Tomato

You've probably never seen smoked swordfish before, but you probably weren't looking. Find it at Mexican, Spanish, or other specialty grocers, or at a well-stocked fish market.

Charring the vegetables adds bittersweet depth; serve leftovers on scrambled eggs.

Authentic barbacoa is a daylong event involving a whole animal and an underground fire pit. This take is easier and totally delicious.

Leftover sauce? Bring a pot of water to boil: It's pasta night.

No nduja? Just add an extra glug of olive oil along with some red pepper flakes.

Skip expensive store-bought stock: you can extract cleaner, stronger broth from water and a few pantry items you probably already have on hand (think bacon, tomato paste, herbs, peppercorns, a Parm rind, and, of course, kosher salt).

If you're not a lamb person, ground beef will also taste great.

A classic ribollita is cooked one day, then reheated and served the next. To do that, just hold back the last croutons so they keep their crunch.

Smoked mozzarella flavors these chops from the inside; an easy cherry tomato pan sauce and creamy polenta round things out.

There's marrow in those bones! Scoop out the cooked marrow and whisk it into the braising liquid, or eat it on a crust of bread with salt. You earned it.

When my wife, Julie, and I got married, we knew there was only one place to go for our honeymoon: Italy. I was excited to take her to Gombitelli, the tiny town in the mountains near Lucca where my dad's side of the family came from. My great-grandparents, Angelo and Olimpia Gemignani, had left Gombitelli for America at the turn of the last century, and my Grandpa Frank was born right after they got off the boat. We meandered through the Tuscan countryside, following increasingly sketchy gravel roads and finally ending up on a narrow donkey trail that wound up the side of a steep mountain. I remembered this road from a visit I'd made seven years earlier. Since then, it seemed to have eroded and gotten even narrower. It was barely wide enough for a car, with a sheer drop along one side and, naturally, no guardrail. We came to a dead end, the front of the car facing a deep ravine, and an old man came out of his house, waving violently and screaming at us in Italian. I rolled down the window and said "Gemignani?" His expression changed from rage to joy as he motioned to follow him and raced off, back down the road, yelling "Gemignani! Gemignani!" I made the most terrifying U-turn of my life and followed him. The minute I saw the little house and farm, I had the same overwhelming feeling I'd had the first time I'd been there. It was like stepping into my grandpa's farm in California. Although he'd never even been to Italy, he had the blood of a Tuscan contadino—and there in front of me was his backyard in every detail: the same flowers, the lemon tree, the dogwood, the fava beans, the big wine jugs wrapped in straw, the rusty tools scattered around. That California farm and my grandpa are long gone, but in that moment, I was home again. My cousins had decided there was one thing they absolutely had to serve us for our welcome meal: pizza, of course. And this is the one they made. It was quite thin, almost like a toasted flatbread, and I've replicated that in this recipe by rolling the dough out and docking it, so you get a light, crisp crust that's just right with the gutsy puttanesca-style combination of crushed tomatoes, olives, garlic, and anchovies.

I rarely rave about my own recipes, but this is one I can just go on and on about. It is the definition of freshness with its sweet-and-sour late-summer flavors, and it is also an utter delight to look at. But the most incredible thing about it is that it uses a few ingredients that I have been lovingly cooking with for many years, and believed I knew everything there was to know about, yet had never thought of mixing them in such a way. That is, until I traveled to Istanbul and came across a similar combination of fresh tomatoes and pomegranate seeds in a famous local kebab restaurant called Hamdi, right by the Spice Bazaar. It was a proper light-bulb moment when I realized how the two types of sweetness-the sharp, almost bitter sweetness of pomegranate and the savory, sunny sweetness of tomato-can complement each other so gloriously. I use four types of tomato here to make the salad more interesting visually and in flavor. You can easily use fewer, just as long as they are ripe and sweet.

Easy enough for a weeknight, but special enough for a dinner party.