Just Three: Tomatoes, Chilis, and Parsley

Tomatoes, dressed with tomatoes, and not much else

If you've spent any time at all with me, you already know I talk too much, so today's project is to keep it tight. Tight lips, tight keys, tight dish. Put up or shut up. Make it count. Insert cliche here, but make sure it all nets down to a tight little post.

As I've already confessed, I'm a pretty lousy gardener, but - as with most things in life - luck trumps skill, and Lady Luck planted a big, wet snog on my tomatoes this year. Seriously, to judge by my Green Zebras, she might even have used some tongue. If you're lucky enough to live here in the 707, you already understand that tomato season can acquire near-mystical qualities, spoken about in the same hushed tones normally reserved for yield, brix, and how badly hosed the wine industry may or may not be in the latest rags, so I take this bit of fortune seriously: What can I do to flatter all this sexy fruit?

Yesterday's project: Construct a complete tomato dish that even my kids would eat, using only three ingredients, all of which we grew. To hand: Tomatoes (Lemon Boys, not technically an heirloom, with their lower acidity and mildly tangy sweetness; and the aforementioned Green Zebras, their distinctive, racy zing a great match to the Lemons), chili peppers (Serranos, a great go-to chili for heat and flavor, and particularly good raw), and a bed full of herbs (a whole Simon-Garfunkle reunion of parsley, sage, rosemary, and culinary thyme, alongside basil, lavender, and chives), from which - basis the chili - I could have plucked basil, but thought the flat-leaf parsley a bit more interesting and marginally less obvious pairing. The clever if likely unoriginal (296,000 Google hits in 0.21 seconds) insight: A vinaigrette, described (as far as I know) by none other than Thomas Keller as "the perfect sauce", consists of nothing but acid, oil, and seasoning. So, why not use tomatoes as the acid, for a tomato vinaigrette? (A truly excellent discussion of vinaigrettes, citing all my favorite cook-book sources and getting it right, can be found here.)

Tomato Salad with Green Zebra Vinaigrette and a Fresh Parsley and Chili Garnish

The same tomato-tomato salad, but fast-plating version

1. Concasse a few Green Zebra tomatoes, maybe 1/2 to 1 tomato per salad (click the Foodista widget below for an explanation of the proper concasse technique) and, while slightly annoying, can be done in bulk, stored, and used later in any number of preparations). Seed, rib, and finely mince a fresh Serrano (or other red, say Arbol) chili pepper. Pick a handful of small leaves off the parsley.
Tomato Concasse
2. Push the tomatoes concasse through sieve or ricer or whatever to get a smooth texture and ensure that all the seeds have been removed (tomato seeds tend to add an unpleasantly bitter flavor and odd texture to smooth sauces) into a small mixing bowl. Season with a dash of white wine vinegar, finely milled salt and fresh white pepper (you don't want black flecks in it).
3. Whisk olive oil into the tomato base, in roughly equal proportions (a typical vinaigrette requires a 3:1 ratio of oil to acid, which would be fine here as well, but I prefer to let the tomato remain center stage, and its textural weight seemed to hold the oil just fine in this ratio), and adjust seasoning as required.
4. Spoon the dressing to cover the bottom of shallow pasta bowls.
5. Cut the Lemon Boys, remaining Green Zebras, and/or whatever other tomatoes you have to hand (Tangerines, Cherokee Purples, and Early Girls would all look and taste phenomenal; you can't go wrong, just try to balance the zesty acidity and color of the greens with sweeter, and yellow-red colored, cousins) into roughly uniform medium-dice. 
6. Sprinkle a little of the minced chili on the sauce and judiciously place the tomato cubes (skin-side up or not, depending on their look) on the sauce, adding a leaf of parsley to the top of a few of the not-green cubes.

As a speedier alternative, simply give the parsley and the whole tomatoes a rough chop, toss the tomatoes with the sauce, and then sprinkle the chili and parsley over the top.

Just Three: Polenta, Eggs, Mushrooms

Which came first, the bottle or the plate? Chicken/egg, TV/commercial, food/wine, show-me-yours/I'll-show-you-mine. In our house, such questions carry weight, a seriousness you might consider more properly reserved for electrocardiograms, or matters of national security. The thing of it is, in wine country, at least in the fractional hectare of the 707 area code delineated by my family's split-rail fence line, the debate over the hierarchical structure of food vis-a-vis wine matters, not least because you'll be neither fed nor drunk until we've settled the matter. And I seriously doubt that I'm alone in building menus around bottles at least as often as choosing wines to match food.

Context, perhaps, is warranted: My wife is on what I can like to call a Chard bender, and the wine racks where we keep our whites look a bit like the maples of her youth (she's a transplanted Right Coaster) come the first snows of November: You know they were full, you can quite clearly remember seeing them shot through with color and promise (although you can't quite place the date), but all that stands in front of you today is dry wood and the lonely spaces between. This is, to be clear, an issue of frequency, not of quantity, because my wife doesn't really drink all that much. However,  and here again I count my blessings, she is happy enough to drink small quantities frequently, thereby encouraging both my regular raids on the family cellar and my predilection for pigging, but also - when the Chard bender is in full effect - leading to Saharan absences of the one white varietal that will acceptably whet her cute little whistle.

Mac-n-Cheese, Cheese, and More Cheese (v3.0)

Mac-n-Cheese, Cheese, Cheese and Cheese

I think all cooks, from the diligent amateur to the dedicated professional, have at least a little bit of OCD in their bones. Consider the working cook: Why else would someone repeatedly construct the same thing, in precisely the same manner, under extreme and unrelenting pressure, with the specific aim, not only of doing it well, but of doing it the same way, every time that knife meets board or a pan clangs down on a flat-top? Not that that's a bad thing. To the contrary, that trendy new place you've been gagging to try, the innumerable souls saved by much-needed hangover brunches, and every great sushi bar all depend on it. Can you imagine playing Russian roulette with the crust at your favorite pizza joint, the temperature of your steak, or the hardness of your egg yolk? Take away the obsessive cooks, and we'd all be eating Swanson's Hungry Man or instant ramen with a plastic spork.

All of which is a roundabout way of rationalizing my third installment of Why I'm Trying To Make Perfect Mac-n-Cheese. My wife will testify to the mountains of grated cheese, the errors like some pagan fortune engraved in burnt milk at the bottom of a sauce pot, the sweet, nutty smell of flour frying in butter that filled the house as I worked my way through v1.0 (a white version, based on Italian cheeses), on into v2.0 (a cheddar-like orange version, with breadcrumb topping), and - finally - to where I am today, Mac-n-Cheese, Cheese, and More Cheese (v3.0), wherein I learned that, unlike Crisco or tickles, if some is good, then more is better.

Just Three (Leftovers): Rib Eye, Mac-n-Cheese, Onion Marmalade

Stove-top Rib Eye, basted in Butter and Fresh Herbs

A clear violation of my self-imposed rules of "Just Three", using leftover like this, but the principal advantage of blogging, and self-imposed rules generally, lies rooted in the simple fact that one may ultimately do whatever one wishes. Of course, your readers may kvetch, but that's part of the game.

I could drape my transgression with pearls of wisdom and wit, or I could lean on my earlier arguments (e.g., here, and here) that leftovers play a fundamental role in the kitchen - the avoidance of waste, the efficiency of leveraging time already invested, and, above all, the enforced discipline of making something new out of something old - but the simple truth is that I cooked for company last Saturday night and one of the invited couples was a late-day no-show. Ergo, come Sunday, I had a spare steak (a rib eye from Painted Hills, who really do things right, by the way) and several cubic meters of seriously high-density Mac-n-Cheese (recipe forthcoming from the thread started here). I was also pretty sure I had some more of my spiced onion marmalade somewhere on an upper deck, and a plan came together, a plan with the elusive trifecta of zero prep, zero shopping, and a single pan.

Naughty and Nice: Salty Vodka Whipped Cream

Vodka Whipped Cream: Naughty & Delicious

Last Saturday night was date-night-at-home for us. In and of itself, this was not an uncommon occurrence - our preference for what passes, in our house, for a big Saturday evening oscillates between getting a sitter and going out like real grown-ups, and spending the evening raiding the wine cellar and figuring out what do with whatever we picked up earlier at the farmer's market - but it was a particularly special one, because we were celebrating the opening of my wife's new business. If you've ever watched anyone open their own business (much less done it yourself), I think you'll agree that there aren't many better reasons to celebrate; and if you like to eat (much less cook it  yourself), surely you'll agree that big celebrations and great meals flatter one another like familiar lovers, both habitual and new, relaxed and exciting, and loads and loads of fun.

Armed with such an excuse, I'll often feel inspired to spend half the day prepping and to concoct some relatively elaborate dish; but at least as often, either I won't have the time or inclination to spend in the kitchen, or perhaps I just won't be in the mood to do something complicated. Indeed, increasingly I find my tastes, both in the eating and in the cooking, running to the simple rather than the complex - finding a few really good ingredients and trying not to screw them up being a sort of Proximal Kitchen mantra. In any case, the choice was made for me yesterday, because between my wife's open house and the munchkins, I simply didn't have the time. So I took the kids to the market with a loose sketch for dinner: Something based around whatever we found at the market; something suited to my wife's palate; something relatively quick and easy; and something very adult, even a little naughty even - this was, after all, to be a date night. Oh, and in an ideal world, something suited to Champagne.

The market was really rocking, with lots of stuff - tomatoes and peppers in particular, having waited through our abnormally cool summer - the best it has been all year. But in keeping with my tactical objectives, I grabbed a dozen eggs from the good folks Wyeth Acres, purveyors of good vegetables and even better meats, thinking that breakfast-for-dinner might be just the ticket: Eggs and Champagne are a classic combination, not too much prep, and a house favorite. Next stop, a loaf of Full Circle sourdough for toast and some just-dug Yukon Golds from Foggy River Farms. Other than the wine and a bit of color for the plate, I figured I was just about done. But, as good as I know it would be, it wasn't quite enough. After all, this was a celebration, and a date night. In short, I wanted to dress my country breakfast in a suave dinner jacket.

Luckily, I remembered one of my favorite recipes to steal from: Louis Outhier's fabulous Caviar Eggs, popularized (and I believe still served) by Jean-Georges Vongerichten at his eponymous NYC restaurant. However, I didn't want to deal with the egg shells, and I wanted to use the potatoes, so I figured I'd make potato gallettes, top them with creamy scrambled eggs, and garnish it all with Outhier's outrageously decadent Salty Vodka Whipped Cream. A dollop of caviar on top - with its shot of dark color, bright, salty tang, and ability to shine with Champagne - but, alas, for all the cosmopolitan development of our little wine country town, nobody had caviar. The horror! I should have thought of using some smoked salmon instead, for the same reasons, and serving it with a pink Champagne, but I wasn't thinking; in the event, it wasn't half-bad without the fish - but, to be clear, it would have been better. I'll get around to posting the full recipe (scrambled eggs are a chapter unto themselves - so simple, so good when done properly, and yet so frequently butchered in the kitchen), but for now, here's my adaptation of Outhier's topping. It is outrageously good and could just as easily be used on top of fresh berries for dessert as with eggs or caviar.

Salty Vodka Whipped Cream (adapted from L Outhier)

1. Whip a half cup of heavy cream until stiff
2. Whisk in a tablespoon of good Vodka and a large pinch of salt - maybe as much as half a teaspoon. It should taste savory, not sweet.
3. Optional, and depending what you're serving it over (e.g., impeccable with caviar, but skip the cayenne for berries), whisk in 1-2 teaspoons of freshly squeezed lemon juice (Meyers, if possible), a pinch of cayenne, and - if you want a little color - some very finely minced lemon zest.

Naughty and nice. Trust me.

Too Much of a Good Thing? Mac-n-Cheese, v2.0

All-American Super Cheesy Mac-n-Cheese

In our first post, we waxed philosophical on the gustatory wonder and sundry therapeutic benefits of a classic macaroni and cheese, but offered precious little in the way of actual cooking. On our next pass, we began to think about actually making the dish, and wondered about the the appropriateness of breadcrumb toppings, cheeses other than cheddar, and the optimal pasta shape. While the end result - ziti baked in a sauce of bechamel, provolone & parmigiano - was good, maybe even satisfying, it nevertheless fell short of transporting. And a truly classic mac-n-cheese must, above all else, transport us somewhere: Perhaps to a time when we were younger, or in circumstances more care-free, or maybe precisely where we are now, but with softer edges.

With this schmaltzy sentiment firmly ensconced, for this week's installment, I decided to try a riff on the undeniably classic, if not particularly gourmet, version from 1937 known simply as Kraft Macaroni and Cheese (or, if you're Canadian, Kraft Dinner). What could be more iconic than a lifeboat-orange, rib-gluing plate of Kraft? The problem, of course, is that it basically tastes like crap. Which is not surprising, considering you could probably whip up a box from the original 1937 production run and probably eat it without getting sick. Hey, give credit where it's due: I've fed it to my kids, more than once, and I invariably sneak a bite. So what I'm after is the essence of Kraft - a thick, creamy sauce; a blazing orange so rarely found in nature - but with the taste of real cheese, minus the food colorings, some texture to the pasta, and ideally a consistency a bit less like Elmer's.

Mac-n-Cheese, v1.0

Mac-n-Cheese I: Ziti regate w/ provolone & parmigiano

OK, it's Monday, enough of the booze chatter. We promised to engage in the pursuit of mac-n-cheese perfection, and here in the Proximal Kitchen, we don't take such promises lightly.

If you caught my previous post on mac-n-cheese, despair not yet another trip by the culinary pulpit, because today's post - our introductory foray into the mac-n-cheese sweepstakes - is all business. I have little doubt that my previous wax-on, wax-off meanderings will return to this thread, but not now.

I've been reading up on mac-n-cheese. Unsurprisingly, the Internet produces information overload: Lots of great-sounding recipes, a far larger number of suspect ones, and all sorts of claims and factoids, both interesting and banal, about the history of this profoundly American dish (Thomas Jefferson apparently loved to serve a baked macaroni and cheese). My first realization: I will need to focus and compartmentalize this project. I am not going to try every conceivable variation; nor do I think I have to, because I have a pretty good idea about what I want the final result to be, and it doesn't include broccoli, brie, or artificially-low fat substitutions. I also believe quite strongly that you can train your palate to 'think', to envision the character of a recipe, and the likelihood of its success, before you ever make it.

Having now read a goodly number of varations of, and hypotheses concerning, macaroni and cheese recipes, I would separate the key decision variables as follows:

1. Unadorned or All Dressed Up? You can make a compelling case for mixing in diced ham or broccoli, for a crispy shallot topping, for any number of additions that raise the apparent sophistication of the dish. I don't object to any of them, so long as they serve a purpose. But none of them are essential, and that is what I'm after; howsoever wonderful bacon may be, the soul of mac-n-cheese does not depend on it, and neither will our recipes. (I'm undecided on breadcrumbs; my intuition says "no", but I'm kind of a sucker for crumbly toppings, and I'm reserving the right to try one variation.)
2. Sauce or Just Cheese? Most of the classic recipes start with some version of a bechamel sauce, and then build a cheese sauce from there - essentially, a variation on the classic Mornay. But not everyone agrees; there are those who argue that flour has no place in a true mac-n-cheese, and that the cheese alone should be sufficient to bind the pasta. Like the question of adornment, I don't need to cook to answer this one: I will never get the texture and depth of flavor I want - both crusty, gooey, and creamy all at the same time, with layers and layers of flavor permeating into the noodles  - without some sort of a mother sauce in which to embed background flavors, to mix and bind the cheeses, and to fill in the the spaces between the layers of pasta. All our recipes will start with a basic white sauce based on the classic bechamel.
3. Just Cheddar or Something Else? Most of the recipes I read, and particularly those of the more "classic" variety, depend heavily, if not entirely, on cheddar cheese. I'm unconvinced, and this is where I expect to invest the most time, because, quite obviously, the dish will ultimately fail without the right mixture of cheeses. Furthermore, when I think about the classic cheese sauces, typically some variation on Mornay, I tend to think of Swiss, Alsatian, and Italian cheeses, more than I do cheddar (both Larousse and Michel Roux, in his essential "Sauces", agree). Cheddar also presents some textural challenges, as I find that it has a proclivity for breaking (the fats separate during cooking) and for turning grainy. For all these reasons, I'm going to try Swiss- (broadly construed), Italian-, and cheddar-styled cheeses before taking my final stand. 
4. Choice of Pasta. It may seem oxymoronic to debate the shape of pasta for a dish that is named after one particular shape, but in fact the Italian root - maccherone - is used to refer to most any tube-shaped pasta cut into short, regular lengths. The more important feature, it seems to me, is how particular shapes hold the sauce and whether they maintain their integrity during the second cooking (baking in the sauce after boiling). Also important is how a particular shape sets up because - no disrespect to the oozing-pile approach - I'd prefer to serve a structurally coherent slice of the final product without it spilling all over the plate.

A quick inventory of the cheese drawer yields some aged Provolone, a chunk of Parmigiano Reggiano, but no real cheddar or Swissy-type stuff. The pasta shelf has a few options, most of them (spaghetti, capellini, and a variation on the corkscrew the kids are fond of) inappropriate to the task at hand. I spy some ziti regate, an over-sized, grooved version of penne, which sounds like a good test-case of a larger, straighter tube than th elbow-macaroni benchmark, and also strikes me as fine in its own right. As regular followers already know, I depend heavily on leftovers (indeed, I take the creative and productive use of what is already sitting around to be a badge of honor - it saves time and money, it reduces waste, and it forces me to think like a cook), and thus my first attempt at mac-n-cheese is born of a Provolone-based white sauce over some big, fat pasta tubes.

Mac-n-Cheese I

1. Cook the pasta: Boil about a 1/2 lb of dried, large-ish tubular pasta, preferably grooved to help grab on to the sauce, such as ziti or rigatoni, in a large pot of salted water (I tend to cook a little extra and then adjust the final quantity of pasta to match the final volume of sauce). Cook only until just barely al dente - the pasta will continue to cook in the oven, and you don't want it turning to mush. In practice, assuming you are using an Italian boxed pasta that has been packaged for American distribution, this will generally mean you want to pull it off the burner about a minute before the low end of the recommended range (and certainly no later than said lower end). While you're at it, pre-heat the oven to 350F.
2. While the pasta is boiling, start the sauce: Make 1/4 cup of blonde roux by cooking 3 tablespoons of flour in 3 tablespoons of butter over medium-low heat. You want to cook the flour, but whisk it around and watch the heat so as not to let it color. Scald 2 cups of whole milk or even cream (although, honestly, I used 2% and it still came out fine) add it slowly to the roux, whisking constantly to avoid lumps (if it gets lumpy, your milk was likely not hot enough, or you added it too quickly; you can always strain it out if that happens). You have what is now a bechamel sauce, but you need to season it - add a pinch of freshly grated nutmeg (maybe 1/8th of a teaspoon - not too much), white pepper (black pepper will screw up the color - this isn't sausage gravy, it's a white mac-n-cheese), and salt. Don't skimp on the salt; it's important to season each layer of the dish, or the final result will be under-seasoned and bland. Bring to a gentle boil and cook until the sauce thickens up and you no longer taste a raw, floury taste. Don't forget to take the pasta off the heat and drain it while this is going on!
3. Stir in the cheeses, starting with about a half-pound of shredded, aged Provolone (slices will melt OK as well). I would not use Mozzarella (not the right texture for melting, or flavor profile, really), but a 50/50 blend of Provolone and Fontina would probably work very well. Once the Provolone has melted completely and the sauce is hot, turn off the heat and stir in most of a gently packed cup of finely grated Parmigiano Reggiano, either by itself or mixed with a little Pecorino Romano for extra bite; reserve a small handful. Check the final sauce for seasoning and adjust, if necessary.
4. Combine the pasta and the cheese sauce: Transfer most of the pasta back to the pot from which it came, or to a large mixing bowl (glass better than metal, because everything will still be quite hot), pour most of the sauce over the pasta, and gently fold them together to avoid damaging the pasta. Reserve a small amount of pasta and sauce so that you can adjust the quantities, if necessary. Make sure to distribute the sauce uniformly in order to coat all the noodles. The stuff should look like almost as much sauce as pasta, with every noodle heavily coated in a thick slathering of the sauce.
5. Bake the pasta: Gently fill a small, buttered casserole dish, pie plate, or earthenware crock, pouring the pasta and sauce down in layers; delicately compress the pasta as you go in order to ensure it is basically solid and of a uniform density throughout. Pour any remaining sauce over the top and then sprinkle with the reserved cheeses and dot with butter. Transfer to the bottom rack of a 350-degree (F) oven for about 20 minutes; it will be done when the top and sides are bubbling and just starting to brown. Turn the oven to broil - this will brown the top and create a bubbly, cheesy crust. But watch it carefully, now is not the time to do anything else! (I never, not ever, turn the broiler on without setting  a timer for a minute or two.)
6. Let it set: Do not attempt to taste or serve for at least 10 minutes - 15-20 is probably better (I'm assuming your kitchen is pretty warm; if not, adjust accordingly). Like any baked pasta, you need to give it time to cool and bind up with some structural integrity; it will also save you and your family from a blistering case of pizza-mouth. Alternatively, if you're worried about the top getting cold, or timing it for service, remove it from the oven when it's done, but before broiling it, let it set, and then return to the broiler just before you're ready to serve it.

My family had the version pictured above for dinner last night, and found it very satisfying. It was a little too sharp for the kids, but I knew going in that this would be a more adult version (the same basic recipe with just a bit blander cheese, and a little less of it, would be more kid-friendly). However, this was only an experiment, and I'll definitely change some things next time:

• I'm not sure the large pasta shape was ideal; next time, I'll either use a smaller shape like penne, or the classic elbow macaroni. 
• The cheeses had great flavor, but were a little one-dimensional, so I'm going to move into the Swissy or Cheddary families next, although I can definitely envision a cheese blend including some of what was used here (particularly the final sprinkling of Parmigiano). Also, the texture was good, but not perfect - the final sauce, out of the oven, would ideally be a bit smoother and more consistent. 
• I think I would raise the proportion of cheese in the sauce in order to make it slightly less like a cream sauce and slightly more chew in texture.

In short, this is very much worth making, but stay tuned for future upgrades.

Carbo-Loading: Tagliatelle alla Bolognese "Old School"

Apologies, but the PK staff has been out of commission these last few days; a weak and unadvised deviation from the accepted rules of a young blog (which is to say, don't let the fields fallow), but  my wife, our new young Italian friend V., and I were entered in a triathlon relay race over the weekend. Between the pre-race prep, the race itself, and the shattering after-effects, all I can really say is, I dropped the proverbial ball. I did not, however, stop cooking.

That being the operative point - cooking - because, politics aside, this is a cooking blog, and what better excuse to cook than a pre-race meal? Case in point, a long-distance event (on the order of 10 hours as a team), from an exercise-physiology (and therefore culinary) point of view, means lots - lots - of carbs. Indeed, speaking purely from a personal perspective, one of the essential motivating factors in training for an endurance event is that you get to eat enormous quantities of food, and carbs in particular. And here in the Proximal Kitchen, carbs means pasta, and copious quantities thereof. Preferably served with bread. And, in a perfect world, washed down with a local wine (which, technically, is of course a carbohydrate - although the risk of poor performance and/or puking argue for not doing so on the night before an event). So, setting aside the pre-race alcohol constraint, I started rummaging around the fridge to see what was to hand.

I had a couple of boxes of tagliatelle that I really like, it's an organic, dried version of fresh egg pasta from an Italian maker called Buonaturae (relatively easy to find at natural food stores), so that seemed like a good start. Yes, I am well aware that dried tagliatelle is likely an Italian culinary heresy of some significance, but my view is this: Better to use a high-quality, properly-cooked dry pasta than a poor-quality fresh one, even for dishes calling for fresh pasta. The particulars of  making pasta by hand is fodder for another post, but for the purposes of this particular meal, suffice it to say that I find making good pasta at home a fairly difficult task, and the home cook must always be honest in assessing his or her strengths and weaknesses. Learn new things, but always play to your strengths - it's your kitchen, so cook what you like, in your style, and you will invariably end up more successful in both the process and the product.

The essential components of ragu

Next up, the sauce: I already had fresh garlic from my recent experiment with  pistou, some really nice onions from Bernier farms and, although I always try to keep canned tomatoes in the cupboard for just such an eventuality; I also found some leftover basic tomato sauce that I figured should be used, so I grabbed that as well. Finally, I pulled open the bottom-most drawer in our freezer, which is where I store all the bits of left over meat from other meals: A pack of Saveur chicken-pistachio sausages (sounded great, but not over pasta); an odd-looking piece of a lamb's shoulder that wouldn't fit in the braising pot the last time I use it; a pack of Hebrew National hot dogs (which, bizarre as it may sound, I have used to good effect as an endurance fuel, but again, hard to see it over pasta); and - last but certainly not least - a few packs of ground-to-order, grass-fed ground beef from my favorite local butcher, the Willowside Meats and Sausage Factory. I had ordered the ground beef for burgers (the background slider-shot from my recent french-fry post, and the subject of another forthcoming post), but I have found that the same 50/50 blend of brisket and chuck I often use for burgers makes an excellent ragu, and a plan began to coalesce: Tagliatelle alla Bolognese, the classic dish of pasta with a ragu of meat and vegetables from Bologna. All I'd need was a carrot for the sauce and some crusty bread to round out the plate. (All my favorite veggie stalls at the farmer's market, folks like Bernier Farms, the Ortiz Brothers, Foggy River, and Love Farms, have been overflowing with beautiful carrots, so things were looking up.)

You will find as many variations on the classic Italian ragu as you care to look for, but the essential ingredients, and the cooking process, are relatively consistent. It's also been a staple in our kitchen for a while, so I've been doing background research, both theoretical (cook books) and applied (prepared and eaten), for a while now. Personally, for a basic set of unimpeachable guidelines, I don't think you can do better than Marcella Hazan's version of the Bolognese classic (if you're going to own just one Italian cookbook, hers is an obvious choice; I could spend a long, happy life cooking and eating out of that one book). Note, however, that I've not mentioned pork, which is called for in the recipe-link previous; in the book itself, the basic version uses only beef, and pork is mentioned as a variation. This, too, got me curious, and so I did a little more digging.

It turns out that Bologna - much, I suppose, like the regulation of true pizza in Napoli, although I'm really no expert - has clearly defined rules for what constitutes a true Bolognese-style ragu, as codified by the Accademia Italiana della Cucina, and they include pancetta, which one presumably renders and then uses the fat of for the cooking of the vegetables. However, there are many variations on the basic formula, even from within Bologna, with and without pork, often including chicken livers (something I've not tried but just has to be good), and sometimes even mushrooms (which I think would taste great, but does not jibe with my reading of what constitutes a true ragu). While the intricacies of the proper pairing of pasta shape and texture to sauce are worthy of a dissertation-like effort, one thing on which it is universally agreed is that tagliatelle is unimpeachable. The economies of scale in home ragu production, and the ease with which it can be stored, dictate making enough for leftovers, and I would not hesitate to dress a stuffed pasta like cheese tortellini, but - for me - the ultimate application is actually in lasagna. That, however, involves an even more serious investment in time, one in which home-made pasta is essential, and therefore a project that I was not about to entertain for our pre-race feast. Larousse describes dressing a timbale of macaroni and sauteed mushrooms with ragu, something I've never had, but definitely plan to try - it ought to look impressive on the plate, and should please kids and company alike.

Considering the broad popularity of "Spaghetti Bolognese" in both the US and the UK, it remains a somewhat fascinating factoid that, much like polpettone (or "meatballs"), Italians would never serve a ragu over spaghetti. For what it's worth, this is a heresy that we at the Proximal Kitchen have practiced happily for years, to great effect, particularly for the kids - but still, truth be told, tagliatelle is far superior, as the flat shape of the noodle and the fresh-pasta consistency hold the sauce in a far more pleasing manner than will dried spaghetti.

Although hardly the definitive text on Italian cooking, I thought it would be interesting to see what our good friend Larousse had to say on the topic: The basic description is of "a thick sauce based on beef and vegetables, particularly tomato", so pretty much what I'd have expected at this point, although they also include chicken livers, and omit milk, which I take to be essential (and the Accademia is with me on this). The most entertaining, if not particularly informative, except from Gastronomique is that the sauce known as ragu is "a corruption of the French word ragout". I suspect a cultural anthropologist could make significant hay of that one statement in the broader historical context of continental European history.

Before we get to the recipe, I have to mention a quick lesson in the practical realities of multi-cultural cooking that I was lucky enough to receive, gratis, from my new friend and comrade with whom I shared this pre-race meal, the aforementioned Signore V. V. is from Rome and, being from Rome - arguably the spiritual capital of pasta - had an interesting opinion on the topic of what constitutes ragu. Firstly, upon my introduction of the dish as alla Bolognese, I was mildly embarrassed to learn that V. had no idea what I was talking about: Apparently, the definition of classic ragu as specifically Bolognese is, to a Roman, rather overly provincial. For V., ragu is ragu, and that is really the end of the story. Since I always think of the generic term 'ragu' as referring to almost any thick, stewed sauce of meat and vegetables, I asked about using other meats, as I've had all sorts of terrific ragu of rabbit, boar, oxtail, and of course with and without pork added to the classic beef version. On this, my Italian friend was clear: ragu is made from beef. Don't think too hard about it.

Tagliatelle alla Bolognese "Old School"

1. Prepare about two cups of small-dice soffritto for the base. Soffritto is just the Italian name for the classic French stock base, mirepoix. Or, just grab one large carrot, one large rib of celery, and a small onion (or double and halve accordingly, depending on the size of your veggies). Sweat the veggies over medium-low heat in a little olive oil (and/or butter) until soft, using a large, heavy pot (the classic Italian version calls for earthenware, but cast iron or - as I have done here - a heavy copper sauce pan works just fine).
2. Break up about a pound of ground beef, with a strong preference for a cut that is flavorful, not too lean (I would say minimum 20% fat), and of course from grass-fed, pasture-raised cattle. Turn the heat up to medium, add the meat to the veggies, and continue to stir and break up with a fork to ensure even cooking. There is no need to brown the meat, simply cook until it loses its raw color throughout.
3. Pour a cup of milk, along with some freshly grated nutmeg (not much - maybe an 1/8th of a teaspoon), to the meat and vegetables and allow the milk to cook off completely. This is important, as the fat from the milk will help protect the meat from all the acid to come.
4. Pour a cup of dry white wine over the meat  and allow that to boil almost completely away. (Always take care to stir in order to avoid any burning on the bottom, and to scrape the flavors concentrating on the walls of the pot back into the nascent sauce.)
5. Add a large can (28 to 32oz, typically) of crushed or pureed canned tomatoes to the pot. You can also use leftover basic tomato sauce, provided it is of very good quality and is very simple. And please, if you're going to all this trouble, don't use pre-made sauces that have more than a few ingredients. The other important thing here is the type of canned tomato: Cooking locally be damned, and you won't find them organic (if you do, please let me know), but you should only ever buy San Marzano tomatoes imported from Italy for use in tomato sauces. I'm sorry to be strict here, but this is really critical. And don't get suckered by "imported plum tomatoes" - if it doesn't say "San Marzano", don't buy it. It is the only tomato in the world that is acceptable for the multitude of sauces that depend on canned tomatoes. (With the notable exception of a classic pomodoro made from local heirlooms at the peak of ripeness, canned San Marzano tomatoes are almost invariably cheaper, far less work, and actually taste better, than fresh tomatoes. Trust me, or do the taste test, it really is true.)
6. Once the tomatoes have come to temperature, reduce to a low simmer, stirring occasionally. Allow to cook for at least 3 hours - 4 or 5 would be better, but really, I've found 3 to be plenty. You can actually leave it to its own devices, for the most part; just add a little water (or beef stock) whenever all the moisture evaporates. The sauce will be very thick when finished, will have almost no liquid, and the fat will separate (see picture above). Once fully reduced, season with salt and fresh black pepper. Sauce may be cooled and stored and even frozen with little deleterious effect.
7. Serve over tagliatelle, accompanied by freshly grated Parmigiano (Romano is less classic but also excellent), and garnished with chopped flat-leaf parsley. A hunk of crusty garlic bruschetta would be welcome.

Tagliatelle alla Bolognese with Sourdough Garlic Bruschetta and a glass of RRV Pinot

Leftovers: Wild Salmon Two Ways - Wrapped in Prosciutto with Creamy Polenta, and Simply Raw with Pistou

Leftovers, I often think, are the home cook's best friend. At the very least, leftovers provide motivation: One of the cook's, any cook's, moral imperatives is not to waste food. And of course, using leftovers saves money - no mean feat, if your goal is to cook good food, on a regular basis, for a rapidly growing family of [insert your number here - it's not cheap for one, or for five].

But leftovers are more than that: Like the sonnet or the haiku, their inherently limited structure becomes the foil for improvisation, for efficiency, for making something new out of something old. Or maybe I've had that one-glass-of-wine-too-many and I'm blabbering, but I'm sticking to my guns on this one: I gain considerably more satisfaction as a cook by constructing a good dish from leftovers than I do by cooking from a well-supported recipe, replete with multiple stops at multiple markets (not that I mind that either, mind, but I'm trying to make a point).

Last night's dinner consisted of salmon; pistou; and polenta. And a salad of arugula, but I have limits on eating raw greens, so no salad tonight. Tomorrow, surely. In any case, I had a couple of nice chunks of salmon, some polenta, and a boatload of the pistou. It sounded like a coherent meal last night, why not another, different, coherent meal tonight? Enter my middle child, who - bless her culinary soul - believes that few foods are better cooked than raw. She was at 6, and remains at 8, an emphatic believer in steak tartare. And tonight, she sagely pointed out that, "Hey Dad, it's all well and good how you've cooked it, but can I have some of that salmon raw?" So we tasted it (this being one of the principle advantages of buying food locally, at the peak of freshness, from people you trust - raw meat need not be anathema), and sure enough, the kid had it nailed - if anything, better raw than cooked (I suppose that's the nickel version of why sushi is one of the finest cuisines in the history of human civilization; but I digress).

I rummaged around the fridge, found nothing noteworthy, except a pack of still-good-but-ought-to-use-it prosciutto. Add the fact that I was cooking for the kids (last night's dinner was behind schedule, so the kids got hosed on their portion, which is also why I had the leftover salmon in the first place), and kids have taste buds, and thus love bacon. They don't, however, appreciate a crispy salmon skin, tragic as that may be. And, speaking for myself, bacon can really make seafood (well, some seafood) kick ass. And so the genesis of the meal: Wrap the salmon on prosciutto before cooking it rare, and serve it on top of the creamy polenta, and alongside a hopelessly naive sashimi cut of the odds and ends of the raw salmon, with just a touch of the pistou.

Wild Salmon Two Ways

1. Trim off a few nice sashimi-like slices of the raw salmon using a very sharp knife (wipe the blade with a damp cloth between cuts - and if your knives aren't sharp, and you don't know what to do about, we have to talk). You want to end up with a nice, almost cube-like chunk of salmon. I've farted on about the pistou for two days now, so I won't bother again; grab it from the fridge. Put the polenta in a pot to warm, or what the hell, just nuke it before plating.
2. Take two slices of prosciutto, and wrap the salmon, first in one direction, then - after rotating it 90 degrees - in the perpendicular direction. Tuck and fold the prosciutto so that it's all wrapped up snugly, basically a birthday present of wild salmon in a wrapper of pig fat, what more could you one ask for? Except that I suck at wrapping presents. But less so, food.
3. The whole key to this is cooking the salmon such that (a) the prosciutto forms a nice crust, and (b) the salmon is cooked uniformly around the edges and rare to the center. On my stove, that means medium-medium-low heat, a few minutes on each side, just enough to brown the pork; but it took me a trial batch, which I overcooked, and asymmetrically at that. The hard truth is, you have to cook it by touch - feel it raw, and keep feeling as it cooks, because once it's firm in the middle, it's over done. And you know we feel about overcooking fish.
4. Season the sashimi with fleur de sel, plate over a bit of the pistou, and garnish with a basil leave. Slice the cooked salmon and plate over the polenta. 

Wild salmon with fresh pistou, creamy polenta, and arugula

This dish came about, like so much of what transpires here in the PK, simply because it was the obvious thing to do: I was driving home with my eldest daughter last night, and we have a small but exceptional farmer's market on Tuesdays; we had very little time, not enough to really walk the stalls, so we had to choose quickly; we were already behind schedule for dinner, so prep time had to be short; and, of course, in keeping with our MO, we wanted to be fresh, seasonal, and local.

The salmon are apparently running late this year, which is not a bad thing from my perspective, as it gives me a better shot at working this wonderful fish into my posts. Dave, our local market fisherman, either catches it locally, or - because of tragic overfishing - sources it from Alaska; in this case, somewhat disappointingly, we couldn't get the local stuff. But better to buy wild, from Alaska, than from an industrial farm or at the risk of wiping out the local population entirely. And if you've been following the Proximal Kitchen at all, you've already figured out that we're hardly zealots - we love local, but above all, we love good.

Two stalls down from Dave was Bernier Farms, who consistently produce, amongst other things, fabulous produce. Today, they had basket upon basket of different varietals of beautiful garlic, blazing green Genovese basil, and - a personal favorite here at PK - bags of crisp, leafy, young arugula. Having just picked up some organic polenta, the menu clicked: salmon goes well with corn; basil and garlic make pistou, and pistou is delicious on salty, oily fish; and simply dressed arugula always provides a great contrast in bitterness and acidity. (And yes, if you're wondering about the mythical Mediterranean salmon, you're right - you will not likely fine salmon in much Provencal cooking. But many of those same flavor profiles that work so well with bass and other Med-centric fish seem to do just fine with salmon... and my kids love salmon, which is generally enough for me.)

Wild Salmon with pistou, creamy polenta, and arugula

1. If you're making polenta from scratch, start it first, following the directions on the package. Heresy, but I will on occasion - as I did on this particular mid-week night - cheat, and start with a pre-cooked polenta. Yeah, yeah, I know. But it's better than you might think, and cuts the total cooking time of this dish by more than half. To make it 'creamy', simply whisk in some heavy cream or, better, mascarpone cheese right at the end.
2. Pin-bone and trim the salmon into neat shapes of roughly uniform thickness. Carefully score the skin side and pat dry.
3. Prepare the pistou - see my other post on the topic here.
4. Heat a pan over medium heat and add a little olive oil. Place the salmon cuts in the pan once the oil is hot but not smoking, skin-side down.
5. While the salmon is cooking (90% of its cooking time will be done on the skin), dress the salad. A simple vinaigrette would be unimpeachable, but I chose to keep it even simpler and save another bowl in the process by using one my favorite Italian methods: Simply toss the leaves with olive oil to lightly coat, season with salt and fresh ground pepper, and squeeze a lemon over them. 
6. Once the skin is crispy and the flesh is still rare to the middle, turn the salmon over, cook briefly just to set the other side, taking care to keep not to overcook the fish. There is really no worse crime to an already dead fish than to overcook it; better to be raw than dry. And, for those who abhor "fishy" taste, it's worth noting that, generally speaking, fish gets "fishier" the longer you cook it. 
7. Arrange some salad on a plate, make a little bed of polenta, place a salmon filet in the middle of the polenta, and spoon pistou over the top.

A final note on wine: Garlic and basil are not particularly food-friendly flavors, and a spicy pistou can be really tricky. The Italians will, correctly, suggest a Ligurian white of some sort, but I had none to hand, and very few of our local wines here in the Russian River Valley seemed obvious. In the end, I had an inexpensive white from the Cotes-du-Rhone, made primarily from Marsanne & Rousanne; the lack of oak, the barely-sweet fruit and young exhuberance, and the local-by-extension pairing of a Provencal wine with a nearly Provencal dish proved just about right.

In search of pistou

Thanks to Bernier Farms' produce, 4 ingredients & no cooking for a perfect sauce

Let me start with the essential fact: Pistou is seriously good stuff. Made in minutes, from very few (and entirely raw) ingredients, it turns a vegetable soup transcendent, it transforms a pasta from the simple to the sublime, and, perhaps less conventionally but no less successfully, it works wonders with certain seafood.

The problem is, unlike in the case of its far more famous (and near-mystical-when-done-right) cousin, pesto, there seems to be no clear agreement on what actually constitutes a true pistou. Or, at least that is what is to be gleaned from a quick perusal of my personal collection of cook books. In the case of pesto, one need go no further than Marcella Hazan (Essentials of Italian Cooking). OK, sure, the exact proportions change, but how exact is a "cup of loosely packed basil", never mind "2-4 plump garlic cloves"? My point is, there is broad agreement amongst serious cooks (or at least the subset of those whose cookbooks I both possess and have bothered to read) as to what constitutes pesto. I cannot say the same for pistou. To wit:

• Julia Child, in her classic Mastering the Art of French Cooking, suggests a relatively small proportion of basis, a relatively large proportion of tomato, and the more-or-less-usual quantities of olive oil and garlic. And - this being, in my opinion, the critical point, Julia includes grated cheese (Italian cheese, in point of fact - fascinating to the point of uniqueness, in classical French cooking). But no butter - this isn't pesto, after all.
• In Mireille Johnston's really good, if overlooked, small tome on Provencal cooking, The Cuisine of the Sun, we find basil, garlic, olive oil, and, again, grated Parmigiano - but here the proportions are distinctly pesto-like, with something like 5-10 times the amount of basil Ms Child would have me use (and a bit more garlic than most Italians would use). 
• Patricia Wells, in the consistently excellent At Home in Provence, provides a very similar recipe to Ms Johnston, with pesto-like proportions, but - critically - no cheese. 
• Finding such inconsistencies, and lacking the motivation and resources to track down primary historical sources, I went to the Gastronomique, who provides (perhaps unsurprisingly) very similar guidelines to Ms Child in the basic recipe. However, in the description of the condiment, it makes clear that the base is a paste of garlic, basil, and olive oil, and that tomatoes and cheese are sometimes added. 

One may fairly ask, "So what?" Because, while I'm not quiet a zealot about it, I generally count myself amongst the Italian school of "no dairy with seafood", and wild salmon was on the menu (more on the not-so-classic combination of this garlicky concoction with salmon in my next post). So where I come out is this: If you're going to serve pistou with seafood - and it can be truly exceptional with sea bass, crab, salmon, and perhaps most of all, rouget or red mullet - then follow Ms Wells, use lots of basil, and leave out the cheese. As to the radical variation in proportions, I think it really comes down to taste and application: The Childs/Gastronomique versions are really closer to a flavored olive oil, almost a vinaigrette with the acid, whereas the Wells/Johnston versions show case the aromatics of the basil and form a thicker, paste-like consistency, both of which are features I adore (even more so if you're spreading it on crusty bread, and why wouldn't you do that). One thing that is always and everywhere uncertain is the garlic: Which varietal, how young or old, the size of the cloves, and whether you want a mere background hint, or a spicy wallop in the front of the palate... it just depends, is about all I can say.

The other advantage of Ms Wells' version is that it can readily be converted to proper pesto at a later stage, simply by beating in a few tablespoons of soft butter and mixing in the requisite quantities of finely grated parmigiano and romano cheeses, although I'd have to think about how to deal with the missing pignoli.

I have less of an opinion with respect to the tomatoes, mainly because I've not spent much with tomato-laden pistous; that being said, I can easily imagine a simply grilled whole bass, dressed with Ms Child's version of the sauce. In fact, seeing how much of the rather intense and concentrated elixir is now sitting in my fridge, I test that hypothesis next weekend...

In the event, my eldest daughter and I decided to stop by the Tuesday farmer's market in town and, as we were under a bit of time pressure, made only one stop for produce: Luckily, we landed at the Bernier Farms stand, and they had an exceptionally fragrant Tuscan garlic and big, bright green bunches of Genovese basil, so the decision was easy.

Pistou (food processor method)

1. Mince 1-2 large (2-4 small) cloves of fresh garlic and form a paste by sprinkling with kosher salt and using the flat side of large knife to mash the salt and garlic on a cutting board.
2. Gently wash and de-stem 2 cups of loosely packed basil leaves, taking care not to beat the leaves up too much at this stage. Get the Genovese varietal if at all possible, nothing else has the fragrance. (On a side note, if you have sun, basil is a frightfully productive and easy-to-grow plant.)
3. Put the garlic paste and basil into a food processor and puree, while slowly adding a quarter to a half cup of good quality, extra virgin olive oil. And if you want to be strict about the whole cooking-local thing live in California, you can probably get a very good olive oil from not too far away. (I love our local oils, and I buy but I'm no zealot, and have no objection to buying organic extra virgin Italian olive oil in bulk from the dreaded Costco.) Continue with the oil until it reaches the desired consistency.
4. Puree just until smooth or you'll bruise the leaves beyond recognition, a few minutes should suffice. Transfer quickly to a tightly-sealing container that fits the quantity as well as possible - oxidation takes away the wonderful color of the pistou, so the less exposed surface area the better. Keep refrigerated, but allow to come to room temperature before serving.

Figs, figs, figs, Part III: Salty Fig Paste

Our family vacation was due to start a couple of days after I filled up a shopping bag full of first-crop green (or white, or whatever they are) figs, and if there's one thing ripe figs were not meant for, it's sitting around on your counter, waiting to rot. Also, first-crop figs not quite being all that, I figured a heavier hand might be warranted, and beat the crap out of them, until they cried "salty-fig-paste-Uncle":

Salty Fig Paste:

1. Scoop out flesh (discard skins) and cook gently, over low or medium-low heat, until it reaches a jam-like consistency (likely closer to 1/4 than 1/2 of the original volume). For my first experiment, and as pictured here, I cooked the paste down after the puree in Step 2 below, but I think, on reflection, that that was a mistake, because it's better to blend in the oil after it's been reduced.
2. Transfer the figs to a food processor - here is where I try to heed Boyle's law and let it cool a bit, so as to avoid a steaming-fig-paste facial - and puree until smooth, adding a good, fruity olive oil as you go. How much depends on your taste and what you're going to do with the paste, but the paste should have a smooth, glossy look and you should be able to taste the olive oil underneath the fruit. In the spirit of keeping it local, my go-to cooking oil is DaVero's "40-weight", although I was out, so in this particular instance, I cheated and used the bottle of TJ's Spanish EVOO I had to hand. Season to taste - I just used salt, but I can see an argument for a few grindings of fresh white pepper.

OK, now I've got a few cups of the stuff, what do to with it? I think fig paste is good with all sorts of things, but shows a particular proclivity for sharp, salty cheeses and cured meats. My wife and kids don't like fig paste at all, so I'll be eating it for a while, with the attendant posts to this blog when, as, and if I come up with any other clever ideas. But it's a Monday, so it's got to be simple, and I don't want to go shopping; and, since this is a cooking-locally blog, I want to keep it local. Herewith, a simple salad of sorts, made almost entirely of stuff from within my county (and mainly from within my city limits):

Chevre with Fresh Herbs, Fresh Figs, and Salty Fig Paste

1. Prepare Salty Fig Paste (above) and use the back of a spoon to apply a heavy smear to the plate.
2. Slice a fresh baguette thinly on a bias - I'd use sweet rather than sour bread for this (my local favorites are Costeaux and Full Circle). Spread a spoonful of chevre on each slice of bread (so many good local goat dairies, this time I used Redwood Hill Farms' excellent young chevre) and sprinkle with roughly chopped fresh herbs (basil, flat-leaf parsley, and a little rosemary from our own garden worked great here), some fresh cracked pepper, and a few dried chili flakes. Arrange on the plate, next to the fig paste.
3. Cut a fresh fig in quarters - our black Mission fig tree had a few first-crop ripe ones, so I used those instead of the greenies for color and because they tasted pretty damn good - and arrange down the other side of the cheese-breads.
4. Drizzle the breads with olive oil and sprinkle the fresh figs with a bit of fleur de sel.

I think I'd round out this local meal with any number of the excellent and reasonably priced Sauvignon Blancs we produce here in the Russian River Valley.

Figs, figs, figs, Part II: Salad of fresh figs with posciutto, goat's milk cheddar, and herbs from the garden.

Inspired by the urgent need to do something with the early-season fig crop, I tried a salad:

1. Cut a few figs into shapes and drizzle with olive oil and a little balsamic vinegar, just enough to provide acidic balance.
2. Drape prosciutto (a sweet San Danielle would be great, but a saltier Serrano might kick even more ass) judiciously over the figs and sprinkle with a finely grated goat's milk cheese (we have wonderful goat dairies all along the North Coast; I used Redwood Hill Cheddar), taking care to keep the flesh and skin of the figs in view as much as possible. At this stage, a little fleur de sel to bring up the seasoning wouldn't hurt.
3. Garnish with whatever herbs you have to hand - I find basil to be exceptional with the sweet-salty combination of fruit, meat and cheese, a small bit of thyme was nice, but sage was overpowering (I love sage, but it so often is). I finished it with fresh lavender, because we grow it ourselves, it makes for great color contrast, and really, what's more seasonal in summer than fresh lavender from your own garden?