Penne with Vodka Sauce

A while ago, I dated a guy who I’ll call Jamie. He was lanky with messy blond hair and eyes that were piercing pools of blue. There’s no way you could miss his bright eyes in a crowd, if you gazed at him long enough, you could feel him reading every thought running through your mind.

On our first date, we went to see Rock of Ages. I love Broadway shows, they always put me in a good mood, but this time, I was more anxious than excited. I had those first date jitters, uncertain how to behave in front of a stranger. It didn’t help that my date kept glancing over at me, I didn’t know whether to return his looks or pay attention to the show.

At intermission, Jamie grabbed my hand and led me through a winding flight of stairs to the top floor overlooking the stage. This was the first of many explorations, he had a thing for spontaneous mini adventures, a quality I didn’t realize I would like so much. The theatre was musty, ancient, and beautiful. Blood-red walls and tall mirrors filled the halls, gold painted moldings snaked behind us, Jamie turned to face me and flashed a megawatt smile, the stair railing was the only thing keeping me from swooning to the floor.

When the show ended, we followed the hoard of people dispersing into the spring night and made our way to the subway. As chivalrous as could be, he sat beside me on the hour long commute to make sure I got home safely even though he lived just a few minutes from the theatre. As I leaned against the wall waiting for the subway at Bloor, he locked eyes with me, grinned and without missing a beat, leaned in for a kiss. Our lips met and a shot of electricity ran down my spine, leaving me clamoring for more.

On our date number two, we met up at Kensington Market on a sunny Saturday morning to pick up ingredients for lunch. We filled a grocery tote with red and orange peppers and a pound of shiny tomatoes. Jamie then brought me to a fromagerie. As he scoured for a Danish cheese for me to sample, I ogled the cheese rounds stacked so high I could barely see the lady working behind the counter not to mention the charcuterie that hung like Christmas lights around the store. Sadly, he couldn’t find the cheese he wanted, so we stepped out with another cheese instead.

Just as we were about to leave, I declared basil my favourite herb and how sublime it would taste in the pasta dish we were going to make, he spun around, disappeared into another store and seconds later, came out with a bouquet of the leafy herb so intoxicating I nearly fainted. With a spring in his step, he lugged the brimming grocery bag in one hand and took my free hand with the other.

When we arrived at his apartment, we unloaded our ingredients and got to work. Jamie took out the recipe and assigned me on pasta duty. As I familiarized myself around the cramped kitchen, a fluttery feeling flooded inside me. His strong, muscular arms that moved across the chopping board, the clap clap clap of the knife against the board, spilling vermillion tomato juices everywhere, that mischievous smile as if he had something up his sleeve killed me.

I moved on to prepare a salad of mixed greens, cucumbers and cherry tomatoes. Jamie manned the stove and teased out the most luscious, the sexiest tomato sauce ever to cross your mouth. There was a generous glug of cream to thicken the tomatoes plus a healthy splash of vodka. Anything with booze is a winner in my book, as is a guy who can cook. Heaping portions were ladled onto plates along with the salad. We sat across from each other on the dark wooden table and dug in. After a few bites, Jamie reached over for my hand, and there it was again, his enormous smile. Smooth conversation flowed and he continued to caress my hand for the rest of lunch, my heart swelling like a hot air balloon.

We continued dating for a few more months before reality hit me squarely in the face and I realized it wasn’t going to work. I was crushed. Whenever I walked by his neighborhood, my blood would freeze and all I could picture was my broken heart. But overtime it’s gotten easier.

For months I've hesitated writing this piece for many reasons, however, I’ve been on a crazy pasta binge lately and felt compelled to share this recipe. It’s SO yum. This sauce can be made on a whim, with just a few ingredients that hopefully you already have sitting in your fridge. Each ridge of penne soaks up the sweet, creamy sauce and like all great loves, this sauce will make you swoon.

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Recipe here!

A Dinner to Please Any Crowd

One major epiphany I had in my university days as I swam languidly in cookbooks, finding my passion for food and cooking, was the magic of something called slow-roasted tomatoes. I don't recall exactly how I came about making them, but I do remember sinking my teeth into one, still warm from the oven. My heart skipped a beat, I couldn’t believe the candy-like juices swirling in my mouth and how the flavor of seemingly innocent everyday tomatoes had increased ten-fold while sunbathing in the oven. It was like my first kiss, that excitement, that rush to do it again, how it wasn't at all like what you expected.

Cooking tomatoes at a low temperature for an unusually long time concentrates its sweetness, turning even butt ugly tomatoes into the white swan of all tomato cookery. You don’t even need a recipe (but I'll give you one anyway), just fresh, meaty tomatoes, the Roma variety will do the trick. All you need to do is halve them, gut out the seeds and juices, brush with minced garlic, sea salt and olive oil, roast at 200°F for at least 5 hours. It will look pretty dull for a while, but soon, its skins will shrivel and the peppery scent of tomatoes will linger as you cook the rest of your dinner.

I served them as crostinis for my friends this weekend as an appetizer. I rubbed garlic onto baguette slices, topped with slabs of the wrinkled tomatoes adorned with basil. There was a loud orchestra of crunching and bread munching across the table, including a mumbling words that sounded vaguely like “Mmm...SOO...good!” If there was a tomato god, I suspect he would approve and feast on these crostinis everyday.

For the main course, I decided on parsley risotto with roasted mushrooms. I don't make risotto often, but I've always been obsessed with its creaminess, its warmth, its comforting goopy texture. I like trying new recipes and wanted to take a swing at Jamie Oliver's risotto for a while, and it did not disappoint. The herb does duo duty with its vibrant pop of color while perfuming the rice with grassy notes, and when it reaches your mouth, it releases its sharp, clean flavors, reminiscent of dashing meadows and sunshine. Button mushrooms enhance its earthiness, adding a slight meaty texture to the otherwise smooth risotto.

  

But no dinner is complete without a side of vegetables and roasted cauliflower could be your new best friend. They were crispy on the outside, yet still soft to the teeth, caramelized even, and entirely transformed from your old stand-by of raw vegetable sticks. Despite the explosion of miniature white trees descending on the counter, when I chopped them into bite-sized pieces, they charmed me 30 minutes later, sizzling in the pan, fiery hot and seared to golden perfection. 

When the time came for dessert, oohs! and ahhs! chimed from the dining table like a christmas choir as I unfurled the Earl Grey-Infused Chocolate Tart. Then, as if on cue, the salted caramel sandwiched between the chocolate ganache and the pâte sablée (short pastry) oozed out like hot lava, only it wasn't hot, it was a cool, dark liquid, sticking to your fingers the way only good things should.

As I sliced triangles onto mismatched dessert plates, my friends exchanged excited chatter. Sadly, I lost a good amount of the caramel, as evidenced by the pool of copper liquid moving amoeba-like from the pan, to the cutting board, to the granite tabletop.

Armed with forks, we dug in. Though it was more like we hammered in. The pâte sablée was rock solid and stubbornly refused to break apart, but oh dear gawd, was it goood. I could feel every muscle, every ligament, every bone in my body relax. Even my brain shut up.

The ganache was cold to the tongue, but it melted ever so slowly, teasingly, just like Lindt truffles do so well. The caramel cut through the sweetness of the chocolate like a knife, bestowing it with notes of amber and a hint of salt. The buttery crust added a stark contrast to the silkiness of the other layers, its crumbly, sandy, even nutty texture, reminded one friend of the Almond Rocha candies. 

For a few moments, it was quiet. There was only the clinking and clanging of forks scraping empty plates for caramel. There's no denying it, this is a sinfully rich dessert and may leave your friends clamoring for more, but one thing's for sure, I will definitely be making this tart again and again.

But the best part of all was the rhythm of chit-chat, the eruption of giggles, the tension when someone reached the climax of a story, and the undeniable chemistry between my friends was something I haven't felt in a while. At least not in my own home. The last time I hosted a dinner party with friends was nearly two years ago, in Montreal. It was something I loved, bringing friends together made me very happy, very satisfied, solidifying my home. It's taken sometime and a few unexpected turns to get to this point, but I can safely say, that I've settled in Toronto. It feels like home.

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Recipe here!