With one hand clutching their billowing white robes to their faces—shielding the gods from their breath—the teenagers used their other to tenderly, methodically dip and wipe, dip and wipe, dip and wipe, a meticulous wash and repeat in which they carefully dab milk on, then off the stone deities they knelt before.

Such is the pace of life at Lodha Dham Temple, an open-air Jain monastery where stacked stone spires, towering pillars and marble floors glow under a blinding white sun. Tucked off a dusty stretch of Ahmedabad Highway just 90 minutes north of Mumbai, life here is lived pared. No vehicles. No electricity. No money. Simplicity.

Which is why I’d come to learn one of India’s simplest dishes, dal tarka. What I didn’t realize is that I was about to learn something that would change my entire understanding of Indian cooking.

As so many in the West do, I thought of dal as little more than a bland porridge of yellow lentils. But as with Lodha Dham Temple, there are deep nuances and textures if you are willing to see them.

The public is welcome to join the monks for their vegetarian meals. And for less than $1, I was given a stainless steel tray, which cooks quickly heaped with rice, vegetable curries, roti and a bowl of soupy, yellow dal tarka.

Truthfully, the dal tarka was not much to look at. But it tasted nothing like it looks. The lentils themselves were creamy and sweet. Topping it was a drizzle of richness and toasted spices. The flavor was astounding, with pops of coriander, chili and cumin, all of it grounded by earthy turmeric. That drizzle took something so basic and plain and completely transformed it.

To learn more, I headed to APB Cook Studio, a sumptuous cooking school in Mumbai where instructor Shivani Unakar broke it down. Rather than the singular stew it seemed, dal tarka is built from two distinct components—the dal (lentils) and the tarka, a term that refers to that seasoning blend I tasted and the technique used to make it.

It’s one of many examples of the layering of flavors and textures in Indian cooking. Tarka is made by heating fat—often ghee—then adding whole spices to it. The fat draws out the flavor from the spices, yet leaves them intact, allowing them to add texture as well as taste to the finished dish. The tarka often is drizzled over the dish just before serving.

While we love to use tarkas on classic curries, such as our Dal Tarka, we also love them in not-so-traditional ways. We use one to finish cilantro mashed potatoes, to drizzle over seared or steamed vegetables, or to toss with roasted potatoes, even popcorn.

To make a simple tarka, use a mortar and pestle or the back of a small skillet to crush whole-seed spices, such as cumin or coriander. Then heat the seeds in a small saucepan with butter or ghee over medium-high until the seeds begin to sizzle and turn golden at the edges, 45 to 90 seconds. Add powdered spices like chili powder, cinnamon and/or black pepper along with any aromatics, such as finely chopped garlic or chilies, then swirl frequently, until the spices are fragrant and begin to sizzle, taking care not to burn them, about 1 minute. Pour immediately over your dish.

Battered, fried and tangy-sweet, gobi Manchurian is a popular Indo-Chinese dish in which cauliflower (“gobi”) is tossed in savory “Manchurian” sauce. Though delicious, typical gobi Manchurian can be heavy, goopy and often overseasoned. To lighten things up, we ditch the deep-fryer and instead “oven-fry“ the cauliflower, a technique you can use to make all sorts of vegetables crispy without the mess of deep-frying.

Oven-frying involves baking oiled and breaded ingredients, which can be a great workaround that doesn’t require buckets of oil. Except with vegetables the results too often are disappointingly limp. The exception is potatoes, the natural starches of which crisp under high heat. But it turns out that replicating that effect with less starchy vegetables, such as cauliflower or sweet potatoes, is easy if you instead give them a light coating of cornstarch before roasting.

That’s because cornstarch is composed of nearly one-third amylose starch, which crisps when exposed to oil and high heat. The technique (which works best on low-­moisture produce) is simple, yielding wonderfully crisp, browned results. Start by heating an oiled baking sheet at 425°F. The hot pan helps the vegetables brown and crisp immediately and evenly. Next, toss the produce (which should be cut into small chunks or thin slices) with oil, then with cornstarch; the coating should be light, almost just a dusting, not clumped or thick. Be sure to shake off any excess.

When you arrange the vegetables on the baking sheet, don’t overcrowd, which promotes steaming. Cook in batches if you must. Finally, flip the vegetables only once, halfway through cooking, so they develop more of a crust.

This also is an excellent way to add flavor; seasoning the cornstarch with any finely ground spice ensures bold, even flavor. In addition to cauliflower and sweet potatoes, this technique works well with carrots, rings of red onion and cubes of winter squash. And of course, it works for more than vegetables, including breaded fish fillets and dorado tacos.

How could anyone be angry about a one-pot pasta THIS good?

Pasta all’arrabbiata—which translates as angry pasta—gets its name from its spicy marriage of tomatoes, garlic and pepper flakes. And the dish—popular across Rome and the Lazio region—is good enough that Frederico Fellini immortalized it in his film “Roma.” This one-pot version cooks the pasta directly in the sauce, delivering noodles with more flavor and keeping the cleanup to just one pot.

To make, in a large pot over medium-high, combine 3 tablespoons extra-virgin olive oil, 4 medium thinly sliced garlic cloves, and ½ teaspoon red pepper flakes. Cook, stirring often, until fragrant, then add a 14½-ounce can diced tomatoes with juices, 1 teaspoon salt and ½ teaspoon black pepper. Add 3 cups water and the pasta; stir. Bring to a boil over medium-high, then reduce to medium, cover and cook, stirring occasionally, until the pasta is al dente, 9 to 11 minutes.

Remove the pot from the heat and stir in 1 ounce finely grated Parmesan. Cover and let stand for 5 minutes. Stir vigorously, then taste and season with salt and black pepper. Serve drizzled with additional oil and sprinkled with additional cheese. If you like, garnish with chopped fresh basil.

You may know Alex Prud’homme as the co-author of Julia Child’s excellent memoir, “My Life in France.” (Child was also his great-aunt.) In “Dinner with the President,” Prud’homme mines the long and fascinating history of White House chefs. In the early days, for example, the president and first lady had to rent their own mansion and pay for the food and beverages for receptions. Both George Washington and Thomas Jefferson enjoyed the amazing culinary skills of famous but enslaved chefs Hercules Posey and James Hemings. Hemings once served capon stuffed with Virginia ham, chestnut purée, artichoke bottoms and truffles simmered in chicken stock. Some of our presidents, however, had baser palates. James Garfield and Dwight Eisenhower had a taste for squirrel soup, William Howard Taft was fond of possum, and George W. Bush liked ballpark hot dogs and grilled cheese made with Kraft Singles. Gerald Ford’s dinner for Queen Elizabeth was perhaps the most embarrassing White House event. Captain & Tennille sang “Muskrat Love,” and the first dance was to “The Lady Is a Tramp.” And Prud’homme solves the mystery of George Washington’s teeth. His dentures were made from cow and human teeth, lead, steel and gold, and were so painful, he rarely smiled and preferred soft foods such as pickled tripe. (Stained by his copious consumption of Madeira, his teeth only appeared to be made of wood.)