Sickie Soup

Oy vey, the first part of this month I had a terrible cold, replete with fluid that filled my ears and made it hard to hear. What? Oh yes, I'm feeling better now, thanks. When one is sick and has a partner, spouse or roommate, there's a built-in Nurse Agreement for when one of you can't leave the couch (well, hopefully; if your arrangement does not include this deal, perhaps it's time to re-examine your options?). However, when you live solo and have difficulty asking for help *ahem* it presents a problem: what do you make for yourself when you're ill and just getting up to use the loo makes you sway?
I offer you my solution: Sickie Soup.
Please forgive the shaky hand~I was super-sick when I took this!
This soup has just 3 ingredients (with 2 optional additions), all of which can be kept in your larder so you don't have to forage beyond the front door. The best part? It's delicious even when you're not ill; serve it to guests and they'll never suspect you tossed it together in a mattter of minutes.

Sickie Soup*
Serves 3-4

about 1/3 of a 1lb. bag of dried cheese tortellini (Trader Joe's brand is nice)
2 14-oz. cans chicken broth (Swanson's is tastiest)
a fist-sized chunk of frozen spinach OR 3 handfuls of fresh spinach
optional pinch of nutmeg
optional grated Parmesan cheese for sprinkling

Boil the tortellini in a pot of boiling salted water until just barely al dente. (Resist the urge to boil them in the chicken broth; canned stock has a fair amount of sodium and in the time it takes to cook the pasta the broth will reduce and become terribly salty.) Drain well. Rinse out pot; add chicken stock, cooked tortellini, spinach, optional nutmeg and ground pepper to taste. Briefly bring to simmer over medium-high heat. Serve with additional ground pepper and optional Parmesan cheese sprinkled on top.

*This recipe was inspired by a similar version made by my Aunt Linda Petrone, whose cooking and warm heart always made me feel loved and cared for.

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.

Tomato Glory

Tonight was wonderful. I swear, I am my own best date. The other day I bought a pound and a half of beautiful organic heirloom tomatoes at Whole Paychec- uh, Foods. They were only 2.99 a pound, a minor miracle right there, and oh the smell. I buy all my tomatoes by scent. Try it next time you're shopping: pick one up, hold it to your nose, and inhale deeply. Sure you look weird, but you'll know immediately whether it's a tomato worth eating. Most grocery store tomatoes smell like nothing, it's like sniffing a photograph. But these heirlooms, oh my Goddess. They smelled flush with tomatoness and green leaves-- I knew they had to be mine.
Tonight I invited several people over, all of whom had plans. I carried on anyway. On my way home I picked up a ball of luscious fresh mozzarella and let the games begin.
I blanched three garlic cloves in the water I boiled for the perciatelli (a thick spaghetti with a skinny hole in the middle), then minced them up. I sliced the tomatoes into chunks: dark purple Brandywines, a heavy golden one running with juices, a small firm Green Zebra, and what I suspect was a Supermarmande because it was bright red, oddly shaped, and tasted more nuanced than most wine.
I plucked some basil from the plant I'm slowly killing (I murder one each summer, it's terrible), slivered it and tossed it in the bowl. I drizzled a fantastic Greek olive oil over all of it, sprinkled on some flakey Welsh seasalt, and cracked some of my floral Tazmanian peppercorns into the mix. Then I cut hunks of the fresh mozzarel (as they call it in my hometown) and stirred them into the tomato madness.
Using tongs, I swirled some hot pasta into a pretty white rimmed soup bowl, and then spooned some tomato-mozzarella mixture over top. I swirled it into the pasta, added a sprinkling of salt and pepper, drizzled a bit more olive oil, and voila!
Tomato Glory.
I lit a candle, opened a bottle of Syrah even though I'd only have a glass or two, turned on some music from Mali (so beautiful, and great with tomatoes), and sat down to the best date I've had in a while.
You've got to try this before the tomatoes are all gone. There's only a week or two left when they'll be good enough for an uncooked sauce... and really, why not have a sexy tomato date with yourself?
Even if you share them.