Generic picture of spaghetti with meat sauce |
Last Thursday I made spaghetti for dinner. It turned out to be an inspired decision, but
at the time I was just trying to do something with the two pounds of cooked
hamburger meat that had been sitting in the fridge for several days. Exactly how many days I can’t say, but I’m
using the word several in its highly elastic sense. It was long enough, at least, that I was
close to losing my nerve and throwing away $7.32 worth of 80/20.
I also had a veritable heap of pasta left over from dinner
the night before, which is why spaghetti was the obvious choice. I don’t do all my menu planning this way, but
when you can kill two birds with one stone, you should do it, right? Anyway, I thought if I made a meat sauce from
scratch to put over the noodles, maybe no one would notice that we were eating
old hamburger mixed with old pasta.
So I found a recipe online for a homemade spaghetti sauce whose
ingredient list matched what I was fairly confident we already had in the
house. Many times I will come up against
a recipe I would love to try, but then discover we’re missing a key ingredient
or two. In these situations, there are a
few things I can do: make forced
substitutions, or order pizza. This is
why, in our house, when we’re not eating pizza, chicken parmesan is sometimes
made with canned tuna.
Another generic picture of spaghetti w/meat sauce |
After several minutes spent trying to memorize the recipe
off the computer screen, I concluded that it would be easier, and quicker, to just
run back and forth between the kitchen and my desk as many times as necessary. I focused only on the first step, which was
to cut up one medium-sized onion, and four cloves of garlic. For some reason it’s always the little ambiguities
that get me when I cook. I know what an
onion is. But do I really know exactly what
constitutes a medium-sized onion? How
big, exactly, is medium? I lined up my
three suspects on the counter, and pondered each carefully. Yes, they were definitely onions. And they were all almost identical in size. But were they all medium, or were they all
something else? I was already at a definite
disadvantage working with old hamburger and pasta; I didn’t want to compound my
problems by over-onioning or under-onioning the sauce. I stared them down, hoping one of them would
crack and spill the scallions. After
several long moments, I realized that my youngest daughter was watching me, so
I pretended to be examining the onions very carefully for blemishes. After the kid wandered off, I selected the
most average-looking one, and then, so I wouldn’t be tempted to second-guess
myself, hid the other two in a nearby cookie jar.
I peeled off the onion’s papery skin and placed it on the
cutting board. I began to dice it the
way I’ve seen Alton Brown do on those Food Network shows. Halfway through, though, I realized that I
had lost the trick of it (as if I’d ever had
it), because my onion was looking as mangled as if it had been set upon by an
angry pack of hamsters. To finish the
job I had to resort to my more primitive approach of random, frenzied
chopping. I ended up with a pile of onion
pieces that ran the gamut from the size of a grain of rice to slices that
looked more like the toenail clippings of a rhinoceros. The garlic was easier, if only because the
small, slippery nature of those peeled cloves demanded close attention. I didn’t dare try to cut them with the same
kind of dazzling speed displayed by the experts on TV; I’d be down three
fingers before I knew what had happened.
And that, of course, would create more work as I would have to separate
the finger bits from the garlic bits before proceeding with the recipe. No, sir.
Slow and steady is the name of the game when it comes to dicing
garlic.
I finished chopping and scraped the onion and garlic into a pan,
and turned on the burner. Most people
would have turned the burner on first, to let the pan heat up while they cut, and
I would have too, but I somehow forgot until the last moment that a pan was
necessary for making meat sauce. In my
defense, though, the recipe never mentioned a pan*. For all I knew, this could have been one of
those cook-directly-on-the-burner recipes that are all the rage in Parisian
couture cuisine these days.
* Actually, it did. I guess I somehow missed it in all the
running back and forth between the kitchen and the computer.
About five minutes later, it hit me that I had failed to add
some olive oil to the pan with the onions and the garlic. Glad to have
remembered before it was too late, I poured a little into the pan and then
ducked quickly as the oil spewed up in a small, superheated geyser. I immediately made a mental note not to do
that again, and by that, I mean ducking.
While it was reassuring to know the ol’ reflexes were as sharp as ever, that
comfort was short-lived and quickly replaced by the knowledge that hot oil is
still really hot, even when it has to fall a few extra feet to hit you. It would have been better to jump back
instead, or maybe just eliminate the problem altogether by wearing welder’s
gear.
By now, an experienced cook surely would have pushed me out
of the way and assumed control, exiling me from the kitchen for my failure to
follow certain basic procedures. But
cooking for me is an amateur sport, thrust upon me by necessity without any
kind of formal training. To compensate,
I have invented my own style of cooking.
I call it cooking by intuition. The
nice part about cooking by intuition is that is simplifies such annoying
trivialities like cooking time, and temperature. The bad part is that you never really know if
dinner’s going to turn out okay, even if it’s something you’ve made two dozen times
before. There’s always that element of
unpredictability, because you can never remember exactly what you did last time
with the grilled salmon, when it turned out to be so succulent, or what you
didn’t do that caused the chicken to come out pinker than the salmon. Taking notes, or making any sort of effort to
retain crucial information really, would directly violate the spirit of cooking
by intuition. And besides, what’s life
without the risk of an occasional bout of botulism anyway?
Meat sauce the way it's probably supposed to be made - in a pot. Obviously, this is not my photo. |
I should mention that the recipe called for a can of tomato
paste, which I didn’t have. I was
thinking forced substitution at that point, and seized upon ketchup as a
possible replacement ingredient, as they are both tomato products. But in slowly turning the sauce, I saw that it
actually looked pretty good the way it was, rich-looking without being stiff, so
I abandoned the ketchup-for-tomato-paste substitution. After
that, I just let it simmer for about twenty minutes. I know prevailing wisdom suggests that for
spaghetti sauce, longer is better, but it was already six o’clock, and by that
point I had three females all possessed to various degrees by what we call in
our house “the hunger monster.”
It took all of three minutes to heat up the leftover pasta
in the microwave, and then dinner was served.
No French bread, no salad, no candles plugged into wine bottles. If I’m cooking, and I say we’re having
spaghetti, that’s exactly what I mean.
Spaghetti. A one-course
meal. No one starves. Mission
accomplished.
Now, if you were sitting down to eat the result of what I’ve
just described, your expectations probably wouldn’t be very high, would
they? Come on, it’s okay, you can admit
it. You’re not going to hurt my
feelings. To spare my feelings, you might
tell me your tummy was a little off, excuse yourself, and spend the next hour
in the bathroom just to make it look convincing. Then, around eight-thirty, I’d catch you in
the pantry, huddled in the dark, quietly nibbling on a saltine. I know.
In reading over what I did to that poor meat sauce, I would’ve done the
same thing.
Yet another generic picture of spaghetti w/meat sauce. Note the subtle twist (no pun intended) provided by the fork. |
Three days later, we’re all still eating the leftovers, and talking
up the spaghetti, and saying how it might even be better now than it was the
first night (yes, that’s right, the hamburger is now three days older).
Now, I’m not sure what the message in all this is. I’ve spent a lot of time thinking about it,
because it is my wont to find lessons in all the strange little things that
happen in my life. By all rights, dinner
should have been a complete flop, if not a communal exercise in projectile
vomiting. Somehow, the old hamburger,
day-old pasta, the violations of protocol and the deviations from the recipe
all conspired to create a masterpiece.
How did that happen? More
importantly, why?
Maybe the message is a hopeful one. Maybe it means that sometimes you can screw
up just about everything, and still end up with something good, great even.
Maybe it means there’s a future for the new culinary art of
cooking by intuition.
Or maybe it just means it’s really, really hard to mess up homemade spaghetti sauce.
Whatever the reason, I invite you to try it sometime. See for yourself. Follow as much or as little of the following
recipe as you like. If you don’t want to
let your cooked hamburger age in the fridge for the better part of a week,
don’t. If you want to use a pot instead
of a pan, be my guest. I just hope that
whatever you do, you end up with a good batch of spaghetti sauce. A good spaghetti dinner can be a salve to the
spirit, and a balm to the soul.
And remember, like my mom always says, “Enough garlic can
cover up a host of sins, except bad breath.”
And that’s coming from a woman without a single drop of Italian blood.
Bon appétit, readers!
Kev’s Really Gnarly Meat Sauce
Ingredients
2 lbs. ground beef (cooked and then stored in the fridge for
as long as you dare)
1 medium onion (you’re on your own for the medium part)
5 big cloves of garlic (this one isn’t so hard; just pull
apart a head of garlic and pick out the biggest ones)
Olive oil
2 cans of tomato sauce (14 - 16 oz. size)
1 can of diced tomatoes (16 oz. size)
1 can of tomato paste or equivalent amount of ketchup
(optional – I’m just hoping someone tries the ketchup and then reports back)
3 tsp. Italian seasoning (the recipe called for just oregano
and basil, but I didn’t have any oregano, so I used McCormick Tuscan-style
Italian Seasoning, which has both but also includes other spices like thyme,
marjoram, sage, and rosemary (blech!). I
wish I could have tried it with just the oregano and basil, but of course that
would have meant a special trip to the store, and it should be clear by now
that I cater to no recipe).
1 tsp. salt
1 tsp. pepper
Welder’s gear (helmet, gloves, jumpsuit, steel-toed boots)
To prepare:
1 Dice the
onion to the best of your ability, and then do the same for the garlic.
2 Find the
biggest pan you can and place it on the burner.
3 Turn the burner on, setting the heat
to low-medium (somewhere between 4 and 5 for you number people)
4 Dump the
diced onion and garlic into the pan.
5 Wait five minutes. (this would be a good time to don your
welder’s mask, gloves, and jumpsuit if you’re planning on replicating this
recipe without risk of injury)
6 Add a
drizzle of olive oil to the pan.
7 Do nothing (remember, you’re wearing
welder’s gear. Unless you ignored my
warning, in which case now would be a good time to jump back)
8 Mix what remains in the pan; let it
cook for awhile (I wish I could be more specific, but that’s the beauty of
cooking by intuition: only you know when
it’s right)
9 Add your precooked beef and stir it
into garlic/onion/olive oil mixture until thoroughly and harmoniously combined.
10 Let it cook a
little more.
11 Add the
tomato sauce, diced tomatoes, and spices.
12 Stir (If you’re still using a pan, stir
very carefully. Having a good wet/dry
vac handy (with attachments) wouldn’t hurt either).
13 Let simmer for at least twenty
minutes. If what they say is true about
spaghetti sauce getting better the longer it cooks, then continue at your own
risk. I will not be held responsible for
any damage done to your taste buds from too much deliciousness.
14 Heat up yesterday’s buttered noodles in
microwave (For my buttered noodle recipe, watch for my new book, Kevin Cooks the Classics!)
15 Serve.
16 Eat.
17 Enjoy.
P.S. Here’s the link to the original recipe on allrecipes.com, imaginatively titled “Spaghetti Sauce with Beef,” which forms the basis for my creation. Who knows, you may like that
one more.
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