Oneness of Pasta Amatriciana

My sister recently texted me when a recipe I made for her wedding shower went mysteriously missing from my old blog. The recipe was from eight years ago, before I turned twenty-nine. I eventually found the post, and it was painful to read.

I was navigating being an unmarried maid of honor to my little sister and hiding unwed fears in a butternut squash salad. I am still not married today and that is okay with me. I have seen enough to know that having a husband doesn’t really solve any problems.

I haven’t been writing much lately. Mostly because I have been busy doing things I don’t really want to be doing. Brett and I bought a condo that would rival the country house Walter and Anna purchase in The Money Pit.

Some days it feels like I have my footing, and other days I’ve lost it again. But memory is funny in the way it ruffles up parts of the past and smooths out others. Life is a constant battle of finding ground and displacing it. I wish I could tell my 20-something self not to worry.

I would tell her:

Diamonds aren’t everything. After you learn how to take care of yourself, a man will come along and your mother will say he is the kind of human she always envisioned for you. He will hang English wallpaper in your bedroom. He will come home when he says he will, and text when he’s running late. He will buy a new suit to stand by you when all of your grandparents pass away. He will remember your anniversary and love you even when you don’t feel like you deserve it.

Brett and I recently got back from a trip to Italy. We ate at the same restaurant in Rome three times and ordered the same amitriciana pasta, with the same side of deep emerald green chicory. We are creatures of habit, but we also have enough sense to stay put when something is good.

The meal reminded me of the pasta my uncle used to make at my grandma’s, back when she was alive and they were on speaking terms. Both the Roman dish and the one that follows feel deeply familiar, though I’m not exactly sure why. The sauce is bright and yet deeply flavored, thanks to the moderate cooking of the tomatoes and, of course, the pork. There were no onions or garlic visible with the final product at Ditta Trinchetti, our Italian restaurant, though I suspect they were still lurking behind the scenes.

Brett and I ate an obscene amount of pork jowl to get this recipe just right. Boston has criminally expensive real estate, but there are upsides to living in a city. Namely, finding the pig parts you need when you need them. Since guanciale isn’t always easy to locate, I’ve seen variants made with pancetta and others with bacon. I can’t assure either as a substitute, but they are worth a try. Just buy the fattiest version available and hope for the best.

Seven years ago, I posted my recipe for making homemade pasta, along with some things I had learned and titled it, “Oneness of Self and Pasta.” I thought I had it all together.

Turns out, oneness is a lifetime process. But pasta is a different matter. Sometimes with enough persistence, a superlative Roman meal can be recreated at home. And, if you’re lucky enough, you just might find someone who is willing to eat it with you, time and time again.

Bucatini All’Amitriciana

Ingredients:

• 1 tablespoon plus 1 teaspoon olive oil, divided

• 8 ounces guanciale, cut into ½-inch pieces

• 1 medium onion, cut into 1½ to 2-inch chunks

• 2 cloves garlic, peeled and smashed with the side of a knife

• salt, to taste

• 2-28 ounce cans whole peeled tomatoes, hand squeezed to crush

  (drain tomato liquid and reserve for another use)

• 1 pint cherry tomatoes

• 1 pound bucatini (or other dry pasta)

Instructions:

In a Dutch oven or large heavy-bottomed pot, heat one teaspoon olive oil over low heat. Add the guanciale and cook, stirring occasionally, until it starts to turn golden brown, about 10 minutes. Using a slotted spoon, remove the guanciale and place in a small bowl. Carefully pour most of the rendered fat into a small heatproof container, leaving about 2 to 3 tablespoons of fat in the pot, and set aside.

Turn the heat to medium-low and add the onion and garlic to the pot. Add a pinch of salt and stir. Continue to cook, stirring occasionally, until the onions soften and turn a slightly darker shade, about 10 to 15 minutes. (If the garlic starts to darken too quickly, take it out.) Remove the onion and garlic from the pot (set aside for another use).

Add the hand-crushed tomatoes and another pinch of salt to the pot. Cook on medium to medium-low heat for about 15 minutes, stirring occasionally, until the sauce reduces slightly and starts to taste less acidic. Add the reserved cooked guanciale and cook on medium-low for 15 to 20 more minutes, until the sauce further thickens. Add more salt, to taste.

Meanwhile, bring a large pot of salted water (a few pinches) to a boil on high heat. In a large skillet on medium to medium-high heat, add a tablespoon of olive oil and the cherry tomatoes. Cook, stirring occasionally, until they soften and blister in spots; set aside.

When the water is at a rolling boil, add the pasta and cook until al dente or slightly under if you have strong feelings about it being cooked to the tooth (it will continue to cook once tossed in the sauce).

Stir in half of the reserved guanciale fat to the tomato sauce. (Taste the sauce and add more fat, if desired.) When the pasta is ready, add it to the sauce using tongs. (Allow for some pasta water to drip into the sauce, which will help meld everything.) Toss in the cooked cherry tomatoes. Taste and season again with salt, if necessary.

Serves 4 to 6

Notes:
1. Opt for quality canned tomatoes. We like Antonella and cook down the reserved juice, which is already nice and thick, to make a quick paste.
2. If you can’t find guanciale try pancetta or unsmoked bacon (opt for regular bacon if the unsmoked kind is not streaked with a decent amount of fat). (I found our guanciale at Eataly.)

Sticky Chicken and Dirty Hands

I am coming to you today from our second bedroom, which is halfheartedly decorated as an office at the moment. It contains a succulent that is slowly dying from lack of sunlight and a leather couch that no one ever sits on, unless a grown-up timeout is necessary.

The floor slopes down and so as I type my rolling chair is gradually creeping its wheels away from the desk, as gravity does its work. I do not really need this added obstacle. It has been a few months since I last sat here. The further I get from writing, the harder it is to come back to.

Some may feel this way about going to the gym or playing guitar. These are actions that generally feel fine once you get going, though there are infinity excuses for avoiding them. But Christmas presents have been purchased and the entire house is freshly dusted, so I am out of procrastination devices at the moment.

Since it is December, I can’t help but think about the year ahead. There is no magical reset that happens come January, but I would like to do a couple things differently.

I want to listen to less politics and more music. I have found that hearing people I agree with rehash the daily grind of scandal and domestic horror does not help me feel less scared. It makes me want to move to Canada. So I might as well listen to a little Stevie Nicks and make a plan to visit the Grand Canyon before it is too late.

Too much time has already been wasted, devoted to the worst that could happen. There once was space for levity and I want it back. After the election in 2016, writing about food seemed frivolous. I somehow forgot that cooking is a way to connect.

For instance, deep-frying anything (chicken, perhaps) communicates that the cook is slightly insane. But dodging hot oil like it is liquid shrapnel says you, dear eater, are worth it. It also forces residency in the present for at least an hour or two, which can be as meditative as a yoga class without the talk about rinsing your kidneys.

I also recommend using hands instead of kitchen tools when it is safe to do so, despite the added mess and, perhaps, a little because of it. Dressing a salad in this manner can be calming and it typically feels even better to eat vegetables after preparing them as such.

A little intensity in the kitchen does not hurt either. This time of year pounding a pomegranate for its seeds is violently therapeutic, even as pink juice splatters the kitchen cabinets like a crime scene. What this says is up for interpretation, but there is room for all of it.

So it seems I hope to cook with more intention and by any means necessary.

The recipe today is simple and sturdy – no deep-frying required. The chicken blisters and browns, cooking up reliably tender time after time. I reduced the soy sauce and the honey, because I am acutely aware of my aging body, and the chicken does not suffer a bit from it. The reduction allows it to make frequent appearances at dinner.

Try pairing the recipe with a fast salad of sliced cucumber and carrot strips. I usually prepare a lemon vinaigrette with two times as much oil to acid. Add mint and sesame seeds if you have them, but do not make a thing of it if you are without. Any grain would make a fine accompaniment to all this, but white rice is particularly quick and comforting. Do not skip the starch: you will want it to sop up the extra sauce. This is the best part, so enjoy it.

I wish you more joy than dread for the year ahead of us. If you are at all like me, my best advice is to try and stay in the kitchen while you cook. With any luck I will be there too, making chicken and listening to Gold Dust Woman.

Sticky Chicken

Adapted from Rachel Khoo courtesty of Food52

Ingredients:

• 1 teaspoon ground ginger (or a thumb-size piece of fresh ginger, peeled and minced)

• 3 small garlic cloves, peeled and minced

• 1 dried Thai chili, minced

• ¼ cup soy sauce

• ¼ cup honey

• 2 tablespoons fish sauce

• 2 tablespoons toasted sesame oil

• 4 bone-in chicken thighs

• 1 tablespoon sesame seeds (optional)

Instructions:

Set the oven to 400 degrees. In a baking dish, whisk together the first 7 ingredients. Add the chicken and toss it in the sauce until fully coated.

Bake for 45 minutes (or until the internal temperature registers 165 degrees). The skin should be bronzed and crisped.

Notes:

1. To make this into a meal, prepare a salad and make some rice while the chicken cooks. I prefer plain basmati made with 1 cup grain to 1¼ cups water. Bring the rice to a boil, then cover and simmer on low for 15 minutes. Turn off the heat and let it sit 5 minutes before removing the lid.

2. My recipe for a simple vinaigrette is the juice of one lemon, about ½ to ⅔ cups olive oil, 2 teaspoons of both honey and Dijon mustard, plus a few pinches of salt and fresh ground pepper. Adjust seasoning to taste.

Death and the Perfect Meatball

I am closing in on thirty-five.  What I have found—aside from all the wonderful experiences—is that my body has a way of gently reminding me that I will die one day.

Once you hit your thirties, the signs are there if you listen.  Exercise gets harder and hangovers last for days, as do the biological effects of cheeseburgers.  These maladies are your body’s way of telling you to pay attention.  And, perhaps, to stop behaving like a twenty-two-year-old and to slow down and appreciate, not only the roses, but also modern miracles like penicillin and B12 supplements. 

Instead of death, I have reflux that burns like battery acid and have developed a somewhat maladaptive mindfulness practice around it. A friend once said that she almost enjoyed heartburn because it made her feel alive.  I understand what she meant.  Though it can also feel like I am slip sliding towards facility living when planning certain activities within the confines of a rigid gastric emptying schedule.  Which, when explained, is both gross and frustrating for everyone involved.

On Saturday morning, I made the mistake of googling the beloved North End pizza shop, Galleria Umberto, and found a recent article that addressed a rumor about it closing.  (It isn’t, but the assurance was too little, too late.)  While I maintain intimate awareness about the ephemeral nature of my own existence, I had not even considered the shop, which has been open since the seventies, might not be around forever. 

Things were further complicated by their very Italian business hours from 11 a.m. to 2 p.m., or until the slices run out.  This was a specific threat to my midday gym plans. 

So I did what any rational, red-blooded American might.  I called in an order for ten Sicilian slices and put the elliptical on hold. I will report there was something particularly triumphant about eating pizza that day, though it did incite immediate heartburn. 

Thus far, I have shown the restraint of an addict in my refusal to give up things with tomato sauce, and I mean no disrespect to the addicted.  This is where the meatballs come in.  I have been working on perfecting them since 2012 and their sunk cost is real.  And this is what I am really here to talk about.

These meatballs are seasoned with the usual suspects: parsley, garlic, and parmesan, plus a pinch of allspice or baharat, a Middle Eastern blend.  (Before the purists revolt, let me remind Italy is not far from places like Lebanon and Turkey. I like the warm compliments the spice shares with the tomato, leave it off if you do not.)  I use various meat mixtures—beef, sometimes a mixture of pork and veal, and occasionally lamb.  Though the quality of meat is important, the type is less so.

I used to insist on pan-frying, but trying to evenly cook a circular object on a flat, hot surface while oil violently splatters everywhere is akin to entering Dante’s seventh circle. Baking is the only sane way to go.

The final touch came a few years ago when a now ex-boyfriend said he knew what my meatballs needed—and added that I wasn’t going to like it.  He was right.  What they needed was more white bread.  This is the secret to tender meatballs.  (It is not, however, the secret to a good relationship.)

But I am now blessed with a badass spaghetti and meatball framework.  I add my heartburn magnets to this sauce just long enough so the two become one and deeply recommend this course of action.

Nothing is certain but death and taxes, as they say.  I’ll get my meatballs while I can.

Meatballs for a Spaghetti Dinner

Ingredients:

• 4 to 5 ounces of white bread (or a little less than half a baguette, see notes)
• a few splashes of half and half, plus a little water (or whole milk)
• 1 shallot, minced
• 1 garlic clove, minced
• pinch of allspice or baharat spice
• ½ teaspoon red pepper flakes
• ¼ cup finely minced parsley
• 5 tablespoons parmesan cheese
• 2 to 3 generous pinches of salt
• 1 large egg
• 1 pound ground beef (or combination of pork, veal, lamb, etc.)

Instructions:

prior to the meatballs

Have a batch of sauce cooking—I prep this recipe ahead of time and have it ready to go on the stove top.

for the meatballs

Set the oven to 400 degrees.

Cut the bread into small chunks and then pulse in a food processor until you get crumbs no larger than the size of peas. 

In a large bowl, add the fresh breadcrumbs.  Pour in a splash of half and half and another of water.  Mix with your hands, squeezing the bread like you would a sponge to incorporate the liquid. Ultimately, you want the mixture to be the texture of ground meat, so add enough liquid to reach this consistency. 

Add in the shallot, garlic, spices, parsley, parmesan, and salt and mix well.  Taste and adjust the seasoning—at this point it should taste a little salty, on the edge of being too salty. Crack in the egg and add the ground meat; mix gently with your hands until everything is combined.

Oil a large baking sheet and roll the mixture into small balls (aim for golf ball-sized).  Place on the oiled sheet and bake for 20 to 25 minutes.

Add the meatballs into a gently bubbling tomato sauce and cook for another 5 minutes or so—longer is not required.

Makes 15 to 20 meatballs

Notes:

1. The bread type doesn't matter much.  I typically use a fresh loaf (it's okay if it has a nice crust to it).  The liquid will soften the crust and that's ultimately what you want, it just might require a little more liquid than, say, Wonder bread.
2. I have half and half in the recipe because it is what we have around—no need to buy it specifically for this recipe, if you keep milk around.