[Photographs: Robyn Lee]

There's no shortage of places to get your black pepper from; as one of the world's most popular spices, it's grown all across the world's spice regions, from India to Indonesia to Ecuador and Brazil. We don't talk much about terroir when it comes to spices, but it's worth thinking about. After all, peppercorns are fruits just like grapes, and soil, growing conditions, and variety of peppercorn are all going to have an impact on flavor profile.

How strong are these flavor differences, and how do they pan out with food? We tasted peppercorns from seven major growing regions to find out. This isn't a taste test in our usual sense—we weren't trying to find the best peppercorns—but rather an effort to answer those questions, and in so doing put together an informal guide to the great wide world of black pepper.

Many thanks to The Spice House for sending us their pepper samples! Additional samples came from Kalustyan's in NYC.

How to Do a Pepper Tasting

Each pepper was ground and sampled for both flavor and aroma. You can try tasting spices straight, but it's easy to get palate fatigue. So we took lots of warm white rice with our samples, both to make them easier to taste and to see how the peppers' differences would pan out when eaten with food.

We also invited Lior Lev Sercarz of La Boîte é Epice to help us out. Lior is a master spice blender for some of the top chefs in New York and around the country. He seeks out the most obscure ingredients from the most unlikely places to make some incredible blends—if you could get anyone to help you navigate the world of spices, get Lior. And while the rest of us are amateurs when it comes to large spice tastings, Lior does this sort of thing for his job.

He gave us some criteria to keep in mind, both for evaluating the quality of peppercorns in general and their specific flavor differences.

General signs of quality:

• The peppercorns should be a relatively uniform color, a signature of higher quality and more consistent flavor.
• Darker peppercorns are more flavorful.
• Higher-grade peppercorns are usually more fresh than their low-grade counterparts.

Characteristics to keep in mind when tasting pepper:

• Acidity
• Sweetness
• Citrus, mustard, or camphor flavors
• Texture: do the peppercorns crumble easily or stay pretty solid?

With these criteria in mind, and tissues in hand for the inevitable sneezing, we set to work taking notes on the flavors and aromas of our samples.

The Results

Perhaps our most interesting discovery was the low correlation between flavor and aroma, both in terms of intensity and tasting characteristics. Some peppers had knock-you-down aromas but mild flavors; others bore fruity, floral aromas but stronger, spicier tastes. That gives you a lot of options when choosing your pepper: do you want it there as a strong flavor or a light aromatic accent? And it makes for interesting blending options: if your ideal pepper has a citrusy aroma, roasted flavor, but also intense heat, you can combine different peppercorns in a grinder for a house blend. Here are all the peppers we tasted, with notes on each. They're listed here in order of overall preference from tasters, but keep in mind that it's hard to say pepper is "better" than another—different flavors, aromas, and textures all have different uses.

Lampong (origin: Indonesia)

[Photographs: Dave Katz]

There's a slow burn in these peppercorns that evolves into a more intense heat. Several tasters noted strong citrusy aromas; others smelled woodsy, pine notes. This didn't taste like the most intense peppercorn, and it definitely bore more aroma than flavor. One taster suggested it for crusting a steak: the bright, light aromas and mild-but-spicy flavor would make a good complement to a fatty ribeye.

Tellicherry (origin: India)

Tellicherry peppercorns are like San Marzano tomatoes: they need to come from Tellicherry, a city on the Malabar coast of Kerala in India. They're considered some of the finest peppercorns in the world, and one of the few "names" in pepper that people are familiar with. Our sample tasted especially sweet, and tasters noted aromas from fruity to grassy to citrus and pine—but most of all, a certain bright freshness. The sweet, balanced flavor and complex aroma make it a great stand-alone pepper.

Brazilian

The New World grows plenty of pepper, and while this sample wasn't especially complex (notes suggested "one-note"), it has a brash intensity we found appealing. An especially pungent, nose-clearing bite gives way to a more mild, easygoing flavor. Some detected very mild citrus and herbal notes. This is good for a quick, punchy black pepper hit that you don't want to linger; or add it to blends for its strong opening notes.

Vietnamese

Another pepper with intense aroma but mild flavor—and very different aromas and flavors. "Strong" was the dominant note on smell, with suggestions of fruit, citrus, and even fennel, according to one taster. The mellow flavor evokes black tea, smoke, and wood, but it's "not crazy complex" and isn't too hot, either. This would be interesting in cacio e pepe, perhaps better when paired with Brazilian peppercorns for heat.

Malabar (origin: India)

Malabar peppercorns hail from the same growing region as Tellicherry, but aren't as tightly controlled. Like the Tellicherry, we noticed complex but balanced aromas with accents of citrus, resin, and berries, though it didn't share the Tellicherry's intense sweetness. Instead it had a mildly dark, slightly bitter flavor. Another good all-purpose pepper, with warm, spiced notes for more dark, savory dishes like braises.

Sarawak (origin: Malaysia)

One of the more "peppery" of the samples, which is a lot less obvious than it sounds; this had a musky, earthy aroma and a mild flavor. Some tasters thought it tasted too plain, but one remarked: "delicious, I could put this on everything." It's A mellow, chameleon pepper with a brusque aroma and a slight sweetness. A strong choice for barbecue rubs that want to feature spice and sweet with a hint of peppery roughness.

Talamanca (origin: Ecuador)

"Smells more like other spices than pepper," one taster said. There's slow chili-like heat here, lemon oil, and smoke aromas, with pungent flavor and a bitter finish. It was a divisive pepper: some loved it, others hated it. I wouldn't use it on its own, but it'd be excellent in spice blends, especially those with a citrus element.

Some Notes of Caution

These notes should hopefully give a sense of the diversity of flavor and aroma that black pepper has to offer. But I want to make clear that this wasn't an exhaustive tasting: we neither sampled pepper from every place it's grown, nor did we have the resources to try multiple samples from the same growing region. So take these notes as a guide and recognize that your mileage may vary a bit.

What's the best way to find the right pepper for you? Buy a few small bags and try them out for yourself. Chances are, if you get quality pepper to start, you'll find uses for all of them.

About the author: Max Falkowitz is the editor of Serious Eats: New York. You can follow him on Twitter at @maxfalkowitz.

[Photograph: J. Kenji Lopez-Alt]

Sure, we've talked about grilled lamb already, and we've dabbled with chicken. But let's be honest: If you're grilling this summer, you're grilling beef. Sure, great beef—be it a fat porterhouse, a svelte skirt steak, or a classed up filet mignon—doesn't really need anything more than salt (and fine, maybe some pepper and butter), but a few choice spices don't hurt.

Good beef is at once sweet, grassy, and full of mineral flavors. That sweetness takes to the smoky, caramelized heat of the grill better than most other meats. When spicing beef, stick to adding just one, two, or at most three flavors—you really want to keep the meat front and center. I look to pre-cook marinades and post-cook sauces and garnishes as ways to dress up my beef without hiding its flavor.

Cumin

[Photograph: Robyn Lee]

I've mentioned cumin before when talking about lamb, and while the two may be happily married, beef is cumin's mistress. The brash, grassy flavors of cumin play off the mineral qualities of good beef beautifully, and rendered beef fat is just the thing to toast and fry the seeds until they pop. Use cumin seeds on beef kebabs or as part of a spice rub with coriander for skirt steak tacos.

Dark Chiles

[Photograph: J. Kenji Lopez-Alt]

Dark, rich, smoky and fruity chiles—think ancho, pasilla, and cascabel—are our go-to spices for chili con carne. And they're great with grilled beef, too. Mix ground chiles into a lime juice marinade with cumin and coriander for a Southwestern-style approach to skirt steak or tenderloin, or blend the soaked chiles into a salsa after grilling. Either way, all you need is some warm tortillas for a complete meal. Okay, and beer.

Pink Peppercorns

Take a break from the black pepper and break out the pink stuff. Pink peppercorns are more delicate and fruity than their piper nigrum cousins (well, more like third cousins or next door neighbors—the species aren't that closely related). Sprinkle some freshly ground pink pepper on a warm steak for slightly pungent floral flavors and an incredible, unexpected aroma. Like black pepper, pink peppercorns are great in a pan sauce for ribeye. Also, pink peppercorn mayo. On burgers. Just saying.

Seven Spice Powder

[Photograph: Max Falkowitz]

Delicious, well balanced, and easy to use, seven spice powder is awesome on red meat. Dried orange peel, mineral seaweed, nutty sesame, and a hint of chile bring out the most and the best of beef's complex flavor. Sprinkle it on steak at the table, or blend it into ground beef for burgers.

Berbere

Yeah, I've mentioned berbere before, but it really is a multi-tasking spice blend that belongs in the front row of your pantry. Toast it slowly with minced onions and plenty of butter, then blend the sauce until smooth. It's absolutely brilliant on sirloin. Like, "most amazing steak sandwich ever" brilliant.

About the author: Max Falkowitz is the editor of Serious Eats: New York. You can follow him on Twitter at @maxfalkowitz.

[Photograph: Joshua Bousel]

The arrival of Spring means some wonderful things, like new harvests of ramps, peas, and asparagus. But it also means a new batch of tender, fatty, wonderfully flavorful lamb. Last week I shared about five spices to celebrate the union of chicken and grilling, but now let's talk about lamb.

Grilling lamb is all about maintaining a balance between the natural gamey, grassy flavor of the meat and the smoky, charred flavors of grilling. The best spices for grilled lamb negotiate that balance by emphasizing one or both of those flavors, or by adding brightness for contrast. Here are some of my favorites.

Cumin

[Photograph: Robyn Lee]

Brash, stinky cumin is the perfect spice for lamb. High heat mellows out its intense flavors into a pleasantly grassy perfume. Rub your lamb down with a light coat of oil and apply cumin seeds generously. Yup—leave them whole—they'll toast, crackle, and essentially fry in the lamb's rendered fat, forming a beautiful crust on the meat. I love doing this on kebabs, but it's great on larger hunks of lamb as well.

Rosemary

[Photograph: Max Falkowitz]

Rosemary's something of an obvious choice, but only because it's such a good one.* The alpine herb is beautiful with roast lamb, and so why not grill with it? Butterfly a leg of lamb and stuff it with crushed garlic, minced rosemary, and lemon zest—you'll be glad you did. Just don't expose rosemary to direct heat too much. It'll taste a little like burned tree sap.

* Yes, it's an herb, not a spice, but until we start a column called Herb Gathering we'll let it live here.

Vadouvan

[Photograph: Max Falkowitz]

After cumin, vadouvan is my favorite spice for lamb. (Okay, it's a blend, and often has cumin in it. But still. Cumin is really good with lamb.) This French curry powder is rich with warm onion flavors, and is almost always superior in quality to more generic curry powder. Try a vadouvan-spiced yogurt marinade for lamb chops or chunks of shoulder. If you can, seek out a vadouvan blended with fennel seeds. Fennel is very, very good with lamb.

Harissa

[Photograph: Max Falkowitz]

Harissa, the North African chile paste, is killer on lamb. Bright, fiery chiles, garlic, cumin, and coriander all do well in a marinade or a thinned out glaze. Or, if you're making lamburgers, whisk some harissa into your mayo and slather it over a toasted bun.

Sumac

[Photograph: Robyn Lee]

Before lemons made their way to the Old World, cooks in the Middle East frequently used sumac to add fruity sourness to a dish. After hitting lamb with a bunch of heavy spices like cumin, vadouvan, and black pepper, try adding some sumac to brighten things up. This isn't a spice to be cooked with; serve it in a small dish tableside.

About the author: Max Falkowitz is the editor of Serious Eats: New York. You can follow him on Twitter at @maxfalkowitz.

VIEW SLIDESHOW: 5 Great Spices for Grilled Chicken

Warm weather means grilling season, and if I had a grill I'd be pretty excited by now. Since I don't, I can be excited for you, and live through vicariously your grill sessions while I weep over a hot cast iron skillet in a feeble attempt at indoor "barbecue."

We'll be talking a lot about grilling soon, but I'd like to start with chicken. Yes, grilled chicken can be good. Really good. And it's actually one of my favorite things to grill because the mild flavors of chicken dramatically transform into caramelized, smoky awesomeness.

There are plenty of choice additions for grilled chicken to boost its flavor, but spices are my favorite for ease of application and versatility of use. Check out the slideshow above for my favorite grilled chicken spices (all of which complement the roasted, smoky flavors of grilling), and how to use them for your next grill session.

About the author: Max Falkowitz is the editor of Serious Eats: New York. You can follow him on Twitter at @maxfalkowitz.

[Photographs: Max Falkowitz]

I've been wanting to write about caraway all winter long, but somehow winter never happened and I never got around to that bowl of sauerkraut stew. Fortunately, loving caraway isn't weather-dependent, and this spice has plenty of uses beyond flavoring your sauerkraut or adding texture to your rye bread. Caraway is a great spice for adding Old World flavor to modern dishes.

Like many members of the Apiaceae family, which includes fennel, dill, cumin, and coriander (the seeds all look pretty similar), caraway doesn't get a lot of love from modern cooks. That's probably because like fennel, dill, cumin, and coriander, its flavor is plenty pungent and distinctive, and there's not much you can do to cover it up. Caraway is cliquish: It plays well with others, but only like-minded friends. Foreign herbs and non-European spices do best to leave it alone.

I don't know about you, but to me that sounds like a challenge. Have you ever tried tasting spices the way you taste wine? It's a fun way to spend an hour, if a little exhausting on the palate. But it also reveals a lot more layers of flavor in a spice than you may have known about. Most of us tend to think of a spice as a single flavor—we say something has "notes of cardamom" or is "flavored with allspice." But spices really have layers of flavors all by themselves, which can be brought out by different ingredient pairings.

Caraway is at once sweet, pungent, musky, bready, and ever so slightly cabbage-esque. Pairing it with other members of the Apiaceae family brings out its sweeter, more vegetal side. Gently cook some carrots in butter, add some caraway, and steam them till done. All you need is a sprinkle of parsley for a simple side dish that plays to several of caraway's strengths.

Or put its pungency to work as a way to cut through fatty cuts of meat—pork belly and beef brisket especially. Caraway functions like rosemary of thyme in this regard, enriching the flavor of meat while contrasting it with something a little more refreshing. But it's sweeter than either herb, which I like for homey classics like braises and vegetable-rich soups.

It could be that caraway is inextricably tied to rye bread in our collective consciousness, but it really does taste bready. If you bake bread and haven't tried adding caraway, do so now. As with charnushka (another great bread spice), caraway is a dead-easy way to add complexity to even the simplest loaves. But don't limit yourself to yeasted breads. Savory scones, biscuits, and olive oil-rich flatbreads are also prime candidates.

I'll admit that caraway is more than a little old-fashioned, but that doesn't mean it's not worthy of our affections. There's a lot of powerful flavor locked in those tiny seeds.

Get the Recipe

Halloumi-stuffed Olive Oil Flatbread »

About the author: Max Falkowitz is the editor of Serious Eats: New York. You can follow him on Twitter at @maxfalkowitz.

[Photograph: Max Falkowitz]

Pop quiz: What spice is used in Latin American rice dishes, English cheese manufacturing, and Vietnamese braises? Okay, the title of the post gives this one away. But let's talk about annato for a minute, the great understudy of the spice world.

Annato seeds are harvested from a small spiky fruit that likely originated in Brazil. Small, angular, and pebble-like, the seeds are full of water- and fat-soluble pigments that were used for everything from paint to medicine to clothing dye. Food preparation probably came later, though some suspect the seeds early Aztec hot chocolate drinks. When the Spanish arrived, and brought their saffron- and paprika-hued rice dishes with them, annato became the homegrown response to a new appetite for brightly spiced rice dishes across Latin America and the Caribbean. If you've ever enjoyed a plate of arroz con gandules or a bowl of "soupy rice" with a rich yellow hue, you can almost certainly thank annato.

Annato seeds in the pod. [Photograph: Wikipedia]

While you're at it, thank it for a lot more, like the orange color of your Velveeta and American singles. Ever wonder why processed cheddar looks a lot more orange than "real" cheddar? Going back as early as the 16th century, cheddar makers in Gloucestershire dyed their milk with annato to fool consumers into thinking they were getting a better cheese. The superior cheddars of the region owed a slight orange hue to carotenoid-rich grasses in cattle pastures, so orange became a marker for quality cheese, which sketchy creameries took advantage of with a sprinkle of annato into their lower quality milk. The orange = quality marker is an artifact that's lasted till today, even if it's no longer accurate in the slightest. The irony is that annato-colored cheeses are usually way more orange than the superior cheeses they're trying to imitate.

But annato is more than a pretty orange smile or a dirty cheese trick. Beneath its glow lie subtle flavors that add layers of spice to grains, legumes, meat, and savory sauces. Its earthy, slightly peppery taste pairs famously with the mild flavors of rice, poultry, onion, and bay. Sure, annato's mild—okay, it makes turmeric taste loud by comparison—but the subtle fragrance it imparts is irreplaceable.

How to Use Annato

One of the tricks to using spices well is knowing how to create layers of flavor in a dish. It couldn't be easier with annato. Blend it into a paste with herbs, spices, onion, garlic, and citrus to rub into pork. The paste is a marinade that becomes a sauce, adding flavor at all stages of the cooking process.

Annato-infused oil, rounded out with chile and bay. [Photograph: Max Falkowitz]

An easier, more versatile trick is to make annato-infused oil, also called achiote oil, which can be used for pan frying, as the oil base for vegetable sweats, or as a finishing oil on soups. Steep some annato—and some friendly spices if you like (I'm partial to bay and dried chile)—in hot oil for a few minutes, strain, and jar. You've now got a fragrant red-orange oil to color and flavor all sorts of Latin American and Caribbean rice dishes, stews, and braises. The oil forms a mild base to build layers of flavor with browned meat, onion, garlic, fresh chile, citrus, cumin, and tomato.

This is flexible stuff which will keep at full potency for months (best in the fridge): instant flavor always on hand. For a more annato-forward flavor, use neutral canola or corn oil, but the peppery vibe of olive oil takes nicely to an annato steeping as well.

Don't stop with flavors from the Western Hemisphere. In the Philippines, Vietnam, and other parts of South East Asia, annato rounds out lemongrass, star anise, and coconut in stews and curries. Add some to your next braise, or just start your curry out with a swirl of homemade annato oil. You can find annato seeds at specialty spice shops and on the internet, but they're also quite common in the Hispanic sections of larger grocery stores.

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Achiote Oil »

About the author: Max Falkowitz is the editor of Serious Eats: New York. You can follow him on Twitter at @maxfalkowitz.

[Photographs: Max Falkowitz]

It's hard to say why, but Ethiopian food is one of the few regional cuisines from Africa to develop a significant presence in the States. Sure, we could stand to be more broad-reaching, but let's take a moment to talk about that a culinary arsenal of complex stews and brilliant spice blends. It's home-style cooking at its best: transforming the humblest ingredients—lentils, cabbage, cheap cuts of meat—into something extraordinary. If I had a dollar for every time I said to myself, "I wish I could cook this way," I'd have a few more Ethiopian meals under my belt.

Or, you know, cooking classes.

A fraction of the cost of classes, but just as rewarding, is a jar of berbere. Like niter kibbeh, it's used in a bunch of Ethiopian dishes, either as a primary spice or an added layer of flavor. You can think of it like Ethiopian chili powder: a chile-based blend at once earthy, sweet, and hauntingly aromatic, with notes of fragrant cardamom, fenugreek, and clove. There's some heat to be sure, and some versions are wildly spicy, but it's easy to find blends that deliver far more on earthy, rich flavors than pure spice. It'd be a mistake to say that berbere is a one-stop Ethiopian cooking lesson, but it's a damn good start. One whiff and your sense memories will definitely say, "Ethiopian restaurant."

The most common use for berbere is in wats, stews made of meat or lentils to be eaten with injera, the tangy teff-based flatbread that is your fork, spoon, plate, and napkin in the world of Ethiopian dining. Wats are rich in spiced butter and onion, but it's berbere that gives a rustic, savory intensity to the dish. The spice is amazing with beef and chicken, but it really does rocket lentils to new heights. And since you can easily cheat your niter kibbeh by making it with oil rather than butter, a plate of Ethiopian-spiced lentils is one of the world's great vegan dishes.

Beef tibs: spicy, meaty, buttery nuggets of love.

But my favorite use for the blend is in tibs, little nuggets of grilled or sautéed meat blanketed in a rich, powerful sauce of onions slow-cooked in butter with berbere. To be honest, they remind me of Kansas City-style burnt ends. Sure, burnt ends are good. Okay, really freakin' good. But beef tibs may very well give them a run for the top meat snack trophy. We already know that juicy and butter are brilliant together. Tibs ups the ante with caramel-sweet onions and gorgeous spices.

One of the tricks to cooking Ethiopian cuisine well is to braise—and just as importantly, to know what really needs braising. It's not just the meat, or the lentils, or the main vegetables. Many Ethiopian dishes are built on braising aromatics and spices with large quantities of butter, one step short of a confit. The slow cooking caramelizes the vegetables and the spices while deeply seasoning the butter, which makes for an insanely rich sauce base.

These are the best uses for berbere, but not the only ones. As a fairly balanced chili powder, it's great rubbed on roast chicken, or blended into a compound butter for steaks. Beans of all kinds love it, as do meaty braises that are built on big, robust flavors in need of some heat. You can find berbere in Ethiopian groceries or in specialty spice shops. The good people at MySpiceSage sent me some of their berbere (available online), which I've been enjoying (and, at free moments, sniffing) with reckless abandon.

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Beef Tibs »

About the author: Max Falkowitz is a proud native of Queens, New York. He'll do just about anything for a good cup of tea and enjoys long walks down the aisles of Chinese groceries. He is also known to make ice cream on occasion. You can follow him on Twitter at @maxfalkowitz.

Photographs: Max Falkowitz

Is there room for another chile paste in your life—and your crowded fridge?

Yes, friends, yes there is.

Sriracha's lovely. Harissa is a fiery punch in the mouth with flavor to match. But if you're looking for a sweeter, funkier flavor from your chiles, gochujang (pronounced go-choo-jong) is the thing for you.

Gochujang is what gives Korean kimchi and tofu stews their sweet heat, bibimbap rice bowls their piquancy and rice cakes their sauce. You have to love a culture that uses chile as one of its mother sauces.

Gochujang is made from red chiles, glutinous rice,* and soy beans. It's a little hot, a little fermented funky, and more than a little sweet. What it lacks in chile fire it makes up in rounded meaty flavors and the ripe twang of a good stinky cheese. Unlike other chile pastes, gochujang adds as much meaty edge as spice, which makes it a go-to main ingredient, not just a condiment.

* Which doesn't actually contain gluten, but is sticky like glutinous bread dough—especially when mashed. Glutinous rice also has a mildly sweet flavor.

Who needs the Scoville scale?

Packages frequently display a heat scale; in my gochujang's case the scale is in the completely arbitrary (to my knowledge) Gochujang Hot taste Unit (GHU). 3 is about right for my tastes—mild enough to use like ketchup in small doses, but plenty intense in larger amounts.

How to Use Gochujang

If you have gochujang and fish stock you will never go hungry. Simmer some vegetables, meat, or fish in a broth made of the two. Serve over noodles or rice. Or turn into a stew with some kimchi or tofu stirred in. It's the kind of shortcut cooking that doesn't taste like it, food to nourish with little notice.

Since it's both round in flavor and mild in heat (well, for a chile paste anyway), gochujang really elevates vegetable dishes. Eggplant, cauliflower, and green beans all do very well when blistered in a pan, cooked till tender, and sauced with gochujang and soy sauce or broth (toss with scallions and toasted sesame seeds for crunch). It also makes a quick marinade for thin slices of beef or pork destined for the grill or a stir fry. Add some rice vinegar and soy sauce, let sit for a few hours, and cook away.

The sweet, fermented flavor of gochujang pairs perfectly with smoky ingredients. Bacon's probably the best to add smoke, meatiness, and highly flavored fat to round out the chile. Here's my new weeknight dinner: render bacon till really crisp, fry Korean rice cakes in the bacon fat, then stir fry half a head of napa cabbage in what's left. Combine everything together with enough gochujang to make a sauce for a meal that takes almost no effort but reaps boundless rewards.

The more traditional version of the dish is called ddok boki, made with boiled rice cakes and a sweet, spicy sauce. But while I can't say my version is authentic to...anything (especially since I slip in some Japanese shichimi togarashi), the crisp-chewy rice cakes and blistered cabbage in a smoky, spicy sauce are hard to beat.

It's also proof that gochujang isn't limited to the Korean culinary pantheon. Though its fermented flavor does somewhat limit its versatility as a go-to chile paste, it's a beautiful shortcut ingredient that doesn't compromise on flavor. Try some on your meatloaf instead of a ketchup glaze, or stir a spoonful into a pot of black beans with cumin and orange peel. Gochujang has a long shelf life when kept in the fridge, so don't be surprised if you're scraping the edges of your container before you know it.

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Fried Rice Cakes with Bacon and Cabbage »

About the author: Max Falkowitz is a proud native of Queens, New York. He'll do just about anything for a good cup of tea and enjoys long walks down the aisles of Chinese groceries. He is also known to make ice cream on occasion. You can follow him on Twitter at @maxfalkowitz.

[Photograph: Max Falkowitz]

If you walk down the spice aisle of your local grocery store, you'll find as many spice blends as actual spices. Some of them are painfully, eye-rollingly cheesy ("New Orleans-style flavor? Seriously?). Others, like five spice powder and vadouvan, are more worth your while.

I'm a big fan of spice blends when they're made with care and quality ingredients, not just some ham-handed effort to reduce a cuisine to a dust. They're quick ways to deliver powerful flavor that often come with some storied tradition, and they've saved many a late-night meal from blandness.

The problem, though, is even if you've made a blend yourself, your spices are locked into a set ratio. One blend may be perfectly balanced for sautéed fish, but it falls flat over roasted vegetables. A chili powder could be great on duck but too spicy for a pot of beans. If I have all the time in the world, I'll make small batch of blended spices for every dish I cook. Since that rarely happens, I rely on spice kits.

A masala dabba. [Flickr: jo-h / CC BY 2.0]

A spice kit is basically a blend-to-be, a shortcut that can still be customized for specific dishes. Cooks familiar with Indian cuisine may recognize my inspiration: the masala dabba, a tin with small containers of like-minded spices, to be pulled out of the cabinet and used in a moment's notice. A kit may contain cumin, coriander, fennel seed, and peppercorns (more or less a stripped-down garam masala)—spices that are used in all sorts of Indian dishes but in different proportions. Stashing spices together will make you more likely to use them. You won't have to dig through cabinets for a missing ingredient. You can adjust ratios to the taste of your diners (especially helpful when chiles are involved). And you can also add spices to your dish at different times to get different levels of flavor from them.

A kit doesn't need more than three or four herbs and spices to be worth your while. I think the best examples of the form are stripped down to frequently-used spices that you're comfortable with. Consider paprika, black pepper, cayenne, and celery seed for a "Cajun-style" blend that neither sucks nor is culturally reductionist. There's nothing out of the ordinary here, and no intention to create a big, bossy blend that makes everything it touches taste sort of identical. Minimalist spice kits force us to remember that spices are best used with a mindful, restrained hand.

Spice kits offer amazing versatility, even when your pantry is bare. When all I have is potatoes and fresh green chiles, I reach for a kit of mustard seed, asafoetida, cumin, coriander, and amchoor—an approximation of South Indian cooking I also use with tomato gravies for curries and vegetable fritters. Except the potatoes will get more mustard seed, the tomato more sweet coriander, and the fritters more pungent cumin to cut through the batter. Depending on how I feel, I'll sometimes skip the sour amchoor, another level of versatility that kits offer over fixed blends.

To house your spice kit, you can pick up an actual masala dabba online or at any Indian grocery. Or, if you're still up to your ears in cookie tins from holiday baking, repurpose one with some plastic baggies full of spices. I like to keep small amounts of spices in my kits and the larger bulk bags in the back of the cupboard. This also means I can grind and store a small amount of whole spices without the whole batch losing potency over time.

Though spice kits are most useful for spice-heavy cuisines, they can be used for just about anything. Try making an herbes de Provence kit to whip out for French dishes, or a Spanish-inspired blend of smoked paprika, rosemary, and saffron for everything from soup to rice to grilled meat. I even have one for baking spices just so I always have some close at hand.

How about you—do you have any kit-worthy spice combinations?

About the author: Max Falkowitz is a proud native of Queens, New York. He'll do just about anything for a good cup of tea and enjoys long walks down the aisles of Chinese groceries. He is also known to make ice cream on occasion. You can follow him on Twitter at @maxfalkowitz.

Fruity, chocolatey pasilla chiles. Worth your while even if you're a spice wimp. [Photographs: Max Falkowitz, unless otherwise noted]

A common complaint I hear from spice newbies is that their palates just can't take hot dishes. And while I'm not one of those people who eats spicy food just for the sake of it, some of the world's best cuisines employ heat as an essential part of their flavor profile. So what's a globally-minded spice wimp to do?

If you didn't grow up eating spicy food, and don't have a natural tolerance for it, there's good reason to not to love it. The capsaicin in chiles is interpreted by the body as pain.* Plants developed capsaicin so we wouldn't eat them, which is enough to make you question why we started eating them in the first place. No wonder spice-fiends are often regarded as cultists by outsiders.

* Is there a German word for the awkwardness when your girlfriend gives your father a habanero burn—the first time they meet?

But chiles carry powerful, vibrant, and wonderful flavors that really are worth your while, even if they cause some pain. Here are some tips to strip chiles of (some of) their fire while keeping their flavor intact.

Buy Whole Chiles and De-seed Them

With pre-ground chiles, you're stuck with whatever heat level the blender decided to use. If you buy whole chiles to grind or soak yourself, you've got some options. Most of a chile's capsaicin lies in the pale membrane-like ribs that cling to the interior flesh, and to a lesser extent the exterior of the seeds. Remove those and you'll significantly cut down on a chile's heat while keeping its flavor intact. To de-seed, lop off the top half-inch of the stem end with a knife and dump out loose seeds. Rub the chile between your fingers to dislodge more seeds (wear latex gloves while doing this if you're really sensitive), then split the pepper in half lengthwise (like splitting a vanilla bean) and pick out the pale ribs.

You can use this same treatment on fresh chiles. Try it on poblanos and jalapeños to preserve their fresh, grassy flavor with less heat. You can also keep the chiles whole from start to finish, which locks in most of the capsaicin. My chili recipe, which packs in lots of chile flavor but not that much heat, calls for a habanero or two floated in the pot—they add a lovely tropical lilt to the chile without their blistering fire.

Stick to Relishes and Hot Sauces

Harissa: fiery, but flavorful in small doses.

There's nothing worse than summoning the bravery to cook a spicy recipe, only to realize it's too hot for you to eat. On the same note, every once in a while you find a freak chile that's way hotter than it should be. Short of adding more mass or burying your plate in sour cream, there's not much you can do to lessen the pain of a too-spicy dish.

That's why I recommend that spice newbies looking to increase their tolerance avoid adding much chile to a dish, and opt instead for fiery, pungent hot sauces, relishes, and chile pastes. Harissa is one of my favorites for this; it packs plenty of heat but also tons of flavor, with verves of cumin, garlic, and lemon. It's the perfect thing to spice up everything from workaday chicken breasts to more ambitiously (but gently) spiced Middle Eastern fare. Also look to fruity hot sauces that temper heat with sweet, bold flavors. Add these in small doses to build up your tolerance. Meat and starch are great starters, as they can absorb a good dose of heat before becoming unmanageable.

Balance with Acids, Sugar, and Fat

Serious larb from Kin Shop in New York. The perfect balance of spice, acid, fat, and sweet. [Photograph: J. Kenji Lopez Alt]

Look to most of the world's hottest cuisines and you'll see that spice is kept in careful balance with acidity, sweetness, and fat. Acids add sharpness that stands up well to chile heat. When tasted together, acids and chiles convey bright flavor over pure fire. Sugar and fat do the opposite—they round out flavors and mellow chiles out. Fats are especially effective at washing out some of the heat from fat-soluble capsaicin.

The best example of this I know is larb, one of my favorite salads, which is built on a platform of ground meat. It's hot—really hot when done right, but is rendered palatable by a bright, tart dressing, moderate amounts of rendered animal fat, and sweet toasted rice powder. When you have so many flavors going on at once, chiles really start to make sense. They become, in their own way, refreshing, like a big spoonful of sinus-clearing horseradish.

And Whatever You Do...

Water is not your friend. All it will do is spread the pain. Fat and casein, a protein found in milk, are. If you overdo the spice, have a lassi, some Thai iced tea, or a glass of kefir by your side and drink through the pain.

About the author: Max Falkowitz is a proud native of Queens, New York. He'll do just about anything for a good cup of tea and enjoys long walks down the aisles of Chinese groceries. He is also known to make ice cream on occasion. You can follow him on Twitter at @maxfalkowitz.

[Photographs: Max Falkowitz]

Leftover mint is a killer for me. Unless I'm making some kind of minty ice cream, in which case my technique is use ALL the mint!, I usually have some leftover leaves in the fridge. Mint expires especially quickly; here are some technique-based applications that you can whip up at a moment's notice.

Bold Salads

Mint sometimes joins salads in delicate chiffonades or as part of a vinaigrette, but I prefer more rustic variations. Tear some leaves over blood orange and grapefruit segments, then drizzle on some peppery olive oil. Or toss whole leaves with black olives, thinly sliced fennel, and orange segments. Make an especially minty tabbouleh with chopped tomato, cucumber, parsley, and just a wee bit of bulgur.

I find citrus to be a natural partner for mint in salads, but sharp, pungent, and peppery flavors are also welcome. Mint can subtly sweeten a simple, punchy salad of arugula and shaved parmesan, or a mix of thinly sliced endive and radicchio (to which I usually add a creamy cheese like chevre or Greek mizithra).

Pasta

Spaghetti with fennel pollen, orange, garlic, and mint.

Mint is just awesome in pasta. Since the herb plays well with both butter and olive oil, it's an easy addition to thin oil-based sauces for spaghetti and the like. My favorite is made mostly with pantry staples: a slightly weird but totally delicious combination of spaghetti with fennel pollen, orange zest, garlic, and mint. A bite tastes like pure late spring and showcases mint's perfect balance between sweet and savory. Minty peas, tossed with butter and pecorino, are a great addition to small chunky pastas like orecchiette. And, of course, there's pesto. I'm not going to say you should make a straight-mint pesto, but adding some to your basil (and maybe with a hit of pistachio as well) can ramp up the high aromatic notes of your sauce.

Mint also takes well to meaty sauces, both thick and thin. When properly rendered and crisped, peppery, porky guanciale can sauce pasta almost by itself. I say almost till you add some mint at the very last second (okay, and some cheese); nothing cuts through the heavy funk of pork fat quite like it. Don't forget about the romance between mint and lamb, either. The tomato-mint sauce that accompanies spicy lamb ravioli from Mario Batali's Babbo is famous for good reason.

Enliven Braises

Some of my favorite braised dishes hail from the Middle East, where mint is a bright, cooling garnish to warm, soulful spices, meat, and dried fruit. So many of those flavors—lamb, dried apricot, and coriander, to name a few—are all excellent candidates for mint. Cilantro is the go-to herb to sprinkle on these dishes, but mint is an even more cooling, fresh-tasting alternative.

Those cooling properties are also welcome anywhere slow-cooked tomatoes are present, a common element in many braises. The meaty flavors cooked tomatoes develop, especially when bolstered by meat in a braise, just calls for the light touch of mint. Just a few torn leaves will make the oregano-heavy Sunday gravy a lot less heavy.

Cool Down Chiles

Charred eggplant and tomatoes with harissa and mint.

The Italians and the Moroccans understand the complex relationship between mint and chile, which they explore in pastas, condiments, and more. Mint and a bit of fat cools down chiles while also bringing out their flavor, like a glass of water after a spoonful of hot sauce (but, you know, tastier). Dried red chiles especially benefit; mint adds grassy flavors reminiscent of fresh chile. The combination is like a mutant super-pepper that tastes at once fresh and grassy as well as deep and roasted. The best candidates I know for this pairing are pasta and harissa, the North African chile paste. Where it treads as a garnish, so should mint. Consider a dish of charred eggplant and tomatoes, flavored with harissa and mint.

These are just a few ways to brighten up mint in your kitchen. Do you have any techniques for getting the most out of mint?

About the author: Max Falkowitz is a proud native of Queens, New York. He'll do just about anything for a good cup of tea and enjoys long walks down the aisles of Chinese groceries. He is also known to make ice cream on occasion. You can follow him on Twitter at @maxfalkowitz.

Palm sugar, hardened into discs. [Photographs: Max Falkowitz]

Spice Hunting's tour of the world of specialty sugars has already explored earthy turbinado and rummy piloncillo; now it's time to talk about my absolute favorite: palm sugar.

Maple syrup—and, to a lesser extent, honey and agave—may be the boutique sweetener in the U.S., but it's all about palm sugar in Southeast Asia. Particularly in Malaysia and Indonesia, you'll find some of the best tasting sugar around, made with the care and attention granted to fine wine. Rather than a single product, this is a whole class of sugars; different regions use different palms, extraction methods, and local terroir to create distinct and unique products.

In all these cases, sap is harvested from palm trees (the trunks for palm sugar, the flower blossoms for coconut sugar), boiled down, and poured into molds to harden. The resulting lumps can be shaved, cut into chunks, or made into syrup for use. Most palm sugar, at least of what you'll find in the U.S., is cut with cane sugar; even small batch artisans are having trouble using 100 percent arenga (a catch-all word for "palm") these days. While there are subtle differences in flavor between coconut and palm sugar, styles of manufacture can have just as much, if not more, of an impact.

Most of the palm sugar you'll find in Asian groceries (or on the web) looks like the photo up top: formed into discs, blocks, or as a solid mass in plastic jars (usually with a layer of wax on top). It's a fairly processed form of palm sugar, plenty diluted by cane, but it bears the fresh, fruity nuttiness of green coconut and the warm vibes of sweetened condensed milk. It tastes great with those ingredients, but I also use it as a serious upgrade to Thai curries, chai (with plenty of cardamom and clove), and pungent vegetable stir fries.

That gentle warmth jives well with desserts, particularly with egg-rich. Take a hint from my ice cream buddy Ethan Frisch and put some leftover massaman curry paste to work in palm sugar-sweetened desserts as well, either in sorbet or as a crème brûlée (ridiculously good, that).

Palm sugar tastes fresh enough to play well with citrus, particularly kumquat and pomelo, but also with lime. Though it can't be used interchangeably with brown sugar (it's less moist and the acidity can vary), it's worth experimenting in citrus-scented cookies. Or for a more exotic spin on lemony poundcake, try a palm sugar glaze in lieu of the powdered stuff. Palm sugar also takes well to lighter nuts like almonds and macadamias. Your dessert possibilities abound.

Gula jawa, an unrefined form of palm sugar.

I'd be remiss in discussing palm sugar if I left out gula jawa and its close relatives—the darker, less processed form of palm sugar. First encounters are reminiscent of someone's first bite of caramel when all they've had is table sugar. There are powerful notes of roasted coffee, smoke, and caramel, with the weighty satisfaction of fudge offset by an addictive bitterness and a verdant twang. Look in Indonesian- and Thai-friendly groceries for it, where it will be sold in cylinders. You can also find it online at Gilt Taste.

This is sugar best treated like a fine balsamic vinegar. Use it sparingly as an accent on breakfast fare like oatmeal, or add a tiny bit in a saucy, vinegar-rich (especially black vinegar) stir fry. It can accompany strawberries, peaches, or mangoes with nothing more than frothy cream to make a fruit-based dessert that doesn't feel like it's missing something. It's the only sugar I know of that should be used sparingly not because it'll oversweeten a dish, but because it'll be too pungent.

My favorite use for this sugar powerhouse is cendol, the Indonesian dessert of pandan-scented bean noodles, shaved ice, coconut and/or sweetened condensed milk, and dark palm sugar syrup. It's a delightfully slurpy, chewy, and crunchy interplay of light-yet-rich tropical flavors, largely in thanks to butterscotch-like palm sugar. But since it's a pain to make at home—you must make your pandan extract, form your noodles spaetzle-style, boil and cool your syrup, shave your ice, and then assemble—I take the easy way out and enjoy a simple dish of shaved ice with coconut milk and palm sugar syrup. Not as complex, mind you, but perfect on a summer evening.

A few commenters asked how to actually use palm sugar. For applications requiring moist, brown sugar-like grains, I grate the sugar on a microplane. But for most uses, like sweetening drinks or melting into a syrup, I hack the sugar apart with a $15 Chinese meat cleaver, then mince it into small chunks. That cleaver, by the way, also gets pulled out every time I have to cut squash, chop chocolate, or mince garlic.

Palm sugar is the best case I know for why sugar is more than just a sweetener. Do you have any favorite uses for it?

Disclosure: gula jawa sample pictured here provided for review.

About the author: Max Falkowitz is a proud native of Queens, New York. He'll do just about anything for a good cup of tea and enjoys long walks down the aisles of Chinese groceries. He is also known to make ice cream on occasion. You can follow him on Twitter at @maxfalkowitz.

[Photographs: Max Falkowitz]

At first glance seven spice powder may sound like a variant on Chinese five spice powder, but they couldn't be more different. Or rather, they're exactly as different as their native cuisines. Five spice, fragrant with sweet and spicy anise flavors, is the perfect compliment to meaty Chinese braises and barbecues. On the other hand, seven spice powder, or what the Japanese call shichimi togarashi, is practically built for the grilled meats, noodles, rice, and soups that so characterize Japanese cooking.

The exact ingredients and ratios may change from blender to blender, but seven spice powder is built on a foundation of chiles, dried orange peel, Sichuan peppercorns, sesame seeds (white and/or black), dried ginger, and seaweed. It likely originated in 17th century apothecaries, after chiles were introduced to Japan as a form of medicine.*

* There's a long tradition of blurred lines between culinary spice blending and pharmacology. See also the tonic water in your highball; a drink that originally began as a way to make malaria-fighting quinine more palatable.

Shichimi togarashi is unusually spicy by Japanese standards, with a heat that's full and abrupt but passes quickly. Orange and seaweed provide most of the aromatic fragrance, and the combination is more arresting than you'd think. Just like a spritz of lemon brings some grilled fish to life, orange touches on the fresh, oceanic flavors of seaweed. Ginger, Sichuan pepper, and sesame seeds add layers of flavor to make this an extremely versatile blend. Just don't expect the ma la tingles of Sichuan cooking from the peppercorns; they add dimension, but are not present in high enough proportion to numb the tongue, nor are the chiles quite that incendiary.

Because it's built on so many flavors, seven spice powder transitions easily from a simple topping for rice to soup to noodles to grilled meat. It's also an increasingly popular tableside condiment in Japan, especially since it doesn't require toasting beforehand to bring out its full flavors. I'm also fond of it in marinades and sauces. Unsurprisingly, it fits right at home with Japanese pantry staples: soy sauce, sesame oil, and rice wine.

My favorite use for seven spice powder is on grilled meat. Use it as a rub to form a nice crust on quick-cooking foods like tuna or as a new addition to your burger (and mix some miso paste into the mayo!). I was going to suggest using some on chicken wings to munch during football season, but Caroline Russock beat me to the punch. So my alternative: Blend it into ground pork and grill them into patties. Wrap them in lettuce and dip them in garlic-laced soy for a spicy, juicy, intensely savory hand-held snack. With its friendliness to chile, orange, sesame, and the vegetal funk of seaweed, pork is the best protein for seven spice powder.

For uses less overtly carnivorous, look to rice and soups. Plain rice topped with seven spice makes a worthy side dish, but congee's an even better vehicle, especially with the addition of sliced scallions and sesame oil. Seven spice powder can also be used as a topping for big bowls of ramen or a mix-in to liven up miso soup.

Seven spice powder is easy to make at home, and will be especially fragrant with home-zested orange and freshly ground (dried) ginger and seaweed (look for sheets of nori, the wrapping used for sushi rolls). But as it's mostly a low-maintenance convenience spice for me I'm happy to purchase it pre-blended. Japanese groceries should carry it in abundance (make sure to buy shichimi togarashi, not ichimi togarashi, which is straight-up chile powder), but my favorite rendition comes from The Spice House.

Get the Recipe

Seven Spice Pork Lettuce Wraps »

About the author: Max Falkowitz is a proud native of Queens, New York. He'll do just about anything for a good cup of tea and enjoys long walks down the aisles of Chinese groceries. He is also known to make ice cream on occasion. You can follow him on Twitter at @maxfalkowitz.

Avocado and grapefruit salad. [Photographs: Max Falkowitz and Robyn Lee]

As winter begins to rear its ugly head we turn to citrus in droves. And I'm grateful for it. This is the time when my green vegetables all take on adjectives like "hearty" and "roasted." For something light and bright in the depth of winter, nothing beats citrus.

Except that the parade of bright and tart and sour can get a little tiring after a while, especially when it's the only flavor of its kind on the plate. I love my grapefruit and pomelo and, lord knows, my blood oranges; I just also love alternatives to enjoying them unadorned. Spices are my favorite way to round out the harsh flavors of citrus and bring them more in line with this frigid season.

Add Some Heat

Aji panca.

The best way I know to tame citrus is with other equally strong flavors. On a fierce, cold day, nothing warms my bones more than chiles, which are strong enough to take citrus by the horns. In my experience dark, roasty chiles taste flat and ruddy when paired with citrus. Instead, stick to other bright chiles like aleppo or aji amarillo. My favorites for citrus are those with strong fruity flavors. Blueberry-like aji panca is sublime with grapefruit. Fresh fruity chiles, like habaneros, scotch bonnets, and serranos (this last one especially with lime), are all great choices here.

Chiles can be added to citrus salads, such as the avocado and grapefruit salad pictured at the top, in citrus-forward salsa, and with ceviche. To tame the heat and sourness you may want to look toward something sweet. A segmented grapefruit with some chile-infused honey is one of my favorite January breakfasts.

Think Alpine

Alpine flavors are also strong enough to stand up to citrus, and certainly help draw it into the spirit of the season. Rosemary, juniper, caraway, and tasmanian pepper all breathe new life into citrus. Cakes, marmalades, and cocktails are the best expressions of this pairing. Try a rosemary poundcake with candied lemon (or citron) peel, or a grapefruit-juniper marmalade. Or just add some freshly juiced citrus to your gin and call it a day.

Consider Ginger

Citrus is lacking in warmth, which ginger possesses in abundance. Its spice brings out citrus's twang without weighing it down. And as far as light winter desserts go, the combination of citrus and ginger is hard to beat. Candied ginger is a great garnish on citrus desserts like sorbet, pie, and cake. Or use fresh ginger in subtle ways: ginger whipped cream for your key lime pie, or blend it into the batter for your lemon poundcake. A little goes a long way, and your goal is to accent, not overwhelm, the citrus, but you'll find that a hit of ginger adds a whole new dimension of flavor.

Essential Waters

Floral flavors also pair nicely with citrus, and there's no easier flavor delivery vehicle for them than orange blossom and rose waters. (There's also jasmine, gardenia, and chrysanthemum, but in this country you basically have to brew your own tea for those.) These are best with lighter desserts like parfaits and—my favorite—pavlovas. Try an orange blossom water-spiked pavlova with blood orange segments. Go ahead, add some cocoa to the whipped cream. It's a killer chocolate-orange dessert.

How Do You Winterize Your Citrus?

These are just a few of the ways to bring new life to citrus. Do you have any favorite methods?

About the author: Max Falkowitz is a proud native of Queens, New York. He'll do just about anything for a good cup of tea and enjoys long walks down the aisles of Chinese groceries. He is also known to make ice cream on occasion. You can follow him on Twitter at @maxfalkowitz.

[Photographs: Robyn Lee and Max Falkowitz]

Every year we get older we're supposed to get wiser, but that doesn't seem to stop us from making the same impossible-to-keep resolutions come New Years. The most common food resolutions—the generic eat better, healthier, or more adventurously—are also the most difficult to keep. This year I'll be using spices to keep on track. Here are some tips that may help out your New Years food resolutions as deliciously as possible.

Veg Out

We all want to lose weight and we all know diets suck. Spices can slim down a diet without feelings of deprivation. For me, healthy eating starts with more fruit and vegetables. While spices are most frequently paired with meat and starch, they're also my favorite way to veg out.

Invest in a good supply of basic spices that can be used on a range of vegetables: coriander, garam masala, harissa, paprika, and sesame seeds are a good place to start. Spices like these can move effortlessly from greens to roasted vegetables to whole grains and vegetarian soups. They can be mixed in dynamic ways to produce new flavors while remaining true to themselves. Stick with them. Let them be a familiar part of your vegetable cooking. They'll become as recognizable as meaty flavors, and you'll come to crave them. Sure, bacon may make everything better, but so does a mix of garlic, rosemary, and smoked paprika all toasted in some olive oil.

Spices add flavor, texture, and consistency to vegetable-based dishes.

Beyond a core group of vegetable-friendly spices, here are some guidelines. Be careful when using chiles with bitter greens like broccoli rabe. A little goes a long way and too much accentuates that bitterness unpleasantly. Sweet spices like coriander are great with roasted vegetables to enhance their nuttiness, but should be paired with something more brash like cumin to add contrast. Mixed herbs can become punchy salads to jazz up milder vegetables; I'm partial to cilantro, serrano chiles, and scallions dressed in sesame oil and Chinese black vinegar. Amazing on cauliflower.

Cut Back On Meat

Lots of people want to eat less meat these days, and plenty of us make resolutions to do so, but a plate can look lonely without a chunk of protein and meat hits a savory spot unlike anything else. Spices are one of the best ways I know to make meat-free cooking attractive and crave-worthy. All around the world, people who can't afford meat use spices to make legumes, whole grains, and pulses the center of their plates.

Meat is bold, rich in flavor, and intensely savory. So are spice blends like vadouvan, or fat hunks of garlic, or the bacon of spices, chipotle. Keep meaty flavors like these close at hand to seriously upgrade milder starches and legumes.

Spices provide continuity and consistency in a dish, often meat's role, drawing together a medley of ingredients into something more. Sautéed spinach with chickpeas is virtuous but a little boring. But a blend of bay leaf, chile, and coriander give a sense of body and completeness, no meat required. Stewed lentils are bland on their own, but the easy addition of niter kibbeh and paprika makes them something really special.

Eat Better

Sure, we make our resolutions to eat better. But what do we really mean by that? This year I suggest it mean eating not just healthier, but more adventurously, with the presence of mind to know the good spices do for us and our food. If you're willing to indulge in $25 a pound parmesan, dropping a few Washingtons on some real quality cinnamon should be easy and just as rewarding. Go ahead, add some more quality spices to your meals. Your diet—and your resolutions—will thank you.

About the author: Max Falkowitz is a proud native of Queens, New York. He'll do just about anything for a good cup of tea and enjoys long walks down the aisles of Chinese groceries. He is also known to make ice cream on occasion. You can follow him on Twitter at @maxfalkowitz.