Jessica B. Harris

Rather than breaded and fried as you might expect croquettes to be, these are something more akin to a seared chicken salad patty.

The clams’ natural briny sweetness serves as a surprising foil for the tender fritter batter—just be sure to pull off the tough outer coating of the siphon.

Rubbed with garlic, lavender, and other spices, this roast is the perfect centerpiece for a celebration.

Nigerian peppersoup should be fiery hot with rich flavor—while the traditional spices can be hard to find in the U.S., this recipe approximates the taste with a few more readily available substitutes.

These skewers of marinated barbecued shrimp are pure cocktail fun because you can eat the sugarcane skewers as well. The cane gives the shrimp a subtle sweetness and everyone loves to suck on the skewers after the shrimp are but a memory.

From piña coladas to rum and coconut water, the fruit of the coco palm seems a natural pairing with the elixir of the cane reed. Here is a different twist on the rum and coconut theme—one that can be made in a larger quantity and kept on the sideboard or the bar until ready to serve. It only gets better.

Soon after the invention of the home blender, the machines were whirring about turning out all manner of cocktails including a raft of fruit-infused daiquiris. It might seem that strawberries are not Caribbean fruit, but anyone who has traveled to Haiti knows that in Kenskoff in the hills above Port-au-Prince and Petionville, the climate is cool enough to support strawberries and they grow there—small, sweet, and delicious.

Editor's note: The recipe and introductory text below are from A Kwanzaa Keepsake by Jessica B. Harris.

The traditional roast pork is given a southern accent with a crust of well–seasoned crushed pecans. Thinly sliced pork loin with a slathering of chutney makes perfect sandwiches to take to work or school.

This dish harks back to West Africa, where black-eyed peas, according to some culinary historians, were eaten prior to European arrival. Certainly for many African-Americans, black-eyed peas were, and are still, the staff of life. They turn up with rice in Hoppin' John, the traditional New Year's dish that has spread from South Carolina to the rest of the South; and they are often served at other times of the year as a main dish or vegetable.

This is a basic recipe. The black-eyed peas may also be cooked with a ham bone, a precooked ham hock, or with olive oil instead of bacon fat. This last sacrifices the traditional smoky taste to contemporary concerns about cholesterol, but whatever way black-eyed peas are served, they're delicious.

Black-eyed peas can even be pickled, as in this recipe, which also goes by the name of Texas caviar. The dish can be prepared with either cooked dried black-eyed peas, canned ones, or, if you are really lucky and live in an area where they can be obtained, with fresh ones.

May be prepared in 45 minutes or less.

My mother is a member of a club that meets during the months of July and August on Martha's Vineyard, where we have summered for more than thirty-five years. One season the members compiled a souvenir cookbook, and my mother contributed her recipe for a deviled ham spread that she makes from leftover ham. Like deviled eggs, it's devilishly simple and satanically good. It can be spread on pieces of celery or toast points. Those who do not want to use ham can substitute smoked chicken or smoked turkey.

Can be prepared in 45 minutes or less.

No African-American summer picnic, North or South, would be complete without deviled eggs wrapped in wax paper. I remember that, as a child, part of the fun was unwrapping the eggs and seeing if some of the savory yellow insides had managed to squeeze out onto the paper, in which case I was allowed to lick it off. Years later, I was very surprised to learn that deviled eggs are also a part of the general culinary history of the South. There are even plates especially designed for serving this delicacy. To me they'll always be part of summer fun-hard-cooked eggs taken to the nth power.

The abundant use of leafy greens is one of the hallmarks of the food of the African continent in general. Here, the familiar collard green, which has become emblematic of African-American cooking, is given an Ethiopian twist in a dish that can be served either warm or at room temperature.

A few years back, I renewed my romance with Galatoire's restaurant. The reacquaintance was arranged by my friend Kerry Moody, who is one of New Orleans's black Creoles. A frequent visitor to the restaurant, he led me through the menu and introduced me to such off-the-menu delights as fried eggplant lightly dusted with confectioners' sugar. I thoroughly enjoyed it. I've returned to Galatoire's many times since. Now when I arrive at the restaurant, I feel like a regular when my waiter, Imre, remembers me after any length of absence and brings the eggplant to the table unasked.

The combination of eggplant and sugar sounds strange, but the dish is delicious, a perfect beginning to a Creole feast and a subtle reminder of the African traditions of New Orleans cooking. The eggplant on which the dish is based may have originated in Africa, and the frying in deep oil is one of the major African culinary methods brought to this country by slave cooks.