Occhi di Lupo with Ceci and Tomato

I had ceci on my mind all day. A small can was tucked away in the corner of the cabinet behind the lentils, rice and quinoa.

It has to be the chill in the air. I wasn't craving ceci or lentils all that much until about a week ago.

It was almost 7:00 and our appetites were pretty swollen. I started laying out my vision for the sauce. Roberto ran with it. A few generous glugs of olive oil into the pan. A clove of garlic, chopped. A small shallot, chopped. Red pepper flakes, more than a generous shake, because we like it spicy. A surplus of tomatoes from the farmers market, about three large, seeds removed, diced. Tablespoon tomato paste. Splash of red wine. A third of a cup ceci. A tablespoon parsley and about 5 basil leaves.

'Wolf-sized' I repeated. 'Wolf's eyes' he corrected. 'Occhi di Lupo means wolf's eyes' he said. I kinda like that. Big tubular pasta. Just the right size for a ceci here or there to get caught up in. A nice diversion from our usual weeknight line up.

The pasta was nearly ready and the sauce was 'perfetto'. I was in love with that sauce...anxious to devour it, which I knew I would do without shame. I would inhale it.

When the pasta was plated and we were seated, we gilded with a fine grate of parmigiano. We made quick work of the first bowl and even quicker work of a smaller second which means we polished off every lick of pasta, every ounce of sauce. No ceci was left behind.

This dish pulls us into fall and pushes us towards the long cold winter months ahead. It inspires other heartier meals, perhaps a lentil soup with ditalini followed by a shoulder of goat roasted with rosemary, garlic, onion, potatoes and carrots.

Clementines, chestnuts and panettone.

I'll miss the summer, but look forward to the comforts of cold weather foods ahead.

Linguine with Cremini and Thyme

I ripped open the brown paper bag. The mushrooms smelled of the earth. Fresh, with bits of dirt still clinging. Memories flood. I'm running with my friends into the woods. A fort comprised of an open area of dirt, maybe 10' x 10' surrounded by pine trees, large rocks and moss, moss everywhere. Cool, green and still. Echos of birds chirping, the feel of tree bark as I swing on a low hanging limb. Tiny hands, scuffed sneakers, a huge imagination, long summer days.

'Is there any thyme?' I ask. 'Can you bring in some thyme and parsley?' I request. Roberto brings in a few healthy sprigs of thyme and an anemic bunch of parsley from the garden.

Our parsley has seen better days. It will not last much longer. I take what he's brought in and proceed to wash it. We're prepping tonight's supper. I've just rinsed the mushrooms. They're on the counter next to the sink, drying on a double layer of paper towel. I soak the thyme under the the cool stream of water coming from the tap.

The water is slowly coming up to a boil as Roberto starts to fill the skillet with olive oil, red pepper flakes, shallot and garlic. The mushrooms get sliced. The parsley gets chopped. The thyme gets stripped from it's sprig. I'm dancing around the kitchen with my camera, setting up shots, setting the table, and opening a bottle of red wine. A Malbec from Argentina. It's dry. A nice companion for the pasta we're having tonight.

The water's ready. It's been salted and the linguine breaks the surface. I quickly move it about with tongues to prevent sticking. The skillet is humming with activity. The mushrooms, just sprinkled with salt are beginning to sweat. A nice glug of white wine interrupts, followed by ladles of pasta water. The smell is amazing.

We take turns watching over the pasta and the mushrooms. Almost to the window, we throw in the thyme, a bit of parsley and an espresso cups worth of cream. The pasta, pulled from the water with tongues, beds with the mushrooms where it will finish cooking.

Some turns of pepper and additional parsley before I begin to plate. Roberto is waiting with a damp rag, cleaning up after me as I twist and drop the pasta into place, the splatter of liquid from the skillet turning our counter top into a Jackson Pollack.

We spoon on generously the parmigiana. Our forks in pasta making like pitchforks in hay trying to distribute things evenly. I spin a mouthful of linguine around the tines of my fork, capping it with a few bits of mushroom. Once everything hits my tongue, my eyes close and my head shakes in disbelief. 'This tastes so good' I say. 'It's the thyme' Roberto says. I agree.

I'm so engrossed in the bowl of pasta before me. When I finally look up I realize I have yet to take a sip of wine or water. Entranced by pasta once again.

Crumb

I could feel the heat. It was most definitely alive. Warm and ever expanding. You could smell the yeast, even with the windows open and ceiling fan going.

I poured the fluid, bubble rich mass into the oiled sheet pan. With my hands coated with olive oil I coaxed the dough into all four corners. There it would rise for another two hours, undisturbed.

At 475 degrees dressed with a glaze of red sauce, oregano and a dusting of parm it would bake for 15 minutes.

Our eyes were lit up. Our stomachs greedy. The Italian sliced. We both held our breath, waiting for the first glimpse of crumb. 

A sigh of relief. Beautiful. Exactly what we were striving for. Infinite tunnels of air colliding and joining. A delicate maze created with flour, salt, water, yeast, sugar and heat.

The charge of making bread, any kind of bread, is a serious charge indeed. Figuring out how a recipe works in your kitchen can be frustrating. So many considerations from the accuracy of oven temperature to air quality and then some. We're still learning what makes for good bread in our kitchen.

Tonights foccacia success was years in the making. Years of testing, failing and trying...trying...trying. And that's just one type of bread. Don't get me started on how long it took us to get our ciabatta recipe down. But it was worth every minute. We take bread seriously in this house. Our expectations are high. We can't help it.

Six hours to rise. 5 minutes to prep. 15 minutes to bake. Less than 20 minutes to eat.

A Taste of Sora

For the past three years the Italian's father has been returning from Italy with a beautiful clear liquid packaged in glass and straw from Sora.

The bottle remains unopened until the very last aching moment. It's worth its weight in gold. It's no ordinary grappa. Open it and its days become numbered. I'm convinced that just thinking about it has siphoning power. 

Thank goodness for its straw bodice. Without it, its icy retreat from the freezer would result in a slippery misjudged moment...no doubt on my part.

Good company usually inspires a withdrawal from its icy abode. Discussions ensue often requiring liberal pours that are half heartedly met with modest sips. And there goes half the bottle, and then some.

We can only greet it with the best of intentions. It's digestive powers, it's virtue. Caretaking for as long as we can before surrendering, which we absolutely must, without question. Else it evaporate into the abyss.

Holidays are approaching. The table will be set. The red wine will cushion the blow. The grappa will flow.

Roasted Peppers

Roasted yellow, orange, red and green peppers were packaged and gifted from one Italian mother to her son. She had no doubt spent a good part of afternoon slaving over the coals, peeling off the skins, slicing and packaging in preparation for their stint in the freezer to be consumed at a later date.

With the peppers out of their packaging and placed in a bowl, we dressed simply with an obscene amount of parsley, a generous bit of garlic, just the right touch of salt, and a copious glug of olive oil.

I toss and taste. Perfection.

24 hours lapse...

Secondo. Four farmers market eggs cracked into a pan coated with olive oil. Salt and pepper, flipped. Warm, runny yolks waiting to be tapped with fork tine or toasted bread. Slivers of fresh cows milk cheese, roasted peppers, a plate of mixed olives from the market.

With the side of my fork, I slice into the fried egg. A bit of the yolk is still clinging to it, I place it on the bread followed by a slice of the cheese and finally a single section of roasted pepper. I inhale the first bite, leaving a smaller second bite.

I dip the remaining bite of bread into the yolk.

Eventually the yolk runs dry and the bread runs out. We have cleaned our plates. Gracefully we decline the remaining peppers. Just enough for a second secondo.

Toast With Jam

The plane was descending slowly. It emerged from the clouds and I witnessed the countryside rolling by, rewinding beneath the belly of the plane. The joy welling up inside of me. Instinct was telling me to fight back the tears. One escaped, smudged against my cheek with the back of my hand.

In the blink of an eye we're at the bed and breakfast. The sky is overcast. The air is humid. The light shining through the tall, curtainless windows seems to be clinging to the panes of glass. It whispers 'Let me in.'

I am hungry, but the Italian only wants to eat the toast and jam provided by the b&b. 'How can this be?' I think. With a good bit of pleading I manage to pull him out into the daylight. Our mission, food. I feel the air on my cheeks, it is cool. The clouds part, letting the sun drench Paris, the city below, with its light.

I awake.

It is but a dream and I am no doubt craving two things. A trip to Paris and most pressing, toast with jam.

I took the day off from work in order to take care of some things. First thing, the dentist. I find it only fitting that I should prepare for a trip to the dentist with a cup of hot English Breakfast tea, toast with strawberry jam and some figs. Very sweet. I'm used to an unassuming granola bar most weekday mornings.

I look outside and it seems as if the day refuses to wake from its slumber. A Thursday. It, like me, moving in slow motion. We are both waiting for the weeks end.

How can one take off on a Thursday without taking off on a Friday? It's insanity. My work ethic is strong, but sometimes my desire to sip tea while watching 'As Time Goes By' on public television in the middle of the afternoon is stronger.

I wince at the very idea of having to answer questions while someone is working on the inside of my mouth with waterpick and various sharp implements.

'How are you?'

'...ine...'

'Do you drink coffee?'

'...un huh...'

'Do you drink wine?'

'...un huh...'

'Do you smoke?'

'...uh uh...'

That's 'fine', 'yes', 'yes', and 'no'.

I'll come home to an empty cake dome, smiling with the thought that revenge is sweet.

Memories of Bread Pudding

I inherited a love for chocolate chip cookies from my mother in early childhood. Every Christmas we'd make a huge batch, half with chocolate chips and half with walnuts. The walnut ones would always be placed into a Christmas tin (always recycled from the year before) and given to my grandmother. It's a tradition that I'm carrying on. I know my mom is proud.

Other goodies like oatmeal lace cookies, pumpkin pie, apple crisp and bread pudding would be on rotation during the rest of the year. Although, I have to admit that I never really caught on to the bread pudding until I entered my 30's. I have no idea why it took so long.

Last Thanksgiving my mother made her recipe for bread pudding. It smelled so good. It brought back such warm memories, even though I never tasted a lick of it while growing up. When I finally did taste it, it tasted just as I thought it would. It was as if I had always eaten it.

We've dabbled with bread pudding recipes in our kitchen from time to time. Last Christmas we made a batch using leftover panettone. We've even ordered it from time to time in a restaurant or two. I recall the best bread pudding, aside from mom's, was at B in Bolton Hill. We must have hit the jackpot that night. It was perfection.

Then there's last nights dessert. I was inspired to use up two plums sitting in our fruit bowl. I needed a simple recipe that required little more than the plums, egg, sugar, flour, cream, vanilla and butter we had on hand.

I preheated the oven to 400° and referred to the handwritten recipe I had brought home from work.

Two ramekins, 3 1/2" wide, buttered. In a medium bowl I dumped in the 1/4 cup sugar, one egg, six tablespoons heavy cream and teaspoon of vanilla. I whisked this together, then whisked in 3 tablespoons of all purpose flour. While that was sitting I peeled a plum, sectioned and placed at the bottom of the ramekins. I poured the batter over the plums.

The batter, pancake-like, seemed to displace the plums. All the better. I didn't want a soggy or sticky plum bottom.

I placed the ramekins into the preheated oven and 25 minutes later we were gifted with the most perfect looking plum clafoutis. Golden, textured and puffy. They proceeded to deflate a bit as we cleaned up the kitchen and started espresso, but we weren't going for a souffle, so we weren't disappointed.

'What does this have to do with bread pudding?' I took one bite and was immediately transported. The texture was that of bread pudding. Not just any bread pudding, but my mother's white bread, bread pudding. My tongue was happy, my sense memory was overwhelmed. What a happy accident.

We saved the other plum clafoutis for tonight. I almost can't wait for dessert.

We'll save this recipe for future. For those times when we have leftover berries or a piece of fruit that is a little overripe. For those rare moments when the cake dome is empty, but it's too late to go through the motions of making something with pomp and circumstance.

I can see using this recipe on a future snowy Sunday morning, paired with a hot cup of coffee or tea, waiting for the Italian to awake from sleeping in.

Honey Glazed

While the coffee was brewing I made quick work of an Amuse-bouche. A prelude, if you will, to espresso and biscotti. Having been gifted yet another round of figs (no complaints here) we desired something more than just eating them plain.

With some farmer's market honey on hand, that hadn't been touched in ages, and a fresh container of crème fraîche, I pulled together something special. A zingy, sweet, honey glazed treat.

I loved assembling this petit after dinner gift. A rinse of the fig, then halved. Positioned on plate, followed by demitasse dollop of crème fraîche. The glaze of honey, as much or as little.

The fig flavor held it's power as the crème fraîche imparted its creamy sourness, leaving the honey to linger on the back of our tongues.

So quick and so pleasing. A lovely farewell to the last day of summer.

Linguine and Shrimp

A nest of pasta, coated with red sauce, made pink with the addition of cream, was gently placed into the warmed bowls. He fishes out the shrimp from the remaining sauce, nestling them just so, making sure everything is equitable. Once at the table, a healthy dose of parm and a quick dose of red pepper flakes applied.

There is a silence that occurs every night at dinner. It's pasta quiet. The tinkles of fork tines on ceramic, the occasional slurp, the hum of 'Mmmmm' every now and then. The crunch of a scallion or the reapplication of parm. The pause to draw in red wine, a cleansing gulp of water or the wipe of a napkin on ones face.

The sad moment when you realize that you've just finished and there's nothing left in the pot.

A Dozen Large, Brown

'A dozen large, brown.' he says. I give him change, so the egg people don't have to make change, even though they've got a pile of quarters sitting on their table. Along with the piles of quarters are the stacks of eggs. Extra large, double yolk, free range, brown and white.

Our last stop before leaving the farmers market, we take the carton, secured with a green rubber band and make our way out of the chill dim into the warm lit.

Weighed down by reusable bags filled with bread, milk and vegetables, my left shoulder is starting to feel it. We have to stop, the red hand is flashing. No cars, we cross with caution. We look down, careful not to step on broken glass or horse manure. The city stables housing the police horses are just a jump away from the market.

The market was full today, and we got there a little later than we like so we had to park the car a ways down the street. Electronically metered, we've never seen a meter maid on Sunday. Most times we take our chances.

They're building a homeless shelter directly across the street. There's also a building, refurbished, turned into a Holiday Inn Express. While the location is nice, in that it's right downtown, the surroundings still haven't met their full potential. Things are changing, though. It's just going to take time.

The rest of the day goes by Sunday script. Coffee, dinner at 2:00, relax (sometimes that means mid-afternoon nap) and 'What's for dinner?'. Sunday always has a dinner number two. The urge usually hits us at around 7:00.

Leftover pizza, toasted to imperfection in the toaster oven fills the void. Meanwhile hard-boiled eggs are resting. I had in mind to make a hard-boiled egg sandwich for our Monday lunch. Sliced egg on baguette with thin slices of fresh cows milk cheese, salt, pepper, a nice dose of olive oil and green leaf lettuce for crunch.

Oh, if only I could toast this.

Monday morning arrives. Sitting in my stall at the giant cubicle farm, the thermometer on my desk is telling me it's around 82° in the office. I swear they're pumping hot air through the vents. Only about 1 1/2 hours until lunch. Looking forward to the sandwich, I will warn my co-workers that I've brought in egg, which will perfume the area once I peel back the foil.

Tonight we'll be having red sauce. A huge pot was made on Saturday. Maybe we'll make it pink, a little cream, some shrimp. Two more eggs lay in wait in the fridge. Will they vie for seconds when dinner rolls around or make it to another day, perhaps Tuesday lunch?

Last Breath of Summer

Our garden has been pretty self sufficient this summer. With just enough rain to keep us from ever having to water, it's provided us with a bounty. There were moments that it was hemorrhaging tomatoes. We're still getting a slow trickle of roma off the vine.

A lemon tree we inherited, potted and sitting in a prime spot out back, is no doubt waiting for its warm spot nestled in the corner of our living room. With about three lemons, green as limes, we'll not see a ripened fruit until late November, if we're lucky. Picking lemons in ones living room is a treat.

There was a moment when our pot of mint was ravaged by the sun and we had cut off more than we should have for some in-house herbal bouquets. Now experiencing a second wind, it's growing like a weed once again.

The basil has been active since day one. We could do another huge batch of pesto, but we're not willing to give the hours of work it requires, so we'll pick here and there for dish this or that until autumn's cold hand grasps.

 

A cluster of pepper plants, slow to produce, is now producing daily.

So, at the moment there's just enough to keep us active. Waiting for the last fruit to fall, I hope it comes later rather than sooner. For there is a weekend in our future begging for plants to be pulled, dirt to be turned, and pots to be stowed away.

I require a nap just thinking about it.

Sunday to Sunday

I'd like to say that I've not had coffee since last Sunday, but I've been told that after dinner espresso counts as coffee. To detox a little, I cut out the morning cup over the last week. I missed it slightly the first day. I missed it more on the second day. By the third day I was grateful that I didn't have to clean the filter basket before heading off to work. By the fourth day I almost didn't look at the coffee machine when I came down for breakfast, but it did catch my gaze slightly...I'll admit I looked back at it fondly as I walked out the door. By the fifth day I was on the road to recovery. By day six I reflected that I hadn't experienced any physical caffeine withdrawal symptoms. No headaches, no shakes, no cold sweats. By day seven I was anxiously awaiting the Italian to suggest going for a coffee.

We slipped out of the house. The morning chilly and sunny. Bonaparte, or Bonaparte Breads, is our Sunday morning haunt when we're not haunting The Daily Grind. We entered to find only one other person in line, although outside seating was quite seated and many a table inside occupied as well. I pushed two dollars into the tip jar and found a table in the corner. A perfect perch if you're up for people watching.

The Italian ordered our coffees, one regular, one cappuccino, and two petit pain au chocolat.

The staff is an interesting blend of French, Spanish, and perhaps one American for balance sake. Our girl, cheerfully brought over our coffee and pastry. We had to hunt down three regular sugar packets for the Italian. He had to make do with two. I take my cappuccino straight.

I'll admit that I do have a fondness for any pastry with dark bittersweet chocolate built into it. Pain au chocolat is the perfect buttery, pastry, chocolate blend. Even better they sell small. Just enough pastry to create a habitable environment for coffee without the guilt.

Coffee sipped until cold, a little mid-morning Sunday conversation and we head back home. Coming up on dinner hour soon, around 2:00 on Sunday. I've been told that homemade lasagna is to be expected. My stomach is ready and I am able. No doubt a mid-afternoon nap will likely follow.

Dry Cured Sausage

It's Saturday night, Eastern Standard Time. A row home two doors down, occupied with more than one family of South American decent is hosting a children's birthday party. From our bedroom window I spy a pinata, a large rabbit, swaying and bouncing by the light of a single porch lamp and whatever pieces of the moon that dapple through the peach tree that overhangs the concrete slab that doubles as a yard. I can see that a young boy is holding one end of the rope the pinata is attached to. The boy is perched up on the neighboring fence. The children are laughing and singing. Another boy is beating every last breath from the poor pinata. As the children start to chant, the roaring forces me to close the bedroom window. I need silence in order to write.

Earlier today we both endured a litany of chores. Mine followed up with a long overdue haircut, a trip to the bookstore and finally to buy wine. Nothing brings closure to a day of errands like a trip to a busy liquor store.

All the while I'm craving not the parts, but the sum of the parts, a pizza. Once home, I don my apron and get on with the business of making the dough, then the sauce. Ample is, garlic, shallot and red pepper that vie for room in the pool of olive oil coating the bottom of the saucepan. As for the toppings, I had in mind to use black olives, red onion, and green pepper from the garden. But something was missing...

'I was thinking about bacon' I said quizzically.

'That or sausage' he replied.

'Oh yeah, the dried sausage...I almost forgot we had it' I replied.

What was I doing while the sausage was being prepped? Oh, that's right, I was taking more pictures. 'Can I take a picture of the sausage?' I asked. 'I was just setting of the shot' he replied. He knows me so well. I hope he doesn't tire of me asking him to set up the shot or 'Just act natural'.

We both lose all track of time in the kitchen. Two hours have passed before we sit down to enjoy the pizza. We've made two so that when hunger strikes on Sunday night we'll have something to munch on.

Oh, and before I forget I wanted to say a few words about the sausage. This sausage was made especially for my Italian by his father and one of his father's close friends. It's a yearly ritual. This time, however, we requested spicy. The response we got was infernal.

One paper thin slice.

I modest bite.

The back of the tongue hums.

The throat chokes.

The eyes water.

Hot air escapes ears.

Eyes bulge and tear.

'Awoooga!'.

Imagine any modern day cartoon character taking a bite of something spicy and that's the picture I'm going for.

Presently, the air is cool with a slight breeze pushing its way through screens. The children are silent. Cars are starting up and retreating from the street. My eyes are squinting as I fight back yawns. It's almost Sunday.

Vanilla Cake

I like the idea of the cake dome being empty for one reason, so I can fill it. I'm always in search of that 'perfect recipe', the one that will forever have a place in my recipe box. From the moment I read the ingredients until the moment the KitchenAid beater made it's final revolution I knew this would be one of those recipes.

So, thank you Rachel at rachel eats for this beautiful cake recipe.

My Italian seemed very pleased with the results, as was I. And today when I brought in a healthy portion to share with my co-workers, they stormed the kitchenette.

For me, it's all about simplicity with maximum flavor impact. A vanilla scented cake that requires very little in the way of ingredients or effort, not to mention time in the oven makes for a very happy Amuse-bouche for Two.

Almost a Pound

Bacon was the draw. I made a commitment to carbonara way before the Italian set foot in the house. As soon as I got home I pulled out the bacon and commenced with prepping. I pushed forward with blinders on. Pasta had a destiny tonight.

'Short or Long' he asked.

We ultimately decided on short. The cupboard doors creaked. I think I may have heard a collective sigh of relief coming from the Barilla boxes.

The moment was nearing. Our hearts pounding in rhythm with the boiling water. We generously salted and poured in three quarters of a box of penne. We could have done a pound easily.

A thick perfume of bacon, garlic, shallot and white wine permeated the kitchen. It seemed as if an eternity had gone by before the pasta was ready. Al dente, it was pulled from the pot quickly. The eggs along with a healthy dose of black pepper, parm and bacon were on standby.

A generous amount of time was given to proper distribution of product. Eggs, stir and flip. Black pepper, stir and flip. Bacon, stir and flip. Parmigiano Reggiano, stir and flip.

I've mastered the art of eating like a true-blooded Italian. Two bowls of pasta later for the both of us. I'm not afraid to eat. 'What's next?' is my/our favorite question after the first course has been devoured.

Contented at last. The non-pasta dinner streak has been broken.