Rice with Zucchini and Spinach

A fortifying meal.

Sunday supper was spent at home, just the two of us.

My charge was to wilt the spinach and saute the zucchini.

"Try to get some color on the zucchini." He requested.

Each took their turn in the pan aided by extra virgin olive oil, salt and pepper, my watchful eye and a pair of tongues.

Roberto's charge was to created the rice base to which the spinach and zucchini would marry. He did so by adding a dice of yellow onion and garlic to extra virgin olive oil. Under his watchful eye and a wooden spoon, over a low flame, the onion and garlic fell limp. Long grain rice was added, followed by ladle after ladle of warmed chicken stock.

Just like risotto.

R.E.M. serenaded.

We sat down, finishing our first bowl in what seemed to be the blink of an eye.

Next, we cracked three large eggs over asparagus in a pan and proceeded to sit down to a second bowl, which we inhaled while the yolks and whites, freckled with salt and pepper, set over a gentle flame.

In time, we cleared our bowls, making room for plates. We divvied up the fried eggs over asparagus, and slices of ciabatta were brought to the table.

It was a soup to nuts kinda day, rounding off our meal with some roasted peanuts.

Each course enjoyed with a 2008 Per Me Sola Rosso Toscana.

Oh, and we're still hammering away at the maple walnut cookies I made last week. They're a little stale, but worth taking to the end.

Shot Through The Heart

I remember it like it was yesterday. It was yesterday. Yesterday at 2:21 PM, to be exact.

"How about pasta with asparagus and bacon tonight?" He asked.

"Oh yes!" I said.

Asparagus, Springs arrow. It snuck up on us. Now crisp, bright spears have taken to adorning our meals. Last night it slow danced with salty bacon in olive oil with crushed red pepper and garlic. Always garlic.

This weekend we'll crack farm fresh eggs over a bed of asparagus in a shallow pan. We'll gild with olive oil, lemon, salt, pepper, and subtle shaving of Parmesan. Saturday lunch, I think. Crusty bread, an assortment of nice cheeses. Oh yes!

It is Spring! It really is...Even though temperatures won't climb out of the 40's today. My body, my palate, in full denial of the wrath Mother Nature brings. What is her problem? We have flowers to plant, seedlings to encourage. This just won't do.

"It's spicy. Taste it before you add anymore." He said.

Anymore is the crushed red pepper flakes that we use in just about everything that demands a fork.

"I like it spicy, but I'll taste it first." I said.

There in our bowls, penne (an appropriate choice) with asparagus and bacon, which we proceeded to dust with adequate amounts of Parmesan.

"This is really good. What do you think? Do you like it?" I asked.

His mouth was full, there was no need to answer.

Kitchen Through Viewfinder

Tail of fish, a serving dish.

Bound recipes or recipes bound.

Just bananas.

A Sweet Note

We might very well have to end supper on a savory note tonight. The cake dome stands empty. Perhaps we could go a day without. Gulp.

Yesterday, for Sunday supper, Roberto made carbonara (his mother's request). It was followed by venison, salad, and fried artichoke hearts (they reminded me of fried oysters—a vegetarian Po-boy didn't seem so crazy to me as I popped one after another into my mouth). Dinner closed with a wedge of sponge cake taken with our espresso ("taken" like a drug, if you like—maybe I do have a problem with sweets).

Petite, bite size, a bit. That's all it ever really is. We never engorge ourselves with mounds of creamy things or forkfuls of luscious this or that. We satisfy our sweet tooth with a single knobby and irregular shaped cookie, a tiny square of brownie, a petite wedge of cake. Always homemade. What's the harm? I ask.

There is no harm. It's all good. Everything in moderation. What we're looking at isn't a matter of should or shouldn't we, it's really a matter of Is there time to throw together a batch of maple walnut cookies tonight, before dinner...so we have something to nibble on with our espresso?

I have to think with reason and logic. The recipe calls for one stick of unsalted butter at room temperature. There really isn't time to wait for such a thing.

But these cookies are good and worth the wait. The first time I made them, over Christmas holiday, they were received with such warmth and praise. It's the maple syrup, grade B, that does it (but grade A can be used in a pinch).

These cookies are to be fawned over. The flavor is remarkable, and the body, so versatile. I don't have to put walnuts. I can put pecans or chocolate chips. I can put anything, really.

It's just a matter of time, really. Can I hurry home, pull out the butter (cubing it so that it comes to room temperature faster) while I throw together a salad? Then, perhaps I can mix up the dough and set it to chill (only 30 minutes) while we preheat the oven and compile tonight's pizza.

Oh balls, now I remember why I didn't make the cookies yesterday. Not enough all-purpose flour (I made pizza dough). I'll have to run to the store at lunch, but first I must write it down or else forget when I run to the store why I'm even there.

Oh, it does feel a bit rushed...but I don't have to bake them all tonight. I could do just one sheet (that's about nine cookies—we only need two cookies).

Oh, really, what am I going on about? This can be done and without rushing (maybe a little rushing, but not so frantically).

Seriously. We live for this—coming home after a long day of cubicle sitting to twirl around and putter in the kitchen. It's what we do.

The First Day of Spring

Breakfast of english muffins. Spring cleaning inside and out. To market and back with asparagus, rapini and grapefruit. Lunch at a tavern by the harbor followed by a three hour nap. Dinner of linguine with garlic and olive oil.

The Bee's Knees

Brownies.

It was so nice, Sunday past. We sprang forward and I played peekaboo with the sun late afternoon. The joy!

And I quote (myself), "Joy of Cooking Book Club Brownies are an after dinner favorite in our house. Moist and cakey, they are the best of both worlds when it comes to brownies. These can be addictive, so bake with caution."

I feel rather protective of Joy's Book Club Brownies.

Why?

Because they are good.

They are dead simple. No rocket science involved.

All you need to do is melt a stick of unsalted butter with 4 ounces baking chocolate. I do this in a small aluminum pan over a gentle flame (before you say "use the microwave", I'll say "we don't have a microwave").

DOUBLE BOILER NEED NOT APPLY.

While that's out of sight, out of mind (for the moment), crack four large eggs into a bowl and drop in a teaspoon of vanilla (set that aside).

While I've got your attention...man yourself with a rubber spatula !pronto!, and give the melting butter and chocolate a thorough stir...Phew, that was a close call! You can probably turn off the heat at this point. Things should continue to melt at a quiet pace while you finish prepping the rest of the ingredients.

With crisis averted, measure out 1 3/4 cup sugar into the bowl you plan to do your mixing in.

In a smaller bowl whisk together 1 cup all-purpose flour, 1/2 teaspoon baking powder, and 1/4 teaspoon fine salt.

When the chocolate and butter have melted to completion, pour into the bowl that is housing the sugar. Mix well.

Add the eggs/vanilla. Mix vigorously until the eggs have disappeared.

Finally, with gentle persuasion, fold in the dry ingredients until just combined (no more, no less).

The time has come. Pour the brownie batter into a prepared 9"x9" square pan (prepared = oiled or buttered with a sheet of parchment).

Bake at 350° for 35 minutes on the center rack.

Say it three times slow...

Brownies.

Brownies.

Brownies.

They bring out the kid in me. They really do. Just ask Roberto. He'll tell you that just last night as we were waiting for espresso to percolate (right before we chowed down with brownie) I demonstrated hopscotch on our kitchen tile.

Brownies.

Rainy Sunday Supper

It was determination and hunger that brought it together so quickly. Eggplant parmigiana. Our recipe.

So simple, this recipe. Roberto performs his part, I perform mine. We meet at the counter, ready to layer. Anticipation is great.

Roberto prepped the eggplant, a nice wash and thinly sliced (two rather large out-of-season eggplant—I could not help myself). I grated mozzarella, opened up two cans of San Marzano, and prepped the breadcrumbs (store bought for ease)/egg wash (salt, pepper, whole milk).

Then...

While I bread the eggplant, Roberto prepped the ricotta (a mix of ricotta, parsley, egg, salt and pepper) for layering, milled the tomatoes and chopped the garlic/shallot for the sauce (our tried and true red—made weekly).

Then...

While I prepped the sheet pans with olive oil (a thin brush of light—best for frying and occasionally dressing salad when one wants less personal commentary on their mixed greens) and layered the eggplant for baking, Roberto made the sauce.

Then...

While I waited for 15 minutes (ho-hum), flipped the eggplant (!ouch, that tray is hot!), and waited 15 minutes more (come on already!), Roberto grated the parmesan.

On the counter, baked eggplant piled high, red sauce, grated mozzarella, grated parmesan, ricotta and ready to receive layer after layer, a beautiful blue scalloped dish (made in Portugal).

A thin layer of sauce coated the bottom of the dish. A layer of eggplant followed, filling in the gaps with smaller pieces (hand torn). Another thin layer of sauce. A sprinkling of mozzarella. Dabs and dollops of ricotta. A sprinkling of parmesan. A layer of eggplant. Another thin layer of sauce...etc, etc, etc.

Four layers later, the dish was covered with foil and retreated to the oven for one hour. I nearly died from anticipation and near starvation (we had not eaten lunch—I get ornery when I'm hungry). My stomach grumbled. I tapped my fingers nervously and paced about. Peering periodically into the oven at the covered dish unable to ascertain the progress (aaarrrggghhh).

When we sat down to the table, we both devoured super sized pieces with fierce happiness and pleasure. It was so good that I couldn't think of a life without its leftovers...That's when Roberto said we should take the other half over to his parents house. My dreams of Monday night dinner of leftover eggplant parmigiana had been shattered, but then a happy warm feeling took over.

"It's nice to share." I said.

Roberto delivered the rest of the eggplant parmigiana to his parents where his mother greeted him and the warm parcel with happy anticipation. It is nice to share.

Ricotta, Capers and Thyme

Three possibilities for Thursday supper: risotto with lemon, ricotta and thyme; pasta with ricotta, capers and thyme, or; pasta with ricotta and peas.

My email was silent. Roberto must be in a meeting. I fled the office at seven minutes to five with ricotta on my mind.

Once home and with apron adorned I scanned the pantry. Not enough Arborio for risotto. My eyes searched for pasta inspiration and found it with a lonely box of Gemelli. Gemelli means "twins" in Italian.

My decision was finalized, gemelli with ricotta, capers and thyme it would be.

With ample ricotta at our disposal I'd like to think that risotto with lemon, ricotta and thyme might be supper on Saturday, followed by veal scallopini. A girl can dream.

La Cucina Italia's recipe for pasta con ricotta, capperi e timo was the inspiration, but I new that I'd gain more brownie points from Roberto if I used their preparation simply as a starting point. So, with that in mind, I scanned the recipe and set out to make it my own.

I started prepping the mise.

The equation was simple. Four tiny espresso mug saucers would serve to be my standard of measure. One garlic clove and half a shallot were chopped and placed into the well of saucer number 1. Saucer number two's well was filled with a single layer of capers. Saucer numbers three and four would hold the thyme and parsley. I doled out a third of a cup of fresh ricotta (making sure to level it with the back of a butter knife—anal, I know). The only non-measured items, extra virgin olive oil and crushed red pepper (unless you want to call a heavy hand a standard of measure).

Roberto was home, battered and inconsolable from work and traffic.

"Can I get things going?" I yelled up the stairs.

"Yeah!" He yelled back. His voice ricocheting from the bedroom down the stairs to my waiting ears.

I salted the water and dropped the pasta. It would need a good 12 minutes. Olive oil, garlic, shallot and crushed red pepper hit the aluminum pan, one after the other in this march to the finish. From there, steady streams of ladled pasta water loosened things. Capers were dropped into the pool of fighting oil and water. Parsley and thyme. Shakes, stirs, the whirl with the back of a spoon.

I tasted what was waiting in the pan, added salt. I tasted the pasta water, added salt (a quirky practice I've installed to judge salt when the pasta isn't yet ready for a taste).

I waited. I stirred. I waited some more.

The cooked pasta was pulled from the pot using a strainer. Everything was given a good stir before the ricotta was added. It dissolved with ease.

"Can you crack some pepper for me." I asked.

Roberto cracked some pepper into the pan.

The remainder of parsley was dumped in which was then followed by a final quick stir. I gently spooned heaping piles into bowls while Roberto waited patiently at the table.

"This turned out better than I thought, although I don't think gemelli is exactly the right shape for this sauce." I said.

Gemelli needs something as thick as it. A heavy something or other that will cling to it's buxom toothiness, yet not render it dry.

With that said, the dish was still rather pleasant, fresh and luxurious for a Thursday. Not at all heavy, it's just what Spring might order...if it were here.

Tuesday Supper

I am not fond of the light. It is murky. Concealing. Winter. Please draw to a close soon. My evening photos are suffering.

Willing and able, I had emailed Roberto mid-afternoon, Tuesday.

Pasta with anchovies?

Sounds good! :)

I was chewing. A moment, a sudden moment, my face is puckering. Mouth drawn down as I fight to traverse the salty mine field that is my tongue.

"Is that salt I'm tasting?"

Roberto stabs the anchovy, curled around a bloated caper. "That's salt." He says while chewing.

The tin of anchovies we inherited will do for tonight's pasta, but they must be rinsed. Half end up in the pan. Half end up on a plate to be eaten secondi with slices of baguette and aged Provolone.

Our reality is quite simple. We eat. We come home, peel off the work layer, prep dinner. We eat. We eat pasta. All else comes second. Our routine is steady and true, no matter the time of day or day we've had. All dramas are aired, wine is consumed, bellies are filled. We eat.

It is pasta. So many variations, iterations. Never complicated. Always sublime. Constantly restocking the olive oil, Parmesan, and boxes of dried Barilla, De Cecco, or other. Tuesday lunch was spent traversing the shelves at the local grocer. I came home with five boxes of linguine. We eat over a half pound this night. Those five boxes won't last long. Our affection for linguine runs deep. It's ever so versatile and cooks in about 9 minutes (Barilla).

I tie one on. Of course I am speaking of my apron, which is quite dirty for so early in the week. Water and wine glasses are arranged in front of plates. Forks are placed on cloth napkins. Pasta bowls are set on the back burner to absorb heat from the pot of boiling water.

"Is there cheese?"

"Yes, there's cheese."

Cheese being the freshly grated Parmesan. We are in a state of perpetual grate, filling the tiny Parmesan receptacle made of stainless steel, a fugitive from Italy two trips ago thanks to Roberto's father.

There's a mise en place of shallot, garlic, crushed red pepper, lemon, white wine, parsley, anchovies, green onion.

A fistful of linguine splays out in a tall drinking glass, waiting for it's evening swim in the salty waters of Baltimore boiling tap.

I'm counting down.

"45 seconds to the window."

Roberto pulls al dente linguine from the water, straight to the pan. A stir, a shake, a flip.

"Some water." He says.

I ladle a scoop into the pan.

"Pepper." He says.

I crack black pepper into the pan.

"Parsley, just a pinch." He says.

He is plating and I want to shoot the strands of linguine holding onto dear life, dripping lemon scented anchovy liquor into the waiting bowls. But my battery is running low. I must conserve.

Roberto sits patiently as I aim and shoot.

"Just one more." I say.

"Just one more." I say again.

While ingredients are called upon again and again, they retreat into beauty and nuance with each turn. Linguine with anchovies does not taste the same as spaghetti with anchovies, you see.

We shall never tire.

Awakening

The blackbirds dive in and fly out, perform balancing acts on phone lines and billboard signs. The robins revisit their home, high in the treetop, still intact. The doves, they sing.

Activity in the kitchen is sprouting on a Sunday morning. Quinoa is rinsed under cold water before its release into salted, boiling water. It will simmer and steep.

Energetic hands will chop garlic and shallot, peel and slice button mushrooms.

The sun is pouring in. The warmth feels good. Recharging. I surrender.

Imprisoned by winter. Spring arrives, but visiting hours are short. One more week, a loss of one hour of sleep, and yet another week leading up to release.

Food shopping for the days ahead and crimson tomatoes from far away look so appealing. Long cucumbers of the English variety, Buy in Bulk and Save!

We cannot help ourselves.

"What are you making?"

"A quinoa salad of mushrooms, cucumber, and tomato."

Something bright. Something to nest in. Where Spring and Summer dreams can lay, hatch, grow and flourish.

A Monday lunch of quinoa salad, orange segments and banana bread. Whole foods. Delightful whole foods to nourish and strengthen, bidding lethargy a farewell.

The salad was made simply. A saute of chopped garlic, shallot, crushed red pepper, sliced button mushrooms and parsley in extra virgin olive oil. When all was tender, when the mushrooms had released and dehydrated by 50%, forked fluffy quinoa was added.

Transferred, it cooled in a large Pyrex bowl. Once at room temperature, the addition of diced cucumber and tomato made things complete.

More than a few heaping spoonfuls into a bowl and more fresh parsley as a finishing touch.

Amounts? Whatever wakes you up. For us, it was one cup dry quinoa to 1 1/4 cups salted water. A single clove of garlic (I pull the largest clove I can find). Half a bloated shallot. More than necessary crushed red pepper. A small basket of button mushrooms. Enough extra virgin olive oil to pull what was heated together. Leftover cucumber. One very robust plum tomato. Salt, pepper and parsley to taste.

All Along

It was there, under my nose. It was the very last place I looked. Isn't that always the way?

A game of hide and seek in the kitchen. Its back was turned to me...and that's when I saw it. Hershey's "Perfectly Chocolate" Chocolate Cake.

I pulled the container of Hershey's Cocoa from the shelf and scanned the ingredients once more just to be sure I had everything needed, and that I was indeed not imaging things. No butter?

No butter. Hallelujah!

Back to back snowstorms were testing us and I was determined to pass with flying colors.

This cake aced it.

Dark, moist, chocolate cake greatness.

I imagined a piece of cake sitting in a bowl filled with a shallow pool of ice cold whole milk (how I used to enjoy it as a kid). The milk would turn to chocolate milk, sweet with soggy crumbs. It could only be eaten with a spoon when represented in this way.

Instead of cake rounds, I ended up making two 8x8 square tins. There was no frosting and no powdered sugar to adorn. Just nice plain chocolate cake. The kind of cake that leaves sticky remains in the bottom of the pan and clings to your finger tips when you're slicing a piece or two for after dinner with espresso.

One tin was enjoyed thoroughly that week, the other was frozen for later consumption (later was just one week later, by the way).

Chocolate cake success is Roberto making quick work of the chocolaty remains at the bottom of the tin by scraping away with a butter knife while I'm licking fingerprints of sticky cake goodness from my serving hand. Yes, chocolate cake success.

Sunday Morning

The batter was resting on the counter. 1 1/2 cups all purpose, 3 tablespoons sugar, 1 teaspoon baking powder, 1/2 teaspoon salt, 3 tablespoons unsalted butter (melted), 1 1/2 cups buttermilk, and 2 large eggs. Whisked together until just combined.

The coffee dripped and bubbled with congestion while the milk warmed on the stove over a low flame.

The table was set for two.

Earlier I had contemplated. Sunday morning routine or pancakes at home? Sunday morning routine is often a visit to one of our favorite coffee spots. A cappuccino for me, a regular coffee for Roberto. We eat Pain au Chocolats and enjoy the view of the harbor.

It's sleepy. We can take our time. Awaken our appetites just enough in preparation for Sunday supper.

This routine has served us well, but sometimes one needs pancakes.

At the table, a fresh puddle of maple syrup was dripping and drizzling its way from the tops of our short stacks down to our plates. Sips of hot coffee punctuated each cushiony bite.

A break in routine had been the right choice, indeed.