Shrimp with prosciutto & hominy

I was tasked with preparing the appetizer portion of a dinner over the weekend and this is what I came up with.

These fresh Gulf shrimp (1.5 pounds if you're keeping score) were a real find, as they hadn't been frozen. That's an unusual siting around these parts and so My Associate and I pounced on the crustaceans — pronto!

The appetizer I was concocting required shelling the shrimp and so I decided to make a stock. This step is optional, as you'll only need a couple ladles full of broth in the recipe. Any chicken or vegetable stock you've got around should be fine.

In a pan that can later be used in the oven (I went with cast iron) saute a few garlic cloves and some hot pepper in olive oil.

Once the garlic is softened but not browned add one can of hominy (drained) and a ladle or two of stock.

Then add the shrimp and place the pan in an oven preheated to 400 degrees F.

When the shrimp are cooked (these took around 10 minutes) add 1/4 pound of diced prosciutto, mix thoroughly, then quickly transfer to a serving plate so that the shrimp don't overcook.

Allow to cool to room temperature before serving — with some nice crusty bread, of course.

Out of the ashes

One night when I was a boy I sat at the kitchen window of our apartment in East New York, Brooklyn, and watched a gigantic red-brick warehouse filled with toys and bicycles and other fun stuff go up in flames. In between the fire and our home were several buildings — mostly other houses but also a Catholic elementary school and a convent where the nuns lived — and so it was unlikely that the fire could spread all the way to where I was sitting.

I'm not sure I understood this that night, though. The whole thing was so awful and terrifying. Even today I can remember the flames and the smoke. Sometimes, when the smell of the burning toys seeps into my memory, as it will do, I get a little queasy. More than 40 years later.

It was only recently that I became conscious of an important role the fire has played in my life: It turned me into a fig tree nut. At least I think it did.

See, the neighborhood where I grew up was just lousy with fig trees. They grew in people's backyards, front yards, side alleys, even surrounded by concrete and tucked into spaces where they probably didn't belong. As a boy I was completely taken by these trees. They were strong and potent living things that held their ground under all conditions. They were survivors, warriors even. Oh, and the fruit they pushed out was pretty awesome.

While the toy warehouse fire burned I became obsessed with the fig trees that might be in its path. The one closest to me, just outside our kitchen window and in the Casillos' backyard, was probably safe, I calculated. But what about all the others? I can remember counting all the trees that I knew about, or had enjoyed figs from, within a couple of square blocks of the fire. There were a lot of them. And I fretted for them all.

I don't know why it's taken me so long to make the connection, but I'm now convinced that that fire is the reason I keep so many fig trees, many of which are projects that need nursing back to health. I don't live in Brooklyn anymore, where fig trees can grow in the ground. I live in Maine, where they must be kept in pots and moved indoors in winter, lest they die. The four trees pictured above aren't all of my fig trees. A couple more are at cousins John and Susie's place, waiting for me to pick them up now that the weather has turned warm. Others I've recently been told about are likely to wind up with me as well.

And then there's this guy. My friend Peter Risbara is the capo di tutti capi of nurturing fig trees to life. The guy kicks out fig trees like nobody I've ever known. His greenhouses have always got a ton of cuttings in the works, and, well, they're always looking for somebody to take them home and watch over them. When my trees get sick I bring them to Pete and they get well. Like me, he needs to take care of them.

One day I'll have to ask him if he ever watched a warehouse go up in flames when he was a boy.

Road trip!

WARNING: The following is an off-topic collection of photographs snapped during a just-completed Nevada-to-Utah road trip. Like the trip itself, these pics haven't a thing to do with food, and so will likely be of no interest whatever to certain readers. Apologies. I'll get cracking on a new recipe ASAP.

Despite the despicable United Airlines' best — and multiple — attempts to thwart our group's plans, we managed to will ourselves to Las Vegas, pick up our vehicles and ride into Arizona.

We call this shot "The Ironic Road Trip of 2014."

The next morning's ride could not have commenced without Gorilla Glue and duct tape.

A couple days in and we arrived at a canyon that is indeed as Grand as they say.

Good thing we were all wearing thick leather boots and clothing with armor.

There is a town in Utah called Mexican Hat. It was a good staging area for our much-anticipated tour of Monument Valley.

And our lodge employed a couple of excellent barkeeps.

The beer wasn't bad either. It's Utah. Get it?

Here's a food shot for you. Steaks cooked outdoors on a swinging grill.

Good advice.

If you have never been to Monument Valley, Utah, you really must think long and hard about altering your status.

It is everything that I anticipated.

Much, much more, actually.

We were all in agreement on this. (The bandanas are for dust protection, so save the snarky remarks.)

Sadly, we ran into forest fires back in Arizona.

And a United Airlines executive too, just before being treated to his company's dreadful "service" from Vegas back home to Maine.

Mom's left hand

My mother's meatballs brought people together. In a way, they still do.

Cousin John an I were reminiscing just the other day, and when the subject of mom's meatballs came up, as it sometimes will, tears formed in his eyes. John grew up in the apartment right above ours. On Sunday mornings he would come and visit Zia Mary, whose stovetop always overflowed with Sunday Gravy and sausage and braciole and, of course, plenty of meatballs.

"Hey Zia," John would say to my mother, reaching for the plate of fried meatballs as he kissed her cheek. "Mmmm. Love you Zia, you're the best."

John's mother Laura, not unlike all the other women in our family, was a wonderful cook, and made splendid meatballs. And yet my mother's were everybody's favorite. John, after all, wasn't the only one who passed through our kitchen on Sundays. On a slow day, a dozen family members and friends might swing by. More often it was twice that many. We're not talking holidays here, or just every once in a while. This was every Sunday.

I once asked my mother's sister Anna what made mom's meatballs so difficult to replicate. I knew that for decades Anna, Laura, everybody in our family attempted her recipe, to no avail. All my aunt could point to was one thing.

"It was her left hand, we're sure of it," Anna told me. "Nobody else used their left hand to form the meatballs, only your mother. So that has to be it."

We were sitting at her dining room table, sipping coffee and eating Italian cookies that cousin Josephine had made.

"Laura used to get so angry at your mother," my aunt said. "She even used her left hand once, but they still weren't as good. She said your mother must not have given her the whole recipe."

At this point Anna and I began to laugh uncontrollably. After we settled down she went to get another pot of coffee going, but first stopped at my chair and put both hands on my shoulders.

She didn't say a word, but didn't need to.

A mother's memory had brought members of her family together once again.

Happy Mother's Day everybody!

Beth's famous pie crust

It's as good as it looks, yeah.

Nobody — and I mean nobody — makes a pie crust like Beth, Queen of Bakers. Nobody that I've met, anyway. And I've met a few. There's a reason why people are always asking for her recipe. I'd ask for it myself if I didn't have my friend Beth around to make it for me every once in a while.

Just look at this thing! Is it the most gorgeous pie that you have ever laid eyes on or what? Inside there is ground pork and beef and lamb and lots of spices. A wonderful filling, to be sure, made expertly by my closest associate. But let's not kid ourselves. In the matter of pies, be they savory or sweet or anywhere in between, Crust Rules! We don't call our Bethie "Queen" for nothing.

So swell a pal is she that, whenever I am in the vicinity on pie-baking days, Beth makes sure to prepare plenty of extra dough for use in other things. My favorite extra has to be her empanadas, the tastiest, flakiest ones on this Earth. Every year she and her no-good companion Tom spend a week visiting. Lots of cooking goes on at the house, contributing to a dizzying variety of leftovers. Perfect fillings for perfect half-moon-shaped pastries. Beth freezes them for me, to enjoy after she has gone. I love this woman.

I emailed Beth a couple days back to tell her that I might be down for a visit soon. When the subject of food came up, as it so often does, I asked if she would mind sharing her recipe here. She said that would be okay.

Lucky for you.

Beth's Famous Pie Crust
Recipe
Yields one 9-inch crust

1 ¼ cup all purpose flour (I prefer King Arthur)
¼ tsp salt
¼ tsp baking powder
1 tbsp buttermilk powder (optional, but I prefer using it)
6 tbsp unsalted butter, cut into small pieces and chilled in the freezer to make it super cold
4 tbsp rendered leaf lard, cut into small pieces and chilled (also in the freezer)
3-5 tbsp cold water with 1 tsp chilled cider vinegar added (Note: mix and chill a little extra in case you need more; chill these in the freezer also)

In a large bowl combine until evenly distributed: flour, salt, baking powder, and buttermilk powder (if using).

With a pastry cutter, cut in half of the shortening into the flour mix; then cut in the other half. The dough should look like clumpy sand. From this point on, it's very important to handle the dough gently to avoid winding up with a tough crust.

Add the chilled water/vinegar one tbsp. at a time, mixing very gently with a fork.

When mixture will hold together into a ball (but is not wet) it is done.

Gather it into a ball, wrap in plastic wrap and flatten into a disk.

Chill before rolling out and preparing the pie of your choice.

When pie is finished, make sure to give a little taste to my friend Meatball. He loves the stuff.

Clams with sausage & beans

Some friends were returning from a luxurious island holiday recently. As their plane would arrive home on the lateish side I decided to be a nice guy and leave something in their fridge for when they got back. Why I did this I am not entirely certain. I had offered — on numerous occasions — to accompany them on their weeklong getaway, pointing out my not insignificant skills as a valet. To no avail. What made me decide on this particular dish I haven't a clue either. I like it. But I wasn't going to be eating it — now, was I?

Friendship, I will admit, often bewilders me.

Anyhow, in a pan that's large enough to steam a bunch of clams, saute an onion, four cloves of garlic, some hot pepper, and four anchovy fillets in olive oil. Also add some herbs; I've used thyme and marjoram here. Saute until the onions are softened but not browned. (And, yes, you can ditch the anchovy and/or hot pepper if you like.)

Add one pound of sweet Italian sausage meat.

After the meat has browned a bit, add 1 1/2 cups of broth (I used chicken here) and allow to boil for around 10 minutes.

Add one 15-ounce can of cannellini beans (drained) and cook for another 5 minutes.

Add a dozen or more whole clams (there are 18 mahogany clams here), then cover the pan and allow the clams to cook all the way through until all have opened. This should take 5 to 10 minutes; discard any clams that do not open.

Mix in a handful of freshly chopped parsley and serve.

Or, stick in somebody else's fridge and let them serve it.

Either way, I won't be getting any.

Patsy's lemon ricotta torte

I remember exactly the time that I first made this torte. It was December 2011, when a few friends and I decided to celebrate Sinatra's birthday by preparing a dinner consisting of many of his favorite foods. (In case you missed the dinner, here's the link to it). The recipe for the torte, like all the other ones from that evening, is old school. They were based on recipes from the "Patsy's Cookbook," the reason for which is made abundantly clear in that birthday dinner link I just mentioned.

I have made this simple, old world torte a couple of times since then, largely because it's so preposterously simple. This one was in the oven at 6:30 in the morning the other day — before I'd even finished brewing a pot of coffee.

In a large bowl, mix together 3 pounds of ricotta, 3 extra large eggs, 1/2 teaspoon vanilla extract, the zest from one lemon, and one cup of sugar (the Patsy's recipe calls for 1 2/3 cups of sugar, but I think that's too much).

Butter and flour a nine-inch spring form pan.

Pour the ricotta mixture into the pan and smooth the top evenly, then place into an oven that's been preheated to 400 degrees F., for 55 minutes.

This torte took around 65 minutes to bake. At the 55-minute mark the top had not browned at all and the entire cake was jiggling pretty good. It was still loose when I took it out of the oven ten minutes later, but it firmed up nicely while cooling. Once cooled, I covered the torte while it was still in the pan and refrigerated it for a few hours, then took it out of the fridge, removed it from the pan, and let the torte come to room temperature again.

All that's left now is to sprinkle with some confectioners sugar and serve.

I said it was easy, didn't I. Pretty delicious too.

I can see why Frank liked it so much.