Sam Sifton

1 week ago | nytimes.com | Sam Sifton

Good morning. The Kentucky Derby kicks off tomorrow at Churchill Downs in Louisville, Ky., two minutes of excitement bracketed by drinks and snacks, a prelude to dinner with as many people as you can fit around your table. The race is a reminder that while our young nation may have birthed itself in opposition to the British crown, its culture rhymes with the one across the ocean. Louisville is our Ascot, our Cheltenham.

2 weeks ago | nytimes.com | Sam Sifton

Good morning. I fixed and filled the bird feeder and Mr. Cardinal was on set within the hour, bullying the grackles away and getting on the seed. He hung out while I worked on a lawn wrecked by dogs, on a wood pile that needed stacking, on the piles of stuff that'll have to go onto the boat before fishing can commence. It was a weekend of promise and anticipation, the start of the season, a time for regrowth. For dinner: broiled salmon with asparagus and herbs (above).

2 weeks ago | nytimes.com | Sam Sifton

Good morning. John T. Edge brought us this recipe for a Seattle-style chicken teriyaki, adapted from one by Sujan Shrestha, many years ago: salty-sweet and garlic-gingery, with a starch-thickened, glossy sauce that pairs beautifully with rice and broccoli. I make the dish with less sugar and more pineapple juice than John calls for and only marinate the chicken for a few hours before cooking. Cook's choice.

1 month ago | nytimes.com | Sam Sifton

Good morning. I drove 100 miles the other morning, only to discover that the piece of paper I needed at my destination was actually at my departure point. This occasioned a 100-mile trip back and another 100 miles back from that: 300 miles on the odometer before noon. It left me rattled and sore. The last thing I wanted to do that night was cook. But cook I did, because cooking's a practice, my practice, and I find that doing it even when I don't really want to brings a kind of slow satisfaction.

1 month ago | nytimes.com | Sam Sifton

Good morning. I took a walk through the flower district of Manhattan the other day, West 28th Street between Sixth and Seventh Avenues. The sidewalk was impossibly crowded with people and plants and cuttings. A seller picked up a pot of grass by its leaves and the pot dropped to the ground, revealing its roots. His colleague pointed this out. "Lost his shoes," he said. The air was fragrant - peonies, gardenias, frangipani - and I realized that I hadn't smelled those scents in months.