Thomas Keller's Roast Chicken

There was a time when I didn't like roasted chicken. I'm not really sure why, but perhaps I had eaten only bland and unexceptional specimens up to that point. Or maybe what changed my mind was the common food writer's musings about roasted chicken as one of the litmus tests, like omelettes, that indicate a chef's skill.

Roasting a chicken, like making an omelette, is one of those things that anyone can do, technically, but it apparently takes some skill to do well--thus, the litmus test theory. Here's one of the many articles that ponder this eternal question in a much more eloquent fashion than my skills will allow.

Plus, a lot of chefs and food writers claim that a well-roasted chicken is the perfect meal, one that they'll take any day over fancier fare. I don't know about that, but I do know that a roasted chicken sometimes hits the spot, it makes for nice leftovers, and it's nice to have the carcasses for making stock.

When I decided that it was time to set out on the quest for the holy grail of the perfectly roasted chicken, I figured that Thomas Keller was a good place to start. In fact, he amusingly talks about learning to roast a chicken in the French Laundry Cookbook (it involves knife throwing).

This recipe, which has become my go-to recipe, came from Epicurious courtesy of Thomas Keller. Key points to note are the importance of trussing the chicken (the pictures show an improperly trussed chicken, so don't go by that), the importance of getting it really, really dry, and cooking it on high heat. 

Some recipes will tell you to stuff the bird with all kinds of stuff, rub all kinds of tediously chopped-up herbs under its skin, or to start at one temperature in one position, and later change to another temperature while flipping that really hot hunk of protein into another position. Ignore all that--simple is oftentimes best, as demonstrated by the Master Thomas Keller.

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  Thomas Keller's Favorite Simple Roast Chicken
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• One 2- to 3-pound farm-raised chicken
• Kosher salt and freshly ground black pepper
• Optional:
• 2 teaspoons minced thyme
• Unsalted butter
• Dijon mustard

Preheat the oven to 450°F. Rinse the chicken, then dry it very well with paper towels, inside and out. The less it steams, the drier the heat, the better.

Salt and pepper the cavity, then truss the bird. Trussing is not difficult, and if you roast chicken often, it's a good technique to feel comfortable with. When you truss a bird, the wings and legs stay close to the body; the ends of the drumsticks cover the top of the breast and keep it from drying out. Trussing helps the chicken to cook evenly, and it also makes for a more beautiful roasted bird.

(Here, here, and here are some web pages that explain how to do this. Pay no attention to my pictured trussing, as it is incorrect--it just works for me.)

Now, salt the chicken—I like to rain the salt over the bird so that it has a nice uniform coating that will result in a crisp, salty, flavorful skin (about 1 tablespoon). When it's cooked, you should still be able to make out the salt baked onto the crisp skin. Season to taste with pepper.

Place the chicken in a sauté pan or roasting pan and, when the oven is up to temperature, put the chicken in the oven. I leave it alone—I don't baste it, I don't add butter; you can if you wish, but I feel this creates steam, which I don't want. Roast it until it's done, 50 to 60 minutes. Remove it from the oven and add the thyme, if using, to the pan. Baste the chicken with the juices and thyme and let it rest for 15 minutes on a cutting board.

Note: Make sure that your ventilation system is working well, as this cooking method can create a good deal of smoke. If you have an old potato laying around, you can slice it and put it in the bottom of the pan. This will result in lessening the amount of smoke, and you'll get some delicious but fatty roasted potatoes.

Remove the twine. Separate the middle wing joint and eat that immediately. Remove the legs and thighs. I like to take off the backbone and eat one of the oysters, the two succulent morsels of meat embedded here, and give the other to the person I'm cooking with. But I take the chicken butt for myself. I could never understand why my brothers always fought over that triangular tip—until one day I got the crispy, juicy fat myself. These are the cook's rewards.

Cut the breast down the middle and serve it on the bone, with one wing joint still attached to each. The preparation is not meant to be superelegant. Slather the meat with fresh butter. Serve with mustard on the side and, if you wish, a simple green salad. You'll start using a knife and fork, but finish with your fingers, because it's so good.

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.

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.