Chestnut

This cake is best when served the day it is made. You can bake the cake in the morning and finish it later in the day. It can stand in a cool place for about 3 hours before serving. Marrons glacés (whole candied chestnuts) are available in specialty food stores.

To save time, you can complete the first three steps and chop onion and celery the day before. If you use shelled chestnuts, chop, then proceed with step 2.

It may seem like a bit of trouble to brine the turkey, but it is well worth it: This is the best turkey we’ve ever tasted. If you don’t have a stockpot large enough to hold the turkey, you can use a new plastic tub instead. It is helpful to have an extra refrigerator to brine the turkey, as it takes up a lot of space.

You will need to dry the bread cubes overnight; transfer them to resealable plastic bags until you’re ready to make the stuffing, up to 1 day more.

We brined our turkey for 24 hours, so leave plenty of time for this recipe. If you don’t brine yours, skip steps 1 and 2. The USDA recommends cooking the turkey until the thickest part of the thigh registers 180°F. For a moister bird, we cooked ours to 165°F; it continues to cook outside the oven as it rests.

For a velvety smooth texture, pass the soup through a fine strainer after the mixture has been processed and before adding the cream.

Dating back at least to the 1950s is a party classic known as sweet-and-sour meatballs, or smoky sausages in an easy blend of mustard and jelly. We’ve seen signature variations on this theme using just about every flavor of jelly and mustard around. In the end, they all work the same, producing an easy sweet-and-sour sauce for the meat to bathe in. R. B.’s Aunt Kate, a veteran hostess and merrymaking ringleader in Melbourne, Florida, gives particularly high marks to dishes like this that score lowest in effort and highest in empty bowl at cocktail-recipe swap meets. Our somewhat Asian fusion variation calls for broiled fresh pineapple and kielbasa.

A medieval fastness above the Mar Tirreno, Guardia Piemontese is a thirteenth-century village raised up by a band of French-descended, Waldensian heretics in flight from papal justice. Pursued into the pathlessness of Calabria, they resisted the Church’s soldiers then and again and again. Two hundred years had passed when, flush with the dramas of the inquisizione, Pius V dispatched a brigade up into their serene agrarian midst, calling for, in the names of Christ and the Holy Ghost, their massacre. Those few who escaped the flailing of the Church’s swords stayed. And those who were born of them stay, still, speaking a Provencale dialect and celebrating the traditions of French country life, gentling their patch of the earth as though time was a stranger. Too, they are true to their own and simple gastronomic heritage, having obliged no transfusion of the coarser Calabrian kitchen. Here follows a thick mountain soup, so like a Béarnais garbure (a thick cabbage soup from Béarn) even to the blessing of its last smudges with red wine as the French are wont to do à la faire chabrot—pouring a few drops of red wine into the last spoonful of soup, stirring it up and getting every last drop as both a blessing to the cook and a thank-you to God.

I associate chestnuts with winter scenes that while I live in Southern California exist only in my imagination: snuggling up by the fireplace while the snow falls lightly and chestnuts roast on that proverbial open fire. One Christmas Eve, after a few hot toddies and with visions of chestnuts dancing in my head, I revisited my family’s traditional stuffing, determined to make my winter chestnut obsession a reality. For me, the stuffing, not the turkey or roast beef, has always been the highlight of holiday feasts. In fact, when I was a kid, one of my big culinary promotions was when I finally got to take charge of the stuffing. For the first time, my mom gave me carte blanche with the spice cabinet. I pillaged her Spice Island jars and doctored up the Pepperidge Farm box mix, experimenting with how to make things taste better. Now, as a chef, I’ve learned that seasoning is one of the keys to making all things, stuffing included, taste their best. Good stuffing starts with a great loaf of bread, torn into croutons, tossed with a generous amount of olive oil, and baked until crispy on the outside and soft in the center. Then I add lots of onion, pancetta, rosemary, fennel, chile, thyme, lemon zest—and chestnuts, of course. The biggest mistake people make at home is underseasoning their stuffing. Don’t be afraid to spice it up with plenty of vegetables, herbs, and seasonings. And remember to taste as you go.

When she was a child, Mildred harvested and sold chestnuts. She often arose earlier in the morning than her brothers and sisters to pick the cherished nuts, which were a cash crop for many Appalachian families. But by 1950, most American Chestnut trees were wiped out by a devastating blight. Even though you can’t pick chestnuts from a tree growing in the forest now, you can certainly buy chestnuts in the grocery store—most of which aren’t grown in the United States. Processing chestnuts isn’t a chore to be taken lightly because of their very hard shells, so we recommend using sweetened chestnut puree, which can be found in better grocery stores. This pie is moist and has a pleasant hint of orange flavor to complement the earthy, sweet chestnut taste.

Chestnuts are a cold-weather crop, available from early fall to the end of winter. At that time of year, when the plane trees in Italy’s town squares occasionally still have some leaves left from summer and no sign of spring is in sight, vendors set up sidewalk braziers in the piazzas and roast chestnuts over open fires. They are served up right off the grill, piping hot, in newspaper cones. You have to be out and about to get them that way, and bundled in suitably warm clothing to guard against the weather. Once you buy them, it’s a slow, peel-as-you-go proposition. But somehow the divine combination of freshly roasted chestnuts and a hot coffee from a nearby stand chases away the cold and lessens the effort necessary to pry off the invariably recalcitrant charred shells and inner skins. With the already peeled, freeze-dried or vacuum-wrapped chestnuts now available, the pleasure, albeit without the char but also without the chore, is brought to the home kitchen year-round. If you do not use all the chestnuts in the package, freeze the remainder. If you store them in the refrigerator, they will mold after just a few days.

Season: October to December. I first made this deliciously sweet preserve while staying at a farm on Dartmoor. Melissa, who lived at the farm, came to help with the laborious job of peeling the chestnuts, and we whipped through them in no time. Adding honey to the jam seemed entirely appropriate, since that’s what Melissa means in Greek. I like to spoon chestnut jam into meringue nests and top with cream. Or stir a spoonful or two into chocolate mousse, or dollop it on vanilla ice cream before drizzling with hot chocolate sauce. This preserve also makes a lovely filling for chocolate cakes, and, of course, it can be enjoyed simply spread on crusty bread.

Chestnuts and dried mushrooms have a wonderful affinity for each other. Their unusual flavors and textures seem distantly related; they are both meaty and complex, chewy but neither tough nor crunchy. With shallots and plenty of black pepper for bite, the combination makes a great pasta sauce. And though chestnuts are a pain in the neck (the fingers, actually) to peel, the good news is that their complex, fragrant flavor is so powerfully distinctive that just a few can have an enormous impact on a dish. So although it may take thirty seconds to a minute to process a single chestnut, if you need only a dozen or so for a dish, the work amounts to about ten minutes. And in a creation like this one, the time is well worth the effort.

Chestnuts have a subtle but distinctive flavor; another, less-well-known attribute is their ability to lend a rich, creamy texture to anything in which they’re pureed—making cream completely superfluous. This soup is a perfect example, and if you can find frozen, peeled chestnuts, it’s the work of a moment. But even if you cannot, the chestnut-peeling process takes about twenty minutes start to finish, and much of that time is unattended; you can use it to chop and cook the vegetables. In a way, starting from scratch with whole chestnuts is preferable, because they gain a bit of flavor as you toast them lightly to remove the skins.

This popular winter stew is often served on special occasions, but I think its very nature makes an occasion special. Chestnuts, so rarely used in cooking here, add a rich and subtle sweetness to the dish. Fresh chestnuts are best, but frozen chestnuts are almost as good, and Asian markets carry dried chestnuts that are suitable as well. Forget canned chestnuts, though—they’re too soft to hold up to the long cooking. Like most braises, this is even better the second day, so feel free to make it in advance.

Boiling is the easiest way to shell chestnuts, though it’s still a pain. Frozen, pre-peeled chestnuts are a good alternative. Other vegetables you can prepare this way: see Glazed Turnips (page 496).

Throughout the northern Mediterranean littoral, chestnuts not only grow on trees; they fall to the ground each autumn and are, for many people, a free crop. (They once did the same on this continent, but a blight wiped them out.) The first fall I visited northern Italy, I saw them drop and realized there were more than anyone could possibly eat. As a result, they are used in a much wider array of dishes there than they are here. This is a rich soup, one that can be made in a matter of minutes with cooked, frozen, or even canned chestnuts, and the results are inevitably good. Add a little splash of port just before serving to give this a bit of a kick.