A Story: The Island of Elba.

There are places where the menu is written in chalk on the front door. Where we drank coffee in the morning while the garbage collector came to empty the barrels in the piazza, and seagulls dove over the clay rooftops and still-shuttered windows.

Origins of a Summer Raspberry Parfait

Begin with a layer of berries so delicate and fresh that they melt instantly into the yogurt beneath.

Delicious, for sure, but what makes these raspberries special has its roots, quite literally, alongside a steep road in the Colorado mountains.

Sidewalk Eating: Denver’s Best Thai Street Food

When Laura called at 1:25, I was sitting in traffic on Rt. 36 headed for Denver.

“I’m waiting in line at this Thai food stall,” she said, “There’s like 20 people in front of me. Should I order something for you?”

“Nah. I’m not hungry yet. Go ahead without me and I’ll find something when I get downtown.”

But when I arrived in the city 25 minutes later, then parked and walked to meet her at the corner of 16th and Stout, I was ravenous. And Laura was still four people away from ordering.

“It’s supposed to be amazing,” she assured me.

Do Things Taste Better in Handfuls, or When Chosen One By One?

In Florence it is raining, round heavy drops that soak the uneven cobblestones of one narrow street (among others) behind the Palazzo Vecchio. Under streetlamps before dawn, a man leans his umbrella against the stone wall and bends down under an awning to raise the metal gate that covered his shop for the night. Around the corner, another gate lifts as another man, slightly stooped from consecutive mornings of this same routine, drags a rusty food cart onto the street for a day of work. The pasticceria next door is wrapping up business, having poured the smell of baking butter into the alley since one a.m. Now it’s about six. The pastries are baked, now on their way to cafés around town, and a small crowd loiters by the non-descript door hoping to purchase leftovers before the baker, in his sweat-stained apron, heads home.

donuts from the donut shop.

Guerilla Recipes: Finding Ingredients Everywhere.

Fabio Picchi is the owner of Cibreo Restaurant and Cibreo Café in Florence. His presence fills a room like an actor under a spotlight fills a stage, his mane of white hair pulled back under a pair of glasses that rest at the top of his head, in a chef’s coat, massive hands gesturing and often laughing, somewhat mischievously. Throughout the day, waiters and cooks rush across the street between his two establishments exchanging ingredients and

Grinding Ras el Hanout: Majid’s Spice Shop in the Marrakech Souk.

At the base of Moroccan cuisine’s rich flavor is a basic blend of spices called Ras el Hanout. Literally meaning “top of the shop,” each spice merchant offers a different version, which is most often used to marinate meat and fish, and to flavor stews, desserts and sometimes coffee.

I sip my coffee the way I want to live. Slowly, searching for flavor.

Why is the coffee so much better in Italy? The question hit me with my first sip of espresso. The tiny spoon and hardwood counter, my suitcase still resting against my knee as I waited for Peggy to rush home from the market and invite me inside.

I asked the question again this morning, trying to keep the coffee on my tongue for as long as possible, so I might ascertain just what about the flavor was so different. Less bitter. Darker. Smoother. I wanted to use words usually meant for describing wood, or wine.

I had a similar experience later in the day, when handed a chunk of parmigiano cleaved from the heart of a 20-pound block, in the kitchen of il Teatro del Sale. The taste of it made me think of a well, as if I was pulling the flavor up from its depths in a bucket. That’s how long it lasted, each tug bringing up something new.

One Thing I Learned on a Farm in South Africa

I learned about the placement of teacups on a table. About texture. Papaya, strawberries, pineapple woven like a sucrose flag beneath mountains that belong in New Zealand. Muddy rubber boots drying in the sun by the kitchen door.

I learned something about the balancing act between stiffness and disarray and the trapeze artists—hosts like Tinie—who understand how to make a space welcoming without hovering over everything. It’s called Comfort, or maybe Home.

Roasted Roots

My mom is notorious for burning herself while cooking, and slicing her fingers on too-sharp kitchen knives.

She doesn’t follow recipes and afterward can never say exactly what ended up in the mix. Despite this and because of this everything she cooks is delicious and impossible for me to replicate. A meal with my mom is a one-time experience.

She dashes around the kitchen and throws things into pots, things I didn’t even know my kitchen contained and never would consider combining. She says that when she reads a recipe she can taste the finished dish in her mouth. Vegetables should be roasted with fresh rosemary. No fresh rosemary? We’ll use nutmeg and dried ginger instead. The kitchen cleaver becomes an extension of her hand and she uses it to gesture and point at things from across the room, slicing dangerously through the air between us.

When she cooks, I get out of the way.