Not Your Mother's Pomodoro Sauce

I dated an Italian guy once. His parents were off the boat, from the same town that gave us the Sopranos. They spoke Italian, had big Sunday dinners in Northern Jersey where the whole mishpocha would converge, and all that went with it.

He was American Italian, an Italian one step removed. But his dating rules were old school. Bada bing for a night with the guys: totally acceptable. A woman who cooks and expects her boyfriend to clean the dishes: totally unacceptable. We went nowhere fast, but not before I was able to learn a thing or two in his mom's kitchen.

One of my favorites: her salad dressing. Every Sunday she put out this bowl of salad, for 20. Basic greens and a simple vinaigrette. But something about this salad was uniquely delicious. A flavor I couldn’t place.

I finally got the courage to ask her about it one night while I was doing the dishes. She told me that she could share the recipe, but no matter how hard I tried I could never match the flavor. She pointed to her imported olive oil, some basic red wine vinegar, the salt and pepper, and held up her hands. “I toss with my hands. After cooking all day, they’re in the garlic, the herbs. That’s what gives the dressing the flavor.”

Now that’s a recipe. Basic, authentic, off-the-boat. It's everything you'd never see in a four-star restaurant, but it’s the absolute essence of home cooking. Thank god she makes the desserts days in advance, or we'd have some funky tiramisu.

My first introduction to Momma was on the telephone, after I made my signature tomato sauce for Luigi. I served it with al dente pasta, some nice garlic bread, and Parm to grate at the table. Simple, basic, classic.

When I called him to the table, he looked at it the pasta like he was going to make love to it. He had been smelling my sauce all day, and giving Pavlov's dogs a run. He took a bite, smiled at me, and said, “Call Momma.”

“You love it?” I said.

“It’s good, Allison. Good.” He pushed his chair back from the table. “It’s just not Momma's. Hers is perfect. Have her walk you through it so you can make it right.”

With that, he stood up, found a Godfather marathon on SpikeTV and ordered Chinese.

Though he was tucchus rested comfortably on my ejection button, my food curiosity got the better of me. I called Momma.

She vaguely but generously walked me through her sauce. It wasn’t hard at all, I just needed the fresh tomatoes that her husband gets in his garden, in late August, and a handful of his fresh basil. Well, first I really needed to skin the tomatoes, then put them through a food mill. Then I get that good garlic that her friend smuggles over in the plane from Italy, cut it paper thin, and give it a little olive oil. I cook the tomato puree until it’s perfect, Luigi can tell me when that is, and then just tear the basil and toss it in. Not too much, not to little. Salt, maybe. Depends on the season.

This nothing-to-it recipe came with produce I could never score, years of cooking experience I will never have, and a palate I couldn't please. Sounds like a great Sunday afternoon in the kitchen, no? Turn up the Puccini and let’s get cooking.

Or, you could try my sauce. It’s simple, replicable and can be made any time of year. It’s been tested on my client’s husbands and wives without fail, and has led to many a passionate evening (I’ve been told). And the best part of it, you can tweak it a million different ways, call it your own, and keep the recipe from your son’s girlfriend. Or share it. Up to you.


Ciao Luigi Pomodoro Sauce
By The Wooden Spoon
Inspired by Marcella Hazan

This recipe is fantastic with gnocchi, or a simple pasta topping. I also like it to dip with a nice loaf of grilled Italian bread for breakfast, or in addition to the classic olive oil at a restaurant.

2 28-ounce cans whole tomatoes (I like Muir Glen)
1 medium onion, peeled and halved
1 stick unsalted butter
Salt, red pepper flakes to taste

1. Put a large skillet or braising pot on the stovetop. Open the cans of tomatoes, and take the tomatoes, one by one, and squish them in between your fingers, discarding the tough part at the top which had been attached to the stem. The tomatoes may spray if you’re too aggressive; you might want to do this over a deeper bowl if your kitchen is getting messy.

2. Once the tomatoes are all squished, add the butter, and the onions, cut side down. Turn the heat to medium high, and add a few pinches of salt. Let the whole thing come to a simmer, and simmer gently, stirring occasionally, until the sauce thickens, about 1 ½ to 2 hours. When it starts to look like a very thick, tomatoey sauce, give it a taste. The sauce should take on an intense, sweet, rich flavor, but be balanced with natural acids. Season with salt, and red pepper flakes if desired. Discard the onion prior to serving.

Christmakah: A Brittle Holiday

I’m up to my eyeballs in Chocolate Covered Cashew Brittle. I kid you not. I decided that it would be my signature holiday dessert this year because:

1) It’s super-easy.
2) It’s impressive and no one seems to make it anymore.
3) People like to eat it.

This brittle became my holiday party bring-along, my new client gift, and the holiday gift of several friends this year (who asked me to make it for them so that they could give it). My kitchen has turned into a regular production facility. Look, I’m not complaining, I’m just bellyaching, literally, because I can’t keep my paws off the brittle. It’s tasty.

On the flip side of Holiday ’05, I cancelled all Chanukah gifting with my immediate family. Maybe it was because I started hearing Bing Crosby in Starbucks on November 17th; maybe it’s because my clan is distributed along the East Coast and we won’t be celebrating together on a specific day; maybe it’s because I was raised Jewish but had my own hand-knit Christmas stocking and I’m just getting confused.

But most likely it’s because I’m alone for the holidays this year. Again. You see, my little brother is married in Baltimore, my parents are happily retired in North Carolina. Everyone has grown up, moved on, and are now creating new families of their own. I have a dog and a brittle production facility in a Brooklyn apartment that’s way beyond my budget. Any natural mid-thirties female nesting vibe I’ve got is being channeled into starting a business. A brittle woman, indeed.

My brother, called this year to find out what we were doing for our gift exchange. I told him that he and his wife should spend $50 on gifts for themselves, and I’d do the same. Then we could call in a few weeks and tell each other what we got. No muss, no fuss.

I could hear his eyes roll from 400 miles away. You see, he’s a great guy. The guy who played football and joined a fraternity. A financial advisor who runs his local golf tournament. He’ll help you move if you need a hand, and is likely to shovel your walk for you if you just ask.

I’m different. I take pride in doing my own things, my own way. I think I confuse my brother, who likes me, but isn’t quite sure what to make of me.

“Listen sis, that’s a little weird, and not in the spirit of things, but if it’s what you want, then fine.”

And then, a few days later:
“Hey, sis. It’s your brother. And I’ve decided I don’t like your approach to the Holidays.”
“And why is that?”
“Because I want to give you a present.”
“Oh, because our capitalist society tells you to? Because Hallmark has made it a requirement? Because it’s your civic duty to spend and spend, on credit, and go into debt?” At this point, I can only hope he took his ear from the phone. “Because, brother, I’m not buying into that mishigas! I’m not down with unnecessary expenditures this year, and your holiday knick-knack falls straight into that category. Oh, and in case you’ve forgotten, our Holiday is not a generic Holiday, it’s Chanukah. Chhhhhhhhhanukah.”

Another loud eye roll. “No, Allison, it’s not because I’m a capitalist whatever, but because you’re my sister. My only sister. I want to do what everybody does this time of year, because I want to remind you that I care about you and love you, and that you’re the only sister I’ll ever have. I want to let you know how important you are to me, especially because we’re apart and I know that you’re not near your family right now. I want to give you a present.”

There’s no amount of anti-consumerist propoganda that can harden my heart to those words from my little brother. They melted me. My coming down so hard, my bah-humbugging on everyone else’s capital-H Holiday was less about my anti-capitalist tendencies, and, truth be told, more about my fear of being left out and forgotten.

So maybe next year my brother will get me a gift certificate to Banana, or Ann Taylor, or Sephora, and maybe he’ll get a boxful of brittle. But he’ll have a hard time topping his gift from this year. Thanks, Bro. Happy Choliday and Merry Christmakah.



Chocolate Covered Cashew Brittle
By The Wooden Spoon

3 ¾ cups sugar, divided
1 16-ounce bottle light corn syrup, divided
1 ¾ cups water, divided
¾ teaspoon salt, divided
5 cups roasted, salted cashews, divided
6 tablespoons unsalted butter, divided
1 tablespoon plus 1 teaspoon vanilla extract, divided
1 ¾ teaspoons baking soda, divided
2 11.5-ounce bags chocolate chips
Vegetable spray or silpat mats

1. Line a sheet pan with parchment paper and cover it with non-stick spray, or line it with a silpat. You will be creating two brittles; one that will become candy dust coating the outside of the official brittle, and one that is the official brittle. So pull out two pots, one small (2 quarts) and one medium) 5 quarts or so. Put the following ingredients in each pot:

SMALL POT
¾ cups sugar
1/2 cup corn syrup
1/4 cup water
1/4 teaspoon salt

BIG POT
3 cups sugar
1 ½ cups corn syrup
1 1/2 cup water
1/2 teaspoon salt

2. Cover both pots, and turn up the burner under the small pot. When it comes to a rolling boil (4 minutes), remove the lid. Meanwhile, combine the following ingredients in two separate bowls:

SMALL BOWL
1 tablespoons unsalted butter
1 teaspoon vanilla extract
1/4 teaspoon baking soda
¾ cup cashews

BIG BOWL
5 tablespoons unsalted butter
1 tablespoon vanilla extract
1 ½ teaspoons baking soda
3 cups cashews

3. Watch carefully until the caramel begins to color. Let it go, swirling the pan to distribute the color, until it becomes an attractive shade of light brown (just past the blonde color). Stir in the ingredients from the small bowl, and pour them onto the prepared pan. When the caramel begins to harden, place it (and the liner, not the sheet pan) into the refrigerator or freezer to hasten the hardening process.

4. Turn the burner under the large pot to medium heat. Follow directions as above (#2) to engage in the same process, realizing that with a larger volume of liquid, it will take longer to color. Cover the sheet pan with another piece of parchment and non-stick spray or another silpat. When the caramel has reached an attractive color, pour in the ingredients from the big bowl.

5. Meanwhile, take the hardened caramel from the small batch, and whiz it in the food processor until it becomes a dust. Chop the remaining 1 cup of cashews by hand, and combine the dust and the cashews in a bowl. Melt one bag of chocolate in the microwave, or by using a double boiler.

6. Pour the big-batch brittle onto the prepared pan, and smooth it out using a spatula, creating an even layer. When it begins to harden, layer the chocolate on top of the brittle. Sprinkle half the cashew dust over the top, covering the chocolate. Place entire sheet pan in the refrigerator to cool.

7. Melt remaining bag of chocolate. When the brittle in the refrigerator has hardened, turn brittle out onto another pan or other large surface that can be transferred to the refrigerator. Pour the melted chocolate onto the brittle, and cover with remaining cashew dust. Refrigerate until chocolate has hardened. Using the tip of a knife, break brittle into large pieces and serve on a platter (or package in a non-airtight container as a gift). Keep cool.

Collards from Long Island, North Carolina

My parents moved to North Carolina from New York five years ago. To build their own house, live on the water, retire, and have their next adventure.

For a Jewish couple from Long Island, rural coastal Carolina is not as big a change as one might think. For one, they live in a plantation (read: suburban development) that is largely habitated by other Northerners. In their growing group of local friends, one is hard pressed to find a drawl. For real live locals, one must venture outside the plantation. To the Varnamtown docks to buy fresh-caught shrimp from an eighth generation Varnam, or to Holden Beach to buy local fish from Holden kin.

One of my mom's favorite stories involves a newly-minted culinary school daughter looking to make a shrimp bisque. Cut to Holden Beach, where I could always find mounds of just-caught shrimp, peeled and deveined. I came in seeking shrimp shells which I would use to prepare a stock for the bisque.

"Excuse me, sir, do you have any shrimp shells?"
"Shrimp whut?"
"Shells."
"You mean the pee-uhl?"
"Yessir."
"Whut you want what with the pee-uhl?"
"I'm making a bisque."
"A whut?"

And on and on. Eyes rolled, colleagues were called out from the back room. I got myself good and laughed at, but I walked out with bags of shrimp shells. Crazy Northerners, indeed.

There's another Holden-owned operation that I visit regularly: the Holden Brothers Farm Market. On this particular post-Thanksgiving journey, I was drawn to the collards. They had leaves as big as umbrellas attached to rigid stems, collected at the bottom in a natural bunch. There had an intoxicating vitality, a natural strength that made me swoon.

Collards do it for me. Yes, they are physically imposing, but my passion for them goes beyond the physical. Collards are something that southerners eat, southerners know, southerners write stories about. It's a bond. Collards and grits are to Southerners what schmaltz and gribines are to Jews. Collards are not something that little white Jewish girls from Long Island should be preparing, especially if you're going to throw a ham hock in the mix. Something about cooking collards just feels forbidden and sexy to me.

Which is why when I'm in the south, in my mothers kitchen, I always try to cook them.

At checkout, the girl who rang us up took a moment to wax nostalgic about her Thanksgiving dinner, just two days old. This was the first year that she was asked to cook the collards.

"Really. And how did you do it?"
"Well, I'll tell y'all, there was nothin' to it. I gave em a wash, and sep-rated em from the stems, course. Then I just threw em in a pot with some pi-ig. Some baycon, or maybe a ham hock. Anyway, I put em all in with a little water, and cooked them til they were du-un. Then I went in there with a knife, cut em all up like thi-yis, and put em out. Evry-one loved em."

So I followed her recipe, with a tweak or two, and it was collards I had. The beauty of real Southern-style collards is that you cook the holy hell out of them, for hours, until they break down and get real soft. Of course, the army green color would make my culinary school chefs' heads spin, but hey, it's authentic. It makes this fantastic green-brown broth that is a few parts collard cooking water, a few parts pig stock, and anything else you decide to put into the mix. Pot Likker they call it, and if you find yourself one day with a hitch in your giddy-up, give it a try. It'll get you vital real fast.

Holden Farmstand Collards
Created by The Wooden Spoon
Serves 4 to 6

2 big bunches of collards
1 ham hock
2 tablespoons cider vinegar, or hot pepper vinegar
water
pinches of salt, grindings of pepper
a big pot
a few hours

1. Give the collards a good rinse, and pull the leaves off the stems. You can do this in two ways; either cut the leaves off with a knife, or simply pull them off, separating from the stem.

2. Roll up the leaves as if you're rolling a cigarette, but don't worry about rolling them tight. Cut the collards into ribbons about 2-inches thick. Put the whole mess in a pot, with a ham hock, the vinegar, about 2 cups of water, and turn the heat to high. When the water comes to a boil, reduce the heat; cover and let simmer for as long as you like, stirring occasionally. In 20 to 30 minutes you'll have bright, crunchy greens, just fit for a northerner. In 2 to 3 hours, you'll have it southern style, soft, mushy, army-green. Keep an eye on the liquid; you don't want the pot to go dry.

3. Before serving, retrieve the ham hock from the pot and shred the meat into bite-sized fingers, using your fingers (if they're made of asbestos), or a knife (if they're not).

4. Serve with grits, pork chops, Carolina hot sauce, and a drawl.