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.

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.