Contrary to conventional wisdom, at this time of year when the garden is in a headlong rush to produce fruits, and you can almost watch the plants as they extend their sinewy tendrils into the air like a group of octopi doing the wave, it’s sometimes hard to know what to do with it all. This is a peculiar problem for us since hitherto we’ve been limited to the cultivation of one basil plant, one of chives, a miserable-looking tarragon, and a solitary pepper plant in pots on our fire escape, so were limited to harvesting only as much as wouldn’t kill the plant at any one time. In this context, the occasion of the annual pepper (singular) ripening was celebrated with champagne and confetti.

This year, while hardly drowning in produce, we’re finding that the gathering of some 20 or more cherry tomatoes several times a week, a glut of dark green basil and some of the most profoundly-flavored parsley we’ve ever tasted is presenting us with a conundrum: do we actually want to eat tomato and basil salad three or four times a week? Sure, we could be more imaginative, and if they were reading these lines, there would likely be a host of city-based food bloggers gnashing their teeth at our stupidity, but I am reminded of summers as a child when my grandfather’s garden would yield about nine tons of green beans during July and we’d be eating the damn things, steamed or blanched, morning, noon and night for a six weeks.

I almost feel like being deliberately controversial here and suggesting that this frustration with having to eat seasonally since the dawn of time is why we shouldn’t be so damning of the range of options offered to year-round us by the modern agro-food system. However, knowing full-well that would generate negativity among readers, as well as being more or less against our own ethos of attempting to tread lightly carbon-wise, not to mention foolishly contradicting the implicit healthiness of this practice that kept my granddad enjoying one-too many lunchtime sherries well into his nineties, I’ll keep it to myself.

Ever up for a challenge though, and, frankly, feeling rather bloody-minded, I tackled the issue of why eating seasonally can be boring head-on this weekend, and, making use of a particularly ripe pound of tomatoes, I made a kind of summery puttanesca, constituting a refreshing change from the raw fruit, but instead of stopping there and letting the seasonal flavors speak for themselves as we have been taught to do, I decided to pair the whole thing with some lascivious pork belly. I say lascivious because, even considering puttanesca’s origins among the evening workers of Naples, there’s something that makes you feel inherently guilty about pairing a fresh, organic sauce with about the richest most unctuous part of the pig.

Pan frying the slices of pork belly in its own fat, before using that fat as the base for my sauce, and deep frying the cracklins just for kicks, this was a dish to break any kind of kitchen monotony you’re experiencing, at virtually any time of year. We don’t eat a lot of pork belly and its measured use is kind of the key to remaining alive and vertical, but it does add a certain something that is literally unavailable from anything else, with the possible exception of guanciale. Indeed, had I not been frazzled by the heat and had pounds of fresh tomatoes weighing down on my brain, I would have used guanciale and turned this whole thing somewhere between puttanesca and al’amatriciana . However, I’m pretty happy that I didn’t, the briny, assertive character of the capers kept the belly’s richness somehow balanced, as did the acidity of the fresh tomatoes that might not have been present out of a can. In fact, I might consider eating seasonally more often if it meant I could dine in this kind of style.

It might be generational, or, perhaps, philosophical, but there are, on the one hand, those who enjoy and appreciate handmade things, and the art and craft they require to make, and, on the other, those who prefer their things machine-made, reliable, and standard. The ‘things’ here could be quite literally anything. My father, who, to me, is the quintessential scientist and pragmatist, believes that most, if not all, advances for the betterment of mankind have come as a result of the increased use and application of machines, technology and science. In fact, he would argue, I’m sure, that this blog is evidence of the fact that even something as Luddite as cooking can be improved through the application of technology, though regular readers – with good reason – may not agree.

My mother was cut from very different cloth however, and, though a nurse who believed sincerely in the power of modern medicine, sanitation and inoculation, she was a true amateuse of a hand-turned chair-leg, a cut-glass goblet, and, much to the detriment of my appearance during my tender years, a hand-knitted sweater.  She was also a great lover of gardening, baking bread and, despite the fact that it rarely worked, yogurt-making. I think it’s from her that I get most of my culinary instincts, as the very notion of spending three or four hours in the kitchen doing anything would horrify my dad.

Pasta-rollers, like all machines, were invented for three main reasons: (1) to produce more quickly what used to take a long time (2) as a uniform-quality product, and (3) so that the resulting free time could be spent either more enjoyably or industriously. The assumption behind it seems to be that it makes it easier to make something that is typically quite tricky, and that the making of it by hand was a laborious pain in the ass. Those who have used a pasta roller, whether the hand-crank variety or the KitchenAid attachment, know, as we do, that it is a fabulous invention and enables even the busiest gastronome to home-make great fresh pasta in a relatively short time. They might also have found that it is actually fun to use because it combines the joy of mixing a dough by hand with the ease and convenience of not having to roll it out and cut it yourself.

Taking this notion of fun to its logical extreme this past weekend, I decided to devote my entire Sunday to doing the whole thing – the mixing, the rolling and the cutting – by hand. In spite of the recipe book’s warning that it was a painstaking exercise, I had little idea of what I was getting into. I now have a profound appreciation both for labor-saving machines, and the unique taste, texture and satisfaction derived from hand-rolled pasta.

But it is more than that. I learned something about myself on Sunday. In some ways, it was a revelation. I had always thought that I appreciated handmade things, particularly food and wine, with the all patience, care and skills that their creation implies, but I had never actually tested myself to see if I could enjoy hand-making something that required real patience and physical effort.  And, while there certainly were moments in which I did not enjoy being patient or the physical effort, on the whole, I really did find the process to be incredibly rewarding – relaxing almost. Not only did I (eventually, and with several abortive attempts) make some absolutely first-class pasta, but I learned a new technique and was, in the end, able to enjoy the fruits of my labor in a way I never have before.

Pici Keen

Famous for the lavish displays of wealth and the beautiful arts of the Renaissance found in Florence, Siena, Lucca and Pisa, Tuscans are, by contrast, rather austere in their culinary inclinations with their love of simple grilled meats, stewed beans and saltless bread. Such austerity requires the freshest and best ingredients in order to be delicious, and, fortuitously, Tuscany offers these up in great bounty. Similarly, it often requires great effort and technique.

So it is with Pici (also known as pinci — hand-rolled, eggless Tuscan thick spaghetti — perhaps the best example of this cucina povera (poor man’s cuisine) — utilizing only 00 flour, water, green Tuscan olive oil and a lot of time and effort. Indeed, it is my belief that what the poor, historically, lacked in wealth they more than make up for in patience, and disposable time. Originating from the Val d’Orcia region (the area between Montalcino and Montepulciano), pici are usually eaten with a rich meat sauce, often containing porcini mushrooms, but any hearty meat or game ragu would be a good choice.

The duck ragu recipe below is typical of the region of Arezzo which is the area where we got married in June 2007, and making it engendered all those kinds of warm feelings one gets from a house filled with delicious smells and the wonderful memories of the time of our lives.

Learning a new skill, and in this case, a new recipe, is a matter of managing to overcome self-doubt. Before you attempt making pici, I would highly recommend you try making a regular long pasta with an egg dough, so that you understand how it should feel and look. It will also allow you to develop a sense about the right elasticity of a good dough which will be useful even though Pici dough is a very different creature altogether.

If you follow the exact instructions below, you’ll probably find that your dough feels too dry and too heavy. Do not be afraid to add more water and more oil as you see fit because eggless doughs can easily become brittle when allowed to be too dry. However, do not abandon hope. I urge you to stick with the basis of the recipe (allowing for various seasonal, regional, altitudinal and indoor-outdoor climactic conditions) and overcome your fears of impending culinary disaster, as they will not materialize. If it feels too dry, add more water. Too wet, add flour until it feels right. One word of caution, though: be sparing in any additions of liquid or lipids because at the hand-rolling stage you will be adding extra olive oil to reduce friction and facilitate the rolling process, and you don’t want to find at that stage that you have to start all over again.

Also, do give yourself plenty of time. An otherwise lazy Sunday afternoon is perfect for this, as not only does the pasta make a perfect Sunday night dinner, but, more importantly, it gives you time to rest as you go along. Making enough pici for four people can be a tiring business, even if there are two of you on the job. One final proviso, do not treat pici like regular fresh pasta — i.e. sprinkle it liberally with flour and allow to set-up and dry for a while prior to cooking. I refer to my earlier comments when I say that pici can dry out and become brittle very quickly, so when you make them, plan to eat them within, at most, a couple of hours. This might appear like a disadvantage but it’s not because once cooked they are probably more robust than regular pastas and even reheat remarkably well.

So, please try making this dish. The sauce is easy and indescribably good (I know everyone says that about their food, but, really, this is very special), and the pasta is a great reward for some hard graft both corporeally and in that it offers a real sense of achievement. By the time you’re done, you’ll have sore shoulders but will have mastered the rolling technique perfectly. As a result, pasta-making will have transcended the bland uniformity of the machine-age and become what all good food should be: absolutely unique and deeply personal.

Anyone who takes even the briefest glance at our body of work on this blog cannot fail to notice that we have a definite proclivity towards the porcine, and so it is that this top five is perhaps the most hotly contested monthly selection thus far.

The pig is, in our humble opinion, the greatest animal on earth, and picking only five products made from its wondrous bounty was a difficult thing. Beatific smiles spread across our faces as we considered our porky love and suggested different products and cuts of the beast, but, after much debate, a surprising consensus form between us, with only two points of disagreement.

Let us know what your favorite pork products are and win a package of pork-related kitchen goodies.

Amy & Jonny’s Top Five Pork Products:
1. guanciale (cured pig’s jowls) - Jonny: switch out for Spanish cured lomo
2. chorizo (pimenton flavored cured sausage)
3. jamon iberico (special Spanish ham)
4. chicharrones (fried pork rinds)
5. scrapple (a Philadelphia tradition made with lots of bits of pig and cornmeal) - Jonny: switch out for unsmoked English back bacon rashers

I’ve just died and gone to heaven. I just cooked with guanciale (cured pigs jowels/cheeks). I just ate guanciale while sitting back on my couch in my crowded, rent-is-just-too-damn-high apartment watching TV. If only every night could be like this.

If you read our blog (or know us personally) you will know how important Italy is in our lives. We were engaged in Rome and married in Tuscany. Because of our wedding, we ended up spending a total of almost 6 weeks all over Italy starting with our engagement in May, 2006 until our wedding in June, 2007. It has a very big place in our hearts and our stomachs! I think we each gained nine or ten pounds during our three week wedding/honeymoon this past summer. And I do not care that I probably still have not lost all of it. We ate two large meals a day and always had wine with our lunch, there ain’t any amount of walking that’s gonna melt those calories away.

One of our favorite places to eat while in Rome is right across the river from our favorite Roman neighborhood to stay in, Trastevere. We take the short walk across the Tiber to the Jewish Ghetto and up the building stairs to Al Pompiere. Al Pompiere is frequented by locals as well as smart tourists (you should not see any sneakers, oversized t-shirts or fanny/bum bag-wearing toolbags). Their food is very tradional Jewish-Roman cuisine. They have excellent Fried Artichokes and we’ve tasted about 6 of their pastas – all excellent. But, this is where we first tried Bucatini Al’amatriciana – a classic pasta dish from Lazio. It is named after a small town called Amatrice. Supposedly there are different ways to prepare this dish. In Amatrice they do not use onions, but in other areas you will taste them in the dish. Purists do not add garlic and purists would also only use guanciale. I love garlic and guanciale is often difficult to find in the States, so you can choose to be a purist or not. I’ve read others make this dish here in America with pancetta (next best thing to guanciale) or bacon (I guess it’s the second best thing to guanciale). Personally, after eating this dish in Italy many times and now creating it myself with guanciale, I can not imagine substituting it with anything else. I think I’m officially an Al’amatriciana snob, but maybe that’s because the last 4 times I’ve eaten this dish has been with guanciale.

After our honeymoon, I decided to (sneakily) smuggle a 3/4 pound slab of guanciale in my suitcase back to the US. At the airport, we had on our best “no, we don’t have any meat products in our possession” faces while we got through customs. But that was 6 months ago. The beautiful pig cheek slab has sat in our freezer in shrinkwrapped plastic waiting until the day was right to bring smiles to our faces and our guts. We couldn’t resist any longer – we finally ripped it open and created a pretty bang-on variation of the dish we ate many times in Italy. I know hands – down it was the guanciale. GOD BLESS PIGS JOWLS!

But, readers, PLEASE don’t think this dish wouldn’t be absolutely delicious without guanciale and with pancetta. It just may not have that specific rich, porky flavor that the pig cheeks have. We have about 1/2 of our slab left, so after one more meal 1/2 it will sadly be gone forever. Until my local butcher starts selling it, I will too be making this with pancetta.

PERCIATELLI (OR SPAGHETTI/BUCATINI) AL’AMATRICIANA

Ingredients

• 1/2 pound cured pigs cheeks (guanciale) or pancetta, thinly sliced
• 2 onions very thinly sliced (use a mandolin if available)
• 2 garlic cloves, thinly sliced
• 1/2 cup Pecorino Romano cheese
• 2 1/2 cups Amy’s Tomato Sauce (see below)
• 1 pound perciatelli, bucatini or spaghetti

What to do:

1. Reheat your Tomato Sauce, keep warmed on low.
2. Take your sliced guanciale or pancetta and cook on both sides on medium to medium-low. You want to just render some of the fat, not completely crisp up. After a few minutes, take the strips out and let drain on a paper towel. DO NOT THROW OUT ALL THE RENDERED FAT! Put most in separate bowl, keeping about 1-2 tablespoons in the pan.
3. On medium-low heat, throw in your thinly sliced onions and slow cook these in the rendered guanciale/pancetta fat. This process could take up to 25-30minutes to sweat them down, but it’s WORTH it. The sweetness of the onions when cooked this way can not be duplicated without slow cooking them. You want to make sure you keep stirring them every once in awhile. Add more rendered pork fat if the onions look like they need it.
4. Boil water for your pasta. Add your pasta to cook.
5. Meanwhile, when guanciale/pancetta is cool enough to handle, cut into chunks about 1 inch long by 1/2 inch wide pieces.
6. Add the garlic to the pan and then the guanciale/pancetta pieces. Allow to cook along with the onions for 3 minutes. Continue to stir.
7. Add 1 1/2 cup of pasta sauce to the pan. Stir the sauce.
8. Drain pasta, reserving a few tablespoons of the pasta water. Add the pasta to the pan along with the pasta water. Toss with the sauce. Add more tomato sauce if necessary — remember never to oversauce your pasta!
9. Allow to cook in the pan on low for a minute and then add pecorino. Toss and serve! Sprinkle some parsley on top for some green.

AMY’S TOMATO SAUCE (makes 3 1/2 cups):

• 1 28-oz. can of crushed tomatoes (san marzano preferred)
• 1 onion, diced
• 4 cloves garlic, minced and 2 cloves garlic, smashed w/ back of a knife
• olive oil
• salt
• 4-5 basil leaves, torn
• peperoncino (optional)

What to do:

1. Saute your onions in olive oil until slightly soft (4 minutes).
2. Add your minced garlic and saute for another minute or so.
3. Add the can of crushed tomatoes and stir. Add one teaspoon of olive oil, a pinch of salt and the crushed garlic allow to simmer for 30-40 minutes. The flavors will reduce together. Add peperoncino if you want a spicier sauce. Finish sauce with a little bit of olive oil and stir in torn basil leaves.