I make a mean lasagna. I don’t go for the bottled tomato sauce crap, unless I’m really in a hurry and the bottled sauce is from Trader Joe’s or some other food snob establishment. Everything’s fresh and takes forever. And, most of my lasagna is vegetarian. Why? I saw the recipe in The Moosewood Cookbook, that’s why. ’nuff said. The Moosewood Cookbooks are incredible enough to turn me into a vegetarian forever if I so desire.
Every now and again, though, someone else has to make dinner. That job often falls to the hubby, oh he of the burned garlic and overcooked bacon. I drink more beer on those nights and try to make the best of it. He does try his best: it’s just not the priority and creative endeavor that it is for me.
I think I may have found the perfect cookbook for him. It’s part of a guy’s sports web magazine called Deadspin with its own “Foodspin” section. Yes, I’ve found just the thing:
“Lasagna’s perfect for this. In addition to being outrageously tasty, it is a nutritional atom bomb (the Food and Drug Administration estimates that a single serving of lasagna contains seven hundred trillion calories, ∞ percent of an adult’s recommended daily allowance of simple carbohydrates, and all the grams of fat that exist or have ever existed), and it is overwhelmingly likely to place its eater into a state of inactivity not unlike hibernation, but which the medical community stubbornly insists upon calling “a diabetic coma.”
This approach is right up my guy’s kitchen-shattering alley. Throw as much high-fat s**it as you can and – dammit! – wait for the right time to boil the pasta (we might have to work on this one. He’s ever so fond of bloated rice and noodles that you can squeeze to a paste). They do warn you, so that’s a start:
“Meat mostly browned? Add some finely chopped onion and minced garlic to it, as well as a light drizzle of olive oil, and cook this stuff until the onion is softened and starting to turn translucent. Now you’re gonna turn this into a basic ragù by adding a can of whole tomatoes (San Marzano are best, but the crummy store-brand variety is perfectly fine, too), a small can of tomato paste, a couple glugs of cheap red wine, and—yes, goddammit, yes!—three or four or five or six anchovy fillets. Thoroughly crush the tomatoes with your mighty Kitchen Implement Of Choice (wooden spoon, spatula, the alarming flanged mace that earned you the nickname “That Psycho With The, Like, War-Club Or Whatever That Thing Is, Oh God Call Security”), bring this concoction to a boil, then reduce it to a simmer and leave it alone for a while so its flavors can hang out together and the liquid can reduce a bit.
Your oven is preheating and your ragù is simmering happily and your pasta water is (maybe) coming to a boil (even though you are not ready to put pasta into it no seriously put the fucking pasta down).”
Yessssss! (Does football touchdown dance). But will my husband follow these instructions? Or would he make it his manly duty to ignore it: full speed ahead and damn the kitchen stove?
Hey, wait a minute. Does that mean I finally get to buy a new kitchen stove after he’s done? Oh, cook that s**it, man!
Let your male other try it and see if you’re kitchen’s still there when he’s done. We might be on to something, ladies.