tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-80455719060269308072024-03-07T23:53:22.854-06:00Connie Staccato Stuffs a TurkeyHow you doin'?Connie Staccatohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02362169672799992473noreply@blogger.comBlogger71125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8045571906026930807.post-11258653863763763352021-12-04T21:11:00.002-06:002021-12-07T13:33:48.014-06:00The Spirits of Christmas<p style="text-align: justify;">My aunt died yesterday.</p><p style="text-align: justify;">And this morning, well before the crack of dawn, the smoke detector went off. </p><p style="text-align: justify;">Five ear-splitting "chirps" a minute. Which brought my son Nino, who is staying with us for the holidays, bounding up the stairs. </p><p style="text-align: justify;">With good reason. It was Nino's absentminded neglect of the bathroom ceiling fan (broken, <i>my</i> absentminded neglect) that burned down half the house seven years ago. Not that I'm bitter. Half the house actually <i>needed</i> burning down, since it was apparently the only way I was going to convince my husband Anthony to do any redecorating.</p><p style="text-align: justify;">"Did you hear that?" Nino asked anxiously, the emotional scars from that incident on full display. It took us twenty minutes and three Google searches to discover that the smoke detector was chirping for no good fucking reason at all, other than it was old and needed replacing. One Amazon order later, the problem was solved. </p><p style="text-align: justify;">Nino went back to bed. I didn't. Anthony slept through the whole thing. It was 6:30 am and I had the whole house, gloriously quiet, to myself. Time to reflect.</p><p style="text-align: justify;">The smoke detector going off did not surprise me. The year my mother died, the smoke detector mysteriously went off, also at Christmastime. Three nights in a row. For no obvious reason, only at night. Sleep deprived and more than a little frustrated, I told my friend Kathy about it, and she said, "Connie! That's the spirit of your dead mother ruining your Christmas!" </p><p style="text-align: justify;">She was right, of course. My aunt was my mother's little sister, and not to be outdone. So, good Sicilian American woman that I am, I consider the chirping smoke detector as a message from The Other Side. Where my mother and my aunt got together and decided, "Let's wake up Connie. It'll be fun."</p><p style="text-align: justify;">My aunt was all <i>about</i> fun. She was a (very) wayward teenager, a wife (twice), a mother (four times), a bartender, a clown (professional), and a pilot (!). In the '60s, she was all about gold lamé, blue eyeshadow, hot pants, and Priscilla Presley hair. She went on a second honeymoon. She had a Leap Day baby. And a player piano. And took banjo lessons. My aunt painted my nails and bought me rock-and-roll records. When I became of age, she would leave me with her kids and the keys to her car. And packs of unfiltered Pall Malls lying around the house. When she had a drink, it was Kahlua, straight. She was my godmother, and I was the flower girl at her (first) wedding. </p><p style="text-align: justify;">The night her mother (my grandmother) died, the family decided that the funeral should be on the following Monday. And my aunt told her brother, "I can't do Monday, I've got tickets to Vegas." Which pretty much set her reputation forever in stone as far as the rest of the family was concerned. </p><p style="text-align: justify;">I didn't care. I loved her and she loved me.</p><p style="text-align: justify;">And she could bake.</p><p style="text-align: justify;">Here is one of her masterpieces, Red Velvet Cake. With a frosting (<i>not</i> the cream cheese stuff) like nothing I've ever tasted since. I'm going to reprint it just as she sent it to me, and you can try to figure it out. Because that way you'll be able to hear her voice.</p><p style="text-align: center;">***</p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 7.5pt; vertical-align: baseline;"></p><div style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: "inherit", serif;">Waldorf Astoria Red Cake (Do
not substitute any ingredients)</span></div><span style="border: 1pt none windowtext; padding: 0in;"><div style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: "inherit", serif;"><br /></span></div>
<span style="font-family: "inherit", serif;"><div style="text-align: justify;">1/2 cup butter</div></span><span style="font-family: "inherit", serif;"><div style="text-align: justify;">1 1/2 cup sugar</div></span><span style="font-family: "inherit", serif;"><div style="text-align: justify;">2 eggs</div></span><span style="font-family: "inherit", serif;"><div style="text-align: justify;">mix together then add to mix 2 tsp cocoa into1 oz. red food coloring</div></span><span style="font-family: "inherit", serif;"><div style="text-align: justify;">1 tsp vanilla</div></span><span style="font-family: "inherit", serif;"><div style="text-align: justify;">2 1/2 cups flour</div></span><span style="font-family: "inherit", serif;"><div style="text-align: justify;">1 tsp salt</div></span><span style="font-family: "inherit", serif;"><div style="text-align: justify;">1 cup buttermilk</div></span><span style="font-family: "inherit", serif;"><div style="text-align: justify;">mix together 1 tsp soda 2 tsp vinegar (it will fiz) add lastly to cake
mixture</div></span><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div>
<span style="font-family: "inherit", serif;"><div style="text-align: justify;">Pour into 2 8 or 9 in pans greased Bake at 350 25 minutes</div></span><span style="font-family: "inherit", serif;"><div style="text-align: justify;">When cake is cool slice into 4 layers You are making a torte
cake </div></span><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div>
<span style="font-family: "inherit", serif;"><div style="text-align: justify;">frosting</div></span><span style="font-family: "inherit", serif;"><div style="text-align: justify;">heat and bring to a low boil stirring constantly</div></span><span style="font-family: "inherit", serif;"><div style="text-align: justify;">3 tab flour 1 cup milk (will look like oatmeal) will only take less than 5
minutes COOL in ice box* COMPLETLY (Must be cold before using)</div></span><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div>
<span style="font-family: "inherit", serif;"><div style="text-align: justify;">Cream 2 sticks butter 1 cup sugar 1 tsp. vanilla
then add cold flour mix frosting never gets hard</div></span><span style="font-family: "inherit", serif;"><div style="text-align: justify;"> </div></span><span style="font-family: "inherit", serif;"><div style="text-align: justify;">This is the original recipe from New York</div></span><span style="font-family: "inherit", serif;"><div style="text-align: justify;">The rich lady had a piece at the hotel and liked it so much she had to have the
recipe and asked the Chef for it. He gave it to her with a bill for 1000.00.
She was so mad she turned it into a chain letter and that's how my
Mother-in-law got it. But the Chef was so mad she did this he put a whammy on
the cake and said every time someone would make it it wouldnt come out. I have
at least 4 or 5 incidences that it happened to me. I'll tell you about it
sometime.</div></span></span><p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 7.5pt; text-align: center; vertical-align: baseline;"><span style="border: 1pt none windowtext; font-family: "inherit",serif; mso-bidi-font-family: "Segoe UI"; mso-border-alt: none windowtext 0in; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; padding: 0in;">***</span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 7.5pt; text-align: left; vertical-align: baseline;"><span style="font-family: "inherit", serif; text-align: justify;">But she never did. Oh, well. </span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 7.5pt; text-align: left; vertical-align: baseline;"><span style="font-family: "inherit", serif; text-align: justify;">I have something to look forward to. </span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 7.5pt; text-align: left; vertical-align: baseline;"><span style="font-family: "inherit", serif; text-align: justify;"><br /></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 7.5pt; text-align: left; vertical-align: baseline;"><span style="font-family: "inherit", serif; text-align: justify;"><br /></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 7.5pt; text-align: left; vertical-align: baseline;"><span style="font-family: "inherit", serif; text-align: justify;"><br /></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 7.5pt; text-align: left; vertical-align: baseline;"><span style="font-family: "inherit", serif; text-align: justify;">*ice box = American Sicilian for "refrigerator" i.e., do not freeze. You've been warned.</span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 7.5pt; text-align: left; vertical-align: baseline;"><br /></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 7.5pt; vertical-align: baseline;"></p><div style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: "inherit", serif;"><br /></span></div><span style="border: 1pt none windowtext; font-family: "inherit",serif; mso-bidi-font-family: "Segoe UI"; mso-border-alt: none windowtext 0in; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; padding: 0in;">
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<!--[endif]--><o:p></o:p></span><p></p><p><br /></p><p><br /></p><p><br /></p><p><br /></p>Connie Staccatohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02362169672799992473noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8045571906026930807.post-82602059008298087542021-08-28T09:47:00.000-05:002021-08-28T09:47:09.972-05:00Best Damn Chili in the State<p style="text-align: justify;">My favorite part of my favorite movie, <i>The Blues Brothers</i>, is when John Belushi is in Aretha Franklin's restaurant and he asks her, "Got any fried chicken?" Upon which she puts her hand on her hip, gives him the hairy eyeball, and says - like a boss - "Best damn chicken in the state." </p><p style="text-align: justify;">Well, I make the best damn chili in the state. True, I live in Illinois. But in my younger days I had fantasies of travelling down to Terlingua,Texas for the Great Chili Cook-off, where I would cook up a batch of my fabulous chili, wearing a prom dress, and walk off with first prize. In stilettos. </p><p style="text-align: justify;">(Nowadays I would rather set my head on fire than travel to Texas. Unless I was invited. By Willie Nelson. And promised a lot of weed. Then, maybe.)</p><p style="text-align: justify;">But back to the chili. This recipe is my own invention, and here's the story.</p><p style="text-align: justify;">It all started with my <a href="http://www.conniestuffs.com/2019/06/four-ingredients.html" target="_blank">Sausage and Mushroom Sauce</a>. Easy, peasy. Some hot Italian sausage, some mushrooms, canned tomatoes. A little olive oil, salt and pepper. <i>Maybe</i> a dash of oregano, but really - and this is the secret - the sausage seasons the sauce. Perfectly. I've even made this sauce with that plant-fake Italian sausage, and you know? It wasn't bad.</p><p style="text-align: justify;">So, one day I was thinking: If sausage can season <i>this</i> sauce, could chorizo season chili? Like, make the beans, add the tomatoes, and just throw in some fried chorizo?</p><p style="text-align: justify;">Yup. And a star was born.</p><p style="text-align: justify;">Let me tell you a few things about chorizo before I give you the recipe. I'm talking about Mexican chorizo as opposed to Spanish chorizo, which is a different thing altogether. Mexican chorizo, at least the stuff I use, comes in a 13 oz. package, and it's two plastic-wrapped tubes of loose sausage. You take off the outer packaging, snip the tubes at one end and down the sides a bit, and peel off the plastic. Then fry the chorizo in some hot olive oil, breaking it up with a fork. I use Supremo Beef Chorizo Original Picante. (Picante = Spicy, but it also comes in mild, for big babies.) There's a pork version of this chorizo, too, if you prefer.</p><b><div style="text-align: justify;"><b><u>Chorizo Chili</u></b></div></b><div style="text-align: justify;">Red beans, 1 lb. bag</div><div style="text-align: justify;">Italian plum tomatoes, 1 28oz or 32oz can</div><div><div style="text-align: justify;">A little olive oil</div><div style="text-align: justify;">Mexican chorizo </div></div><div style="text-align: justify;">Salt, pepper, oregano (optional)</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">In a big pot, cook the red beans according to package directions. When they're done, pour off some of the liquid, but not all of it because it's good stuff and you don't want your chili to get too thick. Add a big can of Italian tomatoes and let them simmer with the beans until the tomatoes get soft. Smash up the tomatoes against the side of the pot with a wooden spoon, and keep simmering. Fry the chorizo in a cast iron pan with little olive oil until it's <i>very</i> brown. Add the fried chorizo to the tomatoes and beans. Keep simmering for at least an hour. The longer the chorizo cooks with the tomatoes and beans, the better your chili will taste. At the end, you can add salt, pepper, and oregano, but taste the chili first to see if it needs it.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">Serve with sour cream (I use Greek yogurt) and shredded cheese. Guacamole and/or cornbread are nice sides. </div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">And tell Willy I'm waiting.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div><div><br /><div><br /></div><p><br /></p></div></div>Connie Staccatohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02362169672799992473noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8045571906026930807.post-22895237025527302752021-07-29T21:13:00.001-05:002021-07-29T21:13:25.403-05:00Would You Like a Drink Before the War?<p style="text-align: justify;">Remember <i>Fawlty Towers</i>? The episode with the German tourists? The one where Basil Fawlty told his staff something like, "Whatever you do, don't mention the war. I mentioned it once, but I think I got away with it,"? Mr. Fawlty's behavior was (mostly) on account of a traumatic brain injury, the result of being beaned by some taxidermist's masterpiece of a severed moose head. </p><p style="text-align: justify;">I have a different sort of traumatic injury, on account of The Pandemic (you know the one).</p><p style="text-align: justify;">I'm going to mention The Pandemic just this once, and I promise I'll never mention it again. But I'm doing this for your own good, to save you a trip to the eye doctor. Because he's only going to think you're crazy and then (to cover his ass) send you to a very expensive specialist. But believe me, this is for real, and I might be saving you a lot of money and negative speculation about your sanity. Which will wind up on your permanent record.</p><p style="text-align: justify;">My traumatic injury wasn't caused by Covid <i>per se</i>. It was actually a side effect of spending a ridiculous (and apparently dangerous) amount of time in lockdown with my husband.</p><p style="text-align: justify;">Let's call it Anthony's Syndrome. </p><p style="text-align: justify;">If you're new to this blog, or in case you didn't read my first book, my husband's name is Anthony. (Now go buy my first book. You won't be sorry.) Here's what happened: I was bending down to get some flour out of a cabinet, and then all of a sudden, YOWZA! I got this stabbing pain in my right eye socket.</p><p style="text-align: justify;">I reacted like I usually do when faced with fresh hell of any sort: I panicked. Was my retina detaching? Did I have a stroke? A tumor? Expired mascara?</p><p style="text-align: justify;">Anyway, it stopped. But I remained wary. A few days later, it happened again. And then a few days after that, again. And then in the other eye, too. I thought about going to the doctor, but my eyes <i>looked</i> okay and I wasn't having any vision changes, and I hate going to doctors above all things, especially during a pandemic. So I decided to try to come up with my own diagnosis.</p><p style="text-align: justify;">Which I did. Finally, after weeks of careful observation and analysis, I came to the conclusion that I had injured my eye muscles due to repetitive eye rolling due to my husband's repetitive goofiness.</p><p style="text-align: justify;">You live and learn.</p><p style="text-align: justify;">The cure was to consciously stop rolling my eyes. Not easy. I tried heaving deep, exasperated sighs instead. Out of earshot, of course. A sort of Sicilian housewife riff on yoga breathing. </p><p style="text-align: justify;">It wasn't enough, though. Being Sicilian, my preferred stress buster is cold, hard revenge. In the case of my husband Anthony, the best revenge is to deny him soup. For a whole week. No explanations, no apologies. Let him wonder.</p><p style="text-align: justify;">Time for some red meat. Beef tenderloin, the way my father-in-law made it in his restaurant. Fast, easy, and full of aggression.</p><div style="text-align: justify;"><b><u>Beef Tenderloin</u></b></div><div style="text-align: justify;">Beef tenderloin steaks, 2 </div><div style="text-align: justify;">Mushrooms</div><div style="text-align: justify;">Olive oil</div><div style="text-align: justify;">Butter</div><div style="text-align: justify;">Salt and pepper</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">Wash and slice some mushrooms. Sauté them in olive oil and a pat of butter. Add salt and pepper. Turn the heat down to very low to keep the mushrooms hot. Take your steaks and slice them in half, horizontally, so that you have four thin steaks. Heat up a little olive oil in a big cast iron pan and flash fry them. Stick the pan in a 350 degree oven until the steaks are done (more or less pink in the middle, however you like). Pour the mushrooms over steaks, and serve. I recommend a salad and wild rice on the side. And don't forget the wine. It's how Italians turn red meat into health food. </div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">And I read somewhere that it's good for your eyes.</div><p style="text-align: justify;"><br /></p><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><p> </p><p><br /></p>Connie Staccatohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02362169672799992473noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8045571906026930807.post-7583687050913150592021-02-28T11:08:00.004-06:002021-02-28T11:08:57.209-06:00Bonus<p> And here's a little music to cook Italian food by:</p><p><a href="https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=-6h3L4koWng">"Italy" - YouTube</a></p><p><br /></p>Connie Staccatohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02362169672799992473noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8045571906026930807.post-30071271636225474412021-02-28T11:02:00.000-06:002021-02-28T11:02:04.542-06:00Coming Soon to a Kitchen Near You!<p> You can now add Connie Staccato to your cookbook shelf:</p><p><a href="https://www.amazon.com/Connie-Staccato-Cooks-Mafia-Favorites/dp/B08XFMBPW7/ref=sr_1_1?dchild=1&keywords=connie+staccato&qid=1614531454&sr=8-1">Connie Staccato Cooks Mafia Favorites: Staccato, Connie: 9798586229045: Amazon.com: Books</a></p><p>Trust me, it's impressive.</p><p>Enjoy!</p><p>Peace, love, and abbondanza,</p><p>Connie</p><p><br /></p><p><br /></p>Connie Staccatohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02362169672799992473noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8045571906026930807.post-44703995186864740962019-09-03T22:53:00.000-05:002019-09-06T18:32:50.313-05:00Oh, BabySo this is what Italian American geezers do for fun.<br />
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The last time my husband and I were at our usual grocery store, he couldn't find a box of Wheaties and I couldn't find a decent potato. And that's just for starters. They were also out of chicken thighs and lemons.<br />
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<i>Really???</i><br />
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Actually, I saw this coming. Once, maybe about two years ago, they were out of garlic. Garlic. Garlic??? Garlic! And this in a gigantic grocery store with an Italian person's name on the sign. A few weeks later, I heard that the Italian person had sold out to some big national chain. Like I shoulda guessed.<br />
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PLUS, they fired the piano player and all the baggers. The piano player was a nice touch. And I guess you don't need baggers, if your cashiers don't mind being overworked. This is bad management. Don't explain it to me; I used to be in retail. You <i>jadrools</i> think you're a big success because you're making "plan". <i> I</i> know that you're working for Mussolini. <i>In bocca al lupo</i>.<br />
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Anyway, it was time to explore greener pastures. So we went exploring, the details of which I'll spare you. Let's just say that if you want to buy a decent shampoo and kale's really not your thing, you've got to go to at least two different places to do your weekly shopping. Which was something that didn't make me happy. Our usual grocery store used to have all those bases covered. It's hard to break up with a grocery store.<br />
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What<i> did</i> make me happy were the baby eggplants I found.<br />
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They were adorable. I have this thing - and this only happens with produce - where I fall madly in love with some particular form of edible flora at the grocery store, and I take it home without any idea of what I'm going to do with it. And then I forget all about it, until my husband says, "Are you going to do something with this (eggplant? cauliflower? <i> cucuzzi</i>?)" Hey, Mr. Organized, did you finish that 5 lb. chocolate bar you bought last week?<br />
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I had to figure out what to do with the baby eggplants. And my cooking is considerably lazier these days, so no way I was gonna do Parmesan. You know, with eggplant you're supposed to salt it and press it and maybe peel it and whatever.<br />
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Yeah. Screw that. Here's what I did instead:<br />
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<u><b>Baby Eggplant Medallions/Chips</b></u><br />
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Take some baby eggplant, however many your want, and scrub them. Cut off the ends. Then slice up the eggplant into slices about a half-an-inch thick. Lengthwise, crosswise, it doesn't matter. Lay the slices of eggplant flat in a well-oiled pan (olive oil, and line the pan with foil first, you'll thank me), and sprinkle salt all over them. Then, with your hands, spread more olive oil all over the tops of the slices. Don't be stingy. Sprinkle with whole wheat panko bread crumbs and then some pecorino cheese. Pepper to taste. Bake in a 350 degree oven until soft and a little brown (about 20 minutes to a half hour) for medallions, or until crispy (about 45 minutes to an hour) for chips. Your nose will tell you. Watch them to make sure they don't burn.<br />
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A glass of wine and a plate of eggplant chips. And maybe <i>The Godfather</i>, Part I, on DVD. <i>La dolce</i> <i>vita</i>. This is definitely the beginning of a beautiful relationship.<br />
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<br />Connie Staccatohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02362169672799992473noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8045571906026930807.post-19731664894179490062019-07-16T20:42:00.001-05:002019-07-16T23:31:14.626-05:00In Memoriam<div style="text-align: justify;">
My cousin Vita's Aunt Connie died.</div>
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I should tell you that my cousin Vita is only my cousin in the Sicilian sense of the word: a very close friend usually of the Sicilian persuasion whose family has known your family for at least three generations and whose house you can sleep at, whenever you want. And who talks you down from the tree when your parents/husband/kids get on your last nerve. Who knows the name of your high school boyfriend. And who drags you away from a fist fight in a parking lot with a hillbilly who has a gun (we can laugh about it now).</div>
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So...more than a friend, and <i>probably</i> related since Sicilians have been cross-breeding on that island since the beginning of time.</div>
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At any rate, Aunt Connie - who I'm not technically related to, but vaguely remember - died last week at age 97, Not unusual for a Sicilian; we eat well. It's a bit of a ghost story. Vita hadn't seen or heard from that side of her family in decades, when all of a sudden she recently had a few "chance" encounters with various members. And on the day of the fateful event, Vita woke up at 4:00 am and her first thought was, "Aunt Connie died." True story. <i>Also</i> not unusual for a Sicilian. Sicilian women have "the sight", which makes us way scarier than Sicilian men, who only have the Mafia.</div>
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I want to pay tribute to Aunt Connie, whose name I proudly share. So I asked Vita, did your Aunt Connie have a dish she was famous for? And Vita said that she remembered her Aunt Connie's tuna meatballs. </div>
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Which takes me back to my childhood, and Fridays at my grandmother's. </div>
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I am old enough, and Catholic enough, to remember not eating meat on Fridays. Or the 40 days of Lent, for that matter. And while all the Irish kids in the parish were eating fish sticks and Kraft Macaroni and Cheese, Sicilian kids were eating tuna meatballs. Try them and tell me who you think got the better deal.</div>
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<u><b>Aunt Connie's Tuna Meatballs</b></u></div>
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Take two big cans of tuna, the kind packed in olive oil. Drain off most of the olive oil and put the tuna in a big bowl. Add two eggs, salt and pepper, about 2 TBL of parsley, and enough bread crumbs to make it all hang together, about a cup. Mix well with your hands. Form the tuna mixture into balls (add more breadcrumbs if you need to) and fry them in olive oil until very brown. Drain the fried balls on a paper towel. </div>
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Lock the cats in a bedroom.</div>
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Since I mentioned it, I'd like to take this opportunity say a few words about Lent. Lent is possibly the best idea the Catholic Church ever came up with. It lets you veg out after Christmas for a month-and-a-half and then WHAM! Throws you a party, and then the next day puts ashes on your forehead and makes you go on a diet. No red meat or candy for 40 days, at the end of which you're ten pounds lighter, you get an Easter basket, and you can wear white shoes. </div>
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What's not to love here?</div>
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Connie Staccatohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02362169672799992473noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8045571906026930807.post-223786631311093112019-06-07T10:58:00.000-05:002019-07-15T12:59:02.625-05:00Four Ingredients<div style="text-align: justify;">
Here's another sauce that you could make even if you were in a coma. Or if you had a <i>bambino</i> on your hip, one holding on to your leg, and your father-in-law sitting at the kitchen table in his boxer shorts telling you what you were doing wrong. (Obviously, I'm acquainted with this situation, as are most Italian women. I don't think there's any kind of government legislation that could be proposed to change it.)</div>
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This sauce is rich, spicy, and visually dazzling. And it has four ingredients. Count 'em: four. It's supposed to be served over polenta, but Sicilians don't eat polenta so I serve it over <i>penne</i>. You can serve it over anything you want. My alien husband Anthony puts it over yogurt and eats it for breakfast, which is even more proof of his extraterrestrial origins.</div>
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<b><u>Sausage and Mushroom Sauce</u></b></div>
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Put two large cans of peeled Italian tomatoes into a big pot and bring to a simmer. Cut up 2 lbs. of hot Italian sausage into little pieces and fry them in some olive oil in a big cast iron pan. DO NOT DRAIN. Add the fried sausage to the pot of tomatoes. NOW - and this is magic! - fry a big bunch of sliced mushrooms in the sausage drippings (add a little olive oil if you need to). Not only will the sausage dripping make your mushrooms taste like heaven, but the mushrooms will clean the sausage stuff off the pan. No kidding. It's why I like to make this sauce, I like magic food. Add the mushrooms to the tomatoes and sausage, and simmer until the tomatoes get super soft and you can break them up with your wooden spoon. At the risk of sounding passive/aggressive, I'd say about two hours.</div>
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Taste the sauce. If it needs salt, add salt. </div>
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Then you'll have five ingredients. Oh, well. Break up the tomatoes and serve.</div>
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Connie Staccatohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02362169672799992473noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8045571906026930807.post-26863705650914132742019-06-07T10:16:00.001-05:002019-06-07T10:16:58.840-05:00Italians: Endgame<div style="text-align: justify;">
What do you do after you eat copious amounts of amazing Italian food? You have dessert, obviously. Just a little something sweet to go with your coffee. Not too much, or you'll end up exploding like that guy in the Monty Python movie, which would not be a good thing, especially if you're on a date.</div>
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I'm not going to spend a lot of time talking about desserts. My general feeling on the subject is this is why God gave us spumoni. Maybe a cookie to go with. Cannoli, if it's your birthday; cannoli cake if it's your wedding.</div>
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The cannoli comes from the bakery. The spumoni from the freezer. <i>Tutto finito</i>.</div>
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That being said, my husband's Aunt Geraldine used to make spectacular homemade cannoli for Christmas, substituting chocolate and vanilla pudding for the ricotta filling.<span style="font-family: "times new roman";"> For the record, t<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; display: inline; float: none; font-size: 16px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; letter-spacing: normal; text-align: left; text-decoration: none; text-indent: 0px; text-transform: none; white-space: normal; word-spacing: 0px;">he traditional way to make a cannoli shell is to wrap the dough around a piece of wooden broom handle and fry it until it's crispy. I'm sure you did not know this. It's a great way to recycle a broom. Wash it first, please.</span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "times new roman";">However, if you're adventurous or bored, you can always make a dessert. The most spectacular dessert I know of is my pecan pie, and I've already given you that <a href="http://www.conniestuffs.com/2015/11/three-days-before.html" target="_blank">recipe</a>. I know it's spectacular because I just got back from my son Nino's graduation, where several people from several different nations told me so. And these people are not stupid, because Nino graduated with a master's degree from Harvard, so all of his friends are smart. And he apparently spent a certain amount of time baking pecan pies with the aim of bribing people to be his friends.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "times new roman";">Successfully.</span></div>
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That's <i>Harvard</i>, mind you. And my daughter Nikki studies at the University of Chicago. So there's no shortage of brains in the Staccato family, unless you take into account our oldest cat Moof, who's the dumbest ball of fur who ever hacked up a hairball. But she's fluffy. And she purrs a lot. Which is <i>her</i> way of bribing people to be her friends, since - lacking intelligence and opposable thumbs - she can't bake a pecan pie.</div>
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But even <i>she</i> could probably figure out how to get the spumoni out of the freezer.</div>
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<b></b><i></i><u></u><sub></sub><sup></sup><strike></strike></span><b></b><i></i><u></u><sub></sub><sup></sup><strike></strike>Connie Staccatohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02362169672799992473noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8045571906026930807.post-37079206683733355422019-05-15T09:30:00.000-05:002019-07-14T19:20:41.600-05:00A Miracle!<div style="text-align: justify;">
Miracle Soup didn't start out to be Miracle Soup. It started out to be 'scarole and beans, and I canonized it. If you ascribe to the philosophy that food is medicine, this stuff is right up there with the Salk vaccine. Don't get me wrong. 'Scarole and beans is delicious. But it also works wonders when invoking St. Anthony is getting you nowhere.</div>
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Miracles are few and far between these days. I mean, if we're taking at face value what Sister Barbara was telling us in first grade, people were used to go around parting the Red Sea, raising the dead, and turning water into wine all the time. Nowadays we can't even get a pothole fixed.</div>
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Here are the miraculous ingredients: 'Scarole and beans has 'scarole (escarole, but nobody calls it escarole) so you get your greens (lots of vitamins), beans (protein, iron, fiber), garlic (proof that God loves us), olive oil (you'll live a hundred years), and chicken broth (a miracle in itself). And if you serve it with a substantial amount of crushed red pepper, it'll clear out your chest and sinuses.</div>
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Trust me.</div>
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<b><u>'Scarole and Beans (Miracle Soup)</u></b></div>
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Cook a pound of white beans according to the package directions. While that's going on, put about six cups of chicken broth in a big pot. Now take two big heads of 'scarole, wash them, tear up the leaves, and put them in the pot with the chicken broth. It'll look like a LOT of 'scarole, but don't worry, it cooks down. Bring the chicken broth to a boil, cover the pot, and turn down the heat until it's just simmering. Simmer for about an hour. When the beans are done, pour off some of the excess water, but don't drain them. You want some of the bean juice left in there. Now take a half a head of garlic, chop it fine and brown it lightly in a quarter cup of olive oil. Stir the garlic and olive oil into the beans, and pour the beans into the escarole. Salt and pepper to taste, and you can add a little dried basil if you want. Serve with crushed red pepper.</div>
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Some people brown some Italian sausage and put it in the soup. But why.</div>
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Connie, you might say, that's a lot of work to do when I'm sick. And you'd be right, so if you don't have somebody else to do the cooking for you, use the next recipe.</div>
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<b><u>'Scarole and Beans Express (Miracle Express)</u></b></div>
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Put a big box of chicken broth in a pot. Bring to a simmer. Brown a half a head of chopped garlic in a quarter cup of olive oil. Add a can of white beans to the garlic and oil, heat through, and pour it in the chicken broth. Bring to a boil and add a package of frozen spinach. Salt, pepper, and a little dried basil. Eat with crushed red pepper, as much as you can stand. </div>
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And feel better.</div>
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<br />Connie Staccatohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02362169672799992473noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8045571906026930807.post-18417290534801471582019-05-10T14:53:00.000-05:002019-07-18T08:39:17.801-05:00Rated R<div style="text-align: justify;">
There are some foods that are for mature audiences only.</div>
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Asparagus. Guacamole. Beets. Olives. Liver. Calamari. Grapefruit. Sardines. Beer. These are definitely foods for adults, WAY beyond the comprehension of kids, except for the ones who grow up and listen to Zappa. Then, one day, sometime after their 18th birthday, most kids will give one of these foods a try and then all bets are off. They can't get enough. This is especially true of beer, which they've probably "tried" well before their 18th birthday, but there are other reasons for that.</div>
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Now consider lentil soup. From the point of view of a kid.</div>
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Otherwise known as pasta lenticchie (pronounced "<i>pasta lin-deek</i>"), lentil soup has very little to recommend to a child. It's brown, it's mushy, and - let's be honest - it looks like somebody already ate it. I wouldn't even TRY it when I was a kid, no matter WHAT my parents were threatening me with. And my parents were REALLY good with the threats.</div>
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Then, one day, magic. </div>
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I still can't say it's my <i>favorite</i> food. I don't put soup on the top of my favorite-foods list because, in general, I prefer food I can chew. But my husband Anthony and my son Nino, who are both soup monsters, <i>love</i> this stuff. And I love cooking it because:</div>
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I love my husband Anthony and my son Nino.</div>
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You could be in the final stages of rigor mortis and still make lentil soup in fifteen minutes.</div>
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Bonus points: Lentil soup is vegan. And incredibly good for you. And now I'm going to stop sounding like every person I've ever had no use for.</div>
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<b><u>Lentil Soup</u></b></div>
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Take a bag of lentils and pour them into a strainer. Rinse them "real good, four to five times" and that's a direct quote from my grandmother. Put them in a pot with about three inches of water. Add a big can of Italian plum tomatoes, a chopped onion, 5 teaspoons of olive oil, a tablespoon of salt, and a teaspoon of black pepper. Bring to a boil, then cover the pot, turn down the heat, and let it simmer for an hour-and-a-half. Cook about a quarter pound of broken-up spaghetti in another pot. Drain and add to lentils. Done.</div>
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You can eat lentil soup straight, or add a little wine vinegar at the table. And/or you can put a dollop of Greek yogurt on top of it. And/or some crushed red pepper. It's all good.</div>
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Leftover lentil soup tends to dry out a bit and get thick, which makes it perfect for stuffing into a pita, so now you have a sandwich, and it travels well.</div>
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Welcome to adulthood. There are benefits.</div>
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<br />Connie Staccatohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02362169672799992473noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8045571906026930807.post-39578644113675711942019-04-30T14:06:00.001-05:002019-07-15T12:48:03.809-05:00It's Pronounced 'Fazool'<div style="text-align: justify;">
I was reading an article on the Internet the other day, titled something like "Words You Pronounce Incorrectly at an Italian Restaurant". The writer was clearly not Italian, unless Italian Restaurants have their own language, a language I've never heard before. Which may be the case, based on my experience in Italian restaurants. And I can say the same for the food.</div>
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At any rate, for the record the word is broo-SKET- ta, not broo-SHET-ta, I don't care what the skinny blonde waitress says.</div>
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Also for the record, American Italian really IS its own dialect. A language lives in another country for a hundred years, it takes on its own life.</div>
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For example, the dish <i>pasta e fagioli</i>. Now, in Italian-Italian, this is pronounced (more or less, depending on what part of Italy the Italian in question lives) pas-ta-eh-fah-jo-lee. In America, it's pasta fazool. </div>
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<b><u>Pasta Fazool</u></b><br />
Pasta fazool is a vegan's dream, though if you said "vegan" to most Italians they would just give you a blank stare. Pasta fazool has vegetables (garlic and tomatoes) and protein (beans, that's the fazool part). And fiber, if you use whole wheat pasta, which I do. In my opinion, the jury's still out on whole wheat pasta. I think it tastes just as good, so I use it, but I'm convinced that any day now the geniuses in the world of food science are going to come out and tell us that semolina (that's the stuff that white pasta is made of) is the secret to living <i>cent'anni</i>. Mark my words.</div>
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Here's how you make pasta fazool. In a big pot, cook a pound of white beans according to the package directions. When they're done, pour out most - but not all - of the water. Leave a little liquid. Meanwhile make a marinara sauce (recipe <a href="http://www.conniestuffs.com/2015/02/the-stuff-of-dreams.html" target="_blank">here</a>) and in another pot cook about a third of a pound of pasta (we use elbow macaroni, but you can use whatever you want). Pour the beans into the marinara sauce. Drain the pasta and put that in, too. Salt, pepper, and dried basil to taste. Go easy on the basil. Too much, and it'll be the only thing you taste.</div>
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If you want it soupier, you can throw in some chicken broth. And a package of frozen spinach. Now you've got:<br />
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Make a batch of marinara sauce in a big pot. Add chicken broth, like the College-Inn-in-a-box stuff. Rinse and add a can of white beans. Cook some small pasta, like orzo, on the side. About a third of a pound. Drain pasta and add to the pot. Add a package of frozen spinach. When the spinach isn't frozen any more, you got soup!<br />
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So I used canned beans. Don't judge.<br />
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<br />Connie Staccatohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02362169672799992473noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8045571906026930807.post-31969222924492187842019-04-26T13:28:00.000-05:002019-07-15T15:49:35.131-05:00Cooking for a Holiday - Christmas, Part V - Lasagna<div style="text-align: justify;">
Before Prozac, there was lasagna.</div>
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Lasagna. Lasagne (<i>n., pl.</i>). Italian turkey. The baked spaghetti.</div>
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I never heard the word lasagna come out of my grandmother's mouth. It was always "the baked spaghetti". And, yes, it was the main attraction on holidays, always with - never instead of - turkey (Thanksgiving, Christmas) and/or ham (Easter). We had it on the Fourth of July, too, if I correctly remember. And my grandmother's freezer was always full of mini-<i>lasagne</i>, made with any leftovers from the main event.</div>
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Before I begin, let me give you a word of warning: This lasagna, for all its fabulousness, will be a little watery/oily when you take it out of the oven. I hear this is a common situation. I read somewhere that the water hides in the lasagna noodles. I have also read that this can be remedied by either using "no-cook" noodles, or to let your cooked noodles dry out before you use them. The first recommendation is an <i>infamia</i>, so I won't even discuss it. As for the second recommendation, I promise you that if you let your noodles dry out they will be impossibly sticky. Myself, I pour off the extra water until the whole lasagna threatens to fall into the sink, and then I suck the rest out with a turkey baster. Whatever works.</div>
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<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; display: inline; float: none; font-family: "times new roman"; font-size: 16px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; letter-spacing: normal; text-align: left; text-decoration: none; text-indent: 0px; text-transform: none; white-space: normal; word-spacing: 0px;">The transformation of a gazillion ingredients into a ten-pound tray of organized layers is, to put it mildly, a challenge. The way to wrap your mind around it is to think in components. Baby steps. This is the secret to dealing with any overwhelming situation in life, not just lasagna. In fact, if we want to get philosophical about it, we can call it "The Zen of Lasagna", which could be the title of my next book.</span></div>
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Here are the components of lasagna:</div>
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Sauce.</div>
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Lasagna noodles.</div>
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Ricotta.</div>
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Ground meat.</div>
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Mozzarella cheese.</div>
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Parmesan cheese.</div>
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Now, we'll go through each of them, one-by-one.</div>
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<u><b>The Sauce</b></u></div>
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Use your Christmas Sauce, the recipe for which is in the previous post. If you've been paying attention and taking me seriously, you've already made this, so it's all ready to go. Just have it handy. Even if you're making lasagna for some other occasion than Christmas, I do <i>not</i> recommend same-day sauce. You'll be up until two in the morning.</div>
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<b><u>Lasagna Noodles</u></b></div>
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Follow the package directions, but cook the noodles only long enough until you can poke a fork through them. Keep them waiting in a pot of water, so they don't stick together. You'll need about 20 noodles for the whole lasagna, but make extra because you never know. Sometimes they tear.</div>
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<b><u>Ricotta</u></b></div>
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Buy four pounds of ricotta from a deli counter. Do not buy the pre-packaged stuff, because I don't know what that is, but it's not ricotta. Drain off the water. Serve 1 pound of the ricotta as a topping for the pasta on Christmas Eve, and use the other 3 pounds for the lasagna. Put the three pounds of the ricotta in a big bowl with 2 eggs, 1/2 cup of parmesan cheese, 1/2 cup chopped fresh parsley, a teaspoon of salt, and a teaspoon of pepper. Beat with an electric beater until it's fluffy and then put it in the fridge until it's showtime.</div>
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<b><u>Ground Meat</u></b></div>
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I use about 2 1/2 pounds of ground sirloin. Other people use a "meatloaf mix" of ground beef, pork, and/or veal. I like sirloin. Brown it real good with some salt, pepper, and parsley. Drain on a plate lined with some paper towels. Do this step last because you don't want it sitting out too long. </div>
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<u><b>Mozzarella Cheese</b></u></div>
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Buy four pounds of packaged shredded mozzarella. Who's gonna know? You probably won't use all of it, but you might.</div>
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<b><u>Parmesan Cheese</u></b></div>
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I buy a big container of fresh grated parmesan, also from the deli counter. Because there's no bigger pain in the ass than grating cheese.</div>
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Get all that stuff ready, and you're in the home stretch.</div>
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Pre-heat your oven to 350 degrees.</div>
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Use a giant rectangular aluminum roasting pan. In fact, use two, one nested inside the other. If you've been watching the weight of the ingredients, you'll agree this is a good idea. Don't use a "lasagna" pan, even if it says "extra-large". It won't be deep enough.</div>
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Now we layer:</div>
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Spread some sauce (about a cup) on the bottom of the pan, so the lasagna won't stick.</div>
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Layer about five noodles on top of the sauce. They should overlap a little. Depending on how big your pan is, you may have to tear up a few noodles to cover it all. Like patchwork.</div>
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Sprinkle the noodles with some shredded mozzarella. How much? How much do you like mozzarella?</div>
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Cover the mozzarella with half of the ground beef.</div>
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Cover the beef with half of the ricotta. This is tricky, because the meat will stick to the ricotta, so use a <i>very</i> light touch. </div>
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Cover the ricotta with a thin layer of sauce.</div>
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Noodles.</div>
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Mozzarella.</div>
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The other half of the beef.</div>
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The other half of the ricotta.</div>
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Sauce.</div>
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Noodles.</div>
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Sauce.</div>
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Mozzarella.</div>
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Sprinkle with parmesan.</div>
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Bake about 45 minutes, or until the whole thing is bubbling and the mozzarella on top starts to get a little puffy and golden. </div>
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Take the lasagna out of the oven and let it sit for about 10 to 15 minutes. When the pan is cool enough to touch, tip it (carefully!!) to see if there's any excess water to get rid of. I really do recommend a turkey baster, because this sucker's <i>heavy</i>.</div>
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Serve the lasagna with whatever's left of the sauce.</div>
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You have now harnessed the power of lasagna. Use it wisely. Random, and maybe unscrupulous, men will want to marry you. You will begin receiving an unusual number of invitations to potluck dinners. Your children will never want to leave you.</div>
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Personally, I'd use that power to have a glass of wine and a nap. </div>
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In fact, I think I'll go do that right now. </div>
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<br />Connie Staccatohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02362169672799992473noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8045571906026930807.post-27104444743285027612019-03-25T14:24:00.000-05:002019-03-25T14:24:33.869-05:00Cooking for a Holiday - Christmas, Part IV - The Sauce<div style="text-align: justify;">
I make this sauce once a year. Mainly because it has pork in it and I very seldom eat pork because pigs are nice animals. Actually, ALL animals are nice and I promise that someday I'm going to stop eating them. Probably when people stop asking me to cook them.</div>
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In a perfect world, you should make this sauce WEEKS in advance, and freeze it. Once again (are you listening, Anthony?) my lack of freezer space forced me to wait until two days before Christmas last year, and it almost killed me. Listen up, Italian girls: The next time some <i>jamoke</i> tells you he loves you and promises you the moon, look deep into his eyes and say in a husky voice, "I want a freezer. Size matters."</div>
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It's not that the sauce is hard to make. In fact, it's easy. It's just that on Christmas, I'm making a triple recipe because it's for the Christmas lasagna (with extra sauce on the side) AND Christmas Eve dinner, per the request of my children, who - so far - don't know what it's like to "do" Christmas. (You know what, Nikki and Nino? All those nice gifts and the decorations and the cookies and the meals and the nice clean sheets on the beds? They didn't get here courtesy of the shoemaker's elves.)</div>
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This recipe is loosely based on one from "The Italian Cookbook" by the Culinary Arts Institute, which was in Chicago. Even though it's out of print, you can get it on Amazon. If you can't find a copy, write to me and I'll Xerox it for you. Really. That's how much I want you to eat good food.</div>
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<b><u>Tomato Meat Sauce</u></b></div>
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Put six big cans of peeled Italian tomatoes (<i>pelati</i>) in the blender, one can at a time. Pour the pureed tomatoes into a REALLY big pot. Brown a couple of chopped onions in olive oil and add to the pot. Now brown a chuck roast and a pork shoulder (you could do this in the oven, I suppose). How big should the chuck roast and the pork shoulder be? How much are your guests going to eat on Christmas Eve? You don't use the meat to make the lasagna (the lasagna uses different meat), only the sauce.</div>
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Put the chuck roast and the pork shoulder into the pot. Add a couple of bay leaves and a tablespoon of salt. If you need more salt, add it later after you taste the sauce. Bring to a simmer, turn down the heat, and cover the pot. Let simmer over very low heat for at least a couple of hours. Stir it once in a while.</div>
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Take the cover off the pot. Add three small cans of tomato paste. You can add some water if the sauce gets too thick. Now simmer uncovered for another couple of hours, and don't forget to stir so it doesn't scorch on the bottom. When the sauce is done (that's when the meat starts falling apart), take out the bay leaves, if you can find them.</div>
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Serve the sauce over the pasta of your choice. My pasta of choice is usually leftover noodles from making the lasagna. It looks fancy. Have some fresh ricotta and some grated pecorino-romano cheese on the side for toppings. Serve the meat on a platter and make sure you put it in the middle of the table, because it's impressive.</div>
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Of course, you're going to make your Christmas lasagna <i>before</i> Christmas Eve dinner, so the sauce you're serving is what's left over. Make sure you set aside extra sauce for the Christmas lasagna. You GOTTA have extra sauce with lasagna, because sauce junkies exist in every Italian family, and they will never let you forget the one time you didn't have extra sauce. And by Christmas Eve dinnertime, when that lasagna is resting comfortably in the fridge, your job is DONE for the holiday, because the kids are gonna eat store-bought panettone for breakfast and like it.</div>
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So now you can pour yourself another glass of red. And wait for Santa to drop a freezer down your chimney.</div>
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<br />Connie Staccatohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02362169672799992473noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8045571906026930807.post-26125626087127800692019-03-25T11:36:00.000-05:002019-03-25T11:36:08.948-05:00Listen Up<div style="text-align: justify;">
Ciao tutti!</div>
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My dulcet tones will once again be on Fest Italiana through Thursday at 5:00 pm:</div>
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<a href="http://spoony.com/" target="_blank">Festa Italiana</a></div>
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So have fun and listen up. It'll help you get over the Mueller report.</div>
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Love,</div>
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Connie</div>
Connie Staccatohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02362169672799992473noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8045571906026930807.post-30483252401060792522019-03-06T13:57:00.000-06:002019-03-06T18:43:51.153-06:00Cooking for a Holiday - Christmas, Part III - The Cookie<div style="text-align: justify;">
The cookie. The. Cookie. One cookie. Singular.</div>
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I used to make a lot of cookies. A <i>lot</i> of cookies, all different kinds. I did it because my children loved it, or maybe I was just imagining that. Maybe I was looking to give them some memories that didn't involve me yelling at them for not doing their homework.</div>
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Then, one day, I got The Message. It came to me suddenly, while I was meditating on the cruel fate that gave us Thanksgiving and Christmas only a month apart from each other. It was the voice of the Blessed Mother, speaking deep in my heart. "My child," she said, "that's why God gave us Italian bakeries." </div>
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And she's right. Think about it. As happy as you were when Grandma baked cookies, you went totally <i>bonkers</i> when she walked through the door with a box from the bakery.</div>
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I will cite two examples from my life that carry the Mother of God's point:</div>
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My daughter Nikki was little and I was heavily pregnant with her brother Nino. I had my husband's whole entire extended family over for Christmas dinner. I was just bringing out the coffee and the Galliano and my ABSOLUTELY PERFECTLY GORGEOUS platter of Homemade Christmas Cookies. And my father-in-law took ONE look at it and said, "I <i>loathe</i> cookies." Really? <i>Really?</i> In the dictionary of my mind, next to the word "buzzkill", will forever reside a picture of my father-in-law. He's in heaven now. The part where there aren't any cookies. </div>
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My children have become adults. A couple of years ago I went to a bakery and brought home some <i>cuccidati</i>, which are ground zero of Sicilian Christmas cookies. My son ate one, and said, "Mom. I don't want to hurt your feelings. But these are pretty close to yours." And all those wasted years, all that time and money that I could have spent on shoes, flashed in front of my eyes. I must have had a look on my face, because he said, real fast, "I think your filling is a little better!" Nice save, Nino. I was SO glad to see the look on <i>your</i> face when you discovered that the <i>cuccidati</i> from the bakery this year had chocolate chips in them. </div>
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Not being stupid, I currently have it down to one cookie. But this is one heck of a good cookie. Trust me. Everybody (which is my husband Anthony and my cousin Vita) says it's the only cookie they care about. And I've never had one from a bakery that even came close. </div>
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The recipe is from my husband's Aunt Geraldine:</div>
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<u>Honey Nut Cookies</u></div>
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Take two sticks of butter and set them out to get soft in a big bowl. Once they're soft, beat in a quarter cup of honey and 1 1/2 teaspoons of vanilla. In another big bowl, stir together 1/8 teaspoon of salt and two cups of flour (sift together, if you've got that gene). Blend the flour with the butter mixture. Then blend in 1 1/2 cups of pecan pieces (this is the only part of the recipe that's a pain in the ass). Now you can bake the cookies, or you can put the dough in the fridge. You've got at least a week to do something with it.</div>
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Preheat your oven to 325 degrees. Pinch off pieces of dough about the size of a half-dollar, roll them into balls, and put them on a baking sheet. Roll and shape the balls into crescents. They won't spread much in the oven, so you can get around 20 of them on the sheet. Bake about 20 minutes, or until golden brown. (After 15 minutes, watch carefully because they can get too brown in a hurry.)</div>
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Take the cookies out of the oven and let them cool <i>just a little bit</i> until you can slide them off the baking sheet with a spatula without breaking them. <i>Carefully</i>, put them on a plate and sift copious amounts of powdered sugar on them. The more, the better. And you GOTTA do this part when the cookies are still warm.</div>
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I make one exception to the cookie austerity program. I will always, happily, host or attend a cookie-baking party (I will happily host or attend <i>any</i> party, actually). Done right, a cookie-baking party will include Christmas carols, <i>White Christmas</i>, and lots of wine. And of course you'll decorate the house before the company comes over. And you can give them their presents, too. That covers a lot of bases, plus you get your cookies done.</div>
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Just make sure you invite one adult who doesn't drink. <i>Somebody</i> needs to watch the oven.</div>
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Or drive to the bakery.</div>
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<br />Connie Staccatohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02362169672799992473noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8045571906026930807.post-39265848982256660672019-02-28T10:16:00.004-06:002019-02-28T10:16:33.593-06:00It's Showtime!<div style="text-align: justify;">
Hey, everybody, Connie Staccato is on the air!</div>
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So do me a favor. Tune in at:</div>
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<a href="http://spoony.com/" target="_blank"><span style="font-size: x-large;">Festa Italiana</span></a></div>
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And hit the "Listen Live" button.</div>
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All week until next Wednesday: 7am, 5pm, and 10pm EST. (For those of you who are bad at math, that's 6am, 4pm, and 9 pm CST.)</div>
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You'll hear stories about food, Chicago, and The Mob, with me and a <i>paisan</i> named Paul, who's pretty nice actually knows what he's talking about.</div>
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Buon appetito!</div>
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Connie</div>
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<br />Connie Staccatohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02362169672799992473noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8045571906026930807.post-12137283091060206292019-02-22T14:52:00.000-06:002019-07-01T18:54:47.734-05:00Cooking for a Holiday - Christmas, Part II - The Menu<div style="text-align: justify;">
One part of Christmas that's simple: The Menu.</div>
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<i>What</i> menu, are you kidding? There's only one thing on the menu: lasagna.</div>
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What else could there be? Are you going to break with 500 years of tradition? Are you going to risk the leverage that the Christmas lasagna gives you over <i>la famiglia</i> for the rest of the year? Lasagna is the reason Italian families are matriarchies.</div>
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Now, of course, you're going to have a little something more than lasagna. But try not to serve anything that requires cooking. Hey, you've got <i>presents </i>to open!</div>
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So here's the Staccato Family Christmas Day Menu:</div>
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<b><u><span style="font-size: large;">Christmas Day Menu</span></u></b></div>
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<b>Lasagna</b></div>
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<b>Salad</b></div>
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<b>Bread</b></div>
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<b>Cheese</b></div>
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<b>Cookies</b></div>
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<b>Coffee</b></div>
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<b>Wine</b></div>
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Since YOU make the lasagna, have your husband (or kids or guests or Trader Joe's) do the salad and slice up the cheese. Who cares? Get the bread, and maybe some of the cookies, from a good Italian bakery.</div>
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And here's the beauty of this menu: You can serve the meat from the sauce you make for the lasagna, with some leftover noodles and ricotta, for Christmas Eve dinner. It's <i>that</i> good. I, myself, would be happy with a little linguine with clams on Christmas Eve, but I did the meat thing one year and now that's all anybody wants. It's my own fault. But I think it's worth it when you consider the fact that all the work I do for the lasagna serves two purposes.</div>
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Everything can be made up ahead of time. Lasagna freezes beautifully. In fact, it may taste even better <i>after</i> it's been frozen. But it takes up a lot of space in the freezer. My grandmother had a six-foot-high freezer in the basement, full of lasagna. (That's a lot of leverage.) I don't have a freezer in the basement, which means that my Christmas seasons are seriously a life-or-death struggle between the space in my refrigerator and how much food I want to make before Christmas Eve. I need to fix that. Because a freezer in the basement is a symbol of an Italian woman's power. </div>
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Power, I'm realizing, that I don't have. <br />
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Yet.</div>
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<br />Connie Staccatohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02362169672799992473noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8045571906026930807.post-46410245260408163332019-02-20T15:00:00.000-06:002019-07-15T14:45:12.267-05:00Cooking for a Holiday - Christmas, Part I - Spirit of the Season<div style="text-align: justify;">
I have a confession to make.</div>
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Here, in the presence of God, St. Anthony, and the ghost of Father Manzoni I confess: Christmas is not my favorite holiday.</div>
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I know. It should be. Christmas is stars and bells and songs and bright colors, right? And parties with your family, and/or your friends, if you don't like your family. And fancy clothes and cookies. And <i>White Christmas </i>on DVD. With cocoa. Or wine. Then midnight Mass. With a choir. And PRESENTS ("Nino, hand me that gift over there. Not the big box that looks like it's probably a frying pan. The little box that looks like it comes from a jewelry store. Which, for your father's sake, I hope it did. And I'll have another glass of red. Thank you.")</div>
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At least, that's the Christmas I see everybody else doing. For me it's bad weather and shopping and cleaning and my hip hurting me. And decorating and cooking and baking and wrapping and houseguests and Mariah-freaking-Carey 24/7. And gaining 10 lbs. and trying to find some time to get a haircut. And those fancy clothes? They lose a little glam under the down coat and the snow boots, you know? Especially with the extra 10 lbs. </div>
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Add all this to the fact that Italians, for whatever reason, seem to think they have to celebrate Christmas twice - Christmas Eve <i>and</i> Christmas Day. My grandmother was smart enough and bossy enough to demand that everybody come to her house for both days, and she just heated up leftovers. I'm not that smart, and when I try to get bossy, everybody stops taking to me.</div>
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But once Christmas is over - and that means once Baby Jesus goes back in the box, which in the Staccato household is the day after New Year - you're already in January. This is important. The days start getting noticeably longer, which helps you to stop thinking about pouring a bowl of spaghetti over your husband's head. I guess that's the point. Christmas makes winter shorter. And you're too busy to file for divorce.</div>
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Every year, I tell myself I'm going to keep it simple. I swear I'm going to do my shopping in September when there's nothing else to do. And every year, come December, I'm running around like a chicken with its head cut off. Well, I'm making a vow. Like, starting right now. Yeah, now. This way I'm leaving plenty of time for<i> Love, Actually</i>, too. Don't judge<br />
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At this writing, it's the end of February, I'm over it, and I'm taking the first step to this year's Merry Christmas. <br />
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You should, too. Go to your calendar. I'm serious. Go to September. Write "Xmas Shopping" in the box with the "1" in it. I just did. And here's some motivation: The Connie Staccato Rule of Christmas Shopping says that every fifth gift you buy is one for yourself.<br />
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I got that part right.</div>
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<br />Connie Staccatohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02362169672799992473noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8045571906026930807.post-55112260002082211062018-12-11T17:19:00.003-06:002019-03-03T14:13:58.806-06:00A Very Merry Connie Staccato Christmas<div style="text-align: justify;">
It's Christmastime, which means one thing to females of Sicilian-American persuasion:</div>
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Cuccidati</div>
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For the benefit of you "out" people, this is pronounced koo-che-DAH-dee. Also referred to as "Sicilian fig cookies", "Sicilian Christmas cookies", "Italian fig cookies", or simply "the figs" as in, "You gonna make the figs this year?"</div>
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I have never heard of one being referred to in the singular.</div>
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Cuccidati is an ancient recipe, if you judge by the ingredients, all of which are pre-Columbus-sailing-the-ocean-blue, except for the sugar in the dough, a modern upgrade. Of course, there are certain people who think that <i>everything</i> has to be chocolate (def a New World thing) and add chocolate chips to the filling. If you do this, stop it. It's an <i>infamia</i>. And your children will never respect you.</div>
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In my family, every Christmas season we baked cuccidati at my grandmother's house. When I say "we", I mean every last<i> donna</i> of the <i>famiglia</i> and the male children under the age of twelve. My grandfather would hide. The non-Sicilian daughters-in-law were expected to participate, but were closely monitored. Adult males were not invited to this gathering, even if they wanted to be, which they did not. In fact, most of them resented the invasion, because it took over the kitchen, which is the main room of a Sicilian household. I once even heard my grandfather snarl, "Big deal. Buy some Fig Newtons and put some frosting on them." This sentiment was greeted by the <i>mal occhio</i> from my grandmother, but was otherwise ignored. Take into consideration that my grandfather didn't like ricotta in his lasagna, and was therefore probably insane, and that baking cuccidati is a leisurely activity spread out over 2-3 days, and that's sort of an explanation.</div>
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I'm going to share the family recipe with you. Yes, it's long and yes, it will probably take you three days, unless you have absolutely nothing else to do and that includes brushing your teeth. But learn to make cuccidati and you can have your pick of handsome Sicilian men to marry (check their work history first).</div>
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Call your sisters and your cousins. Put on your hoop earrings and your red aprons. Leave plenty of time to argue about who's got the "right" recipe. <br />
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Part I: The Dough</div>
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Ingredients:</div>
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3 lbs of cake flour (13 1/2 cups. I looked it up.)</div>
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6 tsp of baking powder (yes, six)</div>
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1 1/2 cups of sugar</div>
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1 tsp of salt (Never leave this out. Never. I did. Once. I will do time in Purgatory for it.)</div>
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3 sticks of cold butter (really)</div>
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1 cup of Crisco or lard</div>
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2 cups of milk</div>
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Sift together (or stir together; I'm not the kind of girl who "sifts") the flour, baking powder, sugar, and salt, in a really big-ass bowl. With a pastry cutter, cut in the butter and Crisco until crumbly. Gradually add enough of the milk to make a medium-soft dough. Knead the dough until smooth, about 10 minutes. Place in a covered container and put in the fridge for at least an hour. Overnight is better. Bring to room temperature when you're ready to use.</div>
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Part II: The Filling</div>
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Ingredients:</div>
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1/2 lb of dates</div>
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1 1/2 lbs of dried figs, as soft as you can find them, hard tips trimmed</div>
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1 cup of blanched, slivered almonds</div>
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1/4 cup of candied, chopped citron</div>
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1/3 cup of raisins</div>
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1 small jar of orange marmalade (or a cut-up orange, peel and all, wash it first)</div>
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3 Tbl of honey</div>
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1 tsp of ground cinnamon</div>
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A little whiskey (The good stuff. And just a splash, because you get to drink the rest. My grandmother liked Manhattans.)</div>
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Toast your almonds in a 300 degree oven until they're golden and you can smell them. Roughly chop the dates and figs. Mix everything in a big bowl, the best you can. Take this mixture and put it through a food grinder, using a coarse blade. (A few words about food grinders. I'm talking about the kind that my grandmother used that looks like something that would make Dick Cheney's eyes light up. They are easy to find in thrift stores, and probably will be until they become a yuppie kitchen boutique "discovery" and they start selling them for the equivalent of a down payment on a car.) Gather the filling into a ball, wrap in Saran Wrap, and put it in the fridge. It will keep for at least a week. Probably longer. I am of the opinion that you could put this stuff in a time capsule and bury it somewhere in Boston's North End and three hundred years from now somebody could dig it up and make cuccidati.</div>
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Part III: Baking and Icing</div>
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Pre-heat oven to 375 degrees. Break off a ball of dough and roll thin. Cut into rectangles about the size of an index card. Put a teaspoon (more or less) of filling, and shape it like a Tootsie Roll on top of each rectangle. Close the dough over the filling and pinch the ends shut. Make 2-3 little slashes on one side of the cookie and shape into a "C". Bake on an ungreased (thank God!) cookie sheet for 17 to 20 minutes, or until cookies are very lightly browned. Let cool. </div>
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Part IV: Icing</div>
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Ingredients:</div>
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1 box of powdered sugar</div>
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6 Tbl of warm milk</div>
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2 tsp of vanilla extract</div>
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2 tsp of lemon extract</div>
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Mix all ingredients in a bowl. Add a little more milk if the icing is too thick. Spoon icing on each cookie and shake some sprinkles on top. Fast. While the icing is still moist. This is one of the times of life when small children come in handy. They know sprinkles. Do ten or so cookies at a time. You may need more than one batch of icing. </div>
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That's it. Trust me, it's easier than it sounds. The Manhattans help. If you have extra dough, just roll it up and bake it without the filling. Which your man will probably like better than the figs because, as you well know, he doesn't appreciate anything.</div>
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Buon Natale. And, BTW, <i>nobody</i> sings "Ave Maria" like Perry Como.</div>
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<br />Connie Staccatohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02362169672799992473noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8045571906026930807.post-17643810973218870532017-07-31T17:19:00.003-05:002017-07-31T17:19:51.636-05:00Anthony, We Hardly Knew Ya<div style="text-align: justify;">
Dear Anthony,</div>
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I <i>told</i> you to stop shooting your mouth off, and now look where it got you. Fired by a guy who puts ketchup on a steak. And his Irish general friend. If it makes you feel any better, your worst meal was better than anything they ever put in their mouths.</div>
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I'm sorry you got fired. You were funny. Not like the rest of those <i>jamokes</i>.</div>
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Well, take a vacation. Write a book. I'll buy it, promise. And if you ever need a shoulder to cry on, you know where to find me. Actually, you <i>don't</i> know where to find me. </div>
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Ask the Russians. They probably do.</div>
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<i>In boca al lupo </i>and don't be a stranger.</div>
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Your fourth cousin, once removed,</div>
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Connie </div>
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Connie Staccatohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02362169672799992473noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8045571906026930807.post-89531089543568857252017-07-27T17:34:00.000-05:002017-07-27T17:34:50.010-05:00Hey, Anthony!<div style="text-align: justify;">
Jeez, calm down!</div>
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You're quoting Joe Paterno and talking about hanging people. One more stupid thing out of your mouth and I'll be wondering - like everybody else - what you're putting up your nose.</div>
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Take a nap or something.</div>
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Your fourth cousin, once removed,</div>
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Connie Staccato<b></b><i></i><u></u><sub></sub><sup></sup><strike></strike></div>
Connie Staccatohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02362169672799992473noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8045571906026930807.post-86772295007886424172017-07-23T14:20:00.000-05:002017-07-23T14:20:33.562-05:00My Cousin Anthony<div style="text-align: justify;">
Would you believe it? Anthony Scaramucci is my fourth cousin! </div>
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Once removed. </div>
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Hey, Anthony! It's me, Connie. The last time we saw each other was at Aunt Lena's wedding and you were about six. Congratulations, and don't get a swelled head.</div>
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I saw you on TV the other night. Jesus, are you <i>kidding</i> me? Anthony, some advice. Stop combing your hair with a rake and put on a tie that isn't shiny! You look like an undertaker, for chrissakes. And stop telling everybody about all the shit you're gonna do. That's not how Sicilians operate, in case you forgot.</div>
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And lastly, Mooch, listen to me here. Just because you're hanging out with that big orange <i>gagootz </i>doesn't mean you can say stuff that isn't true.</div>
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Remember, St. Anthony can hear you.</div>
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Connie Staccatohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02362169672799992473noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8045571906026930807.post-79082552201766566472017-05-26T10:22:00.000-05:002017-05-26T10:22:23.151-05:00Dear President Cafone<div style="text-align: justify;">
Dear Mr. Trump,</div>
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How's that little vay-cay working out for you? Here's what we know so far:</div>
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<li>Your wife can't stand you.</li>
<li>Maybe because you're a rat bastard?</li>
<li>Your son-in-law is even creepier than you are. </li>
<li>Your suits don't fit. Not even close.</li>
<li>French people make fun of you.</li>
<li>They didn't make fun of Obama. Just sayin'.</li>
<li>His Holiness thinks you're a jerk. </li>
<li>And when I first saw your ladies at the Vatican, I thought "Who died?"</li>
<li>You really like Saudi Arabians. </li>
<li>Probably because they give you (and your creepy kids) money.</li>
<li>And shiny things.</li>
<li>World peace? Fugeddaboudit. </li>
</ol>
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So
you're in Sicily now, are you? Let me give you a list of Sicilian words
you're gonna hear. A lot. I don't know how they're spelled, but they
sound like this:</div>
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<span style="font-size: large;"><i>boodagots</i></span></div>
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<br /></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;"><i>chooch</i></span></div>
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<br /></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;"><i>gabbaroos</i></span></div>
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<br /></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;"><i>gabbados</i></span></div>
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<br /></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;"><i>gabbadeegots</i></span></div>
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<br /></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;"><i>gogoots</i></span></div>
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<br /></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;"><i>gooloo</i></span></div>
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<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<span style="font-size: large;"><i>jadrool</i></span></div>
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<br /></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;"><i>jamoke</i></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;"><i>skoochamend</i></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;"><i>stroonz</i></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;"><i>stoonahd</i></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;"><i>vafangool </i></span></div>
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They all pretty much mean the same thing. Except for the last one. But I think the word you're gonna hear the most is <i>cafone.</i> Like, you are the EMBODIMENT of a <i>cafone.</i>
Take, for example, what you did to the Prime Minister of Montenegro.
Smooth move, James Bond. The jacket flick was a nice touch. </div>
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Seriously, <i>chooch</i>, in the Italian dictionary next to <i>cafone</i> is your picture.</div>
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Hope this helps,</div>
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Connie Staccato</div>
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Sicilian-American </div>
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(BTW, a special "grazi'!" to the American-Italian dictionary at americanitalian.net.)<br />
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Connie Staccatohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02362169672799992473noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8045571906026930807.post-15595443095663335012015-11-29T16:12:00.002-06:002019-07-14T19:35:47.152-05:00Food Coma<div style="text-align: justify;">
Once you've recovered from your Thanksgiving food coma, it's time for getting creative with the leftovers. <br />
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I'll begin by defining for you what Italians mean by a "heavy fork".</div>
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A heavy fork is a person who likes to eat a lot of food. I'm not talking about every day, all the time. I'm talking about sitting down, hungry, like for Sunday dinner. A heavy fork doesn't do well in one of those restaurants where they charge you two months of lunch for a steak the size of your palm with a curly leaf on top and stuff squiggled on the plate underneath. Heavy forks like old style restaurants where they fill your plate. Bonus points if the menu is written on a chalkboard and/or they don't accept credit cards.</div>
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So a heavy fork is not necessarily a fat person. Many are quite thin. They can exist for <i>weeks</i> on salads and sardines and buttered toast.<i> </i>Maybe a little <i>zuppa</i>. My husband, Anthony, is one of these people. Some people think that I am, too, but they don't know the size of my hips because I'm really good at hiding them. </div>
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I'm saying all this because today I'm doing something with leftover turkey. Turkey tetrazzini. And to understand the recipe, you also need to understand the following:</div>
<ol style="text-align: justify;">
<li>We are heavy forks;</li>
<li>Turkey tetrazzini tastes really, really good;</li>
<li>When something tastes good we want to eat lots of it.</li>
</ol>
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This recipe, like many of mine, comes from <i>The Joy of Cooking</i>. Sort of. The problem with recipes from <i>The Joy of Cooking</i> is that the authors are neither Italian nor (apparently) heavy forks. Their recipes are generally for 4 to 6 Puritans, which will generally satisfy 2 Italians. Maybe. So, most of the time, I have to translate. The beautiful thing is that it works.</div>
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Turkey tetrazzini is maybe the best thing you can do with your leftover turkey. Because it is made with a lot of cream sauce, it's the perfect thing to make with dried-out white meat. This is an easy recipe, but not fast, so allow yourself some time. Take the opportunity to finish off any leftover wine from the holiday.</div>
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<u><b>Turkey Tetrazzini</b></u></div>
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Wash and slice a big package of mushrooms. I wash my mushrooms. Some people don't. If you don't wash your mushrooms, please don't tell me about it. Saute the mushrooms in olive oil and a little butter. Cook a pound of pasta. I like "little" pasta for the tetrazzini because then you can serve it with a big spoon and it doesn't slide all over the place, but a lot of people use angel hair. Today I used "mini-farfalle" (little butterflies). Just as cute as it sounds.</div>
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While you're waiting for the pasta water to boil, make the sauce. (It takes a little time, sorry. Start on the wine.) To make the sauce, melt a stick of butter in a deep pot. Add 8 tablespoons of flour. Cook and stir, over medium heat, until smooth and bubble. Gradually add 4 cups of chicken broth (canned is fine, or bouillon), stirring constantly and bringing to a boil after each addition. It will start to get thick. After you finish adding the chicken broth, salt and pepper to taste. Add two cups of heated cream or half-and-half. Bring to a simmer.</div>
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Drain the pasta and add the mushrooms to it. Cut up some leftover turkey into small pieces and add it to the pasta and mushrooms. Pour the hot sauce over everything and mix well.</div>
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Now, pour the whole thing into a large, buttered baking dish. Sprinkle with <i>parmigiano</i> or romano cheese, or whatever you got. Bake in a 375 degree oven until the cheese starts to brown.</div>
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<i>Buon appetito</i>.</div>
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And don't worry about the calories. You won't be eating many more of them until Christmas Eve. </div>
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<br />Connie Staccatohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02362169672799992473noreply@blogger.com7