Broccoli and Bow-Tie Pasta

According to Emilia, 'the people' came over to our house.  And broccoli with bow-ties was one of the things that we cooked up for them, which was really quite a hit.  Impressive, really, as half of 'the people' consisted of small children.  You never can tell what a child will do with broccoli, but since the recipe comes from the children's section of my cookbook, and as most of the kids come from parents who are of a particularly-hippie-disposition, shall we say (and everyone knows that hippie-kids eat their green veggies, right?), I figured we'd be on the safe side.  And we were, and I was right, and that's all I have to say about that.

Sadly, some of our friends have just packed up a U-Haul and are heading to Northern California.  (Jealous!)  And so because of that, a pile of us decided to get together and see them off.  Emilia had a grand ol' time.  She spent her time divided between two things: holding Torin's hand and running him around the house; and then chasing after him, exclaiming, 'But I just want to give you a hug goodbye!'  It was marvelous to watch, particularly since Torin loved to play with the girl, but wanted absolutely nothing to do with her little affectionate ways.  (Ah!  To be so young and to scorn the love of such a beauty!) 

Anyway, we've made this pasta a few times now, and I am happy to report that it is officially part of the ever-rotating repertoire.  It is incredibly fast and easy to make, very good for you, and so good you have to force yourself to stop eating it.  Oh, and as a quick side-note on the recipe -- the actual recipe calls for only half a pound of pasta.  That seems insane since it calls for eight cups of broccoli.  Don't get me wrong, I am a believer when it comes to broccoli and I never need convincing to have it.  But, do be reasonable.  So, instead, I have been using a whole pound, which it is much more manageable, I say.        

Broccoli & Bow-Tie Pasta
serves 6-8

salt
8 cups broccoli florets (4 heads)
1 pound farfalle pasta
2 tablespoons unsalted butter
2 tablespoons olive oil
1 teaspoon minced garlic
zest of 1 lemon

½ teaspoon freshly ground black pepper

1 tablespoon freshly squeezed lemon juice
¼ cup toasted pine nuts (pignoli)
freshly grated parmesan cheese, optional

Bring a large pot of salted water to a boil.  Cook the broccoli for 3 minutes and then remove with a slotted spoon.  Place in a large bowl and set aside.

In the same water, cook the pasta according to the package's instructions, usually around 11-12 minutes.  Drain well and then add the pasta to the broccoli.

While the pasta is cooking, heat the butter and oil in a small pan.  Cook the garlic and lemon zest over medium-heat for a minute.  Turn off the heat and add 2 teaspoon salt, the pepper, and lemon juice.  Pour over the pasta-broccoli mixture.  Toss well.  Season to taste and then top with the toasted pine nuts and cheese, if using.  Serve.  (Recipe from: Barefoot Contessa Family Style by Ina Garten.  Clarkson and Potter Publishing, 2002.)

Lemon Capri Torte and Meyer Lemon Curd

Egads, I can't stand January.  It is the dreariest and most dismal month that ever was.  And the longer it seems to drone on, and the greyer it seems to get outside, my longing for something (anything) citrus seems to mirror it*.  There is, after all, something very cheery and alive about a clementine or satsuma, is there not?  And Emilia loves to sit at the table and peel one in the morning.  She slowly removes every bit of peel and then breaks the orange in half.  She hands half of it to me, and then sits back, tucking into her own half, and chatting all the while.  ('Do you like pith, mama?'  The answer is no.  'Grandma Jo likes to eat the peel.  That's crazy!  I don't like to eat the peel.  Do you like to eat the peel, mama?'  The answer to this is not unless it comes from Fran's and is covered in chocolate.  Then I find it tolerable.)  See what I mean?  Cheery.

But my favorite citrus in all the world is the Meyer Lemon.  I still remember the first time I saw one.  It was in my favoritest** grocery store that ever was -- Zagara's, in Marlton, New Jersey.  And when we lived in Haddonfield, we would go there all the time.  (This is despite the fact that my mother-in-law claimed it was quite elitist of us, and that after Michael finished law school he was going to have to get two of those jobs, in order to pay for his wife's habit of fancy food things.  I still say that isn't the worst idea I've ever heard***.)  Anyway, no matter what time of day it was, Michael and I would go and get an enormous cup of Viennese Cinnamon coffee, some rugelach, and whatever else happened to be on our list that day.  In the winter months I gravitated to oranges and lemons, along with sundry other items.  (For example, these nasty raviolis filled with tofu.  Seriously, doesn't that sound revolting?  Oddly, they weren't half bad.) 

And so, we would load up on Meyer Lemons and, when they had them, these Sicilian blood oranges.  They were actually from Sicily, mind you, and half of them came wrapped up in papers with a picture of some Italian mamasita right across the front.  The flesh was the color of a raspberry and they were exquisite.

Cutting into a Meyer Lemon is one of the loveliest fragrances in the world.  It smells of lemon, with a just little bit of orange -- the scent is unmistakable and oh so wonderful.  It reminds me of my Grandma Aileen's backyard in California when I was a kid.  She had lemon trees scattered all around and we would ride our tricycles all around them, feeling pretty slick, no doubt.  Anyway, I digress.