A Dream

I called on Jacques. He answered as if he were on his way out the door.

"Heat the oil in a saucepan over !HIGH HEAT! and add the onion and scallions. Sauté for 2 to 3 minutes to soften the vegetables, then add the remaining ingredients, !EXCEPT! the parsley."

"But, !WAIT!..."I said.

Click.

Jacques Pépin Fast Food My Way. Chickpea ragout, pg 95.

A recipe for those in need of comfort and nourishment. Something that will sustain and drift you along merrily for the remainder of the day. But you don't need a recipe, just the basics. What was used. Give or take. Judgement is yours regarding time.

So I began, as will you if you're so inclined.

We do not spare olive oil, the extra virgin hemorrhaged from the bottle into the cold pan.

I added two cloves of chopped garlic, three scallions sliced on the bias, half a yellow onion diced. As the heat rose gently...as I stirred, the onions wept and the garlic huddled in cool corners.

I added one half cup chicken stock. It came to a gentle boil.

I added the chickpeas, about 16 ounces.

I added one can of San Marzano, milled using the largest setting so that the tomato ran chunky, not smooth.

At this point it was just a matter of reducing and seasoning with just the right amounts of salt and pepper.

It didn't take long.

As the ragout settled at the back of the stove, I sliced some baguette to be toasted.

While the baguette was toasting I fried an egg in a shallow pool of extra virgin olive oil. Salt and pepper...merrily, merrily, merrily, merrily...

This is where it got lovely...I plated the ragout which was then seen mingling with the nicest dollop of mascarpone. I then tipped the fried egg onto the plate were it snuggled against the chickpeas. The toasted baguette huddled along the fringes. A pinch of flat-leaf parsley flecked its way across the plate.

Of course I took pictures, but then I gobbled. I really did. I wished all the while that Roberto was enjoying a plate as well, but when I looked at the time I knew he was stuck in a meeting and then a sense of dread came over me. What if he doesn't get lunch today?

So, I had a brownie and that made me feel a little bit better.

This One

This one is different, it's butterless and flourless.

My only desire was to bake. Roberto wanted chocolate cake (I wanted chocolate cake too). I also wanted peanut butter cookies. But the pickle was this, we only had 1 1/2 sticks unsalted butter and we were snowed in.

Long story short, I made the cake, the mother of all moist chocolate cakes (without butter). That recipe will come, but not today.

I also made the peanut butter cookies (without butter or flour).

"These are flourless?" He asked.

"Yep." I replied.

This cookie is for all who don't have dessert to take with their evening espresso tonight. For those who will ponder and pour over recipes, the day over, only to come up empty. Those who (love) peanut butter and baking using great economy in product and time. 

"I'll never make another recipe again. These are perfect." I said.

It is my wish that you make these (you'll see that I left out the chocolate chips suggested, though) tonight before you wash the salad greens or put the pot of water on to boil.

Made Pizza

The recipe has been refined. The teaspoon sugar (or honey), omitted. The salt, once coarse, now fine. When the oven is set, it's set to 450°. The pizza stone, replaced by a commercial grade screen. Pizza.

Roberto was outside shoveling. I was indoors boiling a potato and stretching dough. I had to try, really try, to make the dough not perfectly round, but more rustic. The Italian's skills in the department of pizza have rubbed off on me.

It's so easy to clear the counter, pull out the all-purpose and shape the dough. I sprinkle a tiny bit of flour and extract the dough from it's oily bowl. Tap and pat using the tips of my fingers, with great rigor from inside, to out, to around, and repeat. I flip the dough, flapping it back and forth between my hands to shake off any excess flour. Of course, there is always excess.

Once transferred to the screen (our screen is 16"), I paint on a nice coat of extra virgin olive oil, and spread to the far reaches a good bit of sauce. A dusting of oregano is followed by a scattering of sliced potatoes. Mozzarella, a in-house product from our neighborhood deli, darts from my fluttering fingers, filling in the gaps. Crushed red pepper, fresh thyme, and a final dusting of Parmesan.

The oven thermometer reads 450°. I slide the pizza in.

There it goes, the dough is puffing. And there...over there...the dough is bubbling. The sauce is seizing, I can hear its faint scream. The fresh herbs are drying. The cheese is melting and trapped, trapping it all. Pizza.

The rustic, misshapen glory has been transferred from screen, to peel, to rack, for finishing. The dough is more than dark golden on the bottom, it's brick oven perfection from our tiny wall oven.

It is lunchtime once again. Roberto is in from shoveling. Slices, crunchy, not flimsy, hot from the oven, blister our tongues.

Friday, I Bought Tulips

Sunday, I bought more tulips.

Monday, I came home to a feast fueled by simplicity.

Toasted bread (leftovers and ends we could not let go to waste).

Olives (Roberto made a trip to our neighborhood Italian deli—and a second trip when I asked him to pick up ladyfingers for a dessert I'm preparing on Saturday—who needs Valentine's day?).

Cheeses.

Homemade dry cured sausage.

A freshly opened bottle of red wine.

Chicken cutlets with a layer of prosciutto cooked with olive oil, butter, white wine, shallots, garlic, thyme, capers and parsley.

There was a lovely mixed green salad (it is ubiquitous).

Yes, even some sweet corn from a can (a touch of suppertime nostalgia).

No pasta, but there was chocolate cake accompanied by our nightly coffee fix.

But, before that, a handful of mixed nuts...just to help finish off the bread and wine (in our glasses, not the bottle).

I broke a small plate.

Dropped my mobile on the tile, the battery popped out.

Butter fingers.

As I type, snow is finally being removed from our street. It only took over a week.

Panini for Lunch

On the counter, a 9" round aluminum pan. In the pan, standing side by side like soldiers, six pieces of Schmidt's Blue Ribbon white bread, crust on, folded. Inside each slice of bread, tuna salad made with Bumble Bee light tuna (packed in water), Miracle whip, Vlasic dill pickles, celery, salt and pepper (from matching glass shakers—there was no such thing as cracked black pepper or coarse sea salt in our house—we were a McCormick house, through and through). On top of that, a slice of Kraft cheese, usually sharp cheddar.

Mom would slide the 9" round aluminum pan into the hot oven (350 degrees sounds about right), centered on the center rack. I would wait most patiently. I loved mom's invention, tuna boats. The bread would toast and the cheese would melt.

A plate of two would be handed to me. Eating would commence in the living room with me sitting Indian-style with plate on lap, staring up at our Montgomery Wards television set.

The first one was always piping hot and the only proper course of action was to bite away at the crust with melty cheese first (almost like an ear of corn). After that you could go in bite by bite until the very last bit was cool. Inevitably chunks of tuna salad would plop down to the plate (becoming finger food).

By the time the first boat had been eaten, the second boat had cooled to a toasty warm, easy to eat. Although, I must admit, I stuck with the same course of action, eating-wise.

Fast forward, thirty odd years. Roberto and I have just come in from shoveling. It's the second winter storm of the season, but the first of two blizzards that will pull things to a standstill in our charm city over the course of a week.

There's some nice crusty Italian bread that I've painted with olive oil. I'll sandwich between the slices our version of tuna salad and a slice or two of cheddar cheese:

• Two cans natural tuna (light, not albacore)

• Three stalks celery (diced)

• Half medium yellow onion (diced)

• A hefty handful of parsley (chiffonade, just to change things up)

• Three to four dill pickles (diced)

• Salt (pinch)

• Red pepper flakes (pinch)

• A few turns of black pepper

• To that, half mayo/half extra virgin olive oil (to the wetness one prefers)

The light near the panini press handle tells me it's ready (green means go). I put the sandwiches in place and pull the top grill down, slowly...slowly...slowly. Ssshhhhhsssshhh, goes the olive oil. Any moisture in the bread steams out. The smell of warming tuna salad, cheese, olive oil and toasted bread fills the kitchen.

This is a trusted smell, so much so that I would happily fall back into it's arms without fear of it not catching me.

What was once plump pieces of crusty Italian bread are now flattened with beautiful golden grill marks. The cheese, only escaping here and there. Compact and ready to eat, I slice two generous panini in half and side with more dill pickles. Eaten with our favorite potato chips (Utz) and a glass of Boddingtons pub ale.

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...