I’ve craved this specific salad all month and finally caved.

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It’s been 17 months since I first questioned whether anyone even needed another recipe for a basque cheesecake — the burnished, custardy and uncluttered kind that hails from San Sebastián, Spain — and concluded that in fact, I did.

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My strongest opinion on Thanksgiving sides is that whenever possible, they should come in a casserole dish (or its chic French cousin, a gratin). I don’t mean that your sides should be limited to things that swim in cream, cheese, butter, or a happy combination of all three — although one dish in this category is highly welcome on my table — I simply mean that sides like this, that is baked in dishes with walls, tend to excel at holding up to resting times, reheat well, and stay warm longer.

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Unless you’re living your life better than me (probably!), I bet it’s been way too long since you last had a baked potato for dinner — or, as they’re more charmingly called across the pond, “jacket potato.” And it’s a crime because they’re so cozy and uncomplicated to make, we could fix this right now.

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Friends, it’s snickerdoodle season. If you didn’t know that snickerdoodles had a season, let me paint a picture for you: you’re coming inside on a blustery and colder-than-you’d-expected October day so you hadn’t dressed for it and you can’t wait to announce what my kids always laugh at me for saying when I walk through the door: “Well, that’s enough doing things for me today!” and forswear things like “being outside” and “hard pants” for the rest of the evening but what is this! What is this god-like aroma of buttery baked cinnamon sugar warmth that has permeated your senses? Is it a scented candle, i.e. the idea, but not the substance of a thing you love? No, it’s snickerdoodles. And you’re about to eat a warm one, which feels like climbing inside It’s The Great Pumpkin, Charlie Brown while also, simultaneously, getting to be this dog. I’m not saying you cannot experience this sensory transcendency on a day in January or June, but it hits on a different, worldview-shifting, level when cold air is still a novel thing.

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Although spinach gnudi — soft, pillowy cheese dumplings fried in browned butter and sage — are traditionally more of a spring or summer food, I’m here to make the argument we should eat them right now, in prime soup-and-sweater weather. Because did you hear the part about warm cheese? the puddle of brown butter? the earthy sage? It’s a symphony of delicious fall things and if you tell me you don’t want to curl up on the plate and take a nap in it, fine, I’ll believe you but I do think you’re in denial.

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Welcome to the cake that has terrified me the most. You see, I have two favorite cakes. The first is my Strawberry Summer Stack Cake, the layered strawberry, cream, and butter cake version of the Strawberry Summer Cake in Smitten Kitchen Keepers. The second is the Opera Cake (Gâteau Opéra), a stacked and striped dessert with thin almond cake layers soaked in espresso syrup, chocolate ganache, and a rich espresso buttercream. The difference between the first cake and the second is that the second recipe was never going to happen.

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Every September, I step up onto my soapbox to report for my self-appointed duty — one part desperate, one part cantankerous — to remind us that summer isn’t over yet. I beg us to put away the decorative gourds and pumpkin spice for just a tiny bit longer. It’s a slippery slope from “hooray, scarves!” and “look at that perfect rainbow of a tree!” to a very long winter where I forget what warmth feels like on my skin and I am beseeching us not to wish it away. Or, I struggle with change? Hm, it’s hard to tell!

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Oh you wanted a chocolate zucchini bread recipe? Don’t you know this is a food blog? I’m contractually obligated to tell a meandering and infuriatingly irrelevant story in each headnote, keeping you from the recipe as long as possible for nefarious, possibly witchy, purposes, and I don’t want to disappoint. Next week, I’ll be celebrating my 20th wedding anniversary with a guy I met because I wrote some rambling things on a blog about, like, dating and New York City and funny things that had happened, he read it, we went for a drink, I stopped dating, needed a new subject to fill the void, and Smitten Kitchen came to be one year later. [Some people have honeymoon babies, I, uh, had you.]

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What did we get up to while our kids’ time away overlapped for two weeks this summer? Did we go on vacation? Did we party every night? The truth is honestly embarrassing, so middle-aged coded, Deb of the early Smitten Kitchen years would rage and weep. [“You promised you wouldn’t get lame!”] I got… orthotics. And even worse than considering this newsworthy, I love them. I caught up on appointments. I challenged myself to finish books before they were overdue at the library and occasionally pulled it off. Sometimes I drank an entire 8 glasses of water and went to bed by 10:30pm. Sure, we went out. We had uninterrupted conversations. We drank Hugo spritzes. We saw dogs playing in a kiddie pool set up in front of an open fire hydrant and lamented that the kids were missing it, then reloaded their last locations and photos from the camp stream a million more times. We said things to each other like, “I miss the kids, but not parenting.” I watched this clip and it emotionally wrecked me. I’d sleep through my alarm in the morning and nobody was there to tell me I make weird faces in my sleep or that they’d promised they’d bring homemade treats to school that day. Friends, it was wild.

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High on the list of cooking things that I’ve got far more opinions on than anyone has ever asked of me (and may have even, at times, prayed I’d stop yapping about), are homemade ice cream sandwiches. Why? Because it’s devastating when you realize something that should bring us nothing but incandescent summer joy — ice cream! cookies! — rarely work as well as promised. Most cookies become so hard once frozen, you feel like you’re breaking a tooth with each bite. Unyielding cookies also squeeze the ice cream out the sides, leading to drips down your arms and an immediate bad mood (for adults; kids, naturally, love it). While writing Smitten Kitchen Keepers, I became obsessed with creating a deeply nostalgic homemade chipwich-style ice cream sandwich that did everything right and I had three big a-ha moments along the way:

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I didn’t mean to get so carried away making focaccia over the last few months, but don’t I always say that? As if I forget how easily I get consumed with a very specific idea for what a recipe should be and cannot let it go, even when it’s past time to move on. As if it was someone else who made blueberry muffins 25 times one summer until she found what she was looking for. Thus, perhaps I shouldn’t be surprised but I still am: I’ve made an obscene amount of focaccia this spring and summer trying to find the recipe I’ll want to use forever. Here are five things I learned along the way:

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Last summer, a friend came to a barbecue and said, “We had soccer and then a birthday party and I had no time to make anything but I brought this” and started unloading items from a grocery bag. There were no clean cooking utensils so she and I proceeded to use our hands to break open balls of burrata and spread them on a plate, smash open cherries and pit them, sprinkling them over, crushed pistachios with the bottom of a pot, and finished the whole platter with olive oil, lots of sea salt, black pepper, and fresh mint we picked from sprigs. We lined the plate with rounds of storebought crostini, I snapped a picture and later when I shared it, dozens of you messaged me to demand a recipe or tutorial.

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Is it too hot to cook? Does the thought of even turning on the microwave feel like it might tip you too close to the surface of the sun? We are long overdue to talk about my favorite heat wave meal, one I’ve been holding out on you for five too many summers. As the president of Overthinkers Anonymous, I had my reasons. What if you’re not as obsessed with inhaling a pound of fridge-cold cucumbers as I am? What if the mere whiff of peanut sesame noodle dressing doesn’t make you want to climb into a vat of it? What if my favorite salad tofu — firm silken — isn’t your favorite salad tofu? What if you don’t have a favorite salad tofu? [Six question marks in a paragraph might be a record!]

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A few years ago, Alex and I started batching cocktails and keeping them in the freezer. Batching may sound fancy and professional but at most we were participating in rudimentary math (“one ounce? nah, one cup!”) and advanced laziness (ahem, preparedness). Having cocktails ready to go and super, super cold so that they won’t immediately water themselves down by melting ice was a win. And, as the habit has continued, it’s always fun when a friend stops by and you remember you already have perfect manhattans ready to go, as if you were trying to medal in the impromptu hosting olympics.

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Until recently, I was fairly ambivalent about one-pan pasta recipes. I appreciate them in a pinch [here’s a longtime favorite; and this is my total comfort food], but I sometimes find that when the pasta is cooked in a sauce the whole time, it doesn’t quite get that al dente definition and structural integrity that it does when cooked in water. I’m so glad I didn’t quit on them, though, because with this recipe, not to be dramatic or anything, but I feel like I’ve finally cracked the code.

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It’s probably no surprise that if choosing between having brunch at a restaurant or making it at home, I’m squarely on team Brunch At Home, especially when we find a way to pull it off and still sleep in. There’s nothing worse than waiting too long for a table only to be served an overcooked, unseasoned omelet, home fries with those gnarly bits of green pepper in there (I will die on the hill that nobody has ever longed for green peppers in their potatoes), or soggy bacon. Maybe at home imperfections also happen but those imperfections don’t cost $150 for a family of four.

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Everyone needs a recipe for classic, foolproof skillet french toast, even stubborn people like me who, despite making it at least once a month and more often when there’s leftover challah, are so easily bored by and restless with simple recipes that I’ve resisted writing this up for almost 19 years. I’ve filled the french toast vacuum on the site instead with customizations: casserole-style baked french toasts with cinnamon sugar toast and, uh, bailey’s (ah, the child-free years). There’s even a fancy french toast akin to individual crème brûlées. But eventually, through a combination of friends texting on random weekend mornings [“Do you seriously not have a challah french toast recipe?!”] and the existence of a teenager, who I cannot teach to make french toast for us if I haven’t written it down, I’ve come to my senses. I mean, mostly.

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Do you have a big, neglected cabbage in your fridge awaiting the right inspiration? I had a feeling you did. The way I figure it, the sidewalks are currently covered in pink and white petal confetti, the ramps are here, and the asparagus is close, thus I’m crossing my fingers that this can be our last hurrah with heavy winter vegetables until at least November. We’re going to make it a good one.

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For the last several years, if we know each other offline and you ask me what brisket you should make for Passover or another Jewish holiday and you seem a little concerned over the work of it all — because something not discussed nearly often enough is that it’s never just about the brisket, right? It’s starters and sides and desserts, plus table-setting, water carafes (there are never enough), procuring wine and someone (hopefully not me) needs to make sure the place is passably spic-and-span for guests — I will send you an email with the recipe for what I call Stupid Easy Brisket. I’m overdue to stop holding out on the rest of us, too, albeit with a less insulting title.

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