Real Damn Pizza

Dear reader, I know it's been months. I'm sorry. I moved and got married, lost clients in this recession-- in short, I've been distracted. But last week I spent some time with my uber-achieving friends in Brooklyn, and while I was there I ate real pizza.
I'd forgotten. In L.A., unless you're traipsing through Pizzeria Mozza (heaven in the mouth, but a bit snooty to actually go there), you're eating triangles of doughy, bland crap. Oh sure I've been to Damiano's where it's so dark you can't see your slice but it tastes alright (especially if you've been drinking), but mostly I'd stopped. In the land of fab tacos, why bother seeking puffy pizza?
But my friend Amy took me to Grimaldi's, and this is what we ate:

I forgot that good pizza makes your toes curl. I forgot how nice it was to see hot Italian guys working in an actual Italian restaurant. I forgot that a proper slice makes that crackling sound when you fold it in half.
I'm back, friends. And damn am I hungry.

Si se puede, or MexiCAN!

On Sunday night the Cooking Club convened again, this time for a Mexican fiesta. Que bueno! Que rico! Que sabor (flavor)!
One of the wonderful lessons I've learned as an Angeleno is that Mexican cuisine is not comprised of boring, heavy bean and cheese "chimichangas" (not a real word, by the way). My exposure to la cocina Mexicano growing up was limited to the horrendous chain restaurant Chi-Chi's, which is about as authentic as the Olive Garden's "Italian" cooking, ugh. While eating the boring salty food my dad always insisted on wearing the kids menu on his head (designed to fold into a paper sombrero), oh the horror. I wanted to crawl under the table with my stale chips... bad food and public shame? I'm out.
When I moved to California I thought I didn't like Mexican food; turns out I'd never really tried it. Ten years, no embarrassing Dad-hats, and many gentle tamales made by abuelitas (grandmas), multicolored moles prepared by folks from Oaxaca, and $1 tacos in the middle of the night: today I'm a full-on convert. My dear friend Ray's gift with the puerco has been an inspiration too, gusta mucho!
So Sunday morning I prepared my excellent puerco verde stew. I seared, then slowly braised 3 pounds of pork shoulder in my awesome slow-cooker with a sauce of pureed tomatillos, onion, garlic, chiles, some white wine (not a legit component of this dish, but I think it makes it better), and my deliciously authentic sauce thickener: I toast a couple corn tortillas over a gas burner, rip them up and then whiz them with a half cup of chicken stock to make a corn slurry of sorts. Sprinkled in some Mexican oregano, cumin, and ground fennel and let it stew for 6 hours. Then I removed the pork, shredded it with forks, let the whole thing reduce a bit and served it as tacos with corn tortillas, crumbled queso fresca and snipped scallions, yum! Many folks asked to take leftovers home, always the best compliment.
On the menu also were delectable sopes (a cousin to Venezuela's arepas) see example to the right, buttery cheese tamales, machaca (eggs, shredded beef, onions and peppers, a real champion's breakfast), homemade red rice and beans, and two kinds of enchiladas. Wow. Nina, our resident Baking Goddess, made a Mexican-style chocolate bundt cake- the last slice will rock my afternoon, if I can wait that long!
Susan, ever the elegant hostess, made me a lovely margharita which I enjoyed for both of us as she is great with child, uhh, nino :)
Ahh, Mexico, mi amigo, mi plato grande... gracias! Muchas, muchas gracias! Que delicioso, mi amor.

Lasagna Lies

In the course of making the spinach lasagna for my holiday guests, I reflected on the concept of "no-boil" lasagna noodles. (Wow, that made it sound like I was peacefully cooking, everything on time and organized instead of dropping things on the floor, burning my hands and praying that everybody would show up an hour late... I suppose the truth is somewhere in between.)
Anyway, I'd like to offer you, dear reader, a challenge, your own Holy Grail if you will: find me the lasagna noodles that DO have to be boiled first. I posit that in fact, there is no such thing. They are all no-boil! Many years ago in a frantic moment before a Valentine's Day Comfort Food Party, I threw my uncooked, very ruffly lasagna noodles into the baking dish and prayed it would not be a crunchy dinner. You know what? It was better than usual.
Back when I boiled the noodles first, the lasagna usually had a swimming pool of tomato water, ick. Who wants soupy lasagna? Dried noodles are ruffled sponges that essentially suck up sauce as the dish bakes. Plus, which would be tastier: noodles boiled in water or those "boiled" in tomato sauce? Come on.
My artistic interpretation (love the new camera!):

Lastly, "no-boil" noodles cost more. It's entirely possible the myth that only special pasta could go in unboiled was dreamt up by a desperate ad exec for the Barilla company who had to figure out a way to charge more money without actually changing the product.
So let me know if you find a noodle that disproves this theory... I'm willing to eat a lot of pasta to prove my point. Really, for science. Seriously. Damn, now I'm hungry.

Sunday Night Dinners

I always wanted to come from a family that had Sunday night dinners. I envied the Italians I grew up around, the garlicky smells from other families' bubbling pots of sauce (or "gravy," as true Philly Italians call it). My big and rowdy extended family liked to spend a Sunday hiking through the woods or throwing a football in the back yard. My mother's "gravy" came from a jar, and was as likely to appear in a hurry on a Tuesday than Sunday.
We all have our cross to bear.
Living across the country from my family has drawbacks (I miss graduations, birthday parties and piano recitals), but a bonus is that as a transplant I get to pick an L.A. family. Though it wasn't a conscious choice, I have many great cooks with different backgrounds in my chosen family. (Some of them are even Italian!)
Last night I had the thrill of going to my friend LeeAnn's place for a traditional Sunday night dinner. She made her grandmother's sauce, which is a two-day affair involving slow-cooked shortribs, a rich tomato base, and homemade meatballs. Oh it was heaven. The shredded shortrib meat was strong and earthy, the sauce itself had layers of flavor, and her meatballs. sigh. My meatballs are a pale reflection of LeeAnn's splendor. I suspect she used several different meats, plenty of garlic-- they were hearty, not heavy, and had a firm texture but weren't rubbery (like mine). She started us with a beautiful salad of avocado and golden tomato, there was garlic bread, and the meal ended with two kinds of delicate cream puffs. Amaretto chocolate and lemon raspberry. Sweet Lord.
It was the night before September 11th. On the eve of a day of great loss, what a gift to look around the table at LeeAnn and my friends Ruth and Benno, to eat delicious food prepared in love, and to feel like family.