Posts tagged ‘pasta’


I am not a religious person, but I do celebrate good food. This fact is perhaps no more apparent than at Easter.  When I was growing up, Easter ritual meant that it was time to get out the sugared coconut and construct “the bunny cake.” It also meant (and I know I’m not alone here) obsessively consuming Cadbury eggs, with their addictive sunrise colors and melting appeal, always a few too many, and ultimately, swearing off the sickly treat for the next 11.75 months of the year.

While this year I might just be tempted to bring back the bunny cake, last year we celebrated Easter dinner with something new, and decidedly more adult: egg raviolo. On the heels of my spaghetti carbonara kick, and feeling enamored by the possibilities of the uncooked egg, I recalled this daring dish. I had eaten a heart-stopping version of it once, while visiting a friend in DC.

So what the heck is an egg raviolo? For starters, raviolo in Italian is simply the singular of ravioli, thus indicating a single piece of filled pasta is served, rather than many, one to a plate. In this case, an over-sized mound of filled pasta hides a delicate surprise at its center: a golden, unbroken egg yolk. And just as freshly rolled pasta dough does the work of the egg shell, so too must something replace the whites. You guessed it: ricotta.


While there seems not to be too many rules of tradition to this dish (other than the fact of the egg yolk), most of the recipes I found employ a mixture of ricotta in which to couch the egg. This not only provides a necessary pillow, but also a mellow, creamy counterpart to the warm, runny yolk. One friend recently described a dreamy “souffle-like” egg yolk raviolo that she thoroughly enjoyed at a San Francisco restaurant, and I would imagine this could be nearing the pinnacle of perfection for this dish.

My filling was decidedly more dense, but it had just the right flavor, and provided a sturdy life preserver for the star ingredient. It contained a mix of ricotta, spinach, parmigiano, nutmeg, pepper, and a bit of lemon zest, which I blended in a food processor and then piped onto sheets of pasta. The fun part, of course, came next – dropping in the yolk.

Much like making carbonara, cooking the egg raviolo sounds far more precarious than it actually is. In fact, the next time I make it I will roll my pasta to the thinnest setting on my machine (I did the second thinnest and found it was actually too thick, and nowhere near danger of collapse when filled with cheese and egg). Ensuring a tight seal on the pasta is an essential and simple step for success; I traced an egg white circle around the ricotta raft before laying the sheet of pasta on top and lightly pressing along its edges. If you have a round biscuit cutter, this would be a great option for making neat pieces of pasta; however, I just cut mine out with a knife.

At this point it’s “go” time. In a saucepan I melted half a stick of butter before gingerly dropping my four ravioli into a pot of boiling water. Just before pulling the ravioli with a slotted spoon, I added a few tablespoons of pasta water to the butter. Although I have seen versions that include anything from bacon to truffle shavings to blood sausage to sage leaves, the butter and a fresh grating of parmigiano, in my opinion, is all the raviolo needs.

Plating them, one for each guest at our table, I felt that a new tradition had been started. Easter Egg Raviolo to open the meal and, who knows, maybe this year a bunny cake to finish.



When I was a kid, I had a little thing for Butter Buds. My favorite way to enjoy the powdered butter flavoring was sprinkled atop a pile of freshly steamed broccoli. Where usual butter was sure to slither off moist crucifers into a free-ranging plate puddle, Butter Buds would form a neat, protective shield of rich, buttery coating.

I hadn’t thought of Butter Buds for many years, not, in fact, until tonight when I was wolfing down some “dinner for one” pasta I whipped up with farmer’s market broccoli, summer squash, onion, and green garlic. Somehow the combination of these vegetables, which I sautéed with Rosemont Market veggie broth, olive oil, salt, pepper, and tossed with fresh sage, basil, and Pineland Farms feta, elicited the memory of Butter Buds.

I can’t explain how actual vegetables with fresh herbs and cheese managed to taste like “concentrated natural butter flavor produced from enzyme-modified butterfat, spray dried into powdered form with maltodextrin.” However, it’s likely that it had something to do with the “fatty mouthfeel,” and it’s partnership with wet broccoli.

Another application is a breakfast burrito.

Since it only took me five minutes to eat, and I had nothing better to do, I Google stalked Butter Buds. To my surprise, Butter Buds turned out to be the most ridiculously amazing website I’ve seen since the Toto Washlet. It’s a kind of Dr. Evil meets Wisconsin agribusiness. On their website I learned that one pound of Butter Buds yields the flavor strength of 160 pounds of butter. I also learned about a new product: Butter Buds Bacon. (Why isn’t it Bacon Buds?)

In any case, their press release on the subject reads as follows: Butter Buds Bacon is making a splash in the market with customers using the all-natural, vegan bacon flavoring in soups, seasonings, and sauces including a “healthy marinara” sauce. Another application is a breakfast burrito. Butter Buds Food Ingredients has recipes for other delicious, bacon flavored applications.

Making a splash indeed! I can think of many applications for such a commodity. But it’s getting late, and I should get back to reality. In any event, I am thankful for my delicious pasta made of actual ingredients, however lacking in scientific enhancements, and that they reminded me of my 9-year-old self, who took great pleasure in crusting up a plate of steamed broccoli with dehydrated butter. Those were some of my first steps down the road to culinary obsession.


Of all the popular Italian dishes in America, spaghetti carbonara is among the most misunderstood. Practically synonymous with “pasta and cream sauce” here in the states, the traditional Roman recipe relies solely upon raw egg and grated cheese for its silky coating. Juicy cubes of smoky pancetta, fresh parsley, and black pepper finish off the dish, a perfect balance that is all at once bright, rich, and nourishing.

And it’s exactly what I’ve been craving this spring. These sunny April days with their windy, thin air seem to demand a boost of yolk-yellow protein. Though it is relatively simple to make, carbonara is initially intimidating in that it requires the cook to add steaming hot spaghetti to the raw egg mixture, quickly whisking it so as to coat the pasta in luscious sauce.

I had seen the dish made several times by the expert hands of Italian grandmothers, but had always avoided it myself for fear of producing a lumpy scrambled-egg sauce. However, I knew that if I wanted real carbonara, the dish described by my favorite food writer, Calvin Trillin, as “heretically tasty,” I was going to have to make it myself. It was time.

Carbonara’s sort of American roots

In semi-nervous preparation, I read up on the traditional technique in Marcella Hazan’s Essentials of Classic Italian Cooking. Interestingly, I learned that carbonara was inspired by American bacon and eggs during World War II, somewhere around Rome. While there are varying accounts of how our troops’ rations found their way into Italian bowls of pasta, the bottom line is that carbonara was a wartime creation, born out of creative necessity.

For my rations I visited the Portland Indoor Farmers’ Market to pick up the freshest, yolkiest eggs I could find. Gina Simmons of Common Wealth Farm in Unity recommended duck eggs, as they have larger, fattier yolks than chicken eggs. I’d add that they were also “orange-ier.” As an added bonus, duck eggs are richer in nutrients and have viscous, protein-rich whites. Perfect for my quest.

I whisked two of these lovely eggs together, added about ½ a cup of grated parmigiano, several tablespoons of freshly chopped parsley, and a few grindings of black pepper. Although it will depend on the size of your eggs, density of your grated cheese, and personal pasta-to-sauce ratio preference, I found the portions described here to be best with about ¾ pound of dried spaghetti.

As my pasta water came to boil, I fried 4 whole, crushed cloves of garlic in a few tablespoons of olive oil. Once slightly brown, I removed the garlic and added my cubed pancetta, house cured by Rosemont Market (bacon or guanciale, made from pork jowl, can also be used). When the meat started to crisp I added ¼ cup of white wine, simmered for another couple of minutes, and removed from the heat.

Assembling the dish comes in two quick stages: adding the drained pasta to the egg mixture, then tossing the meat mixture into the coated pasta. I put my game face on, started by adding small amounts of pasta, and did some intense whisking. Not a clump of egg to be found! Just a gloriously shiny nest of pasta that turned out to be unbelievably satisfying.

Carbonara alla “Picnic”

Newly liberated by my carbonara foray, I began testing variations based on the principle method of tossing raw egg into hot pasta. For instance, one night I wanted carbonara, but didn’t have any white wine or cured meat on hand. No matter, it was the egg I was after. After whisking the egg, cheese, pepper, and parsley together I cooked a bit of onion in truffle oil and olive oil, making a kind of vegetarian alternative to the traditional recipe. It was delicious.

Another time I skipped the heated oil stage altogether. I simply added the olive oil directly to the egg-coated pasta and topped the dish with thin bits of proscuitto that I had lightly crisped under the broiler. It might not be traditional, but the heart of Italian cooking lies in resourcefulness, making due with what’s at hand.

The other guideline, of course, is that nothing should be wasted. To that end, we repurposed the spaghetti carbonara leftover from a large batch using a concept I discovered at Dominic’s Italian Bakery and Deli in Waltham, Massachusetts: the pasta frittata. We buttered a small loaf pan, packed in the leftover spaghetti carbonara, topped with parmaggiano, and baked at 350 degrees for 20-30 minutes. Also known as “picnic pasta,” it can be cooled, cut into slices and, presumably, transported to a springtime meadow for consumption.

My next foray into the uncooked egg will be egg yolk ravioli – stay tuned!