During the holiday season my parents would invariably designate one evening before Christmas to invite friends over for an open house. My mom, a dedicated holiday baker, used the occasion to haul out all the fruitcakes she'd made—one packed with whole nuts and citron barely held together with batter, an applesauce bread studded with nuts and raisins, another cakey version that had been wrapped in a brandy-soaked cloth—plus cookies filled with jam, pinwheels stuffed with dates, and her signature Nanaimo bars that I'd eat by the dozen, all displayed on holiday-themed platters.

My dad made sure the bar was well-stocked, but his main task was to dig out the Tom & Jerry set from the basement and pull out the recipe card from the file, dog-eared, faded and stained from literally decades of Christmas parties past. On the day of the party, as Mom ran around the house in a frenzy, inspecting (and often redoing) my lackadaisical dusting and vacuuming and fussing over the table decorations of carefully arranged boughs studded with shiny glass Christmas ornaments. My dad would start making the batter for his Tom & Jerrys.

I don't remember any of their friends making this classic holiday drink, but it was a staple at our house growing up. Dad, who in my memory almost never spent time in the kitchen, would carefully separate the egg whites from the yolks, beat the whites into glossy peaks, then gradually fold in the yolks that had been beaten with powdered sugar and whipping cream. I was particularly fascinated with the teensy brown glass bottles of cinnamon and clove oil that had no doubt been around for years, since the batter only required a drop of each to flavor it. He'd dip a toothpick into the little bottle and pull it out, a shimmering drop of oil clinging to it, and ever so carefully let it drip into the batter.

By this point Mom would have vanished upstairs to get dressed and put on lipstick—bright red—to match her holly-trimmed holiday apron, and Dad would be mixing the rum and brandy and putting the kettle on for topping off the cups. It's memories like these that, whenever the holidays roll around and the cold starts to creep in through the cracks around our doors and windows, you'll find me heading down to the basement to dig out our own Tom & Jerry set, start whipping egg whites and inviting the neighbors over.

Over the years I've collected a few recipes for holiday cocktails, and now seemed like a good opportunity to share them with you. Enjoy, and start making memories for you and yours!

My Dad’s Tom & Jerrys

For the batter:
6 eggs
Pinch of cream of tartar
1 lb. powdered sugar
1 drop oil of cinnamon
1 drop oil of clove
1/2 c. whipping cream

For each drink:
1 jigger (1.5 oz.) brandy
1/2 jigger (.75 oz.) rum
2 Tbsp. batter
Boiling water

Dash of fresh-ground nutmeg.

Separate eggs, putting yolks into large mixing bowl and whites into another bowl large enough to whip them in. Add cream of tartar to whites and whip into stiff peaks.

Beat egg yolks to combine and add cinnamon oil, clove oil and whipping cream. Beat, gradually adding powdered sugar till the mixture is thick and smooth. Add whipped egg white and slowly fold them into each other till you have a smooth, light batter.

To make drinks, put brandy, rum and batter into each cup (ours are 6-oz. cups), fill with boiling water and stir. Top with a sprinkle of ground nutmeg. For the kids, make Clyde & Harrys—simply leave out the alcohol and combine the batter and hot water and stir, topping with the nutmeg.

* Oils available at many natural foods stores. Just make sure they're food grade.

Ann and Chad's Hot Toddies

1 slice lemon, 1/8" thick
1 cinnamon stick
3 whole cloves
Pinch of fresh ground nutmeg
1 1/2 oz. whiskey (your choice)
2 oz. boiling water
1 tsp. honey

Place lemon in bottom of a mug or heat-resistant cup. With a muddler or the back of a spoon, crush the lemon gently to release its juices. Add the remaining ingredients and stir to combine.

Rodrigo's Cola de Mono (Tail of a Monkey)

This is a traditional Chilean Christmas drink, usually served cold. Best made a couple of days ahead.

3 qts. whole milk
4 c. of sugar
Peel of an orange (about 1" wide by 2" long)
4 cloves
A pinch of nutmeg
1 stick of cinnamon
2 Tbsp. freshly ground coffee
1 tsp. vanilla extract
1 qt. Aguardiente*, grappa** or pisco

Boil milk with sugar, orange skin, cloves, cinnamon and nutmeg.  Once the milk has come to a boil, remove from stove and add the coffee and vanilla extract and stir constantly for about 5 to ten minutes or until the coffee dissolves as much as possible.

Once the mixture is cold, filter it (paper filters work best) or use a really fine colander with a paper towel. Add the spirit and pour into bottles with tight lids. Place in refrigerator and let it sit for a couple of days before serving. It will keep for a couple of weeks in the fridge.

Shake well before opening. Serve cold, over ice if desired (though not traditional). Can be garnished with a cinnamon stick or a sprinkle of cinnamon if desired.

* Aguardiente is a denomination of spirits that can range from vodka to sugar cane based, so the name is given not because of the source, but the alcohol content, which can be upwards of 120 proof alcohol. In Chile, Aguardiente is made from grapes and the alcohol content is usually somewhere between 45-55% (above 55% is illegal). Because aguardiente is a very generic term and the actual product and alcohol content varies from region to region, I suggest using a grape spirit such as grappa or pisco, preferably between 45-50% alcohol.

** Grappa, like champagne, is a spirit produced from grapes and can only be called grappa if it complies with certain requirements, such as being produced in a certain region of Italy. That’s why substituting it with a grape-based spirit like pisco can lower the cost considerably.

Keith's Bloody Monkey

This variation on a Monkey Gland, but uses fresh winter citrus. Makes one cocktail.

1.5 oz. gin
1.5 oz. blood orange juice, strained of pulp
1 tsp. grenadine
1/2 tsp Pernod

Add all ingredients to cocktail shaker. Add ice till shaker is 3/4 full. Shake vigorously for 20-30 seconds. Strain into a cocktail glass. Garnish with slice of blood orange.

The e-mails I get from local farmers' markets are often packed with information, not only about the vendors you'll find there each week, but often containing helpful information and recipes for the seasonal products stacked on their vendors' tables. The essay below, for instance, is from a recent Beaverton Farmers Market newsletter:

Most people think that they know the difference between sweet potatoes and yams, but they have been deceived. Sweet potatoes are not a type of yam, and yams are not a type of sweet potato. They are both tuberous root vegetables that come from a flowering plant, but they are not related and actually don’t have a lot in common. Yams are native to Africa and Asia and are related to lilies. Compared to sweet potatoes, yams are starchier and drier. In our country, yams are likely to be found in international and specialty markets, if at all. Sweet potatoes are the vegetables that you find in our grocery stores and farmers' markets.

Sweet potatoes come from the morning glory family (Ipomoea). Of the numerous varieties grown in the U.S., there are two major types: firm sweet potatoes, which have golden skin and paler flesh, and soft sweet potatoes, which have copper skin and orange flesh. The firm varieties cook up firm and a little waxy, the soft varieties are creamy, fluffy, and moist. Firm varieties were the first to be grown in the U.S. When we started growing the soft varieties, it was felt that there was a need to call them something different so they decided to call them “yams." This was a marketing decision, not a botanical one.

Yams have rough brown skin and a dry, starchy texture and grow mainly in Europe, Asia and Africa. The word “yam” comes from the West African word “nyami," which means “to eat.” Sweet potatoes, on the other hand, are native to North America, have a conical shape, are usually red or orange in color, and have a sweet and creamy texture, which makes them very versatile and easy to cook with.

Roasted Yams or Sweet Potatoes Your Way

Recipe from the Good Stuff NW files.

This is a basic recipe that you can adapt any way you want. Roast the sweet potatoes in the oven, then serve them as is, or slather with butter; sweeten with a drizzle of maple syrup or a sprinkling of brown sugar and a splash of lemon; or simply improvise!

2-3 large yams or sweet potatoes, peeled and cut crosswise in 1/2" slices
2-3 cloves garlic, minced
2 Tbsp. olive oil
1/2 tsp. salt
Herbs, optional

Preheat oven to 350°.

Place slices in a large bowl with garlic, olive oil, salt and herbs, if using. Stir to combine and coat the slices. Line a baking sheet with parchment paper and lay the slices on it in a single layer. Place in oven and roast for 30-45 minutes until they can be easily pierced with a fork. Serve as is or zhoosh to your heart's content.

Top photo: Nat, Riverland Family Farm, courtesy Beaverton Farmers Market.

Writing this blog has been full of slap-upside-the-head, "D'oh!" moments over the years. There was the time someone mentioned making a stock from leftover corn cobs. And another time when I discovered how simple it was—not to mention how much more delicious it tastes—to make your own peanut butter. (Got five minutes and a blender?)

I'm constantly asking myself: How could it have taken me so long to figure this stuff out?

So this last week I decided to make a big pan of lasagne, something I've done a zillion times before. A few years ago I would have bought a container of ricotta and slathered it on the next-to-the-top layer to give a creamy, oozy richness to this Italian-American classic. But when Dave developed a problem with dairy, and with lactose-free commercial ricotta not readily available, I had to eschew that particular ingredient for several years.

Then I read somewhere that it was super easy to make your own at home. D'oh!

While, according to my friend and cookbood author Nancy Harmon-Jenkins, traditional Italian ricotta is made from the recooked whey left over from cheesemaking (ri-cotta means "recooked"), another method makes a delicious fresh cheese that's as good or better than most store-bought brands. With the availability of organic lactose-free whole milk (thank you, Organic Valley), all it requires is lemon juice and salt!

I tried it, fiddled with the timing a bit to get the texture I wanted and, like magic, the creamy softness was back in our lives. And it's so dang easy, I can guarantee that it's going to start showing up on crostini, mixed in pasta and dolloped on salads.

Homemade Ricotta-Style Cheese

For 1 cup ricotta (double to make 2 cups):

4 c. whole milk
1/3 c. fresh-squeezed lemon juice
1 tsp. salt

In a saucepan, heat milk over medium heat (you don’t want to heat it too quickly). Stirring occasionally to keep it from scalding and measuring often with an instant read thermometer, bring milk to 200°.  When it reaches 200°, remove from heat and add lemon juice and salt. Stir a couple of times to combine and let it sit for 5 minutes. (You'll notice it start to curdle and separate.)

While it’s sitting, put cheesecloth or a cloth jelly bag in a fine mesh strainer over a large bowl. Pour the contents of the pan into the lined strainer and drain, making sure to save the watery whey (see note, below). Depending on how dry you want your ricotta to be, let it sit for two to 20 minutes. Draining it for a shorter time will give you creamier ricotta, while waiting the full time will result in a dry texture. When it's reached your desired texture, taste it for salt and adjust.

NOTE: Save the whey (the watery liquid left after draining) and feed it to your chickens or pigs. If you don't have livestock, don't worry—you can feed it to your family, as well! It's very nutritious and is great added to soups, stews and sauces that benefit from a slight milkiness. (Think chowders, or a potato-leek soup.) One reader said she used the leftover whey to cook pork loin in the crock pot for pulled pork, which confirms what I'd read about the acids in the whey helping to break down meat. I've used it to make carnitas, and it worked fabulously. Try it!

Before Blue Apron and Hello Fresh, there were Hamburger Helper and Swanson's frozen dinners. Even before that, when I was growing up, when my father didn't have time to hunt down a brontosaurus à la Fred Flintstone, my mother made do with Campbell's cream of mushroom soup and an arsenal of Lipton's dehydrated products. Spanish rice, tuna casserole and pot roast were her go-to dinners, egged on by the women's magazines of the day like the Ladies Home Journal that gave busy homemakers tips on "quick dinners your family will love!"

Tamale pie was one of those dinner solutions, though in the days when most Americans considered spaghetti sauce "spicy food," its call for the addition of chili powder—actually a spice mix containing paprika, cumin, garlic powder, onion powder, oregano and maybe cayenne—was a bridge too far for many. But my dad loved him some zing, so my mom would occasionally pep up her dinner rotation with chili powder-inflected goulash or tacos with hot sauce.

I'd been looking for a tamale pie recipe for those times when I'm feeling a bit of nostalgia for the casserole dinners of my childhood, and recently a friend shared one that brought back a flood of cornmeal-scented, cheesy memories. Updated with a few adaptations using local cornmeal and pasture-raised beef, locally grown and roasted tomatoes and some tangy sharp cheddar from Organic Valley, it fit the bill perfectly. I hope it will for you, too!

Tamale Pie

2 Tbsp. vegetable oil
1 onion
2 poblano peppers, chopped in 1/4” dice
3 cloves garlic, minced
1 1/2 lbs. ground meat (beef, chicken or turkey)
2 c. roasted tomatoes
2 c. corn kernels
1/2 c. chicken stock
2 tsp. ancho chile powder
1 tsp. ground cumin
1 c. cornmeal
1 c. grated cheddar or jack cheese
Salt to taste

Preheat oven to 350°.

Heat oil in large skillet over medium high heat. (If using a cast iron skillet, you can bake the casserole in it, as well.) When it shimmers, add ground meat and sauté until the meat is browned. Add onion and sauté until tender, about 3 minutes. Add garlic and pepper and sauté until softened, about 5 minutes. Add chile powder and cumin and stir briefly, then add tomatoes, corn kernels and broth. Bring to a simmer. Salt to taste.

While meat mixture simmers, bring 2 cups water to a boil. Slowly add cornmeal, stirring vigorously to prevent lumps. Continue cooking and stirring until it becomes quite thick. Add 1 teaspoon salt, or to taste. Stir cornmeal mixture into other ingredients. Put mixture into casserole (if you are using a cast iron skillet, you can bake the casserole in this). Sprinkle cheese over the top and bake about 30 minutes.

My family loves jam—Dave's homemade sourdough toasted in our old-school two-slice toaster is most of the reason—so this time of year I make a lot of it. And I'm talking about gallons of the stuff, enough to last us until the fruit ripens again next summer. So far this summer alone I've made raspberry, marionberry, strawberry, blackberry and two kinds of plum jam, with Dave's special citrus marmalade rounding out the selection.

I'm not confident enough to start playing around with spices to my repertoire, and I do love the forthright flavors of the fruits all by themselves. There are those who make exotic combinations like plum cardamom or apricot chanterelle, both from my friend Jennifer Bright, my polestar for preserving ideas—see this recipe for Prune Plum Jam with Fennel Seed for a taste. (Her blog Culinaria Eugenius, from her previous life in Eugene, is a trove of recipes and inspiration.)

This summer I did have a breakthrough when I ran across a blog called Divas Can Cook by Monique Kilgore, which she describes as centering on African-American Southern Cuisine. Her recipe for strawberry jam without pectin describes a technique calling for combining the fruit with sugar, warming it to melt the sugar, then bringing it to a rolling boil until it reaches 220 degrees. Done!

For me this eliminates the "will it set" problem of either runny preserves or a set that is too hard (and probably overcooked), plus the hassle of the plate-in-the-freezer, is-it-done guesswork. I've now used her technique with all the fruit jams I've made so far and they've all been exactly the right not-too-runny, not-too-thick consistency we love—Goldilocks would be so pleased! So thanks to Monique for setting me on the right path.

Fruit Jam

Adapted from Divas Can Cook by Monique Kilgore

So far I've used this technique to make strawberry, blackberry, marionberry, raspberry and plum preserves with excellent results.

1 lb. fresh fruit
1 1/4 c. sugar
1-2 Tbsp. fresh-squeezed lemon juice

Combine fruit with sugar and lemon juice in a large pot or Dutch oven. (If you have more than one pound of fruit, I use the same proportions as above for sugar and lemon juice.) Allow the fruit to sit and macerate for 15 minutes, then place over medium heat and simmer for 15 minutes until the sugar melts completely. (Kilgore mashes the fruit at this point for an even consistency, but I like my jam to have some texture so I skip that step.)

When the sugar has melted, turn up the heat and bring the fruit to a rolling boil and continue cooking until the temperature of the jam reaches 220 degrees. At that point transfer the jam to clean glass jars. If you're freezing the jam, simply allow it to cool to room temperature and transfer to your freezer. If you want shelf-stable jam, process the sealed jars in a water-bath canner following the canner directions.

Love figs? Get my recipe for a spectacular Balsamic Fig Jam that is amazing with cheeses or on toast.

This week's newsletter from the Beaverton Farmers Market is all about the colorful, luscious pears you'll see lovingly displayed in vendors' market booths, and I thought this one was so simple and uncomplicated that it deserved sharing here.

Decadent Pear

"Marketgoers love his apples, but they also love him for his amazing pears," wrote Market Master Ginger Rapport of Thompson Farms' Lynn Thompson. "Lynn is always welcoming and was happy to share his favorite pear recipe which he lovingly calls 'Decadent Pear.'"

4 sweet red pears
4 Tbsp. of brown sugar
4 Tbsp. of butter
4 strips of bacon, fried until crisp then crumbled

Halve the pears and hollow out the centers.

Spoon 1/2 tablespoon each of butter and brown sugar into each half, and microwave them for a minute to soften the pears.

Top with crumbled bacon and broil for a couple of minutes to crisp up the glaze.

I know, I know, calling a particular drink "the best cocktail" is hyperbole on the scale of saying one religion is the true path and everyone else is going to H-E-double toothpicks. And there are going to be comments like, "Whaddaya mean..." and "You're fulla..." But, doggone it, it's my favorite and I'm not afraid to say it.

Now, I've had lots of other great cocktails. After all, there is such a thing as due diligence in these matters and I'm all about fair play. Martinis, Manhattans, mojitos, lemon drops, G&Ts, sidecars, toddies...I could go on. But the Negroni is the one I always come back to as my touchstone, especially as made by my favorite bartender.

And it's not for everyone. You have to have a taste for the bitter (Campari) along with the sweet (vermouth). And the perfect accompaniment is a twist of lemon, though many practitioners are trying to substitute orange peel—in my opinion giving the drink a cloying oiliness rather than the zing that lemon rind contributes.

So if you're ready to try one, here's the recipe that we've adopted as our own.

Our House Negroni

A good friend of mine described the Negroni as "the perfectly balanced cocktail when made correctly." I've got to agree. The richness of the gin, the bitter-sweetness of the Campari, the balancing acidity of the vermouth. Measure it out if you have to, free pour if you're confident enough, just make it. This is a great old-school drink that originated in the 1930's, and is making a comeback today. Big ups for this very refreshing adult beverage.

1 part Gin
1 part Campari
1/2 part Sweet Vermouth
1/2 part Dry Vermouth

Fill your cocktail shaker halfway with ice, dump in the booze, shake then strain into a chilled martini glass and garnish with a twist of lemon.

A note on the gin: I love Beefeater and Taqueray, but with this drink I actually prefer the less assertive flavor of a Gordon's Dry Gin or a similar mid-range gin. Also, if you look in a vintage bar guide, it will invariably say one part sweet vermouth with no dry vermouth. But I was shown this half-and-half method by the bartender at Bix Restaurant in San Francisco many years ago—a great "must stop" bar for you martini fans—and this rounds out the flavors perfectly. Cheers!

I must have been around four years old. My family lived in a fifties-style ranch on a one block-long street of similar houses in Tigard, an early patch of development in what would become the suburban sprawl that quickly surrounded Portland in the 1960s and 70s.

At the back of the house, the edge of our neatly mowed, unfenced green lawn bordered on a field of wildflowers where I'd wander, picking bouquets to bring to my mother. It would eventually become a parking lot for a giant strip mall, but to my four-year-old self it was a vast prairie, a place for catching and studying the birds and bugs that lived there or spending what seemed like hours laying there and looking up at the clouds passing overhead.

Across the street in front of our house was another row of houses identical to ours, beyond which stretched another field, this one planted with row upon row of corn. All the kids on our street would play hide-and-seek in that field, losing each other in the sameness of the shadowy stalks that stretched into the sky, their tassels glowing in the evening light. During the late summer I'd often wander off into the field on my own and pick an ear or two, peeling back the green husk and nibbling the sweet raw corn that always tasted better than anything boiled and buttered, and only emerge when I heard my mother calling from the front porch to come in for dinner.

So when it's corn season and there's no field across the street to wander off into, I'll bring home an armload from the farmers' market, husk a few ears, scrape off the kernels and cook up a batch of corn stock from the cobs to make a corn risotto that brings back, if only for a few moments, that sweet memory from my childhood.

Sweet Corn Risotto

1 Tbsp. olive oil
1 Tbsp. butter or margarine
1/2 yellow onion, chopped fine
2 cloves garlic, minced
2 c. arborio rice
2 c. corn kernels
5 c. corn stock
1/2 c. parmesan
Salt and pepper, to taste

To make corn stock, cut kernels off of five corn cobs. Put kernels in a bowl and set aside. Place cobs in large saucepan and cover with 5 cups water. Bring to a boil, then reduce heat to simmer for 15 to 20 minutes. Remove cobs and strain stock through wire mesh sieve to remove any debris.

Melt butter and oil in 2 1/2-3 qt. heavy-bottomed sauce pan. Add onion and garlic and sauté over medium heat till translucent. Add rice and stir for about 30 seconds till grains are hot and coated with butter mixture. Add corn and combine. Stirring frequently, add stock one ladle-full at a time, allowing rice to absorb it before adding more. When rice is tender but still slightly al dente, stir in cheese. Add salt and pepper, adjusting to taste.

My neighbors Bill and Jen have been a driving force behind many of my culinary explorations, with their extensive garden and Bill's consuming interest in fermentation. Jen, too, comes from a long line of picklers and preservers—check out her great-grandmother's refrigerator pickles recipe—and Bill turned me on to homemade shrubs like his cantaloupe and mint shrub.

Last year he gave me a bushel of purple shiso to play with, which led me to Andrea Nguyen's inspiring website, Viet World Kitchen, about all things Vietnamese—her Vietnamese Food Any Day cookbook has changed my cooking on a basic level—and her recipe for Vietnamese Shiso (Tia To) Shrub. I made several batches and we enjoyed them all summer long.

This year, just as the early July heat wave was hitting the Northwest with a vengeance, our Stoneboat Farm CSA was offering fennel as part of the share. Fennel's long wavy fronds are normally a source of annoyance since they've gone straight to the compost bin, but this time I asked my friend Melinda if there was a use for them. "Fennel fronds?!?" she exclaimed, her eyes lighting up at the thought. "Candied fennel! Syrup! Pesto!"

Okay, then—I now feel badly about dumping them all these years. But no more!

The pesto was made and enjoyed with a salmon fillet we grilled a couple of days later, and I made a syrup from the leftover stalks. It was good, but wasn't thrilling…until my son mentioned he'd made a soda with some of the syrup and had added a splash of tarragon vinegar to make it sing. And did it ever!

Don't get me wrong, I'm still in love with Andrea's shiso drinking vinegar, but this one may be the hit of this summer's beverage bar.

Fennel-Tarragon Drinking Vinegar

4 c. fennel fronds, sliced in 3" lengths
6 c. water
6 c. sugar
2 c. tarragon vinegar (see below)

In a large saucepan over medium heat, combine water, sugar and fennel fronds. Bring to a boil and turn off heat. Cover pan and allow to steep for 2-3 hours until syrup cools. Add vinegar and stir. Bottle and store in refrigerator (makes about two quarts); will keep for several weeks.

To make a beverage, fill an 8 oz. drinking glass with ice. Add 1 oz. drinking vinegar. Fill with club soda. Stir, adding more syrup or soda to taste. Garnish with lemon, mint, etc., if desired.

Tarragon Vinegar

Fresh tarragon
White wine vinegar

Fill a couple of pint jars with tarragon sprigs—feel free to pack them in, but not too tightly; you need room for the vinegar, after all! Fill with vinegar to within 1/2" of rim. Place tight-fitting lid on the jar and store in a cool, dark place (like a basement) for 2 weeks. Using a fine mesh strainer, strain out the sprigs. Bottle (I save my empty vinegar bottles for just this purpose) and store in refrigerator.

If you've been seeing ads from your grocery store or fishmonger offering whole fish for a fraction of the regular retail price but you're not sure how you'd use it, I'm reposting this handy guide.

There is nothing better, or better for you, than fresh-caught, wild, local fish. Fish are packed with Omega-3 fatty acids, high in protein and low in saturated fat, and the American Heart Association advises eating fish twice a week. Trouble is, the usual price per pound for fresh fillets in the butcher case puts it out of reach for most budgets. Plus many commercially available ocean species can be high in mercury, and farm-raised fish are usually fed high doses of antibiotics—think of them as factory farms for finned creatures—due to the crowded pens they're raised in. And don't get me started on the effects of these farms on our waterways.

But those of us on the West Coast are fortunate to have access to some of the most delicious wild fish on the planet in our populations of native wild albacore and salmon. This year the fleet of primarily family-owned boats have been pulling in a supply of albacore from the fishery that stretches from Northern California up into British Columbia. Certified as sustainable by the Marine Stewardship Council, these albacore are young—just three to five years old, low in mercury and weighing in at 12 to 25 pounds—and individually caught with a hook-and-line system. (Want more info? Read my post, Albacore A to Z, for details.)

Wild salmon, particularly from Alaskan waters, are in plentiful supply right now, too, with stores advertising tempting steaks, fillets and roasts. But if you want to get a real deal, look for special sales events featuring whole fish.

"Whole fish?" you say. "I don't even know where to start with a whole fish!"

Well, let's talk about where you buy it. Make sure the fishmonger is reputable—recent studies have found that almost 20% of fish sold to consumers are mislabeled, and fish ordered at restaurants are more likely to be incorrectly labeled than fish bought at markets or grocery stores. I recently bought two whole albacore and two whole Coho salmon at New Seasons Market, a regional chain that buys its whole fish from local boats and has several one or two-day sales events per season. Find more places to buy local seafood with the Oregon Seafood Locator Map and Listings.

When you buy whole fish, you'll need to specify how you want it packaged. The fish are already cleaned, and most stores will butcher your fish at no charge, whether you want steaks or roasts or whole fillets. I always ask for the trimmings to be included, since the head, fins and bones make amazing stock for soups, chowders, risottos and paella, among many other uses. (Here's my technique for using those trimmings.)

And don't believe those online charts meant for chefs that say the yield from a whole albacore, gutted and without the head, is 50 percent of the weight. From the 17-pound fish (head off) that I bought from the store, my yield was more than 80 percent after removing the loins, roasting the carcass (350° for 30 min.), picking off the meat (nearly 2 lbs.) and then making stock from the bones (2 1/2 qts.). The total weight of bones, fins and detritus that went into the compost bin was only two or three pounds. (Kind of tells you about the food waste that happens in restaurants, though, doesn't it?)

If you're not going to throw the fish on the grill right away—always a good idea, and just one good-sized fillet will feed four to six—you'll need to think about how you want to store it. With a vacuum sealer it's a done deal, since properly packaged fish will keep for as long as a year. The idea is to keep air away from the meat to prevent freezer burn, so if you don't have a vacuum sealer, what do you do?

I quizzed the fellow at the fish counter when I bought my salmon, and he said that his dad, an avid fisherman, would put a single fillet in a zip-lock bag and submerge it in a sink full of water, holding the closure just above the water line. The water pressure pushes the air out, making an airtight seal around the fish. Not having a sealing machine myself, a little smoothing of the wrinkles in the bag while it was submerged did almost as good a job as the machine. (I found that a two-gallon zip-lock bag will hold a good-sized fillet quite nicely.)

A note: it's good to go over your fish ahead of freezing to check for pinbones or other bones that the butchers may have missed. First, it makes it easier to just throw it on the grill without worrying about biting down on a bone while you're eating and, second, it keeps those pokey bones from puncturing the bag and letting air in. Just hold the fillet and feel for any bones by running your fingers down the flesh, then use a pair of (clean) needle nose pliers to pull out the bones.

All this is to say that you can have more fresh, local, sustainable fish in your diet without paying dearly for the privilege.

Check out this recipe for to-die-for nicoise salad or this one for gochujang-roasted albacore. These salmon cakes will have your family swooning, or try this easy roasted salmon piccata. And you can't go wrong with a classic miso-glazed grilled salmon fillet.