Squash Blossom & Mushroom Ragu

To: Roberto

Monday

I think I just thought of a great way to use up those squash blossoms. Tonight, in addition to the chicken, we should sauté the mushrooms we have along with the blossoms. I think it would taste good and go well with the chicken, smothering it along with a nice layer of prosciutto. Could be a brilliant genius move on our part.

To: Tracy

Re: Monday

That sounds like a good idea...very inspired!  :)

...

No pasta.

No Pasta?

No pasta.

...

I prepped the salad, Roberto pounded out the chicken breasts—THWACK—THUD—THWAK (salad greens rinse no. 1), layering it with grated parmesan, pecorino romano, chopped parsley (salad greens rinse no. 2), and prosciutto. By the third and final rinse, the chicken was prepped and waiting on a plate.

Roberto tore open a paper bag, coating it with a layer of flour for dredging, I cleaned and prepped the mushrooms and squash blossoms (they were tingling with fur, the blossoms—I pulled off the stem; sliced off the bottom; shook out the innards; slit open; and rinsed). By the time I had everything sliced and waiting in their respective bowls, Roberto had the butter and olive oil coating the bottom of a pan, ready to start the sauté.

"Is this all of them?" He asked.

"Yep. Once you clean them, they don't amount to much." I said.

Kitchen quiet.

Assembly of salad (sauté of squash blossoms and mushrooms transferred to a bowl).

Roberto had butter and olive oil coating the bottom of another pan, ready to start the chicken (a delicate maneuver, the dredging in flour).

Olives (oil cured and a mix of green both with and without pit) and mozzarella arranged on a plate (chicken into pan, prosciutto side down—a sear).

"How much time?" I asked.

"Not much. You should prep the salad." He said.

Bread sliced (a bit stale—into the toaster oven).

Salad hit with salt, extra virgin olive oil, and red wine vinegar.

The chicken rested on a plate while Roberto deglazed the pan with white wine. The sauté of squash blossoms and mushrooms added (perhaps a bit more butter—just a nub—I'll never know). The chicken added back in, gently, one cutlet at a time, prosciutto side up. The juice left on the plate, remnants from the rested chicken, poured back into the pan as well.

Red wine poured into glasses.

...

We sat down to the table, piling salad onto our plates, taking sips of wine, and securing pieces of bread for sopping. My eyes glued to my plate, my mind focused on the task at hand. Fork in left hand. Knife in right. Slice.

"How does it taste?" I asked.

"I haven't tried it yet." He said.

I looked up and smiled.