An Everlasting Meal: Cooking with Economy and Grace

by Tamar Adler

Store leftover grits or polenta poured into a baking or roasting pan. You can leave the pan, cut or uncut, covered or uncovered, in the refrigerator for days. Once its contents have hardened, cut them into wedges or squares, drizzle them with oil, and grill or fry them. Serve a big square of panfried polenta topped with garlicky greens, a poached egg, and a heavy grating of Parmesan cheese. If you decide you want to eat grits or polenta soft on a second day, break them into pieces, put them back into a pot, and heat them, adding a little water and whisking vigorously until they become creamy. You can go in both directions a few times.

If you crave something even more tranquil make polentina. This is as unlikely a soup as one made of risotto rice and lettuce. It has no bon mot attached. It is just deeply comforting to know how to make such a thing. Polentina 6 cloves garlic, sliced 2 tablespoons olive oil salt 8 cups chicken stock 1 small bundle parsley stems, thyme, savory, and sage, tied together with twine 1/2 cup polenta Cook the garlic in olive oil in a big pot, salting it as soon as you add it. Add the chicken stock and herbs and bring to a boil. Lower to a simmer...

No matter what else is in my cupboards, I try to keep at least one jar or can each of anchovies, olives, capers, and astringent pickles, like gherkins, or cornichons.

A good way to get anchovies’ dense, rosy little selves to show what they can do is to make bagna cauda. (This means “warm bath.”) Bagna cauda is a buttery dip that is a lovely way to start a meal and incredibly economical. The contents of a single jar of anchovies make enough for a big group of people. You need to reconceive both the dip and the dipped to make sense of this. Fill a plate with sliced boiled potatoes, thin wedges of raw cabbage, wedges of soft-boiled egg, lightly boiled celery, and leaves of endive, then spoon the rich sauce over each one as you eat it. Bagna cauda 1/2 cup good anchovy fillets 2/3 cup olive oil 2 tablespoons butter 4 cloves garlic, pounded to a paste with salt in a mortar with a pestle or on a cutting board salt Chop the anchovies roughly, then pound to a paste as you would garlic. Heat a little of the olive oil and all of the butter in a small pot over low heat. When the butter melts, add the garlic and stir over the lowest heat possible, making sure it doesn’t brown. Add the anchovies and cook the two together for 5 minutes, stirring occasionally. Keep the heat very low; turn it off periodically if the pot starts sizzling. Once the bagna cauda has begun to darken, add the remaining olive oil and a small pinch of salt. Let it cook at below a simmer for 15 to 20 minutes. Serve this warm. There are special pots sold especially for it. I serve it in the pot in which it cooked, moving it back to the stove for a minute when it cools down, warmin...

If you’re buying jars of olives, the tiny eggplant-hued niçoise olives are delicate tasting and all-purpose. Black, wrinkled, salt-cured Greek olives are also delicious. I also like the mossy little French lucques or picholine olives. Greek kalamata olives may be the only jarred olives you can find and they are usually fine. If none of those are available, buy any olive in a jar, not a can. If you can only find green cocktail olives, buy them. Unless you’re deeply committed to their bright red pimentos’ pickliness, remove the garish things before you begin cooking with the olives.

Olive pastes are some of the handiest sauces to keep around. I can’t think of anything that isn’t improved by a spoonful of one. Make a basic olive paste by finely chopping olives, pounding a little garlic with salt, and mixing in a good amount of olive oil. There are a million variations, most of them good, each with its own name. In Greece, olive paste might have a few drops of vinegar added. In Italy, there may be chopped fresh rosemary—if you’re eating beans or bean soup, I recommend this variation. When olives and garlic and earthy rosemary plop down onto hot beans, something quite extraordinary happens.

To make olive toasts, thinly slice any bread you have, toast it, rub one side with raw garlic, drizzle the toasts lightly with olive oil, then top each with a big spoonful of tapenade, made by adding some capers and anchovies to your plain olive paste. For a variation on that, top each with a torn piece of mozzarella and toast until the cheese melts. For another, put a sliver of vinegar-marinated roasted pepper on each one.

For a simple one that calls only for the other powerful ingredients in your cupboard, combine equal quantities of drained chopped capers, pitted chopped olives, a chopped anchovy fillet or two (or five, depending on your taste), and twice as many finely chopped cornichons as capers and olives. Mix with just enough olive oil to loosen. Try this on cold potatoes, or cold roast chicken, or in an omelet of boiled beef.

Some vegetables are persistently underestimated. If you ever find yourself longing to cook a good vegetable but there is none in sight, get a deep pot and dig eight to ten plain, big, dusty onions from your pantry, or the cold, dark onion bin at your nearest store. Then caramelize them. Cut off their tops, then cut them in half through their roots, then lengthwise into slices about a quarter-inch thick. Warm three tablespoons of butter and three tablespoons of olive oil in a big pot. When the butter is melted, add the mountain of onions, a small pinch of sugar, a big pinch of salt, and a branch of fresh thyme, and stir it all well. Cook the onions over medium-low heat, stirring them occasionally. Add occasional sprinkles of water if the onions begin to stick. If they start to sizzle, lower the heat and cover the pot, then uncover it when the cooking has slowed. This will take forty-five minutes to an hour, and the whole mass will look soggy and unconvincing until right before the onions are done, at which point they melt completely into a golden jam and all of their sugars come out to toast. Now you have a perfect vegetable base for a series of dishes. If it’s cold out, make soup. Our expectations of onion soup are as dingy as our expectations of onions themselves. There is no better varnishing of either than the fine and heady humbleness of this one. Onion soup 2 cups caramelized onions 1 tablespoon olive oil, plus more for the bread 1 tablespoon butter 1/4 cup water 1 te...

Or make omelets and fill their centers with a spoonful of sour cream, caramelized onions, and a little toasted caraway.

recommend buying the leafiest, most complete bunch of celery you can. Every part of a bunch of celery can be used. Tough outer branches are perfect for stock, and there’s no better ingredient for a capery salsa verde for eggs and no better herb for a pasta frittata than celery leaves. Celery with lemon 1 large or 2 small bunches celery 2 tablespoons unsalted butter water salt 2/3 to 1 lemon, sliced into the thinnest possible rounds 1/2 cup toasted breadcrumbs freshly chopped parsley or mint leaves Cut the leaves from celery and set them aside. Use the entire stalks of celery for this dish, except for the very bottom of each bunch, where the stalks come together. If any of the stalks look especially dark green, save them for stock. Cut the rest of the stalks into 3-inch-long pieces. Locally grown celery is stronger flavored and tougher. It needs to be peeled. Put the celery, butter, and water to come halfway up into a pan that fits all the cut celery in one or two layers with 2 inches above it. Season it with a little salt, then layer the lemon rounds over the top. Heat the pan over high heat until the water starts to boil. Turn the heat to low and cover the pan. Cook for 20 to 30 minutes. If you hear the pan start to dry out before the celery’s cooked, add water by the drizzle until there’s enough liquid in the pan to let it keep cooking without burning. Check for doneness by removing a piece and tasting it. The celery should be easy to pierce with a knife and taste quite ...

Cabbages do not grow underground but they are terribly neglected. A perfect way to flatter cabbage is to boil it. Cut a whole cabbage into fat wedges, leaving them attached at their core. Drop the wedges into well-salted boiling water, and cook them until the solid pieces of core are easily cut with a knife. Quickly drain and lay the wedges on a plate, add a long drizzle of olive oil and a splash of vinegar. This is heavenly. Or roast cabbage, cut into thinner wedges, in a deep, covered roasting pan with a sprinkle of white wine vinegar, another of water, and a lot of olive oil, until it’s tender within, golden without. Or slice it very thinly and cook it with olive oil and salt in a big pan.

I recommend you put away all cookbooks except Hugh Fearnley-Whittingstall’s and The Supper of the Lamb by Robert Farrar Capon. The first contains recipes that are as smart as its moral deliberations. The second, the single most sensible meat recipe I’ve ever read.

won’t buy meat unless it lets me make more than one. This helps from a budgetary perspective, and my soul is more settled when I make a little meat go far. It also makes buying meat at farmers’ markets, or the humanely raised meat available at grocery stores, practical.

The simplest way to cook hardworking cuts is slowly, in a pot. This is also the most resourceful way to cook meat. After it has simmered away with broth and a few vegetables, meat that has slow-cooked in a pot creates a second ingredient. This is as inevitable as bean broth from a bean pot. In addition to their meat, tougher cuts generously leave you soup or sauce.

As you shop, look at chuck eye and know it will behave like short ribs; expect shoulder and shin to perform the same. If it’s economical, gather an assortment of odd cuts from the same species: I have been served from a deep, delicious pot of braised lamb that included lamb ribs, a rich lamb shank, and pieces of shoulder roast. If the responsibly raised meat you find is sold frozen, buy it. Opinions differ, but I think that frozen meat is fine. Tough cuts freeze especially well.

Unless you are positive your refrigerator and pantry are completely bare, return home with only the meat in hand. A pot of slow-cooking meat is an accommodating place. It is into it that any good-tasting odds and ends should go: little peelings from mushrooms, ends of bottles of wine or beer, skins from blanched tomatoes, tops of sweet peppers, ends of bunches of herbs.

Once you get home, salt your meat five times more heavily than you’re comfortable doing. It’s hard to get enough salt into dense, slow-cooking cuts. Salt needs to sit on all available surfaces for as long as possible and have a chance to journey in on its own. If you plan to cook the meat today, leave it sitting at room temperature for three hours. If you are cooking it tomorrow, refrigerate it overnight and then bring it back up to room temperature before cooking it. It’s worth cooking the meat you’ve bought even if you aren’t planning on eating it for a few days. Slow-cooked meat improves with time.

Braised meat 3 pounds meat from a tougher part of a happily raised animal 2 tablespoons olive oil salt up to 1 cup clean vegetable scraps: onion, celery, carrot, fennel. If you’ve not got scraps, use pieces from whole vegetables a bundle of parsley stems, sprigs of thyme, and a bay leaf optional: 1/2 teaspoon spices such as fennel seed, cumin, and/or coriander 8 cups stock, heated if you’ve got time 2 cups white or red wine or beer, or a combination of any and the liquid from a can of tomatoes Between a day and three hours before you want to cook the meat, salt it heavily. If the meat has been refrigerated, bring it to room temperature two hours before you start cooking it. Heat the oven to 300 degrees. Heat the oil in a pot big enough to hold the meat plus all the liquid. Add the meat and brown it on at least two sides over medium heat. Let it get quite brown, not mushy tan. Remove it from the pot to a plate. Add the vegetable scraps and herbs to the pot, stirring them against the browned bits. If you’re using spices, add them, too. Once the vegetables have begun to soften, add the meat, stock, and wine-beer combination, and bring almost to a boil. Lower to a simmer, cover tightly, and let cook for 3 to 4 hours in the oven until the meat is tender enough to fall apart when it’s pressed with the side of a wooden spoon. Check the pot more frequently if you’re cooking different cuts of meat. Smaller pieces of meat will get fully cooked before larger or denser ones. When any ...

It is based on the Provençal meat dish mirotons, which is made with leftover slow-cooked beef, flour, onion, tomato, a lot of butter, and breadcrumbs. This version is brighter and more vegetal. Summer vegetables and slow-cooked meat olive oil 2 cups zucchini cut into 3/4- to 1-inch pieces 1/2 small onion, finely chopped 1 stalk celery, finely chopped 2 cloves garlic, finely chopped salt 1 tablespoon tomato paste 1 tablespoon chopped roasted peppers 1/2 cup white wine 11/2 cups beef stock or braising liquid 2 cups boiled or braised meat, cut into irregular 3/4- to 1-inch pieces 1 cup potatoes, cut into cubes and boiled 1/2 cup chopped fresh parsley 1 tablespoon chopped mixed fresh thyme and rosemary 1/4 to 1/2 cup toasted breadcrumbs Heat the oven to 425 degrees. In a large sauté pan, heat the olive oil, add the zucchini, and cook without browning. When it’s started to soften, add the onion, celery, and garlic, salting well. Let it cook until softened. Add the tomato paste and roasted peppers and cook over medium heat until the vegetables have begun to melt together, 8 to 10 minutes. Add the wine and 1 cup beef stock and cook it at a low bubble. When most of the liquid has cooked off, add the meat, potatoes, and the rest of the beef stock. Mix in the herbs. Butter a deep, heavy pie dish. Spread the mixture in the dish and cook, uncovered, in the middle of the oven for 30 to 40 minutes until it’s all bubbling, there’s barely any liquid left in the pan, and the peaks of the m...

If everyone has eaten firsts and seconds and you’ve served all the meat you cooked, you will still have braising liquid. If it contains bits of meat, warm it in a pot, add a great handful of parsley or basil, then toss it with hot pasta as you would any pasta sauce. If it doesn’t contain meat, it will still make a gratifying soup. Cook a little garlic and onion until they’re tender, cut potatoes and root vegetables into cubes and add them, a little spoonful of tomato paste, the braising liquid, and water. Cook until the vegetables are tender, add a drizzle of vinegar and a big handful of parsley and serve hot. A cup of cooked beans is a good addition, if you need this to stick to your bones even more tightly.

If you’re buying humanely raised meat, ground meat may cost as much as steaks and chops from animals raised more dubiously. So you must stretch it over more meals, just as you do any other cuts. One of the best ways to do that is to make Bolognese sauce. Sauce distributes goodness. It also gives you an opportunity to add butter, or luxurious dried mushrooms, or cream, or anything else you want to add to make your investment pay off. This sauce has all of those, which makes it opulent without being expensive. It is the best thing I can think of to make with ground meat. It is delicious on pasta or polenta. This is a version of a recipe adapted by Amanda Hesser from one by Heidi da Emploi. White Bolognese 1/4 cup finely chopped onion 1/8 cup finely chopped carrot 1 stalk celery, finely chopped olive oil salt 1 pound Italian pork sausage, removed from its casings, or ground pork plus 1 teaspoon chile flakes and 3 leaves fresh sage, finely sliced 1 pound ground beef 11/2 cups white wine 2 cups beef or chicken stock 11/2 ounces dried porcini mushrooms rehydrated in 3 cups warm water 1/3 cup heavy cream 1 pound rigatoni or another short noodle or 1 cup polenta 3/4 cup freshly grated Parmesan cheese Cook the onion, carrot, and celery in olive oil until tender, salting them as soon as you add them to the pan. Add the sausage and beef, break it up, and brown it well. Add the wine and simmer until the pan is almost dry. Add the stock and simmer, uncovered, until the stock is nearly ...

If you can’t afford meat, ask a farmer or butchers’ counter for meaty bones. Most have them and will either give them to you for free or sell them cheaply. With a kitchen inventory more bone than flesh you will eat finely.

Put about two cups of a combination of aromatic vegetable scraps in a big pot. I usually use tips or ends of carrots, an onion half, onion peels, tough tops of fennel, outer stalks of celery, and parsley stems. Add a small handful of black peppercorns, bones, and water to just cover by two inches. I don’t add salt. If anything else you’re cooking ends up salty, it’s good to know that your stock can save it. Let the water come to a boil, then lower it to a bare simmer. Skim off the gray foam that gathers on its surface with a slotted spoon. You will need to do this periodically as it cooks, as often as the stock seems to want it. After three hours, taste a bite of vegetable, and taste a spoonful of stock by scooping a little into a spoon and sprinkling in a few grains of salt. The vegetable should be tasteless, having given all of itself to the stock, and the stock taste like light broth. Let it cook until the pot’s contents match those descriptions. Remove bones with tongs or a spoon, then pour the stock through a fine-mesh strainer into a container and refrigerate it. Any meat that’s still clinging to the bones won’t taste like much, but in a pinch can be picked off, mixed with mayonnaise, onions, and chopped pickles, and spread on toast. Let the stock sit in the refrigerator overnight to give its fat time to rise to the top. The following day, scoop the fat off with a spoon. Save it in a jar. Use it as you would butter or olive oil.

Once you have stock, you will have already half cooked a number of meals. Sauté a little onion and risotto rice in butter and use your stock to make risotto. Cook a handful of dried noodles in it for noodle soup. Warm and add some cooked beans and greens to simmering stock, and poach an egg in it. Or toast stale bread, rub it with garlic, put it in a bowl, and top it with hot broth. You may not get thirty-two servings of food from your pot of bones and scraps but you will get into the high single digits.

Meat brine 1/4 cup salt 1/2 tablespoon sugar water 2 bay leaves 2 whole dried chiles 1 teaspoon juniper berries 4 sprigs thyme 1 teaspoon peppercorns Combine the salt and sugar over low heat with 1/4 cup water. As soon as the salt and sugar have dissolved, take it off the heat. In the container in which you’re going to brine the pork leg roast, combine everything with a few ice cubes. Mix it all well. Once it is cool, add the meat and water to cover. Brine, before meat is added, stays good forever. Pork roast Brine a three-pound pork leg roast overnight in the refrigerator. Cover the meat with a plate that fits inside the container and weigh it down so that it doesn’t float. Heat the oven to 375 degrees. Remove the pork from the brine and pat it dry. Heat a cast-iron pan or a heavy-bottomed pot over medium heat and add 1 tablespoon olive oil. Brown each side of the meat over medium-high heat. Let each side turn caramel brown. This will take 10 to 15 minutes. Once the pork is browned, put the pan or pot directly in the oven. Cook the meat, untouched, until it’s medium-rare. In an oven, this will take about 20 minutes per pound. Pork will need an internal temperature of 165 degrees when you pull it out of the oven, and will go on cooking once you remove it. Err on the side of undercooking the meat. Check it with a meat thermometer at its thickest part until you get good at telling doneness by pressing on the meat. Remove the meat from the pan and let it sit on a cutting boar...

Buying fish whole, on the bone, with head and tail, is a good practice. It means fish stock, and there may be nothing more elegant or subtle than a minimally made one. You can also tell the most about fish’s freshness if you can press its skin, which should bounce back, and look in its eye, which should be glossy.

When you buy whole fish, ask for it to be scaled and gutted. It will arrive in your basket with its skin still on, but its hard, silvery scales removed. If it does not come scaled and gutted, take a dull knife and scrape it down the length of the fish in the direction opposite the shingling of the scales. This is a messy but fast ordeal. To remove a fish’s guts is surprisingly ungalling. They’re rather petite, and the only hard part is making the first cut into the fish’s belly. Cut into it sharply, make a long slit, and remove everything inside. Rinse the fish and dry it. To roast fish whole, heat an oven to 400 degrees. Make sure the fish skin is very dry, and then salt it well. Sprinkle salt inside it, a little less well, and fill the rest of the cavity with thinly sliced lemon, thyme, and rosemary. If you have none of those, count on salt and fish to collaborate, which they have done successfully until now. Put the fish in a roasting pan, however it fits. Drizzle olive oil onto the fish skin. Fish is best checked for doneness with your finger. It takes about fifteen minutes per inch of thickness for fish to roast. Fish takes longer to cook when it is on the bone, which makes cooking a whole one more forgiving than cooking fillets. Choose a sacrificial spot at the thickest part of the fish and poke into it as often as you need to to feel that its cooking is still under your control. It will be done when it is opaque and it flakes. If whole fish—or any fish—show signs of...

Serve a whole fish as you would a roast chicken: gleaming and ready, on its own platter, with some acknowledgment of its silvery skin, crisp tail, single, reminding, glassy eye. Leave the head on, so that you get a chance to regard the fish as she regards you, and there’s a proper ceremony to the exchange.

Or buy fish that are small enough to oil well and stick, in their shimmering entirety, on a hot grill. Little sardines and small mackerel, which are some of the best fish to buy anyway, just need to be cooked whole, hot, and fast. They can be served a few per person. They are as easy to cook as hot dogs and should be cooked the same way: allowed to char, flipped over once, then moved onto waiting plates.