Alchemy - Pasta Bianco

I have a very addictive personality, which is why I don't let myself do certain things.  And in my case, 'addictive personality' is totally a euphemism for 'complete lack of willpower'.  Things that I like, I really, really like - I'm the ultimate page-turner, leaving the carpets shamefully un-vacuumed and the shelves woefully un-dusted until I have torn through the latest book I'm reading.  If I find a new tv programme that hooks me in, I want to race through the entire series until it ends and I come to my senses, room darkened, not certain if I'm looking out at twilight or dawn.

That's why I give a wide berth to those things like Candy Crush Saga that I keep getting invitations to.  Not going to go there.  Farmville?  Not for me.  I know, with an unshakeable certainty, that I would lose weeks I could barely afford to those things.  I'm filled with admiration for people who can play the odd game or two and walk away, but for me, it would go the way of my ill-advised Sims adventures, and end with the point where it starts to invade my dreams.

There is one exception to this rule, and it's something I love but can happily walk away from.  Called Little Alchemy, it's one of those ingeniously simple (or simply ingenious?) ideas that's a great way to while away a few minutes here and there, without desending into addiction.  It's based on the idea that you combine two elements to make other elements, and is much more fun than I've managed to make it sound.

I've recently discovered the food equivalent of Alchemy.  It consists of four ingredients - well, five, if you count the pasta water (and believe me, this is where the magic happens).  It is the absolute definition of being greater than the sum of its parts.  The ingredients, I'd be willing to guess, you have in your house right now, and if that's the case - well, what are you waiting for?  So simple, but please, don't let that fool you.  They combine into something unctuous and startling, and nothing short of magical.  This recipe is adapted from Jamie Oliver, but I've seen it cropping up all over the place, sometimes with the garlic, usually called something along the lines of Pasta with Butter and Cheese (does what it says on the tin!).  I like the name Pasta Bianco though, White Pasta, deceptive, like the dish itself in its simplicity.

I've had it twice this week already, and I'm trying to work out when I can next get my fix.  Can you spot my new addiction?

Pasta Bianco
Adapted from Jamie Oliver, Jamie's Dinners

100g spaghetti or linguine
30g butter, preferably unsalted but don't let only having salted put you off making this
20g parmesan, finely grated.  You don't really need to weigh this, just estimate as big as your thumb, and count yourself lucky if you've got big thumbs.
1 clove garlic
Salt and pepper

That tiny pile of ingredients?  All you need to make magic happen.

Put a large pan of water on to boil, and salt very generously.  When it is at a rolling boil, add the pasta and cook according to the packet instructions - my linguine took 11 minutes.

While it is cooking, take a small pan and, over a low heat, melt your butter.  Crush the garlic, or grate it using a fine grater, and add it to the butter.   Cook gently, without browning, for a few minutes.  Remove from the heat.

When the pasta is cooked how you like it, and this is the important bit, before you drain it dip a cup into the water and remove a scoop of the starchy water.

Drain the pasta.  Put the garlic and butter into the pan that you cooked the pasta in.  Add the pasta back, and give it a good stir.  Add about half the parmesan, stir it round, then follow by a tablespoon or so of the water.  See how the consistency changes?  The water combines with the butter and cheese to make a creamy sauce.  Add the rest of the parmesan, save a small spoonful, and another spoonful or so of the water, until it is a glossy-looking sauce that coats the pasta easily.  Season well with salt and pepper.

Turn into a bowl and top with the small amount of remaining parmesan.

Eat, and marvel at the wonder of alchemy.  Ours is not to reason why.

Serves 1

The ends of the earth

I've been incredibly lucky, really, with the amount of travelling I've done, both alone, and since meeting Andy.  When I was writing my speech for our wedding in December, I totted up the amount of countries we've travelled to in our five years together; I got to twenty.  We've lived in three different countries together, and a few more individually.  Travelling and experiencing foreign life is not only part of who I am, it's part of who 'we' are (the dreaded 'we').

However, even though it can bring you riches beyond measure in terms of experiences, stories, photos, meals, and friends, it can also be tough at times.  Really tough.  For all that I love living in New Zealand - it's a gorgeous country, what's not to love? - at times I really, really wish that it were parked somewhere in the Med rather than the Pacific.  This is an entirely selfish concern, I appreciate that most Kiwis and expats love it because of its location, rather than in spite of.  I've been feeling this very keenly recently.  2011 was, to be succinct, a terrible year for far too many people that I love and hold dear.  When the chimes rang in 2012 I sent up a silent wish to the powers that be - that this year would be different.  Sadly, so far, it isn't really looking like it will be - already too many friends have had too much bad news to deal with.  It's times like these that I would like to be at home, offering comfort in any way possible, to the people who need it.  This is not to be, though, and so what is needed are comforting words across the ether, good thoughts and positive wishes for those who are struggling, and a need to bury my own desire to be not on a little island far south, but a little island far north.

At times like these, like most people, I turn to comfort food, food I can make with my eyes closed, food that tastes familiar, rather than strange, easy rather than challenging.  For me, carbonara is the perfect example of this.  I have a long and varied history with carbonara.  I first started making it when I went away to University - I could already cook before I went, but cooking for myself every single night soon expanded my repertoire.  I used a book called, somewhat incongruously, Bachelor's Buttons, and was aimed at people without much clue around the house.  Included were a number of easy recipes, and I eagerly fell on carbonara as it was quick and cheap.  Unfortunately, this version tasted like nothing so much as a plate of scrambled egg and bacon stirred through some pasta.  Nevertheless, I knew deep down that this was a good combination, and persevered.  Some years later, I discovered better versions.  My now-usual carbonara is a wonderfully rich affair, comprising cream and Noilly Prat, amongst other ingredients.  I do try, though, not to keep cream in the house always, mainly because I know I'm likely to drink it straight from the bottle, so when I read good reviews of Rick Stein's carbonara, enriched with only eggs rather than cream, I knew I should give it a go.  I made a couple of changes - I used penne rather than spaghetti as it is always my pasta of choice for carbonara, and I added nutmeg, as I always do when cooking savoury eggy sauces.

The carbonara was good.  Not mind-blowing, solidly good.  And sometimes you don't want your mind blown.  You just want to feel at home for a while.

Penne alla carbonara
Adapted from Rick Stein

100g penne
2 teaspoons olive oil
2 rashers streaky bacon, chopped
2 cloves garlic, finely chopped
Handful parsley, finely chopped
1 egg plus 1 egg yolk, beaten
20g parmesan, finely grated
Nutmeg, grated

Cook the penne in salted water until al dente.
In a frying pan large enough to hold the pasta later, heat the olive oil over medium high heat and fry the bacon until golden.  Add the garlic and parsley, heat for a few seconds, then remove from the heat.
Reserve 1 cup of water from the cooked pasta, then drain well.
Add some of the reserved water to the frying pan with the bacon, stir well.  Add the pasta, stir again until well coated in the bacony juices.  Add the eggs and parmesan, stir, then immediately remove from the heat - the residual heat from the pasta will cook the eggs.  Add nutmeg, and salt and pepper to taste.

Serves 1 homesick person.