The Grand Ravioli Plan - A Twofer

(My take and this week's TALLGRASS & TUMBLEWEEDS)

I don’t have a lot of memories about ravioli. Most of us probably don’t.

But we all have memories about food, any food, that the sight or aroma of beams us back to a time a place so specific in our minds we can see ourselves in that kitchen or that restaurant, at that table at our house or at the homes of grandparents, aunt and uncles.

I have lots of these memories, but only one involves ravioli. And that is when I watched my grandfather, Vincent Del Duca, make ravioli from scratch on my mom’s kitchen counter in Levittown, N.Y. when I was about 8. That puts us in about 1967.

What was striking about seeing grandpa cook, an apron around his chubby middle, a cigar in his mouth and wearing his tweed beret, was that he NEVER cooked. My mom, grandmother and aunts (we called them the pasta bombs) were all consummate chefs of Italian and Polish cuisine. And men rarely ventured into their realm unless it was tossing a few burgers and hot dogs on the hibachi.

But on this day the Kitchen was Vincent Del Duca’s and he ran it like a tyrant. He made the dough, he rolled the dough, he made the fillings, he made the sauce, his dexterity belting his portly appearance. And then, I watched in awe as he took out his special utensils—the ravioli cutters and wheels, and using them like cookie cutters carved what looked like one big ass sheet of dough into, well, ravioli. He made two kinds that day, one of ricotta and spices and one of sausage. And it was as delicious as it was fascinating.

But by far the best part of the day was when my brother Brian, all of 6, and who had a real way of getting under my grandfather’s feet and skin, stuck his greedy hands into the ravioli mixings one time too many, licking his fingers like cake frosting, causing grandpa to chase him all over the house, wielding that ravioli cutter and threatening to cut his eyes out. Brian laughed at this, of course, and always managed to stay just a few inches away from grandpa’s reach, until Grandpa finally plopped into a chair in defeat, laughing and muttering, “That goddamn kid.”

So that’s my ravioli memory.

And the only reason I bring it up is because we made homemade ravioli from scratch for the first time in my life a few days ago. And though it was not as good as Vincent Del Duca’s, it was pretty damn close.

But more importantly—I wasn’t in my kitchen at 65 years old. I was in my mother’s kitchen and was 7. And that doesn’t suck.

Attached below is a article our recent foray into ravioli. Mangia!

(Tallgrass & Tumbleweeds is available weekly in 20 Kansas newspapers)

The Grand Ravioli Plan

Dear Readers,

Lately every conversation’s been opening with a discussion of how rapidly the holidays are approaching, who’s going where when, and of course, who’s cooking what. And I’m not surprised when small talk transforms at this point because holiday foods evoke vivid and emotionally-charged memories. Scientists attribute this phenomena to the way food engages all our senses and activates parts of our brains which make us feel good in the heightened context of memory-rich specials. Given the importance of holiday meals and my “reputation,” historically I’ve rarely been asked to contribute anything I can’t buy. So imagine my surprise to learn, via a gift of kitchen gadgets, that I’m making ravioli for Christmas.

There’s no need to be alarmed or alert law enforcement. I won’t be cooking alone—our household has a tradition of cooking one holiday together—and more importantly, the microwave remains off limits and I won’t be going anywhere near the stove unsupervised. Let me also assure you that the architect of this Grand Ravioli Plan assures ME he has not lost his mind. He has bestowed this pasta honor because I make a mean egg noodle, thanks to my mother and maternal grandmother. Others will make the fillings and the sauce so all I can screw up is, well, the ravioli-part. To prevent THAT, he gave me the ravioli stamp set NOW, to give me plenty of time to PRACTICE. And I was eager to get started…

I aimed only NOT to blow up the house and make something passably edible that looked like ravioli. I’m delighted to report my first batch exceeded those aspirations. I had a blast. I relish trying new things and it’s not very often I am “let loose” in the kitchen. I was so proud of the resulting recognizable, cheese and sausage filled pasta (served with a light homemade red sauce and topped with fresh herbs and freshly grated parmesan) I put photos on social media where friends called me a fancy gourmet. As is often the case, what’s seen online is not the whole story. The reality is that I, and my raviolis, are nowhere near ready for holiday-primetime.

Oh we could eat them and they tasted okay, but I didn’t get the ravioli right. I’d heaved a sigh of relief when I slid my little babies into the bubbling pot because I thought I was on the right track, though it had taken hours longer than I thought it would AND I had a white nightmare of a flour mess to clean up. I was surprised when these gargantuan squares rose and bounced crazily atop the simmering water. But I did not suspect anything was WRONG until I took my first bite…and chewed…and chewed. “MamaMia, thatsa tough, tasty ravioli.”

So. Either I didn’t get the ratios on my flour, oil and water right OR I rested the “rested” the dough too little or too long OR I didn’t roll my pasta thin enough OR I messed all along the way. I’m not sure how often I’ll practice but I know I’ll be making lots more ravioli memories from now through Christmas.

Until next week—keep your eyes on the stars and your back to the wind.