Pasta- Theory and Practice

Making Pasta

Hands up if you’re sick of hearing about pasta!

Ok, let’s see… nobody. Good.

I’m locked in the kitchen in lovely Long Beach, CA trying to come up with a few *actual* pasta recipes. Fool’s errand? Maybe, but I’m trying. Today I bought two dozen eggs, ten pounds of King Arthur AP, and smaller quantities of semolina, rye and whole wheat flours. I’m taking copious notes, weighing everything carefully and gridding out things in Excel as I go.

I really should put some plastic wrap over the keyboard.

So far I’ve made semolina pasta, rye pasta, egg pasta and- new to me- semolina pasta made with just semolina and water (which is what comes in the box). I thought it might be tricky, but it was actually very easy. I’ll let you know how it was to work with (it’s resting now).

As I’ve mentioned in the past, I have vacillated on the subjects of oil and salt. I have never been a big advocate of oil, especially in egg pastas; salt has been the larger existential struggle (not to be confused with an eggsistential struggle- I’m here all week, try the veal!).

What do these controversial elements contribute, you may ask? Well, let’s start with the simpler one: oil. Olive oil has been added to pasta probably about as long as flour, and, in small quantities, contributes little more than flavor. 1 teaspoon of extra-virgin olive oil (good stuff, not that crap that looks like machine oil gone jaundiced) can add a delicate olive flavor to one pound of pasta. It’s true. Larger quantities, however, will add body- especially in the absence of eggs- and make the dough, well, oily, so it doesn’t stick without being dry. This is the desired result for *pici*, for example, which are like a hand-formed, very thick spaghetti. Some people lean on this aspect heavily when making doughs with less glutinous elements, like buckwheat. I however, am not a fan either of the taste of olive oil in pasta, nor of the texture it creates. If I need to prop up a low-gluten element in pasta, I’ll make the dough with semolina rather than white flour, since semolina was probably used in early rubber bands. That stuff is bad-ass.

Salt is in one sense a much more complicated matter, but in another, very simple. [I’ve talked before](http://omnivorousfish.com/node/202) about [hygroscopy](http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Hygroscopy) in dough, but basically it’s the concept that salt in suspension in the dough will attract water to the interior of the pasta, making it fall apart.

It’s true that flavor is the only thing that salt contributes; its structure is unchanged with or without it, but here’s what I’ve realized: if you’re cooking pasta properly it’s being cooked in very salty water, water that should taste as salty as the sea, probably saltier than you think it should be. When the pasta intermingles with the water, excess starch is released and water is taken in: salty water. Here’s the difference: when salt and water are taken into the pasta, the fundamental elements remain the same, only wetter. When there’s salt in the pasta to begin with, it’s part and parcel with the structure of the pasta, and its dissolution affects that structure. That’s what I’m telling myself, anyway. Point being: I’m no longer putting salt or oil in pasta dough. The water- if salted properly- is more than enough to flavor the pasta with salt.

On Sunday, we had a bunch of people at the house, so naturally I started cooking. With pasta on the brain, I thought of a simple crowd-pleaser: a *rotolo* of pasta. It’s a large sheet of pasta, rolled out in one piece, filled with cheese, herbs, vegetables, meats or whatever you’d like, rolled up and poached like a salmon. Very often, it’s then sliced and baked with a sauce.

Like most Italian dishes, it can either be a grand special occasion preparation, or an efficient way to deal with leftovers. The one I made is more or less traditional, and the spinach could become chard, dandelions, escarole or some combination of any of them. Herbs are also nice in the filling, if you have them. A little chopped oregano or marjoram would be nice, but certainly not necessary

This dish seems complicated, and there are a lot of steps, but they’re all very simple. The only tricky thing is making the pasta, which you’re becoming an expert at anyway, right?

Oh, and remember, if you have bleached flour in your house, make cakes until it’s gone, and never buy it again.

***Rotolo* of pasta with spinach and cheese**
Serves 6-8

*for the pasta*
AP Flour 2 cups
large eggs 2
tepid water as needed

*for the filling*
ricotta cheese 2 lbs
fresh spinach 1-1/2 lbs
small onion, chopped 1 (about 2/3 cup)
extra-virgin olive oil 2 tbsn
large eggs 2
egg yolks 1
grated pecorino, grana or parmiggiano cheese ¾ cup
chopped parsely ½ cup
nutmeg to taste
salt and white and black pepper

*for the sauce*
light cream 2 cups
gorgonzola cheese, crumbled 4-6 oz
(do **not** use that garbage they sweep up off the floor called “Stinkfinger Cheese Crumbles.” Buy a **whole piece** of gorgonzola cheese, put it in a bowl and break it up with a fork.)
sage leaves 3 or 4, optional
grated pecorino, grana or parmiggiano cheese 1/2 cup
salt and black pepper

**Start the filling.** As far in advance as you can remember to do it (this time I did it as soon as I got home from the store, which is to say about 10 minutes before I made the pasta) put the cheese in a sieve or in a colander lined with cheesecloth set over a bowl to drain.

Wash the spinach by placing it in a sinkful or bowlful of cool water. Agitate it slightly, and allow it to sit for a minute or two, then lift the spinach out, leaving behind sand, rocks, flies, memories. Repeat until you’re left with clean water. **You bought that prewashed spinach? That’s nice, so did I.** Do you want me to tell you what I found in the bottom of *my* water? I didn’t think so.

Dry the spinach in a salad spinner, if you have one, but don’t go crazy. Some water is good for steaming the spinach, but you want to have as little water as possible when you’re done cooking it. Chop the spinach coarsely.

Heat the olive oil in a wide pan over medium heat and add the onion. Sweat it until softened, but not brown (this is what is meant by sweating). When the onion is soft, raise the heat to medium-high and add the spinach. Cover. If all the spinach won’t fit, don’t smush it in; wait until what’s in the pan has wilted, then add more. Season with salt, pepper and nutmeg. Cover partially and cook for 5 minutes or until the spinach is thoroughly wilted and dark green. If there seems like there is a lot of water, uncover the pan and raise the heat to cook away as much of it as possible. When it’s cooked, turn the spinach out into a colander set over a bowl and allow to cool and drain while preparing the pasta.

**Make the pasta.** Mound the flour on the counter (or a bowl if you’re skittish) and make a well in the center. Beat the eggs together with 1 tablespoon plus one teaspoon (four teaspoons) of water and pour into the well. Stir the eggs into the flour, working outward as more flour is absorbed. When it’s too thick to stir, knead the dough until smooth and uniform, sprinkling with flour if it’s too wet. In the unlikely event it is too dry, flatten the dough out and sprinkle with a teaspoon of water, then start kneading again. When the dough is smooth, uniform and supple, cover it with plastic wrap and rest at room temperature while you finish the filling.

**Finish the filling and make the sauce.** Set several inches of salted water to boil in a salmon poacher or as wide a pot as you have (like a big Le Creuset pot or stockpot).

Put the drained cheese in a bowl, add the eggs and yolk, parsley, cheese, salt and pepper and beat until smooth. Grate some nutmeg over the mixture, add the cooled spinach, squeezing the water out by handfuls, and stir it in.

Heat the half and half (or light cream or heavy cream if you want) over medium heat and add the sage leaves if using. Allow it to come to a gentle simmer and cook, stirring occasionally with a wooden spoon until it has thickened enough to coat said spoon, maybe 10 minutes. Discard the sage and add the gorgonzola. Cook the sauce over low heat until all the elements are melded together. Season with salt and black pepper.

**Roll the pasta.** While the sauce simmers away, roll the pasta out in a single sheet until it’s thin enough to read the newspaper through. Some people say the thinness of a dime; I think that may be too thick. Don’t roll much in the center of the dough- the dough will stretch itself in the center as you roll out the edges. Try and keep the sheet somewhat square.

When you have the dough rolled, lay a clean kitchen towel or long piece of cheesecloth out so that it is partly underneath the edge of the pasta furthest away from you.

Spread the filling out over the pasta into an even layer, leaving an inch border on either side and a 3 inch border on the edge furthest from you. When all the filling is evenly spread out, roll the pasta as tightly as you can away from you, until it is rolled up like a jelly roll [*I had originally said "giant burrito" but it's not like a burrito since it rolls up inside itself, not just around the filling, like a burrito -jf 8/8/07*] and sitting on the towel. Twist the ends and fold under, then roll up the pasta tightly in the towel. Tie the bundle tightly at the end, and half-hitch your way up its length every three inches or so, and tie up the other end. Or- if you’re not familiar with roast-tying- tie the ends tightly then tie the roll every two or three inches along its length to keep its shape. Preheat the oven to 375 degrees.

When the water is boiling, lower it in and adjust the heat so it boils gently. If you’re using a round pan, lower in the center, then lay in the sides around the perimeter of the pan. Poach the roll for 25 minutes.

About the water- you might want to have a slightly lower water level than you’ll need, plus a kettle of boiling water. Once the roll is in the water, you can add more boiling water to cover it, so there’s less danger of it overflowing and sending scalding hot water all over you and your kitchen.

When cooked, take the roll out and let it cool for five minutes or so, so you can handle it. Cut the strings and unroll it, being careful to avoid the steam. Cut off the doughy end, then slice the roll into 1-1/2 to 2 inch slices (you’ll get around 12-16).

Spread 1/3 of the sauce over the bottom of a 9×13” baking dish. Lay in the slices of pasta roll on their sides (spiral up), then pour over the rest of the sauce and sprinkle with the remaining cheese. Cover loosely with wax paper (to prevent the cheese from browning) and bake for 15-20 minutes, until the sauce is thickened and bubbly. Serve immediately.

Listening: Jake the Dog, doing his thing.

Sting This

I am sometimes accused of eating things because they sound like nobody should be eating them. Let me assure you that this is not the case. The simple fact of the matter is that I will eat anything known not to be directly harmful. By directly harmful meaning it will immediately cause my death or extreme illness; it has nothing to do with cholesterol.

I’m not particularly fond of heart, and I do not like beef liver. I haven’t had brains, but I would, with good provenance and an experienced cook.

That said, stinging nettles rock my world. Yeah, I said it: stinging nettles. They’re a weed, very common in Europe and in many parts of North America. Yes, if you touch them, you can get a horrible rash, that’s true, but it’s not like I’m recommending you put them in a salad.

*Urtica dioica* is covered with tiny, white, delicate hairs that break very easily when touched. These hairs, when broken, emit chemicals that combine to cause a rash as a defense against grazing animals (like me). They don’t actually sting you. Cooking destroys both the hairs and the chemicals, and creates one of the most sexually herbaceous food experiences on the planet. ([Wikipedia]( http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Stinging_nettle) says chopping the leaves will do this as well, I’m not going to find out.)

In Italy, nettles make curative soups and teas, and if you’ve ever smelled it cooking, you know [why](http://www.pfaf.org/database/plants.php?Urtica+dioica). It’s savory in the extreme, tasting and smelling of health, saunas and caber-tossing. Also useful for making rope and beer- apparently- it tastes something like a cross between an artichoke and kale.

I was out in Jersey last Monday for the first barbecue of the season, which was fantastic. The Sound Gal hosted and made steaks and a wicked roasted vegetable tart. I made soup, because soup rocks in the springtime, being the last chance to eat hot soup before everyone starts sweating their nads off. I bought eggs and nettles at the farmers’ market, thinking I would make nettle omelets, but I just wasn’t feeling it, so I hard boiled a dozen eggs- which we tore through- and made a less than traditional soup out of the nettles with gorgeous Red French Fingerling potatoes, which have a mottled rosy core inside a creamy white exterior.

**Last Minute Nettle Soup**
Serves 6-ish

I totally pulled this out of my ass, and it is a perfect example of how you have to learn how to cook properly before you can pull recipes out of your ass. There’s nothing earth-shattering here, but the components are put together in a way that makes it intriguing.

2 bunches stinging nettles, the younger the better, washed in several changes of cold water, with the stems removed (wear gloves!!)
3 qts light stock or other flavorful liquid, hot (we made it with ½ strength bouillon from cubes- omg)
1 lb red french fingerling potatoes, scrubbed and chopped (you could peel them for a finer textured soup, I enjoy the peels and their nutritional value)
1 large onion, or 1 smaller onion and 1 leek, peeled and chopped (at least 1 cup)
2 slices bacon, chopped coarsely
1 ¼” slice of ginger root
1 sprig thyme
1 cup heavy cream, warmed
freshly grated nutmeg
salt and freshly ground white and black pepper

Blanch nettles in boiling water for two minutes and drain. Chop the leaves coarsely. (Save the water for tea. Someday they will prove it cures cancer, foot odor and depression.) Cook bacon in a deep saucepan, rendering its fat and crisping the bacon. Add onions to bacon and fat and sweat until softened (do not allow to brown- this is what is meant by sweating).

Add hot stock, potatoes, ginger, thyme, salt and pepper. Bring to a gentle boil and cook for 5 minutes, add nettles and simmer until potatoes are cooked, about another 5-7 minutes. Add cream and cook through until all elements are combined, 2-3 minutes. Remove ginger and thyme and puree soup with an immersion blender if desired. I think it’s best medium-textured. Season to taste with salt, pepper and freshly grated nutmeg, serve hot or cold (although cold I would recommend a smoother puree), but not warm. Warm means you screwed up.

Creativity, Leftovers and Mamma’s Gravy

Now comes the challenge: What to do with all these leftovers before they go bad? I have half a pound of maytag blue cheese leftover; maybe some gnocchi are in my future. Ham sandwhiches for the rest of the year, certainly, and there’s enough beer left in there to keep a frat house busy for an hour. I feel some cheddar quesadillas coming on, for sure.

And cookies? Forget it.

One thing still blows me away: We ran out of gravy. No, not ham gravy, tomato gravy. What most of the world calls tomato sauce, in Philadelphia (and New Orleans) we call gravy. I make a lot of different tomato sauces, some traditional, some not, but they’re tomato sauce. But when I make the gravy like Mamma makes, I’m *makin’ gravy*.

**Mamma Cangelosi’s Gravy**
Ok, this isn’t really Mamma Cangelosi’s gravy. It’s Mamma’s how I make it, but honestly they are very similar. My mother’s is a little more acid and, visually, stays redder than mine. (Mine goes slightly mahogany.) Mine also comes out slightly sweeter, which I find a little annoying. Attempts to use less sugar have taught me a lot about using sugar with tomatoes, but haven’t produced the desired result. Maybe a higher temperature (which I believe mom uses) would caramelize the sugar more, ending in a richer and less sweet sugar flavor. I stray from her on this because she often scorches her gravy, not usually affecting the taste (though sometimes) but affecting the bottom of the pot, big time.

Sometimes I think it’s the garlic. Garlic has a lot of natural sweetness, and since I don’t saute it first (whole cloves go into the liquid) maybe they’re introducing more sweetness than I realize. Mom uses garlic powder, so it’s a non-issue in hers. Mom also doesn’t always use basil. For her, it’s optional depending on availability. Remember, Italian or Italian-style tomatoes are almost always packed with basil, so, as they say, it’s in there.

Thinking back to gravy-making experiences with other families, the garlic gets sauteed, but that’s because most of those versions include other vegetables, especially onions. I feel a new experiment in my future.

**The Recipe**

This is the ancestral sauce. It has few ingredients, the most important of which is time. The character of tomatoes, like most foods, changes with a long, slow cooking process. The sugars cook and intensify, the water goes away, the garlic melts into the occasional white fleck. Tasting (with bread) throughout the cooking process does a number of things: it’s enjoyable, you can be sure you’re not scorching it, you learn how the tomatoes change over time and, most importantly, it irritates the hell out of my mother.

I use a 7 quart enameled cast iron pot for this, mom has a big, old stainless steel and copper guy. This size pan will hold a double recipe with no meats, or a single recipe with meats, which will sauce 2lbs of pasta amply (with leftovers) and all of that will serve about 8 normal people, or five if two of them are my brother and me.

2-4 pounds meats, such as meatballs, hot and sweet sausages (pricked all over with a fork), *bracioles*, thick, bone-on pork chops or meaty bones *or* 3 tbsn extra virgin olive oil

Peanut or canola oil as needed, if using meats

1 28-oz can tomato puree or equivalent amount of canned or home-pakced tomatoes milled through the finest blade of a food mill. (1 qt jar of home-packed is fine)

3 6-oz cans tomato paste (Mom uses the flavored ones)

Salt and black pepper to taste (about 1 tablespoon and 1 teaspoon respectively)

1-3 tablespoons of sugar, depending on acidity of tomatoes

3-4 whole, peeled garlic cloves (Mom uses 1-2 tbsn garlic powder- NOT garlic salt)

3-4 bay leaves

1/2 cup loosely packed basil leaves, optional

Brown meats either in the gravy pot with oil (if their own fat is not enough) or under the broiler (good for meatballs) until thoroughly browned but not cooked though. Set aside.
Dump out all fat from the gravy pot and add tomato products. Turn heat to high. I use a whisk here to get out all the lumps of tomato paste. Mom does all of this right on the meat and doesn’t worry about it. I can’t say she’s wrong.

Take your cans of tomatoes and rinse them thoroughly to get all of the bits of tomato out of the can, and to get water into the sauce: about 2/3 of a can for the tomatoes, and 3 cans of water per can of paste. (It will take about three canfuls to get all of the tomato paste out of the can, anyway.)

Add all remaining ingredients except meats or olive oil, and bring to a boil. Cook the gravy, uncovered, stirring often, for about ten minutes. Turn heat down so that it will boil vigorously when partially covered and cook for another thirty minutes, partially covered. You cannot leave the gravy alone, especially now. You cannot stir it too often, scraping the bottom and sides thoroughly.

After thirty minutes, the gravy should be a slightly darker color and noticeably thicker. Add the meats or oil and reduce heat so that it bubbles and perks excitedly, but doesn’t boil. You may need to use a flame-tamer (the lids of the tomato cans work well for this- be sure to take the price tags off). Cook, stirring regularly for about 2-1/2 hours, until the desired depth of flavor and consistency is reached. The meats may be taken out after an hour or so, or left in for the duration, which will cause them to fall apart slightly. They can be reheated in the gravy before serving.

Spinach- It was never gone

“What, you’re eating spinach?” you gasp! Yes, dumbass, I never stopped eating spinach. The spinach I’m eating was grown in Shushan, NY, and it went from the field to a crate to a truck to me. End of supply chain. There wasn’t a packing plant with migrant workers living in and around it to impregnate it with E Coli, and even though nobody likes getting something free more than me, that is one thing I’ll pass on. Do you have any idea [where your food comes from](http://www.nytimes.com/2006/10/15/magazine/15wwln_lede.html?ex=1162270800&en=daa73249d98bb8b2&ei=5070)? I do.

Holy christ, I love Le Creuset. I remember seeing those enormous enamelware beauties on **The French Chef** and **Today’s Gourmet** when I was a kid, wondering how much better they would cook than much of the disappointing cookware my mother had around the house. Her basic pots (from when she got married) were pretty good, but other than those 3 or 4 pieces, the cookware at our house was lacking. Assorted nonstick pieces bought at the supermarket, and crap, flimsy stainless steel inherited over the years made up the balance. Revereware was a highlight.

Now I have several Le Creuset pieces, and I know why Julia and Jacques were so wild for them. They are heavy, but lighter than their counterparts in copper, excellent conductors of heat, move effortlessly from stovetop to oven to table and are exceptionally easy to clean. Besides, you can get them in different colors. Come on.

I have a few sizes of round oven, and they’re great in a small kitchen, because they often become my second sink. The 9 quart oven was filled with soaking spinach all morning waiting to become spinach *strascinata*. After trimming and two changes of water, the gorgeous iron-laden spinach was ready for cooking with leeks and garlic. It all made an excellent lunch over *crostini* drizzled with a little extra virgin olive oil. Vinegar would perk this up, too, but wine or cider vinegar, not that root beer-like concoction you bought at the supermarket, speciously labeled as “Balsamic Vinegar.” That garbage is not worth cleaning your toilet with, and I don’t know why people buy so much of it. Even cheap wine vinegar has much more flavor, and that black-tinted garbage bears no resemblance to real balsamic vinegar anyway. If you really have to know, drop the $30 it will take to get a **tiny** bottle and eat it on fantastic bread or with grana.

**Crostini of Spinach Strascinata**
*Strascinata* means “dragged”, literally vegetables dragged around the pan with garlic and olive oil. You can *strascinare* just about any vegetable, blanching if necessary, or steaming in the pan. I tend to prefer steaming, except broccoli when it’s being served with pasta. Then, I have to wash another pot anyhow, and I like the broccoli for pasta a little softer than broccoli for a side dish or main. Mainly, it’s about not having to clean another pot.

I personally don’t think there is ever a reason to blanch spinach, unless you’re making a puree out of it. In full winter, the whole stem can be removed, since it pretty much taste like crap no matter how long you boil it, but the rest of the year, just tear away the thickest part of the stem and drag that bad boy around the pan.

Serves 4 as lunch

1 small loaf semolina bread or other Italian bread (this is an excellent use for bread that is day or two old), sliced ¾” thick, on the bias if using a narrow loaf
2 pounds fresh spinach, trimmed judiciously
3-4 cloves garlic, peeled and chopped
1 medium onion, peeled and chopped (on this particular occasion, I used leek, you could use about 1 cup of any onion relative, chopped)
4 tablespoons extra virgin olive oil, plus more for toasts
Salt and freshly ground black pepper
1 pinch freshly grated nutmeg¹

Preferably an hour ahead of cooking, wash the spinach in several changes of cold water, lifting the spinach out, leaving behind the dirt collected in the bottom of the sink or pan, until no dirt is left behind by the spinach. Drain in colander while you listen to [All Things Considered]( http://www.npr.org/templates/rundowns/rundown.php?prgId=2). If you must cook the spinach immediately, spin dry half of it, or shake the water from it vigorously by the handful. The residual water will steam the leaves, but too much will make your dish soupy.

Heat a large dutch oven, with a lid, over medium high heat. I like how Julia Child always called dutch ovens “kettles.” I don’t think I can get away with it.
When the pan is hot, add the olive oil and heat for one minute. Add the onions and cook, stirring occasionally, for about five minutes, until softened. If the onions begin to brown, lower heat and cover the pan. They should soften and stay white. Season onion with salt and pepper.

Meanwhile, in a toaster oven, broiler or hot oven (450 degrees), toast the bread slices until crisp and lightly browned on both sides. Drizzle with extra virgin olive oil and, if desired, rub with a cut piece of garlic.

When onions are sufficiently soft, turn heat up to high, add garlic and stir. When garlic is fragrant and *barely* beginning to brown, add the spinach, season with salt and pepper and cover (if all the spinach won’t fit, relax- read on). After about thirty seconds, stir the spinach vigorously to prevent the onions from burning. If the spinach wouldn’t all fit, add the remaining spinach now. Cover and cook, stirring once or twice, until the spinach is wilted, but still green, about 2 minutes.

¹I feel like I give you the real deal when something is bullshit, so I hope you’ll believe me when I tell you this whole fresh nutmeg thing is for real. I keep a little bowl on the shelf with the spices, and in it are a teeny tiny little grater and nutmegs, LOW MAINTENANCE.

Listening: Chris Smither “Desolation Row”