The Grace of Fiamma: Butternut Squash Dumplings

'Twas an unusually warm November evening, and I was traipsing around Soho, two bags of just-purchased Sur La Table goodies in hand. The bag was heavy with pots, pans and linens, I was looking for a bowl of pasta before I continued on to that evening's cooking client.

Soho was holiday fabulous this dusk, as if we were all part of some massive TV-set. Chanel, D&G, Catherine Malandrino, and J Crew (OK, so the chain is a needle-scratch on the record of fabulousness) were filled with models and handsome Euro-something or others. Those walking by were chilly enough that cheeks were a-glow, but warm enough that the gloves and hats were stylish, not requisite. People were watching, knowing that this might be the last time you get to see a glimpse of thigh through an unbuttoned coat for a few months.

Eager for a bowl of pasta, I came upon "Fiamma". The name was written boldly on the building, in a way that let you know this was a place you could relax and enjoy and be taken away from New York, which so very New York.

I recognized the logo but had never been to the place, ah yes, one of my dearest clients has a little Fiamma magnet on her fridge. That said, this is part of the B. R. Guest restaurant chain, and I'm generally opposed to chain dining. But my client knows how to eat well; let's look at the menu...braised pig bellies and radicchio, truffles and finocchio. High-end formerly peasant yum where I could learn a few things and recreate it at home: my favorite. But did I really want to plunk down $25 for a pasta I'd have to eat in 30 minutes? This was a fabulous meal when I need a fabulous meal on some special occasion, tonight this might be overkill.

Then I reminded myself; this is a special occasion. I am working like mad, traveling a whole lot, and I'm here in my beloved City of New York craving a bowl of incredible pasta. I will give it a try.

I walked in and 3 hostesses swarmed me, trying to get me to put down my bags before I entered the dining room. Their attentiveness made me nervous; I held the bags closer. I told them that I would look at the room before making a decision (2nd floor, madame).

There was a lone extraordinarily attractive man seated at the bar, which really should have been enough for me, but I decided to pass. The room was too elegant, I was in too much of a rush, I couldn't possibly enjoy Fiamma properly this evening.

I returned to the lobby where I asked the host if he could recommend a restaurant in the area that would be a bit simpler, as I only had a half-hour for an excellent bowl of pasta.

He was an incredibly charming native Italian, who simultaneously relieved me of my packages, removed my coat, and insisted that I give him the opportunity to serve me a bowl of their pasta. He had the soothing grace of an old-world front-of-the-house master; everything that has been missing from my surly Brooklyn dining experiences of late.

He led me to the bar upstairs (again), and I commented on their cookbook which was hard to miss. The cover was clean and bold, and although it was a restaurant book, you had the feeling there would be delicious recipes inside for dishes that home cooks could actually make. Without skipping a beat, he said, "The book, please accept it as a gift." I was shocked by the overture and he reassured, "It is a Holiday present to all our guests this month. We ordered so many; now we give it to you."

I did a little calculation in my head; that more than amortized the cost of my pasta. Yippee! Score one for frugal gal. Back to gracious gal, "That is too generous and kind; I appreciate it."

We went to the bar, he told me of his favorite pasta, the Garganelli. A quill, so it's tubular and penne-like, but with horizontal lines instead of vertical. It is rolled daily by one of his two full-time female pasta makers. The sauce, of course, changes seasonally, today it is with black truffles and treviso in a cream sauce.

Without looking at the menu I said, "I shall have it!" He spoke to the bartender, "Madame will have the garganelli, and a glass of Prosecco on me. She is in a bit of a hurry, and has no more than 30 minutes. Please take good care." With this, he presented the Fiamma cookbook and left me to my dinner.

I do not know this man. I have never been in the restaurant. The night was young, perhaps he wanted the intrigue of a young woman dining alone at the bar. I haven't any idea. But I will tell you, this man took great care of me in the restorative way a restaurant was designed to.

If you want to experience al dente pasta perfection, please come to Fiamma, sit and eat alone, and close your eyes as your teeth press through the noodle. Sometimes cooking and eating, like great vistas or music, cannot be described, they must be experienced to be truly understood. Perfect pasta is an example of this.

While I was enjoying, a group of three expensive women sat next to me at the bar. These were Wealthy New Yorkers, bejeweled and furred, colored and tinted, waxed and dermabraised. They had the pinched lips and wrinkled brows of women who have spent many years letting others know, nonverbally, how displeased they are with what's being presented.

They ordered drinks, but found the vodka options to be lacking (there were at least 16 different vodkas). "You don't have the citrus flavor?" "Not in Ketel One, but in Belvedere." "Ach, horrible. How could you overlook that?" Each was more demanding and shrill than the other. I watched as one of the waiters rolled his eye to another waiter; I forgive them this and encourage it in fact; with patrons this horrible, you have to let your steam out somehow.

These were the same servers who were so wonderful to me, so well trained by our host, now taking abuse from harsh women who simply wouldn't give these men the chance to treat them well. Their mistake.

To complete the meal, I was offered a petitfore plate and a shot of espresso; I relaxed and accepted both. I believe I stayed there for an entire 45-minutes, increasingly blissed out with each passing moment. The check? They refused to give me one. My host took care of everything, and for this girl, on this particular evening, this was a more gracious gift than he could possibly know.

Butternut Squash Dumplings
Serves 6 as a meal. Uncooked gnocchi freeze well.

These flavored gnocchi are not from Fiamma, but I made these with my Fiamma-loyal client last week and loved them. Perfect with Sage Brown Butter Sauce.

1 medium butternut squash (1 pound), halved lengthwise, seeds removed
1 pound russet potatoes (about 4), punctured with the tines of a fork
1 egg
2 tablespoons kosher salt
A few grates of fresh nutmeg
1 1/2 cups all-purpose flour, plus additional, for dusting

1. Preheat oven to 400 degrees F. Place the squash flesh side down on a pan and roast until very tender (about 45 minutes). Bake potatoes directly on the rack of oven for 1 hour.

2. Prepare a large pot of boiling water on the stove. Halve the potatoes and allow to cool until you can handle them, but keep them somewhat warm (this will help bind a better, lighter dumpling). Remove the flesh of the potatoes and the squash and discard the skins. Mash the flesh with a hand masher. Add the egg, salt and nutmeg and mix. Then add the flour and mix with a wooden spoon or with your hands until a soft dough forms. Add flour by the small handfull if it's still too moist.

3. Turn the pasta dough out onto a floured surface and divide into 8 portions. Use your fingers to roll the dough into 1-inch wide tubes. Use a bench scraper or a knife to cut these tubes into 1-inch pieces, then use your finger to press the dumplings against the tines of the back of a fork, and gently roll off. One side of the gnocchi should have the impression of the tines while the other should have an indentation from your finger.

4. Drop the gnocchi, one at a time, into the pot of boiling water. Do not overcrowd the pot. As they begin to float, remove them with a slotted spoon, toss them with browned butter sauce and serve.

My Favorite Thing to Make: Flourless Chocolate Cake

I have a request for you. There's a certain question that I'm asked over and over, and I wish that I could never be asked it again. The question is:

"What is your favorite thing to make?"

Do people ask painters what their favorite paint color is? Musicians what their favorite note is? Carpenters their favorite tool? Then why, why are people always asking cooks to play favorites?

You see, as soon as I declare a favorite, it's overtaken by a new love. I love sauteeing greens. But then again, I love roasting beets -- I love drizzling those red balls with oil, sprinking them with salt, and photographing the beautiful packet in my mind before I seal up the foil and toss those lovelies into a 425 degree oven.

I love getting an incredible sear on a duck breast; but before that, I love scoring the skin, rendering that fat (and of course saving that fat for later use). I love unsheathing my sharpee and writing "Duck Fat, 11/25" on the container. I love taking my tongs to the breasts, turning them, but then I love squeezing the duck with my fingers to ensure that it's cooked a perfect medium-rare. I love looking around to make sure no one's looking, then licking my fingers after to getting that salty duck fat flavor. In fact, sometimes I prefer gibbling (my dad's made up word for eating the yummy little bits that never make it to the table) more than a fussy seated dinner.

I love that I'm not cooking in a restaurant, but at home, where I can take my time, love the process, lick my fingers, and watch you enjoy it too. I never have to worry about the authorities coming in and making me wear plastic gloves. If you wouldn't kiss me, you shouldn't eat with me, as I've kissed your dinner several times before it gets to you.

I love slicing the duck and arranging it on top of the jerusalem artichoke puree and next to the sauteed shredded Brussels leaves. Oh I love the gratification of making a sauce, in this case a sour cherry sauce, but I think I love making the chicken stock that goes into that sauce even more. I love taking the cooled stock from the fridge to the freezer, scraping the fat from the top and shaking the container a bit to confirm that it's a jiggly, gelatinous goo. Stockeriffic.

I love grinding black pepper onto something, anything, and I love loosening the peppermill ot make those fresh-ground pepper bits a bit bigger. I love taking a big three-fingered pinch of kosher salt. Sometimes I even love doing dishes, though I love my dishwasher more.

I love going to KFC and ordering a bucket; what a guilty road-trip pleasure. I do not love the feeling I have about half an hour after I eat those chicken pieces, and I don't like the disappointment I feel when I have their biscuits.

My friend Nikki loves the sounds of a champagne bottle popping; she thinks it's best sound in the world. It's up there, for sure.

I love going to my local Chocolate and Beer shop (What a combo! Only three blocks away! Am I the luckiest girl in the world or what?), and talking with the Chocolate Man about his favorite chocolate bars, making an expensive selection and savoring it all week. I love melting chocolate on a double boiler.

I adore my butchers; I collect them like a 4-year old collects stuffed animals. Although I love them all, I favor certain ones from time to time, then put them back in rotation. I love speaking to my French butcher who is twice my age (and many times my knowledge), about blood sausages. I love my Brooklyn-Italian butchers accent, I love that he can take it or leave it, I appreciate how much he enjoys explaining things to me, even when there's a long line, grabbing primals from the walk-in to illustrate his point when words fail. I love going back to the shop the next day and letting them know how much I enjoyed their meat.

So what's my favorite thing to cook? Short ribs. Foie gras. Chocolate pudding. Creme caramel. Quince paste. Oatmeal-cherry cookies. Mussels. Gribenes. Corned beef and cabbage. Collards. I don't know, what do you feel like eating? Today, I love reheating Thanksgiving leftovers. And eating them for breakfast.

Tomorrow, it might just be chocolate cake.


Favorite Flourless Chocolate Cake
Makes 10 to 12 servings

I recently gave a baking class to a woman who was eager to make a baked ham; if you've done it, you know that there's nothing to it (do you love that? I do). Like most pieces of protein, it's about the selection process; choose a good quality, pre-cooked (yes, precooked) piece of smoked ham, reheat and glaze. Nothing to it.

But I think if my student was asked, she'd have to say that her favorite part of this class was the chocolate cake we made. I know she brought it to Thanksgiving and I'm dying to hear what her family thought. I see her fifty years into the future, making this for her Grandkids. It might just be their favorite thing she makes.

1 cup (2 sticks) butter, cut into pieces
8 ounces semisweet chocolate chips (about 1 1/2 cups)
1 1/4 cups sugar
1 cup sifted unsweetened cocoa powder
6 large eggs
Three-fingered pinch of salt
½ teaspoon vanilla
Vanilla ice cream, or a tall glass of milk, for serving

1. Preheat oven to 350°F. Butter 9-inch springform or cake pan. Line bottom with parchment paper; butter and flour pan (this will be the most challenging part of the recipe, trust me).

2. Melt butter in a medium heavy saucepan over medium heat. Add chocolate chips and turn heat to low; after 5 minutes, remove from heat and stir until chips have melted.

3. Mix sugar and cocoa in large bowl. Add eggs; whisk until well blended. Add vanilla and salt. Whisk in chocolate-butter mixture. Pour batter into prepared pan.

4. Place springform/cake pan on a baking sheet and bake until tester inserted into center comes out clean, about 55 minutes. Cool cake completely in pan on cooling rack. Run knife around pan sides to loosen cake. Release pan sides if in springform, or if you've used a cake pan, invert cake, remove parchment, and place on a serving palte. Cut cake into wedges and serve.

Wishing on a Bone: Thanksgiving Cranberry Sauce

Last week, I taught a pre-Thanksgiving poultry class to a group of advanced cooking students. We spatchcocked, because I love saying the word, and because it's a tremendous timesaving technique. Plus, I love watching folks who are unaccustomed to getting jiggy with a bird get in there and snip that backbone out. Nothing shakes a poultry phobia like shoving your fist deep into the recesses of a carcass.

Unfortunately, instead of the 10-pound bird I ordered, I was face to beak with a 17-pound turkey. A little culinary math (15 minutes per pound, or 10 minutes if you're spatchcocking) would confirm that this bird couldn't possibly cook in the magical ninety minutes I had promised my students.

But I've never been a big believer in science. We wrestled that monster into submission, took out the backbone and wishbone, cracked the keel bone, and wiping the sweat from our brows, seasoned that bad boy and tossed him into the oven to roast.

At the appropriate time, we removed the beast and presented our thermometers to one another as if we were unsheathing swords. The lovely woman overseeing this bird kept referring to hers as a temperature stick. I was baffled, and asked why she was using the term. "Thermometer; it's too weak a word for what this is and what we're doing with it." Remind me not to run a fever near this woman.

And the temperature: 80 degrees. Not even close to the 160 we'd need to start breaking this guy down. And I had about 30 minutes before class was over. There was no way we would make it.

But I could not disappoint my students! And in a moment, my brain was taken over by some other force, we can call it creativity, inspiration, or force of will. Quite simply: I lost my wits.

"The thermometers are wrong!" I shouted. "Give me another!" We went through four. They all read 80 degrees.

"It cannot be true! Quick, boil me a pot of water, we will determine by how much these thermometers are incorrect and then we will pierce this fallen fowl." We boiled. In fact, a few temp sticks were wrong, reading 190 degrees. But one was on the money, hitting 212. Fuel to my fire.

We put big bird in for a bit longer; I used the working thermometer and when it hit 150F I decided we were close enough and that the thing would rest to 165.

Now there's temporary insanity, and then there's the plain error of ignoring science.

You see, when looking out at a group of faces, people eager for a "ta-da!" this teacher does not want to disappoint. So when I'm faced with a bird that's twice the size of I hoped to receive, I should have realized that it would have taken twice as long, instead of forcing the thing.

And this Thanksgiving, when you're entertaining, please take a note from my book. Entertaining? It is a pain in the neck. The cleaning, the shopping, the worrying, the timing. The aftermath, everything is a fuss. Don't let anyone tell you it's easy; it's not. It's a whole lot of work. That's the science of the thing.

So why do we put ourselves through it? Because we like to have those we love around us. We like to make something for them -- a gift, a celebration, a moment to nourish and fuss over them.

So what became of our turkey? I cut deep and was faced with the undeniable fact that it was cooked about 80% of the way. I sliced off the good parts, enjoyed them, and the students took home the rest to be cooked through. My students made due, like good guests with a host who is trying too hard.

And the lesson boomeranged back to me: their patience and kindness, well that's the art of the thing. A hearthy thank you to my students, and to you, all my best for a loving and delicious Thanksgiving!


Foolproof Cranberry Sauce
Serves 8 - 10

OK so I lied. This recipe really is that easy. When I was young, I distinctly remember a cranberry sauce at my aunt's house that came straight out of the can. It stood tall and stately on the dish it was placed, can rings and all. I was completely confused and afraid by this food; I abstained.

But now there's no need to go the can route; here's a recipe for an easy cranberry sauce. If it's too complicated, try the one on the back of the cranberry bag (usually something like 1 cup sugar, 1 cup water, 1 bag of cranberries...cook until soft), it's just as simple.

1 10-ounce bag fresh cranberries
1 10-ounce jar currant jam
1 teaspoon zest from an orange, lemon or lime (optional)

Place cranberries and jam in a small saucepan over medium heat. Cook until cranberries have burst; 15-20 minutes. Add orange zest; serve warm. If the sauce is too thick, thin it with 1/4 cup water.

Rawness in the Air: Spicy Sesame Tuna

One of my simple pleasures these days is taking my pup to Prospect Park for a morning romp. Both Manhattan’s Central and Brooklyn’s Prospect Parks offer city dwellers the opportunity to unleash their dogs on pristine dewy grasses in the early morning hours, before any sensible person would dream of setting up a picnic.

City pups spend almost all their walking hours tethered, or cooped up in apartments. A dog’s gotta run, and we dog owners spend our days looking guiltily at our kept dogs. But for a few hours in the mornings, we both get what we want.

Our routine is simple; we go over to Gorilla for a coffee, sometimes I throw on the old-school walkman and listen to a little NPR, and my girl drags me up the hill to the park. The tail goes up, she banters about with some other feisty furballs, I gulp down some fresh air, and we head back home.



Now is an ideal time of year, as we’re in the time between Halloween and Thanksgiving, smack in the middle of fall. No one has the Christmas shopping anxiety yet; we’re all just enjoying soccer, brunch, and football. It’s a lovely time, and the rawness has yet to set in.

Unless you’re a student of The Wooden Spoon. Thrice this week I introduced students to the pleasure that is raw tuna. The first time was to make sushi; the second was served up as a spirited tartare; and third was a teenager’s snack. When an odd-duck recipe like raw fish becomes popular enough that it appears three times in a week, something’s up.

And what’s up is this. Slowly, our country is changing it’s palate. With the global bounty that is available in most mega grocery stores these days, we’re finally starting to stop our “Eeews” and start our “Ooohs”. One of my students, a lovely 13-year old boy, lovingly rolled his seasoned sushi rice in seaweed, filled it with spicy raw tuna, and gave a sample to his housekeeper who had never had raw fish before.

I know this because she told us she had never had raw fish before at least 100 times before she put the thing in her mouth. Buying time? No, she was proud. Proud of herself, and proud of him for taking her to this new place. She popped the maki in her mouth, chewed chewed chewed, complimented him on the intensity of his spicing, and, ta-da style, gave us all a smile of approval.

This is not something that would have happened ten years ago. 13 year old boys in the kitchen making sushi? But here we are in New York City with raw tuna and first-time smiles. There’s a rawness in the air indeed, and it’s delightful.


Spicy Tuna Makes about 1 1/2 cups

1 1/2 tablespoons soy sauce
1 1/2 tablespoons rice-wine vinegar
1 teaspoon dark sesame oil
2 tablespoons finely chopped chives
1 teaspoon chili paste
2 1/2 tablespoons mayonnaise
1 pound yellowfin tuna, cut into ¼-inch dice


1. In a medium bowl, whisk together soy sauce, rice-wine vinegar, sesame oil, chives, chili paste and mayonnaise; stir until combined. Add tuna and gently mix to coat. Adjust seasonings as needed. Cover, and refrigerate until serving, up to 1 hour.
2. Use as a sushi filling or serve on endive leaves as an upscale hors doevure. Makes an unexpected, delightful start to Thanksgiving!

Note: Make sure to check with your fishmonger to determine that this is very high quality fresh tuna, and OK to eat raw.

Eating Pretty: Peas, Please

I’ve just returned home from a 2-week shoot in DC for TLC’s Home Made Simple. Quick commercial: If you’re already a fan, you are in for a treat with season 2. If you haven’t yet watched, put January 14th on your calendar, and get ready to get turned on. This show will have you jumping out of your arm chair to pick up a paint brush, a skillet, or a drill; some impressive yet very simple work takes place. You’ll be inspired; I know I was.

And we’re back.

There’s one particular experience that’s ringing in my ears from my last shoot. Since I’m cooking, I get to enjoy that food television host exclusive experience of eating a piece of food and trying to convey the yum-ocity for the home viewers. You know, taking that bite, saying “Mmmm, delicious!” and all that.

I’ve always found those moments completely disingenuous and unbelievable on TV, and what’s more, somewhat selfish. What, she’ll dish up a plate of food for herself, and eat it in front of me while I’m eating a box of wheat thins? That’s lame. Reminds me more of my brother savoring the last of his Halloween candy in front of me in February after mine was long gone. Where’s the sharing? Don’t tease me woman, serve me up a plate. I’m hungry.

Or worse yet, when those really skinny newscaster chicks chew chew chew, but never seem to swallow. What’s up with that? They cut to commercial with a face full of chow (speaking with their mouth full, oh my!), then I can only guess spit the thing out when the cameras stop rolling. Doesn’t exactly sell the recipe, now does it.

That said, my manners, thought improving, are of the kitchen. You know, eating a piece of meat with your hands and really chomping on it to get the flavor. I’ve told you how I feel about working the bone; my colleagues will attest I’m not afraid to pick up a T-bone in Ruth’s Chris and go to town on it, no matter how fancy the clothes I’m wearing. I’m a bit of a heathen that way, but a happy (and well-fed) one.



So when I eat for you on-camera, I want to throw the food in my mouth, and let you know I’m really enjoying it, and hopefully you’ll get up and go fix yourself a little sumpin sumpin.

Last week I was doing a bit on salad dressing and I had a bowl full of chopped romaine to which I added a kickin’ vinaigrette of walnut oil and white balsamic (make it, 3:1 ratio oil to vinegar, you’ll thank me). I was trying to demonstrate how to taste a salad dressing by dipping a piece of lettuce into the thing and eating it.

The leaf was long, the dressing was coating it, so I dangled the thing high in the air, hung my head back, live-goldfish-eating style, and slurped it down.

The oil drizzled down my neck and the lettuce was hanging out of my mouth. I tried to play through, looking at the camera and chewing with enthusiasm (it wasn’t that hard, the dressing is fab).

The affable Magno was at the camera and immediately called for a halt to the madness. Explanation: “We can’t shoot it if she looks like a goddamn cow.” Oh the harshness of reality. In my effort to be cool, sexy and enthusiastic, it appeared that I was chewing my cud.

After a couple of embarrassing (Cow? Cow!!) retakes, they got what they needed. But for the next few weeks I’ll be eating in front of a mirror trying to feminize my fuego for the camera. Not a small bite tease, but an enthusiastic chomp that’ll stir you from your frozen-dinner, order-in malaise and get you excited enough to put some bacon in a skillet and make yourself a proper meal.


BREAKFAST PANTRY PEAS
Serves 4

Home from weeks of traveling, I can’t wait to cook myself a proper brekky, but I’ve got nothing fresh in the fridge. I’m looking at bacon and eggs, lemons and limes, shallots and garlic, beer, and a doorful of condiments. I need something green with breakfast; if the day hasn’t started with protein and vegetables, I’m likely to be half-awake for the rest of it.

Oh, blessing of blessings, inside the freezer there is a 10-ounce bag of organic baby peas. Those little buggers never let me down, and I can practice getting them on my fork and eating them with verve.

3 pieces bacon (I like Niman Ranch thick cut), try to avoid the nitrates et al
2 small shallots, thinly sliced
1 10-ounce package peas (or 2 cups of frozen peas...get the babies, or petit pois as they're tastier)
A few pinches of dried thyme, or herbs de Provence
S & P

1. Halve the bacon so that you’ve got 6 short pieces. Place them in a cold skillet and heat over medium heat. Bring them to a sizzle, inhale deep and remind yourself that pork fat is the new health food. (Don’t take my word for it, ask Nina Planck.)
2. Cook them until soft-crisp, about 4 minutes per side. Remove them to a paper towel-lined plate. Pour some of the bacon fat our so that you’ve got 1 tablespoon remaining the pan (don’t toss it, for the love of god, freeze it and we’ll use it another time).
3. Put the shallots in the skillet and cook until they begin to soften, about 2 minutes. Add the peas, 1/4 cup warm water, thyme, salt and pepper and cover. Cook until the peas are bright green, 3 to 4 minutes. Remove cover and let any excess water cook out. Taste and season with additional salt and pepper, as needed.
4. Crumble the bacon and return it to the peas. Serve with scrambled eggs, toasted baguette with melty butter, and eat pretty!