Tortellini has been a part of our family’s Christmas day repast since our kids were … well, since they were kids. We used to make tortellini in brodo, a Northern Italian Christmas tradition. I would make a chicken, beef-bone and vegetable broth on Christmas Eve and then on the day we’d all pitch in to make sheets of fresh pasta and a meaty, cheesy, herby filling out of which we’d fashion hundreds of little belly-button-shaped beauties to float in the rich steaming broth. At the table we’d grate Parmigiano over the top and count our holiday blessings.
One year instead of broth I served the tortellini in a bolognese sauce and it was such a hit we haven’t been back to broth since. I use Marcella Hazan’s classic recipe for the meat sauce and I follow it to the letter because it’s quite perfect. Well, in truth, I add a bit more onion than she calls for. I’m a whore for onions. I tripled the recipe this year because I knew once I tasted it I would want to have more in the fridge for later. This is where the trouble started.
There’s something supremely satisfying about Marcella’s bolognese. Bubbling a cup or two of milk through the meat before adding the tomatoes creams up the sauce and sweetens it. And the five-hour simmer patiently breaks down the components and gives them time to take advantage of each other. It’s a meat sauce to dream about and this year’s version was no exception. The kids and I scarfed down our beefily-sauced tortellini while Jill tucked into her lentils with vegan gusto. Ah, chacon à son goût.
I’m not sure why I always through crumbles needed to be sweet. Is it because I’m usually eating them weekly smack dab in the middle of summer? Probably. But last month in Paris we stopped by a lovely little shop and café for lunch where Adam ordered a Zucchini Crumble, a small dish of tender eggplant, zucchini, tomatoes and onions topped with a savory buttery topping and a sprinkle of fresh herbs.
It must be something in the air, I’m not sure what it is. Cupcakes.
Cupcakes instead of cake. First Heather Mangrum (confession– about to
be my step-daughter-in law, engaged to my stepson Alex) who wrote in
about her and Alex’s adorable (and sensible and charming) decision last
week to serve cupcakes at their wedding instead of cake. And the test
they ran to choose them, buying cupcakes from bakeries all over New
York City, adding a kind of individual flourish to an already elegant
and stylized yet slightly modest event. The best kind.
It's burger season. I don't care if it's cold out or a 100 degrees... it's time to enjoy some summery meals and eat outdoors. The weather here has been decent (knock on wood). Our summers in the Pacific Northwest often don't begin until July 5th, but I have my hopes up. We've already had our first 90-degree day....kind of amazing for these parts.
I'm spending a few days in what I'm told is the Mid-West of America (albeit the Northern Mid-West), a place I've never been to before. It's a land of lakes and fir trees and glittering silver birches, and flying in I was startled (and a little homesick) by the landscape's resemblance to Norway. Of course everyone who lives here is either Norwegian or Swedish.