We split up for Thanksgiving, Nicole and Shaw flying to Missouri to be with Paul, and Duncan and I driving to Michigan to see my folks there. When Nicole's not around I magically become Duncan's number one and I gladly lap up the sloppy seconds. He is the best traveling companion I have ever known. Content to pore through his Seuss in the back seat or gaze out the window with the obligatory "Are we there yet?" only appearing at the six hour mark into the 12 hour drive. We gazed at the mysterious fog on route 80, exclaimed with delight when the sun appeared, sang as much of the score of Rudolph that we could remember, felt some early Christmas magic when we turned on the radio and the score of Rudolph (and I mean the entire score) just happened to be playing on a station somewhere between Dubois and Youngstown and sucked every ounce of happiness out of the Happy Meal at the service plaza.
Other than Duncan's bagel and eggs in the mornings, I did not cook for the four days in Michigan. I had my mom's Thanksgiving feast. Pretty much the way it has been since I've known it. My earliest memories of cooking of course are with mom. I seem to remember being an expert flour sifter, pan greaser and beater licker. Mom makes terrific pies. Mom taught me how to make spaghetti.
Two boxes of Kraft Italian Spaghetti, aka "Zesty Italian", the one in the green box. In the box is half a pound of dry spaghetti and two envelopes. One containing Kraft Parmesan Cheese and the other something called Italian seasonings. The instructions have you mixing the Italian seasonings with a combination of canned tomato sauce and/or paste with water, boiling the spaghetti, sprinkling the cheese and Presto!
Mom showed me if you browned the hamburger first with some chopped onion and add a can or two of Pennsylvania Dutch mushrooms and then followed the sauce instructions on the package, you ended up with the ambrosia of my mid-western youth. I do not not exaggerate when I say that I could not stop eating the stuff. There was a terrible night when I was left alone with some spaghetti in the pot on the stove that had been set aside for my brother to eat when he came home from swim team. On commercial breaks in the living room I would slip into the kitchen and just have one more bite. By the time Dan got home all that was left was a sad little lump of noodle in the corner of the pot. He knew, and he was pissed. I'm sure he too would remember this incident today.
I generally have a hard time playing the favorites game: colors, movies, memories hard to pick one over another being as the lists are so long and I'm vaguely over aware of the subjectivity involved in making these choices, moreover, I don't want to be tied down to favorites. However, if I ever am in a situation where the last meal is being offered to me, I know that it would be spaghetti. I might quibble over sauces but of the pasta itself there would be no question. Rolled around the fork or slurped up the chin, it has an indescribable comfort level for me that has never wavered since those days in Port Huron, Michigan.
My first job in New York in 1983 during my freshman year at NYU was busboy at a place around round the corner from my dorm on Waverly and Mercer called Zi Pepe's. After paying the dorm fees and tuition with my student loan checks I had exactly $14 dollars in my brand new Citibank account when I walked in Zi Pepe's and asked for a job. I remember that I made $6 the first night and broke a glass but mostly I remember the first staff meal. It was a spicy spaghetti, tomato based with mozzarella and maybe spinach stirred in....
The earth shaking, volcanic, wondrous new reality wherein spaghetti could be puttanesca, bolognese, carbonara, amatriciana, prima vera and on and on not only made the $6 a night bearable, it made it downright desirable. My midwestern mind was blown and when I revisited Michigan for that first Christmas break and mom made Spaghetti just for me, well...I had changed... forever. I knew what al dente was. I knew what herbs were. (I had always assumed that the Italian "seasonings" in the packets were man made by Italian men. Had no idea they were herbs.) I knew what cheese was. I hope I was kind. Conveniently, I don't remember that part.
The day after Duncan and I drove the 12 plus hours back from Michigan and still had a day before Nicole and Shaw returned from Missouri, we had one night of home alone cooking. Imagine my joy when I asked Dunc what he wanted for dinner and he looked me in the eye and said, "Spaghetti."
3 Tbs. olive oil
4 to 6 shallots, chopped
3 to 4 garlic cloves chopped
1 1/2 to 2 lbs. sweet Italian Sausage, casings removed (Or hot or any combo)
1 cup heavy cream
2 14.5 ounce cans diced tomatoes in juice
3 to 4 Tbs. fresh chopped sage
1 1/2 cup frozen green peas
1 lb. Spaghetti
grated Pecorino Romano
Heat oil in heavy large pot over medium-high heat. Add shallots and garlic and saute until beginning to soften, about 3 minutes. Add sausages and saute until no longer pink, breaking up sausages 5 to 10 minutes. Add cream, simmer 5 minutes. Add tomatoes with juices, sage, and frozen peas. Simmer until sauce thickens, stirring occasionally, about 15 minutes.
Meanwhile, cook pasta in large of of boiling salted water until al dente. Drain.
Return pasta to pot and add sauce. Toss over medium heat until sauce coats pasta. Season with salt and pepper. Transfer to serving bowls and top with cheese.
(I usually wind up with enough sauce for another meal down the road.)
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