Showing posts with label pasta. Show all posts
Showing posts with label pasta. Show all posts

Monday, October 29, 2018

The best potato gnocchi recipe



I'm not the artist here, just the technician.

The man responsible for these truly awesome gnocchi is the New York chef and restaurateur Andrew Carmellini. It's his recipe that I used, and I have used it ever since first coming across it several years ago. (Here is the link to the original and complete recipe.)

There's a good reason Carmellini titled this recipe "The Best Gnocchi."

When it comes to potato gnocchi that is exactly what they are.

I have never made a lighter, more luxurious potato gnocchi than I have when using this recipe. And so if I am not making my own cheese gnocchi recipe then I am using Carmellini's potato version.

If you enjoy a fine potato gnocchi then I strongly suggest you do the same.



Start with around two pounds of Idaho potatoes. Clean them, put them on a baking sheet, and into the oven they go (425 degrees F should do it), until the flesh is nice and soft. These took a little over an hour.

While the potatoes are baking it's best to get all of your other ingredients together and ready to go. The reason is that you'll want to mix them into the potatoes while they're still warm out of the oven. This is very important. You do NOT want the potatoes to cool down before mixing the gnocchi dough.

What you'll need is 1 beaten egg, 1 tablespoon extra virgin olive oil, 1 tablespoon melted unsalted butter, 2 tablespoons grated Parmigiano-Reggiano cheese, 1 teaspoon salt, and 1/4 teaspoon course ground black pepper. In addition you'll need around 1 1/2 cups of all-purpose flour on hand.



When the potatoes are cooked slice them open and scoop out all the flesh while it's still warm.



Run the potato through a ricer (use the smallest die) and into a mixing bowl.



Immediately add all the other ingredients, except for the flour.



And gently incorporate, using your fingers.



Then add 1 cup of the flour and very gently mix all of the ingredients together until a dough forms. The dough should hold together but not be sticky; if it does feel sticky work in a little bit more flour. Note: Do not take the term "gently" lightly. A successful gnocchi dough requires a very light touch. Anything more forceful will make for a heavy, tough gnocchi.

Please. Trust me on this.



Form the dough into a ball and turn it onto a well-floured work surface.



With a pastry cutter (or just a knife) cut an inch-or-so-wide piece of dough from the ball.



And lightly roll it out using your fingers. (You see that I said "lightly," right?)



This is about what you'll wind up with after rolling.



Each strand you roll out then gets cut into inch-wide gnocchi, like so.



Just a note: This recipe will easily feed four people. If you don't want to cook all the gnocchi at once then lay some out on a well-floured baking sheet and put them in the freezer. Once the gnocchi are fully frozen tranfer them to a freezer bag and store.



Here, of course, we have opted for cooking the gnocchi. (In well-salted water, but you knew that.)



It will only take a couple minutes for the gnocchi to cook; as a rule of thumb figure that when they are all floating atop a rolling boil of water the gnocchi are done. Do NOT empty the gnocchi into a colander, as you might with some other pastas. Take them out of the water using a slotted spoon and transfer into a pan with whatever sauce you plan on using. Then gently stir and transfer the gnocchi to individual plates for serving.



Like so.

I promise that if you take your time and use a gentile hand you will thank me for this recipe.

Just as I thanked Chef Carmellini years ago.

Tuesday, September 25, 2018

How to make Genovese sauce



The origin of this sauce is unclear.

Though its name implies a specialty of the port town Genoa, the capital of the Liguria region, good luck finding it anywhere near the place. Rather, the onion-based ragu can be gotten in the Campania region of Italy, specifically around the province of Naples.

Don't ask me why.

Anyhow, my family's roots just happen to be planted around Naples. And so when the time came to use my newly harvested garden onions to try making this Genovese sauce, I did the sensible thing to seek guidance: I dialed up my Aunt Anna.

"Didn't I just talk to you a day or two ago?" she asked.

Anna and I speak regularly but not this regularly.

"Yeah, but I forgot to ask you about this sauce I'm in the middle of making."

"A what?"

"A sauce. I think you used to make it when we were kids."

After repeating the word sauce four times and spelling it twice, it was clear that my dear aunt and I were getting nowhere together very fast.

"I don't understand what you're saying. Here, tell Frank."

Cousin Frank is Anna's son in-law, what with him being married to her daughter Josephine. The two of them just happened to be having lunch with both Anna and Aunt Rita when I called.

"Your aunt isn't wearing her hearing aid," Frank said by way of introduction. "I honestly don't know how you two manage to talk on the phone at all."

It occurred to me to say that the 300 miles separating my aunt and me doesn't leave us a lot of options, but I was literally in the middle of getting the ragu started for a dinner party later that same day.

Time was of the essence, as this is the kind of ragu that must be cooked for hours or not at all.

"Just ask her if she used to make a pasta sauce that uses a huge amount of onions, and no tomatoes whatsoever," I told my cousin. "It's also got meat in it but the onions are the big thing."

Dutifully Frank relayed my query, though he too had to repeat himself to be understood.

"She's shaking her head 'no'," Frank told me. "And she's about the grab the phone from my hand, so goodbye, say hi to ...."

"You're making a tomato sauce without tomatoes?" Anna cried. "What are you, crazy? Why would you do that?"

"Not tomato sauce, Anna. It's made with onions and meat and it's Napoletana so I figured you might know it. I'm making it right now, in fact."

"You have a recipe?" she asked.

"No, that's why I called you, to see how you might have made it. I'm just kinda winging it here."

"You're singing? I thought you were cooking."

This is about the time I told Anna that I had to go.

"If it turns out good I'll give you the recipe. Give my love to Rita. And put in your freaking hearing aid, would you."

"I love you too" is all I heard before my aunt hung up and was gone.

One day, hopefully many many years from now, I am going to miss these conversations.

Whether they make any sense or not.



Anyhow, these are some of the onions from my garden. I wanted to cook something where they would be a central ingredient, which is how the Genovese ragu came to mind.



Start with a good bit of olive oil and around half a stick of butter.



Once the butter has melted add 2 to 2 1/2 pounds of veal stew meat and brown. Then remove the meat and set aside. (Beef or pork would work fine as well.)



After removing the veal add three finely diced carrots, four diced celery stalks and maybe five chopped garlic cloves (I actually used seven). Sauce until softened.



Then add in the veal.



And then add three pounds of sliced onions.



At this point you've got a choice of adding some kind of stock or white wine. I went with around a quart of freshly made chicken stock.



Now add some salt and pepper to taste, incorporate, and cover the pot. Turn the heat to around medium and simmer for a few hours, checking and stirring periodically. The onions will release a lot of moisture, and over time they will completely break down. It's unlikely that you'll need to add any other liquid at all, but do so if necessary.



This ragu cooked for around four hours. It's on the thick side, as I believe it should be, but decide for yourself how moist you'd like it. As you can see, the long cooking time didn't just break down the onion but the veal, too.



As for which pasta to use, aim towards the hearty, not the delicate. I made these mafalde nice and thick and they worked out fine, but something like a rigatoni or paccheri, or even ziti would be perfect.



It turned out pretty well and so I'm going share the recipe with my aunt.

Hopefully she'll be able to hear me this time.

Monday, September 17, 2018

Pasta with corn, tomato & cheese



My friend Peter is what you might call "an acquired taste."

He is brash, opinionated, often insulting to those who cross his path. I have never met a person with less skill in editing their own words. Which is saying something considering the place I am from.

This is one of the reasons the man is my friend. I never have to wonder where Peter stands on any issue. He is, without apology, who he is. I admire and respect that.

It also doesn't hurt that he can grow vegetables better than anybody that I know. With few exceptions, virtually every seedling that I plant in the spring has its beginning in Peter's greenhouses in the dead of winter. On the property around these greenhouses you'll find fruit trees of all types, as well as a large field where Peter and his wife Claudia grow potatoes, tomatoes and, of particular interest to us here, sweet corn.

A couple weeks back Peter texted saying that the corn in his field was ready to be picked.

"Come over today or tomorrow and take as much as you want," he wrote.

Before I could answer Peter was back with the kind of snarky blather that is more his custom.

"Oh, and grab a few ears for your girlfriend Marc while you're at it."

See what I mean.

Now, Marc is a regular companion of mine, I'll admit, but he certainly is not my girlfriend.

He isn't even a girl. I checked with his wife Beth just yesterday to be sure.

Nonetheless, my mission was to score a couple dozen ears of corn and so the next day my girlfriend and I were trudging through Peter's corn field stocking up.

Which is how this pretty swell concoction of pasta, tomato, corn and ricotta salata came to be.



We start out, as we do with so many good things, sauteeing some garlic (three or four cloves) and a little hot pepper in a good bit of olive oil.



Once the garlic has softened (but not browned) toss in your tomatoes. We've got around three cups' worth of fresh garden tomatoes here.



The basil plants have been growing wild this year. I figured a handful of them wouldn't hurt.



You can skip this step if you like. For some reason, probably because I am incapable of thinking about corn without thinking about butter, I found myself adding half a stick just for the hell of it.



You'll need to give it a taste, of course, but after around 15 or 20 minutes of medium-to-high heat the tomatoes are likely to have turned into a respectable sauce. At which point you can add the corn (around two cups here, blanched and cut from the cob) and lower the heat to a slow simmer.



After the corn has warmed a bit (maybe a minute or two) add a half pound of ricotta salata, cut into small pieces.



Then immediately add your pasta and incorporate.



I blanched and froze a bunch of corn and will try this with canned tomatoes in the dead of winter, when Peter is in his greenhouses getting a jump on spring.

Tuesday, June 26, 2018

Pasta with fava beans & mint



I can't look at a fresh fava bean without thinking of an old Japanese man, a round piece of cheese, and a long ago flight from JFK to O'Hare.

Stick with me here. It'll all make sense in a minute.

See, I was sitting in my usual aisle seat in a three-across setup. The center seat was unoccupied and at the window was the elderly man that I just mentioned. One of the items on the meal tray (remember those?) was a little round cheese snack wrapped in red wax. You know the type, I'm sure.

Evidently, my traveling companion did not. Through the corner of my eye I watched as the man picked up the cheese. He ran his fingers over the shiny red wax, tapped at it a couple of times and then quickly popped the whole thing into his mouth and began to chew.

And chew.

And chew.

I didn't have the heart to risk having the old man see me unwrap the cheese and eat it the proper way. Why embarrass the guy? And so when the flight attendant came to collect our emptied trays my wax-encased cheese snack was still on it, untouched.

Which is to say that fresh fava beans must first be unwrapped before you make this pretty swell pasta dish with them.

Hey, I'm just trying to help.



This is around two pounds of fresh favas.



When you open the pod this is what you'll find. Just pop all the beans out and toss the pods.



Rinse the beans in cold water.



Blanch them in well-salted water for a minute. Make sure not to toss the water because you are planning to cook the pasta in it. You are planning on doing that, right?



Using a slotted spoon remove the beans from the boiling water and toss them into an ice bath. This will prevent the favas from becoming overcooked and mushy, which can happen pretty quickly.



What you need to do now is pop the edible bean out from inside the shell, like so.



Just in case you haven't seen it before, this is what we're dealing with. The bright green bean on the left is the edible fava; on the right is a bean that's still in its outer shell.



What I wound up with is around a cup's worth of cooked favas.



In a large pan saute one large shallot, four or five garlic cloves and some hot pepper in olive oil until softened but not browned.



Add the beans, a dozen or so chopped mint leaves and the zest of one small lemon. Stir and saute for a minute.



Then just stir in your pasta (a half pound here), some pasta water to moisten things (a half cup or so), and maybe 3/4 cup of grated Parmigiano-Reggiano.

And that is that.

Ready to serve. And no unnecessary chewing.

Saturday, March 31, 2018

Homemade passatelli in brodo



This is one of those good news/bad news kinda deals.

The good news is that this dish turned out way better than I had hoped for on a first try.

The bad news is that it took me nearly two years to make.

Don't worry, it won't take you as long.

The only reason it took me so much time to make my first batch of passatelli in brodo is because I'm too damned stubborn for my own good. I'd neglected to pick up the correct attachment for my new solid brass pasta extruder the last time I was in Bologna, and simply refused to make passatelli until the proper attachment was firmly in hand. (This despite the fact that the potato ricer sitting in a drawer in my kitchen might have done the job just fine.)

No matter. Thanks to the actions of a committed and dear friend the correct attachment for making passatelli finally came into my possession a couple weeks back. This link explains the entire sordid tale, if you care.

And so here we go.

Finally.

Passatelli is not a flour-based pasta. Rather, it's made with breadcrumbs and grated cheese. Northern Italy is where you'll find it. The name refers to the word passare (to pass), because in order to form the pasta the dough must pass through the holes of a die or a masher. In Italy's Emilia-Romagna region passatelli in brodo is a traditional Christmas soup. (I'm going to lobby for a soup course this Christmas, but best you keep that to yourself.)



First thing you need to do is make the brodo, or broth. Traditionally that means a meat broth of some kind, and here I've gone with chicken. To start things off I sautéed a whole (halved) onion, a couple celery stalks, a couple carrots and four or five garlic cloves in plenty of olive oil.

By the way, if you're looking for permission to use a good store-bought broth instead of making your own then you've come to the wrong place. C'mon, there's like two main ingredients in this recipe: the passatelli and the brodo. Make your own broth. You'll be much happier, trust me.



After the vegetables have softened a bit add in four bone-in, skin-on chicken thighs and let them brown a bit too. After the thighs have browned a little throw in some Parmigiano-Reggiano cheese rind (my freezer is full of the stuff, so stop by if you need any) and a few black peppercorns.



Fill the pot with water and a decent hit of salt, then simmer at low-medium heat for a good couple hours or so. Then either remove all the chicken and vegetables with a slotted spoon or use a strainer if you like. You'll wind up with a pot filled with very tasty broth to cook the passatelli in later on.



Okay, now for the star of the show, the passatelli. Yes, I made my own breadcrumbs, using bread from a very good bakery here in town. A few days before making the passatelli I ripped apart a baguette and let it dry out, then turned it into breadcrumbs in the food processor.



You can prepare the passatelli in a bowl or on a work surface, as I did here. All you'll need is 1 1/2 cups breadcrumbs, 1 1/2 cups grated Parmigiano-Reggiano cheese, a good pinch of freshly ground nutmeg and the zest of half a lemon. Mix them all together thoroughly before moving ahead.



Add four large eggs and incorporate until a dough forms.

Actually, I need to say something here. Every passatelli recipe that I've ever looked at, including from Italy's most respected chefs, calls for just three eggs in a batch this size. Never have I seen a variation, not once.

But three eggs just didn't work. The dough turned out way too dry to form proper strands of pasta, and so I added a fourth egg, which fixed everything right up.



The dough should be stiff but still moist. If it's too dry the passatelli won't form properly. Wrap the dough in plastic and let it rest for an hour or so.



As for how to form the passatelli, I used the brass tool that I was telling you about earlier. It's a fine tool and it did a swell job. I can't wait to use it again.

Your best bet, however, is to use an inexpensive potato ricer, with the largest die that comes along with it. Here's a link to the exact tool that you'll need.



This is the entire batch of passatelli, which is enough for four primi pasta courses.



Just add the passatelli to your boiling broth and cook for around two minutes.



Then ladle the pasta and some of the broth into warmed bowls, grate a little cheese on top and serve right away.

It was totally worth the wait.
 
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