Twas the Saturday Before Christmas

Snow and wind flurrying about. It looked so gentle from the window. It was not so gentle.

While most planned for their Saturday hibernation with bread, milk and toilet paper, I planned with lamb chops, fingerlings, carrots, cremini and cipollini.

There's not much that one can do, but wait for it, the snow, to be over.

Roberto waited, rather impatiently, by trudging over to Di Pasquale's for a fresh baguette, some sangweech fixings and...well, I can't say what else, else I might spoil a certain Christmas surprise.

I waited by bringing butter to room temperature and rallying other ingredients for chocolate chip cookies.

Upon Roberto's return we made our lunch and set about to hibernate. Under layers of flannel and fleece we each found a sofa spot and promptly fell asleep.

At just half past five we started our prep. Roberto with the lamb, I with the veg.

We chose a simple, I thought, rustic approach. A marinade of shallot, garlic, white wine, parsley, rosemary, salt and pepper for the lamb. Some of the garlic chopped to a fine mince, other cloves just left whole. The rosemary, entire sprigs.

The vegetables, cremini quartered, carrots and fingerlings cut to equal size, whole cipollini. All coated with extra virgin olive oil, parsley, rosemary (again, whole sprigs), salt and pepper.

Everything set to roast, in their respective pans, in a hot 400° oven until done. We just kept an eye on things, like one does when they don't use recipe.

Yes, the vegetables, they were roasted to perfection. The lamb, finished off in the broiler, was succulent. The perfect hearty, stick to your ribs meal. With some nice bread and a little red wine. No pasta. Can you imagine?

Now, don't be fooled by our presentation. Our plates, emptied, we went for seconds.

Followed up with pistachios, espresso and chocolate chip cookies.

As you can see, we're really hoping for less snow in the future.

A lot less.

A Few of My Favorite Things...

A table set in preparation for dinner.

Roberto cracking pepper into a pan.

A little bit of pasta left in the pot ending up on my plate, dressed with a disproportionate amount of sauce.

Ten boxes for $10.

A fresh bag of oily beans from my favorite local roaster.

Summer figs.

A blue sky rushing towards the city.

Peasant Cookies

My notes are a bit crude, dusted with flour. December 12, 2009.

Six eggs, jumbo. She uses seven, though. She doesn't like even numbers. Since the cookies came out perfectly, I have to guess that seven is right. Just right.

Two cups sugar—heaping.

One cup whole milk—give or take a drop.

1/2 cup corn oil.

1/2 cup cool water. Not cold.

One good pinch of salt. She held out the palm of her hand. It looked to be about 1/2 teaspoon.

One teaspoon vanilla—that's an Italian teaspoon. Not exacting, a just-so measurement. 'About this much' she said.

Juice from half a lemon, but not the zest this time around. The lemon didn't look pristine, so no zest.

The Sunbeam mixer, most likely over 30 years old, probably more, with two beater attachments was whirred up to high. It beat for however long it took (my notes say for a very long time) which was quite a while. In the meantime, coffee. Light conversation, barely audible over the tiny jet engine beating the life out of phase one of Roberto's favorite cookies.

Transfer to jumbo bowl.

Add flour 'never sift' she said.

Roberto's aunt spooned in heaping large spoonfuls (the kind of spoon one would use to stir pasta—the large metal all-purpose spoon that every Italian has in their kitchen arsenal) from the 30-odd year old orange Tupperware container. One spoonful and hand mix at a time, mind you. No measurements here. It's all by feel. 'My mother, she never measured anything' she said.

And this, this was a half batch. The full batch required 12 eggs, but she always uses 13. She doesn't like even numbers, if you recall.

I couldn't imagine doing a full batch of these cookies. I asked if I could feel the dough—I was observing—helping where I could. I went to the sink and washed my hands. She commented 'You don't have to wash your hands, they're clean...shit (she likes to say shit in her broken accent) in Italy they'd come in from the fields, never wash their hands and...'.

She continued to work the dough with her one strong hand. She complained that her other hand just didn't have the strength that it used to. I tried to make her feel better by telling her that it was good that she had the one clean hand for doing other things. I doubt my comment made a dent.

When she had finished mixing/kneading/working the dough, it was covered and left to rest for 10 minutes. At this point the dough was heavy and wet. The gluten had been worked, put in its place.

After the 10 minutes had elapsed, she uncovered the bowl and proceeded to add in one heaping Italian teaspoonful of baking powder for every egg she used. So, six...no, make that seven heaping teaspoons of baking powder. This was then worked into the dough. All said and done, she must have worked the dough a good 25 minutes by hand.

Roberto retrieved the board from the basement. The all-purpose board that it seems every Italian household has. Used for gnocchi, pasta, cookies, and the likes.

Flour board heavily in the center.

Transfer dough to board.

Fold dough over on itself and then flip. Let rest.

At this point you can flour baking sheets (we ended up using four baking sheets) with quite a dusting of all-purpose.

With a long rolling pin—the kind every Italian kitchen has—roll out the dough to about a little less than half inch thickness.

Cut strips about 1 1/2" wide. Then cut those strips into about 3" long pieces. She used a tool that looked like a miniature pizza cutter, but the edge was serrated, so it left a nice little toothy edge to the cookie.

Transfer to baking sheet.

Starting on the lowest shelf, we slid the first sheet into the 350° oven. The cookies would spend about half their time in the oven in this position before they were moved to the top rack to finish. This ensures a nicely browned bottom and a golden top. Ultimately, an evenly baked cookie with perfect coloration on all sides.

I suppose it took about 20 minutes to bake, but this is just something you have to keep an eye on. When the color is right, that's when you pull it from the oven. Not a moment more or less.

The cookies are then dumped into the jumbo bowl once again (which has been cleaned). There they will sit for a minute or two until they are able to be handled. At that point the excess flour is brushed off.

Once the excess flour has been removed, they are to cool in another vessel (of your choosing) until they are lukewarm. At this point they are to be transferred to a plastic storage bag. The perfect home for these. They will keep for weeks, these cookies. Though, they never last that long in our kitchen.

Roberto's beams when he's been given a bag. We enjoy them with espresso after dinner. Late at night broken into a bowl of cereal. In the morning with long-drip. Light in texture, not too sweet. A biscuit, biscotti.

2 1/2 hours had passed. I walked back home to document the mornings cookie making, Roberto went next door to help his father butcher a deer that he had just hunted earlier that morning. I'm hoping for venison tenderloin for supper one day soon.

What We Love

Monday, the morning after. A lone arancini. Arancini. My ears hear orange. My eyes see fig. I am reminded of summer. Prosciutto and mozzarella nestled dead center. The kernels of rice proliferating out towards the golden crumbs of seasoned bread.

Saturday afternoon...

Roberto, over the stove, stirring the arborio. I, over the stove, stirring the chocolate. We were busily prepping for 38 Years Chocolate Mousse Sunday.

Today...

When I asked Roberto how he cooked the rice for the arancini ( I was engrossed with mousse...I failed to pay appropriate attention for the purposes of this blog—having paid appropriate attention for the purposes of this blog would have resulted in a deflated or curdle textured mousse, I suspect) this is what he said:

'I cooked the rice like I do when I make risotto. Saute shallot/onion in some oil, throw in the rice to toast that a little in the oil, then a splash of white wine, followed by slowly adding stock until the rice is done. After the rice cooled, I added an egg, and pieces of prosciutto. I think that was it...'

Saturday evening...

We formed our two person assembly line, Roberto building the arancini, me flouring, egging, breading, and that final cupping for spherical perfection. Who knew my hands would be built for such a thing. They were almost too perfect.

Earlier Saturday...

I was running out of hands, forearms, and biceps. Shuffling around the narrow Italian deli with two boxes of De Cecco ziti, a crusty baguette straight from the oven, two heads of garlic, a gross of chestnuts, the arborio rice for the arancini...Roberto waited at the deli case for the thinly sliced prosciutto. Others waited behind him for a sandwich (sangweech) or single hit of espresso.

So much to do. My list became ever-expanding lists as the day progressed. Saturday and Sunday morphed into each other, much like cookies do when baked too closely together...the days were joined at the hip.

Sunday morning...

'Only three weeks left' yelled the bread lady.

'The mushroom people are gone already!' I fumed.

'How do the oysters look?' Roberto asked the fishmonger.

The man and his cronies smiled and nodded with bobble-headed enthusiasm. 'They look really good' one man said.

We walked away with a bakers dozen.

Sunday afternoon...

The air was chilly, the fryer set up outside, else the house and we would smell of cooking oil many many days later.

It all happened so fast, the frying. Roberto's mother watched as I shot the mound of arancini in the cool November mid-afternoon light. We had to hurry and get them inside...there was eating to be done. Lots of eating.

Monday morning...

Roberto, sleeping. Me, a sleepy camera aimed. Arancini, sliced.

Monday evening...

Reheated in the toaster oven, resting on a slice of bread so as not to leave behind breadcrumbs or a trace of oil. We shared the last arancini, post pasta.

'We need to make a bigger batch next time' he said. I agreed.

Saturday Supper

The sound of snow, the sound of silence. A cold Saturday in early December. The sky, a murky, whitish gray. Undulating precipitation. Undershirts, overshirts, flannel and warm socks. Hot coffee, toast...more toast.

A fully stocked pantry. A trip to the market the day before will tide us over until Sunday farmers market. A late lunch of eggs over easy conversing with extra virgin olive oil, salt and pepper. A crusty baguette, toasted. A nap. Miscellaneous chores.

Conversation accompanied by waning daylight.

I say 'What about this?'

He says 'And this.'

I say 'You genius.'

He says 'It was your idea.'

I say 'Yes, but you took it over the edge with the addition of mushrooms and cream.'

Does one require a recipe? One does not. Neither does two.

We lead our empty stomachs to the kitchen. Rigatoni. Bacon. Garlic. Shallot. Crushed red pepper. Button mushrooms. Arugula. Cream. Toasted bread crumbs. Parsley. That requisite dusting of Parmesan.

My fretting...'I fear you're about to tell me something I don't want to hear...that we've finished everything...that there will be no second helping.'

His reassurance...'I think there's a little left in the pan.'

There's always a little left. We try to make less, but it never works out that way. We always make just enough, plus a little extra.

Espresso and maple cookies. Sated.

A cold nose. Cold fingers. A sweater missing a button. Snow rocketing to the ground. Shelter inside a collection of short stories, a cup of hot tea and a warm throw.

A cold Sunday to follow with the promise of polenta.