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Amanda Hesser’s Tomato and Bread Soup

October 12, 2005

The days of stale bread soups are here in full force, and with a glut of San Marzano tomatoes ripening swiftly on my countertops, I figured there could be no better time to prepare Amanda Hesser‘s version of pappa al pomodoro. Hesser used to write the Pairings column in the New York Times, which finds recipes to accompany the featured wine in the Wine of the Times column each week (this particular recipe was meant to be paired with a gruener Veltliner).

Pappa al pomodoro, like panzanella, is a perfect example of the kind of food that makes up la cucina povera. It’s economical because it uses up old bread and pantry staples like broth and herbs that you don’t have to look very far for or spend much money to get. This particular recipe is especially appealing because of how quick it is to prepare. The layerings of flavor (bacon, broth, herbs, tomatoes) give it a much deeper flavor than you would imagine possible after only a few minutes here and there of actual cooking time.

First, you saute some bacon in a soup pot until it’s browned. The bacon goes in a small bowl, while the bacon fat gets drained off. Some olive oil is put in the pot, along with sliced onions, smashed garlic and a bit of salt. When this is good and browned, you add some sugar to caramelize the onions.

You add the chopped tomatoes and some chicken broth to cook for a bit, then in goes the bacon and herbs (Amanda calls for fresh rosemary and oregano. I used dried, but here I have to be a bit of a pedant about something: rosemary that comes in little glass jars from the grocery is totally forgettable and tastes mostly of dust, sometimes even soapy dust. While I will not be a pompous ass and expect that you ask your mother to go to your grandfather’s garden in Italy and clip rosemary from a large bush there, put it in an envelope and send it to you via aerea, I do urge you to buy fresh rosemary at the grocery store or farmer’s market or wherever, and lay it in a single layer someplace cool and dry to store for future use. It is completely worth it.). Boil this for a few minutes longer, while you toast some bread.

The soup gets ladled on top of the toasted bread, then the whole thing is sprinkled with grated Parmigiano. At first you’ll be eating soup, but as the bread absorbs the broth, and you get further to the bottom of the plate, it will turn into more of a stew. Amanda says this recipe serves four, by the way, but I ate the whole pot divided between lunch and dinner. By myself.

Tomato and Bread Soup
Adapted from Amanda Hesser

4 thick slices bacon, cut into 1/4-inch slivers
2 tablespoons olive oil
3 medium yellow onions, thinly sliced
2 cloves garlic, smashed
Salt
1 teaspoon of sugar
4 cups seeded and chopped tomatoes
1 can of chicken stock (14.5 ounces)
1 tablespoon chopped oregano
1 tablespoon chopped rosemary
4 slices of country bread, toasted
1/3 cup freshly grated Parmigiano Reggiano
Freshly ground black pepper

1. Spread bacon in a soup pot over medium heat, and brown. Using a slotted spoon, move bacon to a bowl. and pour off fat from pot. Return pot to heat, and sprinkle in the olive oil, onions, garlic, and a pinch of salt. Stir to coat, and cook for 10 minutes. Sprinkle in the sugar and continue cooking until onions are silky and well caramelized.

2. Add tomatoes and broth and bring to a simmer. Cook for a few minutes, then stir in bacon, oregano and rosemary. Season to taste with salt.

3. Lay a piece of toasted bread in each of the four warmed bowls. Ladle soup on top. Sprinkle with cheese, season with pepper and serve.
Troy and Nancy Dupuy’s Turkey-Spinach Meatloaf

October 11, 2005

There’s nothing like the picture of a bowl of raw meat to get people’s juices flowing in the morning, is there? Well, to be honest, there’s just no way a slice of cooked meatloaf can be photographed appetizingly. At least not within my skill level. I tried, valiantly, I did! But the slices just lay there, grayish and pale. Even a squirt of ketchup did nothing to gussy them up (well, aesthetically, at least). So, I present to you, raw turkey meat. Good morning!

Back in my archives of New York Times recipe clippings, I had a recipe for turkey-spinach meatloaf. I recall nothing about the article it accompanied, nor am I entirely sure why I clipped this particular recipe. I mean, I like ground meat and spices just fine, but meatloaf has never really been something I’ve aspired to make. A good hamburger is one thing, but meatloaf? Since I was having friends over, I figured it would be an easy main course – lightened by the turkey and fresh spinach – and something everyone would like.

First, I simmered six cloves of garlic in olive oil until they were tender (the garlic oil can be saved and used for pasta sauce or sauteed vegetables, for example). I squashed the soft cloves in a bowl along with the ground meat, chopped thyme, cayenne pepper, salt and freshly ground pepper. I also wilted and drained two large bags of spinach with a sauteed onion.

I chopped up the wilted spinach (not finely enough, by the way) and added it to the raw meat mixture.

This was all squished up together and patted into two loaf shapes. I heated some of the garlic oil in a pan and added the loaves to sear on each side.

I think I should have probably done one at a time, instead of crowding the pan. Then I put the entire thing into the oven for a little less than an hour. When the inside of the meatloaf registered 160 degrees, I took the pan out. I also promptly burned my hands (not once, but twice!) on the searingly hot handle of the pan. No, I did not win the Smart Cook Award that day.

I served the meatloaf sliced and with ketchup. My guests ate it gamely, but agreed it was nothing special (other parts of the meal were, but that is a story for another time). And after some deep thoughts and discussion, I’ve come to the following conclusion: meatloaf is a highly personal dish. It might be from a recipe that your mother or grandmother passed down to you. You could have deep cognitive memories attached to the memories of eating it or the smell of the kitchen as it was being prepared and you were too short to even see the counter. If some upstart comes along and tries to make you a lightened, newfangled version of this dish, with no metaphysical baggage attached its preparation and what it could possibly mean in the context of your family and your shared memories, it’s going to be pretty forgettable. Either that, or turkey meatloaf is just plain boring.

My advice is: make your meatloaf your own. Don’t follow someone else’s recipe unless that someone is related by blood or by marriage to you. And if all else fails, eat the meatloaf with lots and lots of ketchup.
Melissa Clark’s Spiced Baked Apples with Maple Caramel Sauce

October 10, 2005

Although the days have been getting shorter and cooler, autumn really descended upon us this weekend – it was gray and incessantly rainy and the kind of weekend where you just want to stay indoors, watching movies or reading a book on the couch, while the sweet, spicy smell of something baking wafts through the house. Last week, I had gone through some of my older newspaper clippings and found a recipe for baked apples from the New York Times that I meant to make that same evening. Life, however, kept on getting in the way, and I wasn't able to get around to them until Sunday. No matter – they were wonderful; yielding, tender apples, complex spices, soul- and belly-warming in their flavor and simplicity. This recipe is a real winner – it's staying in my little book for a long time.

I bought four Empire apples and peeled off a strip of skin around the stem of the apple. Then, using a small paring knife, I attempted to core the apples, (mother and father, please skip over the next part) superficially stabbing my palm in the process. Yeah, I'd probably buy an apple corer or melon baller before making these again. Gritting my teeth and holding onto the apples tighter, I was able to wrest the cores and pits from the apples, but it was a bit of a pain-in-the-neck procedure. But don't worry, there was no bleeding… Once the apples were cored and slit six times apiece, I put them in a buttered cake pan.

I put a dab of butter and a splash of maple syrup into each apple cavity. Then I mixed together some brown sugar (one half less than actually called for), chopped pecans, and baking raisins, and divided this mixture between the apples. I poured maple syrup (again, less than called for) into a bowl, added white wine, a cinnamon stick, a piece of ginger and some ground cardamom and cloves (whole cloves and cardamom pods were called for, but I didn't have them, so I eyeballed about an 1/8 of a teaspoon, ground, each), mixed it all together and poured this into the pan around the apples.

The pan went into the oven. Every ten minutes or so, I took the pan out and basted the apples with the liquid (alternately using a brush or a spoon) until the apples were tender. It took a bit over an hour. I let them cool for bit before eating one with a knife and fork. It was delicious – the wine and maple syrup had taken on a complexity that was rounded out by all those spices. The sweet pecans tied the whole thing together – pecans and apples go so well together! Using less brown sugar and maple syrup was a good idea – they were sweet but not cloyingly so. And although I had friends over for dinner last night, I didn't share even a single apple with them (lest you think I am totally greedy, don't worry, they got something else). But these apples are all for me.
Martha Stewart Living’s Whole Grain Oat Bread

October 7, 2005

This post could also be named How Not to Bake Bread. Mmm, the bread in the picture looks so promising from far away. But click on it, and you will see. A doughy middle. And what you couldn’t see, but I did, were the wet sides. Yep, this bread that had so many lovely ingredients in it (cracked wheat! steel cut oats! wholesome whole wheat flour!) ended up in the trash can (but not before I sliced off the only salvageable parts of the bread, namely the crusty tops, and ate them for lunch).

This recipe accompanied an article about a soup party in Martha Stewart Living, back when Susan Spungen was still the food editor there. The bread looked so healthy and hearty and easy that I thought I’d give it a try last night. Note to self: do not attempt to bake bread when you cannot devote as much time as the dough needs to rise and bake until it’s done, through and through. Perhaps most importantly, note to self continued, do not bake bread if you cannot bother to read and follow the recipe’s instructions. I pretty much blame only myself for this kitchen disaster (except I also think the recipe had too much salt in it, but whatever).

I hadn’t been able to tear myself out of bed in the morning when I was supposed to, and then when the second rise hadn’t even really finished, I stuck the bread in the oven and tapped my feet impatiently until the bread looked done enough to take out. It had been an hour, but we all know how funny my oven can be about timing. I had to get to the office and couldn’t devote myself to making sure all the steps had been completed in their own good time. Best of all, I didn’t read the instructions carefully enough, and let the bread cool in the pan for hours before turning it out on the rack. So the lackluster outcome was the result of me being distracted, trying to cut corners and save time: not the smartest thing when baking bread.

Do I recommend you try this recipe? Well, the truth is, this isn’t the kind of bread I dream about eating. Breads like this are sort of more on my wavelength. I guess this post is more about me being an idiot than the bread being any good. The thing is, this bread would be really nice toasted with a slice of cheese on top, or dunked into a thick soup, or spread with peanut butter. And it is pretty easy to make. So if you have some time and are looking to get rid of your steel-cut oats, give it a try! Just make sure you have enough time. And follow the instructions.

Whole-Grain Oat Bread
Makes 1 nine-inch loaf

1 cup steel cut oats
2 cups boiling water
1/3 cup bulghur wheat
3 tablespoons honey
1/2 cup warm water
1 envelope dry yeast (1 scant tablespoon)
1 1/2 cups whole wheat flour
1 tablespoon plus 1 teaspoon coarse salt
2 to 3 cups all-purpose flour
Unsalted butter, room temperature, for bowl and pan
1/2 cups old-fashioned rolled oats

1. In a medium bowl, cover steel-cut oats with the boiling water. Let stand until room temperature. Stir in bulghur wheat and honey; set aside.

2. Place the warm water in a small bowl. Sprinkle yeast over water. Let stand until foamy, about 5 minutes.
3. In the bowl of an electric mixer fitted with the dough hook, combined the reserved oat mixture with the yeast mixture, whole-wheat flour and salt. Add the all-purpose flour until the dough is tacky, but not sticky (I only needed 2 and a half cups). Continue kneading about five minutes more.

4. Place the dough in a buttered bowl, and cover with buttered plastic wrap directly on the surface. Let rise in a warm place until doubled in bulk, about 90 minutes, or refrigerate overnight (which is what I did).

5. Turn out dough onto a clean work surface; form into a loaf about 9 inches long. Lightly mist with water; sprinkle with rolled oats (I skipped this step). Place in a well-buttered loaf pan; let stand until doubled in bulk, about 1 hour.
6. Preheat oven to 375 degrees Fahrenheit. Using a serrated knife, slash top of loaf lengthwise down center. Place immediately in oven. Bake until nicely browned and cooked through, about 1 hour. Remove from pan; let cool on a wire rack.
Paula Wolfert’s Knife-and-Fork Kale

October 7, 2005

In my CSA basket this week (am I starting to sound like a broken record with the incessant mutterings about the CSA and how it has changed my life?), I had a bunch of red Russian kale to contend with. Now, I like green, leafy vegetables just as much or more than the next person, but regular old kale has never really been my friend. Months ago, I braised a pot of it to such an unappetizing khaki slush that I couldn't even bring myself to dump it in the toilet. It sat in a pot in the fridge for longer than I care to remember. So I felt a bit trepidatious as I stood in my kitchen, contemplating the green and purple fronds at the bottom of my vegetable crisper.

After going through several of my cookbooks (and nixing Alice Water's kale, stewed to bits with cream and bacon, because why even eat kale – bursting with vitamins and who knows what else – if you're just going to cook it into oblivion with fat, fat, and more fat?), I settled on Paula Wolfert's recipe in The Slow Mediterranean Kitchen. She calls for Tuscan kale, which truly is a thing of beauty – quickly steamed, then pan-fried with olive oil, garlic and salt, now that is a kale I can get behind. According to the Internets, Russian kale is an entirely different species of kale from Tuscan, but it's described as being tender and tasty, so I thought I'd be fine using that instead. And I was.

Russian kale has dark purple ribs, and a beautiful deep green color.

I washed the leaves, stripped them off the ribs, chopped them into ribbons and put them in a pot with olive oil and garlic, some salt and a few grinds of pepper.

I cooked them over low heat, uncovered, for 10 minutes, until they were good and wilted.

Then I added a cup of water, partially covered the pot and let it cook away for at least another half hour.

I drizzled in a few drops of balsamic vinegar, stirred it all around, then piled some of the kale onto a piece of toasted bread that I had rubbed lightly with a clove of garlic. I grated some Parmigiano onto the bread, and drizzled it with olive oil. Since this was my dinner and not just an appetizer, I also poached an egg (My first time ever! And it worked! I almost did a cartwheel. So easy! Who needs those goofy metal poachers? Thank you, Jacques!) to plop on top.

The egg yolk wound its way through the tender, glistening kale, and the faint hint of vinegar along with the salty fresh garlic on the bread, the grassy olive oil, and the added nuttiness from the grated cheese made for a most fulfilling and delicious dinner. I ate it with a fork and knife, though you could most certainly also eat it with your fingers and then give it the thumbs up, as Ben did last night. I'm kind of sad there aren't any leftovers.
Marcella Hazan’s Sicilian Pesto

October 6, 2005

As I make my way through my backlogged recipes, clipped and filed and pasted and saved, I keep stumbling upon little gems. There are so many books crammed with clippings in my apartment that it's easy to quickly lose oversight of all the dishes I have yet to try. And no, I'm not that type-A that I have a database of recipes set up. Yet.

As I was flipping through a particular set a few days ago, I came across a recipe for Sicilian pesto from Marcella Hazan's latest cookbook that was excerpted in Tamasin Day-Lewis's Daily Telegraph column. I instantly remembered how alluring it sounded at the time, and was happy to realize that I still wanted to try it. Last week, I blogged about making plain old basil pesto, so I thought it would be only fitting to follow it up with this. It's totally simple to make, just like the original, with the exception that you have to blanch and peel some tomatoes. But the flavor is so unexpected and different, yet still subtle, that I think I might almost like it more than regular pesto.

Start by bringing a small pot of water to boil. Throw in a few plum tomatoes – I used tomatoes from Migliorelli Farms that were actually labeled as San Marzano tomatoes. (Is that even possible? I thought they were controlled and only available labeled as such in Italy. Like Champagne in France or something? I must be mixing my food provenance metaphors. Anyway, moving on.) After a few seconds, drain the tomatoes and peel off the skin, then cut them in half and de-seed them. These tomatoes were deeply red and had very few seeds. They were gorgeously pulpy – fantastic tomato sauce tomatoes. Here is a picture of the eviscerated fruits, skins and seeds to one side. These folks might take offense.

After that, you throw some peeled almonds, a clove of garlic, the chopped tomatoes, red pepper flakes, mint, grated Parmigiano, olive oil, and a pinch of salt in a food processor. Whir it all together until it's creamy.

Boil up some spaghetti, toss with the pesto, grate on extra Parmigiano and enjoy it piping hot. There is something sultry about the flavor of the sauce – the tomatoes and mint and red pepper flakes bring an entirely different dimension to the dish and it's a welcome change from predictable pesto. And since the tomatoes are blended beyond recognition, I bet I could make this for my tomato-hating friends and they'd never know…
Everyday Food’s Barley Risotto with Corn and Basil

October 5, 2005

Here in New York City, we keep bracing ourselves for the crisper, colder days of fall. Yet summer seems to be hanging on stubbornly, maybe to make up for the cold, miserable spring we had that stretched all the way to June. Some people are itching for lower temperatures to break out their fall finery, but I'm happy that I can still walk to work in a sleeveless sweater and squint at my desk as the hot sun pours through my window. It'll be cold soon enough…

While visiting Boston in the summer, I snagged a recipe from my stepmother's copy of Everyday Food (I know, I've mentioned this before. My stepmother has a lot of good subscriptions! So I try to sneak a few in my bag when I'm at their house. Very surreptitious, aren't I? Hi, Susan!). It was for a version of risotto using pearl barley. I've never cooked with pearl barley before, and I had a bag of purple basil left over from a CSA share, plus I liked the idea of using frozen corn for simplicity's sake, so I set out last night to make this.

First, I sauteed an onion in some olive oil until it was translucent, then I added the pearl barley and cooked it for another minute or two.

I added some hot chicken broth and basically proceeded as you always do with risotto, ladling in hot broth, stirring over low-ish heat until the liquid is absorbed, adding more broth and so on (credit where credit is due: I made Ben do the stirring and he excelled at it.)

After a while, the barley started to plump up and the risotto thickened slowly.

When the grains were fully cooked but still pleasantly chewy, I threw in a box of frozen sweet corn, and cooked the mixture for another few minutes, until the corn was heated through. Then I added a handful of torn basil leaves and a few gratings of Parmigiano.

It was wonderful! The combination of textures – faintly crunchy corn and chewy barley – and flavors – sweet kernels, minty basil, nutty cheese – was just delicious. Plus, it was easy to make and healthy to boot. Since basil is easy to find at grocery stores all year round, this is a light, summery dish that could easily be made in colder months because of the ease of using frozen corn. I know, frozen vegetables (besides peas, and I'm personally kind of partial to frozen brussels sprouts) are sacreligous. But I have to admit that the practicality and light, sweet flavor of the corn won me over. At least this time.
Russ Parsons’ Asian Pear Crisps

October 4, 2005

After the New York Times published an article about the good food of autumn one week, the Los Angeles Times was not to be outdone, and a week later published their own article on fall cooking. I tried a recipe from both articles and am not quite convinced that either of my choices was the best one I could have made. But such is life – you live and learn. After all the helpful comments about the plum torte, I've decided I will try to attempt the kind of plum cake/tart thing I grew up eating and hopefully will post on that soon (the recipe acquisition is in process! Doesn't that sound all mysterious and fetching?). But enough digressing, I have crisps to report on.

I've never cooked anything with Asian pears, in fact, I'm not even sure I've ever even eaten one out of hand. They're beautifully speckled little things, and taste like the crispest, sweetest, most apple-like pears you've ever eaten.

Since I seem to have misplaced my peeler, something which frustrates my type-A kitchen personality greatly, I had to peel them with a knife. Which actually was fine. So enough about that minor frustration. I peeled, cored and diced the pears roughly.

To this I added some lemon juice, a few tablespoons of honey, and baking raisins soaked in a splash of rum.

I divided the fruit and the juices among four little ramekins (Parsons says this recipe will serve 6, but I think he was using Lilliputian serving cups).

In my mini-chopper, I had combined some toasted, slivered almonds (note to self and others who attempt this recipe: cool the toasted almonds off before chopping up with other things, including butter which is supposed to be cold!), flour, sugar, salt and diced butter. I pulsed it together until it looked like Nigella Lawsonish rubble.

I sprinkled the fragrant and simple topping on the fruit, trying not to push down too hard, to avoid cakiness.

I placed the ramekins on a baking sheet and slid it into the preheated oven. The baking time was supposed to take an hour. After an hour, the tops still looked raw, so I left them in. For another 15 minutes. And then another. And in total, an entire extra hour was needed for the top to brown nicely and crisp up. Could it be that because I divided the fruit into four serving cups and not six that it took double the amount of time to cook? It doesn't really matter – I wasn't going to serve them last night anyway. But for anyone attempting the recipe, plan ahead accordingly.

I didn't make the whipped cream, and I think that it probably adds a nice layer of cooling smoothness to the crisps. These crisps are very sweet – from the totally concentrated pears to the raisins to the honey, there is a lot of sugar in them. I might try these with some cold yogurt – the astringent sourness might balance out the hefty sweetness a bit. I liked the nutty flavor of the almonds in the topping, but this wasn't my favorite crisp topping (I've had good success with The Best Recipe's version).

I'm beginning to sense a pattern – most of the dessert recipes I've tried from the newspapers have been too sweet. Are my faulty tastebuds to blame, or are the recipes in general a little heavy on the sugar? I'm looking forward to trying some savory dishes next.
Marian Burros’ Plum Torte

September 29, 2005

Doesn't that look glowing and warm and comforting and delicious? I thought so, too. And yet. I'd better tread carefully here, because apparently the recipe I made last night is the recipe to end all recipes. Reprinted every single year in the New York Times for 15 years running, or something like that. Let me tell you a bit about it.

Marian Burros, a longtime writer for the NY Times food section, first published the recipe for Plum Torte in 1981. Every year thereafter, because of reader demand, the food section would reprint it. A few years ago, the New York Times printed it one last time and exhorted readers to cut out and laminate the recipe: they would be printing it no longer. Marian Burros ended up immortalizing it in a few of her cookbooks, and it's available all over the internet, in case you weren't subscribing to the NY Times in those days. And last week, when Marian published an article about autumnal cooking, the Times decided to offer the recipe to accompany the online edition. So I felt I just had to make it. Nevermind the luscious asian-pear crisps asking longingly to be made from the L.A. Times, or the fact that an equally good-looking apple-phyllo dessert was in Marian's article. The Plum Torte was calling my name and so I answered.

I figured it would give me a chance to make one last dessert with plums before the beginning of fall. I'm going apple-picking in the Hudson River Valley this weekend, so there will be enough apple dishes coming in future weeks. I plucked twelve shiny Italian plums from the greenmarket earlier this week and last night got down to business. Very quick business, I might add. The batter is simple as can be – you simply cream butter and sugar, then sift in a small flurry of flour, salt and baking powder. This thick batter is poured (or rather, smeared, since it was pretty stiff) into a springform pan. The layer of batter seemed surprisingly thin to me.

I halved and pitted the plums, and arranged them in a circular pattern on the batter.

I stirred together cinnamon and sugar, which then got liberally sprinkled over the plums.

The pan went into the oven, where it was supposed to bake for 40 to 50 minutes. I set about making dinner for Barbara (a beet salad and spaghetti with pesto, which by the way, I should have mentioned yesterday, benefits greatly from the addition of a lump of butter added to the bowl of sauce and cheese. Lest my Italian forefathers and mothers turn over in their grave, I say, I read this in a book! An Italian book! So there. Go back to resting in peace.).

When I checked the torte after 50 minutes, it still looked pretty pale on top, and the skewer came out with lumps of raw batter still attached. So I closed the oven door, and we went out to the patio for dinner. I completely forgot about the cake (note to self: when eating outside, remember that smells from kitchen cannot migrate through closed doors). In the middle of a particularly interesting point that Barbara was making about something or other (I was paying attention, don't you worry), I smacked my head and ran back inside to the oven.

At this point, the cake had been baking for and hour and 15 minutes, at least. I yanked open the door and sighed with relief.

The cake was fine. We let it cool for a while, then cut in. Maybe it's because it was still warm and some cakes benefit from a day of being left alone. Maybe it's because I had such high expectations because of all the hype surrounding the recipe. Maybe it's because I grew up eating a different kind of plum torte with a yeasted base (that looks more like this) and has much more structure and character and lets the fruit shine through more. But (covers her head with protective hands) I didn't really like this. My roommate did! And Barbara did! And my coworkers (as usual – is there anything they won't eat?) did! But I didn't. It was too sweet, too flat, too flabby.

It wasn't bad. But I probably won't make it again. There, I said it. If anyone has had more success with this, will you tell me about it?
Weeklong Pesto

September 28, 2005

Summer is coming to an end, but basil plants are still pushing on determinedly. What to do with that bunch of basil going slowly limp in your crisper? It’s more obvious than obvious, of course, but a pesto whirred together in your food processor is a quick way to preserve some of that summer aroma for colder, shorter days. I like to make my pesto without the cheese, in case I feel like freezing portions of it. When the time comes to serve the pesto, you defrost it, and grate fresh cheese into the mix.

I know that some people like to make pesto without a recipe, so they can adjust the garlic or oil levels. But when I’ve done so in the past, the pesto always comes out too garlicky or over-nutted or super-oily. So I follow the following well-balanced method each time. For someone who makes single portion servings of pasta for herself, this amount of pesto ends up serving me well for several days. I like to add a boiled, sliced potato and some boiled, thin green beans to the pasta and pesto.

First, 2 cups of fresh basil leaves are washed and patted dry.

Then, 2 cloves of garlic are peeled and dropped into a food processor along with 3 tablespoons of pine nuts (feel like toasting them? go ahead), salt, and a half cup of olive oil.

Add the basil and puree until a bright green sauce comes together.

You can put this sauce in a container, cover it with a film of olive oil and store it in the fridge for a week. Take out as much as you like for each serving and while the pasta cooks, grate Parmigiano into the serving bowl, mixing in the basil puree to make pesto.

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