Pasta Supreme

If the kitchen were a horse...

... then I'd be on the other side of the steeplechase fence, covered in mud. And indeed: the sun is shining, the birds are chirping, the grass is green. But I'm covered in mud. What happened?

And where's that bloody horse?

During the past few weeks we have resorted to subsistence cooking. Out with it! That's right: we've been eating grass!

Close enough, at least. Oat cereal, wheat cereal, breads and grains of various shapes and sizes. Like horses on a lean winter diet. And tonight it's come to a head. Tonight-- the dishes are still here on the table, next to me, reeking of processed garlic-- we resorted to our last line of defense. The last straw, if you will.

We call it "pasta supreme." This dish hast the honor of representing the nadir of culinary minimalism. The name itself bears a distinguished pedigree: it was coined by my old friend Dave, who, some years ago, earned two PhDs from Harvard. One was in Physics; the other was in the History of Science. This is, needless to say, no simple feat.

The beauty of "pasta supreme" is that it is.

Simple or no, let's break it down and rehearse the steps. Simplicity, after all, is a dish best served lukewarm.

First, boil some water.

"How much is some?" Dave would ask his roommates, as they offered to pass along their culinary knowledge to this fledgling scientific genius. "Some," they'd say, "is roughly two quarts. Half a pan. Not that one. The big pan."

Next, as the water is heating, salt the water. This does not so much help the water boil as to salt the pasta. Consider it a brine. It saves time.

As soon as the water comes to a boil-- aw, hell, you can cheat: as soon as the water looks like it might threaten to boil-- add some pasta. "Some" can be anywhere between half a box and 7/8 of the box. By no means should anyone finish off the entire box. How wasteful! Think of all the starving children! Besides, it's imperative that you leave a remainder that comes just shy of yielding another full portion.

Boil the pasta until it foams over and leaves a disturbing gray film over the surface of the stove. Wiggle the pan so as to suggest that you've made an earnest effort of it, at the very least.

Wait until the pasta is just about al dente. As a rule of thumb, "pasta supreme" works best if you crack a few jokes about al dente along the way. E.g. "That Al Dente, he owes me money, that bastard," or "That Dente should have quit after he finished the Purgatorio." Nobody will laugh at these jokes. But it will help pass the several tiresome minutes of "cooking."

When the pasta is ready, drain it in a colander in the sink. Or else drain the water by pressing the lid tightly to the top of the pan and leaving a gap. The latter method is preferable if you're on a diet.

Return the pasta to the warm pot and add some spaghetti sauce. Wondrously, the residual heat of the pan and the pasta will warm the sauce. (n.b.: it cannot, however, "spruce up" a long- forgotten jar of sauce left for weeks in the back of the refrigerator).

Pasta supreme is now ready to serve! Now, if you want to get all sophisticated, you can add black pepper, olive oil, even some hot pepper flakes. Or even some Parmesan cheese. But the principle is the simplicity of the dish. Occam's razor, if you will.

If you're cooking for one, hell, you don't need to sully a single plate.

If you're cooking for two, well then, light some candles, amico!

I Heart My Slow Cooker

There was a time, believe it or not, when the slow cooker was the 8-track stereo of the kitchen. Dumpy, tacky, and (of course) slow, it was designed for cooking things like beans, beanie-weenies, or even just weenies by themselves. Lil' smokies, we call 'em. Times have changed, of course, thanks to the likes of William Sonoma, Sur la Table, and the merchants and pushers of kitchen porn.

Thank goodness! In time, I hope all the vessels of kooky cookery will continue to make themselves available in overpriced -- albeit elegantly presented-- brushed-steel form. The electric griddle. The fondue pot. The chafing dish. The pressure cooker. The salad spinner.

Have I missed anything?

They're all back, it seems. And as P1 proved yet again on Saturday (and to marvelous effect, I should mention) the ice-cream maker has also returned with renewed force-- and with technological enhancements. We received one of our own as a "free" gift with our mortgage. Might this even be a new totem appliance of the rural bourgeoisie, second only to the Kitchen Aid mixer?

Surely it is the destiny of 1980s-vintage mode of useless kitchen equipment, which includes the likes of bread machines, hot dog cookers, iced-tea makers, and yogurt generators, to make similar advances. Perhaps this has already happened. Is there not indeed a brushed-steel Foreman Grill somewhere on the market? And, mark my words, such devices will appeal to more than just the desperate christmas shopper. These things will find their way into la cuisine légitime. Mark my words. I'm just waiting for the baguette-maker 3000. Although I admit that the name "BM 30o0" could use a little marketing savvy.

But to return to the vanguard of this culinary renaissance: I love my slow cooker. In the years since we received it as a wedding gift (of course), we've used it for tasks as diverse as mulling cider and stewing tripe. The latter was my clever super-bowl-party substitution for the more standard-issue batch of lil' smokies. It was a resoundingly unpopular decision.

We've used the slow cooker for other things, too, like preparing the morning's oatmeal before going to bed, and braising various shanks, chops, and ribs throughout the day. I alternate making pot-au-feu in the dutch oven and in the slow cooker; each works just as well as the other.

Our dinner these past two evenings offer representative uses of this now-stalwart kitchen apparatus. Last night I more or less invented a braised pork rib and napa cabbage dish. It was more or less successful. The braising liquid was seasoned with star anis and tangerine peel, along with garlic, scallions, hot bean paste, and a little bit of coriander. Were I to serve this formally, I might call it "Strange Flavor Pork with Cabbage," or possibly "Pork and Cabbage with Strange Flavor."

Incidentally, it never quite feels like cooking when you use the slow cooker. It's really more a question of assembly. Or assemblage, I should say. Last night was something of an exception, insofar as I reduced the cooking liquid in a separate pan; this, you might say, constitutes cooking.

But it didn't end there. This apparatus knows no limits. The following morning, as the crock-pot base lay drying on the rack, I thought twice about putting it back in the cabinet. "Why not make some beans?" I thought to myself. So I did.

A quartered onion, six cups of water, a splash of vegetable oil, and a bay leaf, all nestled in the pot alongside a rinsed pound of red beans. Eight effortless hours later, there were beans to be had. Beans that required salt, no doubt. But not the salt of labor, of sweat, or of tears. Just the salt of flavor.

We mashed them up in a skillet with some minced garlic and served them as the filling for soft tacos.

And tomorrow? Rice pudding? Split pea soup? Or maybe I should simply put it away and wait for someone to invent the BM3000.

First Rite

It's easy to get one's timelines mixed up. With shoes, it's generally known that white comes after Memorial Day. Of course, the whole new category of "winter whites" has rendered this mandate unrecognizable.

With planting, it's generally considered that mid-April is safe-- at least in central Pennsylvania, where we hover between climate zones 5 and 6.

With gin and tonics, things get a bit more slippery. When, precisely, does G&T season begin?

There is, no doubt, an element of nominalism to the opening of this season. G&T season begins when one says so. But it's not just up to anybody to make such proclamations. One must have taste in order to be a bellwether. And thus judgment: G&T season begins, as we all know, whenever it must.

But the first outdoor meal of spring is a different matter altogether. It's possible, after all, to dine al fresco in almost any kind of weather, provided that one has access to the proper equipment. Look at the French. On the greyest February morning the sidewalk cafés remain packed. For there are awnings to shelter patrons from the drizzle, and heat-lamps to stave off the chill.

Nonetheless, it was with no small degree of seasonal affirmation on Sunday evening that we trotted out the barbecue grill, moved table and chairs onto the lawn, and ate dinner outside. We'd been flying kites with the N. family that afternoon, whereupon, as we ran barefoot across the still-dormant grass, the idea of a collective meal arose. We scrambled around the supermarket like it was Memorial day: hot dogs, ground beef, steak, asparagus, radishes, cherry tomatoes, buns, Rocky Road ice cream.

Then there was a mad rush to prepare the grill, whose gas canister ran out midway through the asparagus. We quickly fetched another, and managed to place food on the table while the evening was still bright. All the same, it was still a race. The food, and the diners, became too cold to continue outdoors beyond the initial rush. The meal ended as quickly as it had begun. And so, with A. in her bath, and with R. and her mother back home across the street, the two of us who remained finished our Rocky Road ice cream in the dining room.

But it was a barbecue all the same. An early effort, perhaps. But, like the shoots and tendrils coming alive in the garden, it was only the beginning.