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These are the recipes I long for, dream about, and cook regularly. Most are from ingredients I keep on hand, but some require thinking ahead and planning. Some serve a crowd and may seem pricey until the price is divided among the number of people served.

I purchase beef tenderloin when it is on sale, for instance, as I know a time will come when I will need it: an engagement party, like the one for Cynthia and Cliff so many years ago; a last-minute occasion when someone comes to this tourist-luring city of Charleston and gives us a call. Having quality ingredients on hand enables me to cook as well from the freezer— from local frozen-by-me shrimp and grits to beef tenderloin, or even sausage with the ever-present apples my husband insists on having at hand. Sides can appear frequently in season, both for just the two of us or for a crowd, as they are usually so uncomplicated they can be multiplied or divided. In a conscientious Southern household, leftovers are never for tossing but for keeping refrigerated or frozen for inclusion in desperation moments.

With an incorrigible sweet tooth, I dream of the desserts in this collection, each appearing in my mind’s eye and my taste memories. My cravings vacillate from slide-down-the-throat desserts to crispy, crunchy meringues or tender cake. Growing up, we ate a lot of Jell-O and other packaged puddings, with anything else being a treat causing proportional excitement.

I’ve never considered myself a baker, although I have frequently baked. I am fond of certain exercises, like making pie and puff pastry, because I like the process as much as the flavor. There is something about rolling out dough that makes me happy. In fact, if I don’t like the process, I don’t make the dessert. So, too, I don’t love doing froufrou, so you won’t find much of that here. Rather, these desserts are straightforward sweets that make gluttons like me—and perhaps some of you—happy.

While the recipes are like friends, comforting and delighting me, I also refer to the richest part of my life—family and friends, who bring the most joy. The stories of food and relationships parallel the recipes. Some are stories I’ve told while teaching cooking classes. Others I wrote for either my column “Matters of Taste” in the Atlanta Journal Constitution or the Los Angeles Times Syndicate. A fair number were assembled into my book Nathalie Dupree’s Matter of Taste, which had a parallel TV show for the recipes but not for the stories, so they deserve a repeat view. Some appeared in periodicals such as Brown’s Guide to Georgia, Atlanta Magazine, and the Charleston Post and Courier. Others are written just for this book.

I hope the stories help you to see how rich my life has been in travel, friendship, and love and leave you appreciating the good in your life. I assure you the little girl who ran away from home has found herself in a happy place, cooking good food for herself and her dear husband, Jack Bass, who will eat anything she cooks. He has come from a palate of about 3 out of 10 to a robust 8 in the twenty-five years we have been married. Both the longevity and laughter of the marriage and the growth of his palate are miracles for us both. Between us, we have written nine books in those years, this one being the ninth of our combined total of twenty-three.

Cynthia Stevens Graubart has been a dear friend since I found her when I was looking for a producer for my first television series, New Southern Cooking. She is in many ways the complete opposite of me, with the detailed mind of a producer and the ability to see the parts of the whole as well as the whole itself. It was a natural thing to introduce her to Cliff Graubart, who was the most eligible bachelor I knew. It was high time for him to get married and he couldn’t have done better than Cynthia. I always say I’m responsible for their children, as they wouldn’t have had them without me fixing Cynthia and Cliff up. There is some dispute about that. Cynthia has gone on to write and do television herself, and most likely will exceed me in the number of books she writes. She has all my secrets and those of numerous other writers, and keeps them well.

Enjoy these recipes and look for more stories and recipes to come. At eighty years old, I have more to tell, and more friends to include another time.

The Skinnies and the Roundies

Just before my twentieth high school reunion, it seemed to me the world was divided into two types of people—the skinnies and the roundies. As I talked to my high school friends on the phone or in person, I tried to determine: Were they more like a Modigliani or a Rubens? Did they jog, do aerobics, eat more than one meal a day? More importantly, what size were they? My mother always said comparisons were odious, but I found myself mentally weighing myself (literally) against my peers.

The last time I visited an old high school skinny friend (remembering her mother was a darn good cook), I nearly starved to death. Her mother is beautiful at 70, and so is my friend the skinny. She runs three miles a day, four days a week, and she was pointedly polite about my protruding stomach (although I thought I could hear her thinking “tsk, tsk” as she glanced at it). She gets a high from running. I get a high from chopping. One day I was ravenous at noon. She was surprised, saying, “But I thought you ate breakfast!” I wondered, “What has breakfast got to do with lunch?”

Thinking of a quote attributed to Catherine Deneuve, “A woman reaches an age when she must sacrifice the body for the face,” I wondered if I had made the wrong choice—my face. A month away from the reunion I decided I needed to reverse my choice and lose week weight. I was afraid all the boys in my class would remember me as a skinny, having weighed 110 pounds until just a few years ago. First I tried the sensible things. A bowl of cereal with skim milk or a boiled egg for breakfast. Low-calorie cottage cheese with slices of tomato for lunch. Poached chicken with steamed broccoli and rice or a baked potato for dinner. I sprinkled everything with herbs. Occasional fruit was my only dessert or snack. I hated it. I thought about the meals I was missing. I love food. I want to eat five times a day, if possible, small meals. I love slicing and chopping and cooking for others. I love the smells of the kitchen. I like breakfast in bed. I crave fresh food. I like to feed myself. Finally I found some recipes that satisfied my cravings and helped me lose a few pounds.

A long distance beau called, and I told him of my vows. “I,” I proudly announced, hoping the declaration would spur me on as a challenge, “will be ten pounds lighter when I see you again.” Instead of a crow of pleasure, I received a groan. “Oh, no,” he said, “I like you Romanesque!”

With that, I threw my diet out the window. By the time of the reunion, I fit into my favorite roundies dress. I felt very comfortable in it. I got there early, quivering with anticipation at seeing people I hadn’t seen for years. Like Rip Van Winkle, the years fell away. My high school sweetheart walked in the door. He’d been the high school football captain, and I suppose if you saw him today, you’d think he looked like Kenny Rogers and that he might be considered a bit beefy—a roundy, even. I didn’t notice. In fact, I didn’t notice anyone’s looks in particular, can’t recall concentrating on their dresses or their shapes. All the women were beautiful, all the men handsome—just as I’d remembered them to be. The joy of being together overcame our mortality. We danced and laughed, and cried. I did notice something about the skinnies that night—in the dark you can’t tell they have lines.

Photo from Nathalie's high school yearbook.

Nathalie, far left, from high school yearbook.