In the late 2010s, while living in a Brooklyn apartment that could have doubled as a Girls set, Alison Roman helped set in motion a cultural shift that saw time-poor millennials whipping up “shrimp in the shells with lots of garlic and probably too much butter” for 12 and filling their bathtubs with pét-nat and ice. If a certain strain of early ’00s feminism had recast all manner of domestic work as drudgery (see Carrie Bradshaw stashing Italian cashmere in her oven, or Lorelai Gilmore ripping open Pop-Tarts for breakfast, lunch, and dinner), Roman made it seem fun, desirable, even cool to get back into the kitchen and lovingly prepare food for others. She marries a dose of Julia Child’s insouciance (“Never apologize”) with something of Nigella Lawson’s sex appeal and her own unique brand of intense relatability (her cooking videos, or Home Movies, on YouTube, are partially inspired by Broad City). Like many millennials who came of age with the internet but had yet to learn how badly it could burn you, she is a compulsive oversharer; one of her most cited recipes, “goodbye meatballs,” is accompanied by a detailed account of the break-up that inspired it.
Even before her 2020 “cancellation”—a topic covered exhaustively everywhere from Twitter to the New Yorker—she was, in many ways, the human equivalent of celery, one of her signature ingredients: deeply polarising but, as she says herself, if you’re into it, you’re really into it. And, suffice to say, a lot of people are really, really into it. Fans will, on Roman’s recommendation, purchase not just Le Creuset Dutch ovens and Cento capers but also Mejuri gold hoops and Essie nail polish in a shade called clambake. They will reconsider their thoughts on anchovies; make dedicated Instagram accounts for her Texas Ware confetti mixing bowl; and turn her creations into the gastronomical equivalent of a one-name celebrity (#TheStew). The ingredients she champions in her most popular dishes—preserved lemons, white beans, harissa paste—have been known to sell out in her home borough after she publishes one of her Substacks (titled, in typical what-the-hell Roman fashion, A Newsletter).
Now, having topped bestseller lists with Nothing Fancy and Dining In, Roman has turned her attention to desserts for her third cookbook Sweet Enough, a volume that includes everything from Mary Oliver quotes to recipes for pineapple upside-down cake, Roman’s take on Heartburn’s bread pudding to hot takes on classic treats. (“There are no meringues in this book,” she declares in the introduction to a salted lemon cream pie. “Before you get upset, please ask yourself, what is the meringue for? For whomst is the meringue? Raw egg whites (no flavor) and sugar (sweet) whipped together to give you something that looks pretty, except when you eat it, you’re like, wait, did I just eat raw egg whites and sugar?”) And then there are recipes so good that you wonder how you have lived without them in your repertoire: “the only” pie crust, simple fruit tart, perfect pancakes—which are, in fact, perfect.
Ahead of Sweet Enough’s release, Vogue caught up with Roman about going back to her pastry roots—and doing things her own way, always.
Vogue: You had such success with Dining In and Nothing Fancy; what made you decide to pivot to a dessert-only formula for Sweet Enough?
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