Pizza. It is a thing beloved by millions of people across the globe, if not billions. It is something that inspires joy, lust, loathe, litigation, and fisticuffs. We all have our own personal journey with pizza; mine started at age five at Keystone Pizza in Mountain Home, Idaho.

Back then (in the olden days) the Chuck E Cheese craze had yet to sweep the nation and kids’ birthday parties were still hosted in backyards in the summer and independent pizza parlors in the winter. Since my parents so fortuitously conceived me in early spring, I have the great pleasure of sharing a birth week with Jesus. There should be a three-month moratorium on sex during spring just so no one will have a chance of being born around the same time as the dude in the leather sandals. I mean, he gets a party that people all over the planet celebrate, so how great can a Podunk pizza hoedown in a postage stamp-sized town be in comparison?

Nevertheless, I made do with what I had, and so found myself and ten of my closest Montessori friends wreaking havoc on pizza and piñatas on December 22, 1982. By then I was vegetarian, so I stuck with cheese and managed passable five-year-old pretension at the pepperoni-lovers of the bunch. Thinking back, I developed my eccentricities a young age, as I also remember secreting red velvet pants into my backpack to put on under my dresses once I got to school. Read more

Burrata. I love to make it, love to eat it, love to serve it.  I heart it in Italy the most since it’s often made from water buffalo as opposed to the plain ol’ cow we tend to use here in the US.  I resorted to learning how to make it myself last year after a particularly poignant visit to Piedmont that was bathed in burrata superiority.  I returned stateside, tasted one rubbery bite of store-bought burrata and avowed I would satiate my desires by making it myself from now on. It’s just one of those things that really should be eaten virtually the second it’s made, and that’s too hard to sort out for an esoteric cheese in this geographically-vast country.  In Seattle DeLaurenti occasionally makes it, and will certainly make you some if given a bit of notice, but you could just learn how to make it from me, then you’ll be swimming in creamy divinity from now until forever.  You can read about how I learned to make burrata here, and I’m always happy to put together a class if you’re local and interested. 

Burrata has a very neutral taste. Its splendor lies in its texture more than anything, which makes it a versatile centerpiece for an appetizer tray.  I prepared each ball of burrata quite differently and both plates were synergies of ingredients, just in varied ways.  I’ve been marinating some thinly sliced rhubarb in a tad of maple syrup mixed with the juice of a tangelo and a sprig of rosemary for two days.

I like raw rhubarb because it holds its form and has more flavor than after it’s cooked to unrecognizable mush.  It softens a little from marination, and also loses the bitter kick present if you simply gnaw on a stalk.  In short, try it, it’s one of those perfect foods you’ll wish you’d discovered sooner.  I served the first burrata ball with rhubarb slices and fava froth, which I simply whipped up using an immersion blender, favas, mint and meyer lemon.  You may be blanching at the word “froth.” Well I certainly can’t call it a “foam” in the current post-WD50 culinary climate, but the texture is far from a “puree” which is a bit of a tired way to serve favas, IMHO.  Froth seems an ample adjective because it remained light and airy but still managed to distill every ounce of fava flavor and bring it straight forward on the palate. 

My second burrata plating consisted of homemade pita triangles and fresh chickpeas shelled and lightly sautéed in butter and Portugese flor de sal.  Because the initial serving suggested sweetness with the maple-rhubarb slices, I wanted to deliberately showcse burrata’s ability to land on the savory side of the spectrum. 

Fresh chickpeas are a revelation of nature; shell and taste a raw one sometime and you’ll forever attempt to recreate the innocent perfection that hit your tongue.  They are in the throes of ripeness right now in the Western part of the US; if you can find them at your local farmer’s market I suggest you buy up a hefty stock.  They can be served raw drizzled in lemon and good olive oil, lightly sautéed, even steamed and added to pasta.  In this case a quick sauté in a bath of butter proves just right to match the satin decadence of burrata (which incidentally means “buttered” in the mother tongue.) Piping pita triangles just out of the oven complete the dish.

This is one of the most attractive pastas I have ever made, on the inside and out.  As the dutiful author of a Seattle food blog, I owe it to you to share, but it’s so dang good I was this close to keeping this little gem in my secret bag of tricks.  The striking green color peeking out the layers of rotoli whets even the most finicky appetite.  This dish is a pan-global crowd pleaser, borrowing just a little bit from several different cultures.  It looks incredibly sophisticated on the plate, but the flavors are so deceptively simple even my (ultra-refined) toddler gobbles it down by the handful.  If you’ve never made your own pasta, what better time to start, as these simply formed sheets are much more forgiving than if you were making ravioli, for example, and yet I daresay they are more beautiful. 

Last time I found myself in the unparalleled NYC, a friend and author of the beautiful blog Culinary Musings suggested we meet at Buddakan in the Meatpacking district for a lil drinky-poo and something delish on which to nosh.  They serve edamame ravioli on their dim sum menu and I haven’t been able to get it out of my head ever since.  I finally set out to recreate it, though I will say that the end: a. this is only very loosely-based on the original and b. imho, mine’s better :) If you ever make it to Buddakan, let me know what you think. If you get around to making these rotoli I know exactly what you’ll think, and it won’t have much to do with the analytic part of your brain. Rather, the pleasure centers associated with taste will be doing cartwheels over each other to get more, more, more, and you’ll undoubtedly eat more than you should. 

Rotoli just means rolls in Italian, this is one area I decided to deviate from the original inspiration.  While I can’t get enough of ravioli-making, I wanted to try a different type of pasta that would really showcase the green of the edamame.  I figured instead of hiding it inside a closed pocket, I would just roll up little tubes then cut them into pieces, that way you’d be able to see the green peering through the layers on the side.  It was the right call because so much of food is its visual appeal before it even hits your lips, and this dish is pretty as a picture. 

Truffled Edamame Rotoli in Sauternes Broth

Edamame Puree:

• 1 bag shelled edamame, boiled and drained
• ¾ c whole milk ricotta
• thinly sliced leeks that have been sweated in butter
• salt & pepper to taste
• white truffle oil to taste
• ½ c packed shaved Parmigiano Reggiano

Pasta:

• 1-2 c flour (start with a cup, add more as needed)
• ½ tsp salt
• 2 large eggs (I use duck eggs for their stiffness)

Sauternes Broth:

• 1 1/2 c Sauternes
• ½ c chicken stock
• 2 fresh bay leaves, crushed
• truffle oil to taste

Garnish: a few reserved edamame pods to add color to the plate

1.  In a food processor, blend the cooled edamame (reserve half a cup of pods for garnish), ricotta, leeks, and Parmigiano.  After it is completely smooth with no lumps, add the salt, pepper and truffle oil. Give it a few whirls in the processor and taste to adjust seasonings. 
2. Mix the eggs into the salted flour until they are completely blended. Knead more flour in as needed until the dough becomes smooth and elastic.  Tearing off walnut-sized pieces and working on a well-floured surface, roll out pasta into rectangular shapes approximately 4x8”.  It’s easy if you form a tube with your piece before you start rolling it, that way it will naturally roll into a rectangle.  You’ll want the thinness to be one stage above as thin as you can roll it- basically the level you would roll for lasagna sheets.  Allow the sheets to hang for a few minutes, but don’t leave them for too long as they’ll become brittle and crack when you’re filling them.  You can cover them with a tea towel as they’re resting in order to avoid excessive brittleness. 
3. Bring a medium stockpot of salted water to boil. Meanwhile, working with one sheet at a time, spread an equal amount of filling all over the pasta sheet, completely covering it.  Roll each filled sheet from the shorter end to end like you would a crepe, only tighter.  Place the sheets on a sheet pan and cover with a tea towel to prevent dryness. 
4. Once you have rolled each pasta sheet, begin boiling the involtini one at a time in the prepared water. After two minutes (or when they float to the top) remove them to a sheet pan with a slotted spoon.  You can place them in the oven on its lowest setting to keep warm as you finish the rotoli and make the Sauternes broth. 
5. For the broth, simmer all ingredients except the truffle oil until it is reduced by half.  Remove the bay leaves and add truffle oil to taste. 
6. To assemble, cut each involtino into four or five pieces and arrange on a plate.  Drizzle with Sauternes broth and garnish with a few edamame pods.