Rosemary

Rosemary is a stubborn herb, and that's exactly its virtue. Those needle-like leaves are tough, almost waxy, built to shrug off heat where a soft herb like basil goes limp. Throw a sprig into a hot pan with oil, and it perfumes the fat while it's pale and glossy. Pull it out the moment it darkens and turns crisp — leave it longer and it turns bitter.

Choose it by feel. Fresh rosemary needles are supple; they bend without breaking, and the smell that comes off them is sharp, almost piney, with a hit of camphor. If the needles are dry and brittle, snapping or crumbling at a touch, or the smell has gone flat and dusty, the herb is tired. Skip it.

Some people say rosemary is only for lamb. No. That's a narrow kitchen, not a rule. Rosemary loves fat and starch just as much — potatoes roasted in its company, bread dough with a few leaves worked in, olive oil warmed with a sprig before it meets anything at all. The mistake that thinking leads to is a spice rack where rosemary sits untouched for months, going dry and losing exactly the oils that made it worth buying.