Cocoa

Dark chocolate, walnuts, and crystallized ginger combine in these incomparably good biscotti. Chocolate with at least 70 percent cocoa helps keep them rich but not too sweet.

When creaming butter for frostings, incorporating air and creating cells is not as important as simply creating a seamless texture. Many traditional buttercream frostings, such as the Swiss Meringue Buttercream on Page 455, incorporate softened butter into a meringue base, but this version is far simpler and quicker. You need only to beat the butter until creamy and then mix in confectioners’ sugar and cocoa powder until smooth. This frosting will be grainier than a shiny, glossy meringue-based buttercream, but it is perfectly acceptable for a birthday cake or batch of cupcakes.

Just like a great drop-cookie recipe, every home cook needs a fuss-free cake that can be mixed in a flash and is adaptable enough for layer cakes and cupcakes. One-Bowl Chocolate Cupcakes are so effortless, they don’t even warrant their own technique lesson; you simply combine dry ingredients and whisk in a few liquid ones. There is no need for an electric mixer, and best of all, you have to use only one bowl in the process.

This deep, dark chocolate sorbetto is so rich and thick, it’s hard to believe there is no dairy in it. There is so much chocolate in it that, while it’s smooth and delicious straight out of the maker, if you let it sit in the freezer for more than an hour or so, it becomes so hard you’d have to use a chisel to get a bite. Cacao nibs are the dry, toasted pieces of cacao beans left after the husks have been removed. I like them for the crunch and the bitter cocoa flavor they add. Cacao nibs are available in the baking section of specialty markets and from online sources, but if you can’t find them, your sorbetto will still be good plain and smooth.

We cut the dough into assorted shapes using 2- to 4-inch cookie cutters.

Store brownies in an airtight container at room temperature for up to 3 days.

Toast and peel the nuts for the cake and the garnish (recipe follows) at the same time. Bake the cake up to 3 days ahead; wrap well and keep at room temperature. The candied hazelnuts and chocolate curls can also be made 3 days ahead; store in airtight containers.

The cake layers can be wrapped well in plastic and refrigerated for up to 2 days; trim tops just before assembling. The frosting can be refrigerated in an airtight container for up to 3 days. Before using, bring to room temperature; beat with the paddle attachment on medium-low speed until smooth. The frosting can be refrigerated in an airtight container for up to 3 days. Before using, bring to room temperature; beat with the paddle attachment on medium-low speed until smooth.

This dessert was inspired by the Frozen Hot Chocolate at Serendipity, a restaurant in New York City.

A wonderfully moist cake (partly because of baby-food prunes), it’s perfect all on its own—no icing required!

Fear of falling? Not with these frosty, airy soufflés.

When I was growing up, my mom made this magical chocolate cake that doesn’t use eggs and is mixed in the pan it’s baked in. It’s the most moist chocolate cake I’ve ever tasted, and because no refrigerated ingredients are used, it’s perfect for camping. Crazy cake dates back to the Depression, but I don’t know where my mother found this recipe; it’s always been in her handwriting.

Riso nero—black rice—is the dramatic name for a nursery dish offered to children as a light supper or as a sweet after a bit of broth or soup. It is most often just made with rice poached in milk that has been scented with cinnamon and mixed with a few shards of chocolate, the latter giving the dish its name as it melts and turns the rice a deep, dark color. Surely there are lovely similarities between it and pasta in nero della consolazione (page 118). Here I offer its comfort in a more adult version. The same prescriptions apply, though, as this is best presented after a light, reviving soup or, better, after no soup at all, so one can justify slipping one’s fork into the spiced, chocolate depths of a second or third piece of the sweet little pie.

We had been in Puglia and its environs nearly a month. Sapped from our journeys, our palates debauched into slumber from the opiate of too many chile peppers, our wits palled from nightly Circean cups, we needed redemption from the table. We asked each other what would soothe. Surely we needed to stop driving. Fernando wanted pastina in brodo—tiny pasta cooked in broth. I wanted a small custard pie, warm, soft. I wanted bread and butter. We both wanted to be in a place with not one more three-thousand-year-old olive tree. We wanted sympathy more than we wanted supper. And there we were, lost in Otranto. When finally we asked the same giornalaio, newspaper seller, for directions to our intended destination of Melpignano for the third time and got the third different answer, we thought it a good thing to surrender our search for the unnamed, unsigned place there that had been pressed upon us by our friends in Lecce and simply brake at the next and nearest little place with even the thinnest promise about it. Finding it, we tumbled out of the car, shuffled up the drive and asked if there might be a room for us. The cheery little man took our things, showed us up the stairs, started up the heater for the bathwater and began the reverent story of his wife’s genius in the kitchen. I saw Fernando’s face fading a bit toward citrine. Swooning, I tried so to smile at the even cheerier little man through my narrowing vision. He began his pastoral roundelay with her pigeons braised in red wine and juniper, on to her lamb roasted with potatoes and wild mushrooms, before coming to the rhapsody of her way with goats’ hearts poached in white wine and lemon. Fernando was nearly able to deflect him with an inquiry about the era of his handsome stone house before he began the lip-smacking tale of the pigs’ livers roasted on branches of bay. We closed the door. We took a bath. As we were dressing, the cheery little man knocked gently. They were waiting for us—he, his wife the cook, his son the university student, his brother the hunter, his friend the winemaker. They’d thought, since there were no other guests, we might dine together, make a real celebration of the evening. They had laid a beautiful fire and lit candles upon a narrow, wooden, unclothed table set for seven. They were so sweet, so excited by our presence, for their own clever spontaneity, for the prospect of a long winter’s evening to be passed at table. Fernando rallied and began nibbling at a creamy heft of new pecorino sitting on a crisp white cloth next to our aperitivi. I followed the lady into her kitchen, unraveling our adventures in a nervous sort of monologue. Rather than sympathy, she offered her envy. “Beati voi, tutti questi giorni in giro, sempre a ristoranti.” “Blessed are you, all these days running about, always in restaurants.” I thought to be more direct. “You know,” I said, averting my eyes from the legs of lamb she was basting, “what I would like most this evening is to eat something simple and comforting. I feel like a tired child.” She looked at me for the first time, really looked at me, heard me. She wrapped her great, fleshy arms about me, crushing me to her moist, rosemary-perfumed bosom. She had understood. She marched me back to the table with instructions to sit quietly, sipping at the winemaker’s best red and to wait. After a half an hour’s sashaying to and from the kitchen with the first of the feast’s plates, the lady, her broad olive cheeks blushing up to the corners of her dark eyes, carried in a small, white porcelain bowl with its own cover and set it down before me. I lifted the lid, unloosing the scents of cinnamon and butter and perhaps of chocolate, which curled up through a tangle of pale yellow noodles swathed in a curiously dark sort of sauce. “Ecco la pasta in nero,” she exclaimed. “There it is, pasta in b...