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Act I: The gift of time
When the pandemic (an unintentional theme of this whole newsletter) became a thing, and we all burrowed into our homes and kitchens to unleash the Julia Childs and Dominique Ansels lurking inside of us, I found myself with the gift of time; but this was not any kind of time, because it was the gift of time in the kitchen.
Time wandering the streets of a beautiful city is a very different kind of time, inviting imagination and discovery, while time in the shower is of a more distinct one, inviting reflection, downloading, and sometimes amazing satisfying coffee body scrubs. However time in the kitchen is much more special; it is time reserved for invention, experimentation, and full and total permission to fail— and in this case, with the added luxury of privacy.
In his practical musings about mischievous cupid, Clive Owen’s character in Closer says: “Time is a tricky little f***er.” I for one, couldn’t agree more. It is often time that ruins a perfectly compatible relationship, and also timing that overbakes those otherwise textbook perfect cookies. However, it is also time that allows us the space to experiment, practice, and master almost anything.
When I set out on the quest to feed myself daily and not lose my mind in the process, I found myself finding myself, in the culinary sense at least. My tried and true pesto-from-a-jar, stirred with a cupful of magic starchy pasta water, mixed in with a generous snowing of freshly grated parmesan, all tossed in al dente linguine (I wouldn’t have it any other way) started to feel, if safe, a little sad after the fourth time in two weeks. As I devoured those precious bowls, cross-legged on the rug, reruns of Fleabag in the background, I found myself antsy for something more inspiring, and in a true reflection of the season at the time, something much sunnier.
Act II: Desert Island Ingredients
My inspiring friend Tala Soubra and I pioneered and established a parlor game / social experiment we often play with friends and strangers which we have come to call Desert Island Ingredients. Inspired by BBC’s Desert Island Discs, this mini-project (based mostly on oral history rather than it being documented anywhere) has spanned almost a decade, and it is rare for someone to cross my path who is not earnestly asked what their Desert Island Ingredients are. (If I haven’t asked you, tell me!)
It goes like this:
If you were destined to spend the rest of your life happy and healthy on a desert island with only five ingredients in eternal abundance, what would you choose?
There are a few rules, of course. For example, you can assume the ability to make fire, and make cooking tools. Salt is a given so you don’t have to add that to the list, and you can assume some general things, like the ability to fish or hunt, and forage (ahem) for “foragable” ingredients, but you can’t assume you’ll have an abundance of salmon or a patch of mint. If you want those things specifically, you must sacrifice a spot on your list. This game very quickly determines (a) the respondent’s level of culinary expertise, and (b) and much more importantly, their prioritization of flavor over function.
I have long-wrestled with my list, some ingredients more obvious than others. I won’t provide a definitive list yet (or ever), but I’ll (very nervously) share a working one here today (all subject to change completely at my discretion and whims!)
Olive oil — must be extra virgin and excellent
Butter (a second fat, making it very contentious) — must be French
Tomatoes (name a more versatile fruit or veggie, I’ll wait) — must be ripe and always in season
Lemons — must be sunny, juicy, and inspire happiness
This is a toss-up; the hardest one. Some days it’s obviously sugar, others I muse about the versatility of eggs. Some evenings, it’s clearly potatoes (because: French Fries.) Others it’s flour… and on the really hard days, it’s always always chocolate. In the end, I don’t think I will ever settle on a fifth, and that’s okay… half the fun is in the deciding!
One grey afternoon, no longer mourning an empty jar of pesto, and a bowl of lemons sitting picturesque and longing to be zested on my countertop, I contemplate my desert island ingredients. I imagine the perfect bite, and just like that, the sun rises in my kitchen once more.
Act III: Sunshine in a bowl
In the words of the great (or, to some, unremarkable) Malcolm Gladwell, “Researchers have settled on what they believe is the magic number for true expertise: ten thousand hours.”
Now, it hasn’t been 10,000 hours in the kitchen for me, but it has been many. I spend these hours in a moving meditation, adjusting the amount of lemon juice, substituting one pasta shape for another, adding more zest or less, throwing in a rogue ingredient or two (cherry tomatoes are a favourite), amping up the heat with fresh chilies, or covering it all in a snow of freshly grated parmesan.
What I have honed over time is my take on modern comfort food: a rich and creamy (but without any cream to speak of) lemony sauce that coats luscious strands of pasta in the warm glow of the sun. It may not be Michelin starred, but it’s mine.
For the first time in this newsletter, I’m including a recipe of my own, and invite you to try it, tweak it, and make it your own.
Sunny Lemon Linguine
There’s good news and there’s bad news. The bad news is that this recipe relies heavily on technique and timeliness (the theme of the newsletter) which cannot be ignored. The good news is that if you have your mise-en-place ready and you’re (properly and non-distractedly) focused on the task at hand, it’s as little as 15 minutes from first flame to first bite.
The most important rule for this simple recipe is to make sure you scoop out enough magic pasta water just before you’re ready to drain the pasta (I like to use a coffee mug here because it’s big and it has a handle). The second most important rule is to set a timer to 2 minutes less than you would usually cook the pasta for, because the pasta will continue to cook in the pan for a minute or two in the last step. So, if you like your pasta al dente (this is the way you always eat it if I’ve made it), go forth in confidence.
Recipe for one, and takes around 30 leisurely minutes to make, or 20 hurried ones.
INGREDIENTS
100g of spaghetti, bucatini (if you can find it), or my favourite, linguine (and if you’re hungry, make more, no-one has to know)
1 lemon, the zest and the juice
30g unsalted butter
2-3 tablespoons olive oil
1 teaspoon freshly ground black pepper
1/2 teaspoon red chili flakes
1/4 cup white wine (optional)
Parmiggano Reggiano to grate at the table (optional)
A few basil leaves (optional garnish)
METHOD
Place a large pot of water with plenty of salt over high heat, and bring it to the boil. Add the linguine and set a timer.
Separately, in a deep saucepan, add the olive oil, butter, lemon zest, black pepper, and chili flakes, and turn the heat to low, allowing it all to start melting, and the lemon zest to get fragrant (see below).
Bring the saucepan heat up to medium, and add the lemon juice, swirling it around to sizzle until it foams at the edges. If you’re using the white wine, you can add it now too, swirling for a minute or two more. Then bring the heat back down to the lowest setting.
Scoop out a cupful or two of cloudy starchy pasta water to set aside, and drain the linguine.
Add the linguine to the saucepan, stirring it for a few seconds, allowing the sauce to coat as much of it as possible.
Add a third or so of the reserved pasta water and continue to stir vigorously over low heat, adding the water in parts while you stir, until all of it has been added. As you stir, the pale yellow sauce will thicken, and coat the linguine like a dressing.
Transfer to a shallow dish and serve immediately, topped with more freshly ground pepper, some fresh basil leaves if you have them handy, and a generous grating of parmiggiano reggiano if the mood strikes you.
Pour yourself a glass of something chilled and dig in.
Stories I’m contemplating, enjoying, and absorbing
He Seduced Me With Bread by Albertina Coacci in the Modern Love column, in The New York Times. A lovely little story that spoke to me.
I Work in a Restaurant. When Will I Get Vaccinated? Am I “essential,” or not? by Jaime Wilson in GrubStreet.
Why Are Rich People So Mean? by Christopher Ryan in WIRED magazine.
“1984” (Keeping in Mind that I’ve Never Read It) by Elis Rosen in the New Yorker. This one is LOL.
‘I Feel Like I Got in Through a Side Door’: Five people who lucked into a COVID vaccine dose talk about their complicated feelings as told to Angelina Chapin in The Cut.
And that’s it for me. Sending sunshine your way! 🍋
Just before you posted this I made a vegan rendition with nutritional yeast! We have two lemon trees and this recipe is top of mind whenever I walk past them these days.
simply amazing <3 <3