This is when I turn to recipes that showcase maple’s complex, magnetic sweetness—like, for example, these sweet, flavorful maple oatmeal almond cookies. They call to mind those little packets of “maple and brown sugar” instant oatmeal from my youth.

Around this time of year, while some might get swept up in an endless search for ramps, these recipes are less fleeting. If your peas are still frozen, your herbs are still dried, or your artichokes are still peacefully nestled in a can in your pantry, you can still put together these dishes that match the mood of the new season of growth.

Instead of labor-intensive deviled eggs, leave your eggs as they are, season them with salt, and add a dollop of something creamy like kewpie, crème fraîche, or homemade mayonnaise. From there, design a decadent bite with whatever ingredients you have on hand, from anchovies to cheese and crushed potato chips.

Arnold Myint loves Thai food, and loves Southern food, and for him, the two aren’t “separate.” In this excerpt from his cookbook, Family Thai, Myint, who is also today’s podcast guest explains. (Plus: three recipes from the book.)

During a week alone in Bermuda, Mark learned (or re-learned) many things about cooking for yourself and just yourself every day: The necessity of repetition, the relative effort involved in cooking for one instead of two or four, the role that positive reinforcement plays in a cooking life, and the relationship of alcohol and salt.

Of course, there’s nothing morally wrong with going out to eat, and of course it can be fun, but the food that most of us eat when we do go out makes it a dangerous habit. Even with grocery stores nearby, Americans turn to burgers and fries before fruits and vegetables.

Most of us have, hidden deep inside, at least a touch of American exceptionalism. Yet we routinely let other people—faceless schemers in skyscrapers or industrial parks—determine what we eat. Are we lazy?

I’m genetically unequipped to say no to crumb cake; I just don’t have it in me to refuse. But still, I believed there had to be a better version. And after some trial and error, I found it.

A hundred years ago, you cooked and you ate. You didn’t claim to be a vegetarian or a carnivore or a locavore. There was barely any marketing, and national brands were nonexistent. Fat, carbs, protein weren’t bad or good; they were food. Hardly anything contained more than one ingredient, because everything was an ingredient. How did we get so off course?

Before Bourdain, before Fieri, there was…Clementine.

When you cook you’re more aware of every stage the food goes through between purchase and eating: You buy better food than, for example, a fast-food place does; you probably buy more appropriate amounts; you don’t cook with ersatz ingredients; you certainly don’t ultra-process what you’re cooking. Here’s part one of my argument that the more people cook, the better off we are, which is: why I cook.