Red Skin Potato

This recipe is courtesy of Donald Barickman; it was created with and named for his father, Elwood.

Using potatoes instead of tortilla chips as the base for beans, salsa, and other traditional nacho toppings helps you control your sodium intake. The potatoes are a good source of potassium, an important nutrient in helping lower blood pressure.

This is finger food at its finest! Invite some friends over for a meal of these oven-fries, stovetop pork chops, and Balsamic-Marinated Vegetables (page 78).

The right amount of mustard is a key ingredient for great potato salad. Since yellow mustard is usually high in sodium, this recipe calls for dry mustard instead.

Tart crusts can be made from other ingredients, including cooked spaghetti, polenta, and rice, or in this case, thinly sliced potatoes. The goal is to make a crisp, shallow vessel that will contain the filling without leaking. This is especially important when a custard filling is used. The baby artichokes in this recipe can be replaced by thinly sliced artichoke hearts.

This soup has a wonderful bright, fresh flavor from the greens and lots of herbs. My favorite way of cooking this soup is in a pot made of micaceous clay (see note). The clay adds flavor and the added earthiness of the favas makes it heavenly! This version is pureed, though you can leave it chunky if you wish. You can substitute fresh peas for the favas and fresh spinach for the escarole. Make sure you use a really flavorful extra-virgin olive oil for finishing.

These potatoes are the best roasted potatoes you’ve ever tasted! The radiant heat from the salt crisps the skin while holding in the natural moisture of the potatoes. This method can be used for roasting other vegetables, such as beets, sweet potatoes, and even small acorn squash. The salt can be saved and reused for roasting another batch of vegetables. Or you can place some of the salt in a jar to add to the flavored-salt collection in your pantry.

This chowder is easy to make and requires only one pot! The salmon comes out tender and is a good match with the dill and potatoes. For a smokier flavor, roast the ears of corn directly over the fire before removing the kernels. If you don’t have fresh salmon, frozen will work fine, or you can use smoked salmon. If using smoked salmon, cut back on the salt for seasoning.

My mother often cooked this dish when my family camped out. If you have leftover cooked chicken, use that instead of the smoked chicken, though the smoky taste is great in this dish.

Who doesn’t love crispy, salty potatoes? This simple Spanish-influenced dish is a fine accompaniment to grilled fish. The saffron-scented aioli dressing is also wonderful tossed with pasta or on other seasonal vegetables. This dish is even more stunning when made with Peruvian purple potatoes.

A spirited family debate one holiday season over the merits of sweet versus white potatoes prompted this compromise—colorful root vegetables all coexisting nicely in one big happy roasting pan. Frozen pearl onions are easy to use right out of the bag and make the dish look extra fancy. You can cook the vegetables early in the day and stick them back in the oven to warm before dinner with whatever’s cooking. These are delicious sprinkled with smoked paprika.

In the Sard dialect, the town of Villagrande is called Biddamanna. There, a vast parcel of Sard earth is su cumonale—owned by everyone of the community. Shepherds can pasture their sheep, townsfolk can collect wood for their fires, a family can cultivate a small orchard, a garden of vegetables. The Biddamannesi can walk kilometer after kilometer through forests, into the mountains, onto the moors, hunting, foraging, gathering, as they have done forever in this town with no walls, no fences. And, too, they cook for each other over great fires laid in the piazza near the village hall on feast days. Cauldrons of thick soups, mutton poached with wild grasses, and beautiful handmade pastas are offered with baskets of pane carasau and barrels of rough, purply cannonau. Though all Sards seem passionate about making packets of their food, these Biddamannesi seem more devoted, even, to the pursuit. They urge rough doughs into pouches and pillows plumped with all manner of savories and sweets, the bundles tumbled into gurgling oil or baked over wood embers or gently poached. Culingionis are raviolo-like pasta typically stuffed with bitter greens and an acidy, fresh ewe’s milk cheese or a paste of potatoes, nutmeg, cloves, wild mint, and pecorino. Though these are luscious, it is a half day’s ceremony to make them. Hence, I sometimes wrap the good potato paste in a crisp quilting of cheese pastry, a quickly done deed that gives up all the savor of the culingionis plus the prize of a gorgeous scent as the crostata bakes to crispness.

Deep in the Gothic tangles of the Aspromonte sits the fourteenth-century Santuario della Madonna di Polsi, a refuge culled by an ancient order of cloistered sisters dedicated to the honor of the Madonna, through a life of acetism. Once a year, though, in the early spring, when pilgrims from faraway parishes walk over Monte Montalto to the sanctuary to celebrate the festival of the Madonna, the nuns sacrifice a flock of newborn lambs to the glory of her, braising their flesh in old, shallow coppers and feeding the faithful at long, rough-hewn tables set out on a meadow floor.

Foggia is the city studding the largest wheat fields of Italy’s south—the tavoliere—it being the ancient, present, and endless granary of the peninsula. Too, are potatoes cultivated there, soothing the Pugliese penchant for them in breads, tarts, stews. Our maîtresse d’hôtel in Foggia baked a reprise of this luscious tart evening after evening, sometimes filling it with minced lamb or thin slices of poached sausage or crumbles of smoked ricotta, and presented it barely warm as our first course.

A smoky char permeates the potatoes and the onions and this, fusing with the brininess of the capers and olives and anchovies, gives up luscious flavors.

Abbacchio, a long-ago Roman term for a newborn lamb, is the prescripted dish of Easter. And older than history is the innocent, rousing scent of it roasting with branches of wild rosemary, curling out from the kitchen doors of the trattorie in the Trastevere on Sundays in the spring, beckoning one to table together.