Anna's baccala & potatoes

Rarely are there surprises when I sit down to a meal with my family. Not when it comes to the food that's served. I live several hours away from them, you see, and so when I visit their inclination is to prepare my favorite foods, not experiment with new ones. (For the record, I am totally down with this strategy. It is exactly how I want it to be.)

Every once in a while, though, Aunt Anna likes to throw a curve. Take this salt cod dish. Baccala is a staple in our family. On Christmas Eve Anna always prepares it two different ways: one baked with cherry peppers, another shredded and tossed with garlic and olive oil and herbs and served as a cold salad. It has been this way for decades now. And so when a new version with tomatoes and potatoes turned up a couple Christmas Eves back I wasn't the only person at the table to take notice.

"What's this?" asked cousin Josephine as the serving bowl touched the bright red holiday table, positioned amidst the many traditional seafood dishes we all expect to be present.

Jo, I should mention, is Anna's daughter. Christmas Eve is her birthday. She and I often sit next to each other at this holiday's dinner table. Jo and Anna, who lost her husband at a very young age, lived in the apartment above mine when we were growing up and so Jo has always been more of a sister to me than a cousin. This is probably more information than you need or care about, I'll admit. But my point is this: If Josephine wasn't expecting this new baccala dish on our traditional Feast of the Seven Fishes menu then that was really saying something. After all, she and her mother have cooked and baked and eaten together for a lot of years. How could such a thing happen?

Long story short, and as often is the case with my dearest aunt, the answer remains a mystery.

"Do me a favor," Anna said after I and several others echoed cousin Jo's query about the new dish. "Just shut up and eat before it gets cold."



Saute an onion, a couple garlic cloves and around a quarter pound of pancetta in olive oil until the onions have softened.



Add a large potato that's been sliced like so ...



... some salt cod that's been properly soaked to reduce its salt content ...



... and a can of tomatoes. Then simmer at medium heat for around an hour or so, longer if you wish.



Don't thank me, thank my aunt.

Just don't ask too many questions.

Pasta with bone marrow

Things are pretty busy around here this weekend and so I'm afraid that I'll have to be quick. I need you get over to your favorite butcher right away. I say favorite because the idea here is to score a few marrow bones, but then have the guy cut them lengthwise to expose the marrow. Not everybody is going to want to do this, what with their fingers needing to get so close to the band saw and all. My guy wasn't all that cool with the idea at first, but he came around without too much prodding.

Anyhow, when you get these babies home, season them with salt and pepper and roast them in a 400 degree F oven for around 20 minutes or so, or until the marrow is nicely cooked but not burned. (I had been asked to prepare this dish by My Associate when our friends Tom and Beth were over for dinner. To wit: For a pound of pasta I procured and roasted six bones, or twelve halves.) 

There's not much to this thing really. Make yourself a simple pasta aglio olio e peperoncini for four. After you've incorporated the pasta into the other ingredients in the pan, scoop out the marrow from all of the bones and mix them into the pasta. That's it. You're done.

Okay, I lied, there's one more step. Grate some Parmigiano-Reggiano on top of each serving and have at it.

Quick cooking doesn't get a lot better than this.

PHOTOS BY BETH "QUEEN OF BAKERS" MEYERS

Poof, you're a pasta!

The feeling around here is that I have never met an ingredient—a solid one, a liquid, or any other kind—that I would not somehow, some way fit—or, if necessary, force—into a pasta recipe. Take this butternut squash. It was supposed to be a side dish for another cook's menu, but when the woman wasn't watching (okay, it was 5 a.m. and she was still asleep in the bed that we share) I absconded with said squash and prayed for a not too harsh punishment.

A lying, cheating, conniving man does what a lying, cheating, conniving man must do.



Lop the top off, cut the squash in half and remove the seeds. Place on a baking sheet and put in the oven, preheated to 400 degrees F. (Do this as quietly as possible, lest you cause another in the house to prematurely awaken.)



As the squash is roasting dice a medium-size red onion very finely and saute in 4 tablespoons butter until the onion is softened. Do this on a low flame and slowly so that the onion and the butter do not burn. (Smells emanating from the kitchen have been known to move even the deepest of sleepers to rise. You're on your own here. Risk is an essential component to a full life.)



Start checking the squash for doneness at around 30 minutes. The flesh should be soft enough for a fork to go through easily. This squash roasted for around 50 minutes. Allow to cool then scoop out all the flesh and discard the skin.



In a food processor put the squash, the onion (including the butter it cooked in), 1/4 cup of Parmigiano-Reggiano, a good dose of nutmeg, and salt and pepper to taste. Process for around 30 seconds or so, or until you can get a sense of how moist the mixture is going to be.



Start adding a little cream and continue processing. The idea here is to make a nice rich filling but not a wet and runny one. I added the cream in a couple stages and wound up using around 1/4 cup.



Here's the filling when it's done. It's about the consistency of a very moist ricotta. (If you are wondering, the answer is No, the food-processing stage did not awaken my beloved.)



At this point the pasta shape is up to you. I'd first thought about making ravioli but decided to go with cappelletti (little hats) instead.



Like so...



... and like so...



... and, well, you get the idea.



I decided to serve the cappelletti en brodo,  or simply in broth. There was a lot of turkey broth in the freezer from Thanksgiving and so I boiled and served the pasta in that. I also topped each serving with some crisp chunks of cooked homemade pancetta and Parmigiano-Reggiano.

It was only at this point that I knew I had been forgiven.

A Christmas Story

'Twas not the night before, but Christmas Day itself. Late in the day, actually. It had been dark a few hours already. I remember it being bone-chillingly cold.

I was sixteen or seventeen. The family dinner had taken place earlier in the afternoon. At around seven o'clock or so I walked over to my girlfriend's house. Her family was a lot like mine, Italian-American tight you know, and so I figured that an appearance on such a holiday would be appreciated, if not expected.

To get to her place I had to walk past the White Castle on the corner of Atlantic and Shepherd Avenues. This was in the East New York section of Brooklyn, I should mention, the place where I was raised. Going past the restaurant on Christmas Day was always both fun and spooky, because this was the only 24-hour period in the entire year that the place was closed. Often my friends and I would go by the White Castle just to witness it on Christmas Day, to see the lights out and the grills cold, to hear the quiet.

Sitting on the sidewalk, leaning against the glass door to the restaurant, was an elderly couple. Elderly to a teenager, I should say. They might have been in their fifties, as I am now. They were bundled up but not enough to my eye; their bodies were next to each other but not close enough to keep each other warm, I thought.

"Cold tonight," the woman said as I walked past.

"Sure is," the man repeated.

I nodded and kept walking. Moving was the only way I could keep warm.

After visiting a while I decided it was time to get back to my own family. Mom and Aunt Anna would be putting out an evening buffet and I wouldn't want to miss it. As I said goodnight to my girlfriend's grandmother she grabbed me tightly by the wrist and drew me toward her.

"You be good to my granddaughter," she said in the thickest Italian accent. "Understand?"

Before I could answer the old lady kissed me and said I was a nice boy and that she liked me. Then she handed me a tray of my favorite Christmas cookies: cucidati, or fig cookies. I ate one right on the spot, or maybe it was two. They were extraordinary, better than my mom's, in fact. I hugged the old lady very tightly and kissed her.

"You keep making me fig cookies like this," I told her, "and I'll be good to anybody you want."

Approaching the White Castle I could see that the couple I'd seen earlier was still on the cold ground and against the door. It was around nine o'clock by now. Three hours before the place would reopen. They were waiting for exactly that, I realized. It hadn't even occurred to me earlier.

Just as before the woman and then the man remarked upon the weather. Again I nodded and kept on my way. It seemed colder now.

After walking another half block or so I turned around and headed back to the White Castle. This time as I approached the couple I made sure to speak first.

"These are my favorite cookies, and I want you to have them," I said handing them to the lady.

"Thank you, son," the man said quickly and without looking up, most of his face buried inside the warmth of his coat.

"We'll have them with some nice hot coffee in a little while," the woman said. "Won't we dear?"

I nodded and started on my way again.

"Merry Christmas," I heard the woman say. "And good night."

Cent'Anni!

Four years ago we celebrated Frank Sinatra's birthday around here the best way I know how. By having friends over and cooking them some of Frank's favorite foods. Here is the link to that very special event. Today would be a good day to check it out. Right now, though, we simply—and quickly—mark a milestone. —MM



It was 100 years ago, on December 12, 1915, that a baby boy was born to Natalie and Antonino Sinatra, in a cold-water flat on Monroe Street, in Hoboken, New Jersey, just across the Hudson River from Manhattan. It was a difficult birth, one that came close to ending not very well. The baby, a big one at thirteen and a half pounds, looked as if it might not make it. Little Francis Albert did not begin to move at all until his grandmother Rose interceded, carrying the baby to a sink and running water over its seemingly lifeless body until it breathed.

Frank, as he later became known, did not overstay his welcome. He lived to be 82, respectable enough, I suppose, just not long enough, not for me.

For somebody who couldn’t manage his way through high school this Sinatra fellow did better than just all right for himself. Let's face it, he ran the table pretty much anywhere he played. No musician in the history of civilization has ever attained this remarkable man's accomplishment or stature.

Not. Even. Close.

His birth, I would argue, was nothing short of a miracle. That’s right, I said miracle. Just under 3 million babies were born on United States soil the year “Dolly” Sinatra gave birth to her son a century ago. And so Frank wasn’t simply one in a million; he was one in three of them!

Take them odds with you to Vegas, baby.

Nowheresville! 

Wish you were here

This picture was texted to me this afternoon. Cousin Jennifer sent it.

"It's like you're here with us," she wrote.

"Here" would be Aunt Anna's apartment in Queens. She shares it with Aunt Rita. It's where many family gatherings have taken place through the years and judging from Jennifer's text yet another was in progress.

The picture inside the picture, the one leaning against a bowl of meatballs, is of me. It's my high-school graduation photo. I had to remember this because, well, that's how long it's been since I have seen it. 

"You're kidding me," I peck typed. "Where in Hell did THAT come from?"

Nanoseconds later, Jen's response: "Going through old family photos. You should be here."

And then, the real reason for this correspondence: "You may have some competition! Aunt Anna is teaching me to make meatballs...



"See!"

I'll admit that it is times like these that are most difficult for me. My family, most of them anyway, are roughly 325 away from where I am now. They live within minutes of each other, 20 tops, in New York's outer boroughs. It's often that they spend time together, for a coffee in the afternoon or to play cards or to take a trip to the butcher or to a doctor's appointment. The best gatherings take place on Sunday afternoons, of course, for the main meal of the week, and these can take place in any number of locations. This is the event Jennifer was taking part in at Anna and Rita's when she texted today. It's what I was missing out on, in other words.

Loss comes in many forms, even joyous ones.

I was not about to allow melancholy to disturb Jennifer's day, however.

"Oh yeah," I typed, brushing off my own sadness. "What's she using, bread or breadcumbs?"

It is the question that must be asked. 

"Breadcrumbs," Jen responded. "They are really good too."

"Not possible," I shot back. "Not with breadcrumbs. Meatballs have to be made with wet bread. My aunt oughta know better. And you can tell her I said so too."

It was a few minutes and no response, then finally: "We'll have to have a contest next time you're here. Be fun."

"Nope, no contests. I'm not going to show up my aunt in front of everybody. I love her too much. Have her show you how to make tripe instead. That I know she makes the right way at least."

"No!! No tripe for me," my cousin shot back. "She says she loves you too."

Jen was right. I should have been there.

Pancetta drop biscuits

I know I'm a day late but yesterday was the first time I experimented with these biscuits. Surely you've got leftovers from Thanksgiving. Some freshly made biscuits to go along with those can't be such a bad idea, right?

The basic biscuit recipe is from Cook's Illustrated. I've made the biscuits several times before and they always turn out great. The addition of the pancetta is just something I came up with yesterday morning. And judging by the reaction from My Associate ("Holy crap, these are the BEST BISCUITS EVER!!!) I am pretty sure that I'll be making them again.

Maybe even today.

In a bowl mix together 2 cups unbleached all-purpose flour, 2 teaspoons baking powder, 1/2 teaspoon baking soda, 1 teaspoon sugar, and 3/4 teaspoon table salt. (The full recipe is printed below, so relax, no need to take notes.)

In a separate bowl add 1 cup cold buttermilk. Then add 8 tablespoons of melted unsalted butter that's cooled just slightly.

Stir until clumps form.

Add the buttermilk/butter mix and finely diced and fried pancetta to the flour mixture and incorporate.

The dough should pull together pretty quickly.

Drop the biscuit dough onto a parchment-lined baking sheet and place in an oven preheated to 475°F. Start checking the biscuits at 12 minutes. When they become golden brown they're done.

These took around 15 minutes. When they're out of the oven brush the tops with melted butter.

Cool on a rack for a few minutes.

And serve.

My Associate just got out of bed. And, as suspected, I am back on biscuit detail today. See ya.

Recipe
Pancetta Drop Biscuits
Adapted from Cook's Illustrated's Best Drop Biscuits Recipe and provided by Serious Eats

Ingredients
2 cups (10 ounces) unbleached all-purpose flour 
2 teaspoons baking powder
1/2 teaspoon baking soda
1 teaspoon sugar 
3/4 teaspoon table salt
1 cup cold buttermilk
8 tablespoons unsalted butter, melted and cooled slightly (about 5 minutes), plus 2 tablespoons melted butter for brushing biscuits 
1/4 lb. pancetta, diced finely and fried until lightly crispy

Directions 
1. Adjust oven rack to middle position and heat oven to 475°F. Whisk flour, baking powder, baking soda, sugar, and salt in large bowl. Combine buttermilk and 8 tablespoons melted butter in medium bowl, stirring until butter forms small clumps.
2. Add buttermilk mixture and pancetta to dry ingredients and stir with rubber spatula until just incorporated and batter pulls away from sides of bowl. Using greased 1/4-cup dry measure, scoop level amount of batter and drop onto parchment-lined rimmed baking sheet (biscuits should measure about 2 1/4 inches in diameter and 1 1/4 inches high). Repeat with remaining batter, spacing biscuits about 1 1/2 inches apart. Bake until tops are golden brown and crisp, 12 to 14 minutes.
3. Brush biscuit tops with remaining 2 tablespoons melted butter. Transfer to wire rack and let cool 5 minutes before serving.