Tomato Kumato

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.

May 22, 2009

Pasta with Four Tomatoes

Filed under: Pasta — Tags: , , , — emiglia @ 2:43 am

Sometimes, I feel like I just can’t do it anymore.

I wake up one morning, and I lie in bed without checking my e-mail immediately, like I usually do, because I know that I can’t open one more rejection letter, a long-winded and well-worded “thanks, but no thanks.” I can’t send out one more copy of my screenplay to someone I know is going to throw it directly into the waste bin. I can’t lose one more blog post due to my moody Internet connection.

I start to realize why some writers turn to the drink.

I tell this to the English One, who tells me, jokingly, that I turned to drink years ago.

But in the morning? In my coffee? You tell me. Not yet, but who knows? One more day like this, and it might happen.

You’re young yet. You haven’t been at it that long. I honestly don’t know how anyone carries on that long without some kind of validation. Without one person reading what they write and telling them that it’s not all in vain, that it’s just a matter of time. Because sometimes, I read what I write, and the words blur together, and I just don’t know anymore.

I know, at least, that I’m good at one thing, for sure. And so when the days seem too hard, and I can’t look at one more sentence without wanting to scream, I close my laptop and head to the kitchen, where everything makes sense.

Tomatoes are my comfort food: I love them in any form. And so, when I can’t make a decision, when decisions just seem way too overwhelming, I have them in all forms. Sun-dried, roasted, canned and fresh, tossed together with things that make them right: salt, olive oil, basil, garlic, onions. At least something works, and that makes it seem worth it to finally open my laptop again, to double click yet another word document, to try again.

Because in the end, I know there’s nothing else for me. Like most writers, I don’t do this because I want to. Like a good love, a really good love, I hate writing most of the time, but I can’t stay away: the pull is too strong, the good moments too good to let go for something easy, as tempting as that may be. We’re intrinsically linked, writing and I, and if I were to ever give up on it, I’d be giving up on myself.

Pasta with Four Tomatoes (serves two)
4 fresh on-the-vine tomatoes, vine reserved
3 tsp. olive oil, separated
1 tsp. sugar
salt
5 sun-dried tomatoes, soaked in a half-cup of warm water for about an hour
1 clove garlic, minced
1 onion, chopped
1 425 g. (15-oz.) can whole, peeled tomatoes
175 g. (6 oz.) dried pasta
fresh basil for garnish (optional)

Start by soaking the sun-dried tomatoes in a half-cup of warm water if you have not already done so.

Cut three of the four fresh tomatoes in half. Place, cut side up, in a roasting pan. Sprinkle with 1 tsp. salt, sugar and one tsp. of the olive oil. Roast in a 400 degree oven until the bottoms are browned and caramelized, about 20 minutes. Turn over and roast on the other side until browned, about five minutes.

Meanwhile, in a skillet, heat a second teaspoon of olive oil over medium heat. Add the onion and a pinch of salt. Sauté until the onion is translucent and sweet, 2-3 minutes. Add the garlic and cook until fragrant, about a minute. Add the can of tomatoes and the vine from the fresh tomatoes. Bring to a simmer and then cook over low heat until the tomatoes have broken down, about a half-hour.

Remove the tomato vine and purée the sauce with an immersion blender. Slice the sundried tomatoes into strips, and add them and the soaking water to the sauce. Continue to cook over medium heat, stirring occasionally, until the sauce has reached the desired consistency, about ten minutes.

Meanwhile, heat a pot of salted water and cook the pasta to just under al dente, about six minutes. Reserve some of the starchy water. Add the pasta and the remaining teaspoon of oil to the sauce, adding the starchy water if necessary to make the sauce adhere to the pasta. Cook for one more minute.

To assemble the dish, plate the pasta with sauce and top each plate with three halves of roasted tomatoes and two quarters of the reserved fresh tomato. Garnish with basil if desired.

April 16, 2009

Spring Peas Two Ways

Filed under: Beans and Legumes, Pasta, Side Dishes, Vegetarian Main Dishes — Tags: , , , — emiglia @ 10:12 am

I used to be offended when market vendors tried to foist their deals on me.

I thought it was a reflection on my status as a foreigner, something I’ve always hated. I know that I have an accent, but I feel like a Parisian, and I expect to be treated as one, even though I know that that’s not always going to happen.

Recently, though, I realized that I may have misconstrued the way that I am being treated at the markets.

My aunt recently visited me for a bit more than a week, and while she was here, we traipsed all over Paris, including many of the daily markets. I watched as the women interacted with the vendors, and I realized something: the Parisian housewives, the ones with their little carriages for carrying their purchases home who could not be mistaken for anything besides locals were getting the exact same treatment as I was.

“One kilo of strawberries.”

“I can give you two for five!”

And here was the difference: where I was usually guilted into accepting the offer, these women knew what they wanted.

“No, one is enough.”

They didn’t see my Americanness before the question was asked, but after, after I had given my begrudging, “OK.” All I had to do was say, “no, thank you.”

I started at my local market a week later, setting off to buy peas for an Asparagus and Pea dish I had found on Epicurious.

“One kilo of peas, please.”

“I can give you two for eight,” was the answer. I almost spat out, “No,” right away, eager to test my new theory, but then I decided that it was a good price and decided to take them. Oh well, theories for another day, right? Until I realized I could buy my asparagus from the same stall.

“And a bundle of asparagus.”

Almost automatically, the vendor answered, “I can give you two for five!”

“No, one is fine.” I answered.

“Very good, miss.”

I paid, I left with my produce… and I felt Parisian.

I also, of course, had a lot of peas to contend with.

I started with the Asparagus and Pea dish. I really wanted to like it–the description sounded so enticing: fresh peas and asparagus, brought together with the taste of freshly picked basil and onions sautéed in butter. But alas, it was not to be: maybe it was my French-style white asparagus. Maybe it was the fact that spring asparagus here are much fatter around than the American ones. Maybe it would have been better with roasted asparagus, with a bit of pesto used to bind the vegetables a bit more… but something wasn’t right with this dish, as pretty as it was. It was fine, but it didn’t feel like quite the right way to celebrate fresh spring peas.

I had more peas to use up, and this time, I ventured forth without a recipe. I shelled a bunch of peas and cooked them in butter on the stovetop. I cooked some farfalle and mixed a bit of the starchy water with some pesto and the peas, adding salt and pepper. I tossed it all together, and Alex and I had it for lunch.

I hate to toot my own horn, but my invention was a much better use of these gorgeous peas than that asparagus dish was… not that I’m giving up on it yet. I know that my market vendor will be more than happy to sell me some more fresh spring veggies!

This is my submission to April’s round of Eating with the Seasons. Feel free to head over and send your own submissions until April 20th!

For more stories about my market adventures, feel free to check out my post about my local Place Monge market at my travel blog, Bordeaux and Palmiers!

Spring Pea Pasta

Because I just sort of threw this together, I don’t have a real recipe. It’s very easy to recreate at home, though!

First, measure out enough dry pasta for two people. Begin cooking it in boiling, salted water.

Next, measure out an equal amount of freshly shelled peas. Heat some butter in a skillet, and add the peas, stirring to coat. Add some salt and pepper. Cover the skillet and cook over medium-low heat, stirring occasionally, for about eight minutes, or until the peas are cooked through.

Reserve a ladleful of pasta water and drain the rest of the pasta. Add it to the skillet with the peas, along with a few tablespoons of storebought pesto (use as much as you like.) Add as much pasta water as you need to thin out the sauce, and add salt and pepper to taste.

Remove the pasta from the skillet to a serving bowl, and tear some fresh basil leaves over the top. Serve with parmesan cheese if you like!

April 3, 2009

Spaghetti and Meatballs

Filed under: Beef, Pasta, Pork — Tags: , , , — emiglia @ 1:40 pm

I have a list of foods that I do not, under any circumstances, cook.

Mostly, it’s because I had a poor experience making them when I first started cooking in Toronto: hamburgers, latkes, wheatberries, meatballs.

For a little while, tomato sauce was on this list: I couldn’t help making it taste sour.

But tomato sauce came off the list, and now, spaghetti and meatballs are off the list as well.

Spaghetti and meatballs is one of my true comfort meals: something that I wish I had around all the time in case I was in a bad mood and just needed a big bowl of something awesome. My mom’s meatballs, truthfully, are not the best I’ve ever had. The best I’ve ever had were eaten at Carmine’s, a New York institution, where the portions are much larger than any human should ever even attempt to eat, but the food is so tasty that you end up trying anyway.

These meatballs were fall-apart tender and moist, almost braised in a bright red, perfectly flavorful tomato sauce. In keeping with the theme of large portions, Carmine’s meatballs are massive, about the size of a softball. They’re my ultimate meatball, and I spent many evenings in Toronto on the phone with my mother trying to figure out how to make my meatballs taste like that. Instead, I always ended up with hard craters that had huge chunks of onion sticking out of them that fall apart, but not in the good way: mine crumble.

I had resigned myself to being a horrid meatball maker, counting down the days until the next time I could visit Carmine’s and have one of their pillowy meatballs… until I saw this.

I had made the Bolognese sauce at FX Cuisine before and swooned. It was everything a Bolognese sauce should be. When I saw the recipe for spaghetti and meatballs, I considered it: could it be? Could I maybe make a meatball that even came close to the Holy Grail of a Carmine’s meatball?

Alas, there was no real recipe, and I almost decided against it, but then… the leftover meat from the Daring Bakers’ lasagna was still sitting in my fridge waiting to be used… so I went for it.

And I’m so glad I did. These meatballs are everything you could ask for in a meatball and more: they’re light, melt-in-your-mouth tender, and perfectly flavorful and delicious. The real key is the milk-soaked bread. If I didn’t know it was there, I wouldn’t have been able to pick it out, but I know that those little pockets of moisture came from that.

They’re not the softballs of Carmine’s, but, in my opinion, they were just as delicious.

I’ve assembled a more exact recipe from the guidelines provided at FX Cuisine. Whether you decide to go with his recipe or mine, these meatballs are definitely worth trying.

Spaghetti and Meatballs (adapted from FX Cuisine)

1 tbsp. olive oil
350 gm 20% fat raw ground beef
130 gm Italian sausage
260 gm raw veal, sliced into strips
1 slice bread (I used a quarter of a loaf of French bread), very dry and stale
milk
2 tbsp grated Parmesan cheese
1 egg
1 tsp. dried basil
1 tsp. dried oregano
1 clove garlic, minced
1 28 oz. can whole tomatoes
700 gm passata
salt and pepper to taste

Heat the olive oil in a large, heavy-bottomed pot, and add the veal. Brown on all sides evenly, and then add the tomatoes and passata, adding salt and pepper to taste. Allow to cook on a low temperature, uncovered, while you prepare the meatballs.
Preheat the oven to 350 degrees. Soak the bread in milk, a few tablespoons at a time, until soggy and falling apart. Into the same bowl, add the ground beef, sausage, cheese, egg, basil, oregano and garlic. Add salt and pepper to taste. Combine with your hands, handling the meat as gently as possible, working all the ingredients together.

Using one hand, portion out a small amount of the meat: about the size of a golf ball. Gently work it into a sphere and place it on a greased baking sheet. Continue this way until all the meat is used up: I ended up with twenty meatballs. Place the sheet in the oven, and bake until just browned on the outside, about ten minutes.

Using a spoon, gently lower the meatballs into the sauce. Allow to cook until cooked through, anywhere from fifteen to forty-five minutes. Serve over freshly cooked pasta with extra parmesan cheese for sprinkling.

March 29, 2009

Daring Bakers: Lasagne Verdi al Forno

Filed under: Beef, Carnivorous Main Dishes, Daring Bakers, Pasta, Pork — Tags: , — emiglia @ 3:02 pm

The March 2009 challenge is hosted by Mary of Beans and Caviar, Melinda of Melbourne Larder and Enza of Io Da Grande. They have chosen Lasagne of Emilia-Romagna from The Splendid Table by Lynne Rossetto Kasper as the challenge.

I was so excited that my very first Daring Bakers’ Challenge was something savory: I joined the Daring Bakers because I really do want to challenge myself, but if you take a look at some of the monstrous cakes the Bakers have made in the past, you’ll understand why I was a little bit nervous.

The lasagna was no easy task either: we had to make a ragu, homemade spinach pasta and homemade béchamel.


In the end, I found that all of the tasks were fairly simple. Yes, the ragu has to cook for hours before it’s ready to eat, and yes, the pasta requires a lot of rolling. But I paced myself and made the ragu separately a few days in advance. I had already made béchamel several times for other recipes, so it was quite simple as well.

That just left the pasta recipe, but in the end, I just asked myself why I didn’t make homemade pasta more often.

Especially now that it’s all gone.

I love the flecks of spinach in the homemade pasta!
I made half of the pasta recipe provided but I made all of the ragu and béchamel. I ended up making much thicker layers than were called for in the recipe: I used three layers of pasta and I used up all of the béchamel. Some ragú was left, so I tossed it with the leftover pasta.

They ate all of it.

Alex swooned and started telling people on the phone that I made homemade lasagna “à la main,” and then my friend Matt came over and finished it off.

As for me? I loved it. It’s definitely in the top two lasagne I’ve ever had in my life, and the fact that there were no artificial flavorings and everything was made by hand makes it shoot up to number one in my book.

I’ll definitely be making it again… but this time I’m making a bigger batch.

The recipe is available here.

Please, don’t be scared off by fresh pasta like I was: try this recipe. Your loved ones will thank you for it… with their mouths full.

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