COVID Confidential: Part One
Aside from being an accomplished painter, an avid gardener, a burgeoning writer, a generous soul, a beautiful woman, and a wonderful wife, Anne is also an Italian and an amazing cook, the last two items, of course, being a blatant redundancy. In the spirit of engaging in some constructive and tasty fun, we decided to make ravioli last weekend. If you grow up, as Anne did, in a family named Graziano, that means you bust out the flour, the water, the eggs, the cutting board, the rolling pin, and the pasta maker.
Needless to say, the only other thing every self-respecting Italian cook needs is a trusty Irishman to do the heavy looking-on and to perform other assorted non-nuisance activities … if he can find any. I did my best to stay out of the way, to offer what I took to be valuable tips along the way, and to turn the crank on the pasta maker, since ours happens to be of the manual variety.
One of my more meaningful contributions to the project was the invention of the word, glollop. Combining the words glob and dollop, a glollop is the portion of mixed ricotta, mozzarella, parmesan, egg, and spinach Anne carefully spooned onto strips of freshly rolled pasta (courtesy of yours truly) before covering them with another strip of freshly rolled pasta (courtesy of you-know-who) before pinching them shut and forking them.
Technical Note: As you’ll see in Figure 1, Anne is forking the ravioli before cutting them. It’s also permissible to fork the ravioli after cutting them. It’s entirely up to you. You’re welcome.
Given the delicate lightness of the fresh-made noodles, Anne chose to prepare an equally delicate red sauce with which to serve them. Anne’s version of said sauce consisted of crushed tomatoes, extra-virgin olive oil (is extra-virgin a corollary to slightly dead?), fresh garlic, and fresh basil.
Technical Note: If you’ve made pasta and sauce from scratch, it’s against the law to serve it in anything other than a hand-made, hand-painted bowl, ideally crafted in Italy. As you’ll see in Figure 2, we served ours in a genuine Deruta Italian, which Anne brought home from the trip she took to Farnesi to study at Borgo Rinascimento International School of Art.
Anne topped the dish with meatballs, which she made from ground chicken to maintain our status as conscientious citizens of the planet. If you’re thinking meatballs made from ground chicken aren’t genuinely Italian, fear not: The chickens were raised on a strict diet of corn-fed Italian cows.
Technical Note: It’s also illegal to serve such a meal with anything other than a red wine. Since we didn’t happen to have any Italian wine in the house on this particular occasion (because the Irishman dropped the ball), as you’ll see in Figure 3, we settled for a lovely 2010 Peñamonte 5 meses en Barrica, made from grapes of the Tinta de Toro variety.
Anne is a firm believer in the old axiom, “An idle mind is the devil’s playground, and idle hands are his workshop.” To keep me out of trouble (always a tall order), she decided I should keep both of my hands occupied at all times, including while I was making the pasta. Since stretching the dough only required one hand — as did the turning of the crank on the pasta maker after the dough was suitably stretched — I improvised.
Technical Note: As you’ll see in Figure 4, this is my specific form of improvisation. And I am, after all, a professional. Don’t try this at home. If you do, COVID-19 won’t be the only reason to wash your hands.
Next weekend, we’re going to make bread. God help us.
