Archive for ‘Pasta’

July 3rd, 2010

Summer Squash Carbonara

I owe you a “proper” carbonara recipe. I mentioned my fondness for authentic carbonara, like months ago, and then there was not another peep from me on the subject. In the meantime, I’ve made “proper” carbonara a handful of times, and even gave an impromptu presentation on carbonara to the employees at the local gourmet market where I buy my guanciale. I just haven’t photographed any of it, since proper carbonara is usually our harried-day dinner, for days when we don’t want to shop, or cook, and certainly aren’t about to pull out the tripod and start taking photos.

alone in the kitchen

So for now, we’ll have to compromise with a summer squash carbonara, since I couldn’t resist photographing these zucchini. It’s not “proper” — far from it — but it does adhere to certain carbonara principles. First, I used guanciale (pig jowl) as the pork ingredient. This rule is often — shockingly! — thrown out the window. I see recipes using bacon and pancetta calling themselves carbonara in cooking magazines all the time. Some of them even mention that if you don’t have pancetta, you can substitute bacon. Pancetta? Pancetta is a substitution in itself. Shouldn’t it read if you can’t, for the life of you, find guanciale you can substitute bacon? Yes, I’ll answer that myself. Yes, that’s what it should say. And while we’re on the subject, I find pancetta too salty for carbonara; I’d rather use bacon, a lightly smoked one.

IMG_1317

Here’s what you can do if you can’t find guanciale: buy a fresh pork belly and turn it into bacon yourself, going light on the smoke, or cure it instead with lots of pepper and juniper berries. Or, okay, this is better: find a butcher who can get you all kinds of cuts of meat (or, find a farmer and buy a whole pig — if you have a big freezer — or go in on a share), then use the jowl to make guanciale. Or you could just mail-order guanciale. Don’t worry if you need to buy a whole lot of it at once. It freezes flawlessly. And it’s worth the cost of shipping.

guancialeguanciale

Alright, the second principle, one I’m particularly fussy about: Never let the eggs touch the pan. Whether you whisk the eggs with cheese beforehand or leave the yolks whole to be added to individual bowls before serving, you never want them to touch high heat. High heat ruins the consistency of the sauce or — worse — scrambles the eggs. If you are cooking for someone with a compromised immune system, you could cook the eggs and cheese (slowly!) to 175ºF in a double boiler, like custard, but a compromised immune system is the only excuse for doing that, people. I’ll know if you do it any other way. I’ve got my eyes on you.

eggs, cheese, PEPPER!

By taking your pasta and other ingredients off the heat before tossing with the egg, you ensure that the sauce won’t overcook. Immediately start mixing once you add the pasta and sauce together, and the eggs will cook just the slightest bit, transforming into a silky sauce that’s lighter than a butter sauce, thicker than olive oil.

my old, trusty stove

The final principle is that there must be a lot of freshly ground black pepper. You’ve got to taste the pepper, rather than using it as a background seasoning. Black pepper gives kick to that silky egg sauce, really makes it. Without enough pepper, the sauce tastes too eggy, and that’s not what carbonara is about. In the best carbonaras, unwitting diners can’t even taste eggs in the dish.

summer squash

In this version, though, it’s okay to go a little easier on the pepper (but still use a healthy amount), since you have so much flavor in the caramelized, sweet, soft, beautiful squash. You want to cook the squash until it’s deeply browned. You’re not looking for crisp tender vegetables here; they should be soft, heavily caramelized, and end up tasting almost as silky as the creamy egg sauce itself. My opinion about zucchini and yellow squash is that it’s a vegetable too often served under-cooked. It’s best when you cook it until the insides are soft and fluffy, like vegetal mousse. Cook it with care, or you’ll end up with mush. The less you mess with the squash, the better; using your spoon to mix it around too often will result in broken pieces with all the insides spilling out. Shaking the pan mixes things up gently. Now would be the time to start perfecting that cheffy toss-and-flip thing with the skillet.

toss with eggs

I cut these squash on a diagonal, to mimic the shape of the penne pasta (a tip from Jamie Oliver). It proved a good shape to use since it left a lot of surface area exposed for caramelizing and cooking into browned, tasty goodnesss and the small, similar shapes in the pasta bowl made for easy eating. Each forkful had zucchini and pasta both, a bowlful of perfect bites.

Jim’s away for a few days, so I didn’t have anyone to share with, which was a little sad since we share almost every meal together. But, honestly, having an extra serving was a-okay by me.

carbonara

Summer Squash  Carbonara

serves 4 // adapted from Jamie Oliver

4 small-to-medium summer squashes (preferably zucchini and thin yellow squash, but any will do)
1 small chunk of guanciale (2 – 3 ounces)
2 big thyme sprigs

2 egg yolks
2 heaping tablespoons crème fraiche (and I mean heaping)
1 healthy handful of parmigiano cheese
lots of freshly ground black pepper
kosher salt

1/2 pound penne pasta
more cheese to taste
chives, optional
good olive oil, for drizzling

Cut the squash lengthwise in half, then cut halves at an angle into slices roughly the same size as the penne. Or, you can leave smaller squash whole and cut into round slices.

Cut guanciale into small chunks and add to a skillet over medium heat. Once the guanciale has begun to render its fat and is looking sort of translucent, add in the squash and bump the heat up to medium-high. Strip the leaves off the thyme stems and add leaves to the pan. Cook until squash is totally tender and deeply caramelized, about 25 minutes.

Meanwhile, put up a pot of water for the pasta, adding ¼ cup of kosher salt to the water.

In a small bowl, whisk together egg yolks, crème fraiche, and cheese. Add a lot of pepper and a big pinch of salt.

Cook pasta according to direction. Drain, then add pasta to the pan with the cooked squash (make sure the squash is already browned to perfection before you add the pasta in). Stir everything together gently, then remove from heat.

In a large bowl, add the egg mixture. Now, add in your pasta, gently stirring as the pasta is going in, and keep stirring (or tossing) everything together so that the egg mixture warms up, but doesn’t cook. (You need to keep everything moving so enough air circulates that it begins to cool down the pasta. If you add the pasta and leave it for even 30 seconds to do something else, the sauce is likely to lose its silky consistency.)

Serve with a garnish of chives, a drizzling of olive oil, and pass around extra cheese at the table.

April 14th, 2010

Pasta Puttanesca

In high school, I made pasta puttanesca for the first time. My teacher gave us a take-home assignment to cook an authentic Italian dish, and my team drew the puttanesca. All I really remember about the assignment was the name “Pasta Puttanesca” and just how funny it was, and the horrendous idea that we would have to eat capers (yuck!) and olives (double yuck!) and anchovies (too disgusting even to think about). I actually thought it turned out pretty good, though I imagine if I had to eat a meal prepared by three high school kids with no cooking experience, you might hear a few double yucks from me now.

IMG_2701

I haven’t made pasta puttanesca since high school, but every time I’ve thought about it since then I’ve laughed — “Whore’s Pasta!” — gufaww! I’m laughing now. I guess jokes from your childhood have a way of making you smile. I find the name so funny that it was actually hard to cook it. I made joke after joke to Jim, who didn’t find them as funny as I did, and I even called a bunch of people to tell them I was making pasta puttanesca, hardy har har. I’m obviously regressing in leaps and bounds.

IMG_2772

But if reverting to a fourteen-year-old is the price for pasta puttanesca, I’ll pay it. Capers, olives, and anchovies all seem so delicious now; briny, oily, fishy — the stuff of my dreams! I’m rather ashamed of my 14-year-old self, sticking out my tongue at those lovely ingredients. And the name, whore’s pasta or street-walker’s pasta, or whatever it actually translates to in Italian, only adds to the greatness of the dish, adding a little sex to the tomatoes and chilies and big fat shrimp.

IMG_2799

To make a pasta puttanesca special, parsley is key. Use lots and lots of it. It’ll be the foil to the spice, the fish flavor, and the sweet tomatoes. Parsley brings it all together.

IMG_2810

I’ve heard that people don’t traditionally put cheese on their puttanesca, so we tried it without first. But a good block of parmigianno was in my fridge, and a load of pasta on my plate, and the combination proved too hard to resist. And I don’t really know why you wouldn’t want cheese in there; it was delicious melding with the spices, coating the shrimp. A good glug of olive oil on top won’t hurt, either.

big bowl o' pasta

Spaghetti alla Puttanesca

Printable Recipe

adapted from Patricia Wells’ Trattoria cookbook (a lovely cookbook, indeed)

serves 6

1/4 cup extra-virgin olive oil
4 flat anchovy fillets cured in olive oil, minced
3 plump fresh garlic cloves, minced
1/2 teaspoon crushed red pepper flakes, or to taste
sea salt
1 (28-ounce) can Italian plum tomatoes in juice
15 salt-cured black olives, such as Italian Gaeta or French Nyons, pitted and halved
2 tablespoons capers, drained and rinsed
1 pound dried Italian imported spaghetti
1 cup flat leaf Italian parsley, coarsely chopped.
1/2 to 1 pound big, fat shrimp, peeled and deveined

In an unheated skillet large enough to hold the pasta later on, combine the oil, anchovies, garlic, crushed red peppers, and a pinch of salt, stirring to coat with the oil. Cook over moderate heat just until the garlic turns golden but does not brown, 2 to 3 minutes. Pour out a little of the juice from the can of tomatoes, maybe about half, then add the tomatoes with reserved juice into the pan, breaking up the tomatoes with a wooden spoon. Add the olives and capers. Stir to blend, and simmer, uncovered, until the sauce begins to thicken, about 15 minutes. Taste for seasoning.

Meanwhile, in a large pot bring 6 quarts of water to a rolling boil. Add 3 tablespoons of salt and the spaghetti, stirring to prevent the pasta from sticking. Cook until tender but firm to the bite. Drain.

Add the drained pasta to skillet with the sauce. Season the shrimp with salt and pepper and add the shrimp to the pasta and sauce. Toss, then tuck the shrimp into the pasta and let it cook for 2-3 minutes, or until the shrimp is mostly done. Turn off the heat and let the sauce absorb into the pasta for another minute or so.  Add the parsley and toss. Serve immediately, passing parmesan cheese and olive oil at the table.

January 2nd, 2010

Linguine with sea urchin sauce and caviar.

Two thousand and ten. I may just be getting old, but that doesn’t seem right.  It seems like, in 2010, we should be zooming around in flying cars.  Or teleporting.  Talking to aliens, at least. When I was a kid, to be honest, I thought we’d all be dead by 2010, though I was always a little pessimistic.  But still, here we are: 2010.  Wow.

A mess

We don’t have flying cars yet (and I never really understood why we wanted them–we have airplanes, no?) and, as far as I know, we haven’t reached any aliens; but I have something that’ll knock those things out of the water: linguine with sea urchin sauce and caviar.  Happy New Year.

Treasure

If you’ve never tried sea urchin, you really must.  (Though go out to a nice restaurant to do it; the smell of uncleaned sea urchin could deter anyone from a first bite.)  To me, the flavor tastes more like the ocean than mussels, with their blue brininess, or even oysters, which run a close second.  Sea urchin smells and tastes ancestral, primitive.  It’s extremely sexy.  Well, once you get past the part where you’ll need to put on thick rubber gloves so as not to stab yourself.

My first taste of sea urchin was at Nobu Next Door, the first time I took Jim out to dinner.  He had been taking me out a lot, to Cafe Boulud, and Babbo, and Gotham Bar and Grill, spending the money from his book advance, and I wanted to reciprocate.  We drove into the city, showed up at Nobu without reservations, and were directed to their sister restaurant, Next Door.  I told the waitress to bring us whatever she liked.  I struggled with my chopsticks and one ended up on the neighboring table (thankfully, the couple was wonderful, and gently urged me to eat with my fingers.)  I nearly had a heart attack when the check came; I’d been working part-time at Barnes & Noble and finishing my senior year of college, and I think the dinner was close to a whole month’s paycheck.  I walked out with a bit of sticker shock, but as it wore off, I realized that I would have paid that and more, if only for the introduction to sea urchin. I was so in love with the stuff and I’m sure I made a fool of myself at the dinner, goofy-faced and swooning, exclaiming that it tasted like the ocean in a cloud.

Twirl

The next time I tried sea urchin, at a place-that-shall-remain-nameless in the Hamptons, it was decidedly less impressive; the piece was too large, the urchin’s flavor more like the dregs of the sea than the waves.  I hadn’t had it since, until this New Year’s Eve.  I’m happy to report that it was just as good—better!—than the first time.  Parmigiano reggiano and butter compliment the sea urchin’s brininess, a flawless combination that pleasantly surprised me; the fishiness of the caviar brings out the urchin’s sweetness.  The sauce coated each strand of pasta in just the right, silky way (you need good, dried pasta for this; fresh would make the overall texture too soft).  It was easy enough to pull off after a few glasses of champagne, too.

American paddlefish caviar

This year had been one of ups and downs.  The ups have been really high.  The downs, way down.  But as I look back at 2009, I’m amazed at where I am with my cooking, my relationship with Jim, my happiness with myself and the place we live, how much I love this blog.  I feel like things are just getting started.  2010 will be a good year, even without teleportation.

Linguini with sea urchin and caviar

Linguine with Sea Urchin Sauce and Caviar

serves 4, adapted from Eric Ripert’s On the Line

I’m still failing at my mission to find Espelette pepper, so I replaced it with fresh black pepper in this recipe.  I also used American paddlefish caviar instead of Iranian osetra caviar because it’s sustainable and costs a lot less than the upwards of $500 you can spend for the Iranian.  I’ve had both in my lifetime and, especially in a recipe like this, you won’t feel cheated with paddlefish.

The Sea Urchin Sauce

½ cup sea urchin roe (the pink stuff inside)
8 tablespoons (1 stick) unsalted, good quality butter, softened
1 tablespoon water
Kosher salt
Freshly ground black pepper

The Pasta

1 ½ teaspoons thinly sliced chives
1 tablespoon freshly grated parmigiano reggiano cheese
Kosher salt and freshly ground white pepper
½ lemon, or to taste

The Garnish

1 ounce American paddlefish caviar, or to taste

For the sea urchin sauce, puree the sea urchin roe in a blender, scraping down the side with a rubber spatula so that no big pieces remain unblended.  Pass it  through a fine-mesh sieve, and return to the blender.  Blend the puree with the softened butter.

To finish the sauce, bring the water to a boil in a small saucepan.  Gradually whisk in the sea urchin butter, about 1 tablespoon at a time.  Season with salt and pepper and keep warm.

When reader to serve, cook the pasta in a large pot of boiling salted water until al dente; drain.

Put the chives in a medium stainless steel bowl, add the warmed sauce and Parmesan cheese, and mix well.  Season with salt and white pepper if necessary.  Gently toss the pasta with the sauce.

To serve, use a meat fork to twirl one-quarter of the pasta and mound it in the center of a small bowl.  Repeat 3 times.  Drizzle 1 tablespoon of the sauce remaining in the stainless steel bowl around each mound.  Squeeze the lemon juice over the pasta and place 1 ½ teaspoons of the caviar on top of each mound of pasta.  Serve immediately.

Related Posts with Thumbnails