Gamberi Fra Diavolo

After some research and debate, Gamberi Fra Diavolo, or Shrimp of the Devil Priest, seemed like the perfect dinner for a Tuesday night. This is Nick's perennial favorite at our favorite Italian restaurant, La Scala. In the days of yore, the dish used to be made so spicy that Nick would break out into a sweat. He'd say, "I'm sorry, but I can't talk to you for a couple minutes because I have to eat this before the heat catches up with me."

Unfortunately, the Gamberi Fra Diavolo has not recently been very spicy. In fact, it's been remarkably lacking in fierceness. Therefore, Nick was quite excited by the prospect of adding 4 jalapenos and a tablespoon of red pepper flakes to 2 cups of tomato sauce.

What he wasn't too excited about was picking and chopping three tablespoons of thyme leaves. You'll note that the recipe below does not include 3 tablespoons of thyme leaves. Have you ever tried to pick three tablespoons of fresh thyme?

It incited an expletive-filled rant from Nick: "What kind of m......f.......ing b.... a.. came up with this s...? Probably some a..hole with a prep cook and s..." I felt his pain, which is why we lessened the amount of herbs in general, and substituted some fresh oregano. Thank you, herb garden. 

We ended up using only 3 of the jalapenos, as Nick started coughing while cutting them up and saying to himself, "Wash your hands. Wash your hands. Wash your hands." We've all been there--you cut some peppers, forget to wash your hands, touch some mucous membranes or some sensitive skin...
Well, the coughing led to a taste test, which confirmed that the jalapenos were indeed abnormally hot. As we were cooking for company, we not only cut back on the jalapenos, but the red pepper flakes as well. You don't want to serve your friends something they can't eat, right?

Next time, though, we're going to go all-out. But the point is that if you make this recipe, you should taste your peppers, and adjust the spiciness according to your heat tolerance. We could have handled more fieriness, but there was still enough tastebud intensity to get the endorphins flowing. And, funnily enough, we all suddenly hit a point at which our noses started running copiously. Yummy, right? That's how a box of tissues became the new centerpiece. Luckily, it was a pretty box of tissues.

The meal was quite lovely with a cheese plate, some zucchini fritters, baguettes, and some sparkling Shiraz. And like our friend said, we may as well enjoy some succulent, tasty shrimp while we still can.

Shrimp Fra Diavolo

• 1 lb high-quality dried pasta, such as Barilla, the shape of your choice
• 2 tablespoon extra virgin olive oil
• 6 cloves garlic, thinly sliced
• 4 jalapenos, seeded and sliced into 1/8 inch thick rounds
• 1tablespoon red pepper flakes
• 2 cups tomato sauce (recipe below)
• 1 cup dry white wine
• 1 lb peeled shrimp
• 1 tablespoon chopped fresh flat leaf parsley  

Bring salted water to a boil and cook pasta until a dente, according to package instructions.


Meanwhile, in a saute pan, heat 2 TBSP olive oil over medium heat. Add the garlic and jalapenos and cook until softened, about 3 minutes.

Add the red pepper flakes, tomato sauce and wine and bring to a boil. Lower the heat and simmer for 4 minutes.

Lay the shrimp in the sauce and simmer until just cooked through, 4 to 6 minutes.Drain the pasta and plate topped with sauce and shrimp, garnish with chopped parsley.

Tomato Sauce

• 1/4 cup extra-virgin olive oil
• 1 onion, cut into a 1/4 inch dice
• 6 cloves of garlic, thinly sliced
• 1 tablespoon chopped fresh thyme
• 1 tablespoon chopped fresh oregano
• 1/2 medium carrot, finely shredded
• Two 28-ounce cans whole tomatoes
• 1/4 teaspoon red pepper flakes
• Salt and freshly ground black pepper to taste

In a large sauce pan, heat the olive oil over medium heat. Add the onion and garlic and cook until soft and light golden brown, 8 to 10 minutes. Add the herbs and carrot and cook until the carrot is soft, about 5 minutes.

Add the tomatoes with their juice and the red pepper flakes, and bring to a boil, stirring often. Lower the hear and simmer until thick, periodically breaking up the whole tomatoes with a wooden spoon. This will take at least 1/2 an hour, but the sauce can be cooked much longer if you like.

Season to taste with salt and pepper.

  

Pollo all'Americano--Chicken Stew with Polenta, Celery Root, and Sage, and a Brownie Redemption

I will not be defeated by brownies. I've tried Alton Brown's recipe, Cook's Illustrated's recipe, a Saveur recipe, and Thomas Keller's recipe for brownies, and every one of them has resulted in a fail. After this last spectacular failure, I was determined to once and for all conquer this unassuming dessert.

I had enough ingredients available to once again attempt Thomas Keller's recipe, and because the problem seemed to be with me as opposed to the recipe, I decided to go Ad Hoc.

This time, I decided that I would let the batter rest for a while, as is all the rage with chocolate chip cookie dough these days. This, I hoped, would help with the seeming lack of cohesiveness of ingredients that I experienced last time. Not wanting to poison my friends and family, I figured I had better let it rest in the fridge.

This, of course, meant that when I took it back out, it was rock solid and was therefore not about to be poured into a baking pan. Genius.

So I put the bowl of batter on top of the oven while it was preheating, but I kept envisioning melted and ruined batter. So I took it off. It was taking too long. I put it back on. I took it off.

Eventually, it was somewhat spreadable, but still had a fudgy texture. Good enough; it had to go in the oven. "Wow," Hunter said, "How did you manage to get brownie batter to be like fudge?"

"Shut up."

So far, brownies seem to exist just to torment me. But you know what? After only a short time in the oven, it became obvious that the brownies were going to develop that crackly, crispy crust that I so love and desire in my brownies. That flaky exterior is one of my favorite brownie attributes, and I have never yet been able to achieve it. Every time I've slid a pan or brownies in the oven, whether they be homemade or (gasp!) boxed, I say to them, "You better get crusty this time, damnit."

And they never listen. At best, I get maybe a square inch of cooperation, so I could have wept for joy when I saw this:

Nonetheless, Nick continued to say, "They're burning. They're going to burn. But they'll still be raw in the middle."

"Shut UP."

So it's true that they were a tiny bit chewy/overcooked around the edges, and while the middle was cooked just right, for whatever reason, the bottoms were a bit chewy, as well.

These brownies have chunks of chocolate in them, which, in the first batch, became little pockets of molten chocolate. That didn't consistently happen this time, perhaps because the batter was cold, but it didn't really bother me. Plus, perhaps I got my long sought-after crust because of the temperature of the batter. If anyone ever reads this and knows the answer, feel free to let me know.

So, overall, they were not the perfect brownies, but they were pretty good. My Dad argued that they're not cost effective and perhaps not worthwhile on that basis, but I argued that while a box of brownies may have been a quarter of the price, and it may have tasted almost as good, these brownies are less likely to give you cancer. He conceded the point, and he did admit that these were worthy of a Brownie Redemption.

Before all this brownie madness, however, we had some dinner. I had worked the night before and was therefore feeling relatively unmotivated, so I sought out a relatively simple recipe. Mario Batali's Chicken Stew with Polenta, Celery Root and Sage fit the criteria, so I went to the store.

What's that? I was just whining about how I didn't want to eat a wintery, chickeny, stew thing? True. In my defense, it was a really cold day, and I do admit that I can be rather contrary.

Nick won't go to Whole Foods with me because the crowded isles filled with non-paying-attention people make him want to punch someone. I can usually handle it, but I knew it was a bad sign when I walked up to the front door and noted that there were no carts. 'Okay. Deep breath. You can do this.'

Well, there was no celery root to be found, but I thought that it was rather brilliant of me to get some parsnips and fennel instead. Close-ish, right?

And then there were no whole chickens. Because I'm lazy, I had ideally hoped to get one of those packs of chicken that have been cut up into 'serving pieces' the way I was supposed to have done to a whole chicken, but that was not going to happen. So I had to get all mad scientist and buy the separate chicken pieces in order to make a whole chicken. Somehow, this way, it didn't seem like much chicken, so I figured I'd get a couple bone-in thighs. Well, they only had huge 'family packs' so I guess we'll just have to do our chicken and chorizo thingy later this week.

They also didn't have fine cornmeal or quick cooking polenta, and I've heard that the pre-made tube-packaged polenta is not really worth bothering with. I had some cornmeal at home, but it didn't say whether it was fine or not fine, and I couldn't really tell. I thought about sending it for a spin in the food processor the way some recipes will instruct you to make superfine sugar out of regular sugar if you're unable to find the superfine stuff, but that was just getting too complicated, and I was feeling way too lazy.

My solution was to attempt the polenta with the cornmeal I had on hand, but bring some couscous in case I achieved a Polenta Fail. The problem, though, was that I've never made polenta, so wasn't really able to judge what constitutes a Fail. Polenta can be a rather scary and fabled culinary objective, although less so than souffles, which are on the List of Things Leah Can't Make. Molly of Orangette writes amusingly and eloquently of the Polenta Dilemma.

It's true--it does require a lot of stirring, to which Nick and his sore arm can attest. Mario says that you can bring some water to a boil, dump in the cornmeal, and stir until it reaches the consistency of "molten lava," whatever that is. Well, it was soon obvious that it was not as magically simple as he makes it out to be, so back on the heat it went.

The description 'molten lava,' while poetic, is not very helpful, so when I got tired of dealing with the stuff, the polenta went into a pan to cool, as instructed. In retrospect, the consistency was correct for normal polenta, but not for polenta that was to be cut into squares. Or maybe it just didn't get cool enough. I don't know.

The solution was to leave it as un-cubed polenta and use it as a bed onto which we would nestle the braised bits. Those braised bits started off as chicken pieces dredged in flour, which were seared until golden.

The veggies were then cooked until golden, and 2 cups of red wine, a cup of Mario's standard tomato sauce, and 8 sage leaves were added to the pot.

Okay, I confess--I used a jarred sauce rather than Mario's sauce. My Dad was rather scandalized, and my Italian grandmother would have been ashamed of me, but in my defense, this is some of the best pasta sauce I've ever tasted. Numerous times, I've attempted to make my own tomato sauces, and while they've been pretty good, none of them have been as good as Classico's Fire Roasted Tomato and Garlic. I swear they're not paying me to say that.

This all simmered for a while and was then plated on top of the polenta and garnished with some parsley and lemon zest. While the meal was very good, it could have been tastier had I salted it better. As I've mentioned, I've been rather scared of salt lately and have yet to achieve the happy medium between tastelessness and mouth-puckering saltiness. Mario didn't even mention adding salt to the polenta, but I added a bit anyway. I'm glad I did, but it wasn't nearly enough.

So while the lack of salt lent the dish a rather bland taste, Nick and I were also a little bit bored with it because it tasted like just about every other braised dish with meat, wine, and vegetables. We therefore concluded that there's something to be said for the 'deconstructed' approach. For example, Hunter was impressed by the fragrance of the raw parsnips, but in the finished dish, there really could have been any root vegetable in there. If we make this again, perhaps we'll take a Keller-esque approach and cook the parsnips separately.

So overall, we had fun making this meal, it was delicious, and, best of all, I almost conquered those pesky little brownies.

This is how we'll make this stew if we ever make it again:

Polenta with Chicken Stew with Root Vegetables and Sage

(Adapted from Mario Batali's Pollo all'Americano)

• 5 cups water
• 1 cup quick-cooking polenta or fine cornmeal
• 1/2 cup all-purpose flour
• salt and freshly ground black pepper
• one 3 1/2 to 4 pound organic chicken, cut into serving pieces and skinned, rinsed and patted dry
• 4 bone-in skinless chicken thighs, rinsed and patted dry
• 6 TBSP olive oil
• 1 large sweet yellow onion, diced
• 4 large parsnips, peeled and diced
• half of one small fennel bulb, diced
• 2 cups red wine
• 1 cup jarred, good quality tomato sauce
• 8 fresh sage leaves
• 3 tablespoons minced fresh flat-leaf parsley
• 1 tablespoon lemon zest

In a large sauce pan, bring the water to a boil. Add the polenta or cornmeal and reduce heat to low. Stir almost constantly (as you would a risotto) until the polenta achieves a pudding-like consistency; salt to taste while cooking. It will probably take an hour to an hour and a half to cook the polenta.

Season the flour with salt and pepper and place in a large bag or Tupperware container. One at a time, add the chicken pieces and shake to coat evenly with the flour. Pat off excess and set aside.

In a large Dutch oven, heat the olive oil over medium-high heat until almost smoking. In batches, without crowding the pan, brown the chicken pieces. If necessary, wipe out any burnt bits from the bottom of the pot.

Add more oil if necessary, and sauté the parsnips and fennel until golden.

Add the wine, tomato sauce, and sage leaves, and return the chicken to the pot. Bring to a boil and reduce the heat to a simmer and cook until the thighs are cooked through, about 35 minutes.

Remove chicken pieces to a plate and briskly simmer sauce until it is reduced to a thick sauce; season to taste with salt and freshly ground black pepper. Return chicken to the pot to re-warm if it has cooled.

Spoon 1/4 of the polenta onto each plate, and top with a thin sliver of butter. Place a piece of chicken on the bed of polenta, and spoon sauce over. Sprinkle with parsley and lemon zest, serve immediately.

Possible alternative: First, preheat oven to 425 degrees. Peel and dice parsnips into 3/4 inch chunks, and toss with olive oil and salt on a baking sheet. Roast until parsnips are tender and browned, about 20-40 minutes, depending on the parsnips. Add to the stew 10 minutes before the end of cooking time.

Brownies

(adapted from Thomas Keller's Ad Hoc at Home)

• 3/4 cup all-purpose flour
• 1 cup unsweetened alkalized cocoa powder
• 1 teaspoon Kosher salt
• 3 sticks butter (3/4 lb), cut into tablespoon-sized pieces
• 3 large eggs
• 1 3/4 cup granulated sugar
• 1/2 teaspoon pure vanilla extract
• 6 ounces Ghiardelli (or a similar brand) semi-sweet chocolate chips

Stir together the flour, cocoa powder, and salt.

Melt half the butter in a small sauce pan over medium heat, stirring occasionally. Put the remaining butter in a medium bowl. Pour the melted butter over the butter in the bowl, and stir to melt. The butter should look creamy, with small bits of unmelted butter, and be at room temperature.

In the bowl of a stand mixer fitted with the paddle attachment, mix together the eggs and sugar on medium speed for about 3 minutes, or until thick and very pale. Mix in the vanilla. On low speed, add about one-third of the dry ingredients, then add one-third of the butter. Continue alternating butter and dry ingredients until they are incorporated into the batter. Add the chocolate chips and mix to combine.

Put the batter in the refrigerator for at least a few hours, and up to a week. When ready to cook the brownies, preheat the oven to 350 degrees, and allow the brownies to sit at room temperature until they are spreadable. Butter and flour a glass or metal 9x13 inch baking pan.

Spread the batter evenly in the pan and bake for 40 to 45 minutes, until a toothpick poled into the center comes out with just a few moist crumbs attached to it. If the pick comes out wet, test a second time, as you may have hit a chocolate chip, which will be molten.

Cool brownies in the pan, on a rack, until they are a bit warmer than room temperature. Cut into squares and serve.

Fettuccine Verdi ai Fegatini, or Green Fettuccine with Chicken Livers

Frequently, our culinary exploits resemble nothing so much as a comedy of errors. Take out recent meal, for example--it called for making green pasta, which was going fine until it was time to roll out the dough.

Sometimes, for whatever reason, I seem to be lacking the right touch when it comes to the pasta dough, and rather than expelling a lovely smooth sheet of pasta, the rollers produce a shredded mass of green tatters. As the dough disintegrates into disarray, it makes a strangely palpable noise, "Squeaky! Squeaky! Squeaky!" and then "Splat! Splat! Splat!" as it misses my hands and hits the floor.

This is the scenario my Dad witnessed as he walked into the kitchen--Hunter standing by, half horrified, half amused, as the pasta goes, "Squeaky! Squeaky! Splat splat splat!"

After standing there for a minute with an 'Are you kidding me?' look on his face, my Dad said "Call Domino's!" (This was a joke, not a command). Hunter said later, "Little did he know, that wasn't the first time that happened."
"Yes, but it was the best," I said.
"True."

I've mentioned that every time I make pasta, there comes a moment where I become convinced that it's just not going to work this time. I tell myself, though, that if the Worst Cooks in America can make homemade pasta, then darn it, I can too.

And I did. At one point there was pasta in the cuff of my pants, but in the end, this was just about all the green dough that went to waste as a result of my suckiness:

Plus, no penguins interfered this time, so the pasta was not overcooked.

This, by the way is what Hunter thinks of the pasta roller:

I was initially going to explain that the first part is a bit tricky, so I'd let him do the cutting part, but he soon witnessed this for himself, and I think he liked the cutting part.

This spinach, a.k.a. green pasta was eventually tossed with a chicken liver sauce. Hey, don't diss the chicken livers. You'll hurt their feelings.

I will admit that they do look pretty gross.

The camera couldn't function in autofocus because they're just amorphous blobs, and they still look that way after using manual focus. Poor little guys.

More and more cookbooks offer recipes for liver, because in the high-low trends of today, things that were once declasse are gaining new status as the trend du jour. 'Look how cool I am,' you can say; 'I can mix H&M with Chanel and eat like an early twentieth century European peasant at Michelin starred restaurants.' I actually really like this turn of events in both worlds. Julia Child and Coco Chanel were ahead of everyone on this, though.

I can claim to have liked chicken livers for a long time because I'm cool like that. But admittedly, not all my life. Chicken livers are very popular in Italy, and my Italian grandmother would frequently make chicken livers at family gatherings because all of the adults loved them. The kids, however, would run screaming out of the room as soon as the smell of searing poultry organs began to waft into the air.

I was one of those screaming kids until one of the adults said, "Oh, shut up and try one." That's a life lesson there, by the way.

I cautiously put it in my mouth, gave it a tentative chew, and found that, yes, it actually is quite enjoyable, even down to the dense, somewhat powdery texture. We have since then attempted to make chicken livers the way my grandmother did, but like paella, it's never as good as the first version you had.

So I knew as soon as I saw this recipe that I had to try it, and although it meant carrying the Kitchenaid stand mixer up three flights of steps, I decided to make it at my Dad's house. I figured I could get Hunter to carry it: "Holy s%#& this is heavy!" Yes it is. That's why you're carrying it, not me. That sounds terrible, but I have three flights of steps at my house, so I'd already done my turn.



Okay, so pancetta, I mean bacon, rendered its fat, and carrots onions and garlic were softened. Chicken livers, cloves, a bay leaf, reconstituted dried porcini and their mushroom water, tomato paste and white wine were added, and this was simmered for half an hour. Some diced scallions were thrown in and the sauce was simmered for 10 more minutes before it was tossed with the pasta.

Oooohh! We need Parmesan!

I mentioned that the pasta was properly cooked, but it was a bit lacking in flavor. I have a tendency to oversalt our meals because I loooove salt, so I've sometimes lately been overcompensating by undersalting instead. Exhibit A:



Tasteless pasta.

As my Dad said, he voted with his fork, and showed me his bowl that was filled with pasta and devoid of any liver bits.

The liver sauce was quite tasty, and certainly not too livery. This might be a good dish to serve to someone who claims to not like liver, as the bacon and other ingredients play a strong supporting role.

Hunter and I agree, however, that if we were to make it again, some changes would be made. As usual, we're not sure if we'll make it again, but if we do, we'll use red wine instead of white, add some chopped tomatoes, leave out the carrots, add some red pepper flakes and fresh rosemary, and use plain instead of green pasta. The last stipulation was my Dad's, actually--he found the green pasta objectionable solely on the basis of its color. Its lack of flavor didn't help matters, either.

Perhaps someday I will make a wholly successful meal for the fam. In the meantime, I'll leave you with some shots of the macabre voodoo/effigy thing made from the splattered pasta pieces in a collaborative effort by Hunter and my Dad.




I prefer this guy, though:


One more thing--I think I've finalized the list of 10X10 cookbooks. Here it is:

1. Ad Hoc, by Thomas Keller
2. French Laundry by Thomas Keller
3. Braise, by Daniel Boulud
4. Parisian Home Cooking, by Michael Roberts
5. Mastering the Art of French Cooking, by Julia Child and Company
6. My French Kitchen, by Joanne Harris
7. Molto Italiano by Mario Batali
8. Italian Grill by Mario Batali
9. Sunday Suppers at Lucques by Suzanne Goin
10. Mexico the Beautiful

Fettuccine Verdi ai Fegatini

Green Fettuccine with Chicken Livers

(Originally from Molto Italiano, Very Much Adapted)

• 2 ounces dried porcini
• 2 cups hot water
• 2 tablespoons extra-virgin olive oil
• 4 slices bacon, diced
• 1 onion, diced
• 3 cloves of garlic, crushed
• 1 pound chicken livers
• 1 15-ounce can whole tomatoes
• 1 bay leaf
• 1 cup red wine
• 1/4 teaspoon red pepper flakes
• 2 teaspoons chopped fresh rosemary
• Salt and freshly ground black pepper
• 2 scallions, finely chopped
• 1 1/4 pounds green pasta dough (see below), cut into fettuccine
• Freshly grated Parmesan Reggiano, to serve

In a small bowl soak the dried mushrooms in hot water for 10 minutes. Lift out the mushrooms, reserving the liquid, and finely chop; set aside. Strain the liquid through is fine sieve and set aside.


In a large sauté pan, combine the olive oil and bacon and cook over medium-low heat until the bacon has rendered its fat. If desired, ladle out some of the fat. Maybe save it for another use. Add the onion and garlic, increase the heat to high, and sauté until softened. Add the chicken livers and cook, stirring occasionally, until browned. Add the tomatoes, bay leaf, and wine, and bring to a boil. Reduce the heat and simmer for 30 minutes, occasionally breaking up the tomatoes with a spatula or wooden spoon.


Remove the bay leaf. Add the red pepper flakes, rosemary, scallions, and reserved porcini liquid and simmer for 10 more minutes. Season to tasate with salt and pepper.


Meanwhile, bring a large, salted pot of water to boil. Add the pasta and cook until tender, 1 to 2 minutes. Drain.


Add the pasta to the pan with the sauce and toss over high heat for 1 minute. Divide evenly among 4 warm pasta bowls, to with the Parmesan, and serve immediately.

Green Pasta

(From Molto Italiano)

• 1 cup packed spinach leaves
• Salt
• 3 1/2 cups all-purpose flour, plus additional for kneading
• 5 large eggs

Bring a large pot of water to a boil, and a teaspoon of salt. Set up an ice bath next to the stove. Blanch one cup packed spinach leaves in the water for 45 seconds, and remove with tongs or a slotted spoon and plunge into the ice bath for 2 minutes.


Drain the spinach and squeeze dry in a kitchen towel, removing as much moisture as possible. Chop the spinach very fine and combine with the eggs in a small bowl. Stir well until as smooth as possible.


Mound the flour in the center of a large wooden board and sprinkle it with a teaspoon of salt. Make a well in the center of the flour and add the egg and spinach mixture. Using a fork or your fingers, with a swirling motion, begin to incorporate the flour, starting with the inner rim of the well. As you expand the well, keep pushing the flour up to retain the well shape.


When half of the flour is incorporated, the dough will begin to come together. Start kneading the dough, using primarily the palm of your hands. Once the dough is a cohesive mass, set the dough aside and scrape up and discard any dry bits of dough.


Lightly flour the board and continue kneading for 10 minutes. Seriously--10 minutes. Dust the board with additional flour as necessary. The dough should be smooth, elastic, and a little sticky. Wrap the dough in plastic wrap and allow to rest for 30 minutes at room temperature. 

To roll out the pasta, divide it into 6 pieces (if you're making the whole pasta recipe, rolling all of it, and drying the other half). Make each piece into a dish shape. 

With your plain roller set to the largest setting (lower number), pass the dough through once. Fold like a book (one flat piece in the back, and two pieces folded over on the sides so that they almost meet in the middle) and pass through again. Fold like a book and repeat 2 more times. After the last time, send the pasta through as is.

Then, put the roller on the next smallest setting and pass the dough through. Continue to do this on smaller and smaller settings until the pasta is the right thickness (a 5 on Kitchenaid stand mixers). Lay the dough out on a flat surface and cover with a towel so that it does not dry out, and repeat with the remaining lumps of dough.

When all of the pasta is laid out flat, switch to the fettuccine-cutting roller, and pass the pieces of dough through, one at a time. Again, spread out the dough and cover with a towel so that it does not dry out. Proceed with whatever recipe you're using this in.

Green Pasta with a Goat Cheese and Scallion Filling in an Olive Butter Sauce, Hot Italian Sausage, Broccoli Rabe, and Lemon Bars

If you can call an event of two years standing a tradition, then you could say that my family has a Valentine's Day tradition; namely, we make a nice dinner and hang out. Not a big deal, but a fun change from the usual depressing restaurant scramble.

It started last year when, for the first time in forever, Nick and I both had off on Valentine's Day, and we didn't know what to do with ourselves. We didn't especially want to make a nice dinner and stay at home because we do that all the time, and we were certainly not going to go to a restaurant.

Why do I say that? Because we both worked in restaurants long enough to know that if you go out on Valentine's Day, you'll be fighting your way through hordes of amateurs in order to be given sub-par food from the too-busy kitchen by a server who just wants to get you the heck out of that table because you're just a lousy two-top, and there are a million more behind you.

I don't mean to sound all anti-Valentine's Day, and I'm not going to whine about how it's a Hallmark holiday invented exclusively for commercial ends. I think it's a cute idea, but it seems rather silly when you've been together for over a decade.

On the other hand, maybe that's when you most need days like Valentine's Day, but I frequently find that days like Valentine's Day and New Years inherently come with so much pressure to make a special day out of them that it oftentimes backfires and you're left broke, grouchy, and disappointed.

Thus, the family V. Day was born. We figured that we wouldn't be sitting home doing the ordinary thing, we would be with people we love (which is, after all, the point), it's bound to be fun, and there's no pressure.

Here are some pictures from last year:

Super fun.

So this year, I wanted a meal that was special without being expensive, rich without being overly fancy, and highly portable.

This is what I came up with:

Hot Italian sausage, broccoli rabe sauteed with garlic, green pasta with a goat cheese scallion filling tossed in an olive butter, and gateau a l'orange chat.

Kidding. She's not dessert, she just likes to sleep in the bowl, and we disturbed her. I don't know why she likes to sleep in that bowl, but she does. Call the Health Department!

Did you know that female orange tabbys are very rare?

So I started prep the night before and I started by making the dough for the real dessert--Lemon Bars from Ad Hoc. I know that lemon doesn't exactly scream Valentine's Day, but Whole Foods once again had Meyer lemons for a great price, so I had some sitting in a fridge. And while this isn't an anti-Valentine's Day sort of night, but I figured there was no need to go with the usual chocolate dessert. I once again wanted some bright, sunny lemony-ness in the snow-covered depths of winter.

Back to the dough--this dough was quite unlike anything I've ever made before; it was sort of half cake and half tart. It started with creaming sugar and butter together in the stand mixer.

Which, by the way, I was actually able to do. You see, I had the bright idea to buy a stand mixer on eBay because I'm too broke to pay the retail price. I not only managed to buy two stand mixers and thereby establish a self-imposed ban on eBay buying, I bought one without the paddle attachment because I thought that the dough hook and whisk would be just fine.

Not so. It turns out that the paddle attachment is way more useful than the dough hook. Remember how I bent the whisk this past Christmas? Well, when it came time to get my birthday present, Nick thoughtfully went to get me a new whisk. This, however, turned out to be a complicated endeavor, so he ended up with the paddle attachment. Little did he know that it was exactly what I needed, and I had been putting off buying one.

Not that you care, though.

So I creamed together the butter and sugar, added some vanilla and a bit of flour, and that was that.

The dough was wrapped up and put in the fridge for later assembly. Now it was time to make the lemon curd. This process involved mixing together eggs, sugar and lemon juice, then adding butter.

I've mentioned before that I like really tart lemon desserts, so I was perturbed by the lack of lemon zest. I know, I know--I've also said that I like to make recipes the way they're written the first time, and I've said that Thomas Keller is The Man, and I'll do whatever he tells me to do.

So I went looking for the microplane zester, but it was nowhere to be found. And I mean nowhere. I looked for that little bugger for a long time, but it was to no avail. I think that Thomas Keller is such a mad genius that he knew I was going to attempt just such a move, so he snuck into my house and stole my zester.

So I tried using the tiny little holes on the side of the box grater, and this is what happened:

The zest just got all stuck in those little holes. What are they for, anyway?

So no zest went in the curd. Mr. Keller, if I promise not to mess up any more of your recipes, can I have my zester back? I like it a lot. Thank you.

When the curd was finished, its top was covered with plastic wrap, and it, too, was set aside to await later assembly. Or at least most of it was. It was so delicious that I just could not help taking the occasional spoonful or three, partially because it was so deliciously tart. I'm sorry, Master Keller; I'll never doubt you again!!

I should also mention that when I woke up that afternoon, yes afternoon, I mixed together some flour, water, salt and yeast for Jim Lahey's ciabatta bread and let it sit there because that's all you have to do. On Valentine's day, the first thing I did was dump out the dough and push it around in order to get its second rise started.

In the meantime, I made the green pasta dough by blanching some spinach (I read the directions properly this time), and mixed the chopped leaves with the eggs.

This all went into a flour well, and the egginess was spun around until it was combined with the flouriness.


The resulting dough was then kneaded for 10 minutes. There are times when 10 minutes go by in the blink of an eye, but not so much when you're pushing some dough around. It really does take 10 minutes for the dough to achieve the proper texture, though, so no slacking here.

When I finally finished and the dough was resting, I made the pasta filling by mixing together the goat cheese and scallions, olive oil, Parmesan, eggs, salt, pepper, and a pinch of nutmeg. Oh great. I need the microplane zester for the nutmeg.

Can I please have it back, T.K.? The box grater sufficed for this task, though.

At some point the bread was baked, and it was then time to roll out the tart dough. Eeesh. It was super-dry and crumbly when I first made it, but I had been hoping that the rest in the fridge would alleviate this problem.

Not so much. I did manage, though, to roll it out into an almost-rectangular shape. It was then flipped over into a half sheet pan, and the bits that broke were kind of smooshed back over to the edges. Like I've said before, that's the good thing about tart-like desserts--when you mess up the dough, it's not noticeable in the final product.

The tart shell was baked until golden, cooled, the lemon curd was poured in, and the whole thing went into the freezer. Thomas Keller states that freezing the dessert provides the curd with a lovely texture, "Somewhat firm but amazingly creamy." I wouldn't really know because my last-minute butt had this in the freezer a little too late, but more on that later.

Now it was time to roll out the pasta dough.

Every time I make pasta, there is some point at which I become fearfully convinced that this time, it's just not going to work. Sometimes it's when I'm swirling the eggs into the flour. Sometimes it's when I'm kneading the dough, but this time it was when I was rolling it out.

Actually, when I make pasta there are times when I think that none of those steps are going to work, but the necessary alchemy does somehow transpire.

The pasta was cut into "squares" and filled. I say "squares" because it turns out that I lacked the ability to cut the dough into uniform shapes that even remotely resembled squares, and my ravioli were therefore of wildly different sizes and shapes. Whatever. They'll overcook in the same time.

That's right, I overcooked the pasta. It's the penguins' fault.

I was just about ready to pull the pasta out of the boiling water when this penguin picture fell Splat! right in. I suppose they missed their usual watery environment. When I yelled, "F*&$!" my Dad probably thought that I had wrought massive destruction in his kitchen. Not quite massive, but I am sorry about the picture.

By the time I had fished out the penguins and run in a couple circles, the pasta was overcooked, and it didn't help that it was then tossed in a warm olive butter sauce. Oh, well. It was still delicious enough for Hunter to state that he could eat it every night of the week. That's quite a review from the guy who claims not to like pasta.

"That's not pasta," he says. Okay.

I liked it, but goat cheese is one of those things that's difficult to eat after you've been smelling it for hours. More problematic for me was the fact that it got a bit grainy when cooked. It's probably my fault somehow, though, and it still tasted quite delicious.

The sausage were excellent, and the broccoli rabe was awesome. Broccoli rabe is another one of those supposedly simple things that I just can't ever seem to cook properly. I've tried big-pot blanching and steaming followed by sauteing, and I've ended up with water-logged florets, even after thorough draining. I've tried just straight-up sauteing both the whole spears and the spears in pieces, and I end up with textural issues both ways. This time, however, I was inspired by a recipe that instructs you to peel the stalks. I think it was from a Mario Batali recipe, although it's a very Frenchy thing to do.

I don't know if it was the peeling that did it, or if the trick was to understeam them, but the broccoli were perfect. Yay, me.

After dinner, it was time to assemble the lemon bars. Thomas Keller instructs you to loosen the edges by running a knife around the edges of the sheet pan, and to lift the whole thing out and transfer it to a platter. Yeah, right, I said. This whole thing is totally not coming out in one p...ummm...it totally did.

Okay! I'm sorry I doubted you! Again!

You're then supposed to cut the whole thing into squares, which you are to reassemble. I did this part, but I didn't cut off the crust edges like he told me to. Sorry! I really like crust and couldn't bear to part with it. I don't care if it's not pretty. I probably shouldn't have admitted to that, though, because I'm totally not getting that zester back now.

I had previously made meringue, which I had brought with me in a plastic container. The recipe states that ideally, the meringue is to be made right before serving the bars. I know that, but it just wasn't going to happen.

You know what else wasn't going to happen? Piping the meringue onto the reassembled bars in pretty little spirals.

I might have done that if I had been at home, but it was so not happening at someone else's house. What I did instead was make quenelles, and placed one or two on each of the bars. Good enough.

It was then time to brown them. T.K. says that you can skip this step it you must, but I decided not to be a slacker for once, so I broke out the torch. There's no need, by the way, to get a fancy $30 torch from some place like Williams-Sonoma. A $10 torch from the hardware store works just as well.

Okay, almost as well. My particular torch cannot be turned horizontally, or it extinguishes itself. No problem--just hold the food at an angle.

This is what Hunter thinks of the torch:

I had mentioned before that the lemon bars never had a chance to freeze all the way. Therefore, they sort of started oozing almost right away, and I didn't get a chance to experience what Keller describes as a "great" texture.

That's okay, though, because they were still delicious, and satisfyingly lemony in a way that kept me eating more and more of them. That's why I got Nick to take them to work the next morning--I didn't trust myself to be around them long enough to take them to work that night.

Nick's coworkers loved them, and one person even knew that they were made with Meyer lemons rather than regular lemons. These bars are another example of how contrasting textures create a dish that is just impossible to stop eating. In this case, the crisp shell filled with the oozy lemon curd and the fluffy meringue made a compulsively edible team.

I have to say, though, that I might prefer plain old lemon meringue pie, because the bars, while delicious, were just a bit too sweet for me. They weren't a pointless saccharine, though, as they were also rather rich, which helped support the sweetness.

Overall, I would have to say that this dinner was much better than a restaurant dinner would have been, and it was pressure-free. Who cares if what you cook for your family isn't perfect? They'll love you anyway, right?

Goat Cheese and Scallion Ravioli with Black Olive Butter

(From Molto Italiano)

Makes 6 servings

• 1 1/4 pounds green pasta dough
• 2 cups fresh soft goat cheese (about 1 pound)
• 1/4 cup freshly grated Pecorino Romano
• 1/2 cup extra-virgin olive oil
• 1 large egg, lightly beaten
• 6 scallions, thinly sliced
• Pinch of freshly grated nutmeg
• Slat and freshly ground black pepper
• 6 tablespoons unsalted butter
• 2 tablespoons olive paste
• 1/4 cup freshly grated Pecorino Romano

Divide the pasta dough into 4 pieces. Roll each piece through the thinnest setting on a pasta machine and lay the sheets on a lightly floured surface. Cut each sheet into 12 three-inch squares. Cover with a towel.


To make the filling, combine the goat cheese, Pecorino, olive oil, egg, scallions, nutmeg, and salt and pepper to taste in a large bowl and mix until well blended.


To assemble the ravioli, place 1 scant tablespoon filling in the center of each pasta square. Fold the two opposite corners together to form a triangular pillow, gently pressing out any air pockets, then press the edges together to seal; if the pasta is a little dry, moisten the edges with a little water to help them adhere. Transfer to a lightly floured work surface.


Bring 6 quarts of water to a boil in a large pot, and add 2 tablespoons salt.


Meanwhile, to make the sauce, combine the butter and olive oil paste in a 12-inch sauté pan and heat over medium heat, stirring, until the butter is just starting to bubble. Remove from the heat.


Gently drop the ravioli into the boiling water, reduce the heat to a low boil, stir to separate the ravioli, and cook until the pasta is tender, 3 to 4 minutes. Remove from the water with a slotted spoon or a skimmer, draining well, and place in the pan with the sauce. Simmer for 1 minute over low heat. 


Transfer the ravioli to a warmed serving platter, sprinkle with the Pecorino, and serve immediately.