In search of the yummy

I always have a deep desire to connect with you all, to share only my most delicious experiences, pertinent tidbits that you, too, may want to taste, to sip, to cook.  Though, lately, nothing seems yummy enough to share.

My recent week began with burnt potatoes, forgettable thawed tidbits from the freezer, or food which was mostly gobbled en route to somewhere else; meals which were nothing more than boring bites of plain, cold chicken, too many unsalted almonds, and sliced apples.  Sigh, more apples.

The food highlight of my week, has been shoveling super cold Greek yogurt down my throat. The full, fat kind that tastes more like ice cream than something that healthy probably should.  The sort with the little vessel on the side filled with a sticky sweet cherry concoction that reminds me exactly of diner cherry pie filling. True story.  I ate nothing good last week. Nothing yummy.  I can’t imagine how I allowed this to happen.

Food is a tricky thing.  Especially when you’re alone, I am learning. (Not lonely, not alone in a “depressing, old lady with a million cats” alone; Not yet, anyways.) It is interesting how being on your own makes you weird.  I find that I am now sleeping strange hours, drinking a worrisome quantity of coffee, probably too much wine – no one is there to help with the bottle! – but mostly, it is my meals which are getting weird.  I haven’t been cooking, even grocery shopping isn’t as fun.  I stagger around the store, planning to choose dinner goods, but absentmindedly checking out with nothing more than those almonds. That yogurt.  And those bloody apples.

When you have no one to feed except for yourself, there is no one to stop you from eating popcorn for dinner, no one to judge you when you eat a whole wheel of Mt. Tam in one sitting, there are no eyebrows raised at a final glass of Sherry before bed, no one cares if you polish off the whole pint of ice cream.  No one gives you a hard time about simply not eating at all.  That carton of yogurt will often do just fine.

I find myself staring for hours at the most gorgeous food images on Pinterest, obsessing over kale recipes and fruit-studded almond cakes, yeasty donuts, and glistening Asian dumplings – all mouthwatering photos of dishes I have no plans to prepare.  I gaze at these pictures in a dreamlike state, they seem so far away, so unattainable, not even sure if I would have the appetite for them if I could miraculously stick my fork in through the computer screen and take a bite.  So, weeks seem to go by with nothing tasty in my belly, I am eating with my eyes.

I may not be physically chewing on a bite of herby roast chicken or ladling a spoonful of hot, creamy soup into my mouth, but weirdly, I continue to obsessively think of food.  A preoccupation, if you will, if I were to have an appetite, what would that perfect thing to eat be?  This obsession is a welcome distraction honestly and I am happy to know that food porn definitely still floats my boat.

Eventually, this week, I got so tangled up in work and being away all the time, of being all right with just yogurt and my zillionth apple, that I realized what my soul so desperately required, was to cook.  I had to have something yummy.  I needed pasta.  I needed to stand in a cozy kitchen with everyone’s hands in the pots, red wine, and laughter.  Noodles, the ultimate requirement when one is hoping to de-jangle oneself, wouldn’t you agree?  Dinner, I easily decided, would be my favorite, saucy, pasta Bolognese.

It was an ideal night for noodles, as an icy mist settled over town, we were warmed by a tomato-scented steam as the sauce simmered on the stovetop; rich with pork and beef, a tiny dice of carrot, a double squeeze of concentrated Italian tomato paste, and many good glugs of wine.  Happy hours were spent catching up with each other’s lives and giggling, while slicing woodsy smelling mushrooms destined for a pre-dinner crostini and readying a rustic loaf of bread with sweet butter and first of the season red garlic for garlic bread.

An oven-roasted ‘salad’ was a riot of wintery vegetables.  Leaves of kale and long stalks of broccoli were crinkly and charred from the broiler, chickpeas scattered amongst the greens.  Everything was drenched happily in good, spicy olive oil, peppery chile flakes, and – sadly – the last of the Meyer lemon zest.  This salad was a showstopper, particularly thanks to the milky blobs of ridiculously delicious Bellwether Farm’s fresh ricotta dropped over the top.

The simple act of twirling noodles around my fork made me unbearably happy.  There is just something delightful about watching as the noodles whip around the tines, the beefy sauce clinging magically to each strand.  Feathery bits of salty parmesan adhered to the tomato soaked spaghetti as I hungrily took my first bite.  I chewed slowly, did my first happy dance in quite some time, satisfied that here, finally, was some much-needed yumminess.

 What I am sipping: The Roost’s classic Manhattan

I was turned on to Bourbon while living in New Orleans and immediately fell for the sweet-smokiness. Its caramel flavor utterly elevated my simple, but sophomoric, glass of ginger ale.  Possibly, an adoration of the brown liquor is a fundamental fact of growing up in the South.  Sweltering summer days require a mint julep and no Christmas would be Christmas without a boozy, bourbon-laced milk punch.  Right now, though, I keep finding myself craving a perfectly made Manhattan.  In front of a roaring fire, at the home of my dear, dear friends, is where the most delicious bourbon cocktails are lovingly concocted.  Into the shaker go a few good glugs of Bullet Rye Green Label, a splash of sweet vermouth, and a final dash of Angostura bitters.  The mixture is then shaken in a surprisingly professional manner, and — what makes these cocktails extraordinary — they are then strained into the tiniest, most beautiful, vintage, martini glasses.  The delicate glass is the ideal size for keeping the boozy cocktail frosty.  The drink feels so fancy it is practically impossible to sip them without sticking your pinky out.

Words to live (and eat) by

“Try to learn to breathe deeply, really to taste food when you eat, and when you sleep, really to sleep.  Try as much as possible to be wholly alive with all your might, and when you laugh, laugh like hell.  And when you get angry, get good, and angry.  Try to be alive.  You will be dead soon enough.” —  Ernest Hemingway

Mario’s Pasta Bolognese

This is the quintessential rainy night meal.  There couldn’t be an easier method of producing a quick, flavor-packed sauce that is the ultimate when tossed with spaghetti and a ladle or two of the pasta cooking water.  It is also scrumptious over creamy polenta and freezes beautifully. Serves 6-8

• 5 tablespoons extra-virgin olive oil
• 3 tablespoons butter
• 1 carrot, finely, diced
• 1 medium onion, diced
• 1 rib celery, finely diced
• 1 clove garlic, sliced
• 1 pound veal, ground
• 1 pound pork, ground
• 1/4 pound pancetta or slab bacon, ground
• 1/2 tube tomato paste
• 1 cup milk
• 1 cup dry white wine
• Kosher salt and freshly ground black pepper
• Parmigiano-Reggiano, for grating

In a 6 to 8-quart, heavy-bottomed saucepan, heat the olive oil and butter over medium heat. Add the onions, celery, and garlic and sweat over medium heat until the vegetables are translucent and soft but not browned, about 10 to 15 minutes. Add the veal, pork, and pancetta and stir into the vegetables. Add the meat over high heat, stirring to keep the meat from sticking together until browned. Add the tomato paste, milk, and wine and simmer over medium-low heat for 1 to 1 1/2 hours. Season with salt and pepper, to taste, and remove from the heat.

When ready to use, the cooked pasta should be added to a saucepan with the appropriate amount of hot sauce, a ladle or two of the pasta cooking water, and tossed so that the pasta is evenly coated.  Serve immediately.