby Bread). Neither very sweet nor pizzalike in the flat, savory pie sort of way, this is a gold-fleshed, orange-perfumed cakelike bread that, if baked with care, will be tall and elegant, its crumb coarse yet light and full of the consoling scents of yeast and butter. Fabriziana is one of the several “middle” names of the Roman countess with whom I learned to bake the confection in the cavernous old kitchen of her villa that looks to the gardens of the Borghese. Ours were clandestine appointments, with our yeast and our candied orange peels and the tattered recipe book of her mother’s cook. You see, Fabriziana had never cooked or baked in her life, had never made anything from a pile of flour and a few crumbles of yeast. Forbidden in the kitchen as a girl, her adulthood has been always too fraught with obligations to permit interludes in front of the flames. But in the years we have been friends, she has always demonstrated more than a kind interest in my cooking, sitting once in a while, rapt as a fox, on an old wrought-iron chair in my kitchen as I dance about. And one day when I told her I was searching for a formula for an ancient, orange-perfumed Roman bread, she knew precisely where to find the recipe. Trailing off in some Proustian dream, she said she hadn’t thought of the bread in too many years, it having been her favorite sweet at Christmas and Easter. Once she even requested that it—rather than some grand, creamy torta—be her birthday cake. She told of poaching slices of it from a silver tray during parties and receptions, stuffing them deep into the pockets of her silk dresses to eat later in bed, after her sister was safely asleep, so she might share them only with her puppy. So it was that we decided to make the bread together. Wishing to avoid the chiding of her family and, most of all, her cook, we chose to do the deed on mornings when the house would be safe from them. It was wonderful to see Fabriziana at play. Flour and butter were forced under her long, mother-of-pearled nails, and her blond-streaked coif, mounted to resist tempests, soon fell into girlish ringlets over her noble brow. With a few mornings’ worth of trial, we baked Fabriziana’s lullaby bread, the bread of her memories. And once, on a birthday of mine, the countess came fairly racing through my doorway proffering a curiously wrapped parcel that gave up the telltale perfumes of our bread. The countess had learned to bake indeed.

Julie Robles, one of the first cooks at Lucques and later the chef de cuisine at A.O.C., came up with this delicious savory (as opposed to sweet) cherry compote. This time of year I go crazy for cherries and also serve this compote on roast pork or with an assertive cheese like Taleggio.

The traditional Italian flavors of almond and anise are delicate enough for teatime yet equally good with strong coffee or espresso.

These light, crisp cookies are inspired by the Spanish biscuits sold in Olivier Baussan’s store, O&Co., in New York City. They are perfect in the morning with tea or coffee, as a snack anytime, or for dessert, served with ice cream or fresh fruit. You will need to bake them in batches, using two baking sheets each time. Run the sheets under cold water to cool completely, dry thoroughly, then proceed with the next batch.

These anise-flavored molded cookies originated hundreds of years ago; today, replicas of the traditional European molds are available in hundreds of designs. The cookies are made with lots of eggs, whose leavening effect may have given them the name springerle, which means “little jumper” in German.

On the first year of the garden, we planted six tomato plants, one smallish row of lettuce that bolted overnight, and, just for fun, a dozen wormwood plants (Artemisia absithium). Of course, by then the absinthe craze had faded and the silver-slotted spoons were long gone. It didn’t take much for us to soak way too much of those plants (in our houses, of course) in a jug of alcool (grain alcohol), then correct the awful taste of wormwood with a full bottle of pastis. Man, it was strong, and it worked, too. A few years ago, we gave Martin Picard at Au Pied de Cochon a pickle jar full of absinthe; when we later visited the restaurant, about a thousand dollars in cash was sitting in the liquid and people were drinking it right out of the jar. Disgusting. Picard would add more booze when the level dropped. So you have this huge jar of plants and money just sitting there with the top on. Every season we try to concoct a better mix—at home, of course. You’ll need a gram scale for this recipe.

Contrary to what you might believe, Absolut and Stolichnaya did not invent flavored vodka; it’s been around forever, and you can make your own.

This recipe is based on one in a magnificent book called Delicias de antaño by Teresa Castelló Yturbide and María Josefa Martínez del Río de Redo. The anise flavor comes from toasted aniseed as well as anise liqueur. These cookies are a unique preparation, because they are submerged in a sweet syrup after baking and dusted with sugar once they’ve dried out.

I can’t decide whether I love the color—a pale celadon—or the exotic flavor of this ice cream more. The pear causes the base to have a thinner consistency than some other ice creams have before freezing, but the final texture is lovely. It’s hard to peg the flavor as star anise in the ice cream, because the spice mellows with the cold and the cream, but it’s addictive. This isn’t a scoop-in-a-cone kind of dessert, but an elegant cookie on the side would be nice.

This is an obvious play on the southern pulled pork sandwich, which is typically made with braised pork shoulder. Duck legs are an interesting upgrade. While duck breasts are best cooked quickly and served rare, the legs need to be slow-cooked to make them tender. I believe in employing strong flavors such as fresh ginger, star anise, fennel, and cinnamon to cut through the richness of duck. The pickles and coleslaw are optional, but I can’t imagine having a pulled pork—or, in this case, pulled duck—sandwich without them. That crunchy, vinegary bit of freshness truly rounds out the sandwich.

If you’ve never tasted anise and chocolate together, prepare yourself for an unexpected treat. I don’t even like anise, but for some improbable reason this is one of my favorite ice creams, especially when nestled alongside a slice of dense chocolate cake or used to fill profiteroles doused in warm chocolate sauce (see the Perfect Pairings at the end of the recipe).

Anise is used liberally in Mediterranean and Middle Eastern desserts, but it is an underused spice in the American pastry repertoire. I find it adds an exotic touch, at once familiar yet a tad elusive. It seems especially intriguing to people who aren’t used to it paired with orange or chocolate, or both, as it is in this twist on classic ice cream puffs.

American cheesecake is to Italian cheesecake what slouching around the house in a sweatshirt and jeans is to stepping out on the town in a tailored Armani suit. When I stopped comparing Italian cheesecake to its comfy American cousin, I was finally won over. Made with ricotta cheese instead of pounds of cream cheese and sour cream, it’s lighter and leaner, and perfectly accompanied by fresh fruit compotes or colorful sauces. For best results, use whole-milk ricotta cheese. Or even better, seek out fresh ricotta from a local producer. And be sure to watch it carefully during baking, taking it out when it is just barely set.

I remember these cookies with annoyance and affection. Growing up, every year for my birthday my mother would send me to school with her anise seed cookies. Other kids got to bring cupcakes. I was the kid with the anise seed cookies. It’s not that I didn’t like these cookies—I loved them then and I still do. But back then I just wanted cupcakes like everyone else! Today I’m pretty psyched whenever I get a chance to munch on these lovelies. I even made a version of this recipe during an Iron Chef battle and they helped us win!

If you have ever tried to make homemade doughnuts, you know that the process can be a bit of a hassle. But transforming store-bought biscuit dough into delicious golden doughnuts could not be easier, seriously. The slightly crunchy texture of fried dough dusted with anise sugar is a perfect complement to tangy orange marmalade.

The French love their bread, but they usually buy it in boulangeries. In many homes I visited, though, people would make a quick bread like the goat-cheese-and-apricot bread on page 145. When they had a bit more time, on a weekend morning perhaps, they would make a heartier bread and eat it throughout the week. This recipe, which I tasted at a friend’s house in Paris, is very forgiving and can withstand additions and variations. I often add bits of leftover nuts and dried fruit. Great for breakfast with goat cheese or preserves, it is also a wonderful sandwich bread.