Category Archives: Meat

May 10, 2013 · 6:02 pm

Bucatini carbonara

As Michael Ruhlman says, “Saying there’s one authentic way to make carbonara is like saying there’s only one Italian dialect.” As simple a dish as pasta carbonara is, I’ve never had two that were the same. Everyone does it a little differently.

Hands down, the best carbonara I ever ate was during my 26th birthday dinner at the now-shuttered Cibo Matto in Chicago when Todd Stein was the chef. In his version–simply dubbed Bucatini–a glistening, orange duck egg yolk teetered atop a winding pile of super al dente bucatini flecked with cracked pepper, cheese and crisp, fatty guanciale. Sadly, I only got to eat it once, since the restaurant was open for just over a year and pretty much booked up every weekend.

In my little culinary universe, there are a few cornerstones that signify true carbonara: pancetta (or guanciale), eggs and Pecorino Romano (or Parmesan). Absolutely no cream. And no greenery. That means no peas, no sprinkling of parsley or chives–nothin! Save the greens for the salad course. And for that matter, keep your onion and garlic, too. To me, carbonara should be all about the starch, salt and fat–bound together using pasta water and egg. My ideal carbonara is also interactive, meaning everyone’s responsible for stirring in their own egg yolk.

It’s the unabashed–almost stubborn–simplicity of this dish that has made me so hesitant to post this recipe until now. But carbonara has become a staple in my house, and I stand by it. My carbonara is mostly adapted from Mario Batali’s wonderful Molto Gusto cookbook. In my version, I use half Parmesan and half Pecorino Romano and in an homage to Todd Stein’s fleeting Bucatini, I only make carbonara with bucatini pasta.

Bucatini carbonara
serves 4

Heat a large Dutch oven or other heavy-bottom pot over medium; add the olive oil and pancetta, and cook until the meat has rendered some of its fat and caramelized slightly, 5-7 minutes. Remove from the heat, and add about 20 grinds of coarse black pepper.

Meanwhile, cook the pasta in heavily salted water just until al dente. Drain it, reserving about 3/4 cup of the starchy cooking liquid.

Put the egg whites in a large measuring cup. Whisk in a few tablespoons of the starchy cooking liquid to temper them. Turn the heat on low under the pot with the pancetta and pepper until they just start to sizzle. Whisking furiously, pour the tempered egg whites and about 1/2 cup of the starchy pasta liquid into the pot. Dump in the pasta, tossing well to coat. Turn off the heat, and add most of the cheese and additional pasta water if the pasta seems dry. Work quickly, as you don’t want the pasta to cool.

To serve, divide the pasta evenly among 4 serving bowls. Carefully nest an egg yolk on top of each pasta pile. (I put each yolk into a small prep bowl before lowering it on top of the pasta.) Grind a little fresh pepper on top of each and sprinkle with a bit more cheese. Serve immediately, and instruct each diner to quickly break their egg yolk and stir it into the pasta.

8 Comments

Filed under Dinner ideas, Meat, Pasta

Tagged as Bucatini pasta, chef Todd Stein bucatini, Eggs, Extra virgin olive oil, Pancetta, Parmesan cheese, Pasta carbonara recipe, Pecorino romano cheese

March 27, 2013 · 7:27 pm

Oma’s stuffed cabbage rolls

My German grandmother, known best to me as Oma, never made me her recipe for stuffed cabbage rolls, though I’ve probably eaten them a hundred times. We usually visited my grandparents in summertime, and stuffed cabbage rolls–filled with bacon, beef and rice and slow-braised in tomatoes and sauerkraut–are best saved for chilly winter nights.

My mom still makes them almost every year using the same stained, handwritten recipe that Oma dictated to her over 30 years ago. I didn’t start making them until I moved back to Chicago after college, and I haven’t actually written the recipe down until now. In the past, I would simply call Mom and announce, “I’m making Oma’s stuffed cabbage.” “Hold on, Marge. Let me find the recipe,” she’d say. I think I just like hearing her dictate the way Oma always made it.

Even though stuffed cabbage rolls are common throughout Eastern Europe, they’re the perfect expression of the type of woman my grandmother was–resourceful, labor-intensive, warm and tidy, with a slight bite. Whenever I make them, I picture her hovering over my shoulder scolding me gently for putting too much tomato in the sauce.

Be warned: There’s a fair amount of prep in this recipe, which will take about 45 minutes and an assortment of different sized pans. But after that, the ingredients, the pot and the heat do the rest.

Stuffed cabbage rolls
from my Oma

Method: Bring 1 cup water to a boil in a small saucepan. Add the rice, and cook for about 10 minutes, until cooked about halfway through (it will cook the rest of the way inside the cabbage rolls). Drain off any excess water and dump the rice into a large bowl.

While the rice is cooking, heat a large pot two-thirds full of salted water until boiling. Carefully add the whole head of cabbage and boil for 5 minutes. Remove, and immediately plunge into a large bowl of ice water for 30 seconds, turning constantly, to stop the cooking process. Set on paper towels to drain.

Cut the bacon into 1/4-inch dice, and place it in a cold skillet with a large pat of butter. Turn the heat up to medium, and slowly render the bacon until slightly brown, 5 to 7 minutes. Add the onion and a sprinkling of salt and pepper. Saute until the onion is softened and slightly caramelized, about 5 minutes. Add the onions and bacon to the rice mixture. Then add the ground beef, eggs, and a generous sprinkling of salt and pepper. Puncture the yolks, and mix everything together until evenly incorporated.

To assemble the cabbage rolls, pull one cabbage leaf off at a time and place it on the cutting board with the inside facing up and the root end closest to you. (I used 12 leaves from a fairly large head of cabbage in this recipe.)

Place a few tablespoons of the beef mixture in the center of the leaf. Fold each side in toward the center so they’re overlapping. Don’t worry if there are a few rips in the cabbage leaves. Everything will come together when it cooks.

Roll forward and away from you, tucking in the sides as you go like you’re rolling up a burrito.

Set the rolls seam side down on a sheet tray, and repeat until you’ve used up all the filling. If there is only a little cabbage left, chop it up finely and toss it in the pot with the cabbage rolls. Otherwise, seal it in an airtight container and put it in the fridge.

Place a 5-quart Dutch oven or other large, heavy-bottomed pot on the stove. Cover the bottom with a layer of sauerkraut (and extra chopped cabbage if you have it), then a layer of cabbage rolls. Season with salt and pepper. Repeat this process until all the cabbage rolls are nestled inside the pot.

Pour the tomato sauce and diced tomatoes over everything. Fill the tomato sauce can with water and pour that over the rolls as well. Top with a little more sauerkraut and season again with salt and pepper.

Turn the heat on medium, and bring the mixture to a simmer. Turn the heat down to low (the pot should be lightly bubbling), and allow the cabbage rolls to cook for 2 hours until the meat is cooked through and the cabbage leaves are tender.

To serve, place 2 rolls in a shallow bowl or on a plate. Top with a few ladles of the sauerkraut tomato sauce. Serves 6.

Note: Stuffed cabbage rolls freeze beautifully. Place the cooked cabbage rolls and a few spoonfuls of sauce in airtight containers in the freezer up to 3 months. The day you’re ready to eat them, put them in the fridge 8 hours ahead to thaw, then reheat them gently over medium low on the stove.

4 Comments

Filed under Meat, Rice

Tagged as Bacon, Butter, Cabbage, Diced tomatoes, Family recipes, German stuffed cabbage, Ground beef, Rice, Sauerkraut, Stuffed cabbage recipe, Stuffed cabbage rolls recipe, Tomato sauce, Yellow onion

March 13, 2013 · 9:33 pm

Nothing soup won’t fix

It’s been probably five years since I shared a drafty, old Chicago apartment with my best friend Maggie and my sister Maddy. We laughed, cried, fought, watched lots of bad movies, stayed up too late and drank too much. The three of us grew up a lot during those years and will always be connected by that funny old place with the slanted floor, the chronically smelly second bathroom and the bedroom with no door.

It was during that time that I decided I wanted to be a food writer. Since I was known to often panic over the uncertain future of my career (I was still a financial reporter at the time) and Maggie was sometimes homesick for Milwaukee, the best way I knew to fix our problems was through soup. I’d order her to take a seat on the stool we kept in the kitchen and DJ from her laptop while I chopped, sauteed, poured and stirred with my favorite beat-up wooden spoon. From potato leek to sausage & lentil to Italian wedding, I tested soup recipes on the world’s easiest food critic, all while we cured homesickness and performed amateur therapy.

The old roomies trade gossip at my wedding

Now whenever I offer to cook for Maggie, she almost always requests soup. “Ooh, what about the Italian wedding soup you made that time?” she’ll venture. “But I don’t feeeeel like rolling all those tiny meatballs,” I protest. Then last week I finally caved, realizing it was high time for a little weddin’ soup therapy.

There are lots of interpretations when it comes to wedding soup, though they all involve those little meatballs. My favorite version is the one with pasta because that turns the soup into a meal. I am usually not a fan of ground chicken, but I like the idea of blending it with sausage for a lighter flavored, more delicate meatball. I also added a little lemon zest for brightness.

Weddin’ soup
adapted from Ina Garten

Meatballs

Soup

Method: Preheat the oven to 350F. In a large bowl, combine the ground chicken, sausage, breadcrumbs, garlic, parsley, zest, Pecorino, Parmesan, milk, egg, salt and pepper until well mixed. With clean hands, shape about 50 teaspoon-sized meatballs and place them on parchment-lined sheet trays.

This step will take you a little while, enough time for the dog to tire out from begging.

Bake the meatballs for about 30 minutes, or until lightly browned and cooked through. It’s OK to cut one open and check that the juices run clear–you did make 50 of them after all. Set aside.

For the soup, heat a large Dutch oven or other heavy-bottomed pot over medium, and add the olive oil, onion, carrots, celery, salt and pepper. Saute the vegetables until softened, 5 to 6 minutes, stirring occasionally.

Turn the heat up to medium high; add the chicken stock and wine and bring to a boil. Reduce the heat to medium, add the pasta to the simmering broth and cook for 8 to 10 minutes, stirring occasionally, until the pasta is tender. Add the fresh dill and meatballs to the soup and simmer for another minute or two. Taste for salt and pepper. Stir in the fresh spinach and cook for 1 minute, until the spinach is just wilted. Ladle into soup bowls and sprinkle each serving with extra dill and grated Parmesan. Serves 4 to 6.

6 Comments

Filed under Chicken, Meat, Soup

Tagged as Baby spinach, Carrots, Celery, Chicken stock, Dill, Dry white wine, Eggs, Fresh breadcrumbs, Garlic, ground chicken, Italian sausage, Italian wedding soup, Lemon zest, Onion, Parmesan cheese, Parsley, Pasta, Pecorino romano cheese, Wedding soup recipe, Whole milk

December 22, 2012 · 10:00 am

Braised short ribs

I like to think of braised short ribs as beef in a tuxedo, because there are few things more luxurious to eat. Seared until golden and braised for several hours, the meat is meltingly tender and rich, perfumed with wine and aromatics. I served it for my friend Paul’s birthday dinner last week with a sharp little frisee salad and a heap of grainy mustard mashed potatoes.

Midway through the meal, Paul said: “I forgot to eat the meat for a bit while I was eating the potatoes. I just had my first bite again. HOLY CRAP, that is good!”

My pathetic reply: “Just keep saying things like that to me for the rest of the dinner; cooking compliments are like my porn.”

Here are a few bits of advice that will help you achieve delicious short ribs and, as a result, receive compliments of possibly pornographic proportions.

1. Be patient when you sear the meat–I’m talking a full 4 to 5 minutes per side. The reward will be a gorgeous, seared crust jacket on the outside.

2. Give the meat at least 3 hours to braise in a fairly low oven to ensure the meat gets sufficiently tender and the bits of fat melt into the meat and liquid.

3. Braise the meat 1 day before serving! This removes the painful step of skimming the fat off the top. Cool the ribs in the braising liquid, and stick the whole thing in the refrigerator overnight. The next day, the fat will have hardened and you can simply pluck it off the top in pieces, sort of like really unattractive peppermint bark.

4. Serve the short ribs with a fresh, bright counterpart, like a gremolata of garlic, lemon and parsley; or, in this case, a bitter frisee salad with red wine vinegar, chives and parsley. This will make you appreciate the deep flavors in the dish even more.

Braised short ribs with frisee salad
adapted from Chow.com

Ribs

Frisee salad

For the ribs: Rub the short ribs all over with about 1 tablespoon of vegetable oil and season generously with salt and freshly ground black pepper. Heat 1 tablespoon of oil in a large Dutch oven or other oven-safe pot over high heat, and add the short ribs.

Sear for 4 to 5 minutes per side, until the ribs are golden brown. Remove them from the pot, and set aside.

Turn the heat down to medium. Drain most of the grease from the pot, and add the remaining tablespoon of vegetable oil along with the onion, leek, carrot, celery and garlic. Season with a generous sprinkling of salt and pepper, and sauté the vegetables until they become tender and slightly caramelized, 5 to 7 minutes.

Pour in the wine, scraping up any bits from the bottom of the pan. Cook until the wine has reduced by half, then add the short ribs back to the pot along with the beef stock. Bring to a boil, then cover and place in a 300F oven for 3 hours, until the beef is falling off the bone. Strain out the vegetables and return the braising liquid to the pot with the short ribs.

Cool on the stovetop and then refrigerate overnight. The next day, remove the fat from the top and slowly reheat the short ribs in their braising liquid over low heat on the stovetop until the liquid is bubbling and the meat is hot, at least 20 minutes.

For the frisee salad: Place the frisee, chives and parsley in a large bowl. In a separate non-reactive bowl, mix the vinegar, olive oil, salt and pepper. Check the seasoning and adjust as needed. Just before serving, pour the vinaigrette over the frisee and herbs and toss well to combine.

To serve, place 1 to 2 short ribs on each plate (depending on the size), along with a few spoonfuls of the braising liquid. Heap some frisee salad alongside the meat. This dish is made complete with a pile of mashed potatoes or creamy polenta for soaking up the juices. If preparing two-day short ribs is more than enough work by itself, simply tear off a few hunks of crusty bread for each guest. This recipe serves 4.

4 Comments

Filed under Meat, Salad

Tagged as Beef short ribs, braised beef, braised short ribs, Chives, Cooking with wine, Frisee, Garlic, Leeks, Onion, Parsley, Red wine

October 27, 2012 · 3:34 pm

Paris, by way of a ham sandwich

Paris. Photo by Sean Madigan

I have never been to Paris, but I’m frequently told I should go. “Oh Marge, you’d love the food,” people say. Believe me, as soon as I can swing a trip, I’ll do it. But for now, I have to live vicariously through friends and family, drinking in their descriptions of winding, ivory-hued miles of sidewalk cafes, open-air markets, bistros alive with the sizzle of meat and tinkling of glassware, and boulangeries bursting with crackling baguettes. I can’t wait to see it for myself and fill in the blanks.

This summer, my sister Madeline took weeklong trip there to meet her boyfriend’s family for the first time. I wasn’t expecting to hear from her and was thrilled when she called from his apartment a few days into the trip.

“What have you been eating?” I prodded. “I haven’t had a meal I didn’t like,” she replied dreamily. “And there’s this ham sandwich, jambon crudite, that I want to eat every day for the rest of my life.” A simple sandwich made up of ham, lettuce, tomato and Dijon mayonnaise on a shattering baguette. When a sandwich is this basic, it’s all about the ingredients. Crusty, chewy, slightly acidic baguette slathered liberally with a mayonnaise and mustard blend; salty ham; bitter, hearty escarole; and thinly sliced, juicy tomato.

Since she’s been missing that sandwich lately, I decided to recreate it for her last week on a particularly dreary October night. All afternoon we texted back and forth excitedly.

“I went to La Boulangerie for the baguette during my lunch break!” I texted.

“I am going to get French red wine and something chocolate!” she wrote.

“I found these delish looking French olives for our appetizer!” I replied.

I waited until she came over to build the sandwich to make sure I got it just right.

I cut the whole baguette in half and began spreading it with Dijon mayo. “More mayonnaise?” I asked. “Yes,” she replied without so much as a second glance.

I carefully layered each of the toppings and placed the lid on the sandwich. “How big do you want yours?” I asked. “Just cut it in half,” she said. “Since the bread is so skinny they always give you a really long sandwich. I always ate the whole thing.”

I pulled plates out of the cabinet, Mad poured wine and sparkling water, I mixed a simple salad with shallot-Dijon vinaigrette. But something still seemed to be missing, until Mad told me what is probably the most crucial part of true jambon crudite.

“My favorite part about eating this sandwich was they’d put it in a little paper bag and you’d take it with you and eat it while you walked around Paris,” she said. “Romain sometimes didn’t want lunch, but I always did so we would just pick me up a sandwich and not have to worry about sitting down for a long lunch.”

I paused for a minute, remembering that I had gotten parchment paper bags from a food blogging event earlier in the year. Since I’m not a big fish en papillote type, the bags had gone largely unused. I pulled two out, folded them in half and stuffed the sandwiches inside. The plates went back in the cabinet.

“Marge! It looks just like jambon crudite!” Mad cried. We sat down to eat, eagerly taking up our parchment-wrapped sandwiches. The paper crinkled crisply as we peeled it back and took a bite.

“It tastes just right! The bag was such a great surprise,” said Mad, wiping mayo from the corner of her mouth. I beamed.

“I think they might put butter on the bread, too,” she added between bites. “I think I know why. It probably keeps the mayonnaise from seeping into the bread.”

Ah, à la prochaine, I thought. Next time.

5 Comments

Filed under Meat, Sandwiches

Tagged as Dijon mayonnaise, Jambon crudite, Parisian ham sandwich

October 2, 2012 · 7:08 pm

Italian braised beef with Sunday gravy

What is it about fall? Call me unoriginal, but something about this time of year turns me into a complete sap. I love the flame-colored trees set against that cobalt sky. I love how the air smells. I want to bundle in my jacket and chunky knit scarf and kick through every pile of fallen leaves that crosses my path. But more than anything, I get that itch for hulking cuts of shoulder and rib meat braised in red wine and stock with starchy root vegetables.

Enter Italian braised beef with Sunday gravy. Be warned: This recipe is a two-dayer and not for the faint of heart. It requires traipsing around for ingredients like meaty bones and 3-pound pot roasts. It demands that you fork over almost a bottle and a half of perfectly drinkable wine. And it does not respond well to impatience. I know I say this a lot but I promise you, it is worth it.

I don’t know why I never thought to serve pot roast over pasta before this, but it is heavenly and I will probably only eat it this way from now on. It allows you to toss everything together and serve it in deep bowls with lots of that lovely sauce you spent two days making. Mmmm, two-day sauce.

Italian braised beef with Sunday gravy
adapted from chef Michael Symon and his mama

Sunday Sauce

Method: Preheat the oven to 300F.

Sprinkle the meat liberally with salt and pepper up to 1 day in advance. Cover and keep in the fridge until 30 minutes before cooking. Heat the oil in a large Dutch oven over high heat until it slides easily around the pan. Sear the meat for 2-3 minutes per side, until well browned. Remove the meat and set it on a plate. Add the onion, carrots and celery root. Sweat the vegetables for about 3 minutes, and then add the garlic and cook for 1 to 2 minutes longer.

Pour in the wine and deglaze the pot, scraping up the browned bits from the bottom.

Add 2 cups of Sunday Sauce, the water, pot roast and bay leaves. Bring the liquid to a simmer and taste for seasoning. Add more salt if necessary. Cover the pot and place it in the oven for 3 hours, basting the meat every 30 minutes or so during cooking time.

When you’re almost ready to serve, prepare the rigatoni. Boil in generously salted water according to package directions and cook until al dente.

Transfer the meat to a cutting board and slice it into bite-size pieces. Return the meat to the pot of sauce along with the drained rigatoni. Toss to coat. Before serving, discard the bay leaves. Turn off the heat and toss in torn fresh basil leaves and a large showering of Parmesan. Serves 6.

5 Comments

Filed under Dinner ideas, Meat, Pasta

Tagged as Bay leaves, Beef pot roast, Carrots, Celery root, Garlic, How to braise beef, Italian Sunday gravy, Red wine, Rigatoni, Yellow onion

Category Archives: Meat

Bucatini carbonara

Oma’s stuffed cabbage rolls

Braised short ribs

Paris, by way of a ham sandwich

Italian braised beef with Sunday gravy

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