Imagine a quiet corner of ancient India, where seekers of truth gathered under the open sky, their lives guided by a single, unbreakable vow: to cause no harm to any living being. This was the birthplace of Jainism, a path so devoted to ahimsa that it reshaped not just actions, but even the act of eating. For Jains, every creature—down to the smallest insect and the unseen microorganisms in the soil—holds a soul, a jiva, worthy of protection. To eat without accumulating karmic harm became a daily spiritual discipline, turning the kitchen into a place of profound care and the plate into an offering of gentleness.

The rules flow directly from this vision. Meat, fish, poultry, eggs, and seafood vanish entirely—no creature with multiple senses can be taken. Dairy remains in traditional practice—milk, yogurt, ghee, paneer—provided it comes without cruelty to the cow, though many modern Jains turn fully vegan, seeing industrial milking as incompatible with true non-violence. The deepest restriction lies underground: no root vegetables at all. Potatoes, onions, garlic, carrots, beets, radishes, sweet potatoes—anything pulled from the earth whole is forbidden, because uprooting kills the plant and disturbs countless tiny lives in the soil. Eggplant, mushrooms, cauliflower, and broccoli often join the avoided list, their hidden insects or complex structures raising the risk of harm. The five pungent vegetables—garlic, onions, leeks, chives, shallots—disappear too, believed to inflame passions, cloud the mind, and stir aggression. Honey is set aside, for bees may die in its harvest. In the strictest observance, people set aside heavily fermented foods during fasts, lest microorganisms suffer. Many eat only before sunset, shielding nocturnal creatures drawn to light and flame. During Paryushan, the great festival of introspection, the discipline tightens further—no roots, limited greens, no fermentation for some, and a few undertake Chovihar, eating just once before nightfall, or even full fasts, letting the body rest while the soul reflects.

From these boundaries blooms a cuisine of remarkable creativity and purity. Above-ground abundance takes center stage: rice, wheat for soft rotis and spiced theplas, millets, flattened rice for poha. Lentils—moong, toor, chana, urad—become dals, khichdi, light dhokla. Vegetables rise fresh and seasonal—green beans, peas, okra fried crisp, bottle gourd simmered gently, ridge gourd, tomatoes, capsicum, carefully washed spinach and fenugreek. Dairy lends richness when used—paneer in sabzi, yogurt in raita, ghee for a golden touch. Spices weave subtle magic: cumin, coriander, turmeric, asafoetida stepping in for onion-like depth, ginger, green chilies, curry leaves, cinnamon, cloves. Nuts, fruits, coconut add texture and sweetness. Flavors stay sattvic—pure, calming, mild—letting natural sweetness from vegetables shine, tang from lemon or yogurt lift, and a quiet umami emerge from hing or ripe tomatoes.

Meals often arrive as thali, a circle of harmony: rice or roti, dal, a vegetable sabzi or dry stir-fry, kadhi or raita, papad, pickle, and a sweet close. Jain poha sparkles with peanuts, turmeric, lemon, and chilies—no onions to overshadow. Dal khichdi comforts with mild spices and ghee. Paneer sabzi glows with capsicum and tomatoes. Bhindi fries crisp, lauki simmers soft. Dhokla steams light and spongy. Thepla carries fenugreek’s gentle green note. Jain pav bhaji mashes cauliflower, peas, and other allowed vegetables into a spiced spread for buttered bread. Sweets arrive pure—shrikhand thick with yogurt, basundi creamy, or fruit-based desserts. During Paryushan, simplicity reigns: boiled grains, milk, fruits—enough to sustain, nothing more.

This tradition lives strongest in Gujarat, Rajasthan, Maharashtra, and Jain communities scattered worldwide. Restaurants mark “Jain” sections—no onion, no garlic, no potato. Airlines and caterers offer special meals.

Welcome to the table of the 15th and 16th centuries. Pull up a chair. Try not to use your fork too conspicuously.

If you wanted to understand power in Renaissance Florence, you did not study the ledgers of the Medici bank — you watched what they served at dinner.

The Medici family, who essentially ran Florence for much of the 15th and 16th centuries while technically just being very enthusiastic “private citizens,” understood that a banquet was an announcement. When Lorenzo de’ Medici — known to history as “il Magnifico,” a nickname he absolutely would have had printed on business cards if such things existed — hosted a feast, the guest list, the seating arrangement, the number of courses, and the theatrical extravagance of each dish told visiting dignitaries everything they needed to know about where they stood in the pecking order.

These were not modest affairs. A typical Medici banquet could span dozens of courses across several hours, featuring roasted meats gilded with actual gold leaf, elaborate sugar sculptures called trionfi (triumphs) depicting mythological scenes, and live animals sometimes concealed inside pies that would burst open at the table — a culinary surprise that, depending on one’s temperament, was either delightful or deeply alarming. The historian Platina, who wrote the first printed cookbook in 1474, described such spectacles as demonstrations of “magnificence,” a term that carried genuine moral weight in Renaissance thought. To feast well and generously was not self-indulgence; it was civic virtue. Lorenzo de’ Medici likely agreed with this interpretation wholeheartedly and was certainly not biased.

In 1570, Bartolomeo Scappi published a cookbook so comprehensive, so detailed, and so ahead of its time that food historians still reach for superlatives when describing it. His Opera dell'arte del cucinare — The Works of the Art of Cooking — ran to over a thousand recipes, included the first known illustration of a kitchen fork, and offered guidance on everything from roasting a whole ox to preparing food for invalids. Scappi was the personal chef to Pope Pius IV and later to Pope Pius V, meaning he was, in effect, cooking for the spiritual leader of Christendom. This fact must have made seasoning decisions feel particularly consequential.

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Today, I want to talk about something I see every day in my classroom and in the hallways of American schools: the urgent need for real food education. As a teacher, I watch how what our students eat shapes their energy, their focus, their moods, and ultimately their long-term health. Yet too many schools still treat nutrition as an afterthought.

I believe we have a responsibility to help students understand the connection between food and well-being. When kids learn how different foods affect their bodies and minds, they gain power over their own choices. Without that knowledge, many drift toward processed and fast foods high in calories, unhealthy fats, and sodium. Over time, those patterns can contribute to serious problems like obesity and heart disease. I also see the quieter effects—how poor nutrition can leave students restless, foggy, or more anxious. A balanced diet can steady mood and ease stress, but too few young people are taught to make that link.

The reality in many schools is discouraging. Budget pressures often hit health and nutrition first. When money is tight, we lose the chance to hire people who know how to teach these skills or to offer the kinds of meals and cooking experiences that make the lessons stick. Standardized testing makes the problem worse. Success is measured almost entirely by scores in math and English, so administrators feel forced to push those subjects harder while nutrition slides to the margins. Even when resources exist, food education can still get ignored. That has to change.

Students need more than a quick lecture on the food groups. They need to read labels with confidence, understand portion sizes, distinguish between helpful and harmful fats, and practice preparing simple, nourishing meals. So many of the young people I teach rely on packaged and takeout food because they have never been shown another way. Cooking skills give them independence and protect them from the worst of those alternatives. They also need to see how food affects mental health so they can choose foods that support both body and mind.

I know the challenges are real. Many of our students come from families stretched thin, and some schools themselves operate with limited kitchens and tight budgets. Meeting nutritional guidelines while keeping meals affordable and appealing to a wide range of tastes is not simple. Policy shifts come and go, and logistics—staffing, equipment, time—can feel overwhelming. Education at home matters too; not every family has the same information or capacity. Still, none of these obstacles excuses us from trying harder.

What I want is straightforward. We need to protect and expand time and funding for food education so we can bring in knowledgeable teachers, run real cooking classes, and serve better meals. We should ease the stranglehold of standardized testing so health topics can take their rightful place. We can push for healthier options in the cafeteria and better support for the people who prepare school food. At the same time, each of us—teachers, parents, and community members—must keep learning and modeling good habits ourselves.

I refuse to accept that the next generation will grow up without the tools to feed themselves well. Prioritizing food education is not optional. It is one of the clearest ways we can protect our students’ health and give them a stronger foundation for the years ahead. The responsibility sits with all of us, and the time to act is now.

The Mad apple

Between August and early September, nature offers the eggplant, a vegetable with intense color and spongy flesh found in kitchens around the world. The eggplant (*Solanum melongena*) has a history as old as plant domestication, fascinating botanical characteristics, and culinary versatility that make it almost indispensable. Botanically speaking, the eggplant belongs to the Solanaceae family, alongside tomatoes, potatoes, and peppers. Although commonly considered a vegetable, its fruit is technically a berry. It originated in Asia—likely between India and Southeast Asia—and descends from wild, thorny, and bitter ancestors such as *Solanum insanum*. Genetic studies indicate that the eggplant was domesticated long ago; over time, selective breeding has reduced thorns, sweetened the flavor, and fostered the emergence of numerous shapes and colors. Varieties come in long and dark, round and purple, white, striped, and green forms. Each type possesses specific organoleptic qualities: long, dark purple varieties—such as the classic Neapolitan—have firm flesh and a delicate flavor, rendering them suitable for grilling or for making *parmigiana*. Round, violet varieties tend to become creamier after cooking and are ideal for sauces or fillings. White eggplants are generally less bitter and very tender.

In contrast, green or striped varieties are distinguished by an especially sweet taste and thin skin, making them suitable for quick cooking or grilling. Choosing the right variety can enhance any recipe. In addition, the plant flourishes in warm, sunny conditions; in temperate zones, it is grown as an annual, whereas in milder climates, it can live longer. From there, the history of the eggplant becomes a tale of cultural spread and transformation. It has been cultivated in Asia for centuries and appears in ancient Chinese and Indian texts. It was later introduced to the Mediterranean region by the Arabs, who spread its cultivation starting in the Middle Ages. The Italian word *melanzana* derives from the Arabic bāinjān, having passed through Persian and other languages. Initially, the eggplant was not well-received in Europe; as a member of the nightshade family—which includes many toxic plants—it aroused suspicion.

Some even called it the mad apple, fearing it would hurt the mind. Only over time, thanks to the spread of Mediterranean and Southern cuisines, did the eggplant become an integral part of culinary tradition. In Italy, in particular, it is the star of iconic dishes such as the ever-favorite parmigiana, the relish caponata, the Sicilian pasta alla Norma, sautéed eggplant, and stuffed eggplant. In the kitchen, selecting the right eggplant is important. It is best to choose firm specimens with smooth, glossy skin, free of bruises, and with a fresh green stem. If an eggplant is overripe, it will contain more seeds and have a more bitter taste. Traditionally, a salting process was used to draw out moisture: the eggplants were sliced, sprinkled with coarse salt, and left to drain for at least half an hour to remove some of the water and bitterness.

Today, available varieties are less bitter, making this step not always necessary; however, it can be useful for reducing oil absorption or achieving a firmer texture. From selection to cooking, eggplant lends itself to numerous techniques. When grilled or griddled, slices acquire a smoky aroma and a tender texture; just a few minutes per side on a hot surface suffice, followed by seasoning with oil, garlic, mint, or parsley and a brief resting period. In the oven, they can be roasted whole—after being pricked—until the skin shrivels and the flesh becomes creamy, rendering them ideal for sauces, purees, or fillings. Alternatively, when sliced ​​or cubed and oven-baked, they require less oil than frying while still retaining an intense flavor.

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The American diet, from where I stand, feels like a monument to convenience and abundance that has somehow lost its way. It’s a whirlwind of drive-thru, giant plastic cups of soda, and shrink-wrapped everything, where the default lunch is often a sad desk sandwich and a bag of chips. I see it as a diet of contradiction: we have access to the most incredible, diverse produce in the world, yet we so often reach for the pre-made, the shelf-stable, and the instantly gratifying. There’s a strange, almost anxious relationship with food here—it’s often something to be conquered quickly, a task to check off, rather than something to be savored. The portions are a whole other beast; what we consider a "normal" serving seems to have ballooned past any reasonable measure, leaving me feeling like we're constantly eating for a future that never comes.

But beyond the fast-food logos and the grocery store aisles of neon-colored snacks, I also see a quiet, stubborn undercurrent of change. I notice more neighbors tending small gardens, more friends asking about local butcher shops, and a growing curiosity about where food actually comes from. For every person crushing a mega-sized meal, there’s another meticulously reading an ingredient label, or experimenting with a fermented pickle recipe. I think, deep down, Americans are hungry for something real—for flavor, for connection, for meals that don't come with a side of guilt. The mainstream diet might be a chaotic, over-processed blur, but I have to believe that’s not the whole story. There’s a personal awakening happening, a slow, messy rebellion against the industrial palate, and I find that scrappy, homemade spirit to be just as characteristically American as the fast-food joint itself.

Appreciating the Value of Imperfect Produce.

Through years of culinary experience, I have observed that nature rarely produces flawless food. Many of the finest ingredients I have used are those commonly discarded. Crooked carrots often possess greater sweetness, and a scarred heirloom tomato typically offers more flavor and character than any visually perfect hothouse tomato I have encountered.

I emphasize this lesson daily at my cooking school. Upon arrival, students are presented with two boxes: one containing uniform, visually appealing produce from a premium grocery store, and another filled with what the industry terms "ugly" or "imperfect" fruits and vegetables, which may be misshapen, blemished, small, or unusually colored. When asked to choose, most students select the more attractive produce. However, after tasting both, they are consistently surprised to discover that the so-called ugly produce is equally flavorful, if not superior. Crooked carrots tend to be sweeter, blemished tomatoes offer richer taste, and irregularly shaped apples are often more aromatic. This exercise demonstrates that appearance does not determine quality. As a chef, I am disheartened by the waste of edible food. My career is founded on respecting ingredients and recognizing the inherent value of food. Discarding edible produce is not only economically unsound; it undermines the fundamental principles of cooking. When I witness a perfectly edible eggplant discarded solely due to its shape, I see the potential for nourishing meals and culinary creativity.

At my school, I am committed to teaching students how to utilize ingredients that are often disregarded. Our curriculum includes a dedicated section titled "The Blemish Kitchen." Each week, I purchase imperfect produce from local farmers who might otherwise dispose of it. This practice provides farmers with additional income and allows my students to access ingredients at reduced costs. I transfer these savings to students, as I believe that culinary education should remain accessible.

The techniques I teach are straightforward yet impactful. For example, a bruised apple can be transformed into a smooth compote for pastries, while wilting greens become a vibrant pesto. Potatoes rejected by retailers due to their shape roast to a crisp, golden finish, consistently surprising students with their quality. I provide practical guidance, such as removing damaged areas with a sharp knife, peeling or slicing to access the usable portions, and employing creative presentation methods like chopping for stews or incorporating into soups to mask irregular shapes. My goal is for students to appreciate the value of every ingredient and recognize that they can reduce grocery expenses by up to 30 percent. It is unnecessary to rely on national delivery services to obtain imperfect produce. I encourage students to explore local farmers' markets, where discounted, high-quality but visually imperfect produce is often available. Some small grocers maintain a "seconds" section for slightly blemished items, and many farms offer weekly community boxes containing surplus or cosmetically flawed produce. Students benefit from engaging with growers and discovering local sources for these bargains. Several have returned to class enthusiastic about the quantity and affordability of food acquired, with one student reporting savings of over fifty dollars in a single week by choosing imperfect produce for family meals.

However, this lesson extends beyond financial savings. By teaching students about imperfect produce, I also address sustainability. Food waste in landfills generates methane, a greenhouse gas significantly more potent than carbon dioxide. Selecting blemished fruit prevents edible food from entering landfills and supports farmers facing challenges in selling imperfect crops.

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Chef Walters Podcasts

A Taste of Panforte

I still remember the first time I held a slice of panforte in my hands. It was a cold December afternoon in Siena, and the air smelled of woodsmoke and winter. Someone handed me a small, dense wedge dusted with white sugar, and when I bit into it the world seemed to slow down. Honey, toasted almonds, candied orange, cinnamon, and a quiet heat of pepper unfolded all at once. It was not soft like cake. It was firm, almost chewy, and it stayed with me long after the last crumb was gone.

I later learned that this strange, beautiful sweet had been born in these same streets more than eight hundred years ago. In 1205 the nuns of the Abbey of Montecelso already received gifts of “panes melati et pepati” — honeyed and peppered breads — from local farmers. Spices were precious then, carried along the Via Francigena from distant lands, and only the wealthy or the monasteries could afford them. Over time the recipe grew richer. Nuts, candied citron, orange peel, cloves, nutmeg, and coriander joined the honey and flour. What began as a way to preserve fruit and celebrate abundance became the proud specialty of Siena.

They say the name “panforte,” strong bread, came from its intense, almost medicinal character. In the nineteenth century the poet Ugo Foscolo wrote of receiving panforti as gifts. Later, when Queen Margherita visited Siena for the Palio, the bakers created a milder version dusted with powdered sugar and named it in her honor. That is the panforte most of us know today — still dense with almonds and candied fruit, still fragrant with spice, but gentler than the old panpepato.

I have watched it being made. Almonds are toasted until their skins blister. Candied orange and citron are chopped into glistening jewels. Honey and sugar are melted together until they form a dark, fragrant syrup. Flour and a secret blend of spices are stirred in, and the whole mixture is pressed into shallow rounds lined with edible wafer. After a short time in the oven the surface sets, and once cooled it is showered with sugar like fresh snow.

Every Christmas in Siena the shops fill with round boxes decorated with medieval scenes. Families still give panforte as gifts. I keep a wedge in my kitchen all winter. When I cut a thin slice and let it rest on my tongue, I taste more than sweetness. I taste the patience of monks, the daring of merchants, the pride of a city that turned expensive spices into something humble and lasting. Panforte does not try to be light or fashionable. It is heavy with history, and that is exactly why I love it.

Each bite reminds me that some things are meant to endure — dense, spiced, and quietly magnificent — just like Siena itself.

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In Whitman, Massachusetts, between Boston and Cape Cod, Ruth Graves Wakefield and her husband, Kenneth, transformed a modest Cape Cod-style house into the Toll House Inn in 1930 (The Toll House, Kenneth and Ruth Wakefield, Whitman, Massachusetts, 1930-1935, 2024). At a time when roadside dining options were limited and reliable hospitality was rare, the Toll House Inn rapidly became a regional landmark, serving as both a rest stop for travelers and a gathering place for the local community (Menu, “The Toll House Inn,” circa 1950, 2024). Despite the challenges of the Great Depression, the Wakefields opened their doors with determination, providing guests with warm meals, clean accommodations, and home-cooked desserts that encouraged visitors to linger. Ruth, a trained dietitian and graduate of Framingham State Normal School’s household arts program, managed the kitchen with both precision and creativity. Her tall lemon meringue pies, rich Indian pudding, and especially the thin butterscotch nut cookies served with ice cream quickly gained acclaim among guests (Matte, 2023).

In the late 1930s, most sources place the pivotal moment around 1937 or 1938, when Ruth Wakefield decided to modify her well-known cookie recipe (Rotondi, 2025). The origins of the chocolate chip cookie have been widely recounted; some details are drawn from Ruth’s later interviews, while others have become part of popular legend (Michaud, 2013). Previously, she served a popular butter drop or butterscotch pecan icebox cookie, but she sought to create something new that would surprise her guests (Rotondi, 2025). According to the most widely accepted account, when she reached for baker’s chocolate to melt into the dough, she discovered it was unavailable. Instead, she used a bar of Nestlé semi-sweet chocolate, which she chopped into small, irregular pieces with an ice pick. She incorporated these chocolate pieces and chopped walnuts into the batter, expecting the chocolate to melt and create a uniform chocolate cookie during baking (Michaud, 2013).

Upon baking, Ruth observed that the cookies emerged golden and crisp at the edges as intended, but the chocolate pieces had not fully melted. Instead, the chocolate retained its shape, softening into creamy, molten pockets within the dough. This unexpected result produced a cookie that combined a tender, crisp texture with distinct bursts of chocolate. Guests at the Toll House Inn responded enthusiastically. Ruth named the new dessert Toll House Chocolate Crunch Cookies and began serving them regularly. Demand increased rapidly, prompting her to publish the recipe in the 1938 edition of her cookbook, Toll House Tried and True Recipes. Local newspapers soon featured the recipe, and home bakers throughout New England began replicating it, leading to a significant rise in sales of Nestlé’s semi-sweet chocolate (Tucker, 2021).

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