Pains d’Amande (adapted from Flo Braker) 40 1×3 inch cookies
Crisp cookies often involve rolling and cutting the dough—time consuming and fiddly. Here is a recipe for a thin, crunchy cookie that is not fiddly. In fact, the recipe and the process are easy, and the cookies, despite being very thin, are not fragile.
1/3 cup water
1 stick unsalted butter
1/2 tsp salt
250 gr. Turbinado or other natural, highly flavored sugar (Demerara, Hawaiian washed, etc.) (about 1 cup) Do not use ordinary brown sugar (which is just white sugar with molasses) as the molasses will prevent the cookies from being crisp. (I tried!)
325 gr. all purpose flour (approx. 2 cups) (It’s OK to substitute gluten-free flour by weight: I used 2/3 fine white rice flour, 1/3 starch–tapioca, corn, or potato, ½ tsp xanthan gum. Note that GF will be more delicate and liable to break.)
¼ tsp baking soda
1 scant tsp cinnamon
¼ tsp cardamon
4 ounces sliced almonds
Melt butter in water, then add sugar and salt. Don’t let the mixture boil—it makes the cookies more crunchy to have some of the sugar remain unmelted. Add other dry ingredients (which have been whisked together) all at once and blend thoroughly. Then stir in the almonds.
Let cool. Pack into rectangular tin (loaf pan, etc.) lined with plastic wrap. The dough will be like fudge. Freeze or chill until very firm. Unmold on cutting board. With a large, very sharp knife cut slices as thin as possible—1/16th inch—either rectangular or square. (The size of the pieces will depend on the size of your pan, although you could cut them in half.) Bake spaced apart on parchment at 325 for 10 minutes. Then take out of oven and let cool until you can turn them easily with your fingers (without burning yourself or breaking the cookies) and return to the oven to bake for another 10 minutes. A small angled spatula is useful for turning, too. Let cool—cookies should be very crisp when cool. Packed together like cards in a deck, they are sturdy enough to mail.
The recipe can be made with different flavoring—½ teaspoon of almond extract to intensify the almond flavor, or 1/4 teaspoon of citrus essential oil, or different or more ground spices. The next time I make it, I’m going to use sesame or flax seeds instead of almonds.
My favorite Asian restaurant in Salt Lake City (Takashi) serves a warm asparagus dish that I love. The first time I had it, I went home and made it in so many variations I got tired of it. But that was three or four years ago, and it’s now spring asparagus season and I want to share it–as an anti-recipe. I don’t think you can ruin this as long as you don’t overcook the asparagus and keep tasting the sauce. To make the flavorful sauce, sauté pieces or slices of shiitake or maitake or any kind of mushroom in toasted sesame oil until the mushrooms are brown. At this point you can add minced shallot or garlic and/or ginger, tamari or soy sauce or miso, and something acid: balsamic or rice vinegar or mirin or citrus juice. In the version in the photo I used a dash of yuzu hot sauce and a splash of balsamic vinegar. You can steam or blanch the asparagus separately, or simply add it to the pan in which you have browned the mushrooms, cover, and let cook a few minutes. Add enough water to deglaze the pan and make a sauce. Maybe add more sesame oil? Keep tasting! Combine with bean thread/glass noodles that have been hydrated in boiling water. Garnish with chopped cilantro or chives or toasted sesame seeds. (I forgot about this for the photo.) If you want protein, serve with roasted tofu cubes or steamed shrimp. The dish is still delicious the next day, although I would let it come to room temperature before serving.
When I was a child and my father travelled for work, my mother sometimes made chocolate pudding, from a boxed mix, as dinner for the two of us. It represented freedom from meat and potatoes and the luxury of suiting our sweet tooth. These days, “Does someone need some chocolate pudding?” is the response when either my wife or I are strung out, stressed, and in need of solace. We like eating it warm, in which state it resembles European hot chocolate. I like it as much as mousse, maybe better. There are only a few tricks to the recipe below–the first is to use good ingredients–high quality cocoa, chocolate, and turbinado sugar. The second is to mix the ingredients in a blender before cooking, which pre-empts lumps. The recipe makes about two cups–to serve 2-4, depending on your level of stress.
3 Tbs. good cocoa powder (I like alkaline treated, i.e. Dutch process)
3 Tbs. turbinado sugar (you could substitute brown sugar, but turbinado is worth the trouble)
2 Tbs. cornstarch
1 3/4 cups whole milk plus 1/4 cup heavy cream (you can change the proportions if you want it richer, to total 2 cups)
1/4 tsp. salt
3 ounces semi or bittersweet chocolate (I use our “house” brand, Trader Joe’s 72% Belgian pound plus) in smallish pieces
1 tsp. vanilla extract (added after cooking to prevent evaporation)
Whir everything except the chocolate and vanilla in a blender. Dump into a heavy saucepan, and cook at medium heat until thickened, 2-3 minutes, whisking constantly. Off the heat, whisk in the chocolate to melt it, and then the vanilla extract. Voila! If you want to serve this chilled and don’t like the “skin,” place plastic or wax paper on it.
Now that Trader Joe’s has all-butter puff pastry back in stock, it’s a snap to make this tart, 1/4 of which is pictured above. That’s how fast we ate it before I realized I should take a photo.
Roll out the defrosted pastry (8 or 9 ounces) on a silpat or parchment or directly on a baking sheet to almost double the original size. (I like my pastry really thin. If you want it thicker, roll it out more moderately or not at all. If you don’t roll it out, the potato and onion mixture will be piled really high, and I can’t vouch for how it will bake…let me know?) Fold over the edges to raise them and pinch or seal with a fork. Prick the middle well with a fork. Preheat oven to 375 degrees.
Thinly slice and coarsely chop one yellow onion (1/2 lb.) and caramelize with a bit of fat. (15 minutes). Peel and thinly slice (on a mandoline) 2 large yellow/gold potatoes (1 lb.) Toss the potato slices with 1 scant Tbs. minced fresh sage, 1 tsp salt and 1/2 tsp pepper, and 1-2 ounces of shredded gruyere. Stir in the caramelized onions and heap this mixture onto the prepared pastry. Bake on the lowest rack of the oven for about 45 minutes. The potato slices will cook into less than half volume as they bake, without becoming mushy. Lift the bottom of the tart with a spatula to see if it is baked enough–the bottom should be golden brown and crisp. You could add cooked bacon or substitute other herbs, say rosemary or thyme. The second time I made it I forgot the herb, in case you notice in the photos below. This tart would make a great cocktail bite, cut into pieces, if we were still having those kinds of parties. And a nice dinner for 2 or 4, with the “crisp green salad” you might crave after something brown, carbohydrate-laden, and rich.
When I hear “frangipani,” I smell a waft of orange and almond blossoms and I’m transported to the island of Majorca, where I stayed for a few weeks when I was 22. I’d heard about two villages, Fornalutx in the mountains and Deìa on the coast, as idyllic places for artists. A room with a view and breakfast cost $15 a night. On the overnight ferry from Barcelona to Palma, watching the sun rise as we approached the island, I was both lonely and entirely happy to be alone. On the old, wooden train to the town of Sóller, I saw my first citrus trees—by June laden with fruit, yellow and orange globes shining out from glossy dark green leaves, easy to pick.
I would like before I die to walk once again that stony path from the Deia village hilltop to the tiny blue harbor below, hardly bigger than a pool. So safe it felt to swim there, the walk made fragrant by olive and almond trees, musical from the tiny bells on goats, occasionally the chime of churches or the buzzing of honey bees. No one I knew knew where I was. No keys, no work, no plans. What did I do with my time? One day I trudged along the one road through town in the hot sun and hitchhiked to Valldemossa, where in 1839, George Sand and Frédéric Chopin wintered in the charterhouse, an attempt to treat his tuberculosis. A tourist notes on TripAdvisor that the monastery was a “real disappointment.” I don’t remember being disappointed, perhaps because I had no expectations. “Expect Nothing” is the title of a poem by Alice Walker that ends, “live frugally on surprise.” Everything about that time was a surprise, perhaps because everything was new for me.
I gorged on ensaimadas, yeast-raised coils of dough fried in lard and dusted with powdered sugar, lighter than doughnuts and barely sweet. They were served as breakfast in my pension but I went to the bakery to buy more. I treated myself to fish cooked at the little shack overlooking the swimming harbor. I ran out of books in English.
The Deìa expats could be well off or poor, they spoke fluent Spanish, and they hung out together at the cafes. In one of Deìa’s two cafés, I met the poet Robert Graves, Alzheimer’s-addled but still regal in his black hat, on the arm of his twenty years younger wife Beryl. Norman was a painter who talked fast with an accent and smiled with toothless charm. “Hey, honey, woodya like to see my etchins?” In his room a few steps away from the café, I acquired a watercolor of a bullfight: his black pen hadn’t left the paper. Man and bull awash in yellow. The color of plumeria blossoms. Back in the café, Norman savored a steak in exchange for that art while he told me his story of leaving New York and an advertising job in the sixties for the paradise of Deìa.
Ripe pears smell like frangipane sounds. Frangipane literally means “breaking bread” in Italian, but is also the name of a noble family from the Middle Ages. They might have acquired their name from Eucharist liturgy or from their practice of distributing bread to the poor. But “Frangipane” is also an almond filling around fruit, usually in a crust. One member of that noble Roman family supplied perfumes to Louis XIII.
The Latin name of frangipani is plumeria, in homage to the seventeenth century Frenchman, Charles Plumier, who “discovered” them. The five-petaled velvety pastel flowers look simpler than orchids. Plumeria is related to dogbane and the euphorbia (myrtle spurge) that has taken over my hillside here in Utah. Hard to imagine the spurge whose sap irritates my skin related to those creamy plumeria flowers. The trees grow in Central America, notably not on Majorca. Plumeria is the most common flower of Hawaiian leis, but is not indigenous to Hawaii.
It’s a trick of memory for me to align my time on Majorca with a flower that doesn’t grow there.
Plumeria flowers have a heavenly scent, but no nectar, so they trick nocturnal sphinx moths into pollinating them. Was I tricked into thinking that long-ago state of unrootedness, a leisure as shallow as the waters below the village of almond and olive and lemon trees, could last?
My version of frangipane tartlets has no crust. I like to suggest plumeria blossoms by adding flowery essence—a drop of fiori di sicilia or bergamot oil—to the almond and vanilla, which make it taste a bit like a creamsicle or panettone or like the air in Deìa in May forty years ago. The following recipe for frangipane tartlets is light and rich.
4 ounces salted butter (1 stick) (use the best quality as you will taste it)
1.6 ounces sugar
6 ounces cup finely ground almonds (almond flour). You can also use pistachio or hazelnut flour.
3 large eggs
1 tsp vanilla extract, a few drops almond extract, two drops bergamot, orange or lemon oil, or some fiori di sicilia flavoring.
1 ounce flour (I use chestnut flour or corn flour and thus make the tarts gluten-free. You could use a blend of tapioca starch and sorghum flour or white flour.)
½ teaspoon baking powder
1 ripe pear, cut into quarters or eighths, depending on the size of the tartlets, sliced thinly and fanned
Cream the butter, sugar and almond flour until smooth (I use a food processor). Add eggs one at a time, then the flavoring and the flour. Taste the mixture: the flowery-citrusy notes should be pronounced as they will lessen in the baked product and over time. It will be the consistency of cake batter. Spray muffin tins or tartlet pans with Baker’s Joy or thoroughly grease and flour or use paper cups. Fill each pan about 2/3 full and place into each a fan of sliced pear. Red pears are particularly beautiful although their color fades a bit after baking. You can also use apricots or other fruit, but be aware that the batter is moist and some fruit will make it too soggy. I used pitted chokecherries for the batch in the photos.
Bake at 375 until puffed, golden and set, about 13 minutes for small tartlets. Let cool for a few minutes and then tip out with an angled spatula. They might fall a bit upon cooling. You can whip the egg whites if you want a lighter product (or add ½ tsp of baking powder.) Dust with powdered sugar. The tartlets will keep for two days at room temperature and up to a week in the refrigerator. Bring back to room temperature to serve. This recipe will serve six to eight, making about 24 one-inch tartlets. It is easy to double and also easy to vary the size of the tarts.
When the farmer’s market is so loaded a dollar gets you two big ones. When overgrown zucchini find their way to the faculty workroom. Or our front door.
My favorite ways to use them start with taming: Cut in halves or quarters and take the seeds and spongy part out with a grapefruit spoon or other sharp spoon; i.e. a cheap metal spoon with an edge. Grate the flesh not too fine on a box or flat grater. Toss with a little salt (say 1 teaspoon for a zucchini the size of a big guy’s forearm) and let sit, at least fifteen minutes or as long as you like. Then wrap in a cotton handkerchief and squeeze out by the handfuls. You can squeeze out too much liquid, I discovered once when I was particularly avid, and the resulting bread was a bit dry. When you’re done squeezing, the cloth should not drip liquid, but neither should the zucchini feel like shredded paper.
This recipe is just right: a bit of spice, a bit of herb, lightly sweet and neither greasy nor dry. It will stay fresh in the refrigerator for a week.
3/4 cup high fiber flour or a mix of flours: banana flour, teff flour, coffee flour (or whole wheat or rye) (4 ounces)
1 tsp. baking powder
1 tsp. baking soda
1 tsp. cinnamon
½ tsp. nutmeg
¼ tsp. cloves
½ tsp. allspice
¼ cup minced fresh basil or 1 Tbs. minced tarragon leaves (optional, but worth the trouble)
1/2 cup toasted pine nuts (optional, and other nuts are OK, too, but the pine nuts and basil are heavenly)
Beat eggs, oil, sugar, and vanilla until thick and smooth. Whisk together dry ingredients, gently beat into wet mixture. Fold in zucchini, basil, and nuts. Pour into loaf pan sprayed with Baker’s Joy. This recipe fills my 14×3 pan. Two smaller pans are also fine. The batter will not rise much—and the bread will have a flat top. Bake at 350 for 50-60 minutes or until a tester comes out clean. Cool in pan 15 minutes, unmold and continue cooling on a rack. Wrap tightly when cool and refrigerate. Slices best when cold.
And here’s another version of what I called “Middle Eastern Frittata” in an earlier post:
Mix 2 cups packed zucchini with 6 eggs, one bunch chopped scallions, 3 Tbs. finely chopped mint, ½ tsp. ground black pepper, and 8 ounces Greek or other imported sheep’s milk feta cheese, crumbled. Spoon into muffin tins you have sprayed with Baker’s Joy or lined with paper cups. Bake at 375 until a pick comes out clean, maybe 15 minutes for the muffin size. These are delicious warm or cold. Good for picnics!
Prunus Virginiana is the only native North American cherry, commonly called “chokecherry” for the astringent taste of the fruit. The trees grow wild in many places, for instance along the hiking trails of Salt Lake City’s Emigration Canyon, so the fruit can be foraged. Chokecherry trees are resistant to bugs and blight, and when their branches are laden with ripe fruit, it seems like every bird in the neighborhood has gotten the memo, creating a lively spectacle for our cat (who prefers to catch and eat mice). The fruit is extremely high in antioxidants and unusually delicious. How to describe it? A whiff of rose, a titch of almond, a depth akin to black currant. Alas, chokecherries are the saffron of the fruit world–extremely labor intensive.
You won’t find any recipes for jam (as opposed to jelly) because the only way to get the flesh off the tiny pit (about a quarter the size of a lady bug) is to boil the cherries and then pit each one by hand. A couple of years ago, I borrowed a steam juicer and extracted the juice for jelly, but jam is more satisfying: the texture of the cherry flesh provides interest.
Anyway, for evenings of labor, I set myself up (covered in an apron and towels) with three bowls–boiled cherries, flesh, and pits–and I can pit a pound in two hours. (See photos above of raw cherries, boiled ones, and pits.) It is slightly easier to pit the cherries when they have been boiled (for about 1/2 hour, and then left to cool). I have dreamed of hiring children to do this, but I doubt they would have the patience. If I’m watching something on a screen, however, it’s satisfying not to “waste” the time. After pitting, I go through the mound of flesh and juice with my fingers (stained red and black) to feel for stray pits and discard them, because like many stone fruits, they contain cyanide. I then cook the flesh and juice with sugar (and pectin or cranberries, for a more firm jam. I freeze a bag of cranberries for this purpose each fall.) And voila–the most exotic jam you can’t buy. But can easily make, with an investment of time.
And here’s a recipe for a moist chokecherry ricotta cake. Because a fruit as healthful as chokecherries deserves an equally nutritious cake. The flavorings can be varied or even left out, because the fruit is the star.
2 ounces unsalted butter
4 ounces sugar
1/2 teaspoon vanilla extract
1/2 teaspoon almond extract
4 drops lemon essential oil
15 ounces whole milk ricotta cheese
4 eggs, separated
1/2 teaspoon cream of tartar, plus 1 teaspoon sugar
3.7 ounces all purpose flour
3.7 ounces blanched almond flour
1 1/2 teaspoons baking powder
1/2 tsp salt
8 ounces pitted, uncooked chokecherries (dust with 1/8 tsp stevia if you’d like a slightly sweeter cake)
Preheat oven to 350 with a rack in the middle.
In a food processor, cream butter and sugar. Add egg yolks and flavorings, then ricotta cheese. Process until smooth. Blend in flour, almond meal, baking powder, and salt until combined. Be sure to scrape bowl. Stir in all but 2 tablespoons of the chokecherries.
Whip egg whites with cream of tartar, whipping in a teaspoon of sugar once they are stiff, but not dry.
Fold about 1/4 of the whipped egg whites into the batter until well combined, then gently fold in the rest of the egg whites. Pour batter into a 9 inch springform pan, and sprinkle the remaining chokecherries on top. Even with an angled spatula.
Bake for 50 minutes or until a tester comes out clean. Cake will puff during baking and then fall upon cooling, to a height of about two inches.
The problem with strawberry shortcake—call me on this if you like—is the biscuit base. No matter how buttery and/or flaky, it’s still mostly white flour. In my view, delicate fresh strawberries are burdened by the dense and stodgy biscuit, with the flowery berries demoted to a topping rather than the point. Granted, I’m the person who savors every bit of the fruit and cream and takes only one bite of the biscuit. Previously, my version of strawberry cake was genoise layers, filled with sliced strawberries in their own syrup and frosted with lightly sweetened stabilized (by cooking a bit of the cream with cornstarch) whipped cream. That cake has the texture—light, meltingly soft, spongy—of my dreams. But this month, we’re doing distance dining in our backyard with one or two other people, and it seemed silly to bake and assemble a layer cake only to keep it unseen in the kitchen. Moreover, genoise, which uses whole eggs, seemed somehow too yellow, too rich, for the blank canvas I was dreaming of. I gradually realized that a chiffon cake would make a perfect base for fresh strawberries and cream. I wanted to use almond flour, and once that thought lodged, I thought it would be silly not to also make the cake gluten-free.
I love egg whites, because of their protein nutritive value (I remember reading that Martha Stewart’s diet consisted mostly of hard-boiled egg whites), and because they become something else entirely when air is whipped into them, a blank canvas. My favorite cakes use whipped egg whites as leavening. (I use the leftover yolks in brioche and stollen dough and in custards.) Angel food cakes seem cloyingly sweet to me, while chiffon cakes have the same lightness and a more moist texture. According to most sources, the chiffon cake is an American invention of the 1920s by an insurance agent named Harry Baker. Its genius lies in the combination of whipped egg whites plus baking powder for leavening.
So here’s an almond chiffon cake, whose (please cut them big) wedges make a wonderful base for fresh, sliced strawberries and softly whipped or drizzled heavy cream. The faint almond taste adds interest but does not destroy the “blank canvas” of the cake. Like a trifle but in no sense a leftover, and not at all messy, this cake needs no alcohol to revive it. If you do have raspberry eau de vie or kirsch on hand, you could add a splash of that to the sliced berries and sugar. Or just a squeeze of lemon juice. You could, of course, use other berries or sliced fruit—any stone fruit would be lovely with the almond flavor. This is the cake I’m going to bake all summer long.
Gluten-free Almond Chiffon Cake
6 ounces almond flour
2 ounces white rice flour
1 ounce tapioca (or corn) starch
8 ounces sugar (whirred in a food processor or blender until superfine), divided in half
2 tsp. baking powder
½ tsp. salt
½ cup avocado (or other neutral vegetable) oil
½ cup whole milk
1 tsp. vanilla extract
1 tsp. almond extract
3 egg yolks
10 egg whites
2 tsp. cream of tartar
Heat oven to 325 degrees and place one rack in middle.
You’ll need three bowls, plus a stand mixer and its bowl, and an ungreased angel food or tube cake pan.
Whisk together almond flour and starches, baking powder, salt, and half the sugar. Set aside.
Whisk together oil, milk, egg yolks, and extracts.
Whip 10 egg whites until foamy, add cream of tartar, and whip until soft peaks, then gradually add half the sugar and continue beating until stiff peaks form. Dump the stiffly beaten egg whites into a large bowl (11 quart).
Into the mixer bowl (without washing) dump the flour mix and the oil/milk mix and beat about one minute or until very smooth.
Take about two cups of the beaten egg whites and fold it into the oil/flour/yolk mixture to lighten. Then fold the rest of the mixtures together in the largest bowl.
Pour into an ungreased angel food (or large tube) pan and bake for 55 minutes or until a cake tester comes out clean. Turn pan upside down onto a cup or bottle (if the pan does not have feet, or even if it does) to cool at least two hours.
Once the cake is completely cool, use a long, thin sharp knife and a metal skewer to dislodge the bottom and sides and around the core. I use a paper clip that I have straightened out for the core (the same device I use to test if the cake is done). Invert on a greased wire rack and reinvert onto a serving plate or cake keeper. One point about the crust: it gets gummy, like a genoise crust, and detracts from the pure sponge texture. I cut off a thin layer of the cake top and bottom before serving, and I’m glad I did; the result is cleaner and more attractive. The cake lasts in the refrigerator for over a week, and at room temperature for a few days.
One thing I’ve missed since I mostly stopped eating meat is Bolognese sauce, so umami and rich, with a satisfying chewy texture. I also miss the combination of a meaty sauce with those very broad noodles called pappardelle. I remember eating them with a wild boar ragù in Lucca in 1985. We found the restaurant by asking a passerby—a middle-aged woman in a suit—for a good place to eat lunch, and soon found ourselves in a cozy osteria with walls hung with tapestries and a vast wine display.
So here is a recipe (serves about 4) that will surprise you—the first time I served it to a friend she said, “Are you sure there’s no meat?”
1 pound tofu, extra firm/high protein or equivalent pressed (the less water in what you start with, the less frying time)
¼ cup olive oil (you may need more)
1 large onion, finely chopped
2 tbs. smoked paprika
½ small can tomato paste (2-3 tbs.)
(optional) a few drops Liquid Smoke
(optional) red pepper flakes (if you like a touch of heat)
1 ½ ounces dried porcini mushrooms (about 1 cup), covered in boiling water, then finely chopped in food processor
6 ounces fresh shitake mushrooms, diced or minced
Salt and pepper
8 ounces raw cashews, covered with water and simmered until soft (about 20 minutes)
4 cloves garlic
Red wine (as desired or needed) or water
To serve: fresh chopped parsley and grated parmesan cheese
Heat olive oil in large deep skillet and crumble in the tofu. Fry until all of it turns golden brown, and about half of the crumbles have crisp edges. Add chopped onion and smoked paprika and cook until onion is soft and moisture has evaporated. Add fresh mushrooms, cook five more minutes, then add dried, soaked, minced porcini and the grit-free soaking liquid.
To prevent grit from dried mushrooms getting into your food, lift the mushrooms out of the hot water into the food processor, and let the liquid in the soaking container settle. Then carefully pour off the top 90% into another container. Discard the last 10% and grit at the bottom.
My wife doesn’t like the texture of mushrooms, so I minced them in the food processor, but you can cut them into whatever size pieces you like as long as they are not bigger than the crumbled tofu. Add more olive oil if the mixture looks dry. You might need to use another ¼ cup.
Puree the simmered cashews, garlic, and water in a blender. The mixture should look like a milk shake. Add red wine (or more water) if it’s too thick. Stir this into the tofu-mushroom mixture and cook for about five minutes until well blended. The cashew cream absorbs any grease from the sauce and it also adds protein, but it doesn’t add flavor, so add salt and pepper to taste, and add Liquid Smoke and red pepper flakes if you like. Add more red wine (or water) until the sauce is the right consistency for your pasta, but be sure to cook off the alcohol so the sauce doesn’t taste boozy. (If you’re making vegan Bolognese lasagna and don’t want to use ricotta cheese, you can use this cashew cream (salted) as a separate layer over the tofu-mushroom mixture, instead of combining them.)
The pappardelle pictured are made with eggs from a friend’s chickens—Thank you, Lynn! although of course you can use any kind of pasta. I love America’s Test Kitchen recipe because it’s easy to work with and egg-rich, which makes it full of flavor, too. For 3-4 servings: 5 ounces of flour (OK to include fine semolina or high protein flour but add another egg yolk); 1 egg, plus 3 egg yolks, 1 Tbs. olive oil. Let rest (wrapped in plastic) at least an hour and up to four hours. Roll out by hand or through a machine. Cut into 1 ½ inch noodles and boil in very well salted water. Because the sauce is so meaty, I like the noodles a tad thicker than if the sauce were lighter—5 on an Atlas machine as opposed to the last setting of 6.
Please let me know if you have questions or what you think if you try this!