Pull up a chair.
You look hungry.

Out here on our little ranchette in wine country, I have strong opinions about tomatoes. They should come from the garden, still warm from the sun, and they should never, ever see the inside of a refrigerator. I feel just as strongly about the eggs (thanks, girls), the herbs, and whatever the neighbor leaves on the porch in a paper bag.

I wasn’t born knowing how to coax a sourdough starter back to life or turn a glut of plums into something worth sharing, so I started collecting recipes from farmers, friends, bakers, and the occasional winemaker two glasses in. Then I tested them, fussed over them, burned a few, and tested them again. The chickens are well fed.

A few of these have even escaped my kitchen and wandered onto my clients’ restaurant menus, and one ended up poolside at a hotel, which is the most glamorous thing that’s ever happened to a recipe of mine. But every one of them is the same at heart: something rich and satisfying that still tastes bright, fresh, and alive. It’s the kind of food that feels like a treat without weighing you down.

Call it California comfort food, made slowly, by hand, with the best of whatever’s growing. It isn’t fancy, but it is exactly right. It’s also known to cure bad days, small heartbreaks, and at least one flat tire. Probably.

Friends kept asking how to make “that one dish,” and I’m not a gatekeeper, so here they all are, for anyone who’s ever gone back for seconds and wanted to know how.