Monthly Archives: August 2011

Tomato Mascarpone Pasta

I can’t count the times that I’ve heard my mom use the phrase “In my humble but correct opinion . . .” When I was young, I thought it was just one of her mom-isms, like her habit of waking us up in the mornings with an annoyingly happy song and a dose of joy that our sleep-encrusted selves were simply not ready for. Or her habit of encouraging our problem solving skills by chirping ‘Figure it out yourself!’ in that maddeningly cheerful voice that made you want to shoot a small rabbit. But as an adult, I have connected some psychological dots, and that phrase “In my humble but correct opinion” does a lot to explain a whole family-treeful of people.

See, the women on that side of the family, well–they like to be right. A lot. Especially a certain member of the family whose name stars with a ‘J-‘ and ends with an ‘-essica.’ It doesn’t help matters that she actually is right most of the time, dagnabbit.

I’ve been hitting myself over the head for years with the Mallet of Truth, trying to drive into my puny little brain the following: being right isn’t the most important thing in life! And I think I’m actually making some progress. However, as soon as I sat down to type up this recipe, my mom’s old phrase started emerging from the battleground of my own psyche. Since I haven’t even had my first coffee of the morning, I will make no attempt to resist it at this time. So here goes:

In my humble but correct opinion, Kayotic Kitchen is one of the best food blogs out there. This Dutch cooking whirlwind of a woman creates recipes that have both innovative flavor combinations and that comforting quality about them. And did I mention her stellar photography? Basically, I would dig into anything that Kay cooked up with more relish than I care to expound on (I think I’ve already done enough expounding for one morning). Kay is responsible for inspiring this African stew as well as this amazing Tomato Mozzarella tart. So if you at all have a thing for food blogs, it is your bounden duty as a human being to go look at her blog.

Okay! *stepping off podium* Enough jabbering! Let’s get to the cooking. This little pasta number is a simple dish, with just the right amount of creaminess, herbs, and rich tomatoey-ness. With my twist (red wine and more garlic!), here we go!

Ingredients

(Serves 5)

1 lb spaghetti
1 TBS olive oil
1 onion
5 garlic cloves
1-28 oz can diced tomatoes
5 oz mascarpone
2 tsp Italian seasoning
Salt and pepper, to taste
1/3 cup red wine
Parmesan curls, to serve
Handful fresh basil

Oops! Forgot the wine.

I love the price on that Yellow Tail brand.

Dice the onion finely . . .

. . . and mince the garlic.

Heat the oil in a large skillet over medium high heat. Add the onion and cook for 5-6 minutes, until softened.

Season the onion with salt and pepper, then add the minced garlic and cook for 1-2 more minutes, stirring to make sure the garlic doesn’t burn.

Pour in the diced tomatoes (please make sure to splash yourself thoroughly with tomato juice during this step–I hear red polka dots are the New Black) . . .

. . . and add the Italian seasoning.

Give it a nice stir.

Bring the sauce to a boil, then partially cover the pan (leaving a small opening on one side between the pan and the lid) and cook the sauce over medium low heat for 20 minutes.

Add the red wine . . .

. . . and cook for 10 more minutes, with the pan still mostly covered.

Cook the pasta in salted water until al dente.

While the pasta and sauce are a-cookin’, it’s prime time to finely slice or mince the basil . . .

. . . and shave some Parmesan. I just use a vegetable peeler to get those nice thin slices:

And don’t stop until you have a goodly pile of shavings–I never heard anyone crying ’cause there was too much Parmesan.

Except for Luke. He’s my dear cousin. He’s lactose intolerant. Who knows–a large mountain of Parmesan might indeed bring a tear to his eye.

Stir the mascarpone into the finished tomato sauce.

Ignore the pool of grease that’s quickly becoming apparent. The way I figure it, the faster you stir it in, the faster the evidence will disappear.

Taste and adjust the seasoning.

It’s better to overseason it a little since it’s going to be flavoring a whole whoppin’ pound of pasta.

I also wondered to myself if the sauce would need a pinch of sugar to counteract the acidity of the tomatoes–but it did not. In my humble but correct opinion, that is.

Stir the pasta into the sauce along with the basil.

Tongs are useful at this juncture, in my humbl . . . *hitting self repeatedly*

Top it with Parmesan shavings to serve.

Please forgive the wacky color balance of these pictures and just focus on how good a bite of this would taste. Does taste. Has tasted.

And while we’re on the subject, have I mentioned that I can do a really cool trick? I grab a strand of spaghetti, see, and while holding onto one end, I swallow it.

Then I drag it up and out through my throat. It’s the tickliest sensation you can imagine, and if I had a strand of spaghetti I’d totally do it right now for you.

I regularly horrified my younger siblings with this trick during our youth. Then we all grew up and moved out and I ran out of people to horrify. So I got married. And I started a blog. Problem solved!

The End.

Click here for printer-friendly version: Tomato Mascarpone Pasta

Dear Dad: I went to a Cubs game

My dad . . . my poor dad. He tried to get me into sports, he really did.

When we lived in Spain he would turn on the occasional soccer game and even try to explain some of what was happening. At that point, I would scurry away to go play dolls in my room.

Or read Anne of Green Gables for the umpteenth time.

He took us to a baseball game in Indianapolis when we were back in the States for a summer–I think I was 14 at the time.

I remember it was really hot, and Michael W. Smith was there playing “Friends are Friends Forever” (??). But I missed the home run because I was wrapped up in a book (“The Princess Bride,” if you must know).

“Did you see that? Jenna, did you see that?” cried my Dad.

“Umm . . . whaaa . . .?” I murmured, glancing up with glazed eyes.

I think I was responsible for at least a dozen new white hairs on my dad’s head that day.

Then he spent years trying to get me to go to a basketball game when I was at Indiana University. During almost every telephone conversation, he’s ask hopefully “So have you been to a game yet?”

“Ummm . . . no . . . but we went to see this awesome opera, Tales of Hoffman!” I’d say.

 “But basketball is iconic! IU is known for its great basketball!” he’d cry. I could just feel him wringing his hands across the Atlantic. “Ummmm, well . . .” I’d respond, “I haven’t really had time to go yet . . . but we stayed up til 3 in the morning in the lounge talking about existentialism!”

See, I was part of the Honors Comunity, where all of us nerds and dorks had the time of our lives. This did not include going to sports events.

Before moving away from Bloomington, in our defense, we did make it to one women’s basketball game. And it was awesome. Really–no scarcasm happening here–it was super fun.

Once, while we were living in Delaware, I even watched the World Series. I think my husband felt that I should at least understand what the heck the game is about, so we made a date with our TV and after messing with the antennae for about five hours, we got some kind of image. During the games we watched, I became an ardent Red Sox fan, and could be heard crying “Go Ramirez! Slam ‘er home!” and biting my nails in nervous anticipation. “I love you David Ortiz! But I’ll love you more if you hit that ball outta the park!”

See, if you put sports in front of me, I really am capable of enjoying it. It’s just not something I’d pursue independently. Are you pickin’ up what I’m puttin’ down?

So when Joe and Steph invited us to a Cubs game a couple Thursdays ago as part of their wedding celebrations, we quickly accepted, realizing that this was our ticket to fulfilling our unmet Chicago obligation.

(Thanks Joe and Steph–and great wedding, by the way!)

I go past Wrigley Field every day on my way to work, and again on my way home. I regularly bump shoulders with waves of blue-clad Cubs fans from April all the way to . . . well, whenever baseball season ends. If I never set foot in Wrigley Field during our time in Chicago, that may have made my father rip his hair out. And since I hear hair is harder to come by as you age, that was not a desirable option.

I even understand a little more about the game–for example, the delight of ball game food. I stole a good amount of Katie’s jalapeño nachos.

Also, I can casually toss around the phrase “bottom of the fifth” like it’s nobody’s business. Of course, I can’t quite remember whether the bottom or the top comes first.

But I’m sure Dave could tell me. He’s a dedicated baseball fan, and his head is chock-full of all the numbers you need to know. Like 0.357. And 53. And 106. Probably even more numbers than that, I guess.

He made quite the effort to explain all his stats, and the funny little codes he writes down that represent every single thing that’s happening on the field.

Oooh, does that round thing in the middle mean ‘apple pie break’? I certainly hope so.

Steph was looking very cute in her baseball regalia.

She also had that ‘I’m getting married in 2 days’ glow about her.

It was such a fun time. The weather was perfect, our friends were great, our seats were great, and the nachos were crispy.

My husband and I scurried out at the bottom of the eighth (or was it the top?) to avoid the solid mass of people that we knew would be streaking towards the El the moment the game was over. We didn’t want to be crushed by drunken fans . . . or sober fans, for that matter.

Fun fact: when we left, the Cubs were up. I think it was 2-0. The game was practically over.

But by the time we got on the train, a man with a fancy cellphone was saying “Wow. Florida is up 5-3.”

“What???” we cried, looking at each other in disbelief. And by the time we got home, it was Florida’s game 6-3.

It looks like our early exit somehow turned the tables against the Cubs. With our loving support gone, they lost all hope and just gave up, I guess. Gosh, I didn’t know they were depending on me so much.

But anyway.

Dear Dad,

I went to a Cubs game.

Are you proud?

Love, Jenna

P.S. I did have a book with me . . .

. . . but I didn’t read it.

For realz.