Right after I figured out blueberry barbecue sauce and started thinking about appetizers that actually spoke to where I'm from, pimento cheese kept coming up. But as much as other chefs have done it well, it didn't fully capture the dip culture Down East. Then I remembered the artery cement my sister Leraine serves on Christmas Eve—cream cheese, sausage, and Ro-Tel heated in a crockpot until somebody spoons it into a Frito Scoop. It's not fancy, but it's real, and it's what people around here actually eat and love. So I took that idea and made it something I could feel good about serving, keeping all the comfort but adding a little more intention to the flavors.

MAKING DEVILED EGGS IS TEDIOUS. When we do them at the restaurant, moans, groans, and sighs accompany the hunched-over work of peeling, carefully scooping, and finally stuffing the little cups. Still, deviled eggs have been and continue to be among the most admired of all the South’s hors d’oeuvres.

Like a layer cake, a deviled egg is a gift, an offering of affection that reflects the tastes of its maker. Some shine psychedelic yellow with French’s mustard, and many are chunky and sweet from pickle relish; my favorites are sprinkled red with paprika. Others (the sad ones, in my opinion) are pale from a blinding but understandable obsession with mayonnaise. My mom’s version, which I happen to favor, is tangy with more vinegar than usual. As for mayo, she uses Miracle Whip. I like Duke’s.

Use this recipe as a blank canvas. Add flair, like pickles of any kind, blue cheese, herbs, bacon, or all of that at once if that’s what you want. I don’t, but I’m a purist.

This is how I eat breakfast about three times a week when I'm trying to be healthy but don't have time to think too hard about it. Two soft-boiled eggs, still warm, sliced into quarters and hit with way more flaky sea salt and black pepper than seems reasonable. A mouthful of broccoli sprouts dressed in lemon juice on the side. That's it. It takes about fifteen minutes from start to finish, feels virtuous enough to make me happy, and tastes good enough that I actually want to eat it. My method for hard-boiling eggs might not be traditional, but it works—and when you're a busy mom trying to get out the door, that's all that matters.

In parts of the South, they call this a "bog," and in my house growing up, it was a stand-alone meal. These days I like to serve it with a bright salad—Romaine, thinly sliced celery, fresh herbs, and a mustard vinaigrette—to cut through all that comforting richness. The dish is simple: chicken cooked until it falls apart, rice that soaks up all that flavor, and a broth that ties everything together.

This isn't your average pimento cheese. Sharp cheddar and Monterey Jack get mixed with cream cheese, roasted red peppers, mayo, sour cream, and cider vinegar—then the real magic happens. Finely chopped V's Nuts go in at the end, giving the whole thing texture, spice, and actual personality. It's what pimento cheese should have been all along: interesting, layered, and worth putting out at a party.

These spiced pecans are sweet, salty, and just spicy enough to keep you reaching back into the bowl. Egg whites whipped to soft peaks act as the glue for a mix of sugar, cayenne, paprika, and a hit of Worcestershire sauce that coats every bit of the nuts before they bake. The result is crunchy, not sticky, with a flat tap when you hit them with a spoon—that's how you know they're done. They keep for a month in a sealed container, which means you can make them ahead for parties, pack them for gifts, or just keep them around for when you need something more interesting than plain nuts. They're good on salads, with cheese, or straight out of the jar when no one's looking.

This is what happens when fresh figs meet caramelized onions, goat cheese, and a little brown sugar and orange. The figs get tossed with orange zest and juice, then stirred into those R-Rated Onions before getting topped with crumbled goat cheese and baked until everything's warm and bubbling. The goat cheese stays creamy and distinct rather than melting into oblivion, which is exactly what you want. Finish it with roasted pecans and let it cool just enough so you don't burn your mouth scooping it onto the best crostini you can toast. And if you really want to go for it, toast those crostini in bacon fat.

This is the dip that made upstairs parties at Chef and the Farmer less of a headache and more of a reason to smile. It starts with those R-Rated Onions you just made, then gets a hit of balsamic vinegar and Worcestershire sauce for tang and depth. Mixed into cream cheese, sour cream, and mayo, it becomes something lighter and more addictive than that French onion packet dip we all grew up with. The best part? It tastes even better the next day, so make it ahead and let it hang out in the fridge until you're ready to serve. Crown it with fresh chives and grab your favorite potato chips—this one disappears fast.

The secret to truly caramelized onions isn't a secret at all—it's time and the right setup. You need a heavy-bottomed skillet, a good amount of onions to create steam and prevent burning, and about an hour of gentle cooking. Slice them with the grain from root to stem, then let them move through their stages: raw, wilted, sweaty, soft, light brown, and finally that deep mahogany color. You don't have to babysit them the entire time—just stir occasionally, scrape up those caramelized bits, and resist cranking up the heat. When you're left with a soft, creamy, fragrant pile of deeply browned onions, you'll understand why they're worth the wait.

This smoked corn mayo started as the secret weapon on my Elbow-Lick Tomato Sandwich, but it's become something I keep on hand all summer long. Blanched corn gets smoked until it's honey-colored in spots, then half of it goes into the blender with egg yolks, lemon juice, garlic, and a touch of cayenne to make a smooth, emulsified mayo. The rest gets stirred in for texture and bursts of sweet, smoky corn flavor. It's perfect slathered on a tomato sandwich, served with sweet potato fries, or thinned out with buttermilk and mixed with fresh corn to make a dip. Once you make it, you'll find excuses to put it on everything.