Depth and Breadth

One can make sauce, a nice basic tomato sauce. But it need not taste basic. With a little coaxing and just the right ingredients, deep flavor can arrange itself. You'll find it clinging to the back of your favorite wooden spoon. When you've turned away for just a moment to rinse a dish or dry the counter, the sauce that's been simmering on low will try to get your attention by creating a leopard skin pattern of bubbles. You'll stop what you're doing, rush to the stove and stir...gently. That lovely red will have pulled away from the center of the pan, congregating along the perimeter. You'll guide your wooden spoon around and around, through and through, until you've just blended the olive oil back in.

Time will pass slowly, your involvement will be small but great. Just pay attention. Eventually, what you've brought together will stay together. The texture and density will be just right. You'll take one final taste, turn off the flame, and smile.

This morning I chose to coat a shallow pan with a pool of extra virgin olive oil.

I milled two cans of San Marzano's.

I finely grated a small carrot.

Diced a small yellow onion.

Sliced two large cloves of garlic.

Chopped a small bunch of fresh thyme.

I threw the onion and garlic into the pan of olive oil and turned on a low and slow flame.

When the onion and garlic turned a nice golden (about 10 minutes), I added the carrot and thyme. Still on a low and slow flame, she cooked.

After a nice softening of the carrot (about 5 minutes), I poured in the milled tomatoes. Careful to prevent splatter by using the back of a wooden spoon.

The flame remained low and slow all the while (about 30 minutes). I added salt. I paid attention. I stirred. I ignored. I tasted. The flavor blossomed nicely. And thyme...thyme? Thyme. It surrendered itself beautifully. So quiet and unassuming. It lingered on my tongue long after. Herbal, dense and inspiring. The carrot and onion sweetened, the salt drew out everything that is right and good.

Yes, another red sauce.

I cannot take credit, though. All thanks go to Mario Batali for this nice basic tomato sauce. Both Mario Batali Simple Italian Food and The Babbo Cookbook showcase this recipe.

When the dinner hour(s) arrives we'll set to boil rigatoni, from family De Cecco. It will cling ever so nicely, trapping itself  in the pastas center as we dress the naked, al dente rigatoni with a few ladles of sauce. Each bowl will get a few heaping spoonfuls of the dressed pasta and and another kiss of red before that final dusting of Parmesan.

It's such a happy place for me. I sit here and reflect as I pull this post to a close. I'm anxious for dinner.

Swimming in Currents of Cream

Bits of garlic were clinging to the wall of the pan. Petite florets of broccoli mingled with heavy cream, olive oil and aged cheddar. A ladle of pasta water caused floating red pepper flakes and bits of shallot to dunk and disperse. All in the name of dinner.

Thunk goes the sink as the pasta is drained. We are blinded by the steam. The once boiling water rushes and twirls to its final destination, leaving behind a salty, starchy film. 

Equitable portions are showered with a confetti of parsley, Parmesan and black pepper before being placed on the table.

A half pound of shells, we are eager to commence with the eating.

Once seated, forks in hand, we have to remind ourselves to chew. So simple, the act of chewing. So forgotten, when such a creamy bliss as this touches the tongue. We want to devour. It amuses us, this moment. Despite our efforts, we eat quickly. The second helping, just a few scoops left, seem to linger in our mouths a bit longer, but not by much.

"But we have to eat it quick...it will get cold!" I proclaim.

Later, after the dishes have been washed, the lunches for the following day have been made, we retire to the living room. I've got The Concise Gastronomy of Italy by Anna Del Conte in hand. I'm studying terms and techniques. I ask Roberto "Is this right?" I slide the book over, point to the word fondo, defined as cooking basics or juices, '...the mixture of flavourings that gives the dish its particular flavour.'

Much later, I dream. I dream in Italian. Can this be? I am speaking, quite emphatically—gesturing with my hands, and understanding.

Morning arrives with a flourish. I am up early, milling San Marzano tomatoes and chopping garlic before heading off to work...

A Matter of Fact Cake

A thermal blanket of fresh snow was wrapping itself around the outside, but the air inside was heavy and warm with vanilla. Heavy. Amazing what a little  extract can do. Just 1 1/2 teaspoons and ribbons of vanilla scented the entire house, whispering I promise you I'm going to taste so good when I'm done. The little oven had been kicking for 40 minutes at 350 degrees. Spring form, a little off center, on the center rack.

The better half of the morning had been spent in search of recipe for a plain buttermilk cake. Found, one Buttermilk Birthday Cake, page 210, How to be a Domestic Goddess: Baking and the Art of Comfort Cooking by Nigella Lawson.

The book jacket had been disposed of years ago. Not for wear and tear, mind you. I just don't like book jackets. I like my books to be nice and plain, like my cakes. I want to see fabric and paper, embossed text running the length of the spine. Jackets tear, shift, discombobulate. It's all so very out of sorts when you think about it.

A cake that requires frugal use of time, energy and product, why, that's the cake for me. Simply, I'd like a cake that resembles something Laura Ingalls Wilder might have eaten back in her day. Something her mother would have wrapped in cloth and placed at the bottom of her lunch pale. A treat to be devoured under an oak on the hill after a day spent fishing down at the creek.

Nigella's recipe was rather matter of fact and exactly what I had been looking for. Flour (1 2/3 cups, all-purpose), baking powder (1 1/2 teaspoons), baking soda (1/2 teaspoon), and salt (1/4 teaspoon) were whisked together and set aside. Buttermilk (3/4 cups + 2 tablespoons) and vanilla (1 1/2 teaspoons) combined in a measuring cup. Butter (1/2 cup, unsalted and softened) and sugar (3/4 cup) were added to the stand mixer bowl and whipped until pale and fluffy. To this, eggs (3 large),  were added and mixed. Then, alternating the flour and buttermilk mixes. Careful not to mix too much.

The spring form was greased and a layer of parchment added. The oven ready, I poured the batter into the round and slid the cake in.

Ah, but a watched cake never bakes, it seems. I turned my back, only peeking a few times the entire 40 minutes. So hard, not flipping the oven light switch, bending over, face to the glass, examining.

At 39 minutes, 23 seconds, I could wait no more. The door open, the rack slid out, the cake tested. The designated tester (a toothpick) came out clean.

Set on a cooling rack, I bent down several times to inhale the cake which smelled as if it had been drenched in a vanilla bath.

After dinner, which was quite ample in pasta, olives, wine, salad and fish cakes, I pulled the dome to the table. A slice for Roberto, a slice for me. It tasted not too sweet. The texture, quite surprising. It was almost as if the cake had been soaking in something, but it wasn't wet at all. A bit squidgy, but not squashy. It plumped back, like memory foam. A very large buttermilk pancake, set to bake, not fry.

Nigella suggested icing of butter, confectioner's sugar, vanilla and milk was ignored. We kept it plain, of course. Mmm...but, I imagine this would taste quite lovely warmed with a bit of maple syrup.

I Was Born Ready

"Are you ready? I ask.

We had finished the brownies, piece by piece. Slowly they diminished from the 9x9 square pan. You see, we couldn't put them under the cake dome, the brownies. The cake dome holds the last of the holiday panettone. The panettone that is drying out and all at once has become a dread. Because when one desires chocolate, one does not desire panettone. 

And I wasn't going to bake anything new until we had finished the panettone and the canister of chocolate hazelnut pirouettes. My mind was made up. 

But then something suspicious happens. You find yourself walking down the chocolate aisle of the supermarket. Moments later you're purchasing a bar of 70% dark. Much later you find yourself enjoying a piece with espresso while the panettone, still as silence, rests under the dome.

The day of the cookie...

All day my mind obsessed. I searched for chocolate cookie recipes online when I should have been designing the leave behind piece for a client meeting. When finally at home I labored through cookbooks, when in my mind I knew a piece of dark chocolate would work just as well. But, for some reason I knew that Roberto...that I...needed something more.

Nothing stood out and screamed "Bake me, damn it!".

At that point, a sane person, one who is defined by logic and reason, would make dinner and do quite well with 70% dark. They would not trudge upstairs to their G5, wait for the wireless to pick up signal, and head back to Martha Stewart for recipe of Double Chocolate Cookies. 

In my defense, I was just looking for a single chocolate cookie, but double is fine...whatever. 

Finally, something akin to brownies but aren't brownies. I could have just made brownies again...I guess. 

I scribbled down the recipe quickly and headed back downstairs. I first set 4 oz of baking chocolate and 1 stick of unsalted butter to melt. I combined 1/2 cup cocoa, 1 cup all-purpose flour, 1/2 teaspoon salt and 1/2 teaspoon baking soda, whisked in a medium bowl. In the stand mixer bowl I combined 1 1/2 cups sugar, 2 large eggs and 1 teaspoon vanilla extract. This whipped together until light and fluffy. I mixed in the melted chocolate and butter, then the dry ingredients. Finally, 4 oz of semi-sweet chips were folded in. 

I doled out the cookie dough to the sheet pan, paying mind to the instructions Martha and her team of experts had laid out. 15 minutes later I pulled the first pan from the 325 degree oven. Anxious for them to cool on the rack, I could only wait until I had slid the second sheet pan in before I was breaking a piece off for a taste.

Chocolate, very well taken care of. Sweet, yes.

Like a junky, I got my fix. 

And I know that Roberto was happy to be enjoying something fresh from the oven, not something stale from the cake dome. 

Just knowing they're there...sealed in a bag, in the bread box, to be eaten one by one. I greet you addiction, with a handshake, a hug, and a kiss.

Days of Pasta

"Which pasta?" We ask each night.

The cupboard is opened, the boxes and bags are studied. Sometimes organized by brand, always organized by shape. The top two shelves are home to unopened boxes, where as the bottom shelf's sole purpose is for opened boxes. A half pound of this or that.

Ideally we like to use what is opened first, but sometimes that's not always ideal for the dish.

Last night we were fortunate. A half box of De Cecco Conchiglie Rigate (shells), sat front and center. The perfect vehicle for pasta with ceci (chickpeas) and capers. The perfection lies in the shape, texture and body it gives to the dish. A white sauce with a focus on extra virgin olive oil, shallot, garlic, crushed red pepper, lemon, white wine, ceci (both whole and mashed), capers, parsley, scallion and Parmesan.

The shape. It's perfection lies in the fact that it holds a bouquet, the sauce that was prepared with such care and anticipation. Each shell, a tiny care package to be delivered from bowl to mouth. You can taste everything until the very last bite when you put down your fork with a great deal of satisfaction and ultimate sadness because the pasta is gone.

The texture. The thickness of the shell, the ridges, a great absorber of flavor. The sauce clings and won't let go. It's trapped. Lucky us.

The body. A good pasta releases itself to the salted water. The salted water is always used to increase and enhance the sauce respectfully. The starch draws everything together, becoming blissfully thick, adding gloss and silkiness.

While our pasta bowls are warming on the back burner, absorbing any heat radiating from the cooking pasta, the sauce is being made. The olive oil is brought up to temperature with the garlic, shallot and crushed red pepper. This is always started in a cold pan. One must be gentle and methodical when building a sauce.

When the garlic has released it's beautiful aroma and the shallot have become translucent it is time to add in the ceci. Everything is given a good stir and flip over a gentle flame. Roberto mashes some of the ceci with the back of a fork. This will add body and texture as well. A bit of white wine is added. The alcohol burns off quickly. A nice squeeze of lemon. We throw in the capers and parsley with a scoop or two of the boiling pasta water.

The pasta is pulled from the pot, al dente, and added to the sauce. The chopped scallions are thrown in, black pepper is cracked, a few spoonfuls of Parmesan are added to the mix. Everything continues to cook gently while being stirred, flipped, and folded.

Every shell is coated. All of the flames have been killed. The bowls are transferred to the counter. The pasta pot is moved to the back burner. Roberto fills the bowls. The bowls are brought to the table where we further enhance with more crushed red pepper and Parmesan.

We eat. Another vision becomes reality. The house is quiet. The only noise, the clinking of forks. There are smiles and bright eyes. I may be over-romanticizing, but it's the truth...really.

If you are a firm lover of pasta, as we are, I encourage you to take a few minutes to read a very nice article in the New York Times about Oretta Zanini De Vita. For further delight, I encourage you to wander over to the accompanying slide show.

p.s. It occurred to me that I forgot to mention the salt. It was added along the way. A given, I hope.

French Baguette

It wants you to fear it. It is not to be feared. You must attack it, punch it down, and reshape it to your vision.

Saturday a.m.

4 cups all-purpose flour, unbleached.

2 teaspoons salt, the table variety.

1 package active dry yeast.

1 1/2 cups warm water, not hot.

One KitchenAid mixer with a dough hook.

I pulled the 1 and 2 cup measures, 1 butter knife, 1 fork, and a teaspoon measure from their beds. It was early morning. Things were still at rest. I could not rest, I was to make bread.

The butter knife sliced at the flour to air it a bit before the cup measure measured. The back of the butter knife leveled things off, 1...2...3...4.

The salt was added and a fork was used to whisk things together. Then the yeast, another whisk. You don't want salt and yeast to come face to face. They need to dance around each other until the water is added, so I added it.

The Kitchenaid, which stood motionless, was set into motion. 12 minutes on low.

The dough, extracted from the hook and planted into a well oiled large bowl. 2 hours on the windowsill just above the radiator would do just fine.

She was hungry. Rose at an astonishing rate. More than doubled.

Without waking the the hungry beast, it was carried to the kitchen, set upon the counter and punched down. Aggressively. One does not have to fear or tiptoe around dough.

At first it lay limp, but I squeezed and rolled and slapped until it started to resist, it tightened, the air bubbles popped. Elastic and structured. I sliced the dough into 3 and pressed on. Each piece handled, rolled, slapped down. Shaped into a rectangle. Folded in half. Rolled. Resistance. Pull back. Roll. Finally it relaxed a bit and fell limp. Ready to be placed onto the prepared sheet pan covered with a single layer of parchment.

This happened two more times until all three baguettes had been formed.

Covered with a damp cloth, I let the dough rest and rise for another 45 minutes more.

The oven was preheated to 400 degrees. The baguettes were unveiled and slashed. Aggressively. Do not fear the dough. Remember, the dough is strong. It can take it.

Before being placed in the oven I sprayed water onto and around the baguettes. The steam aids in keeping the outer crust from burning while the inside is cooking. It also aids in browning. Unfortunately, our little wall oven refuses to brown anything to our liking. Everything comes out on the brink of being just perfect, color-wise, but not. But we've made peace.

The baguettes baked for 15 minutes at 400 degrees. The oven was turned down to 350 degrees, the pan was spun to promote even heating. Things remained constant for another 25 minutes more. After this time, a wash of egg white and water was brushed on. This gave shine. Was it needed? Probably not. But, the recipe, Joy of Cooking French Bread, page 601, called for it. 5 more minutes. Pulled from oven and placed onto cooling racks.

Now, the hard part. Waiting. Waiting. Waiting. How many times did I pick up, flip over, tap ever so firmly, to hear that wonderful hollow sound? Its echoes traveling from one end to the other through the cavernous crumb.

The crumb. Sometimes I could really care less how the bread looks on the outside. Don't get me wrong. I want it nicely browned, a vision of wood-burning perfection, but it can look like it fell into the wrong hands, an amateur, if you will. It doesn't need to look pretty. It can be irregular in shape with one end bulbous, the other a pointy tail. Not gooey and tight or fluffy and gummy. I want crunchy on the outside with caverns of lacy crumb on the inside. Uneven, damaged, perforated holes sending hollow caves traveling about in uneven mazes. This is the bread of dreams. To slice, slather on a bit of this or that and have this or that gloop out to the other side because of that annoying hole that developed over rising, forming and baking.

So, yes...it seems we take our bread rather serious.

And while I've rambled on, the bread has cooled. It was sliced...and beauty.

Bread that took about 4 hours from start to finish. Simplicity of ingredients and procedure. A recipe that works.

We sopped up the red sauce lingering in our pasta bowls with slices tonight. Red sauce with bacon and mushrooms...but that's another post for another time.

Fettuccine with Sardines

and Bread Crumbs

"We'll make it like we do when we make pasta with tuna, except we'll add in some lemon juice and white wine." I said as we prepped dinner Tuesday night.

This was my desire. I let it blanket me all afternoon as I executed task after task at work.

01/12/10 01:39 PM

Okay, I did a little research and found some recipes for pasta with sardines. I think this is what we should eat tonight. We'll make it like we make pasta with tuna. And a nice sprinkling of toasted bread crumbs to finish it off. I'm thinking this will be the next post.

01/12/10 02:12 PM

That sounds good. :)

Something to look forward to. I would need a plentiful bowl sprinkled with freshly toasted bread crumbs. A nice glass of cabernet. Some olives to pick at here and there between bites. A nice dusting of parmesan. Rapturous delight.

Once home, it was a flurry of methodical prep.

Garlic, shallot and parsley were chopped. A tin of sardines, opened. Water on the burner to boil. A half lemon at the ready. A bottle of white, a grigio. The salt, the pepper, the crushed red pepper, the extra virgin olive oil.

Roberto pulled fettuccine from the cupboard. "I think we're running low on pasta." He said, jokingly.

"I know. I'm starting to worry." I replied, jokingly.

We crack ourselves up.

Roberto dropped the pasta into the boiling, salted water, and gave it a quick stir. He proceeded to ignite another burner, doused the pan with a generous shot of olive oil, the garlic, shallot, and crushed red pepper. Once this was sufficiently heated, he added in the sardines which he proceeded to break apart with tongs. 

Parsley.

A nice splash of white wine.

A  healthy squeeze of lemon juice.

Meantime, I prepped the bread crumbs. A few pieces from a homemade french baguette from Sunday was diced finely, mixed with extra virgin olive oil, salt and pepper, and set to toast.

I was careful to keep an eye on the toaster oven. While it can quite angelically toast an english muffin, it has devilish intentions whenever I make toasted bread crumbs.

But, we averted bread crumb disaster, at last.

Our pasta was ready. Pulled from the salty depths, planted in the pan, stirred. More parsley was added, a little more cooking water. Some cracked black pepper. When everything was just so, we plated.

A plentiful portion, the kind I had been dreaming about all afternoon, was set into our respective bowls and topped with the bread crumbs.

I took pictures while Roberto waited patiently for his bowl. I made quick work of it. I was anticipating...salivating. Sometimes, ah, the pictures "...whatever will be, will be...".

Happiness is a new dish set upon the table, focused on, enjoyed, devoured. We'll try next time with capers or a good chop of olives in the mix. Another something salty with a little vinegary kick to it. Just the right opposition to brighten, open things up.

The fettuccine was perfect, with it's wide/flat body, for this endeavor. It pulled in the flavors and tangled with the bits of this and that.

The leftover crumbs at the bottom of the bowl soaked up and swelled, a prize waiting for that last bite.

No surprise, we ate every last tangled and swollen bit.