When it comes to Mexican cuisine, there is nothing quite as essential as guacamole. In its most basic form, the creamy dip consists of perfectly ripe mashed avocado seasoned with salt. While there are hundreds of recipes, it's nice to have a simple one to start with. Once you've mastered the technique, it's easy to get creative with lots of variations. You can experiment with different types of onion, substitute lemon or orange juice for the lime juice, and change the texture by blitzing in a food processor. Since Cinco de Mayo is just around the corner, it's a great time to share my favorite guacamole recipe. To check it out and see more suggestions on how to jazz it up, keep reading.
I was recently shocked to find that my best friend always avoids recipes with simple syrup because she doesn't know how to make it. As I taught her how to put it together, I realized that maybe some of you are like my friend. 
I know what you're thinking: what the heck is a coulis, and why should I care? Put simply, a coulis is a silky-smooth, uncooked sauce that can be made up of fruits or vegetables (though fruit is more common). In regards to why you should care, few recipes provide more jaw-dropping results for the amount of effort expended. Little more than a whir in the blender and a pass through a strainer separates you from a versatile flavor-packed sauce that can perk up a variety of treats. 
I've been known to eat it straight from the jar, but for a more refined option, try drizzling raspberry coulis on nearly anything sweet. Some of my favorite ways to use up the ruby-hued beauty of a sauce include drizzled over lemon soufflés, 
One of my favorite Fall ingredients is butternut squash. It's incredibly versatile and lends an autumnal, pumpkin-ish flavor to everything from 
The roasted chunks can be tossed with arugula and white beans. Or, blitz the squash in a food processor and use the puree to make lasagna. Not only are there unlimited ways to cook with roasted squash, there are also plenty of ways to season it. Fresh sage, thyme, or rosemary add an earthiness to the squash, while honey or maple syrup caramelizes the flesh. Doesn't experimenting with different flavorings and preparations sound like fun? To get started, check out my 
I don't remember much about my 10th birthday party, but I do vividly recall receiving one present: a small, spiral-bound book called 
. Now, undoubtedly I was more excited by the eponymous glittery "magic spoon" that was included, but, tellingly, only the battered and food-stained cookbook remains on my shelf (the cherished utensil is long lost).
Longtime fans of Klutz books (the cookbook's publishing house) won't be surprised, but despite being a solid decade-and-a-half out of its intended demographic, I still flip through its thick card-stock pages with surprising frequency, generally landing on the recipe for "can't fail killer fudge." This ultrasimple recipe turns out exactly as promised time and time again; not exaggerating, I've made it at least 100 times over the years. Lush and velvety, and finished off with a pop of salt, this was my secret recipe (further protected since the cookbook is sadly now out of print), until now . . .
In my fantasy world, I'd be the sort of put-together individual who plans things out far enough in advance to lovingly brine a heritage bird. Realistically, though, my actual Thanksgiving planning is more of a fly by the seat of my pants sort of endeavor. 
Years of crunch-time prep (and admittedly a bit of unnecessary panic) have taught me that even when I only get down to business the morning of the big day, it can still lead to a juicy, flavorful bird that my family will devour with relish. 
Family members and longtime friends often take great amusement at my career of choice, as I was a remarkably picky eater in my early years. I was no run-of-the-mill fussy child; until my teens, I turned my nose up at even the most basic, revered, and seemingly inoffensive of comfort foods: mashed potatoes. Perhaps I was prejudiced against the delightful spud due to an early negative experience — in the wrong hands they can be reminiscent of wallpaper paste — yet still, of all of my food phobias I've overcome, this might be the craziest and most embarrassing. 
Since that first revelatory bite, I've devoured them with relish and have experimented with all sorts of novel add-ins, but I keep coming back to their most simple, unadorned iteration. Bolstered by naught but cream, butter, and salt, this pared-down side might not sound like much to write home about, but don't let that dissuade you. Rather, these are the essence of potato and more than worthy of your Thanksgiving table this year.
In past Thanksgivings, homemade turkey stock has been conspicuously absent from my kitchen game plan. Despite my usual insistence on 
Either way, I've learned my lesson. It turns out that all it takes is a few minutes spent chopping, one or two absent-minded stirs of the pan, and less than an hour of unattended time for the requisite ingredients to make friends and mingle away on the stove. The result speaks for itself; never in my many 