Thursday evenings can be a little fraught at our usually-peaceful house. We’ve soldiered through most of our weekly obligations, and we’re getting tired. I want a few minutes of peace after work. (Seriously, is that too much to ask?) Edna, our standard poodle, wants a walk. She looks at me all askance.  My five-year-old wants my attention, and he’ll stop at almost nothing to get it. My husband wants exercise, which helps him maintain his enviable even keel. God knows someone around here needs an even keel. So there we all are, wanting things we may or may not get. And we’re hungry.

Nights like this, when my patience is frayed and everybody wants something, I want simple comfort food. When I say comfort, I mean delicious, hearty, and warm. When I say simple, I mean just a few minutes of cooking, a few ingredients we have on hand, and not much chopping or clean-up. By this measure, Pasta Puttanesca may just be the perfect food. Puttanesca’s miraculous effort-to-flavor ratio has defused countless crabby Thursday dinners.

If you are squeamish about anchovies, I sympathize. I eat anchovies, but I eat everything.  Even so, I’m a little leery of anchovy ambush. Anchovies can pack a punch. Plus, they look like hairy worms. But anchovy-haters, please believe me. The anchovy here is a subtle, salty undercurrent: heartening and perfect, like the smell of the ocean. Your innocent taste buds (who are just trying to remain civil on a testy Thursday evening, after all) will not be assaulted by giant stabs of fishiness. The anchovy dissolves and lingers, lending complexity to what would otherwise be merely a plucky tomato sauce. If you wonder what mysterious force drives you to lick your plate indecorously and demand seconds:  It’s the anchovies.

I’ve made Puttanesca more than any other meal in my life, unless you count grilled cheese. My family never tires of it. Even my son (who pretty much subsists on fruit, nuts, and breakfast cereal) loves it. For him, I serve just the sauce-soaked noodles, doing my level best to avoid dishing up the dreaded “chunks” in the sauce.  (You may fault me for indulging the no-chunk decree, but it’s a battle I choose not to fight. Life is short, and he comes by his strong opinions about food honestly.)

I’m not sure how to attribute this recipe. It’s as old as the Italian hills. I’ve seen many Puttanesca recipes. They all have pretty much the same ingredients. I’ve adapted this one quite a bit over the fifteen years since I first copied it from a book called 365 Ways to Cook Pasta, by Marie Simmons.

PASTA PUTTANESCA  - serves four to six
(I usually halve the recipe and it’s more than enough for two adults and a picky five-year-old)

1 pound dried pasta
¼ cup olive oil
4 garlic cloves, minced
½ teaspoon hot red-pepper chili flakes
1 tablespoon dried oregano
1 28-ounce can small-diced tomatoes, with juice
½ cup pitted Kalamata olives, chopped
4 teaspoons capers, rinsed
8 anchovy fillets (less than a two-ounce can), minced
½ cup parsley, chopped

Bring a large pot of salted water to a boil for the pasta. Cook the pasta until it’s barely al dente. Reserve a half-cup of the pasta cooking liquid.

Meanwhile, heat olive oil over medium heat in a large skillet. Add garlic and chili flakes and sauté until the garlic is golden, about 30 seconds.  

Add tomatoes, olives, capers, and oregano. Simmer gently for about ten minutes.

Add anchovies and parsley and simmer two or three more minutes.

Add pasta and reserved pasta water. Toss the pasta and sauce and heat for another minute or two.

Tis the season for Dungeness crab in these parts. I got caught up in the excitment and bought four crabs on sale. My idea was to toss them on the table for our guests that night, and let the adults have at them with an assortment of pliers and nutcrackers and such. I’d provide melted butter and lemon juice. Easy, right? I thought it sounded novel and fun. My husband thought it sounded tedious and messy. He felt so strongly that he volunteered to pick the meat.  I jumped in for the novelty and fun…

Turns out it takes a long time to pick the meat out of four recalcitrant crabs. We didn’t have the right tools, or the right attitude. But after a spate of cracking and cussing and stabbing and picking, we ended up with a spectacular mountain of crab. (For the record, two crabs are more than enough for this recipe. You can also buy already-picked crab meat, if you promise not to complain about the cost. Picking crab is hard work.) Once I finished admiring our handiwork, I realized I had to come up with something crabbish to serve our friends, who were arriving imminently.

I’ve never even heard of crab risotto. But once I got the idea in my head, I couldn’t let it go. I pondered adding all sorts of other ingredients, but I ended up discarding most of them in the interest of simplicity. I didn’t want to get in the crab’s face with too much stuff. Crab has a subtle flavor that wants a delicate touch.

Never before have I made risotto without parmesan, but crab and parmesan don’t jibe to my way of thinking.  So I relied on butter for richness, because crab and butter are pretty much soul mates.  Lemon got an invitation to the rather exclusive party, too, because lemon is just that cool. Other than that, it was a mighty basic risotto, mostly just designed to build a suitable stage for the crab. Which it did beautifully, if I do say so.

My friend Sarah called in the midst of my “What exactly would a crab risotto look like?” moment. She suggested putting big bites of crab right on top of each serving. This made for a lovely presentation and a sumptuous first bite. She also had the bright idea to boil the shells for the risotto stock. But alas, I had already tossed them in a fit of pique. Next time I’ll do that. This time I used half chicken stock and half water and a few extra glugs of white wine. You could try fish stock or clam juice. Just taste as you go and don’t be afraid. You can switch to water if the flavor of your liquid is getting too strong. Risotto is very forgiving.

CRAB RISOTTO
serves four

3 tablespoons olive oil
2 shallots, chopped fine (about 1/2 cup)
1 cup Arborio rice
1 cup white wine
4 cups  of stock made from boiling the crab shells (or substitute 2 cups of chicken stock and 2 cups of water…see last paragraph above)
3 tablespoons butter
1 tablespoon lemon zest
¼ cup lemon juice
salt and pepper to taste
2 cups crab meat at room temperature, divided (one cup of the bigger bits, one cup of the smaller shreds)
¼ cup chopped parsley
¼ chopped green onion
4 lemon wedges

Heat olive oil over medium-high heat in a large pan.

Add rice and stir to coat it with oil. Saute rice for about two minutes.

Add shallots and sauté until soft, about three more minutes.

Add white wine and reduce heat to medium. Cook at a gentle simmer, stirring frequently, until the wine is almost completely absorbed.

Add stock a half-cup at a time. With each addition, stir occasionally until the liquid is almost absorbed. Then add another half cup. (You may not need the whole four cups. Taste the rice as you go. You want the grains to remain separate from one another and not get gloppy. Cook it just long enough that the rice no longer crunches when you bite it.) This process will take about 25 or 30 minutes.

Add the butter, lemon zest, and lemon juice. Stir until they are incorporated.

Remove the pan from the heat. Add the cup of small crab bits and stir gently. Taste for seasoning and add more salt, pepper, or lemon as needed.

Divide the risotto between four plates. Put a quarter cup of big crab bits atop each serving.

Sprinkle parsley and green onion on top, and serve with a lemon wedge.

This recipe comes from the Sopranos. As in Tony and Carmela. As in the blockbuster HBO series which I sort of missed, I’m afraid. But never mind. Apparently there was a cookbook inspired by the food on the show. (If I’d known food featured so prominently, I might’ve watched it.)

This baked ziti is classic Italian-American cheesy-tomatoey-starchy fare. It’s hearty and warming in all the right ways. So much so that an Oregonian might just wish for a cold, rainy day to set the mood for tucking into a steaming plate of this creamy, sausage-laden goodness. If you live in Oregon, you realize just how pathological that is.

Would you believe I’ve never eaten baked ziti before last night? Lasagna? I’ve made hundreds. Penne tossed with just about everything under the sun? Yes. I’ve eaten enough spaghetti noodles to wrap twice around the equator. But somehow baked ziti never once made it onto my radar until I read this recipe on The Hungry Dog and started drooling.

I made a 9 x 13 pan of baked ziti weighing about thirty pounds. That’s for two of us, so it looks like we’ll be eating it for awhile, which works for me. (Yes, there are three in my family. But my child doesn’t like cheese. How is this possible?)

So, if you want to pretend you’re Tony Soprano, go ahead and tuck a napkin into your collar. Now imagine savoring your baked ziti after a long, tiring day of drinking in strip joints and brutally murdering people who crossed you. (I did see a few episodes…) No one appreciates how hard it is to be a mob boss. It’s a thankless job. But surely this much ricotta and mozzarella and parmesan can smooth your ruffled mobster feathers. Or at least weigh them down for awhile. Mangia.

BAKED ZITI WITH ITALIAN SAUSAGE
serves six

1/4 c. olive oil
1 lb. Italian sausage (I used half sweet and half spicy)
1 large onion, finely chopped
2 garlic cloves, finely chopped
salt and pepper to taste
1/3 c. dry red wine
35 ounces canned tomatoes, chopped with their juices
1/4 c. fresh oregano OR 2 T. dried oregano
1 c. fresh ricotta (I used whole milk ricotta, oh yeah…)
1 c. grated parmesan
1/3 c. chopped Italian parsley
1 lb ziti
1/2 lb fresh mozzarella sliced thin

Preheat the oven to 425. Bring a large pot of salted water to a boil. Grease a 9 x 13 baking dish with about 1 T. olive oil. Remove sausage from its casing and crumble. Set aside.

Heat remaining 3 tablespoons olive oil in a large skillet over medium heat. Add onion and sauté until translucent. Turn up heat to medium high and add sausage; brown for about 6 minutes. Add the garlic and cook for 1-2 minutes longer. Season with salt and pepper.

Add wine and let it reduce for about 6 minutes or until it is almost gone.

Add tomatoes and their juices and cook over medium heat for about 10 minutes. When the sauce begins to thicken, add the oregano and stir well. Remove from heat.

Cook pasta until just barely al dente. (Do not cook completely). Drain. Toss pasta with ricotta, parmesan, and parsley. Add tomato and sausage sauce and toss again.

Pour the mixture into the baking dish, sprinkle with remaining parmesan, and dot with mozzarella. Bake 15-20 minutes, or until the top is nicely browned.

You know how some foods hold you hostage? You eat bite after bite, all the while wondering:  What is that flavor? What makes this so irresistible? Why am I taking yet another serving? Well this is one of those recipes. I hate to ruin the surprise, but the hostage-taker is preserved lemon. It looks innocent enough, all slumped and yellow in the jar, floating in its pool of lemony brine. But preserved lemon takes what would be an ordinary pasta salad (yawn) and makes into one of those stellar, memorable, “I can’t stop eating this” dishes.

Sure, there are other great things going on in this mix. Israeli couscous and toasted nuts. Roasted butternut squash and sautéed onion.  But the hostage drama all hinges on the lemon. If you haven’t tried preserved lemon, now’s the time. You don’t have to make your own. You can buy some. But don’t miss out. How often do you get to welcome a whole new hostage-taking, non-negotiating ingredient into the fold? Preserving lemons takes their sourness away, leaving a sweet, flowery and salty bit of heaven behind. I’m sure there’s a scientific explanation for this transformation, but I prefer to think of it as magic.

The only thing that gave me pause about trying this recipe was the number of pans involved. (Three.) But it’s worth it. I wouldn’t steer you wrong on such a substantive matter. The fact that this recipe makes the unfussy cut despite the high pan count is a true testament to its tastiness.

We ate this as a side dish with grilled pork chops. But it would make an impressive vegetarian main course. It’s also a notable potluck dish, as its served room at temperature. Hey, it’s even vegan! How about that?

ISRAELI COUSCOUS WITH BUTTERNUT SQUASH AND PRESERVED LEMON 
adapted from this recipe in Gourmet, makes eight generous servings

1 preserved lemon (available at Whole Foods, gourmet shops, and middle-eastern markets)
1 ½ pound butternut squash, peeled and seeded, and cut into 1/4-inch dice*
4 tablespoons olive oil
1 large onion, chopped
1 pound Israeli couscous
1 cup chopped fresh flat-leaf parsley
1 cup roasted salted pecans, chopped**
¾  cup golden raisins
½ teaspoon ground cinnamon
salt & pepper

Preheat oven to 475 degrees.

Toss squash with one tablespoon olive oil on a large, rimmed baking sheet. Sprinkle with salt and pepper, and roast for about twelve minutes, stirring once. Put roasted squash in a large bowl.

Heat two tablespoons olive oil in a large skillet over medium high heat. Saute onions in oil until they are just golden, about seven minutes. Add onions to large bowl with squash.

Cook Israeli couscous in a large pan of boiling water until tender, about ten minutes. Drain but don’t rinse. Add couscous to squash and onion mixture. Salt generously, add a tablespoon of olive oil, and toss.

Scrape the pulp out of the preserved lemon and dice the peel finely. Add diced peel to the couscous and vegetables. Add a tablespoon of the brine from the jar of lemons.

Add nuts, parsley, raisins, and cinnamon to the bowl. Toss. Taste for seasoning and add more salt, cinnamon, or lemon to taste.

*Butternut squash poses a challenge to the lazy cook. The peel is thick and hard, making a vegetable peeler too slow for my money. So here’s my speedier method: With a big knife, I cut the long skinny neck from the bulbous, seed-filled end of the squash. I cut off the stem end, leaving a big cylinder of squash. Then I stand it on a cut end, and cut the peel off from top to bottom using my big knife. I lose some meat, since the knife is straight and the squash is round. But I gain precious serenity not wrestling the squash peel. Once I have a big skinned length of squash neck, I turn it on its side and cut across it forming “rounds.” (They look more like stop signs.) Then I chop them. Unless I need more squash, I don’t even use the bulbous seeded part. I’m not proud of this wasteful practice. I’m just not a patient person.

**The recipe called for pine nuts. But have you heard of “pine mouth?” It’s a weird affliction caused by eating some pine nuts. I don’t think it’s been determined exactly which pine nuts. It makes everything you eat taste like metal, and it can last for weeks. My husband suffered a bout of it, making us a little gun-shy about pine nuts for the time being. The pecans were delicious, but next time around I think I’ll take my chances and try toasted pine nuts.

Cherry tomatoes are the essence of summer, but do they have to be so prolific? I’m a little embarrassed for them. It’s like they had one too many drinks at a party and started singing. We have three kinds of cherry tomatoes in our garden. I suppose they have varietal names, but I call them greenish-yellow, bright orange, and greenish-red. You can use any of the pretty little tomatoes that are cluttering your life right now.

What is farro, you ask? It’s some sort of wheat grown in Italy. If you’re like me, you skip right over recipes that call for ingredients you’ve never heard of.  I get that. I do. But humor me just this once. You have to do SOMETHING with all those tomatoes, right? Aren’t you sick of your go-to grains? Branch out! You won’t regret it.  I had to go to my very earnest, locally-owned, kind-of-expensive grocery store to find farro. The one that would be my regular grocery store if I were a better person.

(Word to the wise: Do not believe the kind employee of your local earnest grocery when she tells you that farro and spelt are the same thing. Look! You can buy spelt in bulk for a dollar a pound! Avoid evil packaging! Banish the massive carbon footprint of imported food! I fell for it. I felt pretty smug and green until I read in this New York Times article that farro and spelt are not the same thing. Not at all. So I DROVE BACK to the earnest grocery just to buy farro, at which point the carbon footprint of this meal was up to a size 18-EEE. If anyone wants a big bag of spelt, it’s all yours.)

This salad is summer in a dish. With so few ingredients, the flavors have enough room assert themselves as the lovely individuals they are. Farro is the perfect foil. It is just chewy enough, and just nutty enough to offset the bright acid tomato flavor-bombs. When you add chunks of manchego for richness, slivered basil, and a splash of olive oil and balsamic vinegar, you’ve got yourself a taste sensation. It makes a hearty lunch by itself. We’ve also eaten it as a dinner side dish, with grilled Italian sausages.

Cherry Tomato and Farro Salad (serves four as a side dish)

• 1 cup farro
• 2 pints cherry tomatoes
• ¼ cup basil leaves, packed
• ½ pound manchego (or some other nutty but not-to-pungent cheese)
• 3 tablespoons olive oil
• 1 tablespoon balsamic vinegar (or more to taste)
• 1 teaspoon kosher salt (or more to taste…Don’t skimp. Salt is the magic ingredient here.)
• Fresh ground black pepper to taste

In a medium saucepan, cover the farro in water and soak for thirty minutes. Pour off the soaking water and add six cups of fresh water.

Bring water to a boil, then reduce to a simmer. Simmer uncovered for about 25 minutes. Taste as you go to determine when it’s done. Crunchy isn’t done yet. Mushy is overcooked. You want slightly chewy. Don’t worry, it’s very forgiving stuff.

While your farro is cooking, slice the tomatoes in half, and cut the basil leaves into thin slivers.

Cut the manchego into half-inch dice.

Drain the farro. Rinse with cold water and drain again.

Toss drained farro with tomatoes, basil, cheese, olive oil, vinegar, salt and pepper.

Serve at room temperature.