I Loved, I Lost, I Made Spaghetti (3 page)

Having a home to me has always meant food in the refrigerator. My roommate, Jen, and I were on the same page about that. Jen,
who is Jewish and grew up in Westchester, loves to eat as much as I do (in fact, I wouldn’t be friends with anyone who doesn’t),
and she can testify to my mother’s talents. She still rhapsodizes about the many weekends she spent at my house when we were
in college and my father was still alive and my mother cooked phenomenal meals. If we missed dinner because we had been out
for a night of drinking or dancing at some Manhattan club, we knew we could count on a cache of leftovers waiting in the refrigerator
when we returned. I knew of no other family who ate the way ours did. One night we arrived to find my brother Nick and his
friend John already well into the raid.

“What are you having?” I asked them, a little worried that there would be nothing left for us.

“I’m having the swordfish, and Nick’s having the chocolate cheesecake,” said John, his voice filled with wonderment. He felt
he’d discovered gold—I knew it was just what you might find at our house on any given night.

The first evening in our new apartment, after settling our things, Jen and I went out and shopped for groceries at the overpriced
“gourmet” store up the street. When we returned, I dropped a bag containing a bottle of extra-virgin olive oil we could scarcely
afford. The glass shattered and the oil spilled all over the kitchen floor. Jen grabbed a mop; I called my mother immediately
because I knew she would sympathize with this tragedy. It was the first of many calls I would be making to my mother to announce
a culinary mishap. Over the years, I have sought her advice on substituting self-rising flour for all- purpose flour (the
remedy is on the package); I’ve asked her how to save homemade gnocchi I removed from the water too soon (they can’t be saved)
and what to do if the roast needs another hour and my guests have already been sitting around for an hour eating olives and
cheese (just keep pouring drinks). My mother would also be receiving more than a few calls about my romantic failures, but
she has fewer clear answers to these.

If my mother did not impart to me an understanding of how to play games when it comes to love, she at least sent me into the
world with a clear knowledge of how to make a simple tomato sauce. The foods I had seen her prepare countless times were those
I made for Kit in the early days of our relationship. Penne with tomato sauce and basil was a typical first course for a Melucci
weeknight supper; my mother would always hide a few slices of fried eggplant at the bottom of each bowl as a tasty surprise.
The pasta would be followed by breaded veal or chicken cutlets sautéed in olive oil and butter, accompanied by lemon wedges;
there was always a salad of romaine lettuce garnished with slices of red onion and chunks of orange. This was the first meal
I made on my own. I shared it with Kit.

Fried Eggplant

1 eggplant (preferably the small Italian kind, if you can find them)

2 tablespoons olive oil

Salt

Slice the eggplant into rounds about ¼ inch thick.

Heat the olive oil in a skillet, add as many slices of eggplant as will fit comfortably in the pan, and cook until lightly
browned on both sides. You may need to add more olive oil if the pan gets dry, since eggplant absorbs a lot of oil.

Remove slices to a plate lined with two paper towels. Sprinkle with salt.

Yield: Enough for 2 and then some.

Simple Tomato Sauce and Pasta for Two

1 cup whole plum tomatoes (they must be whole plum tomatoes, and they must be from Italy, though I will confess that sometimes,
when I feel lazy, I buy the ones that are already chopped; don’t tell my mother)

1 tablespoon olive oil, plus a little more for finishing

1 clove garlic, minced (or 2 tablespoons finely chopped onion)

Pinch of hot red pepper flakes (optional here and in all subsequent recipes; I happen to like using them whenever possible)

Basil leaves

1 teaspoon sugar

¼ cup red wine

½ teaspoon salt

½ pound penne, or pasta of your choice

Freshly grated parmigiano, pecorino, or any grating cheese to sprinkle on top

Run the tomatoes through a food mill or puree them with an immersion blender (I do the latter), chop them, or just break them
up with your hands. Heat the olive oil in a skillet over medium heat, then add the garlic (or onions) along with the red pepper
flakes and 1 whole basil leaf. Lower heat (you do not want your base to brown) and sauté until the garlic is lightly golden
(or the onions are translucent), 2 to 3 minutes. Add the tomatoes and raise the heat back to medium; when the sauce begins
to simmer, add the sugar, wine, and salt. After about 5 minutes, check to see if it needs more salt; if it tastes acidic,
add another pinch or two of sugar. Reduce the heat to low and taste after about 15 minutes. When all the flavors are nicely
blended, it’s done.

Place a large, covered pot filled with water over high heat. When the water has reached a vigorous boil, add a generous dose
of salt (salty water is essential to flavorful pasta; it should have the aroma of the Mediterranean). Add the pasta and let
the water return to a boil (covering the pot for those few early moments helps; just remember to remove the cover as soon
as the water is boiling again), then give the pot a few good stirs. Continue to cook, stirring occasionally, until the pasta
is still firm to the bite but no longer chalky (anywhere from 8 to 12 minutes depending on the pasta shape you’re using).
You should taste it after about 8 minutes to see where it is. You can’t time pasta; you can know it’s done only by tasting
it.

When the pasta is cooked, drain it and put it back in the pot you cooked it in. Then add a ladleful of the sauce, a tiny splash
of olive oil, and a few basil leaves torn with your hands. Line two bowls with a few slices of the fried eggplant (you could
add whatever is left to a sandwich, maybe with cutlets, if there are any left, for tomorrow’s lunch), then add the pasta and
garnish the top of each dish with a spoonful of sauce and a few more pieces of basil. Pass the grated cheese at the table.

Yield: 2 servings.

Breaded Cutlets

2 eggs, lightly beaten, seasoned with ¼ teaspoon salt

¾ cup bread crumbs, seasoned with ¼ teaspoon salt, freshly ground pepper, and 1 tablespoon chopped parsley

1 pound thin veal cutlets (or chicken, depending on your mood, politics, or pocketbook)

2 tablespoons olive oil

1 tablespoon butter

1 lemon

Put the eggs in a wide-rimmed bowl and spread the seasoned bread crumbs on a plate. Coat the meat in the eggs and then the
bread crumbs. In a skillet, heat the oil and butter at medium-high and fry the cutlets until they are cooked through and browned
on both sides (about 4 minutes on each side, depending on thickness). You’ll probably need to do this in two batches; refresh
the fat in the pan if necessary. Remove the cutlets to a plate lined with two paper towels until ready to serve. Present them
with lemon slices to squeeze on top.

Yield: 2 servings.

Romaine Salad with Oranges and Red Onion

1 head romaine lettuce

½ small red onion, thinly sliced and cut into 1-inch strips

2 navel oranges

1 tablespoon olive oil

Splash of red wine vinegar

Salt and freshly ground pepper to taste

Wash and dry a head of romaine lettuce and cut the leaves crosswise into 1-inch pieces. Put them in a bowl with room enough
for tossing and add the onion. Remove the stem ends of the oranges, then take off the skins with a paring knife. Cut into
slices ¼ inch thick and then cut the slices into quarters, removing any seeds and startlingly obvious white pith. Dress
and toss the salad with olive oil, red wine vinegar, a little salt, and freshly ground pepper.

Yield: 4 servings.

We ate sitting on the floor, our dishes perched on a square ottoman that came from my family’s house. We were saving up for
a table, but, priorities ever in place, we dropped $3 on a bottle of Concha y Toro, purchased at our local liquor store, where
the clerk and his merchandise stood behind bulletproof glass and you pointed out what you wanted. The Concha y Toro was positioned
front and center, and good thing—you wouldn’t want to be forced to do too many elaborate hand gestures to obtain a $3 bottle
of wine. It tasted good enough to our undeveloped palates, a fine pairing for that uncomplicated food.

Kit used to say we had a “charmed life” because, though we could barely afford the rent on our apartments, our jobs exposed
us to a kind of glamour that belied our checking accounts. One evening, we attended a book party at the home of a famous television
newsman.
In his luxurious apartment high over Central Park, we sipped champagne and nibbled canapés presented on silver trays. There
was smoked salmon on toast points, asparagus wrapped in prosciutto, Gruyère dumplings, and tempura shrimp, but as always happens
at these sophisticated fetes, there wasn’t quite enough of it. Two hours later we were on the subway, still hungry, with $5
between us to buy dinner. We picked up a box of spaghetti at the corner store and counted on there being some butter in Kit’s
refrigerator. Better yet, we found four strips of bacon and three eggs—all the makings of a simple carbonara. I got to work
at Kit’s tiny stove, and the pasta turned out to be a hearty antidote to those precious little snacks. We even had some left
over for the next day—and a dollar left until payday, still a week away.