The best thought was that I need to write more about the world, and less about me. (But if I write it as I see it, aren’t I still writing about me?) Either way, I need to write, so you see the conundrum. When I’m not writing, I am not at my best. But I find myself a rather dull subject after a while. I’m working on it.

But anyway, I’ll share some opinions. I love leeks, and I love my drive to school: this is Beaver Meadow Road. You see how beautiful it is–and how one might want to spend 1,000 words describing it. But I won’t.

I won’t spend 1,000 words on this, either. But it’s just a few feet up. Can you imagine?

Nor will I spend so much on leeks. But I will say this: you will never be dissatisfied if you keep a few leeks and a carton of eggs on hand. And some parsley, garlic and parmesan. This works well on the days (weeks) when you can’t drive to the grocery store. I had a day like that recently and was grateful for my leeks. They are better to eat than canned beans. But I must say, the leeks pictured came from a market in the fall… I’ve eaten many since and would’t advise storing them for quite that long.

I love the circles that leeks make when you cut them, and the colors fading from dark green to pale white. I love the way they get brown in a pan and the way they smell with butter. They go soft and sweet, and are more delicate than their onion cousins.

Leek Frittata

2 leeks, sliced thinly cross-wise and well rinsed (whites and light greens only, please!)

1 T butter

6 eggs

White wine (1/2 c, maybe)

1/2 c grated parmesan cheese or parrano, sliced thin

2 T chopped parsley

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Preheat oven to 350.

Wash them leeks! Really. You’ll ruin the whole thing if there’s sand in a leek, and leeks love to be sandy.

Heat your butter until brown and delicious-smelling, then saute leeks until beautifully golden (this should take time–do it slowly).

Add some white wine if you can and saute some more.

In a separate bowl, beat your eggs with salt and pepper. Add parsley.

If you prefer, you can put the cheese in now, or gently lay it over the eggs before baking.

Place leeks in a a round, oven-proof dish big enough for this sort of thing. (You can also use your skillet.)

Pour eggs over leeks and cover with cheese.

Bake about 20 minutes, though you may need more.

I usually eat this with some toast or little baked potatoes and a green salad. (And I like the dressing from this salad.)

Life is changing a lot–unlike my friends in Texas, who have endured nearly three months of 100+ temperatures, I can feel the fall moving into North Country. It starts with a subtle gust of cooler wind, whirling at my feet. I hear a few more crows cry, and the smell in the air changes a little. It’s not electric yet, but that’s coming. We still have warm, golden afternoons. The wildflowers and hay are high, the leathery day lilies just beginning to wrinkle. The next few months are my favorite time of year, especially in this part of the world. Home.

Moving is difficult. I haven’t written about it: there were so many emotions, and I didn’t know what to say. Christopher and I spent four years making a home, building our own village, and then suddenly–albeit at our own discretion–the place and the people faded in the rearview mirror. We packed up our books, our rugs, our bed. Our belongings were skillfully arranged on the truck like Tetris bricks, set to be carried along thousands of miles of highway.

We drove through Arkansas, Tennessee, Virginia, Pennsylvania then up to New York and Connecticut. The moving van lagged behind, picking up other homes en route. I lay in bed at night in motels with florescent lights shining through grey curtains, itching from stiff sheets. My belly ached and my head spun from too many sweets at Cracker Barrel. I thought about our home… where we lived after we got married, where we collected books and made meals and memories. It unnerved me to think of our things in boxes, rumbling along some unknown highway. We couldn’t get more than an estimate on what day the movers would arrive. They said, “We’ll call when we’re close.”

My parents live in Connecticut, and we stayed with them, waiting for the call. In the meantime, I grounded myself in the kitchen. I love what the land offers in late-summer. Eggplants, squash, tomatoes, maize and fruits became ratatouille, corn salad, blueberry crumbles, peach pies. Still, there were monarchs in my stomach. For over a week, my whole life was up in the air, (or out on the road) and I had no idea what it would be like where I landed.

Well, it’s quite nice here. Our house is small and cozy. Right now I want to stay forever, although that, too could evolve. I’ll miss these summer squash as the September breezes blow in and clear the fields for something new. But I can’t wait for the apples.

Raw Zucchini and Sun Gold Salad

Serves 2 as a side-dish or stater

Slice 1 medium zucchini and 1 medium summer squash into matchsticks.

Cut 1 c Sun Gold or cherry tomatoes into halves.

Make a vinaigrette (reserve extra) and coat zucchini, squash and tomaotes generously, letting them marinate at least 15 minutes.

Toast 1/3 c pine nuts.

Pit and chop 1/2 c black olives.

Chop 2 oz feta into small blocks or crumbles.

Chop 1 large bunch of herbs (I like parsley or basil).

Wash, dry and chop 6 c of greens (optional).

Just before serving, toss greens in enough vinaigrette to coat. Lay zucchini and tomato mixture on top.

Add cheese and olives and sprinkle herbs to garnish.

Add pine nuts last, preserving their crunch.

In the meantime, he caught this fish:

He caught several fish last weekend, so I know his casting isn’t a fluke either.

I married up.

Come dinner, I felt like I had a first class ticket to an old lady’s house in Tripoli. No jet lag. I was wrong to think that the magical combination of Middle Eastern spices could only be had in some far away place–or at a restaurant owned by someone from a far away place. As it turns out, Christopher substitutes fine for a Lebanese grandmother.

I watched him make these on July 4th. It looks pretty simple, and requires only things my parent’s already had in their spice rack. The only critical component was leaving enough time for the spices to enliven the lamb. He made the meatballs after lunch, and let them sit until dinner. On the grill, they get crispy outsides, but hold up fine, even without breadcrumbs or yolks. We served these with a simple yogurt, cucumber and dill sauce.  Some call it tzatziki.

Lamb Kafta

4 cloves garlic

1 tablespoon kosher salt, plus a pinch

1 pound ground lamb

3 tablespoons grated onion

3 tablespoons chopped fresh flat-leaf parsley

1 tablespoon ground coriander

1 teaspoon ground cumin

1/2 teaspoon ground cinnamon

1/2 teaspoon ground allspice

1/4 teaspoon cayenne pepper

1/4 teaspoon nutmeg

1/2 teaspoon curry powder

1/4 teaspoon ground ginger

Freshly ground black pepper

Olive oil, for brushing the grill

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Dice the garlic as finely as possible, then rub in sea salt to form a paste, using the flat-side of a knife.

Add the spices, onion, garlic and parsley to a large bowl and mix completely.

Add the ground lamb to the spices and mix until fully blended.

Roll into 1/2″ patties and refrigerate, at least 3 hours.

Grill for 3-4 minutes per side.

The first time my mother made it this year (it’s most satisfying in the cold), Christopher and I were en route from a late flight for Thanksgiving. We debated grabbing something from the new–very culinary–Kennedy Jet Blue terminal, but were convinced to hold off. When we finally arrived at home, it was 10:30 and we were numb with hunger. I didn’t tell Christopher what was waiting: he doesn’t like sweet vegetables and I was sure he’d envision some purée of maple syrup, apples and cinnamon, which seem to be prominent ingredients in most squash soups. Fortunately, the deep curry and herbs disguise the sugar and starch typical of so many root vegetables. This soup is subtly spiced, rich from a ham-hock and fit for those with a hankering for savory food. In fact, if it weren’t so orange, you might not even recognize its main ingredient.

On another note, Christopher and I are going to Paris tomorrow. Last night I started reading Paris Was Ours and woke myself up with excitement at 3:30am. Fortunately, I had a generous nap, but I haven’t been so excited for a trip in as long as I can remember. I will be heading to E. Dehillerin, on the recommendation of Christopher’s grandmother. Her suggestion reminded me of a quote I recently read  by Florence King: “A house without a grandmother is like an egg without salt.” I can’t wait to eat hardboiled eggs in little french cups with little french spoons. Copper pots aren’t bad either… neither are croissantes, the Musée d’Orsay, Shakespeare and Company or the smell of wooden cathedral pews, smoothed through years of use.

Curried Squash Soup

Adapted (by memory) from Green on Greens

1 medium-sized butter nut squash, cubed

2 T butter

5 scallions, thinly sliced

1 green pepper, diced

1 red pepper, diced

2-3 garlic cloves, chopped (depending on their size and your taste)

1 ham-hock (1/4 lb of salt pork could also work–add it at the beginning with less butter)

2 qts chicken broth

1/2 c chopped basil

1/4 c chopped parsley

–

Melt the butter in a large, heavy-bottomed skillet until brown and bubbling.

Add the scallions and peppers and sauté until soft, about 7 minutes.

Add garlic and squash and sauté a few minutes more, just until garlic begins to brown.

Add chicken stock and ham hock and bring to a boil.

Lower the heat and cook until squash softens, 45 minutes.

Add herbs and cook another 5 minutes.

Blends, or pass through a food mill, being careful not to cause any explosions.

Serve with a small spoonful of crème fraîche or additional herbs.

Tomorrow, I will make one of my favorite forms of chicken salad–the kind that doesn’t leave you with an unctuous film at the corners of your lips. I would be a damn liar if I claimed not to like mayonnaise, but this has none, and that makes it easier to pack for lunch. It’s so simple, even a law student can blog about it, which generally means it’s quick to make. I tend to spend more prose on the recipes that involve a lot of steps, if only because I like to keep my cooking and writing efforts somewhat commensurate.

So for those of you with big weeks ahead, here’s to a bird that will keep you sated for at least a few lunches. Sunday supper rolling into healthy Monday lunch–and all you have to do is supply the vegetables, the fork and the appetite. And please don’t let this post implant in you any identification with a grotesque and greedy cartoon man, although I will say that if it were possible to down a drumstick in one fell swoop, I’d be all about it.

Chicken Salad with Herbs and Vegetables

Makes 4 servings

Leftover meat from a 4-5 lb chicken (about 1 lb), shredded

2 T olive oil

2 t lemon juice

1 t dijon mustard

1/2 c chopped parsley

2 scallions, diced

1 c cherry tomatoes, quartered

2 celery ribs, diced

1/2 bell pepper, diced

1/4 medium red onion, diced

salt and pepper

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In a large bowl, whisk olive oil, lemon juice and dijon mustard.

Add chicken and toss to coat–you may not need all the dressing. Then again, you may want more.

Add chopped herbs and vegetables and toss to coat. Season with salt and pepper.

This recipe tastes best if left to marinate over night–toss again before serving to distribute dressing.

When this blog was young, before I bought myself a respectable camera, I took pictures with a teensy point and shoot, whose viewfinder is so small it looks like a postage stamp. I want to take it to Goodwill, but the camera is covered in sticky crumbs and has butter in all of its metallic creases, so I’ve kept it. I moved on to a fancier point and shoot for a while there–one with a ‘food’ setting–but then I started reading other food blogs and realized that my photos were an absolute embarrassment. They’re still here because I am sentimental and want my great, great grandchildren to have access to all accounts of my cookery, just in case they’re curious about what a dead relative was like. Honestly, though, I blush at the idea of anyone looking at food pictures I took before May, 2009. This will probably be funny to read in the year 2109, so laugh it up little ones, if you’re out there.

But to those of you who read other incredible blogs, like 101 Cookbooks, Orangette, or Smitten Kitchen, please don’t judge me for my bizarre recipe choices. After all, I’m only doing my best to keep up with the caliber of food photography out there–and to do so, I must shoot by day. I’ve tried to hard to make more elegant lunches, but frankly, people don’t typically come over for lunch. Cooking up a grand meal for 1 in the middle of the day is a sad idea indeed. I’d rather throw cold leftovers onto a bed of lettuce and eat in a much less depressing fashion. This is why full-out, gorgeous pieces of meat and fish are rare appearances here at Bread & Courage. I’d even venture to say that whatever recipes do involve warm proteins are remnants of my point and shoot days, before I realized that big, white flash patches are not all that appetizing.

In that respect, I guess, this post isn’t really a departure from what I’ve been up to. After all, Ceviche is cold–and as old as a leftover. But it is at least a leftover worth writing about, since its extended time in the refrigerator is what makes the dish so worthwhile. I had never made Ceviche before this week, but I will never be intimidated again.  The possibility of eating (or feeding) raw fish is pretty frightening, and I’ve always wondered if I’d botch the marinating process or buy bum fish. (Although I suppose if I fully believed that, I would stop eating at dive-y sushi joints.) But really, my own hand in it is what scares me most. It still does, I’ll have you know, but not because of the cooking process.

Ceviche takes care of itself, and is refreshingly uncomplicated–especially if you use a fork or wear rubber gloves. The only qualm I have (which is entirely preventable!) is that Ceviche can make you smell–strongly–like a fishmonger. You’ll need at least 8 limes for this recipe, and I suggest buying a couple of lemons, too, so that you can vigorously scrub your fingertips after you’ve chopped and mixed the fish. When you serve it later, please have hearty chips or forks alongside so that your guests won’t go home cursing your recipe. And DO NOT send it with your husband as a ’snack’ at the office. These warnings should by no means be a turn off: Ceviche is too delicious to shy away from either for its raw-ness or for its scent. Just marinate it for a solid 8-12 hours (I let mine sit a full day)… and be sure it’s not served as finger food.

I like Ceviche full of chopped herbs and vegetables, although you can leave out the extras and serve it as plain as you like. I also used a 1:1 ratio of scallops and shrimp, although comparably-sized pieces of white fish or calamari are also delicious.*  Either way, be sure that the fish is swimming in juice–if any pieces are exposed, squeeze more lime, or shake the bowl every few hours to ensure that all of the fish gets ‘cooked.’

Shrimp and Scallop Ceviche

Serves 2-3 as a main course

1/2 lb shrimp, peeled, deveined, chopped

1/2 lb scallops, cleaned and chopped

2 stalks celery, diced

1/4 c cilantro, finely chopped

1/4 c parsley, finely chopped

1/2 yellow bell pepper, diced

1 c  cherry tomatoes, cut in half or quarters

2 green onions, diced

1/2 Serano pepper, finely diced (about 1 T)

1/2 cup lime juice (about 8-10 limes)

salt and pepper

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Squeeze limes to render 1/2 c lime juice.

Place fish in a bowl with a lid, large enough to accommodate all of the other ingredients.

Pour lime juice over fish and let sit 8-12 hours at a minimum, although preferably longer.

1 hour before serving, drain half of the lime juice and add chopped vegetables and herbs.

Season to taste just before serving.

*It goes without saying that if you decide to add more fish to the recipe, you’ll need to add enough lime to keep the ratio of lime juice to fish the same.

Last Friday was especially perfect for this type of stay-at-home date, as there was record rainfall accompanied by severe thunder claps and lightening white-outs. High levels of risk were involved in braving the commute and so, naturally, there was considerable excitement. The house was our ultimate destination: we were like heroes getting home.

But once we got home, there was a penetrating lull. The world of roads and traffic lights and office printers ceased to exist, and it was just the two of us, perched in our little gray house, hoping we wouldn’t be washed away. Before Christopher got home, I listened to Steve Inskeep drone the day’s final news while doing some mise en place, when all of a sudden—MEEEDDIIIIDIIIDUUUMMMDUMP. The high-pitched storm warning reminded me that things were serious outside, but that I was safe at my counter top, chopping herbs.

Christopher called shortly thereafter, to tell me about a puddle on Richmond Avenue that went up to the doors of his truck. I waited for him to get home while Lupe tried to maintain close contact to both of my calves as I hobbled through the kitchen gathering ingredients for our salad. She’s great at scooting between the ankles and staying there, despite the risks it poses to those of us heating skillets and opening bottles of wine. Christopher’s arrival was more celebratory than usual, and rivers of wine seemed to flow through the entire night. I wish it would rain like that more often.

Generally, on these Fridays, I handle the plant parts, and Christopher deals with the animals. Last week, he used a grill pan to cook up some trout he’d blackened with a generous coating of curries, peppers and other pungent dusts. Meanwhile, I sliced a few tomatoes (yellow, orange, red) into discs about the size of a silky mozzarella ball, alternating the two between slices of prosciutto and basil. I wanted more herbs, but neither Christopher nor I could brave the moat that had developed between our back stoop and our garden bed.

I wanted more herbs for my salad, too, and indeed the original recipe called for parsley and mint, both of which I had to do without. It would have frustrated me—especially since maneuvering the refrigerator door with a dog between your feet can be quite maddening—except that such extraordinary weather was inspiring some girlish nerves… would the power go out?… would we have to eat our dinner to a dim flame?… I promptly forgot about the mint. As it turns out, our lights stayed on, which was a good thing, because my feet were eager to cut the Sisal.

The salad you see now is a reproduction: I had some leftover peas, pistachios and a bit of Pecorino, and I made this again the very next day—when the sun came out and the birds took baths in sidewalk puddles.  It was just as delicious under clear skies.

Pea, Pecorino and Pistachio Salad

Adapted from Food and Wine

Serves 4-6

1 T freshly squeezed lemon juice
1 T honey
1 large egg yolk
3 T cup extra-virgin olive oil
Salt and freshly ground pepper
5 ounces baby arugula
1 large head frisée, chopped
1 tablespoon chopped mint
1 tablespoon chopped flat-leaf parsley
1 cup frozen baby peas, thawed
½ cup pistachios, roasted in a skillet and salted (or pre-roasted)
1 cup shaved Pecorino Romano cheese (3 ounces)
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In the bottom of your salad bowl, whisk lemon juice, honey and egg yolk.
Drizzle in olive oil until emulsified, adding more if you prefer an oilier dressing.
Season with salt and pepper and place arugula, frisée and herbs over the dressing—do not coat.
In the meantime, prepare your other ingredients.
Just before serving, toss the leaves then gently add remaining ingredients.
(You can toss to incorporate, although I preferred to serve mine with the nuts and cheese on top.)

But what about the potato? Until Dr. Atkins, everybody loved the potato. It’s just as pallid as cauliflower, just clothed a little bit. Radishes are also white, and people love them grated beside raw fish or slashed into a slaw. And the turnip? Well… that’s not exactly helping my argument. All I’m saying is that the plain color of cauliflower should not be a deterrent. Unless, of course, it should be.

In all honesty, I’m not sure that cauliflower should be entirely pale. I have had my fair share of Styrofoam tasting cauliflower, that’s for sure. But that was back when I shopped at Kroger (before I became a snob…) and ate produce that might have been waiting for me for months, turning whiter and whiter. I’m not so elite, really. I still buy things at Kroger… things like baking soda and crackers and tonic water. But when it comes to anything that truly needs to be fresh to taste good, I avoid most places with the option for self-checkout.

This cauliflower is the perfect example. If you’ve never had just-picked cauliflower, consider yourself duped. This is a social justice issue, folks: people deserve fresh fruits and vegetables. Not just people living in food desserts, I mean everyone. And most people aren’t getting it. Even people who shop at Whole Foods.

Of course this is a stale argument, but I’m afraid it remains lost on many. If you want to know how a certain food really tastes, you’ve got to get it as close to the source as possible. If you are not shopping at a farmer’s market or growing your own food, you are missing out on what food really tastes like. Furthermore, you’re missing out on what it can possibly look like. Look at this cauliflower!

Look again!

It’s extraordinary—hints of green, purple, pink. It’s no ashen off-white. It’s alive with flavor. It’s sweet, subtle. Perfect for roasting with strong, sweet pine nuts and fresh, brilliant parsley leaves. We pulled at least ten heads of cauliflower out of the school garden before Spring break. I was a little intimidated of the three I was given, but as soon as I snapped off a floret, my fear abated. Now I wish I had taken five heads.

Roasting was my favorite way to eat these, of course. The edges got crisp and savory, with just a bit of olive oil and salt. I had more than I could eat in a single sitting, but the roasted florets perked up nicely in my toaster oven whenever I wanted a serving. If you’re not a cauliflower person, get out of the grocery store. Unless, of course, you’re busy buying olive oil and salt.

Golden Roasted Cauliflower

Serves 2

1 head of cauliflower

2 T olive oil, plus more for serving

1/4 c chopped parsley

1/4 c pine nuts

Salt

Parmesan cheese, for serving, if you wish

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Heat oven to 400 (you can add cauliflower before oven reaches desired temperature.

Break florets off cauliflower stem into bite-sized pieces.

In a medium bowl, toss cauliflower with 2 T olive oil and a generous pinch of salt.

Spread floretes evenly on a baking sheet, with room between each (to prevent steaming).

Roast 12 minutes then turn for even cooking.

Roast an additional 10-15 minutes, or until cauliflower becomes soft in the center and crisp on the edges.

In the meantime, heat a skillet with pine nuts and parsley until nuts turn slightly brown. Remove from heat and set aside.

Remove roasted cauliflower and toss with nuts and parsley.

Drizzle with additional olive oil before serving, add Parmesan if desired, and salt to taste.

But the garden at the school where I teach has changed all of that. And it’s not just parsley that is growing like delicious kudzu: it’s basil, dill, cilantro, mint and rosemary. I am embarrassed to admit to my former ignorance here, but herbs are not limited to being tiny sprouts—they can be vegetation at its most expansive.

This herbal bounty is something I have never enjoyed. In fact, I’ve always sort of detested fresh herbs, if only because a bunch can cost upwards of $5 to enhance a single dish before slipping into the darkest corner of my crisper, only to be found black and mushy months later. I wonder how many dollars have rotted in my refrigerator in the form of un-tapped flavor. Those were the herbs that I cursed.

What I really should have regretted was my dependence on the grocery store. But thanks be to the parsley shrub, I have been set free. Herbs growing in this quantity never go bad because they are always content: sucking water, swaying in the breeze, happily rooted and alive. Now that I have them, I never cook without them. I even keep bunches on my dashboard to keep the car smelling good. Try that with an overpriced basil leaf.

I feel wealthy, really. Sort of spoiled. But I have vastly changed my view of planting: I’ll never have a garden without rows of my favorites: basil, parsley, oregano, thyme and dill. I will plant them like lettuce. I realize that someday I may not be lucky enough to have herbs growing so abundantly in March, in which case, I’ll be sure to build an extra bed so that my summer crop can be dried and hoarded through a more traditional winter.

So what do I do with so many herbs to spare? Aside from making everything with meunière sauce, I like to make dips. Pesto is an obvious choice, but some parsley butter can be just as satisfying—especially when spread on a homegrown radish. I was recently inspired by Melissa Clark’s Greek Goddess dip, a spin off the more typical Green Goddess dip. She made it in anticipation of the Super bowl, which was easily accommodated by my Texas garden. That said, if I ever live on the east coast again, I won’t be making this much before June.

If you can’t wait for the season, or simply don’t have the requisite herbs growing nearby, make enough of this dip to use up whatever fresh herbs you buy: it’s really extraordinary stuff and  will practically guarantee that those extra basil leaves don’t rot forgotten.

Herb Dip with Feta and Greek Yogurt

Adapted from Melissa Clark, Serves 6-8

½ cup packed fresh dill
½ cup packed fresh mint
½ cup packed fresh parsley
½ cup packed fresh basil
2 garlic cloves, chopped
2 scallions, white and green parts, sliced
1 ½ tablespoons freshly squeezed lemon juice
½ cup extra virgin olive oil
½ cup crumbled feta cheese
½ cup Greek yogurt (preferably 2%)
1/4 c cream cheese, optional
Salt and pepper to taste

Raw chopped vegetables (radishes!) or pita chips, for serving.

Place herbs, garlic, scallions, lemon juice and a pinch of salt in a food processor, pulsing until finely chopped.

With food processor on low, drizzle in olive oil until blended. Add feta and pulse until smooth. Add cream cheese (if using), and pulse until smooth. Finally, pulse in yogurt. Add salt, pepper and lemon juice according to your taste.

Serve dip cold with vegetables or pita chips. This dip can be stored in the refrigerator for a few days—it also goes well on a toasted onion bagel for lunch.

But there is a problem with strict meatlessness when you live with a carnivore. And an even greater problem when you live with a carnivore in Texas and all of his friends are also carnivores. And the problem intensifies when you like his friends…and people, generally. Because not a lot of great dinner parties I’ve been to have featured a meatless dish.

Michael Pollen first put my dilemma (as it were) into focus: civilization was built around the fire. Roasting meat, not unlike the way it’s done at dinner parties, is the key to coming together. This is especially true of dinner parties in Texas. No one would come over to my house if I offered them quinoia pilaf. Except, maybe, my yoga teacher. So, I succumb. Not because my body wants to fill itself with flesh, but because my soul wants to be connected. More often than not, ‘breaking bread’ comes with a side of some communal butchered thing. And people are more important to me than anything–even a few hapless shrimp and the occasional pig.

So, the time is nigh for writing about this shrimp and sausage  soup. I’ve been doing a lot of twisting and bending lately, and if I don’t get this on the page soon, you will be even less likely to make it. Which would be a shame because it is delicious—and if you can find some well-treated pigs and happy, pink shrimp, all the better.

This meal is ideal for an omnivorous winter party—it just sings with flavor and spice. It is silky with occasional bursts of meaty chewiness. Delicious. And even though I’m not generally enticed by meat, there is something about pork in soup that really gets my belly rumbling. There’s no doubt that the best pots I’ve made have begun with a slab of pork salt, pancetta, bacon or, in this case, sausage.

This is the kind of meal I imagine would bring, not just individual nomads, but entire tribes of nomads, together. That is, if they had access to boar that wandered close to the Spanish coast. Its broth has just the right texture, consistency and richness to leave you feeling like you could roll away from the fire and fall asleep. Which is pretty close to what my group did the night we ate this. I dare say, vegetarians ought to make an exception for this dish. Dark winter days call for a bit of fleshy spice. And as they lift their bowls, they should say what I said to myself, “To civilization! Here, here.”

Spicy Shrimp and Chorizo Stew

Adapted from Food + Wine

Serves 6 as a main course

2 lbs medium shrimp, shelled and deveined—save shells
2 quarts chicken broth
8 oz Andouille sausage, chopped and removed from casing
1 large, sweet onion diced
1 large carrot, chopped
1 clove garlic, minced
1 teaspoon smoked paprika
28 oz can crushed tomatoes
1 tablespoon all-purpose flour mixed with 2 tbsp of water
S & P
Parsley, for garnish

Simmer shrimp shells in chicken broth about 10 minutes. Strain the broth and discard the shells.

In a large soup pot, cook the sausage over moderate heat, stirring occasionally, until browned.

With a slotted spoon, transfer the sausage to a separate plate.

Put the onion, carrot, garlic and paprika to the pot and cook over moderate heat until softened, about 10 minutes.

Add the crushed tomatoes and cook until the liquid has evaporated, about 15 minutes.

Return the sausage to the pot, add the shrimp broth and bring to a boil. Simmer over moderate heat for 25 minutes. (If you are doing this soup in advance—which I did—pause here and let the soup stand until you are almost ready to serve. Before following the next step, bring soup to a warm temperature.)

Stir the flour mixture, whisk it into the soup and boil for 2 minutes.

Season soup with salt and pepper.

Add the shrimp to the soup and cook just until pink and curled, about 2 minutes. Ladle the soup into bowls and top with parsley.