Tomato Kumato

May 25, 2010

Ravioli with Fava Beans

Filed under: Beans and Legumes, Pasta, cheese — Tags: , , , , , — emiglia @ 4:35 am

When I was in high school, I was infamous with the girls in my dorm for the color-coded Post-Its lined up along my desk, detailing the events of my days over the upcoming week. As I progressed through college and, eventually, to the dreaded “real world,” I evolved to a very detailed Google Doc spreadsheet, which I could update from any computer, filling and emptying cells throughout the day. It appeals to my sense of organization and my desire to accomplish something tangible with every day.

Now that I’m in Cannes, every morning I make a schedule and promptly ignore it. I forego it for the beach or shopping or an early apéro at Bar à Vins, where everybody knows your name and you can’t take a sip of wine or make it two sentences into a conversation before you recognize someone and have to swoop in for a bise. It’s a lovely way to spend the day, but it reeks of vacation, and, as most people who hang around me know by now, I don’t do vacation.

“This is my life,” I say, somewhat guiltily, as I abandon the people I’m with who are actually on vacation to “accomplish” one of my many tasks, a freelance job that has been laid out for weeks in that spreadsheet that I have finally closed the tab for, although not without some remorse.

It was the Nomad–a dear friend from my first year here in Cannes who has been popping back into my life at perfectly appropriate and somewhat screenplay-worthy intervals–who asked me, finally, “Why do you need to accomplish anything? All you need to accomplish is being yourself, today.”

Good point, I say. When I try to force myself to write, nothing comes out, or what does is, pardon my French, absolute merde. When I wait, when I force myself to enjoy myself instead of to coop myself up in my room and pound out articles or translations, the words flow as freely as wine.

The past three days have been spent at the beach with Scotty and the Nomad, the evenings over three- and four-hour dinners in Cannes, slurping fresh oysters, drinking endless rosé and chatting at Bar à Vins or with Jason and Nigel at Quay’s, the Irish pub that was our home in 2007. I swim in the Mediterranean at least three times a day, and I crawl on the jetties of rocks that protrude from the beach to examine the shore like it’s my domain.

And when we crawl back home, just tipsy enough to laugh at everything, the words come easily. I don’t check things off my to do list anymore… I don’t even tack new things on. Everything gets done, and I am tan at the end of May.

“This is my life,” I say, but I’m smiling this time.

Ravioli with Fava Beans

I don’t have a kitchen, so this is pulled from last year around this time. It’s incredibly easy and a perfect celebration of spring, with goat’s cheese and fava beans. The store-bought ravioli means that the relatively labor-intensive favas are the hardest part of the meal to prepare.

1 bag prepared ravioli
1 lb. fava beans, shelled
1 tsp. olive oil + 2 tsp. olive oil, separated
1 onion, sliced
3 oz. goat’s cheese

Bring a pot of salted water to a boil and place the shelled fava beans in the pot. Cook for 1 minute or until the beans turn bright green. Drain and shock in ice water, then remove the inner shells. Set aside.

Bring another pot of water to a boil and cook the ravioli according to package directions.

Meanwhile, in a skillet, heat the first teaspoon of oil. Add the onion and cook until translucent, about 5 minutes. Add the shelled fava beans and ravioli. Toss to combine.

Remove from heat to a serving bowl and add the remainiing oil. Toss to coat. Top with goat’s cheese. Serve with wine and sunshine.

May 11, 2010

Goodbye Paris

Filed under: Pasta — Tags: , , , — emiglia @ 4:15 pm

There are two things that are integral to my personal happiness:

1) The time, inclination, environment and inspiration conducive to writing.

2) The availability of things to do–people to see, errands to run, laundry to do, appointments to be upheld, other people’s problems to solve–when the desire to write has escaped me.

In theory, I should be able to write anywhere, and I have: all the cities I’ve lived in (and some I haven’t) have seen some variation of my well-intended, if not always meaningful, insightful or even good, prose. But it’s Paris I want. Voila, c’est si simple: I love New York, but I love Paris more.

I’m in Cannes now–it was here that I decided to move to Paris from Toronto in the first place. Stepping out of the train station was like stepping into my past, and I spent the day pointing gleefully at everything I remember, like a giddy child. But now I’m back in my room–the same room, oddly enough, that I once shared with the Canadian… God it feels like forever ago–and my thoughts have turned to Paris. You’ll have to wait until tomorrow to hear about the place I’m currently resting my head.

I was only in Paris for four days, and hardly that, but it was enough to remind me of everything I love about this city. I went on long, ambling walks, first with the Almost Frenchman, and then by myself: I ambled through the stalls of my old market, remembering with shock the things I hadn’t realized I’d forgotten: the giant asparagus as big around as a pepper grinder and bright, bright white. I don’t even know what I would do with them if I bought them… God knows I was itching to; I would have bought asparagus and peas, poulet fermier and 30 eggs. I would have bought without abandon to stock my fridge, if I’d had a fridge to stock or more than three days’ worth of meals to prepare.

Yesterday, the sky turned grey and cold, I made the two-hour trek to Stalingrad, where I met my cousin, the Actress, to pick up ingredients for a goodbye meal. As I waited for her in a small café, I was struck by that overwhelming urge I feel sometimes, the one where paper doesn’t appear fast enough, where the pen won’t etch the letters quickly enough. Scribbled on the back of my bank statement is the outline of the book I’ve been finding it impossible to write for the past year. Suddenly, it all made sense, and I spent four hours on the train down to Cannes today typing it up, hoping that the feeling wouldn’t disappear, but I know it won’t.

For the past few months, New York has been what Paris failed to be when I left: I had a job, a place to live, people I loved surrounding me. I had enough things to do with my day that by nightfall, my fingers itched to type, my brain craved dumping the experiences I’d had and the things I’d seen into word documents scattered across my desktop. But it’s not enough–it’s Paris I want, Paris that inspired me in that café, where I could have just stared at the sidewalk and waited for the Actress to emerge from her meeting, could have just read the Marcel Pagnol novel I’d toted along with me as I sipped my impossibly perfect café crème, but instead, I wrote.

The Actress did appear, in the end–the perfect person to snap me out of a reverie if only because she’s just as enthusiastic about her projects as I am about my own. We browsed in the international supermarkets–no well-stocked Food Emporium for fish sauce and tamarind paste here, and we went home to create pad thai for a handful of Parisians I had to say goodbye to in the wee hours of the morning, after hours of conversation and laughter.

Rice noodle pad thai with chicken, broccoli, corn and mushrooms.

Rice noodle pad thai with chicken, broccoli, corn and mushrooms.

Shirataki noodle pad thai with tofu, egg and snap peas.

Shirataki noodle pad thai with tofu, egg and snap peas.

Pad Thai

Note:  The key to this pad thai’s success is really the sauce. After that, you can add whatever you like: I’m including suggestions I’ve used, but feel free to toss in your own mix. Just be aware that proteins need to be cooked fully before adding the sauce to avoid contamination, as the final product does not cook for a very long time.

1 package rice noodles (I’ve also used 2 packages of Shirataki noodles, for those watching their carbs)
2 tsp. vegetable oil, separated
1 onion, diced
2 cloves garlic, minced
1 chili pepper, minced

Proteins (choose any or all of the following)
4 chicken breast halves, cut into chunks
1 package tofu, diced
2 eggs

Vegetables (choose any or all of the following)
1 head broccoli, cut into florets
1 cup frozen mushrooms, thawed
3 scallions, cut into pieces about two inches long
1 jar baby corn, drained
2 cups snap peas, cut into strips

3 Tbsp. tamarind paste
1 Tbsp. soy sauce
4 Tbsp. fish sauce
2 Tbsp. brown sugar

4 Tbsp. peanuts, chopped
2 limes, quartered
a handful of cilantro, roughly chopped

Prepare the noodles according to the directions. Toss with a teaspoonful of oil and set aside. Mix the sauce ingredients together and set aside.

Meanwhile, in a wok or heavy skillet, heat the other teaspoonful of oil. Add the onion and saute 1-2 minutes. Add the protein you are using (except the egg) and cook until nearly cooked through. Add the vegetables you are planning to use and cook 2-3 minutes. (Note: if using raw broccoli, I like to add a bit of water to the pan at this step and cover for a minute to steam).

Add the sauce and noodles to the pan and toss until everything is well-coated and the noodles are hot. Transfer to a serving dish and top with peanuts, lime wedges and cilantro.

April 13, 2010

On a scale of one to ten…

Filed under: Pasta, Vegetarian Main Dishes — Tags: , , , — emiglia @ 1:48 pm

Growing up, this was my father’s favorite phrase.

“On a scale of one to ten, how do you think you did on that test?”

“On a scale of one to ten, how would you rate this pizza over Patsy’s?”

“On a scale of one to ten, where does this camp rate? How about the one from last year?”

I abhor that phrase so much that, when I dislocated my shoulder skating in high school and the nurse asked me how much it hurt, “on a scale of one to ten,” I almost punched her with my good arm.

“I don’t know!” I wailed. “It hurts!”

I’m not good with numbers–I never have been. There’s something to be said for the belief that your brain works in a certain way, making some things come easily–languages, writing, spelling in my case–and other things nearly impossible, like physics. (Izzy, if you’re reading this, I’m sorry for having physics-related meltdowns in your room nearly every night between 2003 and 2004.)

The point is, a scale like “one to ten” works well for my father, who has made his life revolve around numbers, working in finance for the past twenty years. As for me, the one who tried to send my first “novel”–21 typed pages of teen romance and drama closely modeled after the Alice books I’d just finished reading–to the address on the back of one of my Yearling Paperbacks, I can say unequivocally that a scale that revolves around words is much more useful for me.

For example… how much do I miss Paris? So much that, while watching Chansons d’amour on DVD late last night, I started crying when I recognized the cinema they went to. I sobbed when they pronounced the Chateau d’Eau metro stop. I craved the huge windows that pull in like French doors and close only with insistence and urging, windows that people open and smoke beside with an ashtray balanced on the rail, because everyone in Paris has an ashtray. Hell, when one of the characters shouted up to be let into a building and the other responded with a door code, I missed that.

I missed my door code.

I don’t know where that hits on a scale “of one to ten,” but I’d say it’s a lot.

Today, when going through pictures for my blog, I realized that my cache of Paris pictures is nearly empty. I have a handful left from the jardins de Luxembourg, a few from the parc Buttes-Chaumont and some from the Cite des Arts. There are a handful of the chateau in Chartres as well, but that’s not Paris. Not really–although at this point, it’s close enough. I’m nearly scared to post them–some is better than none.

I rode the New York subway yesterday reading a pilfered copy of The World According to Garp in French that I found on the bookshelf of my rented apartment years ago, and if I stared hard enough at the pages, if I held my breath to not smell the relative cleanliness of the New York subway and pretended I could smell that disgusting mix of stale urine and staler cigarettes, it was almost as though I were back.

I could remember jumping on the train to get back to my old market, the one in the 15th where, last year, I bought endive and ate them in the metro stop at La Motte Piquet-Grenelle. I bought bunches of asparagus with dirt still on them–last year, I mixed them with pasta and pesto. Last night, I picked some up at the Food Emporium, and my sister and I ate them roasted, slurping the skinny ones up like spaghetti. It wasn’t the same.

How much do I miss Paris, “on a scale of one to ten?”

Eleven.

Pasta with Pesto and Asparagus
1 lb. spring asparagus, the tough ends trimmed, cut in thirds
1 tsp. olive oil
2 cups dry pasta
3 Tbsp. pesto

Preheat the oven to 450 degrees. Toss the asparagus and olive oil together, and lay flat on a baking tray. Roast 15-20 minutes, until the tips of the asparagus are charred.

Meanwhile, bring a pot of salted water to a boil and cook the pasta until al dente. Drain the pasta, reserving some of the cooking water, and toss with the pesto, adding water if needed to thin the sauce. Add the asparagus. Eat on your Parisian balcony with a glass of white wine.



Roasted Asparagus
1 lb. spring asparagus, the tough ends trimmed
1 tsp. olive oil
1 hefty pinch salt
freshly ground black pepper

Preheat the oven to 450 degrees. Toss the asparagus, olive oil and salt together, and lay flat on a baking tray. Roast 15-20 minutes, until the tips of the asparagus are charred. Season with black pepper and eat hot with your fingers.


April 8, 2010

Ceci n’est pas un bol de pâtes…

Filed under: Pasta, Vegetarian Main Dishes — Tags: , , , , , — emiglia @ 11:47 am

For those of you who have forgotten your French/took Spanish/don’t know about the juxtapositional Magritte painting, what I’ve written above translates to, “This is not a bowl of pasta.”

And it’s not. So I’ve ripped off a brilliant French artist, but not without due cause: Magritte philosophized through his famous painting–a painting of a pipe with the words “Ceci n’est pas une pipe” painted below it. He explained that there was an emotional lack in the pipe painting, which, of course, was not an actual pipe: “Try and put tobacco in it,” he suggested to illustrate his point.

This emotional lack, however, does not exist in the “pasta” I made (though some may exist through the photograph, which implies pasta but does not follow through. Tease.) The dish I made, complete with a simple tomato sauce of onion, basil and Pomi, was served, not atop al dente spaghetti, as we are so accustomed to in this house, but tofu.

Tofu?!?

Tofu.

Shirataki noodles, to be more precise. I had heard about them for years, but I only picked up a pack whilst strolling through the supermarket one day, assembling my basket of pre-washed spinach and individual cups of Fage yogurt and all the other things that I didn’t even realize I missed at ED in Paris until I was confronted with the sensory overload that is an American supermarket. I grabbed a bag on a whim, took them home, and made spaghetti. And it ruled.

Shirataki noodles are marketed towards people on low-carb (ick) diets or those looking to sneak in a little extra protein, but I like them for what they are: snappy-textured spaghetti-esque noodles that are quick to prepare (rinse and zap in the microwave for two minutes), conveniently portioned, and the perfect vessel for a bowl of tomato sauce and basil.

Shirataki Noodles with Tomato-Basil Sauce
Those of you who remember the Marcella Hazan tomato sauce trend a few years back may recognize this sauce. I tweaked it for daily use–the other has too much butter for me to come to terms with on a Tuesday night–but I always go back to that one on special occasions. A copy of that recipe is available here.

1 package shirataki spaghetti
2 cups Pomi
1/2 onion, in tact, skin removed
1 tbsp. butter
salt and pepper
3-5 basil leaves, ripped

Heat the Pomi and onion in a saucepan over low heat. When the Pomi simmers, cover the pot and allow to cook, stirring occasionally, for 30 minutes. Remove from the heat and extract the onion half. Discard.

Stir in the butter, salt and pepper.

Meanwhile, rinse the shirataki noodles well and cover with about an inch of water. Microwave 2 minutes and drain. Toss the noodles in with the sauce and stir to coat. Serve in bowls and garnish with basil. Serves 2, although the photos serve none.

March 8, 2010

Homesick

Filed under: Fish, Pasta — Tags: , — emiglia @ 11:23 am

“You know that point in your life when you realize the house you grew up in isn’t really your home anymore? All of a sudden even though you have some place where you put your shit, that idea of home is gone.”

The reason that a film like Garden State (from which I have stolen this quote) does so well is because of the truth behind it–genuine feelings, no matter how contrived the situation chosen to put them across, will always prevail over high-tech special effects and sickly-sweet romance, in the end. When this is no longer true, cinema will be dead.

But enough of my personal views on movies, and back to the quote, which is ringing especially true for me now that “that idea of home is gone.” For those of you who have not been following me for the nearly-four years (wow) that I have been amassing this collection of random thoughts and recipes, this is the first time in seven years that I have lived in the same state as my parents, much less in their house–from Andover, MA to Toronto to Cannes to Paris to San Sebastian, I’ve finally made my way back to my childhood home in New York City… only to find myself thrust into a weird in-between stage.

It’s a place where it’s perfectly normal for my peers to be getting married and having babies, but no one throws a second glance my way when I say I’ve moved home. Of my graduating class, it’s hard to say what the majority of people are doing, what the status quo is. My “normal” was so far removed from everyone else’s for so long that coming back home, eating dinner at my kitchen table and seeing my parents every day is, for lack of a better word, weird.

For a long time, I used to get a feeling of intense, random panic that felt like homesickness, although it wasn’t really attached to a place, but more a time–a time on Long Island when summer days lasted forever and we were all thrown together into our huge house by the sea.

It’s been weeks since I was out there–these pictures are from a random trek to the beach when the sun still started setting at 4, and the last thing I was thinking of was plunging head-first into the waves–and yet when I think of home, that’s where my mind goes: not to the couch I’m sleeping on, or to the fact that now that I’m back “home.” Instead, I can’t get over the feeling that I’m in everyone else’s way. All this time of revolting against the idea, the open invitation, “why don’t you just move home?” and now is when I learn that the open invitation wasn’t quite so open… that the ideal of me living at home is something that, like my dreams of home on Long Island, is caught in a time that has long-since passed.

The dream’s been shattered for all of us, as they realize that me moving home means that I’ll actually be around all the time, and I realize that moving back to a place where my room has long-since been converted into a room for my little sister involves a new sort of nomadic life, a series of days filled with carting my “stuff” around the apartment, trying to find a new home for the few things I allowed to follow me “home” from my old life: a pile of papers constituting my manuscript and my bank statements, a couple of pairs of shoes that don’t fit into the closet that I finally won the fight to own, the blanket that I sleep under on the couch in the den.

I guess what’s strange is the fact that, for so long, I found myself trying to nest and build a home around me in the life that I had chosen. Even if my apartment in Paris or the room I rented in San Sebastian never felt quite like home, it was mine. I would move into whatever new space I had chosen to inhabit, stack my books on the shelves just so, move the furniture until it made sense to the way I lived my life: a chair by the window, coffee mugs lined up on the counter, wine glasses low where I could reach them. And even as I did this, created these spaces that were “homey,” it was always home, that place you can apparently never go back to, that was on my mind.

I know it’s not a new feeling, if only because of the sheer number of quotes published by someone much wiser than I that discuss it. But I’ve finally realized upon moving “home” after all these years, that this is it: everything I own is here, shoved into this closet or under my brother’s bed… there’s no where else to go, no plane ticket to hold in the back of my mind as an end date, no empty apartment waiting for me or boxes holding my things until I get back. There’s no back to go to.

So why do I still feel homesick?

Spaghetti with Crab
6 oz. spaghetti
1 bay leaf
1 can lump crab
1 tsp. peri-peri sauce (or other hot sauce)
1/4 tsp. freshly crushed black pepper
salt to taste

Prepare salted boiling water for the spaghetti, and add a bay leaf. Cook the spaghetti until al dente and drain, reserving a half-cup of pasta water.

Toss the pasta with the crab and the peri-peri sauce. Add pasta water as needed to add moisture. Toss with black pepper and salt, and pretend that things are always as they were, and you’re eating fresh seafood barefoot by the bay.


February 16, 2010

Lent

Filed under: Pasta, Vegetarian Main Dishes — Tags: , , , , — emiglia @ 11:55 pm

Today is Mardi Gras, also known as Shrove Tuesday or Pancake Day to some–the last day before the period of Lent.

I know that most of you are probably at least vaguely familiar with Lent–it’s that day that we Catholics make ourselves suffer and give up something like chocolate or cigarettes or drinking or television… right?

Well… sort of. Lent is a period of introspection, of preparing ourselves for Easter, which is really the most important holiday of the Catholic calendar, regardless of what the Hallmark industry and Santa Claus may want us to believe. For forty days before Easter, which represents the rebirth of Jesus–and essentially everything that makes Christians Christian–we get ourselves ready, and yes, this often does involve giving up something that we may find difficult to relinquish.

I’m not trying to get all preachy on you–God knows that I of all people am not the person to be preaching Catholic doctrine to anyone. I’m just trying to set the record straight: we don’t fast because we want to suffer; we fast because it makes us think. The whole idea behind giving up something that you want is that each time you reach for it–a bar of chocolate, a cigarette or a beer–you stop yourself, and then you remember why you’re stopping.

It’s because of this that my favorite priest–and yes, I have I favorite priest: the one who led my student youth group at boarding school–changed the rules somewhat. Father Francisco was a Franciscan monk, the most Catholic of all the Catholic people I’ve ever met. He walked the campus in billowing black robes and prayed when he joined us for breakfast like it was the most natural thing. His suggestion for Lent was not to give something up, but to take on a new challenge: he said that it was important not only to be introspective during Lent, but to use the period to give back to others as well.

I may pick and choose the parts of Catholic doctrine that I subscribe to, but I think that most Catholics–even lapsed Catholics–make some sort of gesture during Lent. It’s like an internal clock that gets us every year, even if we haven’t been to mass since Christmas, even if we haven’t really even taken a second to think about whether or not we believe, most of the C and E Catholics I know will go to church at some point tomorrow and come out with a black smudge on their forehead and something in mind that they’ve decided to live without.

I’ve decided to do a myriad of things, most of which I will not share here, for the sole reason that I’ve always liked the story in the Bible that tells you to pray in quiet, to hide the fact that you’re fasting when you do, because it’s a personal thing that you should do for your own fulfillment. I will share, mostly because it has some sort of effect on all of you, the fact that I will be giving up all meat in this Lenten season (as with most Catholics, I do not take this to include fish), and so on the eve of Ash Wednesday, I offer you this recipe, which I’ve been making for years, ever since I found it on Ree’s website.

Asian Noodle Salad (adapted from The Pioneer Woman)
1 package whole wheat spaghetti, cooked, rinsed and cooled
1/2 head sliced Napa cabbage
1/2 head sliced Purple cabbage
1 bag bean sprouts
2 carrots, sliced into rounds
1 bunch cilantro, chopped
3 scallions, sliced
1 lime, juiced
8 Tbsp. olive oil
8 Tbsp. soy sauce
2 Tbsp. sesame oil
1/3 cup brown sugar
3 Tbsp. fresh ginger, chopped
2 cloves garlic, chopped
2 jalapenos, chopped

Mix pasta and vegetables together. Whisk dressing together and pour over salad. Toss to combine.

November 3, 2009

Pasta with Mushrooms and Gorgonzola Sauce

Filed under: Pasta, Vegetarian Main Dishes, cheese — Tags: , — emiglia @ 9:08 am

Note: Please be aware that this post was scheduled to go up on Halloween, and then my Wordpress had a fit and died most unfortunately. Put yourself in a Halloweeny mood if you like. P.S. Sorry for the pictures, which are probably the only scary part of this not-very-Halloweeny Halloween post.

Today, most people have their Halloween posts going up–something sweet or creepy or at the very least black and orange. I do not.

Halloween is not a big deal in Europe. I recently learned that the holiday is, in fact, of Irish and not American origin, but it’s in the States that we start getting ready at the end of August, throwing up ghoulish designs and selling costumes in stores as soon as kids are back in school. Here, if anyone celebrates, it’s college kids–the Halloween celebrations I’ve seen since leaving the States usually involve dressing up and drinking (multiple, strong) drinks with dry ice in them so that they smoke like witches’ brew. Don’t get me wrong: I love those celebrations, but there’s something so safe about being a kid and trick or treating, guarding your bag of candy like your bounty once you’re safe at home.

I’m leaving Spain in a week, and leaving a place always gets me thinking: I’ll miss San Sebastian, a city I’ve come to know and love. It’s a strange feeling to arrive in a new place and know that soon this will be your home, soon you’ll know everything about it, and yet that’s what’s happened yet again here, for me. San Sebastian is mine now, now that I’m ready to leave it.

I’ll miss the surf, of course, the surf I’ve waxed poetic about since I got here. I sold my surfboard yesterday–I’m sure I’ll have a new one soon, as soon as I arrive in Argentina, but it still felt like something so final, and it’s strange to sit in my room and not see it here.

I’ll miss walking around and speaking Spanish–my Spanish is nowhere as good as my French, but even giving directions or the time in Spanish, saying agur (goodbye in Basque) when I leave a store… it will be strange to be back in France and then soon after in America, back to my normal routine.

But there are things I’ve missed since coming to Spain, one of which is cooking for people. I’ve gotten used to being the point person for a new recipe or for bringing something delicious to a party, and here, due to whatever reason–the fact that I don’t have my own place, the fact that we party out more often than we stay in–has not been the case. I never realized how much I love having people to cook for until suddenly I was alone, cooking for myself, regressing back to the dishes of stewed tomatoes and vegetables that got me through my first few weeks in Paris, the weeks where my kitchen was my own and the only plate at my dinner table was mine.

So a few nights ago, I decided to cook for myself as though I had people to cook for, as though I had people other than myself to impress, and impress I did. This dish is simple to make, but it’s one of those dishes where the product is so much more than the sum of its parts. Slowly cooking earthy mushrooms with sweet onions, adding just a little bit of cream (if you’re feeling bad) and a bit of blue cheese (even if you’re not) and serving the whole thing over pasta infused with even more mushroom deliciousness… well let’s just say that even if you’re cooking for one, you may forget that you’re the only person you’re spoiling.

Pasta with Mushrooms and Gorgonzola Sauce

1 tsp. olive oil
1 tsp. butter
salt
1 onion, sliced
350 g. (12 oz.) mushrooms, sliced (I used plain white button mushrooms because they’re cheap and so am I, but feel free to change it up. And please, slice them yourself.)
black pepper
1/4 cup vegetable broth
1 tsp. cream
1 tbsp. blue cheese
1 cup mushroom fettuccine (or other pasta)

Heat the oil and butter over medium heat and cook the onion with a bit of salt until just soft. Move to the sides of the pan and turn the heat up to medium-high.

Add the mushrooms to the pan in batches so that there is no crowding. Allow to brown and release their liquid, and then combine with the onions at the sides of the pan, tossing to combine and then moving back to the sides of the pan. Repeat until all the mushrooms are cooked.

Reduce the heat to low and add the black pepper and broth. Meanwhile, cook the pasta.

When the pasta is cooked, add the cream and cheese to the mushroom mixture and stir until the cheese is melted. Remove from the heat and add the pasta. Toss to coat, adding pasta water if the sauce needs thinning.


October 12, 2009

Normal

Filed under: Pasta — Tags: , , — emiglia @ 2:57 pm

It’s strange to think about the things that have become a normal part of your life, and then to remember when they didn’t even exist on your radar.

I’m speaking specifically about the strange sensation that came over me as I Facebook stalked an old friend from high school (no, I am not ashamed) and then realized, through a series of strangely linked thoughts that sometimes happens when I’m sleep deprived, that she had no idea who The English One was. How strange, considering the fact that I spent hours upon hours napping in her bed and eating her food and walking back and forth to downtown Andover with her, and I had spent an equal amount of time since then with The English One. Unrelated friends, unrelated circumstances, but two different people who have made an impact on my life and who are completely unaware of the other’s existence.

My blog is a bit like that. In the past three years, it has become a part of my daily life: taking pictures of my food before I eat has become normal, and scratching down clever phrases I think of that I will later turn into incredibly witty, genius blog posts is habit. (OK, not the genius part… but I do write a lot of stuff down on the backs of receipts.)

The point is, things slowly become normal. Slowly, so slowly that you usually don’t notice it until it’s already happened. And then you turn around and look and see what your life has become, and only you know how different it is from what has already been and what will later be.

I notice this every time I move to a new city: I walk through the streets my first day there, taking in everything as new and unusual, and yet remaining constantly aware of the fact that in a matter of weeks, all that is new and strange to me now will be my new normal. That supermarket could be my supermarket. That crazy homeless man could be my crazy homeless man.

This is my 300th post. 300 times that I’ve sat down at my computer to ramble, post a recipe and a picture, and unleash it out onto the Internet to see what will become of it. When I first started, it was strange and new, but now it’s just the status quo… and I’ve loved every minute of it.

I’m very happy to integrate my 300th post with a project I hope as many of you as possible will contribute to: DonorsChoose.com is a website that connects people with school classrooms in need. Tomato Kumato is funding four projects that bring cooking to elementary school, something that I think is very important. To donate or to read more about the project, please visit the following link: http://www.donorschoose.org/donors/viewChallenge.html?id=24617

As has become habit for me, I am posting something tomato-related on this landmark day for me. This is a new way of making pasta with tomato sauce, something I learned to do very recently but that has since replaced my old tomato-sauce making ways as the new normal, the new easy. And anyone who thinks it’s weird or off or not “right,” an Italian taught me how to do it this way. And if we can trust anyone with tomato sauce, I think it’s safe to say that an Italian may be the right person.

New Normal Pasta and Tomato Sauce
1 cup uncooked pasta
salt
1 cup tomate frito
1 clove garlic, peeled
1/4 tsp. black pepper
1/2 tsp. dried basil

Bring a salted pot of water to a boil, and place the pasta in the pot. Allow to cook for 2 minutes, then drain, reserving the pasta water. Return the pasta to the pot with about 1/4 cup of the pasta water, the tomate frito, the garlic, the pepper and the basil.

Cook, stirring fairly continuously and adding pasta water by the 1/4 cupful as needed until the pasta is cooked al dente, about 7 minutes. Discard the garlic clove and serve. The pasta will absorb the tomate frito as it cooks. You can increase this recipe–it may take a few extra minutes–but do not increase the amount of water added at a time: it’s a fine line between silky smooth sauce and liquidy, soupy mess.

July 3, 2009

A la bolognaise

Filed under: Beef, Carnivorous Main Dishes, Pasta — Tags: , , — emiglia @ 2:06 am

It’s incredible what a difference a year makes.

A year ago, I was in Paziols, but the similarities end there.

A year ago, Alex and I weren’t together. A year ago, I was still in school. A year ago, I had no idea what I wanted to do with my life.

Well… I guess I still don’t. But I’m working on it. I’m not in a hurry.

That’s what the South does to you: something I had forgotten since I knew it so well a year ago, when so much of my time was still spent back and forth on the train to Cannes for weekends at the beach and nights out in my favorite Irish pub–a pub so incredible with staff that were such good friends that I thought nothing of riding the train five hours just to be able to sit at the bar and have a pint.

But I’m not in Cannes, or even in Provence. I am in the South–in Paziols. Third time’s the charm, or so they say, but everything about my life in Paziols–the three summers I’ve spent living in this old house and watching it change and evolve before my eyes–has been charming: the third year is just that… one more year of being here, in what Anne-Marie has always told us to call our “home” in France.

And it does feel like a home–after so long of not having one, I had forgotten what it feels like to be so completely right in a place: not just in an apartment, like in Paris, or in a town you know like the back of your hand, like our summer house in Westhampton, but a place that has everything: a town, a house, a built-in family.

I do the cooking here now that Patricia is gone, and that makes this feel even more like my house, as I put together menus and call on the kids as though they were my own siblings to help me wash vegetables and chop tomatoes and carry platters laden with salads and potatoes and meat to the table where the rest of them sit waiting. It’s nothing like any camp experience I had when growing up: they all know, even after having been here for less than 48 hours, that we’re a family, that this is their home too.

A year ago, it wasn’t like this–not really. It may have been because it was still so new for all of us, even the staff. It may have been because the group we have this year is chomping at the bit to be let out into the green pastures of vines that sprawl on all sides, to ask constantly, “Comment dit-on…” How do you say…

How do you say what it is I want to say? Even I don’t know, and I’ve been mulling it over for days as I sleep beneath an opened window and listen to crickets chirp and wait for the midnight crow of the rooster who’s either confused or running on his own schedule, as the South tends to do.

They love it. I can tell they do. I could tell from the moment I listened in on their conversation at the airport–three girls who had never met before, talking about how great it would be when they were fluent. They reminded me of myself, and that, in and of itself, made me smile.

I don’t know why this is so different from what it was a year ago. A year ago, none of this was real for me, but this year, it couldn’t be more real.

Spaghetti à la bolognaise (serves 20)

2 Tbsp. butter
2 Tbsp. olive oil
2 onions
2 carrots
2 stalks of celery
200 g. lardons
1.8 kilo ground beef
430 g. tomato coulis
765 g. canned whole tomatoes
1 glass wine
2 cups milk

Mince the carrots, onion and celery. Melt the oil and butter together in a skillet and slowly cook the vegetables over medium heat until tender. Season generously with salt.

Push the vegetables to the side and add the lardons. Cook until golden.

Pull the vegetables back into the middle of the skillet and mix with the lardons. Push the mixture back to the sides of the slillet and add the meat in small amounts, browning well before pushing it to the side as well.

Prepare a large stock pot with a lid. When the skillet grows too full, scoop the vegetables and meat out with a slotted spoon and keep warm in the stock pot. Continue frying the meat in the skillet and transferring it, as need be, to the pot. When all the meat is cooked, remove the skillet from the heat and place the stock pot over a low flame.

Add the wine and the milk, and bring to a boil. Add the tomatoes and mix to combine. Reduce the flame back to low and cover. Cook for 2-4 hours, stirring occasionally. Season with more salt as needed and serve with spaghetti. Keeps well in the fridge to serve hungry campers for lunch.


June 17, 2009

Greek Pasta with Feta Sauce

Filed under: Pasta, cheese — Tags: , , — emiglia @ 6:06 pm

“You’re Italian.”

It wasn’t a question, so I wasn’t sure how to respond. Actually, I’m never really sure how to respond to questions about my origins here in France: some people find it incredulous that we Americans actually care where our parents and grandparents and great-grandparents immigrated from–as far as they’re concerned, we’re all Americans.

I guess I had paused too long, because he continued. “Greek? At least Mediterranean…”

The person isn’t of consequence: a boy in a bar like so many others. And the conversation, I suppose, is also like so many others: to anyone looking at me, with dark eyes and olive skin and the dark, curly-wavy hair that is so typical of my background, I’m very obviously of Mediterranean descent. In the summertime, when I’m tanned, I’ve even been asked if I’m Lebanese, but that’s another story for another day.

I’m not Greek. I’m Sicilian. But I have nothing against people assuming I’m Greek. In fact, there are a lot of similarities between the two countries: both on trading routes with rich histories and blending of people and cultures and languages and cuisines. And of course, there are the cuisines themselves, which are more similar than one would think: heavy on fish and other seafood with similar spices and herbs that make even dissimilar recipes from the distinct countries seem less like unrelated lists of ingredients and instead like distant cousins.

Peter, who writes Kalofagas posted a recipe a long time ago for Miskotini with Feta, a Greek pasta recipe with a creamy, cheesy sauce made from feta, a sharp cheese with personality and bite, gently melted into cream and pasta water and set against black pepper and oregano. I manipulated the recipe with what I had, using crème fraîche (and less of it) instead of the heavy cream called for, but the effect was the same: a creamy sauce with a bite that went well with a nice, lemony salad.

No, I’m not Greek, but I don’t mind the mistake. Not one bit.

Spaghetti With Feta (adapted from Kalofagas)

500 g. spaghetti
1 clove garlic, minced
200gr. crumbled Feta
1/8 cup crème fraîche
2 tsp. dried oregano
salt and pepper to taste

Boil a large, salted pot of water and add the spaghetti to cook.

Meanwhile, mix crème fraîche and garlic in a saucepan and heat over low heat. Add the feta and mix it into the mixture until it melts. Cover the pot and remove from the heat.

When the pasta is cooked, reserve some of the starchy water and drain the pasta. Add the pasta to the saucepan and toss to coat, adding pasta water if necessary. Season with oregano and black pepper and serve immediately.

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