Thursday, February 03, 2011
On the all-too-rare occasions that I have an evening in on my own, I usually turn to my three bestest friends for company: bread, cheese, and wine. However, given the frigid weather of late--and the endlessly broken and repaired and rerepaired boiler in my building--I decided that something hot was indicated.
I'd made pasta with eggs before, but the eggs were always accompanied by bacon, teaming up for a deliciously artery-shattering carbonara. Since I was going to be solely responsible for the dishes resulting from this particular dinner, I decided to simplify, dropping the bacon and--more important--the pan that would wind up greasily in the sink. Yes, there's a pan involved here, but frying bacon is a whole other kettle of...um...pork products.
The principle if not unlike a carbonara, except that the egg is lightly fried in seasoned oil before being tossed with the pasta and cheese. It turned out to be a lovely little meal: warm, rich, creamy, and, accompanied by a glass or two of wine, thoroughly satisfying. And, it occurs to me, it's a meal with the friends mentioned above, just in winter guises.
red pepper flakes
a clove or two of garlic, chopped
tons of grated cheese
Cook a single serving of pasta. I particularly like linguini fini.
Heat a splash of olive oil over medium heat. Add red pepper flakes and garlic, stirring occasionally, until garlic softens. Break egg into pan (or into a bowl, then into the pan--much easier). Cook until white is almost set. Pour entire contents of pan over pasta. Toss with a great deal of Parm or Romano. Salt and pepper to taste. It suddenly occurs to me that a handful of chopped parsley mightn't be bad here, either.
Wednesday, February 02, 2011
Today, I'd like to address my inability with fish, and how I've gotten around it. Not shellfish, mind: Set me loose on oysters, mussels, lobster, you name it, and I will create dish fit for Neptune himself. Flatfish, however are my piscine bete noir. I undercook and overcook and can't turn a filet without it falling to bits--even while using a special fish spatula.
All of which somehow brings me back to my Catholic school girlhood, and the days of fish on Fridays. Until my mother discovered that she could buy shrimp already cooked and chilled, we had lemon sole every week. It amazes me now that it seems to have occurred to no one at all that it wasn't that fish was compulsory on Friday but that meat was on as 24-hour proscribed list. Seriously, it would have been nice to have a grilled cheese sandwich stand in for that sole once in a while.
Mom, no great fan of cooking in general, did have a simple method of preparing that relentless lemon sole. She dotted it with butter and popped it in the broiler. My method is a bit more complicated: melt the butter, add some spices, dip the fish in the butter, and pop in the broiler. (Why did I not remember this sooner? Tied up with memories of the utterly horrifying St. Agnes Seminary, I expect.)
I was rather shocked at the results: perfectly done, moist fish, that flaked at the touch of a fork. Now, if only I could forget Sister Helen Gertrude.
fish filets, cut into reasonably similar-sized pieces (I used cod)
melted butter, seasoned with--at the very least--salt and pepper. (Other options include aleppo pepper, hot sauce, Old Bay, a squeeze of lemon, and so forth)
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