By the time I moved away from New York City in summer 2014, I'd eaten more burrata than I'd ever wanted to eat. As with all buzzy ingredients, it felt like some chef discovered the cream-filled, milky mozzarella one day, told all his friends, and then they all put it on their menus the following day. The cheese was everywhere. And suddenly, in typical food-writer fashion, I was over it. Seeing it on a menu elicited an immediate eye-roll, which I followed up with lingering scorn for the rest of the menu.

Judgy? Of course. Ugly? Definitely. Then I returned to Vermont and haven't noticed burrata on a menu since. But yesterday I noticed little pint-size tubs of the stuff — from Bennington's Maplebrook Farm Cheese — at City Market/Onion River Co-op in Burlington. A funny thing happened: I felt an unfamiliar affection for the stuff, then bought a pint and brought it home, my mind swirling with ideas of how I'd dress it up and slap it on toast. 

Now. There is something tantalizing about the combination of dairy and citrus — it's not supposed to work (add lemon to milk and you'll have nasty, stringy curdles in no time flat), but when it does, it's this gorgeous, beautiful thing. So, this morning, breakfast was a small globe of burrata with just a squeeze of blood orange and herb-scented bergamot orange, gifted to me by a new friend. A splash of buttermilk from Mountain Home Farm provided common ground between citrus and dairy, while just a touch of tarragon and buttered maple-ginger added barely there layers of cool licorice, warm spice, herbs and sweet crackle.

If it sounds complicated, it isn't. Fifteen minutes to make, and the hardest part is getting to the store to buy the cheese.

Sunchokes are one of those rare, easy-keeping winter foods that are fairly light and great almost any way you prepare them. I've seen them roasted, fried (as chips, fries and diced candied nuggets) and pureed into soups, sides and a dozen other dishes.

Also called Jerusalem artichoke, the sunchoke is a prolific local wildflower (and staple food for Vermont's native Abenaki people). The tuber-forming plants are in the same family as the sunflower. They grow similarly tall, but, as perennials, creep into expansive clumps that can take over whole swaths of one's yard if left unchecked. But they're easy to grow, nutritious and delicious, and widely available at winter farmers markets. 

Though many cooks darken their nutty character with maple, brown sugar or smoke, I like to stoke their subtle, honeyed notes by roasting them with herbs and dried flowers and a touch of maple or honey. Calendula — a common garden annual favored by herbalists for its medicinal qualities — has a bright, peppery flavor somewhere between a dandelion and a marigold, and a summery, floral fragrance.

With temps forecasted to stay in frigid digits for much of this week, any excuse to turn on the oven — and savor the scent of summer — is a good one.

Here's a quick, super-easy, never-fail chicken recipe for your arsenal.

My aunt introduced me to this method a couple of years ago. I say "method," because this "recipe" is really just slicking a cut of chicken in mayo and popping it in the broiler. Sound gross? Yes, I know. But under the flame, something magical happens with the meat and the fat, and the result is juicy and rich like none other. And, no, this dish is absolutely not heart-healthy. But it's as tasty as it is bad for you, and for a quickie weeknight meal to please just about anyone at your table, I promise it's a win. 

Last week, I pulled out some frozen breasts from Misty Knoll Farms and mixed the mayo with tomato and some Parmesan. In the past I've done this separately with Dijon mustard and lemon, Sriracha and maple syrup instead of tomato (if you opt for maple, cut the measure to 1/4 cup or less). However, it works very well plain and you can add any embellishment you like — maybe a splash of sherry or balsamic vinegar or a generous shake of curry or Korean chile powder (gochugaru), or lime juice and chipotle (with a cilantro garnish?). It's a big, fatty delicious world out there!

I usually serve this with short pasta or some kind of small-grain starch. For extra naughty points (and a one-pot meal!), you can add preboiled starch to the skillet once you've flipped the chicken one time. Stir it around so it picks up some of the sauce, and be sure to stir again each time you turn the chicken. 

In America, we live and die by bacon — what carnivore can argue with the salted, smoked belly of a beast, fried to an irresistible crisp in its own fat?

Even as pork lovers decried recent studies linking cured meats to cancer, our food culture seems to be suffering from a bout of bacon fatigue. On December 30, I nodded in agreement when longtime Farmhouse Tap & Grill barman Jeff Baker (now at Farrell Distributing as a beer/cider educator) panned "International Bacon Day" via Twitter: "May I just say...FUCK BACON," he wrote. "Grow up. Be your own person. Find a food that's actually interesting." Baker wasn't alone in his ire. And it's worth noting that the phrase "bacon fatigue" — a term I thought I just made up — was added to Urban Dictionary in May 2013.

So while I'll be the first to cozy up to a tater-tot poutine smothered with bacon gravy, my affection has lately shifted to another porcine preserve. Guanciale is Italian cure made with pig cheeks, and it's a lot like bacon: mostly fat with meaty striations, salty and porky and impossibly rich. And it's super easy to make.