Everything you love about enchiladas, minus the fuss! This super flavorful, cheesy vegan enchilada skillet comes together in about 30 minutes with simple methods, minimal dishes, and no need to fill or roll tortillas. 

This easy, nourishing dish features tender cubed sweet potato or winter squash, fiber- & protein-rich black beans, and a rich red enchilada sauce. Everything gets simmered in 1 pan and topped with a melty cashew “cheese” that makes it SUPER satisfying and delicious!

Cheesy Vegan Enchilada Skillet (30 Minutes!) from Minimalist Baker →

My grandmother’s baked spaghetti came in slabs, which was part of its charm. Hot from the oven, they sagged dramatically over the edge of a spatula, held together mainly by a web of browned mozzarella; cold from the refrigerator the next day, they cut much more cleanly and were arguably better. Underneath the cheese were snapped spaghetti, ground chuck and a generous pour of Ragu, and as the casserole disappeared over the course of a weekend, red sauce and rendered beef fat collected in iridescent pools at the exposed corners of the dish.

This was one of two dinners I could reliably expect when we visited her in West Virginia. My grandmother, the daughter of a coal miner and a master of the frugal feast, made either baked spaghetti or steak and gravy with mashed potatoes, green beans and biscuits with blackberry jam; stay long enough and you got leftovers of both. She passed the spaghetti recipe to my mother early in my parents’ marriage, and Mom changed almost nothing. The noodles were still snapped. The beef was still beef. The mozzarella still went on with a heavy hand.

What changed, slowly enough that nobody announced it, was the jar.

First there was Ragu. Then Bertolli. And then there was Rao’s.

I remember the first time my mother took me to The Fresh Market. It was fall, and the entryway smelled aggressively of cinnamon brooms. Just inside was a coffee station — “Complimentary,” an employee in a green apron told us — where I, a preteen with no particular business drinking coffee, poured myself something hazelnut-flavored and carried it solemnly through the aisles. Classical music played overhead. My mother remarked, approvingly, that the lighting didn’t give her a migraine.

Looking back, I suspect my father had recently begun making a little more money, because that afternoon we bought two things I distinctly remember never having had before: Kerrygold butter and a jar of Rao’s.

That night, Mom used the Rao’s in my grandmother’s baked spaghetti. On the side were little wheat rolls from The Fresh Market bakery, spread with pats of Kerrygold — a small but perceptible upgrade from the Bunny Bread and Country Crock of a few years earlier. Nothing about the occasion had changed. It was still spaghetti night. But I remember that dinner in my bones for how special it felt.

By the time I was in college, Rao’s had undergone another transformation. It started appearing in my parents’ pantry in Costco two-packs, usually beside gigantic cases of bottled water, enough paper towels to absorb a malfunctioning sprinkler system and gallon-sized jugs of olive oil. At $12.99 for two jars, it had stopped being the sauce from the fancy grocery store and become simply the sauce my mother bought. She has never gone back.

This past January, deep in winter pasta mode, I realized the supermarket had followed her. There were suddenly what looked like two additional feet of shelf space devoted to sauces with labels I would happily frame and ingredient lists apparently designed to seduce me personally: no added sugar, good olive oil, whole tomatoes, actual garlic. The average supermarket now has top-shelf pasta sauce in both senses of the phrase.

I should disclose that I am helpless in the face of good food packaging. Give me an embossed jar with a hand-drawn garlic bulb, a wobbly little restaurant façade and typography that looks like it was commissioned by someone who owns several linen aprons, and I go full Tex Avery wolf: eyes out, tongue unspooled, all higher reasoning suspended.

Some of them, annoyingly, are also very good.

My first step beyond Rao’s was Carbone’s vodka sauce, which asks for a splash of fresh cream — a sentence that has probably already caused several restaurant acolytes to sit bolt upright and announce that IT IS NOT THE SAME AS CARBONE. Fine. Nobody said it was. But the jar that really got me was Sauz’s lemon-pepper pesto. I tossed it with store-bought ravioli and shredded rotisserie chicken warmed in olive oil, put peas on the side, and waited for the part where I needed to fix something. It never came.

Nothing.

Yet it was surprisingly complex: bright with lemon juice and fresh peel, nutty with almonds and Parmigiano Reggiano, savory with garlic and olive oil. It was the sort of flavor I could reproduce if sufficiently motivated. On a Tuesday, I was not.

And now we have arrived at Alison Roman selling “A Very Good Sauce,” including a jar inspired by the caramelized-shallot-and-anchovy pasta that once briefly seemed to occupy half the internet. A generous three-pack runs $30, or $10 a jar. 

I made that pasta when everyone else did, and kept making it after everyone stopped posting about it. For years I’ve had deli containers of the gorgeous, sticky umami tangle rotating in and out of my refrigerator. So the ability to simply buy a jar descended from it feels like an almost comically specific luxury: somebody else has already done the sticky part.

For a dedicated home cook, this is part of the appeal. Eventually you discover that certain chefs and recipe developers simply share your tastes: their pantry looks like your pantry, their idea of enough acid is your idea of enough acid. Their recipes acquire a little micro-mythology in your kitchen. By the time they put something in a jar, you aren’t exactly starting from scratch. The product arrives pre-endorsed by your own past dinners.

Chef Scott Conant is playing in the same sandbox: his Martone Street sauces run about $10 a jar, or just under $40 for a four-pack, which is less “generic red sauce” than “Scott Conant would like to handle this part of dinner for you.”

There are, meanwhile, levels to this.

Bio Orto makes an organic butternut-squash cream sauce that I bought at Eataly for $18.49 and desperately wanted to find merely fine. It was not merely fine. Eataly itself sells a $25.99 Alfredo that, unlike so many jarred Alfredo sauces, does not taste as though someone dissolved Parmesan into wallpaper paste. There is also a $29.99 mushroom pasta sauce with white truffle flavoring.

Twenty-nine dollars and ninety-nine cents. For sauce.

I can hear the objections from here.

The problem is that these, too, are very good.

Of course, there is another possible ending for a beloved sauce: it gets very, very big. Campbell’s acquired Rao’s, and there are armies of people online who remain convinced that something must have changed, despite Rao’s FAQ explicitly assuring worried customers that the company won’t “touch the sauce.” I haven’t eaten enough Rao’s lately to join the prosecution. What interests me is the anxiety itself. Once people love a jar rather than merely use it, corporate ownership can start to feel less like a business transaction than someone acquiring custody of a family recipe.

Want more great food writing and recipes? Sign up for Salon’s free food newsletter, The Bite.

Then again, sometimes an expensive jar is simply an expensive jar. The $18.49 Bio Orto remains, emphatically, an $18.49 jar of pasta sauce. I am not here to argue that this constitutes thrift.

But lately the comparison I make in my head is less often fancy sauce versus Ragu than grocery-store splurge versus going out. Dinner for two at a neighborhood trattoria recently ran us $86 with appetizers, one cocktail and no dessert. Delivery can wander toward $60 before tip with insulting ease. Against that backdrop, an $18 sauce, seven dollars’ worth of Italian sausage, a two-dollar pound of pasta, a Caesar salad kit and some good bakery focaccia occupy a strange but useful category: not a cheap dinner, exactly, but a comparatively inexpensive special one.

Sometimes what I’m buying is 20 minutes of my own attention.

If the sauce needs nothing from me, I can spend that energy making dessert, mixing a cocktail for guests, warming bread — or simply deciding which sparkling water sounds good. I can also happily spend another night softening onions in butter and doctoring $2.62 Ragu Kettle Cooked Tomato Basil (one of the best of the budget sauces) with garlic powder, onion powder, red-pepper flakes and whatever umami booster is closest: anchovy, miso, soy.

Sometimes I want to futz. It is simply nice not to have to.

Which is why I have trouble getting particularly worked up about the expensive-sauce aisle. Sure, sometimes the beautiful jar is bought by someone who simply enjoys beautiful jars. But it might also be dinner for an exhausted parent who wants twenty minutes back and misses what the inside of a restaurant tastes like. Or it might be the thing that gets a couple through a no-takeout month while they save for their wedding without making every Wednesday night feel like financial punishment.

Convenience food has always existed to solve problems. We’ve simply gotten more specific about which problems we would like it to solve.

As for that $18.49 squash sauce, I browned some Italian sausage, boiled pasta, warmed the sauce and put a Caesar salad and good focaccia on the table. I had not roasted a squash. I had not grated cheese into a saucepan. I had not dirtied anything requiring an overnight soak. Dinner tasted rich and savory and faintly sweet, the sort of thing I would have been delighted to order at a neighborhood restaurant.

By the end, I was dragging pieces of focaccia through the last orange streaks left in the pan.

It was, after all that, just dinner at home.

Which was kind of the luxury.

The post How jarred pasta sauce became a luxury pantry essential appeared first on Salon.com.

Move over, Ranch, there’s a new creamy dressing in town that’s stealing our hearts! This cheesy jalapeño cashew dressing is our new go-to for salads, wraps, and dipping veggies. It’s savory and creamy and has a subtly spicy kick!

Bonus? It comes together in just 5 minutes with 9 simple ingredients. Grab your blender. Let’s do this!

Ingredients to Make Cashew Dressing

• Cashews – this versatile nut creates a rich, creamy base that’s naturally oil-free and neutral in flavor, allowing the other flavors to shine!

Cheesy Jalapeño Cashew Dressing from Minimalist Baker →

Looking to add a burst of flavor to your favorite breakfasts and desserts? Say hello to Raspberry Compote! This simple, 2-ingredient, 15-minute berry sauce adds delicious, tart-sweet flavor to everything from cheesecakes to pancakes & waffles, crepes, ice cream, and so much more.

Whether you have an abundance of fresh raspberries or want to make a warm sauce with frozen berries during the cooler months, this recipe has you covered.

Easy Raspberry Compote (Naturally Sweetened) from Minimalist Baker →

Friends, prepare to level up your muffin game with these undetectably vegan and gluten-free lemon poppy seed muffins! They’re perfectly sweet, tender, FLUFFY, and bursting with bright, lemony goodness. 

Made in just 1 bowl, they’re just as fun to make as they are to eat! Let’s get baking!

How to Make Vegan Gluten-Free Lemon Poppy Seed Muffins

These super FLUFFY muffins begin with using an electric mixer to cream together the vegan butter, cane sugar, and lemon zest.

Gluten-Free Lemon Poppy Seed Muffins (Vegan) from Minimalist Baker →

It’s that time of year again. And that only means one thing: time to start thinking about the holiday baking. In Paris, bakery windows fill up with Bûches de Noël (Yule log cakes) and bourriches (wooden crates) of oysters are piled up at the markets. The chocolate shops are crammed with people, buying multiple boxes as gifts, and people splurge on caviar and Champagne, one of the few things that go on sale in France during the holidays.

One thing you don’t see is the use of pumpkin in desserts. A tart or pie (or ice cream) made of squash might sound funny, especially to non-Americans, but helps to remember that pumpkins, and other squash, are technically fruit. One could also point out the classic Swiss Chard Tart from Provence (which is in a whole other category), and Melanzane al cioccolato, eggplant with chocolate sauce, which I like. (Which one could argue is good because it’s smothered in dark chocolate.) But I don’t think everything goes with chocolate: A friend tried the hot chocolate with oysters at a famed chocolate shop in Paris, and after her description, I wasn’t rushing over there to try a cup.

To get that last image out of your mind, I present pumpkin cheesecake with a pecan praline sauce, that has nothing not to like about it. Cream cheese and sour cream, a buttery cookie crust, and a brown sugar and bourbon-tinged sauce loaded with crunchy pecans. I’m in.

DIYers may raise an eyebrow at using canned pumpkin. I’ve got a few reasons for using it. (And as many of you perhaps know, it’s not made from pumpkin, but a variety of squash similar to butternut squash.) One, is that when writing a recipe, it’s easy to get consistent, similar results when we’re all using the same ingredient. And two, it’s a heckuva lot easier, which is appreciated around the holidays when all of us have enough on our plates, and in our ovens, and it’s  fewer dishes to wash to boot.

If you want to go the other route, you can also make your own cream cheese and Graham crackers, grow your own pecans, churn up your own butter, and make your own cake pan. If you do go that route, let me know when your cheesecake is done ; )

In the meantime, I’m standing over my stove, stirring warm, just-toasted pecans into my praline sauce before lacing it with a dash of bourbon.

The praline sauce is decidedly on the sweet side. But that didn’t stop me (like, at all…) from dipping my spoon into it over and over and over again. Be sure to toast the pecans before using them. My pet-peeve in restaurants is when they don’t toast nuts. Toasting any nut usually improves it by at least 99%, if not more, so if you’re not consistently toasting your nuts before using them on salads, sauces, and in ice creams, start doing it now. It’s not too late.

But I can’t imagine this cheesecake being served without it. Although I could imagine eating the sauce without the cheesecake. And if you’re anything like me, you might find yourself spooning it over ice cream, ladling it over pumpkin pie (without the marshmallow topping), or even spooning it right into your mouth, like I do.

Print

Pumpkin Cheesecake with Pecan Praline Sauce

If using canned pumpkin, make sure that you don't use canned pumpkin pie 'filling' (which is sweetened and spiced); use canned pumpkin that is 100% pumpkin puree. If you want to make sugar pumpkin puree yourself, you can split a sugar pumpkin (or butternut squash) in half and scrape out the seeds. Butter the cut side of the pumpkin and bake cut side down on a parchment-lined baking sheet in a 375ºF/190ºC oven until very tender, about 35 to 45 minutes. When cool enough to handle, scoop out the flesh and puree in a blender or food processor, or pass it through a food mill. If you want to balance the sweetness of the sauce, you could add a scant teaspoon of apple cider vinegar or lemon juice to it, or to taste. Conversely, adding more liquor will take the edge off as well. Outside of the U.S., I often use speculoos cookies in place of the Graham crackers for the crust. If you go that route, you might want to reduce the butter in the crust by about 20% since speculoos cookies tend to be more buttery than Graham crackers. I use a glass-bottom springform pan for cheesecakes, which makes serving them much easier.

Servings 12 servings

Ingredients

For the crust

• 1 1/2 cups (180g) Graham cracker crumbs
• 4 tablespoons (60g) melted butter
• 2 tablespoons sugar
• 1/4 teaspoon ground cinnamon

For the pumpkin cheesecake filling

• Three 8-ounce (680g) packages cream cheese at room temperature
• 1 1/4 cups (250g) sugar
• grated zest one lemon preferably unsprayed
• 4 large eggs at room temperature
• One 15-ounce (425g) canned pumpkin puree
• 1/2 cup (125g) sour cream or whole-milk plain yogurt
• 1 tablespoon cornstarch or 2 tablespoons flour
• 1 teaspoon vanilla extract
• 1 teaspoon ground cinnamon
• 3/4 teaspoon dried ground ginger
• 1/4 teaspoon ground nutmeg
• 1/4 teaspoon ground cloves
• pinch of salt

Pecan praline sauce

• 3/4 cup (105g) packed light or dark brown sugar
• 1/2 cup (125ml) heavy cream
• 6 tablespoons (85g) unsalted butter
• 1/4 cup (60ml) maple syrup
• 1/2 teaspoon kosher or sea salt
• 1/4 cup (60ml) bourbon
• 1 1/2 cups (160g) pecans toasted and coarsely chopped
• 1/2 teaspoon vanilla extract

Instructions

• To make the crust, in a medium bowl, mix the Graham cracker crumbs together with the melted butter, sugar, and cinnamon until the crumbs are thoroughly moistened. Butter a 9-inch (23cm) springform pan then press the crumbs evenly across the bottom of the pan. Refrigerate until ready to bake.
• Preheat the oven to 350ºF (180ºC). Bake the crust until it feels set in the center, 10 to 12 minutes. Let cool on a wire rack. Turn the oven down to 325ºF (165ºC).
• To make the filling, in the bowl of stand mixer fitted with the paddle attachment (or by hand, in a large bowl), beat together the cream cheese, sugar, and lemon zest, until smooth. Add the eggs one at a time, stopping the mixer between each addition to scrape down the sides of the mixing bowl, then add the pumpkin puree, sour cream, cornstarch or flour, and vanilla extract, along with the spices and salt.
• Line the outside bottom of the springform pan with foil so it reaches all the way up to the top of the outside of the pan. If you have to use several pieces, I recommend triple-wrapping it to prevent leaking or water getting in the cake pan. (Better yet, use extra-wide foil, so you only need one sheet.) Scrape the mixture into the prepared springform pan and smooth the top. Place the cheesecake in a larger pan, such as a roasting pan, then add very warm water to the larger pan until it reaches halfway up the outside of the cake pan.
• Bake the cheesecake in the oven until the center looks just slightly set, but not wet and sloshy in the center when you jiggle the pan. I start checking the cheesecake at the 50 minute mark, as it usually takes about 50 minutes to 1 hour, but may take up to 1 hour and 15 minutes. Remove the cake from the oven, then remove the cake from the water bath and let cool completely on a wire rack. Refrigerate for at least 4 hours before serving.
• Make the pecan praline sauce by heating the brown sugar, cream, butter, maple syrup and salt in a medium saucepan over medium-high heat, until it comes to a boil, stirring frequently. Let boil for 1 minute without stirring. Remove from heat and add the bourbon, pecans, and vanilla.

Notes

Serving: Run a sharp knife around the outside of the cheesecake to release it from the springform pan, then remove the sides of the pan. Dip the knife in warm water, wipe it dry, and use it to cut clean slices from the cheesecake. Serve with a ladleful of warm sauce poured over it. If the sauce gets too thick upon standing, you can thin it with milk or water.

Storage: The baked or unbaked crust can be made up to three days ahead and stored at room temperature (if baked), or refrigerated (unbaked). It can also be frozen either baked or unbaked for 2-3 months. The baked cheesecake will keep for up to 4 days in the refrigerator.

Related Recipes and Links

Dulce de leche cheesecake

Ingredients for American Baking in Paris

Pumpkin Ice Cream

Cheesecake

Maple Pumpkin Flan

Homemade Graham Crackers (Smitten Kitchen)

Homemade bourbon (Bourbon of the Day)

Homemade salt (Ruhlman)

It’s easy to forget about Thanksgiving in Paris. There are no bags of stuffing mix clogging the aisles in the supermarkets. If you asked a clerk where is the canned pumpkin, they would look at you like you were fou (crazy). And if you open the newspaper, you won’t come across any sales on whole turkeys. In fact, it’s quite the opposite; a friend saw a 5 kilo turkey, an 11 pound bird, at the market the other day for €68kg, or €340 ($424).

(Although I think if you spent over four hundred dollars on a turkey, you wouldn’t forget it for a long, long time.)

I suggested that the turkey vendor perhaps forgot a comma because whole turkeys are, indeed, available in Paris, and they actually excellent since most are fermier, not the plump whoppers you see in the states. The only thing you have to be careful about is that one turkey might not be enough if you’re feeding a large crowd, say, a group of over six people.

Savvy Americans know to order a whole turkey in advance from their butcher and – get this: You can ask them to cook it for you. Yes, since the butchers usually have spits with roasting chickens on them, it’s usually not a problem for them to slide a turkey on there. That’s especially nice because most people in Paris just have one oven and it’s hard to tie it up for the entire day with just a bird roasting in it when you’ve got so many other things to bake and cook off.

The reason I am sharing this recipe today, rather than days ago when everyone was in a tizzy posting recipes, shopping and preparing their menus, is that I kind of forgot that it’s Thanksgiving. Actually, I didn’t quite forget, but wasn’t swept up in the frenzy because this week, and today, are just like any other week or day in Paris.

People go to work and school, banks and stores are open, and no one is setting their alarms for le vendredi noir (Black Friday), although that’s starting to happen in France ever since the government loosened their restrictions on allowing sales more than the government mandated twice-yearly ones, as they did before the economy took a dip. (Tomorrow, I suspect at least one vendor selling an expensive turkey in Paris is going to have to offer a serious mark-down if he wants to sell that bird.)

So we’re celebrating tomorrow night with some friends who are making dinner. I’m pitching in and doing some baking, as well as bringing a nice bottle of Sauternes. I also happened to have a few cans of cranberry sauce that I had brought back from the states, that I was planning to bring, just for fun.

I sent my hostess a photo and she wrote back right away, threatening to blackmail me by making my canned contraband photo public. I beat her to the punch, posting it on Instagram. But when I noticed that of the four ingredients in the can, two were industrial sweeteners, I decided to take matters into my own hands.

Fortunately I had a stash of fresh cranberries in my freezer, since if a turkey was €68 a pound, I’d have to dig deeper into my pockets if I was going to have to buy fresh cranberries in Paris on Thanksgiving Day.

I candied some organic orange slices (which were normally priced), simmered up a syrup with the sharpness of cider vinegar and a hit of dark rum, then added my precious canneberges, cooking them ’til they popped. I stirred in the candied oranges, then packed it up, ready to go – getting a recipe in just under the wire.

Happy Thanksgiving!

Print

Cranberry Sauce with Candied Oranges

Note that the orange slices may fall apart as they get close to being done. Not to worry; they’re just going to be chopped up later. If you want, you can substitute 3/4 cup (180ml) orange juice for the water that you cook the cranberries in. I use dark rum, but whiskey, bourbon, or an orange-flavored liqueur, such as Grand Marnier or Cointreau, would work nicely in its place. You can double or triple the recipe if you wish.

Ingredients

• 1 large naval orange preferably unsprayed, or another variety, with seeds removed
• 3/4 cup (180ml) water, plus 3/4 cup (180ml) water
• 1/2 cup (100g) granulated sugar
• 1/2 cup, packed (90g) light brown sugar
• 2 tablespoons dark rum
• 1 stick cinnamon
• 1 1/2 tablespoons cider vinegar
• 1/8 teaspoon ground allspice
• 1 cup (110g) fresh or frozen cranberries

Instructions

• Lop off the two ends of the orange. With a sharp, serrated knife, cut the orange into 1/3-inch (1cm) slices.
• In a medium-sized nonreactive saucepan, cover the orange slices with cold water. Bring to a boil, reduce heat, and cook at a low boil for 10 minutes. Drain. Return the oranges to the saucepan. Cover with water again, bring to a boil, and cook for another 10 minutes. Drain and rinse with cold water.
• Return the orange slices to the saucepan, add 3/4 cup of water and granulated sugar. Bring to a boil then reduce the heat to a low boil and cook until the liquid is reduced to a thick syrup. During cooking, turn the oranges a few times in the reducing syrup so that they candy evenly.
• As the liquid cooks down, close to when there is very little in the saucepan, monitor them closely turning them frequently to avoid burning them. Remove from heat once most of the liquid is evaporated. Tilt the oranges into a colander and let cool.
• In the same saucepan, add the other 3/4 cup water, brown sugar, rum, cinnamon stick, vinegar, and allspice. Bring to a boil, add the cranberries, then reduce the heat slightly and cook until the cranberries pop and just start to fall apart. Chop the candied oranges into little pieces about the size of peas and add the candied oranges to the cranberries. Cook for about a minute, then remove from heat.

Notes

Serving: Pluck out the cinnamon stick and serve the sauce warm or at room temperature.

Storage: The sauce can be made up to one week in advance and refrigerated. Bring to room temperature before serving.

Related Recipes

Cranberry Sauce with Red Wine and Figs

Chocolate Pecan Pie

Mom’s Roast Turkey (Simply Recipes)