De caramelo.

Jerry: So, where do you want to eat tonight?
Patty: How about La Caridad again?
Jerry: Again?! How much flan can a person eat?!
Seinfeld: “The Serenity Now”

I was stumped for a clever introduction for this entry on flan and after an absurdly long 15 minutes of playing peek-a-boo with the cursor I walked out to the living room, turned on the TV, and caught a Seinfeld episode right as the above exchange was happening. Yes, I have strange psychic/telepathic abilities. Paranormal activity aside, the question of how much flan a person—or a whole people—can eat is completely valid. I’ve often wondered myself because among the Spanish-speaking world, there seems to be an insatiable hunger for it.

If Latin America were to become a single Union, à la Europe, the national dessert would most likely be flan. Lately I’ve taken to polling Spanish and Latin American friends—and strangers—about what they most commonly eat for dessert and flan is the answer 90% of the time. You’ll see flan stamped on every Latin American restaurant menu (including La Caridad; 2199 Broadway at 78th Street, NYC, though you’ll find it listed as “pudín de leche”), in many home fridges, and even in the baking aisle in powdered form, like American Jell-O pudding.

I resisted flan for a long time. “How stereotypical!” I thought. After the eye roll followed performance anxiety. There’s an overwhelming amount of bad flan made, served, and somehow eaten every day. Bad flan, riddled with deep dimples, like a bad case of cellulite. Bad flan, undercooked and slippery, like a strange serpentine sea creature swimming down your throat.

Good flan should have slight jiggle, but more along the lines of a trainer-tightened posterior than a waterbed. Good flan is minimalist and sleek, like an expensive silk blouse.

Flan, or more precisely egg-based custard, has been in existence since Roman times, where it was mostly presented as a savory dish. Variations and permutations found their way around the world, but arguably, today when we hear the word flan we think mostly of the Spanish-speaking cream-colored custard with a pool of deep amber, burnt sugar caramel.

The recipe that follows is my mother’s go-to; it can be made in un dos por tres (a snap) and has always turned out silky and perfectly set.  There are thick flans, but this one is on the slimmer side—the caramel-to-custard ratio is just right. Make it and you’ll see what all the fuss is about.

FLAN DE CARAMELO

Notes:
- For easy measuring and easy clean-up, once you’ve poured the sweetened condensed milk into the blender, use the empty can to measure the milk.
- If you don’t have a roasting pan for the bain-marie or water bath, use a baking dish large enough to accommodate the cake pan.

Equipment: Roasting pan or large baking dish, 9-inch round cake pan, medium heavy-bottomed saucepan, pastry brush, blender (optional)
Active time: 20 minutes
Total time: 4 hours
Serves 6 to 8

1 cup sugar
¼ cup water
1 (14-ounce) can sweetened condensed milk
14 ounces milk (See Notes), at room temperature
3 large eggs, at room temperature
2 teaspoons pure vanilla extract
¼ teaspoon salt

Adjust oven rack to middle position and preheat oven to 325°F. Place clean kitchen towel in roasting pan. Set 9-inch round baking pan on top of towel. Set tea kettle or pot of water to boil.

Meanwhile, combine sugar and ¼ cup water in medium heavy-bottomed saucepan. Cook over medium-high heat until the sugar is dissolved. Dampen a clean pastry brush and brush down any sugar crystals from the sides of the pan. Boil, swirling the pan occasionally, until the sugar turns deep amber, 10 to 12 minutes. Immediately pour the caramel into the baking pan and swirl to coat to the bottom. Allow it to set, 5 to 10 minutes.

Place the sweetened condensed milk, milk, eggs, vanilla, and salt in a blender and blend until thoroughly combined, about 1 minute. (Alternatively, you may whisk the ingredients together by hand in a large bowl). Pour the flan mixture over the caramel mixture.

Open the oven door and set the roasting pan and flan in the oven. Carefully pour hot water into the roasting pan—water should reach halfway up the sides of the flan pan. Bake until flan is set, but still a bit wobbly, about 1 hour.

Remove cake pan from roasting pan and cool on rack, about 15 minutes. Chill completely in refrigerator, 2 to 3 hours. Run a knife along the flan edges and invert onto serving plate. Serve.

This recipe originally appeared in Serious Sweets.

It’s been pointed out to me that I am headstrong, loud, and have a temper that can bubble up as quickly as an Alka-Seltzer tablet plopped in water. It’s also been pointed out that these endearing characteristics are probably innate and completely out of my control because I’m Latin American. I’m not offended. If one day I throw a plate at someone’s head I can blame it on my ethnicity.

I couldn’t help think of the stereotypical fiery Latin temperament when I was making this recipe. Arroz con leche (riz au lait or rice pudding), is such a languid, drowsy, gentle thing, so tender it’s even suitable for those with smooth gums and weak constitutions. And yet, it is among the most well-loved and frequently made desserts in much of Latin America. Maybe we’re all bark and no bite.

The accompanying rice pudding recipe requires some care and attention—it needs to be occasionally stirred over low heat for about an hour. I find watching the pudding steadily thicken is quite soothing, and the reward of a warm bowl of arroz con leche is worth every turn of the spoon.

This arroz con leche is flavored with orange rind, cinnamon, and (optional) dark rum; the scent is deep and sultry. You’ll notice I’ve used dark brown sugar as well as granulated sugar in the recipe: the pudding’s color will be golden rather than white, and the flavor more complex. At home I’d use dulce de rapadura or piloncillo (unrefined whole cane sugar), and do feel free to use either if they’re available to you.

A side note: arroz con leche is part of a children’s song; these are a few lines from one version.

“Arroz con leche me quiro casar / con una señorita de San Nicolás / que sepa coser / que sepa bordar / que sepa abrir la puerta para ir a jugar…. / Con esta sí, con esta no / con esta señorita me caso yo.”

(Rice pudding, I want to marry a young lady from San Nicolás who’ll know how to sew, who’ll know how to embroider, and who’ll know how to open the door to go out and play…With this one: yes, with this one: no, this is the young lady I will marry.)

ARROZ CON LECHE (Nicaraguan Rice Pudding)

Active time: 1 hour
Total time: 1 hour

Notes: Rice pudding is best served warm as soon as it is made.

3 ½ cups water
1 cup medium- or long-grain white rice
2 tablespoons unsalted butter
3 3-inch pieces orange rind from 1 orange
2 cinnamon sticks
1/2 teaspoon salt
3 ½ cups milk
1 cup sugar
¼ cup packed dark brown sugar
½ cup raisins
¼ cup dark rum (optional)
Ground cinnamon (optional)

Bring water to boil over medium-high heat in medium heavy-bottomed saucepan. Stir in rice, 1 tablespoon butter, orange rind pieces, cinnamon sticks, and salt. Reduce heat to medium and simmer, stirring from time to time, until most of the liquid is absorbed, 10 to 12 minutes.

Stir in milk, sugar, dark brown sugar, raisins, and optional rum. Increase heat to medium-high and bring mixture to boil. Immediately reduce heat o medium-low and simmer, stirring from time to time, until rice is thickened and tender, about 35 to 45 minutes.

Remove from heat. Remove and discard orange rind pieces and cinnamon sticks. Stir in remaining 1 tablespoon butter. Serve warm and dust with cinnamon if desired.

Sticky sweet.

Glossy, warm, pull-apart, sticky cinnamon buns are just dreamy. I often long to have an Oompa Loompa at my disposal: I would make it bake sticky buns for breakfast, hot out of the oven and bring them to me on a silver platter, accompanied by a cold glass of milk with a single ice cube. Lacking an extra-small orange butler, however, there is nothing but for me to bake my own sticky buns and personally plop an ice cube into my glass of milk.

We all do it: we wander around the airport waiting for our flight to begin boarding, killing time by stepping in and out of newsstands, perusing the latest paperback crime thrillers, leafing through fashion glossies, wondering whether we should buy one of those vibrating neck pillows.

Our flight gets delayed. We call friends, check Facebook, tweet nasty messages about the airline, decide the vibrating neck pillow was a stupid impulse buy and may lead to permanent brain damage, throw the lame crime thriller to the side (of course it was the creepy sister!). There’s nothing to do but take another lap. And that’s when it happens. The scent of cinnamon hooks your nostrils and pulls you to the cinnamon bun stand. You buy a bun as big as your head and for just a little while you forget how lousy and uncivilized travel has become.

Glossy, warm, pull-apart, sticky cinnamon buns are impossible to resist, whether trapped at the airport or out-and-about. And not that your everyday bun needs much improving on, but when I discovered the Venezuelan version I had to wonder if I’d been missing something all these years. Golfeados are sugar-and-cinnamon-laden, but have the unexpected addition of fragrant anis seeds and salty, shredded white cheese. Partway through baking, the golfeados are glazed with melado, a panela (in this recipe substituted with dark brown sugar) based simple syrup. Once out of the oven, another coat of sticky melado is painted on. The result: buns that are candied on the outside and soft, buttery, cheesy, and spiced inside their coils. Sprinkled with more cheese and served with robust coffee, these are divinos.

GOLFEADOS

Notes: If you are unable to find Latin American cheeses, substitute it with haloumi, a Cypriot cheese made with goat’s and/or sheep’s milk available at certain supermarkets and specialty stores.
Servings: makes 12
Equipment: electric mixer with dough hook attachment, rolling pin, parchment paper, large baking sheet, cooling rack, medium saucepan, pastry brush, plastic wrap

For the Dough
¾ cup warm milk (110° to 115°F)
2 (1/4-once packages) active dry yeast
¼ cup sugar
2 tablespoons packed dark brown sugar
3 cups all-purpose flour, plus additional for dusting counter and rolling pin
1 teaspoon salt
2 large eggs, at room temperature, lightly beaten
1 tablespoon honey
1 teaspoon pure vanilla extract
4 tablespoons (2 ounces) unsalted butter, softened
1 tablespoon anis seeds
Vegetable oil for greasing bowl

For the Filling
8 ounces Latin American firm white cheese, finely grated (See Notes)
½ cup packed dark brown sugar
1 teaspoon ground cinnamon
1 teaspoon anis seeds
4 tablespoons (2 ounces) unsalted butter, softened

For the Melado (Glaze)
1 ½ cups packed dark brown sugar
1 cup water

For the dough: Combine ¼ cup milk, yeast, and ¼ teaspoon sugar in small bowl. Let stand until mixture foams, 5 to 10 minutes.

Combine remaining sugar, dark brown sugar, flour, and salt in large bowl. Add remaining milk, eggs, honey, vanilla, and yeast mixture and mix on low speed with hook attachment until ingredients are combined, about 2 minutes.

Add butter and anis and mix on medium speed until a smooth, shiny dough forms, 6 to 8 minutes.

Lightly oil a large bowl. Place dough in bowl, cover with clean, damp kitchen towel and let rise in a warm place until doubled in size, about 1 hour.

For the filling: Meanwhile, combine all but 2 tablespoons cheese, dark brown sugar, cinnamon, and anis in medium bowl. Cover with plastic wrap and refrigerate until needed.

Lightly dust a clean, dry work surface with flour. Coat hands lightly with flour (dough will be sticky) and transfer to work surface. Lightly rub rolling pin with flour. Roll the dough out to into a 16- by 14-inch rectangle.

Brush the dough with butter, leaving a ½-inch border on all sides. Sprinkle the buttered area with cheese mixture.

Beginning with the long side, roll the dough to form a 16-inch-long log. As you roll, brush off excess flour with a clean, dry pastry brush.

Cut the log crosswise into 12 rolls. Arrange rolls on a parchment lined baking sheet, cut-side up. Press down to gently flatten (the rolls will cinch as you cut them).

Cover with oiled plastic wrap and allow to rise in a warm place until doubled in size, about 1 hour.

Adjust oven rack to middle position and preheat oven to 350°F. Bake 20 minutes until golden.

Make the melado: While the golfeados are baking, combine brown sugar and water in medium saucepan. Bring to boil over medium-high heat, stirring until sugar is completely dissolved. Reduce heat to medium and cook syrup until thickened, syrupy, and reduced to 1 ½ cups, 5 to 7 minutes. Remove from heat.

After golfeados have been baking for 20 minutes, brush them with half of the melado and return to oven for 10 minutes.

Transfer baking sheet to cooling rack and brush golfeados with remaining melado. Cool about 10 minutes and sprinkle with remaining cheese. Serve warm.

¡Felices pascuas!

Pío V—allegedly named for 16th century Pope Pius V, though there are written records or even verbal conjectures to explain the odd handle—is a Nicarguan dessert typically served around Christmastime.

The name is quaint and speaks to the Nicaraguan history of Catholicism, but what I love most is that within the name are hidden another three, given that Pío V is made up of marquesote, sopa borracha, and manjar.

My father is a enamored of the Spanish language, and always urged me to read more in our mother tongue, saying that it is much more sabroso (luscious, tasty, savory). He’s entirely correct; be it poetry or song, idle prattle or malicious gossip, Spanish words are not only heard, they caress and prick the skin, melt or sour in the mouth.

Marquesote, cake in plain English, sounds of royal lineage and history, while sopa borracha, a rum-laced simple syrup the cake steeps in, induces a smirk and a laugh, given its literal translation: drunken soup. Manjar, the custard layer that tops the cake, could be just that, however the word also means delicacy and alludes to what the gods are said to have eaten.

Admittedly, when I was younger, Pío V was not on my list of favorite desserts. The soaked cake usually had an overpowering wallop of rum and if served less than chilled, the custard had a really unpleasant way of slithering and glopping down your throat. This version is a touch more tame, but is still quite cheery and festive.

An interesting note on the cake: it is traditionally made with a blend of flour and pinol, toasted white cornmeal used in a multitude of applications, such as coating whole fish prior to deep-frying. In this recipe, I toast fine white cornmeal to mimic the flavor and add a touch of unsweetened cocoa powder to deepen the flavor.

PIO V

Equipment: medium skillet, whisk,  sifter/strainer, mixing bowls, electric mixer, rubber spatula, 13- by 9-inch baking dish, cooling rack, large, heavy-bottomed saucepan, plastic wrap

For the Marquesote Cake
1 tablespoon unsalted butter, softened
1 cup fine white cornmeal
1 cup all-purpose flour, sifted
4 teaspoons baking powder
2 teaspoons unsweetened cocoa powder
1/2 teaspoon ground cinnamon
6 large eggs, separated and at room temperature
3/4 teaspoon salt
1 1/2 cups sugar
1/2 cup milk
2 teaspoons pure vanilla extract

For the Sopa Borracha
6 cups water
3 ½ cups sugar
4 cinnamon sticks
1 teaspoon whole cloves
Peel of 1 lemon
3/4 cup gold rum
1/2 cup raisins
12 prunes

For the Manjar
4 cups milk
2 cinnamon sticks
1 cup sugar
2 tablespoons cornstarch
4 large egg yolks
1/8 teaspoon salt
2 tablespoons butter, cut into 4 pieces and chilled
2 teaspoons pure vanilla extract

For the Cake: Adjust oven rack to middle position and preheat oven to 350°F. Grease a 13- by 9-inch baking dish with butter.

In medium skillet over medium-low heat, cook cornmeal, stirring frequently, until light golden and fragrant, about 5 minutes.

Whisk together cornmeal, flour, baking powder, and cocoa powder in medium bowl; set aside.

In large bowl, beat egg whites and salt with whisk attachment on medium-low speed until whites begin to froth, about 1 minute. Increase speed to medium-high and beat whites until soft peaks form, 1 to 2 minutes. Slowly add sugar, then continue beating until stiff, glossy peaks form, 2 to 3 minutes.

Add egg yolks to egg whites and beat just until combined. Decrease speed to low and add flour mixture in three additions, alternating with milk, scraping sides and bottom of bowl as necessary. Add vanilla and beat just until combined.

Scrape batter into prepared baking dish. Bake until tester inserted in center of cake comes out clean, 30 to 35 minutes. Transfer cake to cooling rack and cool in pan completely, 1 to 2 hours.

For the Sopa Borracha: Bring water, sugar, cinnamon sticks, cloves, and lemon peel to boil in large, heavy-bottomed saucepan over medium-high heat. Reduce heat to medium and simmer until reduced to 4 ½ cups, about 30 minutes. Strain and discard solids.

Stir in rum, raisins, and prunes and cool to room temperature, about 30 minutes. Once cooled, strain once again, reserving prunes and raisins.

For the Custard: Bring milk and cinnamon sticks to boil over medium heat in small saucepan or in (glass) liquid measuring cup in microwave. Remove and reserve cinnamon sticks.

In a large, heavy-bottomed saucepan whisk together sugar, cornstarch, egg yolks, and salt. While vigorously whisking, add ¼ cup of hot milk, then, add remaining milk in a slow steady stream, all the while whisking.

Add reserved cinnamon sticks and bring the mixture to boil over medium heat, whisking constantly. Once mixture thickens to the consistency of yogurt, continue to boil for 1 to 2 minutes. Remove from heat and stir in butter and vanilla.

Press a piece of plastic wrap directly onto the custard’s surface and refrigerate until cold, 2 to 3 hours. Otherwise, place the custard bowl over in an ice bath and stir until completely cooled, 10 to 15 minutes.

To Assemble: Poke cake all over with skewer or fork. Pour sopa borracha over cake. Once absorbed, pour custard over cake, smoothing out surface with rubber spatula. Top with raisins and prunes.

Chill cake at least 1 hour prior to serving.

My husband says alfajores are in Latin America’s what the Oreo is in the U.S. The sandwich cookies are arguably as recognizable, but they’ve got a more elaborate  history. Alfajor is a derivation of an Arabic word meaning “stuffed,” as these treats are. Popular in Spain and in multiple Latin American countries, the alfajor was introduced—along with other foods and cultural elements—to the Iberian Peninsula during the centuries-long Moorish occupation that began in the 8th century.

Today, there are many different types of alfajores, with flavors, textures, coatings, and fillings all subject to regional influences, and of course, personal touches.

The alfajor I’m most acquainted with from trips to Buenos Aires, either homemade or commercial, are the ones in the accompanying recipe: shortbread rounds glued together with dulce de leche.  The cookie is crumbly and tender, and the dulce de leche intense and sticky. Milk might be tempted to have a new favorite cookie.

ALFAJORES
Notes: After adding milk to above recipe, alfajores were really crumbly and good. Made the following recipe (which is a half-batch), modified from above. This yields about 12 sandwich cookies, using 2 ½ inch cutter. Recipe can be doubled.
Active time: 45 minutes
Total time: 2 hours, 15 minutes
Equipment: 2 large baking sheets, parchment paper, sifter, electric mixer, rubber spatula, rolling pin, 2- or 2 ½-inch round cookie cutter, 2 cooling racks
Serves: Makes 12 to 15 sandwich cookies
Recipe notes: Recipe can be doubled; if doing so, in Step 4 divide dough in two, then wrap in plastic and proceed with recipe.
If your cookies don’t all fit on one baking sheet, bake in two batches, one batch at a time.
Sandwich cookies may be stored in an airtight container for up to 3 days.

1 ¼ cups cornstarch
¾ cup all-purpose flour plus additional for dusting counter
1 teaspoon baking powder
¼ teaspoon baking soda
¼ teaspoon salt
4 ounces (1 stick) unsalted butter, at room temperature
6 tablespoons sugar
2 large egg yolks
1 teaspoon brandy or cognac
1 teaspoon pure vanilla extract
1 (13.4-ounce) can dulce de leche
¼ cup confectioners’ sugar (optional)

Adjust oven rack to middle position and preheat oven to 325°F. Line rimmed baking sheet with parchment paper.

Sift together cornstarch, flour, baking powder, baking soda, and salt.

With mixer on medium speed, beat sugar and butter until light and fluffy, about 2 minutes. Add egg yolks, one at a time, beating well after each addition. Add brandy and vanilla. Scrape sides and bottom of bowl with rubber spatula as needed.

Sift cornstarch mixture over butter mixture and combine with rubber spatula until dough comes together (mixture will be crumbly). Shape mixture into ball, cover loosely with plastic wrap (See Notes), and let rest at room temperature for 30 minutes.

Dust clean, dry work surface with flour. Rub rolling pin with flour. Roll dough to a thickness of ¼ inch. Using a 2- or 2 ½-inch round cutter, cut out cookies and arrange on prepared baking sheet, spacing them about 1 inch apart. (See Notes)

Bake until cookie edges begin to turn light golden, about 12 minutes. Alfajores should be mostly white.

Transfer baking sheet to cooling rack and cool completely, about 30 minutes.

Once cooled, spread half the cookies with about 1 tablespoon dulce de leche. Cover with remaining cookies. Dust with confectioners’ sugar (optional). Serve.

My paternal grandparents have lived in their large Spanish colonial house in Granada’s Calle Atravesada (a Main Street of sorts) for as long as I can remember, and even decades before then.

Now sagging and crumbling with the customary wear and tear of the years and the ravages of difficult times—wars, death, weather—the atrium garden, framed by pillars and punctuated by a gurgling stone fountain, remains very much the same. Large, fat roses, always a bit too colorful with petals unfastened, like the heaving bosoms of ladies of the evening, flock together. Over-eager and too-intensely perfumed they boldly face the assault of the arrogant sun.

The heat in this town is oppressive and thick. Long hours were spent on Sunday visits to the house swinging back and forth on creaky white wicker rocking chairs, the sweat suctioning the backs of our legs to the seat as the speckled hen patterned black-and-white floor fumed ever hotter.

These Sundays inched forward painfully, but lunch at the big round table was a just reward. There were large platters of rib roast, the meat slipping off the bone, crab bisque with whole saucer-sized crabs you got to pick apart on your plate, potato gnocchi drowned in the house’s secret pink sauce and buried in crumbly cheese that had been bought by the slab at the market that morning, refried beans that shimmered in lard and were brought to the table in a well-seasoned cast-iron skillet that had long ago had its handle amputated.

And the preserved fruits. Depending on what was in season there was always a homemade, industrial-sized jar filled with amber fruits floating in slow motion in a thick, golden syrup. Mangos, papayas, a slew of tropical fruits I never learned the English names for, and my favorite: figs.

Years ago there was a fig tree in a corner of the garden. The figs hung low and plump, hiding in the shade of its own parasol leaves. The tree was unceremoniously cut down after the occasional evening bat became legion. Mamamá was always business-like with household pests. On a summer visit I brought a kitten home from the farm only to later learn he’d been dispatched to the market in a burlap sack. Mamamá told me Pascual had gone to Miami, and for a long time I envisioned him living in glorious exile.

Tree or no tree, higos en miel were made whenever they were in season. The “figs in honey” were sticky and sweet, their tiny seeds tickling my mouth; I’ve always thought that sunshine would taste just like one of those translucent orbs. The figs, those delicate purses lined with precious beads, were gently peeled and drowned in simple syrup and a fresh leaf from the tree, then simmered under Mamamá’s strict and perspiring brow.

Last week while I leaned over the pot to check on my figs, my eyes and nose smarted as if I’d taken a gulp of chilled heavily carbonated Coca-Cola; my grandmother’s kitchen, the roses, the bats, the disappeared cat, the damp manure and chicken droppings caked to the soles of my shoes; all rushed back.

HIGOS EN MIEL (Poached Figs)

Active Time: 1 hour, 30 minutes
Total Time: 2 hours, 30 minutes
Equipment: vegetable peeler, large heavy-bottomed saucepan or Dutch oven, parchment paper
Note: Figs will keep in an airtight container, refrigerated, for 1 week.

30 small fresh, ripe black figs (about 2 pounds)
2 cups sugar
1 cup packed dark brown sugar
¼ teaspoon salt
4 cups water

Carefully peel figs and trim and discard stems.

Stir together sugar, dark brown sugar, salt, and water in large heavy-bottomed saucepan or Dutch oven over medium-high heat and boil syrup until sugars are dissolved and syrup thickens, 5 to 7 minutes. Reduce heat to medium-low and add figs.

Cut a piece of parchment paper in the shape of pot. Cut a nickel-sized vent in the middle. Press parchment directly onto surface of fig-syrup mixture.

Simmer figs until translucent, gently stirring from time to time, about 1 hour.

Cool figs completely, at least 1 hour. Figs may be served at room temperature or chilled.

“¿Me dá para mi calaverita?”

Mexico and several other Latin American countries honor the dead today by celebrating día de los muertos, Day of the Dead. Children will knock on doors and ask for money or food, families will festively decorate the graves of their loved ones, and this curious pan de muerto will be baked and shared.

Pan de muerto is a sweet, soft bread, coated with sugar and perfumed with orange blossom water. During its preparation, part of the dough is reserved and used to decorate the loaves with shapes echoing those of human bones. Different versions exist, with breads showcasing flora, fauna, and mythical creatures as décor. Even if you won’t be rapping your knuckles on stranger’s doors on behalf of your calaverita, this is a festive and beautiful bread that’s worth trying.

For the recipe, visit Serious Sweets .

This gutsy sauce is perfect for grilled steak, but it’s incredibly versatile. Make a double batch and store it in a covered container in your fridge and use it to marinate shrimp, toss it with rice pilaf or warm potatoes, or use it as an alternative for vinaigrette on a crisp green salad.

CHIMICHURRI

1 cup packed flat-leaf (Italian) parsley, finely chopped
½ cup packed cilantro leaves, finely chopped
1/3 cup packed fresh oregano leaves, finely chopped
¾ teaspoon red pepper flakes
¾ cup extra-virgin olive oil
¼ cup red wine vinegar
Salt and freshly ground black pepper
4 garlic cloves, minced

- Combine all ingredients in medium bowl. Cover bowl with plastic wrap and let stand at room temperature about 1 hour to allow flavors to meld. Serve.

When you go to a party where there’s a really random crowd, you’ll describe it to your friends as, “arroz con mango.” Because rice and mango don’t go together. Rice is eaten with beans. Or beef. Or chicken. Not mixed with mango.

Stupid girl! Just imagine all the years I wasted not eating rice with mango!  When one of my little brothers graduated college in LA, I spent a few days hanging out (OMG, Charlie, remember how furry your bathroom was?!) with him and his girlfriend Whitney. It was Whitney who introduced me to the magical combination that is rice + mango at a Thai restaurant (and the bacon-wrapped hot dogs downtown—¡muchas gracias!). It’s been true love ever since. And next time I use the term “arroz con mango” it’ll be to describe a super-fun party.

COCONUT-MANGO RICE PUDDING
Serves 6 to 8
This recipe calls for unsweetened coconut milk, not cream of coconut—don’t mix them up! The rice needs to be completely cooled before folding in the whipped cream. Spreading the warm pudding out in a large baking dish or rimmed baking sheet dramatically speeds up cooling.

6 cups water
2 cups Arborio (short-grain) rice
½ teaspoon salt
1½ cups plus 2 tablespoons sugar
1 (14.5-ounce) can unsweetened coconut milk
1 cup heavy whipping cream, chilled
1 teaspoon vanilla extract
2 very ripe mangos, peeled and cut into ¼-inch cubes

- Bring the water to a boil in a large saucepan. Add the rice and salt and simmer over medium heat, stirring from time to time, until the rice is tender and creamy, 15 to 20 minutes.

- Reduce the heat to low. Stir in 1½ cups of the sugar and the coconut milk. Simmer, stirring from time to time, until the rice is thickened, about 15 minutes.

-Transfer the rice pudding to a large baking dish and allow it to cool completely.

-Once the rice is cooled, whisk the remaining 2 tablespoons sugar, heavy cream, and vanilla until soft peaks form (you can do this by hand or with an electric mixer). Fold the whipped cream and mango cubes into the pudding. Serve chilled.

I feel like I’m trespassing by posting this recipe—it’s Cuban, and I confess to not having any relationship to that cuisine other than I absolutely love it, crave it, and look forward to trips to Miami more for the opportunity to eat at La Carreta and Versailles than for the amazing beaches and steady sunshine.

Cuban mojo doubles as marinade and sauce. Mojo is made by combining chopped garlic and/or minced onions, olive oil, sour orange juice, dried oregano, and a touch of cumin.  Recipes abound, and like many other traditional dishes, the ratio and quantity of its ingredients as well as its preparation are household-specific; seasoned according to palate and prejudices among family members.

Every time I make mojo I make a few tweaks; the acidity level and amount of onion and garlic change according to mood, but this is a pretty good jumping off point if you’ve never made it. Feel free to add and subtract.  The recipe is made with a combination of orange and lime juices to mimic the sharp sour oranges original to the recipe. If you can get your hands on a sour orange, substitute it. Mojo is the perfect dressing for a number of dishes, from roast pork to boiled yuca and plain white rice. I especially love it on rice.

MOJO

1 small white onion, finely chopped
Salt
6 garlic cloves, minced
¾ cup olive oil
1 teaspoon dried oregano
Pinch ground cumin
¼ cup orange juice
3 tablespoons lime juice

- Cook onions and ½ teaspoon salt in oil in a small saucepan over medium-low heat until translucent, 6 to 8 minutes. Don’t be tempted to increase the heat; you want to soften the onions in texture and mellow their flavor, not crisp them.

- Add the garlic, oregano, and cumin and cook until fragrant, 2 to 3 minutes.

- Transfer oil mixture to medium bowl. Whisk in orange juice and lime juice. Season with salt to taste. Serve warm. Store leftovers in a sealed container for up to 1 week.