August already. How did that happen?
However it did, it sure happened quick. One minute it was spring,
with each long, languid day offering the promise of infinitely more to
come, and the next it’s late August, and each warm breeze feels like the
closing act. Even if the temperature hasn’t dipped too much yet, the
evenings are becoming noticeably shorter, and as early pumpkins and
apples start appearing beside the peaches, corn and tomatoes, I know
it’s just a matter of time before we’re digging out the parkas and extra
socks.
Of course it’s still a while before that happens, and when I stop to
think I remember how the end of summer means the beginning of fall, a
season I love almost as much. This year the sense of August as the
harbinger of an ending seems particularly acute, though, since, well… it
is. Not to over-dramatize things, since all the changes are positive
and welcome, but as much as I’m looking forward to them, beginning
something new always means ending something old, and when that something
old has brought good things, leaving it behind is hard.
In my case, the end of this month is bringing about some significant
life changes. We’re moving again, for starters, though this time luckily
not across hemispheres, but just across the country—to Stuttgart,
capital of the southwest. Known as an industrial powerhouse, and cradle
of the formidable German automobile industry, I’ve been thrilled to
learn that Stuttgart is also Germany’s gastronomic capital. It makes
sense, actually, as the city is located barely an hour from both France
and Switzerland, is smack in the middle of German wine country and is
surrounded by the highest concentration of Michelin-starred restaurants
in the republic (61 in the region, at last count). I daresay we couldn’t
have chosen better if we’d tried.
And then there’s the reason for the move. I’ve been offered a job
down there, a really, really great job, one that combines my background
in language and writing and public relations and offers me the chance to
work for one of the most well-known and well-respected companies in
Germany. It’s like nothing I’ve done before, but somehow it’s perfect
for me—well, as perfect as something that doesn’t involve food can be.
It will mean big changes, though, in everything from how I spend my days
to what I spend them thinking about to how much time and energy I’ll
have to potter around the kitchen at their end—to, of course, how
blogging will fit into the picture.
But let’s not worry about that now. First, I have a promise to
fulfill. Last time we spoke I told you I’d share a treat from Sicily
with you, and I don’t intend to let you down. In fact, it would be
criminally negligent of me to not share this particular recipe with you,
since it offers one of the best vehicles for sweet, juicy late-summer
tomatoes (i.e. the kind in your markets NOW) ever devised. In fact, I’ll
even go out on a limb and suggest it makes one of the best pasta sauces
ever devised. I’ve seriously been tempted to spend this month eating
nothing else.
Now here’s where I have to admit a bit of a convoluted background to
this dish. Ostensibly it’s a slight modification of the famous
pesto trapanese,
a tomato, basil and almond sauce hailing from the northwestern city of
Trapani. I actually didn’t eat this in Sicily—I wasn’t near Trapani, and
it wasn’t the right season anyway—but shortly after I returned home I
found the recipe in one of the newest Sicilian cookbooks on my shelf,
Made in Sicily
by London restaurateur and author Giorgio Locatelli. What initially
caught my eye in Locatelli’s version was his substitution of mint for
the more common basil, something I may have been dubious about once upon
a time, but certainly not since traveling to Sicily this spring and
falling in love with the intense Sicilian mint that perfumes everything
there. The second thing that struck me was that instead of grinding
everything together to the usual homogenous mass that characterizes a
pesto, he left the various components chunky and distinct, juicy nuggets
of tomato interrupted by splinters of almond and curls of fresh mint.
Or at least that’s what the luminous photo next to the dish showed.
And for some reason, after admiring that photo and quickly scanning the
list of ingredients, I ran off to make the dish without, well, actually
reading the recipe itself.
It was, however, as spectacular as I expected: the sweet bursts of
tomato, like half-melted rubies clinging to the hot pasta, the toasty
crunch of almonds, the peppery slick of olive oil, and the ribbons of
spicy mint, which is so unexpectedly sublime with tomato and garlic, so
clean and fresh and bracing, I might never touch a sprig of basil in
their presence again.
Unfortunately it was also wrong, as I discovered after I’d made the
sauce this way two or three times. Don’t ask me what the photographer
was smoking, but the instruction was clear as day in the recipe, when I
actually bothered to read it: grind everything to a paste in a mortar.
Oops. But by then it was too late; I had fallen so in love with my
accidental version and its rustic, toothsome chunks that I simply
couldn’t fathom doing it any other way. And since it’s the version I
love, it’s the version I’m giving you—though to nip any confusion in the
bud I’ve changed the name from ‘pesto’ to to the more generic ‘salsa’.
Even if you’re a fan of the original I urge you to give this one a try;
though I should warn you, you may soon find yourself trying to sneak
tomatoes, almonds and mint into nearly everything you eat. Not that this
qualifies as a problem in
my book.
I just hope the good people of Trapani will forgive me for my
freewheeling approach to their gastronomic heritage. And I hope you,
dear readers, will forgive me for another stretch of silence around
here. On the bright side, a belly full of spaghetti should tide you over
nicely.
Spaghetti with Salsa Trapanese
You may have noticed that I mentioned making this dish shortly after
returning from Sicily early this spring, long before any edible tomatoes
were on the market in this hemisphere. I was, in fact, so eager to try
it that I gave it a shot with canned San Marzanos, drained, rinsed,
seeded and chopped. I have to say, it honestly wasn’t half bad—in fact
I’d rate it as significantly better choice than out-of-season (i.e.
hothouse) fresh tomatoes. Of course candy-sweet summer heirlooms are in a
league of their own, but should you find yourself craving this in the
off-season, there’s no shame in substituting the contents of three
400g/14oz cans for the amount of tomatoes given here.
p.s. I know peeling tomatoes is a chore, but please don’t skip this step
or the pieces won’t get that luscious, half-melted texture when they
hit the hot pasta.
p.p.s. This sauce certainly doesn’t only go with pasta; try it over sauteed fish or chicken too.
Source: adapted from Giorgio Locatelli’s
Made in Sicily
Serves: 4-6
500g (1 generous lb.) juicy, ripe plum or heirloom tomatoes
75g (1/2 cup) blanched almonds
1-2 cloves garlic, mashed or grated on a fine Microplane
40g (1 large handful) fresh mint leaves, shredded
50ml (scant 1/4 cup) olive oil
salt and freshly-ground pepper, to taste
pinch of sugar
500g/1 lb. dried spaghetti
Cut a shallow ‘X’ in the bottom of each tomato and place them in a
deep heatproof bowl. Bring a kettle of water to a boil, then pour enough
over tomatoes to submerge them all. Leave for 10-20 seconds, or until
the skin at the cut part of the tomatoes starts to curl. Drain and fill
the bowl with cold water. When the tomatoes are cool enough to handle,
peel off the skin. Cut them in half, scoop out the seeds with a
teaspoon, and dice the flesh. Sprinkle lightly with salt and let drain
in a sieve while you prepare the other ingredients.
Toast the almonds in a 350F/175C oven for 8-10 minutes, or until golden. Cool, then chop medium-fine.
Combine the chopped almonds and tomatoes in a large serving bowl with
the garlic, mint and oil, mashing the tomatoes slightly with the back
of the spoon, and season to taste with more salt, pepper and a pinch of
sugar. Let sit while you cook the pasta, or up to several hours.
Bring a large pot of well-salted water to a boil and cook the spaghetti just until
al dente. Drain it well, and immediately add to the bowl with the sauce, tossing to coat. Correct the seasoning if necessary, and serve.
I don’t feel this needs any cheese, but Locatelli suggests that if
you want some, dice some young pecorino and toss it in before serving.
taken by : http://travelerslunchbox.com/2012/08/24/endings-beginnings-and-spaghetti/
Does it mean you’ve unlocked some sort of adulthood merit badge when
you can say with all seriousness that you totally love salads? You would
have almost never caught me ordering a salad in a restaurant when I was
in high school or college or heck, even a few years ago. But now, I
make a beeline for the salad section of the menu whenever I’m out.
Especially if they offer big, beautiful bowls of dinner salads.
