Foreword

This, like everything, is for Erik.

One of the first things I remember Abra Berens cooking was a mistake. It was a post-college dinner party at a friend’s apartment. She’d spent some time in professional kitchens, and so she was welcomed like an ambassador from Restolandia, her moves at the stove studied and admired. As she braised pork in milk, she told everyone that by the time it was done, the milk would have reduced and caramelized into a thick, ribbony, savory dulce de leche. It didn’t happen. The sauce remained stubbornly fluid, separated, in fact. We were promised magic and ended up with meat, curds, and whey. Were she perfectionist, ego-driven, the kind of showy cook who cooks at her guests more than for them, she would have been mortified. Happily, Abra is none of those things, and she happily served the different-yet-delicious dish to her friends. (Everyone loved it.)