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Tejbegríz gombóc | Fodor Emese receptje

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Cajun Crawfish Sauce Recipe by VadaMD

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The Perfect

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What is it about the word entertaining that sends people into a state of panic, hunting down matching plates and googling things like “Easy Peking Duck at Home”? Well, my plates don’t match and there is no such thing as “easy” Peking duck (I’ve tried—we ordered pizza), but that doesn’t stop me from sending a last-minute invite to friends asking them to stop by, eat something delicious, and drink lots of wine. I never use the E-word; instead, I call it “having people over,” and just doing that immediately lowers my blood pressure.

alison roman entertaining crudites

Left: Roman, getting dinner together Right: A fine-looking platter of crudités

Photo by Michael Graydon + Nikole Herriot

When writing my first cookbook, Dining In, I wanted the recipes to reflect how I really, truly cook at home, not how I wanted people to think I cook at home. Whether it’s fried lentils for one or a leg of lamb for eight, the goal was for each recipe to inspire an “Oh, I can do that!” feeling rather than fear, self-loathing, and existential dread.

When I have people over, I want to sit back with my friends and laugh casually like I’m in an Eileen Fisher catalog, not be in the kitchen panicking because I ran out of sumac. (Just kidding, I never run out of sumac.) With unfussy salads, make-ahead sides, sheet-pan mains and, gasp, maybe no dessert, cooking for a large group can be easy. So easy, in fact, that you can do it tonight if you want (this whole menu can be prepped and cooked in just a few hours). Read on for how to put your friends to work and feed them too, because tonight you’re having people over like it’s no big deal. And it’s not!

roman marinated anchovies

How to doctor up anchovies (from a tin!) for an easy appetizer.

Photo by Michael Graydon + Nikole Herriot

It Doesn’t All Have to Be Homemade!

Tinned fish—the kind you see at every wine bar—couldn’t be easier to set out as hors d’oeuvres. (It’s also a good chance to introduce guests to the pleasures of something they might not buy on their own.) Fill out your spread with purchased items like olives, and don’t be shy about asking your friends for help: When they say, “What can I bring?” be honest—and specific. “Please bring a dense, seedy loaf of bread” isn’t a big ask.

alison roman amaro kombucha

Turn this Aperol-kombucha cocktail into your house drink.

Photo by Michael Graydon + Nikole Herriot

Make a Punch That’s Not a Punch

Punch is a great party move—when you have time to juice five pounds of fresh citrus. But when you don’t? Make a batch-cocktail base with store-bought beverages. Spike kombucha with low-octane Aperol, plus something harder, like gin or tequila. To serve this soon-to-be-famous house cocktail, pour it into a large mason jar or carafe (or flower vase, or…) next to glasses, a bowl of ice, citrus slices, club soda, and bitters. Don’t get tied up making each guest a drink; instead, direct them to the goods with tips on how to DIY it. Maybe they’ll make one for you, too.

alison roman radicchio tahini

A radicchio salad is awesome. Tahini dressing is even better.

Photo by Michael Graydon + Nikole Herriot

Make Any Salad a Star

Instead of laboring over more dishes than you have time for, go for a statement salad that won’t fade into the background. Skip the bagged arugula and pick up a few heads of dramatically leafy lettuces or chicories, like radicchio. To make their leaves the center of attention, slice or tear them into large pieces.

alison roman dog entertaining plate dinner

Left: Load up a plate with fennel-rubbed leg of lamb and grain salad with olives and whole-lemon vinaigrette Right: Literary agent Claudia Ballard, Batman (The dog!), and David Zwirner Gallery’s Michael Wooten

Photo by Michael Graydon + Nikole Herriot

You Should Make One Ambitious Dish, and That Should Be Your Main Course

When you have hours, not days, to prepare a meal, focus your efforts on one thing: the main course. It doesn’t have to be elaborate, but treat this as your ta-da! moment, something a notch or two above Tuesday-night chicken thighs. Roasting a large, boneless cut of meat—think leg of lamb or pork shoulder—with a garlicky spice rub will always taste amazing and look impressive, not to mention feed everyone (with a strong chance of leftovers).

alison roman pocky chocolate

A smashed hunk of chocolate and some Pocky? Yeah, that’s rad.

Photo by Michael Graydon + Nikole Herriot

No One Said You Had to Bake

There’s no need to turn your kitchen into the set of The Great British Bake Off (you did just roast a leg of lamb). Set out a thoughtful selection of store-bought sweet snacks like fresh fruit (pick something that needs no silverware, like Pixie tangerines), artfully wrapped chocolate bars, or colorfully packaged cookies from the grocery store’s “international” aisle. If your friends don’t appreciate a box of Pocky, they probably shouldn’t be invited anyway.

Roman’s Full Dinner Party Menu:

[Marinated Anchovies with Seedy Bread and Butter](https://www.bonappetit.com/recipe/marinated-anchovies-with-bread-and-butter

Aperol-Kombucha Cocktail
Radicchio with Creamy Tahini and Salted Sesame Seeds

Grain Salad with Olives and Whole-Lemon Vinaigrette
Fennel-Rubbed Leg of Lamb with Carrots and Salsa Verde

But if you were to bake dessert…

How to Buy Shrimp at the Grocery Store

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A lot of people are eating bad shrimp right now, at this very moment. Not because they’re bad cooks, or eating at bad restaurants, but because they don’t know how to buy shrimp that is as fresh and delicious as possible. When we say bad, we’re talking about low-quality shrimp. The mushy-textured stuff that tastes fishy and smells even fishier. The easiest away to avoid these bogies? Learn what to look for when you’re at the supermarket.

Let’s talk about what “frozen” and “fresh” actually mean in the wide world of shrimp. Frozen shrimp are currently frozen. Duh. They’re in a bag, located inside the frozen food section of your grocery store. Of course they’re frozen. And they’ve most likely been that way since they were caught or harvested. When fisherman bring shrimp onto their boats, they throw them into ice immediately, freezing them within a very short time of being out of the water. This preserves the fresh, shrimp-y flavor of the shrimp, freezing them in time so that they’re same-day fresh until they get thawed out again.

“Fresh” shrimp are a bit harder to put our faith in, because they’ve most likely undergone this instant freezing process too, but have been thawed by the fine folks at the fish counter. The “fresh” shrimp you see stacked on mountains of ice at your supermarket have most likely been frozen, and are now thawed, which means they’re actually getting less fresh with every passing hour. So. Let us say this: Unless you’re absolutely sure that the “fresh” shrimp at the store are actually fresh-off-the-boat, frozen shrimp are a way better bet. Avoid shrimp that smell like ammonia (an easy way to tell that they’re bad) or have shells that feel soft or slimy (again, not a good sign). If you can’t be sure, or know they’ve been thawed, head to the freezer. The frozen shrimp will taste better, cook better, and feel better. Well, just as long as they’ve been raised responsibly.

We’ve confessed our love for the flavor of wild-caught seafood before, and with shrimp, it’s no different. Wild caught shrimp have a cleaner, sharper, more shrimp-y flavor than their farmed counterparts. Looking for that designation on the package is key. If the shrimp aren’t wild-caught, making sure they’re raised sustainably and responsibly is important. Farms will advertise this, so really, it’s about taking the extra twenty seconds to scan the package.

30 minute coconut green curry with shrimp

Alex Lau

Shrimp-Coconut Curry with Rice Noodles? Yes, please.

And when you’re scanning, you’ll notice there’s a size designation. Maybe small, medium, or large, and almost always with an accompanying number. That number comes without context, a seemingly meaningless wildcard in the shrimp packaging game. But it’s actually pretty useful information. The number tells you how many shrimp there are in a pound. The higher the number, the smaller the shrimp. The smaller the number, the larger the shrimp. And when you pick your size, it’s all about what you’re cooking. The tiny guys are great for fried rice, while the jumbo ones make more of an impact in presentation on their own.

And lastly, on the topic of appearance: shells. Generally, we like the shells on there if we can get them. Same goes for the heads. Is it a step outside your comfort zone? Maybe. Is it more work to peel them once they’re cooked? Sure. But those shells and heads hold so much flavor, we can’t really live without them. Cooking shell-on shrimp in a pasta sauce turns it almost into seafood stock. And they look rad too! Wins for the whole team! That said, we’ve been known to buy shrimp without shells from time to time—you’re not peeling shrimp on a Tuesday night, and neither are we.

Your next grocery store stop in the seafood section is going to be calculated. You’re a major player in the shrimp game now. Shrimp skewers. Shrimp fried rice. Sautéed shrimp. Shrimp alfredo. No big deal. This is your kingdom. You were born to rule. And to eat delicious, responsibly-purchased, fresh-as-can-be shrimp.

Now that you know how to buy shrimp, get your shrimp curry on.

How My Cast Iron Skillet Taught Me About Self Love

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I was not the kind of person who’d ever ask for a cast-iron pan. I had just turned 20, and a typical dinner for me was a bowl of over-cooked pasta topped with a 99-cent jar of tomato sauce and a shake of Parmesan from a green container. No single knife I owned was sharp enough to finely chop an onion, not that I even knew how to properly do so. Nobody in my family had ever owned a cast-iron pan before. I had no idea what to do with it or how to care for it. I was having trouble enough caring for myself. Plus I couldn’t even lift the thing with one arm.

I’d spent much of the previous year trying to overcome an eating disorder that had plagued me since high school, and I was failing. It was easy to forgo eating when my kitchen was bare, without the ingredients I desired or the right equipment to prepare them in. But I knew that if I was going to be taking better care for my body, I first needed to learn how to nourish it, which meant I needed to learn how to cook. So, after getting one as a Christmas gift, I decided my new cast-iron pan would help me do just that.

I quickly learned that a cast-iron pan requires constant care and attention. It’s the neediest cooking vessel I’ve ever owned. Neglect it for too long, or put it away wet, and it will most certainly rust. Scrub it too hard, and you might scratch off the seasoning you spent weeks and months building up, one seared steak at a time.

It also demands a little bit of patience from you. A healthy layer of seasoning doesn’t happen after your first or third or eighth use of the pan. It’s a continual process, just like recovery.

I screwed up a lot. I attempted to fry eggs before the pan was seasoned well enough, which ended up in a scrambled, gummy mess. I went a full month without cooking in my pan and realized I’d also gone a few weeks without a piece of protein on my plate. There were times when I left it to soak in soapy water in the sink overnight, too lazy to clean it after making dinner, and stripped it of all its non-stick properties.

Gradually, I learned how to take proper care of it. The more confident I felt cooking with cast iron in the kitchen, the more hopeful I grew that I might one day be able to nourish myself. Over time, the pan got better seasoned, as did I as a cook.

The first recipe I mastered in it was a roasted whole chicken. After that, I tested out a few risotto recipes, in which I used the homemade stock I’d recently learned how to make with the leftover chicken carcass. Soon, I was using my pan to sear chicken thighs and pork tenderloins before transferring the pan directly into the oven. I made stir-fries loaded with fresh vegetables that came in the CSA I’d recently signed up for and tested out my mother’s shepherd’s pie in my new trusted cooking vessel.

When I noticed the first signs of rust, I didn’t panic. I realized that, after a few consecutive oilings, my cast-iron pan would forgive me. And, eventually, I felt like I could also forgive myself for not taking better care of my own body.

These days, my cast-iron pan lives on my stove top, a diligent reminder of all the progress we’ve made together. Years later, it still holds me accountable. When I notice areas of the pan starting to rust, it’s usually a sign that I need to slow down and pay more attention to the pan—and also to myself. Along with meal planning, cooking with my cast-iron pan and giving it a healthy oiling is now part of my weekly self-care routine.

Since getting my first one, my cast-iron collection has expanded. I own a miniature 6-inch skillet, in which I recently mastered shakshuka for one, and I have my eye on a cast-iron grill pan to help remedy my lack of outdoor grilling space. I’m still perfecting my Dutch Baby and cornbread techniques in my original 9-inch skillet; I know I’ll get there with time. My kitchen cabinets are now overflowing with equipment I once never imagined needing—a food processor, an immersion blender, a pasta roller—but it’s my cast-iron that asks the most of me and that I’m most indebted to.

5 Great Restaurants, Coffee Shops, and Breweries in Greenville, SC

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Greenville, South Carolina is close to a few great food cities. It’s an hour from Asheville and two from Atlanta. Charlotte is a 20 minute plane ride, and drives into the surrounding country can put you in front of some pretty serious barbecue. But restaurants in Greenville haven’t defined the city as a food town (yet!), even though it hosts the high-profile Euphoria Greenville food festival every year, which I attended for the first time last weekend. But let me say this: there’s cool stuff happening in Greenville, including restaurants pouring natural wines, coffee shops roasting phenomenal coffee, and the best baked goods I’ve had in a minute. You just have to know where to look. Here are five spots to hit, whether you’re in town for the day, the weekend, or the rest of your life.

methodical coffee greenville

Photo by Alex Delany

I was in Greenville for three days, and I stopped into Methodical Coffee six times. If that isn’t enough context, I bought a pin there. With their logo on it. For my jacket. The shop in downtown Greenville was my first stop every morning and my welcomed revival every afternoon. It hits the mark on every level. The beautifully designed space, with geometric wallpaper, minimalist menu, and blue and white china feels deceptively expansive, from the second story loft to the white marble counters below. The record player is constantly being flipped by employees, spinning tunes from Vampire Weekend to David Bowie to Tame Impala. The pastries are top notch, and the coffee, which they roast about ten minutes away, is smooth and powerful. This isn’t just a great coffee shop. It’s one of the best I’ve been to in the past few years.

morning bun bake room greenville

Photo by Alex Delany

Oh, yeah, those pastries I got at Methodical? They’re baked at a small bakery called Bake Room, run by Wade Taylor, who sources local grains to bake naturally leavened breads and pastries. Taylor’s morning bun is an absolute masterpiece, much lighter and flakier than the traditional bun, with a top that gets the old-fashioned doughnut treatment, tossed in cinnamon sugar. Eating it is something like hearing Marvin Gaye for the first time. The exterior of Taylor’s croissants shatter perfectly, and his chocolate chip monkey bread resembles miniature layered croissants more than cake, rendering everything I used to love and appreciate about monkey bread useless.

Bake Room doesn’t have a retail space at the moment (just a production bakery), but you can find their pastries at Methodical and buy their bread (and pastries) at their booth at the Greenville Saturday Market, until they sell out.

swamp rabbit grocery cafe greenville

Photo by Alex Delany

North of downtown, along the Reedy River, you’ll find Swamp Rabbit Grocery & Café. In the parking lot, you’ll see a concession stand known as Swamp Pizza, where you can order pies like the Okra Winfrey on covered picnic tables, and inside, there’s a small counter that slings sandwiches on very good house-made bread. But the real star of this place is the grocery. Shelves are lined with local produce (much of which I saw being unloaded by local farmers and carted in), meats, cheeses, beers, and wines captivate your attention until you remember you have to be somewhere. If you’re going to get any Greenville souvenirs, I’d suggest making them the culinary kind.

birds fly south ale project greenville beer

Photo by Alex Delany

The beer scene in Greenville isn’t as robust as other small cities. There are a few breweries making pretty traditional styles, but the airy, converted cotton warehouse where Birds Fly South brews is the exception. Head brewer and cofounder Shawn Johnson balances the tap list with the IPA tendencies of today’s beer drinkers and unorthodox funky, wood-aged saisons and sours. With names like ISM, Purple Cellphone, Wolves in the Piano, and Sometimes Buffaloes, Johnson brews ales that encourage second, third, and fourth sips before being able to say anything about them. And after the fourth? It’s probably just: Damn. That’s good.

the anchorage greenville

Photo by Alex Delany

Dinner at The Anchorage was the best meal I ate in Greenville. Hands down. The young restaurant in West Greenville serves food that defies any categorization. The staff-painted mural on the outside wall makes you think typical farm-to-table awaits. The inventive cocktails include off-the-wall amaros, until you discover the bottles of Pét-Nat and natural Gamay on the back of the menu. Dishes like the charred okra or brown butter grits with scallions might make you think they’re serving contemporary Southern food, while a red shrimp scampi with grilled bread lays down hints of the Mediterranean. But then you eat the grilled octopus, with crispy kale, in miso-chile sauce and lose your mind. The commonality is: letting the flavors of local ingredients speak for themselves.

The entire menu of small-ish plates is one that encourages exploration, and with their affordable prices, that’s totally doable. My advice? Sit at the bar upstairs and order slowly, persistently, and always with drink in hand.

If You Still Have Time, Check Out: Greenville Beer Exchange for a very well-curated craft beer headquarters, Mike & Jeff’s BBQ for some no-frills smoked meat, Golden Brown & Delicious for brunch and lunch moves, and The Village Grind for Pinterest-y coffee shop vibes.

Speaking of barbecue, this is what it’s like to smoke it:

Chicken Scarpariello with Sausage and Peppers Recipe

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Cook onions, bell pepper, and garlic in same skillet over medium-high heat, stirring occasionally and scraping bottom of pan, until tender and beginning to brown, 10–12 minutes. Add wine and cook, stirring occasionally, until reduced and you can no longer smell the alcohol, about 8 minutes. Add broth, peppers, vinegar, and rosemary and bring to a boil; cook until slightly reduced, about 5 minutes. Nestle chicken into onion mixture, then transfer skillet to upper rack of oven and roast chicken 10 minutes. Add sausages to skillet, pushing them into onion mixture, and continue to roast until chicken is cooked through and an instant-read thermometer inserted into thickest part of thigh registers 165°, 5–10 minutes.

A New Cookbook From Moosewood Restaurant, Which Taught Americans to Eat Healthyish

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From the whole-roasted cauliflower drizzled with tahini at Jean-George Vongerichten’s abcV in NYC to the frozen cauliflower rice and jarred tahini now sold at Trader Joe’s, the once-fringe hallmarks of vegetarian cuisine have gone solidly mainstream. Hummus and yogurt comprise billion-dollar industries. Silicon Valley is obsessed with creating the next great veggie burger. Amy’s Kitchen, everyone’s reliable source for frozen veggie enchiladas, is morphing into a national meat-free fast food chain.

It’s tough to imagine how much of this would have happened if a group of seven 20-something vegetarians with no restaurant experience, disgruntled with the bleak options available to them in Ithaca, NY in the early ‘70s, hadn’t started a restaurant called Moosewood and, ultimately, a line of beloved and iconic cookbooks.

The original Moosewood collective.

The original Moosewood collective. Courtesy of the Moosewood Collective.

“I wouldn’t be here without it,” says Amanda Cohen, chef of vegetable-centric spot Dirt Candy in NYC, who counts the original Moosewood Cookbook as formative in her teen years. “They were on the forefront of the organic movement, the local movement, the exotic ingredient movement—they were making hummus in the States before fancy restaurants were making hummus.”

Rich Landeau, chef of acclaimed trio Vedge, V Street, and Wiz Kid in Philadelphia, recently geeked out after meeting some Moosewood Collective members (the restaurant and cookbooks are owned and operated by this dozen-plus group) when they came to dine at Vedge for dinner. “It was kind of like when…chefs meet Thomas Keller or Patrick O’Connell from the Inn at Little Washington,” he says.

And, as BA editor-at-large Christine Muhlke put it in a recent feature for The New York Times, which charted the rise of plant-based cafes and restaurants, “It’s Moosewood’s world, we’re just living in it.”

As if to prove Muhlke’s point, a new cookbook, The Moosewood Restaurant Table, debuts this month. The collective’s first cookbook since 2013, it’s a comprehensive guide to how Moosewood approaches the new veggie-centric zeitgeist that exists in their wake. “It’s clear that what we are doing now is not the same as what we were doing thirty-five years ago,” says collective member David Hirsch, one of the book’s co-authors.

Moosewood Restaurant Table

Photo courtesy of The Moosewood Restaurant Table

The original Moosewood cookbook, written by former collective member Mollie Katzen and published in 1974, is a culinary bible of sorts for a generation of diehard and flirting-with-it vegetarians. It remains one of the best-selling cookbooks of all time, selling upwards of 20,000 copies each year. With its distinctively homespun, illustrated, decidedly of-its-era aesthetic, the book introduced American cooks to ingredients you can find in nearly every grocery store today: tahini, tamari, whole grains. (It was also notably heavy on the cheese and butter, a practice that’s lessened dramatically with each successive cookbook).

The newest cookbook is meant to bring Moosewood up to date while still keeping it, well, Moosewood-y. “It’s still our sensibility,” Hirsch says. “It’s not like we are trying to one-hundred-percent reinvent ourselves.” Since the beginning, the Moosewood Collective has practiced a concept called “Moosewood-izing” when creating their recipes. “It meant that, first of all, you made it vegetarian…You probably made it more accessible to an American cook. We also tried to make it a little easier, quicker. We weren’t into really fancy cooking,” says Susan Harville, a longtime collective member who has worked on all of the cookbooks.

In the early days, Moosewood-izing meant modifying meat-centric recipes from The Joy of Cooking or family recipe cards or dishes discovered in world travels. Today, it means catching Moosewood up to speed with what meat-free dining means in the era of Sweetgreen, Dimes, and Pinterest. The new book reflects the more unusual styles of produce available at the farmer’s market (romanesco cauliflower! watermelon radishes!) as well as the increased range of products you can find at your local grocery store (kamut! shirataki noodles!). There are recipes for homemade harissa and cashew-coconut butter and spicy preserved lemons. There’s even a homemade gluten-free flour mix.

And many of the recipes are great—wholesome yet satisfying, and interesting without being precious. I probably ended up using The Moosewood Restaurant Table more than any cookbook that I’ve taken for a test-drive in recent memory. Quinoa-cauliflower bites with cheddar and chickpea flour, in the appetizers chapter, are my new on-the-go breakfast of choice. Cooking the kale-walnut risotto with friends for a dinner party was a joy, and a modified second go-round with farro is currently sitting in my freezer, pre-portioned for work lunches. A roasted cauliflower salad dusted with za’atar and tossed with fresh herbs, toasted walnuts, and a zingy lemon-tahini dressing was not only not at all out of place at a barbecue this summer; it was maybe even more popular than the ribs.

Moosewood taking on 2017 is especially opportune given that 2017 is obsessed with the ‘70s, with everything from high-waisted pants to Birkenstocks to macrame wall hangings coming back in vogue. But today’s ‘70s reduxes have emerged out of an Instagram-filtered vortex: Birks are sold at Barneys for $300; the wall-hangings my mom crocheted herself back in the day now get sold pre-fabbed at West Elm. By the same token, today’s style of vegetarianism can sometimes feel caught in the spokes of today’s wellness industrial complex wheel—as much about made-for-social media branding as back-to-the-land idealism.

Admittedly, I’m a Millennial who will shell out for herbal tinctures and small-batch vinegars and is steadily building my upscale clog collection. I own many other cookbooks with recipes for zucchini noodles and artisanal condiments and ancient grain salads—and I mostly flip through them for inspiration as opposed to actually using the recipes. I actually cooked from The Moosewood Restaurant Table, on the other hand, because of the book’s tone: unique to a group that has 40-plus years of experience wholeheartedly encouraging people to cook. The book’s intro reads, “Whether making food for you, your family, or your friends, cooking at home is self-affirming and empowering on many levels.” It’s a sentiment that jumps off the page, recipe after recipe.

Don’t get me wrong—The Moosewood Restaurant Table doesn’t always hold up. Sentiments like “baby, let’s spiralize!” and grain bowls referred to as “the new ‘TV dinner,’ no tray table needed” and offered in simplistic varieties like “Italian,” “Mexican,” and “African” can come off as a bit dated, if not downright culturally reductive. And attempts at Millennial-friendly recipes—zoodles, kale chips, and avocado-chocolate pudding—sometimes feel at odds with more nuanced, elegant dishes like roasted eggplant with chermoula or asparagus with sizzled shallots and fried eggs.

According to Hirsch, the collective was less concerned with coming across as too trend-minded. “Eating low-fat was generally accepted when we wrote the Moosewood Low-Fat Cookbook in the nineties,” he says. “What will they be saying twenty years from now? You can’t get too worked up about that, because this is where we are [now].”

And maybe Moosewood isn’t going after Millennials or ‘70s nostalgia anyway. According to collective member Laura Branca, the new book is aimed at the audience that grew up with the original—my parents. “There are people among us who have developed diabetes or have food allergies they didn’t have 20 years ago and have now,” Branca says. “As we learn to accommodate what happens in our own lives and social circles and for our customers, we change what we offer.”

The Moosewood Restaurant Table may not be the trendiest new cookbook on the shelf, but its cheerleading, approachable attitude has value to those intimidated or turned off by the aesthetics-obsessed plant-based scene today. “You can enrich your life with something as simple as watercress toast,” Harville says of her favorite recipe in the book, which also is the cover’s star. The photo is shot on a ¾ angle, in soft focus on a knotted wood board, a far cry from the overhead-avocado-toast shots that rule Instagram. Here, you’re encouraged to pile up sauteed watercress on toast because it’s been rated as an even better source of nutrients than kale—it could, maybe, actually enrich your life.

And at the end of the day, that might just be what makes Moosewood outlast us all.

The 7 Healthiest College Dining Halls

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Laugh about Vermont’s hippie rep all you want, but our friends in the Green Mountain State are onto something. Sterling College doesn’t have any food courts or fast food joints on campus. Instead, it manages its food system from seed to compost. All students have to put in one week of dish duty each semester (trust us, your twentysomething, studio-apartment-dwelling self will be grateful), and students roll up their sleeves in the kitchen next to pro chefs to make recipes with produce from local farms.
Sterling’s Rian Fried Center for Sustainable Agriculture and Food Systems houses more than 130 acres of farm and gardens, an edible forest garden, the Alfond Draft Horse Barn, hoop houses, and a sugarhouse and sugarbush for maple syrup production (it is, after all, Vermont). The college grows 35 percent of its own food using no pesticides or chemical fertilizers. Even cooler? Sterling sources 53% of their grub locally, either from large farms within a 150-mile radius or from small farms within 250 miles. Non-profit The Real Food Challenge, a nationwide initiative to make campus food more local, healthful, and sustainable has rated Sterling as #1 in America three years in a row. Those hungry for more can enroll in the School of the New American Farmstead, Sterling’s continuing education program, and take classes like Fundamentals of Artisan Cheese, Wildcrafting: Food & Beverages from the Natural World, Artisan Breadmaking & Heritage Grains, and the Art of Fermentation.