Anarchy in the USA, with Dinner

Some people may have the impression that I am a very organized person.

That I cannot function without complete control.

That I am a liberal.

That I am a conservative.

They may think I am a socialist, or perhaps a closet authoritarian. But they would be wrong, in the main. I am many different things for different needs, and one size does not fit all when it comes to me, myself and I.

What I am, mostly, is hungry. And this I believe has made me, of all things, an anarchist.

You laugh, I know. At least, you chuckled. That statement seems absurd, but contains a kernel of truth. One of the definitions of 'anarchy' is:

Absence of government and absolute freedom of the individual, regarded as a political ideal.

How about that, my lovelies? My belly tells me it is true. I had been meditating on this idea for a long time, but it was a type of curry, rogan josh, that made it blossom for me. Nothing like putting a healthy dollop of ground spices into hot oil to give one a swift kick in the senses. I was making it last Sunday, and while stirring in the yogurt I had my moment of clarity.


I wasn't exactly following the recipe suggestion on the packet of spices I had. I wasn't exactly following the directions on a recipe I had tracked down from a source I have reason to believe is credible. In hindsight, the only recipe I think I could be said to follow was my own.


This has been true for years. I simply did not possess the clarity of vision to know it. I am a self-taught cook, born out of curiosity (the early years) and true necessity (my fairly recent past), and I know I have volumes to learn about food and how to cook it. I still work on gathering the courage to step into the kitchen and simply cook.

It needs to be done, dear ones. The jackasses have brayed loudly this election year, trying to shame me or scare me into being just like them lest I end up a victim, a fool or in hell. I know I am not the first two, and I believe hell is what you make of it. Bleat loudly they may, but I will never allow my salvation or my damnation to be defined by the prejudices of others.

They will never succeed, because I will always have the freedom to cook what I want.

I can make my pasta sauce with yellow tomatoes if I so desire, regardless of which verses of whatever canonical text are screamed at me. My gumbo will be MY gumbo, and taste damned good, no matter whose buttocks grace the chairs in the chambers of government. No one has, nor will they ever have, the right to tell me what to eat or how to cook it. Ultimately, I hold the knife, I stir the pot, it is my hand that puts the spices in the pot.

This is as it should be, my friends. I need that bit of territory I can call my own; life, liberty and the pursuit of happiness are grounded in that notion, and they all start within. This is why cooking something for myself is a declaration of independence. The skillet in my hand, the cook pot on my stove, these are my sovereign lands. I'll be honored to share my borders with you, if you find yourself hungry like me.

Serendipity, with Anchovies

What do you get when you combine spare time, a chance encounter with a recipe once forgotten, and a ten-day-old baguette?

A delicious dinner, of course.  I had it tonight, in the form of pasta ammuddicata, via a re-reading of an essay by John Thorne titled "Pasta With Anchovies". Ammuddicata is an Italian dialect (exact one, I am not sure. Calabrian, maybe?) word meaning 'bread crumbs' and that picture above is of the ones I made out of the aforementioned baguette. They are sauteed in a little bit of olive oil until golden brown, then sprinkled with some hot pepper flakes.

They are so much better tasting than they have any right to be.  I was eating them right out of the bowl.

But I get ahead of myself.  The recipe for pasta ammuddicata seized my attention today as I read the essay. It has a total of six ingredients, one of which (salt) I ended up not using: anchovy fillets, olive oil, bread crumbs, red pepper flakes, salt, and spaghetti.  I recalled that I was intrigued by the dish a long time ago, when I first read it.  For some reason, I never seemed to have stale bread worth turning into crumbs.

That is, until today.  The remains of a baguette purchased ten days ago, at the request of my darling daughter.  We purchased it at the French bakery just down the street, and she thinks of them as a real treat.  Which, frankly, they are because the bakers there know their craft.  The drawback is, the baguettes are just over two feet long, and as much as me and my offspring like bread, we can't eat the whole thing at a sitting.  Nor would I try.

So I had almost half left, and some little voice told me to leave it in the wrapper, sitting on the counter. "I might need it" I heard the voice say.  Sure enough, I did. Inspiration in the form of pasta ammuddicata!  This version calls for bread crumbs to be sprinkled over the pasta at the eater's discretion. The baguette was, by this time, as hard as a stick of locust wood.  I put it in a heavy plastic bag and beat the hell out of it with a hammer, sifting the crumbs through a colander.

All I needed was some anchovy fillets and spaghetti, which I garnered on a quick shopping trip.  Back in the kitchen, I fired up the stove and set to. Lately I have been stressed out and scattered by life, and it felt good to focus, to get into the zen of it. With six ingredients and very little fuss, I had a feast in very little time.

The pasta went into one white ceramic bowl, a salad into another, and the ammuddicata into another.  I sat at the table on my porch, enjoying the early evening of a perfectly lovely day.  The simplicity of it enhanced the taste, and I chewed contentedly.

Early flowers perfumed the air. My heart felt at peace, my stomach felt full. Dinner should always be so good.

The Sauce of Contentment

The scent of the weekend's batch of pasta sauce still lingers, tucked away in the nooks and crannies of my house.  This kind of scent has existed, in one form or another, in every place I have ever lived.  It is the scent of warmth and comfort, and of that place where they will always take you in, no matter what.

It is the scent of home.

This edition of sauce was something I did a little different than in recent weeks.  I didn't grate a carrot into my pureed tomatoes, as had been my habit for a long time. So a little of the orange-tinged sweetness wasn't there, and that was okay.  I didn't mince the garlic down into a near-paste, as usual.  This time, I sliced the cloves as thin as I could get them, across the grain, in the hopes that they would break down and melt into the sauce.  I didn't grate the onion this time, either, I simply diced it.

The onions started out in cold oil in the pan, rather than the old 'dump-and-sizzle' of a hot shimmer.  I let them sweat and stew.  I had no fresh herbs, so dried it was, along with a bay leaf, some salt, ground black pepper and a small amount of mildly hot red pepper flakes.  I bloomed them in the hot oil before I poured in the tomatoes.

I know what you are thinking: its the end times, he's getting it all backwards!  For a brief instance, I questioned my choices as I watched the herb flecks darken up in the pan.  I had a brief shiver when I thought that this wasn't going to turn out well, and I would end up eating another mistake.  I put those thoughts out of my head and let the sauce simmer.  It would be what it was meant to be, no more, no less.  What it was meant to be, was a measure of home.  In that, it succeeded.

Later, with a full belly, it seemed to me that I had finally trusted my instincts, and it paid off.  I made it home.

I Am Not From Naples

Tonight, between arriving home from work/kissing the Kid/greeting the Spouse and post -dinner cleanup/eventually getting the Kid to bed, I actually made a batch of pasta sauce. My own version of "sugo di salsicce" (when I am feeling as the pompous ass), or "sauce with sausage" (when the spirit of my departed Gee-Maw whacks me with a spoon and tells me 'Don't get full of yourself, kid!' Ouch!). I can hear the collective "So What?" blaring in over the Web, and I don't blame you. Hang with me, kids, just a 'little bit longeeerrrr'...

I have this particular recipe down to basics, easy, simple. I can do a lot of prep work beforehand and store stuff in the fridge to make sauce as the opportunity presents itself. So it was: onions chopped, carrot grated, salsicce, er, SAUSAGE sliced the night before. Praisethelord for Ziploc, hallelujah, yessir! So all that remained was to get all that and the tomato puree in the pot and simmering whilst attending to other important activities like Net surfing, navel gazing, kid tickling, burping, etc.

Everything went smoothly I am happy to say. The sauce was done by time for the Wee Lass' bath, so I let the sauce cool while the Spouse hosed the princess down. Then I read some books with her.

(Digression: bedtime reading with my daughter, most of the time, is one of the highlights of my day. Tonight we read "Where The Wild Things Are"; she and I had great time 'roaring the terrible roars, rolling the terrible eyes, showing the terrible claws'. She can growl pretty good! I say most of the time because there are the days where Her Highness is not pleased to read and just wants to play games on Noggin. Sigh. The attractions of the Digital Age. Now, back to our story...)

So it went well. While my daughter played some pre-bed games with her moms, I divvied up the sauce into containers. Of course, I tasted the sauce as I was ladling it out. Pret-ty goood, as Larry David might say. Although I don't recommend biting down on a bay leaf. Yurrk. Anyway, I had the sauce all Rubbermaided (no ziplocs this time), heading for the sink with pot and ladle in hand and sipping the remaining sauce out of the ladle bowl. Mmmm. Then it happened.

I licked the pot. I licked the pot. Not the lid, not the rim, the inside. I actually stuck my face in the pot and licked some sauce off the sides. Good thing it wasn't hot. THAT would have been embarrassing.

"Kevin, what happened to your face?"
"I stug id a ha pat, ad id borrned my cheegs!"
"AIIGHH, was that your TONGUE!? EEEWWW, shut your mouth, man!"

I can honestly say that is the first time I have ever done that. Ever. Good thing everyone else was upstairs. I'm pretty sure there weren't any cameras rolling, either. Sheesh, next thing you know I'll be eating cheese out of the sink. Oh, wait, never mind...

IRISH GUMBO'S SUGO DI SALSICCE: (makes 2-3 servings for two in my house)
1 medium onion, white or yellow - dice fine
1 medium-ish carrot - grated fine (I use a microplane grater)
2-3 cloves garlic, minced or pressed
2 28oz. cans whole peeled tomatos in juice - drain, puree in food mill or processor, strain seeds
+/- 1 lb. Italian sausage - casings removed and sliced into 1/2" pieces (if links)
1 Tablespoon olive oil (evoo okay)
Bay leaves - 1 large or 2 small
salt, black pepper

Heat oil at medium heat in a large saucepan. When shimmering, put onion/carrot mix in, cook until slightly translucent. Spinkle in pinch of salt. Add garlic. Cook 1-2 more minutes. Add sausage. Let sausage brown up - it doesn't need to cook all the way. Skim off excess fat. Pour in tomato puree. Add bay leaves. Bring to boil, lower heat and simmer, uncovered, for 25 - 30 minutes. Let it reduce and thicken. Add more salt if needed, fresh grind some black pepper if you like. Remove bay leaves. Serve over favorite pasta. I like penne or rigatoni with this sauce. Note: Plum tomatos work best, they have less liquid, so the sauce thickens up faster.

Simple. Easy. Good. Works for me. Authentic? Hell, I don't know. I'm not from Naples.

(All props to Giuliano Bugialli. His book on pasta gave me the original idea.)