Controversial Cabbage

Latkes are sacred. I don’t mean that in a biblical sense, but maybe that does apply in this case, too. Latkes are the real meaning of Hanukkah, the nexus of the holiday that connect the miracle of the oil with community, comfort, and abundance. Potatoes themselves take a place of honor at the table, forever reliable for their culinary prowess. That’s why I’ve been steeling myself for this blog post; I know I’m about to upset a lot of people. I made latkes with cabbage instead of potatoes.

Please, put your pitchforks away! Don’t rescind my invitation to the party yet! By no means am I suggesting that cabbage latkes are better than the beloved potato latkes. As a food writer, I know my job is to sell you on my latest creation, convincing you that it’s unbeatable, it’s life-changing, it’s the thing you never knew you needed.

Maybe the last is true, because I’ve never heard anyone take a plate of golden, immaculately crisp potato latkes and say, “You know what these need? 100% more cabbage.”

Honestly, I don’t know where the idea came from, other than the fact that I like cabbage and happened to have it around. I started making cabbage latkes well into late summer, biding my time and practicing my pitch for this day. I’ve come to find that they somewhat resemble Latvian kāpostu kotletes, which Google invariably translates as “cabbage cutlets.” If there could possibly be a more disappointing way to set expectations for this dish, it would be to call them cabbage cutlets. So, cabbage latkes it is.

Golden-crisp on the edges, tender in the center, this more vegetal reimagining of the classic potato pancake looks suspiciously similar to the original inspiration. Shredded green cabbage, kissed with just enough salt to coax out its sweet, earthy essence, forms the backbone of this comforting fritter. Not heavy or greasy, a lacy latticework of browned fringes gives way to a savory, onion-scented interior.

Hopefully this doesn’t turn into a scandal akin to the great Pea Guacamole Controversy that rocked the culinary world a few years back. If it would make you more comfortable, go ahead and call them cabbage fritters. No one is coming to take away your potatoes. I’m only suggesting you might enjoy making space for cabbage, too.

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It’s Your Funeral

When in doubt, eat potatoes.

That’s the prevailing wisdom keeping Funeral Potatoes at the forefront of southern wakes. Despite the dire name, they’re not the cause of funerals, but solace for those attending them. Little more than a cheesy potato bake, they’re the epitome of comfort food. Simple flavors and soft, creamy textures make it easy to eat, especially for the bereft who may be struggling to find their usual appetite for life. Leftovers keep for days, reheat beautifully, and serve generously, which is why it’s also a favorite for meal trains, making sure everyone still eats when times are tough.

Chalk it up primarily to user error, but the first time I attempted a veganized, slightly healthier version of the concept, those poor potatoes needed their own funeral. It was essentially chunky potato soup in a casserole dish, sloshing dangerously against the sides of its ceramic coffin. Worse yet is the fact that after one bite, I knew they had died in vain. Bland as sin, unctuous in a bad way, delivering such a dish would only cause more grief rather than relieve it.

Back to the drawing board, using the basics as guidelines rather than rules, I created a version accidentally perfect for Halloween, decked out in brilliant orange and black. Sweet potatoes are the new featured spud, contrasted by the spicy kick of sriracha, enveloped in a creamy, cheesy foundation. Traditionally, corn flake cereal is sprinkled on top for a crunchy finish, but I wanted a more savory and substantial option, springing for crushed blue corn tortilla chips instead. Let’s be honest: the “blue” masa has always looked black, but it works in its favor here, at least when served as a festival fall feature.

You’ll want to be buried in these potatoes. They’re not quite spicy enough to raise the dead, but hopefully, at least buoy your spirits. Whether you’re mourning, celebrating, or just navigating the strange limbo of being alive, these potatoes are here for you.

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Pop Quiz

Standing over a gently simmering pot of basmati rice, lid slightly ajar, I was suddenly swept up by the most familiar, cozy aroma. Nutty, warm, and unmistakably nostalgic. It took me a second to place it, but once I did, there was no denying it: popcorn. The rice smelled exactly like freshly popped popcorn.

That toasty, buttery, slightly roasted perfume has a surprising overlap between the two completely unrelated ingredients, and there’s actual science behind it. The same compound responsible for popcorn’s crave-worthy scent, 2-acetyl-1-pyrroline, or 2-AP for short, is the aromatic essential in basmati rice. In fact, it’s found in everything from toasted bread to pandan leaves, but it seems to come through most clearly in the iconic long grain and exploded kernel.

Scientifically Delicious

What makes the comparison even more compelling is that their similarities don’t stop at that one molecule. Not to get too nerdy, but you science buffs out there may also recognize:

Pyrazines which bring the earthy, roasted warmth.
Furfural adds a whiff of baked bread and honey.
Hexanal and nonanal layer in fresh, fatty green notes like crushed leaves.

So naturally, I wondered, what if you brought them together?

Popcorn infused into rice, by way of rich coconut milk, borrows some of its inherent toasty, buttery notes at the same time. It’s at once cozy and nostalgic, yet still tropical and sunny. A hint of sweetness rounds it out, creating that addictive interplay with an equally subtle touch of salt.

Take a page from traditional coconut rice and serve steaming spoonfuls alongside your favorite curry, under roasted vegetables, or all on its own. Like every good bowl of popcorn, it’s dangerously easy to finish the whole batch in one sitting.

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Marvelously Mundane

I can’t tell you a single thing I learned in my classes about Art History, but I can tell you in detail about where I went to lunch after. My forgetfulness is unsurprising, but the fact that I’ve dedicated so much brain space to a completely forgettable meal is genuinely infuriating. I’ll be the first to say that neither the eatery nor my order are or were special. Lemonade LA is like an expensive cafeteria for tech bros and hipsters that want to make healthier choices, short of bringing their own food to work. Assemble a tray of cold or hot options and be on your way.

School Lunch in SF

When it first opened in downtown San Francisco, I was one of the first people in line. Anything to shake up the routine of schoolwork and endless commutes. Given the slim vegan options, I immediately lit upon the avocado and tomato salad. It’s every bit as boring as it sounds: avocado, tomato, pine nuts, and lime vinaigrette. Perhaps it was comforting at least in part because it was so unremarkable. Fresh, rich, and satisfying, every single time.

All-Purpose Avocados

It’s the kind of thing you absolutely do not need a recipe for, yet it can be a helpful reminder in times of need. Need something for an impromptu happy hour, pot luck, or unannounced dinner guest? It’s a salad, yes, but also a side dish, salsa, topping, and plant-based ceviche, if you’re feeling fancy.

Serving Suggestions

That’s to say, you can serve it with chips like a dip, or heaped on top of toast. Toss in chickpeas or diced tofu for protein, or add more veggies like sliced hearts of palm, steamed asparagus, or roasted broccoli. Toss with chilled pasta or leafy green to make it a bigger, complete meal. Double it for a crowd or halve it to eat two servings at once, because for all it can do, it can’t do everything, and doesn’t keep well.

The Basic Blueprint

Here’s your cheat sheet. I’ve improvised and simplified the original approach considerably over the years, so trust me when I say that you can’t mess it up. Juicy tomatoes tossed with buttery cubes of ripe avocado, doused in bright citrus will never do you wrong.

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Unseasonable, Not Unreasonable

Eggplant and tomatoes, in the dead of winter? Oh no, that’s not very seasonal of me. Such a terrible faux pas, such an obvious insult to The Natural Order Of Things. I should have just saved this for a few months and pretended it was devised in that moment, in the warm sunshine of late June, when flowers are blooming and an abundance of produce explodes back into farmers markets. I did consider it, strongly, but I also considered the fact that a little bite of summer in the middle of a dark, cold, forbidding day might be what we all need.

Let’s not kid ourselves: these ingredients are still in grocery stores across the world. It doesn’t matter where you live, or where the vegetables came from, because they’ll find their way to your local market whether you like it or not. We can thank globalization and climate change equally for that. In no way would I suggest that they’ll be as flavorful and ambrosial as peak season produce, locally grown in organic soil, mind you. I’m only suggesting that we have the option to indulge, in this small way, as a preview of what’s to come. When you need a little reminder that there’s a light at the end of the tunnel, you already have the tools to see it. These vegetables will exist anyway; it would be a shame to let them languish, unloved.

Graffiti eggplant is a particularly arresting specimen, striped as if colored with gentle brushstrokes of glossy purple paint. No different from Italian globe eggplant otherwise, in terms of shape, size, or flavor, but an eye catching reminder that the fruit itself exists (and yes, it is a fruit, botanically speaking.) Best when on the smaller size to reduce the amount of watery seeds, it cooks quickly and easily in the air fryer. Sure, it would no doubt be brilliant on the grill, but let’s not forget about the actual temperature outside right now. Tender to the point of melting onto your fork, that silky sensation is heightened against the cool, toothsome pop of raw cherry tomatoes. Basil, the harbinger of midsummer revelry, feels mandatory in this situation, bright and citrus-y, bold and fresh.

That’s all it is: Eggplant and tomatoes. I would apologize for my crime against sustainability, but honestly? I have no remorse. In fact, I’d do it all again, and encourage you to as well. Like celebrating Christmas in July, sometimes we need to do what brings us the most joy, not what makes the most logical sense.

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Turnip The Beet

As much as I love a good food pun, I swear, this was completely unintentional. Up until the moment I started peeling away the outer skin, I thought for all the world that I was working with rutabaga. Then, that distinctive smell hit me; sharp and pungent, more like a radish than the sweet and starchy tuber I expected. Simply trying to use up odds and ends after another recipe photo shoot, I suppose it was fate that pumped up the volume to create these accidental turnip and beet hash browns.

Fleeced by Flannel

Red flannel hash is simply your traditional potato-based hash with addition of chopped beets, tinting all the spuds a rich ruby hue. You could perhaps squint and see it as a checkerboard arrangement with all its squares overlapping hues to account for the name. That said, it’s a bit of a misnomer because flannel itself is simply a woven fabric, regardless of pattern, despite the frequent association with a plaid or tartan. Semantics aside, it’s a humble, hearty, and comforting breakfast staple that will never let you down. Potatoes aren’t the only vegetative foundation that can support the concept.

Root Revelry

Sitting on the outskirts of most mainstream markets, turnips and rutabagas have more in common than not. You’d be forgiven for making the same mistake. Both come from the cabbage family and have a very similar appearance. Pale beige with a purple top, it’s easy to mix them up at a glace. Turnips are a bit rounder and more pale, whereas rutabaga have a darker, more yellow tint and tend to be a bit more oblong. As far as flavor goes, turnips have a subtly peppery bite, especially if eaten raw, while rutabaga have a sweeter flavor, like carrots, and a creamier texture when cooked. Fortunately, you can use both with great success; the results will be delicious regardless, just in different ways.

Serving With Style

Earthy and warming, this particular hash honors the legacy of the potato while giving it a more nuanced upgrade. The natural sweetness of red beets with punchy turnips pairs easily with almost anything to round out the plate. Infused with a smoky, savory, and subtly tangy flavor, it’s so much more than just bland, boring filler.

Serving suggestions include:

Hash It Out

Make some noise for the accidental smash hit of the winter! You’ll want to turnip the beat, on repeat, once you give it a spin.

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