"I like Nelly's empanadas," my daughter Olivia says when I hang up.

"Don't make them, Mom," Sophia adds.

In the morning we will drive two hours to Nelly's house for Empanada Day, a self-declared holiday we've been celebrating the Sunday before Thanksgiving for 12 years.

"Nelly always does everything. It's time I took a turn," I say, unsure about tampering with our tradition, but Nelly had a hard year, suffering with health issues, and I wanted to do this for her.

I start the dough making immediately. "Get the scrapbooks," I tell Olivia. Flipping through pages of Empanada Days over the years, I look at the pictures of the girls smushing balls of dough in their highchairs. The note, scribbled beneath the step-by-step photos, says: about half a cup of shortening for every three or four cups of flour. I have no idea how much water to use, so I try to guess at the recipe that lives in Nelly's heart, not a scrapbook. "We can do this, girls."

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At the moment his body should have been hitting my windshield and exploding like a grotesque feather pillow, he flew back a few paces and I whizzed by without hitting him. "Stupid turkey!" I groused. "You almost got yourself killed!"

A few weeks later, on Thanksgiving Day, I did something almost as stupid. I wasn't as careful as I should have been when handling the turkey (you know -- wash your hands frequently, use a designated cutting board, disinfect surfaces ...) and I spent the night singing whale songs into the deep, mysterious hole at the bottom of the toilet. The next morning, I was in the emergency room.

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"Guancia" in Italian means pillow, which is synonymous with cheek. And it's the facial aspect of the word, and the animal, that found its way into the kitchens of central Italy. Apparently pancetta, the familiar smoked and cured pork belly, simply wasn't bold enough for rendering purposes, so they went to the face and found a far more profound flavor. To produce guanciale, the jowls of a hog are short-cured (three to four weeks) in salt and sugar and spices. The abbreviated process works well with the jowls' combination of streaked meat and thick fat. And it's that fat/meat quotient (as opposed to pancetta, which is meatier) that makes guanciale such a solid base. The fat melts in a hot pan, leaving the tender meat and a silky lipid of smoke and salt that informs but doesn't overwhelm any soup or sauce.

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Cravings for smoky pork products were harder to satisfy. Smoked paprika and smoked sun-dried tomatoes are great ingredients, fairly new to our grocery store, but they provide background smoke, not smoke smoke. Our only local health food store carried blocks of smoked tofu, and I used it to make quiche and breakfast burritos. Then the store went out of business, replaced by a Zaxby's.

Frustrated, I took matters into my own hands and bought a small smoker. I'm afraid I've become something of an addict. The same way alcoholics look at cough syrup and see alcohol syrup, I look at food and see smoked food: peppers, garlic, tofu, tomatoes, corn, zucchini, okra, kale, eggplant, eggs and cold smoked cheeses. One day, as the fire died out, I had the bright idea of smoking a bowl of dog food, just briefly, to see if the dogs would be as seduced by the flavor of smoke as I had become. (They were. Seduced. When I carry the smoker from the shed they circle it like it's a smoked kibble Pez dispenser.)

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Visitors to the Gulf Coast of Florida are often surprised by the diversity of our population. In the mid-1970s, thousands of Vietnamese refugees were relocated here. Military installations dot the coastline and the interior, and servicepeople returning home from foreign assignments often bring families from overseas. We have large Thai, Vietnamese, Korean and Filipino communities, and smaller groups from England, Turkey, Germany, Italy and Japan. Following the run of hurricanes a few years back, Mexican workers poured in to replace blue tarps with new roofs, and stayed for the construction boom. Once that passed, many moved on, but some have settled and opened restaurants and markets.

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The neighborhood I moved to, Kitsilano, was unlike any I'd ever encountered in the States. It was centered on a street portentously named Broadway, and this was, predictably, a wide, busy thoroughfare. What was odd to my urban American sensibilities, though, was the tiny scale of the buildings and shops lining this major artery. There were a few big chain supermarkets and fast-food outlets, but the vast number of businesses along Broadway were small, quirky and family owned. Kitsilano was walkable and wonderful.

There was a Safeway supermarket only a block from my place, but I discovered it was cheaper and way more fun to shop like the locals: I'd buy my vegetables and fruit at a little Chinese-owned produce stand; my coffee, spices and pasta at another Chinese-owned grocery just down the road; and my cheese and other dairy products at a Greek-owned grocery that always had the freshest feta and house-made yogurt. For treats, I could go to a tiny, well-stocked wine shop; an old-school Italian delicatessen and bakery, or a terrific Malaysian hole-in-the-wall that made succulent Hainan chicken rice and laksa noodle soup.

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I gave the recipe a bit of a health makeover by using half whole wheat pastry flour, plus organic canola oil and fat-free milk. The result was shockingly good, and I was a Pie Queen once again. Not a good thing for my waistline, but great for my happiness level.

Don’t be skeptical, you butter lovers. This crust is so tender and flavorful, people will shake their heads in disbelief when you tell them it’s made with oil. My mother-in-law proclaimed it as good as her grandmother’s lard crust, and that’s about the highest compliment I could receive. A few people who commented on the Saveur site had problems with the crust, but I think it’s nearly foolproof if you follow my instructions and these three rules of thumb:

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Dad's apprenticeship at the hands of a gifted chef father and savvy manager mother gave him a lifelong love and appreciation of good food and restaurants -- and drove him to stay as far away from the culinary biz as possible.

By the time my sisters and I appeared on the scene, Dad generally stayed out of the kitchen. His culinary responsibilities were limited to standard dad stuff -- grilling burgers and steaks in the backyard -- and a single indoors task: folding wontons.

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And oh, their food. I wanted to taste their food. The way Southerners wrote about their food made me drool. Finally, moving to Gainsville, Fla., two years ago, I had my chance when an equally fascinated Colombian biologist friend came to me with a thrilling invitation.

"Oh, I found this restaurant that has this Southern food!" Luz told me. "I'm going with my friend for lunch. Want to come?"

"That would be awesome. What's this place called?"

She inhaled in happy anticipation. "Cracker Barrel!" (Luz went so far as to marry a guy from Tennessee. Her now-former mother-in-law made killer fried green tomatoes.)

I knew Cracker Barrel was the tourist version of Southern cuisine, and it only whetted my appetite for the real thing. This meant I'd have to find a friendly local who could teach me more about it. But where would I find such a person? Rumor had it the old-line Southern natives in my little college town resented -- and hence, avoided -- the Yankees and foreigners attached to the university where I worked. After all, people who put tempeh on their pizza and drink unsweetened iced tea are not to be trusted.

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"Or the musicians on the Titanic, going down playing 'Nearer My God to Thee.' Have you seen 'A Night to Remember'? 1958" The cancer had made his voice thin and whispery. He could no longer drop it down to basso, as he did when quivering out his Katharine Hepburn impersonation ("…th-hen I met James Ty-RO-HUN and fell in LUH-HUV and was so HAP-peh--for a TIIME...") or recounting the story of the time he met "Miss Ahhnngelou."

Radiation had failed, and chemo was not recommended. He could have opted for surgery to remove the larynx and learned to talk again through a mechanical device. The Ranevskayas could have saved themselves from ruin by razing their beloved cherry orchard.

So: a party. Champagne and slices of his famous saffron spice cake, the one that had taken second prize in the Maui County Fair. The toast was given by the guest of honor: "At least I won't die of AIDS!" he crowed, triumphant as his feathery voice allowed.

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Since then, I've gotten my habit under control and straightened out my life, but I still have a huge soft spot for coffee-flavored sweets. But, for all its popularity, coffee isn't exploited as a flavoring as much as one would think, at least not in the U.S. In Canada, the Coffee Crisp -- flaky wafers sandwiched with a sugary coffee-flavored filling and coated with chocolate -- can almost be considered the national candy bar. When I was living there, I also saw coffee-flavored chewing gum, though I have to admit that goes too far even for me: Doesn't one chew gum to get rid of coffee breath?

But some of the most unusual and tasty coffee-flavored confections come from Japan. Coffee jelly -- essentially sweet black coffee set with gelatin -- is a case in point. It's one of those amazingly simple, yet out-of-left-field concoctions that make one think, "Wow, I wish I'd thought of that!"

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As a child, I voted with my belly. Both grandmothers were excellent country cooks. Granny, my paternal grandmother, was famous for her cathead biscuits, tomato gravy and mustard greens. Nannie, my maternal grandmother, countered with prize-winning buttermilk pies and eight-layer chocolate cakes. My very favorites were Granny's blackberry doobie and Nannie's fried green tomatoes.

We ate them during the summer months, when their farms were in high season, when a "Butterbeans -- You pick!" sign on the side of the road meant we might get a few new children to play with for an afternoon. Then, when the season ended, the blackberry doobie and the fried green tomatoes disappeared, just like our temporary playmates.

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It had been a long couple of weeks of tuna or hot dog & bean casseroles, and the Adman was cranky. Small enough to need a footstool to reach the sink, but hungry enough to want a second hot dog, I asked for seconds. Five mouths abruptly halted mid-chew and 10 eyeballs turned to me. The Adman frowned, squinting. I squirmed and asked again, just a little bit louder. One of my brothers kicked me under the table, but I ignored him. I just stared back at the stubborn Adman.

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Let me explain: The gastronomic offerings in my husband's hometown of New Delhi had been sorely disappointing. Going out involved eating heavy, unimaginative curries — the kind of generic "Indian" food that's served at restaurants called Bombay Palace and Taj Mahal the world over. Staying in and eating at his parents' home seemed to mean simple, almost ascetic meals of roti and subzi (bread and vegetables).

During my initial pre-engagement trips there, I didn’t complain. I figured we’d be visiting Delhi only occasionally once we got married. But then it turned out that Sid had plans for us to live there for at least a year and perhaps even longer.

I panicked. I live to eat. Moving to Delhi was going to be a slow, flavorless death.

After marriage, my new-bride status dictated that I eat with my husband's family every night. I'd go to bed mildly hungry and distinctly homesick, missing the eclectic foods I'd eaten in my cosmopolitan hometown of Bombay. My family had a tight dinner schedule that traveled several time zones: tacos on Tuesdays, falafels on Fridays, Thai on Thursdays, etc. — and I desperately missed all the culinary continent-hopping we did from our kitchen.

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First up in the Home Ec curriculum was the "sew a dress with mom" project. My fondest wish tended more toward meeting the Beatles or marrying Illya Kuryakin, not learning to sew. My father enlisted a neighborhood mom to help, and she thought girls came in only one size: small and dainty. Over 5 feet 9 inches with feet past a size 10, I was nothing close to small. I did get credit for completing the dress, and lucky for me the teacher never noticed the masking-taped-seamed hem, or that it was a thousand sizes too small.

The next project, "baking with mom" lamentably meant one thing. Cake. The Home Ec teacher had great affection for all things cake, evidenced by the unending stash of Little Debbie treats in her desk drawer. I pleaded my case using the poor-sad-orphan-card to get a reprieve, but the teacher knew that I had one breathing parent left, which meant I was only one-half orphan. I was toast.

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I didn't see or hear anything, but I was suddenly overwhelmed by the flowery honey scent of ripe mangoes and the harsher, alcoholic fumes from piles of fruit fermenting on the ground. And then I realized what she was so excited about. Mangoes were dropping from the trees in every direction. Some hit the ground with a dull thud, others fell silently and a few splatted spectacularly into puddles of fruity soup.

We gathered as many mangoes as we could carry and then some. They were mostly the common, slightly stringy variety we call Kidneys, but they were sweet and delicious. We bit into the skin and sucked the sun-warmed fruit through the jagged holes, tossing the shriveled remains out the window. It was like making out with a mango, and there is simply nothing else like its sugary, succulent kiss.

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When health concerns led me to stop eating meat, I assumed that my barbecue days were over. But with my Authentic Smoked Seitan, I've finally found a reason to fire up my smoker.

I can hear you skeptics now. Smoked wheat gluten? Believe it, people. This stuff looks and tastes like Texas brisket -- or as close as a vegetarian version can come, anyway. With a nice crusty exterior, it's even got the "burned ends" of authentic barbecue. At a 4th of July party, the guests -- including meat eaters -- were practically clawing at each other to eat the seitan, even before it hit the table.

I used a dry rub, leaving out the salt because the seitan itself is quite salty. For the sauce, I chose a traditional Lexington, N.C., vinegar sauce. A South Carolina mustard-based sauce also works well here.

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Dearest to me are the handwritten recipes from our adopted grandmother, 80-year-old Ivy, shared with us when we were teenage newlyweds living in our very first apartment far from our families. It was a simpler time when all we needed was a home-cooked meal to make the world right again. I can even smell that first meal Ivy made for us, although at the time we weren't quite sure what to call it.

Entering the dingy apartment house foyer on that gray, bone-chilling, rainy New England autumn evening, the usual smell of old cat hair and l'eau de musty old building was replaced by the wafting aroma of warm-from-the-oven meatloaf and mashed potatoes. In the dark foyer we almost tripped over the foil-wrapped gift by our front door. It was the very first care-package dinner from our neighbor, Ivy. That meatloaf was love in a 5 x 8 pan.

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I find a similar frustration when I shop for tortillas. Specifically, flour tortillas. I generally like a bit of whole wheat flour in my savory baked goods, to pretend I'm healthy and enjoy a more pronounced wheaty flavor. But I don't want to sacrifice the traditional goodness of a tortilla, where the flour is touched with a bit of salt and fat to create a quality flatbread. For reasons I cannot figure out, my local grocery store isn't with me on this. They figure that if I want whole grains, then I also must be opposed to fat. And so they try to sell me tortillas that omit the shortening in favor of weird cottony binding agents. Unsurprisingly, the resulting tortillas are not so awesome. I like whole wheat, but I also like fat. And I like delicious tortillas, which require fat. Luckily, I can solve this problem. While, sadly, I don't have the skills to tailor a tall-yet-slim dress shirt, I am fully capable of cutting fat into flour, mixing and rolling dough, and turning out delicious whole wheat tortillas.

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Yesterday I decided to bake with purpose, tackling my holy grail of childhood memories: Snowflake Bakery's Half Moon cookie, which most people call black and white cookies.

Converting my Baking Hero Milt Ziegler's commercial recipe for the home kitchen took a certain amount of faith and a very competent geek who happens to have some spare time these days -- I mean, when you start with 15 pounds of cake flour, you have to do a lot of math to get it to fit in a home Kitchen-Aid mixer.

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