Ripple Effect

How many lonely cookbooks do you have? You know, the ones in pristine condition, with spotless pages and stiff spines? The ones that look on with envy as their grease-kissed, dog-eared, and (my favorite) steam-rippled brethren get taken down from the shelf and spattered time after time. I feel for those neglected ones. They remind me of animals at the pound who keep getting overlooked as fuzzier or younger or better-named companions parade out the door to start a new life with loving owners.

But compassion has its limits. In our small space, cookbooks have to earn their keep. If they don't, they're out. (Steve jokes that one day I'll decide that he's no longer useful and toss him out during a clutter-clearing frenzy. This is not entirely unrealistic, given the increasing, at times blinding, zeal with which I battle the encroachment of stuff on our precious few square feet.)

With this in mind, I've found a good way to keep our menus fresh while getting better acquainted with the neglected tomes. Actually, two good ways. And they both involve collaborating with other cooks, a welcome bonus.

In late fall, a cookbook bonding opportunity arose when my mother-in-law, sister-and-law, and I formed a small soup-cooking society. Our muse is Betty Rosbottom, neighbor to Gramma and author of a cookbook called Sunday Soups. We prepare one soup each week from the book and email each other about how it went. This has been a great chance to learn from other cooks by swapping tips and substitution ideas, and it's forced me to engage with recipes I would otherwise have ignored due to my tendency to gravitate toward certain flavors and ingredients. Perhaps most important of all, it has opened a channel, albeit via email, for the kind of small talk about cooking and life that goes on when we're all together at holiday time.


The second arrangement was born when Steve and I realized that in our determination to accustom the boys to family dinner, we were losing out on time to connect and converse with one another, just the two of us. (Family dinner conversation with a two year-old and a three year-old consists largely of: (a) requests for more milk, (b) every request's accompanying reminder to say please, (c) threats to take plates away in the futile quest for basic zoo-animal-level awareness of manners to be displayed, (d) attempts to get Gabe to tell us what he did in school today, (e) Gabe's standard reply, "I can't tell that right now because I'm [insert currently accurate participle here].")

As life stands right now, the only opportunity for sustained adult conversation (to the extent that we are still capable of it) comes after the boys are asleep. Remembering the lavish feasts we used to cook together, sipping wine and listening to music amidst sizzling and warmth and good smells, I proposed that we attempt to recapture those halcyon days by instituting a weekend date-night-in. An added challenge: a rule stipulating that every course must come from the same cookbook.

It's been fun and educational to work within a particular chef's approach to recipe writing and food preparation. I enjoy paging through our cookbooks (it is not unheard-of for this to happen at the playground on Saturday morning), dwelling on whole sections I would otherwise ignore. We choose the courses, divide tasks, get as much done ahead as we can, and do a quick burst of cooking once the boys are asleep. If all goes smoothly, by 9 p.m. we sit down to a multi-course meal we've both had a hand in creating.*

On the menu for tonight: thinly sliced apples, buttered, spiced, sugared, layered, covered, and weighted in ramekins, baked in a low oven for four hours. Not your typical Saturday activity in our household, but one habit I'm hoping will take hold.

I dream of a cookbook collection swollen with steam-rippled pages. Neglected recipe stats at all time lows. Romance rekindled. Distances bridged. I can't promise world peace, but if these apples turn out as well as I hope, there might be a chance, at least in our little corner.

* One tip if you decide to try the one-cookbook date night: This approach works well with a comprehensive, hefty cookbook. So far, we've enjoyed using Around My French Table by Dorie Greenspan (twice), Essentials of Italian Cooking by Marcella Hazan, and Simple Pleasures by Alfred Portale. It might be interesting to try a blog or other cooking web site some time (at risk of losing that cohesive experience of one chef's sensibility).

Easy Now

Poor aging. Birthday parties aside, this is one process that's hurting for advocates. So I'm stepping up to make the case that it's not so bad. Now, I will admit that I have limited experience with getting older. But after exiting the 18-34 demographic advertisers so adore and finding myself on the other side of two pregnancies, relying on a slightly worn body to wrangle two hefty kiddos day into night, well, I began to feel my age. And sometimes relish it.


Sure, your skin sags with the decades. You amass more things than you can possibly use. You become more responsible, less spontaneous. Your mind works more slowly and you forget stuff. Your wardrobe evokes nostalgia for previous decades. (I speak only for myself, of course. Perhaps you have become less bogged down and more pert, spontaneous, stylish, intelligent, and so on. If so, I would like your secret.)

But there is one thing about getting older that I've come to appreciate. I call it passive practice. This is my term for the kind of practice you do when you're not really thinking about practicing.

It's not the kind of practice I did as a child, clicking open my flute case and screwing together the dank parts a few times a week so as to not get in trouble at my lesson. It's not lugging your tired bones out to the playing field every day regardless of rain, shine, heat or cold to hone plays, ball skills, field sense. No. For better or worse, I don't seem to have much time for that sort of practice these days.

The kind of practice I do now is the kind I don't even realize I'm doing until all of a sudden something that used to be hard is easy. Take biscotti. When I first began making it for holiday gifts several years ago, the process tired me out. There were late, flour-dusted nights, last-minute dashes to the grocery store, recipe failures, at worst, and uneven results, at best. Frequently, as I divvied up the goodies I would find that I didn't have quite enough.


I was remembering those early days last month as I surveyed a neat set of biscotti-filled gift bags ready to be delivered to neighbors and friends. It was afternoon, not midnight. The counters were clean, the cookies were colorful and crisp, and I had enough and then some. Making them hadn't been hard; it was fun. The process required a little forethought, some organization, familiarity with the recipe, a certain touch and quickness with the tools and ingredients. The fruits of experience, ripe at last. Huh, I thought to myself, I guess I've got this process down.

Whenever I find I'm getting to know a recipe well, I think about writer Daniel Duane's common-sense recommendations, which I wrote about last year. With my annual biscotti binge, I'm not exactly following his intensive plan to recipe independence. Making it once a day for two weeks would surely yield faster and perhaps more substantive results. But that would not be an example of passive practice, the results of which are pleasing precisely because of the lack of exertion involved.

If you think about it, I'll bet you can come up with all kinds of things for which this principle applies. For example, I once marveled at the sensitive way a friend helped her young son resolve a problem, and I remember telling her I'd never know what to say in her situation. Now? After spending most of my day talking with toddlers, I find that answers to tough questions often dribble out in pretty good form if I just open my mouth. It's just practice, the kind you have to do, the kind you don't realize you're doing because it's living your life.

The only catch? You have to be getting older to reap the benefits of passive, slow accumulation of skill and wisdom. In this way, it's very inclusive. So the next time you forget your phone number or yank a gray hair, just think about all the things you know how to do well, and be glad you're not twenty anymore.

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You can find the recipe for cranberry-pistachio biscotti here. To include and please the aforementioned three year-old, I'm working on my own nut-free version and will post it once I get results that pass the family taste test.

Reconciliation

What better way for Pan & Ink to surge forth from out of the dark creative silence of this summer than with a post on a food I've only recently learned to love? And I know the timing is right because I keep coming across my new flame in news stories of late. Seems like everybody wants to talk about how broccoli is healthy and cheap. What I'm here to add: Aside from being nutritious and economical, this crucifer is also darn good! It's zippy, easy to cook, and purty to boot.


I have not always felt this way. Broccoli and I are working on a new relationship. I have said mean things in the past. I have ignored and excluded. I have wrinkled my nose. Time was when I was a vegetarian, but it had more to do with rejecting meat than appreciating veggies. I preferred meals of the one-pot supper variety. Green food in that pot? Fine and dandy, but let there be a sauce or starch or long cooking time to flatten potent veggie flavors.

The past year has awakened me to all that I was missing. First, Christmas came, and I received a wonderful cookbook in Susie Middleton's Fast, Fresh, and Green. I read with interest, dog-eared some pages, and then put it on the shelf. As the weather warmed, my maternal guilt turned its lens on the lack of green on my children's dinner plates. Summer found me with an overabundance of guilt, farmer's markets galore, and a great cookbook unbaptized on my shelf.

I began to wonder about veggies, to be interested in them Just As They Are. Could I make them taste good? Would they let me back into their lives after so many years of scorn and neglect? There was only one way to find out. I took the book off the shelf, passed a few bucks to the perky college kids at the market, and introduced my kids to the cabbage family. (Yup, broccoli is a member.)


The greatest strength of Middleton's book lies in the methods she encourages you to master and the limitless options those methods offer once you learn them. Through practice with her "foundation recipes," I have assimilated the following bits of advice, which I now happily pass on to you:

- Butter, oil, salt, lemon, herbs: Pick three, or use all five--whatever you have on hand--and you will be on your way to veggie heaven.

- Don't crowd the pan, and don't overcook. Veggies taste best when still bright in color. High heat will give you some tasty caramelization without turning the veggies to mush.

- Learn a method and then experiment. Veggies are easy to prepare, cook quickly, and taste good without much embellishment. You can afford to play a bit. As long as you don't overcook them, they are hard to mess up.

Below, a very basic recipe based on Ms. Middleton's "hands-on" sauteing technique, which I find is not so hands-on that I can't be rushing around preparing several other dishes at the same time. And in the sub-basement (below the recipe), you'll find links to a few good articles, some exclusively focused on broccoli, others mentioning our star as one of many economical, delicious foods that will make your household happy. Enjoy!

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ZIPPY BROCCOLI SAUTE
Adapted from Susie Middleton's Fast, Fresh, and Green
You can do this preparation with half broccoli and half julienned carrots or asparagus. Throw in chopped garlic or crushed red pepper flakes if you like. Pine nuts, almonds, or walnuts would also be nice additions. I like to pair this with dishes where the broccoli's beautiful color will "pop," as Food TV stars like to say. It's great with Torta di Pasta and this, or perhaps as part of an antipasto platter, or alongside sausages, crusty bread, and a nice cheese. The only thing I don't like about this recipe: If you adhere to my advice and don't crowd the pan, there will, sadly, be no leftovers.

1 tbsp olive oil
1 tbsp butter, divided
2 heads broccoli
1 tsp. salt
2 tsp. lemon juice (one good-sized wedge)
chopped herbs such as mint, basil, or parsley (optional)

Set a large saute pan over medium heat. Chop the broccoli florets and upper stalks so that you expose as much flat stem surface area as possible (slicing florets in half, for example, and stalk crosswise). This will encourage quicker cooking and yummy caramelization. Create evenly sized pieces according to your taste. Heat 1 tbsp. olive oil and 1/2 tbsp butter in your pan. Once butter has melted and oil is fragrant, add broccoli to pan with 1 scant tsp salt. Toss to coat and combine, increasing heat to medium-high. Cook, tossing with a spatula every two minutes or so, for 7-10 minutes, until broccoli is caramelizing in places but not losing its vibrant green. Add the second 1/2 tbsp butter and toss until butter is melted and coating the veggies. Add lemon juice, toss, and remove from heat. If you have chopped herbs, toss them in now. Add salt as desired (I usually don't).

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Have you been looking for more to read about broccoli (or "brockee-brock," as I am strangely fond of calling it when serving it to my boys)? Of course you have. Who isn't? Well, let me get you started with a few pieces featuring our nubby-headed friend:

Mark Bittman in the New York Times, challenging the notion that it's cheaper to feed a family on fast food than it is to cook Link

Susan Gregory Thomas, also in the New York Times, on creating a garden in her Brooklyn backyard in order to feed her family on a super-tight budget Click

And from NPR's food blog, "The Salt," two articles here and here on broccoli's nutritional qualities

Oh, and here's one more from NPR, on the real person for whom the brand Chef Boyardee was named, featuring a tasty-sounding recipe for pasta with broccoli... Yum

When the Cat's Away

Steve is not here. As a matter of fact, he is 7,000 miles away toiling in an office where blog-reading is expressly verboten (blocked, in fact). This means that he can't see our little cherubs on the family blog. And, more seriously for the family finances, he has no way of finding out what wickedness I've been up to here in his absence.


Yes, not only have I been sleeping in the middle of the bed and forgetting to check the mail, but...

(Note: If you have a heart condition and especially if you are extremely frugal, you may want to stop reading here and skip to the recipe.)

... I have also been forking over wads of cash to the perky college kids at the farmer's market. Once I spent, like, twelve dollars on one visit! And get this -- I had to borrow most of it from the friend I came with, because I had, like, NO cash in my wallet!!

My combined broke-ness and extravagance would most certainly provoke hyperventilatory sighs of exasperation from my careful husband, were he here. But he is not here. And we have a tacit agreement that while I endure the many hardships of his absence, I may spend money as needed to make myself feel better.

This makes me feel better.


There are many summertime pleasures that are free. Think sunshine, warm evening breezes, dandelions, fireflies' glow, cicadas' song, thunderstorms, and that sweaty sheen that reappears minutes after you shower. Farmer's market goodies, on the other hand, are not free. In fact, around here, I can get a better deal on produce at pricey Whole Foods than I can from the aforementioned perky, cutoff-clad youths.

But for me even the pleasantest grocery store cannot compete with the open-air market, where you shop from cardboard boxes, corn silk and smashed berries underfoot. The closest you get to climate control is the occasional dewy cooler full of goat cheese and fresh eggs. No airplanes or loading docks or automatic doors are involved in the process. It's just a farmer and a truck and a road that leads to a little corner near our home. Having listened to Terry Gross's interview with Barry Estabrook, author of the book Tomatoland, I am all the more eager to make sure my children and I know what pure food tastes like.



So I stand up for my right to indulge at the farmer's market. I proudly proclaim that I have a refrigerator full of berries. In fact, from this point onward, even after Steve returns and austerity regains its former place on the windshield of my conscious mind, I pledge to continue splurging on real, good food.

So what if the bank account's a little thirsty? I already know where the kids can work to pay the college bills... They're right perky, those two.

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So who is the mysterious beauty featured above? Meet Ms. Cherry Cornmeal Upside-Down Cake, who came into my life from Epicurious via Smitten Kitchen. Now, let me say upfront that this is not a cake you whip up in five minutes and one bowl. The process includes some fussy steps like pitting cherries, briefly cooking the tangy-sweet topping, separating eggs, and whipping egg whites. Your kitchen may appear blood-spattered, and your sink will be full of dishes when you finish. But let me tell you...your work will be worth it! The combination of the tart balsamic-brown sugar-cherry topping with the sweet cornmeal cake is unusual and richly satisfying. I served it with a tiny scoop of vanilla ice cream on the side, but it really doesn't need anything.

You can find the recipe here. The only change I made to the procedure as written was to use a 10-inch cake pan in place of a 10-inch oven-proof skillet, only because I don't own one. I simply buttered the cake pan, lined the bottom with parchment paper, buttered the parchment, and then dumped the cherry mixture into the pan after cooking it. As Deb of Smitten Kitchen says, this is a cake you can't mess up. It's just that good. Enjoy!

This is, um, good.

Do you ever have times when you have to put your inner diva on hold while you attend to something else? You know, those weeks (months? years?) when other responsibilities pile up and you find yourself telling your diva, "I'd love to play with you right now, honey, but I'm in the middle of something" or "Too busy to chat. Maybe later?" And then when you do make the effort to get back in touch, it's like calling a friend you haven't seen in ages and you've forgotten what you used to talk about?


Some of you may contend that you don't have an inner diva, to which I say: Not True. I believe that we all have a sparkly, inspired, muse-like entity lurking inside of us somewhere. Perhaps it is buried deep. Perhaps you have not made the effort to call in a while. But she (he) is in there: your diva (divo*).

* (Males--and I know there are at least two of you out there who read the blog--don't feel left out. The masculine form of diva is, conveniently, divo.)


But sometimes, when you've been neglecting her, she pouts, and sulks, and becomes indignant. You try to call her, after all those weeks of ignoring her, and she won't pick up. Or she picks up but she won't talk to you.

You cannot blame her. She deserves to be showered with attention. She is fabulous! Were it not for laundry and bills and hair washing and recycling, you would indulge her every day, wouldn't you? I would. I mean, I do want to be a clean-haired and eco-friendly person, but mostly I just want to bake buttery things and write this blog. But, alas, sometimes I cannot.

And so she retaliates by withholding the fine metaphor, the apt phrase, the catchy title, the pithy story. She blocks me, that is, until I show her I'm serious about making time for her once more.


So, while I endure my inner blogging diva's icy silence, would it be enough to simply say, er:

"This is really good, and it's healthy. You should try making it"?

Or how about:

"This sauce tastes even better than those jarred ones at Trader Joe's"?

Or maybe:

"Here is something I made, and I would like to share it with you. It comes from Real Simple. Enjoy!"?

No, the New Yorker will not come calling with phrases like that, but you get the idea. So, please, go make your home smell like a Thai restaurant. Meanwhile, I will keep dialing my diva's digits until she picks up.

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Stir-Fried Veggies and Tofu with Coconut-Curry Sauce
Adapted slightly from Real Simple
I make this meal in stages. I might make the sauce (minus basil) the day before and store it in the fridge. Veggies can be chopped in advance as well and stored in the fridge for at least a day. Use any veggies you like or have on hand. The ones below are only suggestions. I like to serve this over rice.
>Serves 3-4

TOFU (optional)
1 package firm or extra-firm tofu
1 tbsp cornstarch
1-2 tbsp canola oil

VEGGIES (these are suggestions; use any you like)
3-4 carrots, cut into thin strips
1 red pepper, cut into thin strips
8-10 mushrooms, halved and sliced
2 heads baby bok choy, sliced, leaves and stems separated

SAUCE
1 can (13-14 oz) light coconut milk
2 tbsp low-sodium soy sauce
2 tsp sugar
1/2 tsp salt
2 tbsp olive oil
1/4 to 1/2 tsp crushed red pepper flakes
zest of 1 lemon
3 garlic cloves, minced
1 heaping tbsp curry powder (or more, to taste)

MAKE the TOFU
Center tofu between two face-up dinner plates and carefully stack a couple of books on top. Let the tofu sit for at least 15 minutes. This will enable more water to drain out of it, making it easier to cook. Set a large skillet over medium heat and let it sit for several minutes, so that the skillet is nice and hot. Cut the tofu into bite-size cubes, sprinkle cornstarch over top, and gently toss. In your pan, heat 1 tbsp of canola oil and then add the tofu. Fry in one layer, without stirring, for several minutes. When the tofu begins to turn golden, gently turn it over and let it cook for another few minutes on the other side, adding more oil if the pan gets dry. If the tofu cubes stick together, simply separate them gently with a spoon or spatula. When tofu is fully golden, remove from pan and drain briefly on paper towels.

MAKE the VEGGIES
Heat a bit more oil in the same pan (you may need to wipe it out first with a paper towel), and add the veggies, beginning with the densest ones and later adding the softer ones so that they cook evenly. (For example, I would add the carrots first and cook them for a couple of minutes before adding the peppers, cooking them for a couple of minutes before adding the mushrooms, and so on. If using baby bok choy, add the stems earlier and the leaves last.) When your veggies are barely tender, remove to a plate.

MAKE the SAUCE
Stir together the coconut milk, soy sauce, sugar, and salt in a small bowl. Heat olive oil in your skillet and then add garlic, red pepper flakes, lemon zest, and curry powder. Cook for 15 seconds, until fragrant. Pour the coconut milk mixture into the pan, raise the heat a bit, and simmer for several minutes, until the mixture thickens and concentrates. If you have basil, stir it in now and follow with the veggies and tofu, making sure everything gets coated in sauce. Serve over rice.

Milestone

Yesterday, Gabe pressed the elevator call button All By Himself for the first time. All the stretching and reaching and standing-on-tippy-toes he's been doing lately must have caused him to grow those millimeters hitherto standing between him and success. His joy was total: he leap-skipped up and down the hallway, proclaiming "Mommy, mommy, Gabe push the elevator all by his self!" When the door slid open, he hopped in and shouted, "Yippee!"
Sometimes, as adults, I think we forget the feeling of pleasure that comes from learning how to do something. I mean, we've mastered a lot at this point in our lives. Walking, for instance. Tying shoes. Brushing teeth. Reading. Attaching documents to emails. (I distinctly remember feeling baffled by that one for quite some time.) Maybe we just get accustomed after a while to that "I did it" feeling. Or perhaps in adulthood the milestones are spread so far apart that we might not even recognize them when they pass? And yet last night I found myself feeling like Gabe post-elevator button triumph.

When I began this blog, I wrote about my fondness for and reliance upon recipes. I followed them the way some people adhere to the teachings of scripture. Without them, I was lost. A few months ago, I came across an article by Daniel Duane that laid out a simple road map to culinary independence. Basically, he says, you can learn a lot by cooking the same dish several times, each time using less recipe and more memory. The article demystified recipes and helped me to see the interconnectedness among dishes. It empowered me to borrow techniques and flavor combinations, to experiment, and to trust myself.
I am happy to announce that I have, for the first time, made a very tasty dish both sans recipe and sans shopping list. The recipe below came together gradually as I sorted through the items we had on hand, consulted my nascent kitchen acumen, and got started. When it came out well, I was pleased but not surprised. A year ago, I would have been surprised.

Who says milestones are just for babes? Mind if I shout "Yippee!"?

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Orecchiette with Mushrooms, Tomatoes, Sausage, and Thyme
Penne or another ridged pasta would work just as well here. If you don't wish to use meat, I would suggest using a bit more of the cheese and perhaps a pinch of crushed red pepper flakes. Cannellini beans would be a nice addition as well.
>Serves 4

1/2 lb. orecchiette pasta
1 link spicy Italian sausage (optional)
10 or so medium-sized mushrooms (I used button)
1 tbsp butter
1 tbsp olive oil
pinch of salt
1 1/2 tbsp fresh thyme leaves
1/2 cup white wine
1/2 cup chicken or vegetable broth
1 1/2 cups chopped fresh tomatoes
1/2 cup finely grated pecorino romano cheese
1 tbsp flat-leaf parsley, chopped

In a medium saucepan, bring pasta water to a boil. Salt the water generously and add the pasta. Cook until al dente (10-12 minutes). Drain, reserving a cup or so of pasta water.

Meanwhile, place a large saute pan over medium-high heat. If using sausage, remove it from its casing and place it in the hot pan, breaking it into bits with a wooden spoon. Saute the sausage, stirring frequently, until it is cooked through. Remove sausage to a pasta bowl. Return the pan to the heat and add the mushrooms. Reduce the heat slightly and let the mushrooms brown and soften for 5-7 minutes, stirring occasionally. Add butter, olive oil, salt, and thyme to the pan and cook, stirring often, for a couple of minutes. Add wine, broth, and a splash of pasta water to the pan, and increase the heat. Bring the liquid to a boil and cook for several minutes, until the liquid is reduced by half. Add tomatoes and cook for another minute or two, until they have softened just a bit and released some juices. Stir in the pasta, sausage (if using), and cheese, and add more pasta water as needed to moisten. Cook for another minute or so. Remove from the heat and stir in the parsley. Serve, topping with additional cheese, parsley, and a drizzle of olive oil if you like.

The Usual

I don't often watch movies twice, and I rarely reread books. There's just always something new out there in storyland, and the comfort of the familiar can't compete with the allure of the unknown. Not so when it comes to cooking, however. In the kitchen, I am a repeat offender in a big way.


It's always been this way. I cringe now to think of the lunch I ate every day in high school: a sesame bagel with cream cheese, a Snickers, and a Mistic sparkling juice. Then, there was the family joke (deserved but, thankfully, now put to rest) about my ordering ravioli at every restaurant we went to. Even now, I get into years-long breakfast routines. In the late '00s, it was Cheerios mixed with Grape Nuts. 2011 brought in yogurt topped with fruit, nuts, and honey. It will take me several equinoxes to get tired of this. If we happen to run out of an element of the "it" breakfast and I can't get to the store before the next morning, I feel bereft.


Am I the only one who enjoys routine when it comes to food? I suspect not. Despite the seemingly limitless options available to us nowadays, I think there is something in our DNA that makes us crave repetition at the table. And it makes perfect Darwinian sense that the repeaters would prevail over the novelty-seekers when it comes to cooking. First, food takes time to prepare, so if you're going to go to the trouble of cooking, it's nice to know that you're going to like the fruit of your labor. Second, practice with a particular dish makes it quicker to fix and more likely to come out well. Trying something new every day, one could easily starve and/or become very grumpy, both of which are bad for species perpetuation.

Might I also suggest that there's a less tangible, but perhaps more essential, reason why we eat the same foods over and over again? Meals are rituals. There is security in coming to the table three times a day. Often, meals are a chance to connect with loved ones. Other times, they are a quiet refuge from the day's commotion. Commonplace? Yes. Mundane? No. There is a lot wrapped up in breakfast, lunch, and dinner, whether we speed through them to get to something else or linger at the table just a little while longer.


It makes sense, then, for us to share the recipes that we keep in our stables--for a trusted friend to say, "Look, it will be okay if you make this. Your sacred ritual will not be violated. In fact, it will be enhanced in a most flavorful way." Because even rituals benefit from a little shaking up from time to time. (As long as nobody takes the last of my yogurt.)

And so, from my stable to yours, I present: Torta di Pasta. Enjoy!

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Torta di Pasta
I came across this recipe in a Giada De Laurentiis article years ago in the Washington Post. The torta (literally, cake) is kind of like a frittata but with pasta instead of potatoes. I've adapted the recipe slightly. I like to put coarsely chopped prosciutto or ham in ours, but you can really use any filling you like. Roasted red peppers or roasted asparagus would be lovely in place of (or in addition to) the sun-dried tomatoes. Dabs of ricotta or goat cheese would be divine. I have yet to try using other types of pasta, but I don't seen why it wouldn't work. You can serve the torta warm or at room temperature, and it makes wonderful leftovers. It's delicious accompanied by slightly bitter greens like arugula or broccoli.
>Serves 4

8 oz dried spaghetti or linguine
1/2 cup drained, oil-packed sun-dried tomatoes, chopped
handful of coarsely chopped prosciutto or ham (0ptional)
4 eggs
3/4 cup grated Parmesan cheese
3/4 cup grated Fontina, Asiago, or other mild cheese
1 tsp salt
1/2 tsp freshly ground black pepper
1 tbsp butter
1 tbsp olive oil

Cook the pasta in a large pot of boiling water (about 8 minutes). Drain, and place in a large bowl with the chopped sun-dried tomatoes and prosciutto, if using. In a medium bowl, use a fork to whisk the eggs, cheeses, salt, and pepper. Set a medium oven-proof skillet (preferably not straight-sided) over medium heat on the stove, and preheat the broiler. Once the pasta has cooled down a bit (so that the eggs don't cook), pour the egg mixture into the pasta mixture, and stir until everything is combined. (Tip: I know this is un-Italian, but I take a few swipes at the pasta with a chef's knife so that it's easier to blend it with the other ingredients.) Heat the butter and olive oil in the skillet. Transfer the pasta/egg mixture to the skillet and cook for about 3 minutes, until the eggs begin to set. While the mixture is cooking, preheat the broiler. Transfer the skillet to the oven and broil for 3 to 5 minutes longer, checking frequently, until the top is golden brown. Carefully remove the skillet from the oven and let the torta cool in the pan for at least 10 minutes (can be made well ahead of time, though). If you like, invert it onto a platter. We usually just cut wedges out of the pan and eat it right-side-up.