Cabbucini
My job, dear reader, is to boldly go where no man has gone before, on your behalf. That said, consider this:
Everybody knows that pesto, the green goop made from basil and olive oil, doesn't necessarily have to be made from basil and olive oil. One of my favorites is made with chopped black olives and walnuts, lemon juice, olive oil and Parmigiano-Reggiano (or whatever it is they put in that green and yellow cheese shaker). Plus a bunch of black pepper. And a zitz of Frank's Original Hot Sauce. Because who doesn't like Frank's? And, of course, a ton of garlic.
So I'm sitting around the house the other day thinking about how good my olive and walnut pesto is gonna taste on some fettucini, with some modest red wine in my hand and the Mets on television (at home, where they are winning, amazingly enough, at a league-leading rate). Nagging me, however, is the question of what the hell I should do with the half a head of cabbage I have sitting in the fridge. Because I know if I don't take action, it's gonna go south pretty soon (despite its relative post-harvest hardiness).
I bought the cabbage because I like to cut it into 3/4" strips and throw it into my vegetarian chili with sausage. Which, let me tell you, is a revelation. When cooked with the rest of the chili, the cabbage ends up resembling, more than anything, a type of flat noodle. And who doesn't like flat noodles?
So, to make a long story short, I marched into the kitchen, put a pot of water on the boil, ripped the cabbage out of the ice box and boldly, my dear friend, went where no man has gone before.
I quartered the cabbage, removed the core, turned it on its side, and began slicing 1/4" wide shards. These strips of cabbage, when cooked, I reasoned, would resemble visually (sorta) and texturally (kinda), the fettucini I had planned on cooking. I call it Cabbucini.
I cooked the cabbage like it was pasta (note to the adventurous: it soaks up way more of the water than pasta does), then poured it into a bowl, added the pesto and some additional cheese, cracked some pepper on the top, stirred the whole thing together, and started shoveling.
Before I knew it, I found myself singing that song that goes "Oh sweet mystery of life, at last I've found you." A part of it can be found at the end of this clip:
Everybody knows that pesto, the green goop made from basil and olive oil, doesn't necessarily have to be made from basil and olive oil. One of my favorites is made with chopped black olives and walnuts, lemon juice, olive oil and Parmigiano-Reggiano (or whatever it is they put in that green and yellow cheese shaker). Plus a bunch of black pepper. And a zitz of Frank's Original Hot Sauce. Because who doesn't like Frank's? And, of course, a ton of garlic.
So I'm sitting around the house the other day thinking about how good my olive and walnut pesto is gonna taste on some fettucini, with some modest red wine in my hand and the Mets on television (at home, where they are winning, amazingly enough, at a league-leading rate). Nagging me, however, is the question of what the hell I should do with the half a head of cabbage I have sitting in the fridge. Because I know if I don't take action, it's gonna go south pretty soon (despite its relative post-harvest hardiness).
I bought the cabbage because I like to cut it into 3/4" strips and throw it into my vegetarian chili with sausage. Which, let me tell you, is a revelation. When cooked with the rest of the chili, the cabbage ends up resembling, more than anything, a type of flat noodle. And who doesn't like flat noodles?
So, to make a long story short, I marched into the kitchen, put a pot of water on the boil, ripped the cabbage out of the ice box and boldly, my dear friend, went where no man has gone before.
I quartered the cabbage, removed the core, turned it on its side, and began slicing 1/4" wide shards. These strips of cabbage, when cooked, I reasoned, would resemble visually (sorta) and texturally (kinda), the fettucini I had planned on cooking. I call it Cabbucini.
I cooked the cabbage like it was pasta (note to the adventurous: it soaks up way more of the water than pasta does), then poured it into a bowl, added the pesto and some additional cheese, cracked some pepper on the top, stirred the whole thing together, and started shoveling.
Before I knew it, I found myself singing that song that goes "Oh sweet mystery of life, at last I've found you." A part of it can be found at the end of this clip:
posted by Geoffrey at 8:28 AM
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