Just the context we needed for discussing and planning and plotting and laughing

I am proud to say that I had some semblance of a misspent youth.

Even now, as a mid-thirtysomething woman with a "career" and a marriage and a mortgage, I look back on this brief period of misplaced priorities and irresponsible financial decisions and consequences-be-damned activities with great pride and no small measure of nostalgic yearning. It all started with a friendship that I never thought would be as close and enduring as it has become.

I met LJS when we were both working at a certain rock and roll museum that is located in Cleveland but holds its induction ceremonies in New York. The first time I was introduced to her I was totally intimidated by her stunning height and rapier wit. (Though she takes great pride in the wit, she never believes me that her height is something to be envied.) I thought, OK, cool co-worker. I did not realize that I had just met one of the best friends I will have in this life.

LJS has taught me that the best friendships are forged in youthful jackasserie. ("Jackasserie," a noun coined by Sister, roughly translates to idiotic but outrageously fun behavior.) LJS and I were both single when we first met and as such were not bogged down with actual adult obligations. Not that marriage bogs you down, but you know what I mean. We were free to do whatever sort of nonsense we wished, such as frequently shopping at Nordstrom's as though we could easily afford it; drinking far too much wine at La Cave du Vin; dropping life's responsibilities for weeks at a time to follow a Canadian power pop band around the United States and also Ontario; racking up significant credit card bills staying at nice hotels with triple-sheeting and rewards programs while following around said Canadian power pop band; getting far too invested in fictional portrayals of the 1980 Olympic hockey team; forcing people to watch "On the Line" with Lance Bass with us; kidding ourselves that Nashville is, in fact, really close to Atlanta, so why not drive there for yet another show?; dying over the reunited Duran Duran; and eating many meals together at Mama Santa's in Cleveland's Little Italy.

(When you see this amp, you know it is time to rock. [Sloan @ Grog Shop, Cleveland, OH, January 2007])

Mmmm, Mama Santa's. After LJS left the rock and roll museum and we stopped seeing each other on a daily basis, we would often meet at Mama Santa's (or Maxi's, also in Little Italy, or at the now-shuttered Ruthie & Moe's diner) to ground ourselves with a good meal and plan for our next attack. Usually our next attack involved determining where Sloan was playing and then making hotel reservations in that city. But often our plans were more local, much simpler, but just as awesome. Mama Santa's cheap and amazingly delicious Italian-American food was just the context we needed for discussing and planning and plotting and laughing. Their pizza is out of this world, but, as she did with fashion luminaries such as Lagerfeld muse Ines de la Fressange, LJS introduced me to Mama Santa's ceci. I never looked back.

Ceci are chickpeas. By virtue of its other applications (pureed in hummus, curried in Indian dishes like aloo chana, toasted and sprinkled with delicious spices), the chickpea has already earned its status as one of the finest foods on earth. But before I started eating regularly at Mama Santa's, I had no idea the Italians had laid claim to the glorious legume as well. But I should have known, and shame on me and my taste buds for our ignorance. Native to Turkey, the chickpea wisely meandered over to the Roman diet long ago; indeed, Apicius includes several chickpea recipes. The Italians still use them in many ways, including in a soup-like pasta dish that found its way onto Mama Santa's menu, then quickly into my stomach.

Pasta e ceci alla Romana (or, simply, ceci on Mama Santa's menu) is glorious in its simplicity, the kind of meal that has a sublime flavor inversely proportionate to the humble, rustic nature of the ingredients. Tagliatelle or fettuccine, tomato paste, olive oil, garlic, rosemary, salt, freshly ground black pepper and the blessed chickpea. That's it. That's all you need. At Mama Santa's, it arrives at the table sloshing messily over the rim of a large, shallow soup bowl. Its lucky recipient must not stand on ceremony: the soupy tomato sauce will splash, invariably staining the diner's new Club Monaco sweater, as chickpeas hurl themselves off the spoon in a desperate attempt to reunite with their fettuccine friends still in the bowl. The chickpeas add an amazing unctuous dimension to the fettuccine and tomato sauce that is unexpected and totally delicious, elevating run-of-the-mill pasta to a sort of texture and flavor heaven. (Usually I don't use the word "unctuous" to describe delicious food but trust me, the slippery-ness of the olive oil in this dish marries so divinely to the starchy-ness of the chickpeas, creating a beautifully thickened peppery sauce that, in my book, beats anything those fussy old French mother sauces have to offer.) Ceci is best eaten with the most buttery, garlicky toast imaginable. That's how Mama Santa's rolls and I see no reason to mess with perfection.

Like most restaurant dishes that I order so often that I no longer need to consult the menu, I just had to translate ceci to the home kitchen. I know that I most certainly could have adapted it without a recipe, given how simple the dish is. But I thought it would be more fun to consult the brilliant Giuliano Bugialli's pasta masterpiece, Bugialli on Pasta. The book is full of authentic Italian recipes presented alongside a no-nonsense and informative narrative. If you want to learn how the chickpea is used differently in Rome versus Naples versus Lecce, this is the book for you. And you should want to know those things, after all, because what life is worth living that doesn't examine and celebrate chickpeas?

Of all the chickpea's health benefits -- it is high in folate, protein, dietary fiber and is a great source of calcium -- I personally hope that it has some vitamin or mineral known for boosting memory-retention. For I need it. LJS knows that I frequently get confused and assume that she was present at major events in my lifetime that took place before we met. Many times I start to reminisce with her about something that happened in college, but then she gently reminds me that we went to different schools. Perhaps if I eat enough chickpeas I can keep our friendship's chronology straight.

Then again, why does it matter? It's just as fun to assume that I've known her forever -- or at least as long as the Romans have been dining on ceci.

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PASTA E CECI ALLA ROMANA
Adapted from Bugialli on Pasta

According to Bugialli, "Ceci (Cicer arietinum), or chick-peas, probably originated in southeastern Turkey, but there are no known survivors of the original, wild form of the plant. The varieties presently known likely are domesticated mutations. The Mediterranean chick-pea is larger and is white to dark yellow in color, while the type used in India and Persia is smaller and brown.

"Following are three recipes for pasta e ceci: from Rome, Naples and Lecce (Apulia), all seats of ancient Greek and Roman culture. The Tuscans, famous in Italy as 'bean eaters,' have in addition to their many Phaseolus vulgaris bean dishes quite a few using chick-peas. [Phaseolus vulgaris is the species that includes Cannellini, great northern beans, red kidney beans et. al.]

"This...Roman version of pasta with chick-peas shares certain traditional ingredients of the Tuscan dish, but here the rosemary taste is much stronger, tomato paste is used instead of tomatoes and the pasta is dried tagliatelle instead of the very short tubular avemarie or ditalini."

It's also worth repeating what Bugialli mentions in the introduction to his "Pasta and Beans" chapter: "Every part of Italy has its pasta and beans minestre or minestroni. Today we are reaffirming the wisdom of this combination, for it provides an almost balanced diet in itself, containing protein and carbohydrates, without cholesterol or fat. This was understood through folk wisdom many centuries ago, and it may be that these dishes were along the first uses of pasta."

Blessed chickpea, indeed.

For the chickpeas:

2 c. canned chickpeas (about 1 1/2 19-oz. cans), drained, liquid reserved

4 c. cold water

1 c. reserved liquid from the cans of chickpeas

2 sprigs fresh rosemary

1 t. kosher salt

For the sauce:

1/2 c. olive oil

3 large garlic cloves, peeled but left whole

1 T. fresh rosemary leaves, coarsely chopped

3 T. tomato paste

1/2 t. kosher salt

1 t. freshly-ground black pepper

1/2 lb. dried fettuccine or tagliatelle

Pecorino or Parmigiano-Reggiano cheese, to taste

Drain chickpeas, reserving 1 c. of the liquid. Place 4 c. cold water, the reserved chickpea liquid, chickpeas and 2 sprigs of fresh rosemary into a medium-sized stockpot over medium heat. When the water reaches a boil, reduce the heat to medium-low, cover and cook the chickpeas until they are heated through but still firm, about 10 minutes. Add 1 t. kosher salt to the chickpeas, cover again, reduce the heat to low and simmer for an additional 5 minutes.

While the chickpeas are simmering, prepare the sauce. Heat the olive oil with the garlic cloves and chopped rosemary in a medium saucepan over medium heat for 5 minutes. It will seem like an excessive amount of olive oil, and maybe it is -- but trust me, it is tasty. After 5 minutes, remove 1 c. of the chickpea broth and whisk it together in a small bowl with the tomato paste, dissolving and thinning the paste. Add the tomato paste mixture to the saucepan with the olive oil. Season the sauce with salt and abundant black pepper (about 1 t.) and cook, whisking occasionally, for 10 minutes.

Pass the sauce through a wire mesh strainer directly into the stockpot containing the chickpeas and chickpea broth. Push the sauce through the strainer with a wooden spoon, then discard the garlic and rosemary. Also remove the 2 rosemary sprigs from the chickpea broth. Stir to combine the tomato sauce with the chickpeas and chickpea broth. At this time the mixture will have a somewhat soupy consistency.

Add the pasta and cook according to the package directions until it is al dente. Leave a lid on the pot for just about all of the pasta's cooking time. (The goal is not to let all the liquid boil away.) Taste for salt and pepper and let the dish rest off the heat before serving. Sprinkle with grated Pecorino or Parmigiano-Reggiano and mangia.

Serves 4, but with only one helping each. It might be a good idea to double this recipe if you're hungry, which as you undoubtedly know I always am.

It feels good to return the favor

It is hard to believe, but today my sister turns 41. 41! Even though I know I am not far behind her, I am still required by law to point and laugh at her advanced age. Ha! You are old, Sister.

But, even given your extreme decrepitude, I still love you.

One of the benefits of the eight-year age difference between the two of us is that we never really fought. While growing up, she was older than me to a degree that made her way cool. She was my role model, and I aspired to like and do the things she liked and did, such as Pink Floyd and driving foolish high school friends home from Randall Park Mall even though she wasn't supposed to have other kids in the car. She was an exchange student, so I made it my goal to get myself involved in an international program, too. She went to Northwestern, so when the time came for me to apply to colleges, I applied only to Northwestern without any sort of back-up plan. She became a vegetarian, I became a vegetarian. She stopped being a vegetarian, I stopped being a vegetarian. She loved "The Man With Two Brains" and so did I, even though some of the jokes were over my head. ("Those aren't assholes, honey, they're azaleas.") Everything that I knew at an age before I should have known it is because of Sister's influence.

Even now, our combined jackasserie continues:

You might imagine, then, my thrill upon growing up and learning that the road goes both ways: there are areas of my expertise -- if you can call any of our foolishness "expertise" -- that Sister covets as well. I love it when she calls on me for something, or stops at my house when she's on her way somewhere and gets a migraine and needs to rest because she knows it is cozy and I'll take care of her, or craves a dish that I like to cook. I love that sometimes she needs me, or looks up to something I'm doing. Because after a life of being inspired by her -- attempting to be as smart, as funny, as accomplished -- it feels good to return the favor.

Which brings us to cumin-dusted pasta. I'm not sure when or how I developed this recipe -- just that it was during the time I lived in Chicago in the late '90s -- but it quickly became one of Sister's favorites. The dish's formal name is Cumin-Dusted Pasta with Curried Black Beans; Freshly Chopped Parsley, Extra-Virgin Olive Oil Finish. The lengthy title comes from the menu standards of my family's former favorite restaurant, The Inn at Turner's Mill, which, sadly, went out of business last August. Their food was quite fine, and the verbiage used to describe it even finer. Each item would follow the same formulation: Main Component of Dish with Primary Flavor (semicolon); Secondary Flavor, Sauce or Garnish. One particularly cosmopolitan-fueled night, we decided it would be fun to name my (at the time) signature dish following this code.

Hence, cumin-dusted pasta with blah blah blah....What it really should be called is, simply, delicious.

In addition to reminding me of Sister, this dish also recalls many of the nights spent in my diminutive Chicago kitchen. It was there that I really began cutting my culinary teeth, if you will. Trying out new things, watching a lot of Food Network (R.I.P., David Rosengarten's "Taste," most excellent show ever), exploring recipes, forcing friends to eat the results and sing my praises. But when it was just me, alone in that kitchen, this was the dish to which I always turned. (Well, this and baked ziti, but that's another post.) I can still see myself cleaning turmeric-colored droplets of olive oil off the wall that was RightNextToTheTinyStove. I can still hear my mind wondering if the neighboring apartment dwellers minded the wafting curry smells. I can still feel my inexperienced hands trying to flip the T-Fal frying pan full of sizzling black beans, you know, like chefs do, without utensils.

Even though I haven't made cumin-dusted pasta for Sister in quite some time, the mere mention of its name still elicits a Pavlovian chorus of "yummmm......cumin-dusted pasta....." from her lips. I guarantee, if I called her right now and said I was thinking of making it, that is what she would say. With good reason. The black beans, fried with the spices until their edges turn crispy, receive an extra hit of salty texture at the last moment, when they're tossed with sharp Pecorino cheese while still in the pan -- resulting in a crunchy, curry-y, gooey, cheesy concoction that just begs for some angel hair pasta with which to party. I could eat the entire dish myself, but since it is Sister's birthday, I guess I'll share.

Here's to you, Sister. Though subject to the inexorable and unforgiving march of time, may your tastebuds never be dulled to the excellence that is cumin-dusted pasta.

Happy birthday.

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CUMIN-DUSTED PASTA

3 T. olive oil

1 15.5-oz. can of black beans

1 1/2 t. ground cumin

1 1/2 t. ground coriander

1 t. ground turmeric

1/4 t. kosher salt

Pinch freshly-ground black pepper

1 lb. angel hair pasta or spaghetti

1/3 c. Pecorino cheese, shredded

3 T. flat-leaf parsley, chopped

For a spice-heavy dish like this, I prefer to toast and grind my own spices (well, except for the turmeric). Actually, I should say: where possible, I always prefer to toast and grind my own spices. So, if you haven't already done this step and don't have home-toasted and -ground spices in your cabinet at the ready, take the time to toast up a few tablespoons each of cumin and coriander in a dry frying pan until they are fragrant but not burnt. Grind in a spice grinder, and store tightly covered in a dark cupboard.

Drain and thoroughly rinse the black beans. Heat the olive oil over medium-low heat in a large skillet. Put a large pot of thoroughly salted water on to boil.

Place black beans in skillet, along with cumin, coriander, turmeric, salt and black pepper. Turn up the heat to medium. Fry the beans until they start to get crispy on their little legume edges and the spices are cooked and aromatic.

When the water is boiling, cook the pasta according to package directions. If using angel hair, keep a close eye on it, as it cooks very quickly. When the pasta is al dente, drain into a strainer set over a large liquid measuring cup or bowl, to reserve some of the starch-rich pasta water. Deglaze the frying pan with about 1/4 c. of the reserved pasta water to release the yummy crunchy bits into the mixture. Add the Pecorino to the beans, stirring to combine and melt. Add the cooked pasta to the beans, tossing to mix thoroughly. (You will probably need to add a little more reserved pasta water to "loosen" the mixture.)

Garnish with the chopped parsley and serve, topped with a generous drizzle of olive oil and extra Pecorino to taste.

Serves 2. Note: Though, technically, you could use any shape of pasta you like in this dish, I have learned through years of experimentation that long pasta works and tastes much better than shorter varieties like penne or rigatoni. Also, if you are so inclined, you might want to stir in 1/8 t. cayenne pepper with the black bean mixture. (Sometimes I'm just not in the mood to have it this way.) Finally, this recipe is even yummier the second day, after the flavors have had some time to get to know each other.

Grandma's Other House is a place to which you can raise your glass

There is a place in South Carolina, about an hour south of Myrtle Beach and an hour north of Charleston, called Garden City Beach. There is a woman my mom knows who owns a condo where Garden City Beach meets the Atlantic. There is a family -- mine -- that has been going down there every summer for at least 12 years to spend time on the beach relaxing, lounging, playing bocce, swimming and perhaps imbibing in a piña colada or two or more. And there are two young boys -- my nephews -- who refer to this vacation destination as "Grandma's Other House," even though Grandma has not ever and does not currently own it.

Grandma's Other House is a place to which you can raise your glass.

I look forward to the yearly pilgrimage to Garden City Beach because it is one of those vacations that does not ask anything of the traveler. No plans. No tours or activities or museums. The only activity that could possibly be construed as "scheduled" is that time around 4:00 p.m. when we all gather on the lanai to watch this rickety old "party boat" go by, so that we can point at it and laugh like hyenas.

If you want to sleep until noon, you can sleep until noon. If you want to watch "Days of Our Lives," you can watch "Days of Our Lives."

(That's "Days" up there...an episode that ran during that boring Lucas-is-married-to-Carrie-and-Austin-is-engaged-to-Sami-but-really-Sami-is-lying-about-Carrie's-and-Austin's-supposed-genetic-incompatibility-that-would-result-in-an-unhealthy-baby-and-that-is-the-only-thing-keeping-them-apart-because-they-are-soul-mates-but-Sami-wants-Austin-for-herself storyline. That's a Bloody Mary on the table.)

If you want to sleep all afternoon and then go to Wal-Mart (hi, Dad!), you can sleep all afternoon and then go to Wal-Mart. If you want to bury your husband in the sand, you can bury your husband in the sand. If you want to watch people set off fireworks from the beach in a manner that is likely to cause bodily injury, you can watch people set off fireworks from the beach in a manner that is likely to cause bodily injury.

Vacationing at Grandma's Other House is the ultimate in what my family likes to call, "doing strictly." Which is to say, doing strictly what you want with no judgement, no one to whom you must answer. (Unless you are my husband, in which case you will be expected to do what I want to do, at least most of the time.)

Several years ago our friends Amy and Jeff joined us at the beach. No strangers to a good time, Any and Jeff fit right in with the general atmosphere of jackasserie and relaxed foolishness. Indeed, we have them to thank for one of the most enduring jokes to emanate from our South Carolina vacations.

To get to the strip of condos on the beach, you must turn off the main north-south thoroughfare (Hwy. 17) and cross an area of low-country marshland. At that turn, right next to the Kroger parking lot, there is a small farm stand that has been in operation at least as long as we've been visiting the area. They sell sweet corn, strawberries, peaches -- just about what you'd expect from a farm stand in the middle of summer. They also sell bags of ice. The hand-painted wooden sign that advertises the ice stood out to Amy the first time she saw it:

BAGICE

Bag ice, no space. In big red capital letters.

She turned to me and Mom and said, "Bagice? [she pronounced it, "Bag-eechay] Sounds interesting." Never one to miss an opportunity, I replied, "Bagice. It is an Italian vegetable, a Ligurian staple." I do not know why I said this, why that particular Italian region popped into my mind. But needless to say, that is how my brain works -- my mind is a strange place. "That Ligurian staple, bagice" became a recurring joke throughout the trip; indeed, the phrase persists to this day. I have a sense that we will keep laughing about this long past the time when any of us can remember the joke's origin.

(I know that perhaps you had to be there to enjoy fully this anecdote, but bear with me, here, as this story inspired the addition of one hell of a cake to my recipe box.)

Ever since that week, if/when I find a recipe that is credited as being traditionally Ligurian, I must cook or bake it. I must present it to my family, and Amy and Jeff, if only to get a laugh. The recipe that follows, however, is no laughing matter -- it is seriously delicious. I found it one day when I was searching for a not-too-sweet cake involving fruit for Dad's birthday. The name of the cake jumped off the screen: Ligurian lemon cake. I knew this dessert was destined to become a regular part of my baker's repertoire.

Ligurian lemon cake does not contain any bagice, but does call for 2/3 of a cup of extra-virgin olive oil, as well as nearly a stick of butter. Somehow -- even with all that fat -- the freshness of the lemons and the juicy sweetness of the whole raspberries suspended throughout the crumb are able to elevate the finished confection to a very light and airy place. The meringue on top is a surprising and tasty way to finish the cake, adding another layer of sweetness and texture to the dessert.

Though you might not be able to track down any bagice, do find yourself some of the finest fruit summer has to offer, bake yourself this wonderfully bright cake and toast Liguria. And South Carolina.

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LIGURIAN LEMON CAKE

Adapted from "Martha Stewart Living"

The meringue topping on this cake is technically optional, but it adds such a wonderful textural dimension that I'd advocate for including it. If, however, you wish to focus on the tart lemony elements of the cake or if you like things a little less sweet, go ahead and omit the meringue -- it does bring quite a bit of sugar to the party.

If you so desire, you can decorate the top of the cake with more raspberries or other fresh mixed berries -- or if you'd like a more rustic-looking dessert, you can just leave well enough alone. But with all the scrumptious berries making their grand entrances at the farmers' markets, maybe you can't resist the extra frill....

The lemon cake can be made a day in advance. Store the cooled cake, wrapped tightly in plastic wrap, at room temperature or in the refrigerator. Make and apply the meringue shortly before serving.

For the cake:

7 T. unsalted butter, melted

1 3/4 c. flour

1 1/2 t. baking powder

1 c. sugar

Zest of 2 lemons

4 eggs, room temperature

3 T. whole milk, room temperature

1 T. freshly-squeezed lemon juice

2/3 c. extra-virgin olive oil

1 pint fresh raspberries

For the meringue:

1 egg white

1/2 c. granulated sugar

Confectioner's sugar, for dusting

Mixed berries, such as raspberries, strawberries or blueberries (optional)

Make the lemon cake. Preheat the oven to 350 degrees Fahrenheit. Butter a 10-inch round cake or springform pan, dust with flour and tap out any excess. Alternatively, spray the pan with that new-fangled Pam for baking that includes flour. Since I am a trifle lazy, I find the Pam is much simpler to use (obviously), and the cake slides out of the pan effortlessly.

In a large bowl, sift together the flour and baking powder. Set aside.

Place the sugar and lemon zest in the bowl of an electric mixer. Using your hands, thoroughly incorporate the two ingredients together until the sugar is moist, grainy and has absorbed as much of the zest as possible. Return the bowl to the mixer.

Using the whisk attachment, beat the eggs into the sugar-zest mixture on medium-high speed until the mixture is pale yellow and thick, about 3 minutes. With the mixer on the lowest speed, and still using the whisk attachment, beat in the milk. Add the flour mixture and beat until it is incorporated. Add lemon juice, melted butter and olive oil; mix until blended, stopping the mixer a few times to scrape down the sides of the bowl.

Pour about one-third of the batter into the prepared pan. There should be just enough batter to form a thin, even layer; use a rubber spatula to distribute gently the batter across the bottom of the pan. Arrange the raspberries on top of the batter. Pour the remaining batter over the raspberries and use a rubber spatula to spread the batter so that it runs down between the berries, just covering them. (The top layer of batter will be relatively thin.)

Bake the cake until it's golden brown and pulling away from the sides of the pan, and until a toothpick or bamboo skewer inserted into the center comes out clean, 35-50 minutes. The baking time can vary based on the type of pan you're using, so be sure to keep an eye on it, testing every five minutes or so until the skewer comes out clean. I use a springform pan and it takes about 50 minutes.

Remove the cake from the oven and immediately unmold it onto a wire rack. Invert the cake so it is right-side up and allow to cool to room temperature. Once cooled, you can wrap and store it for serving the next day, or you can proceed with the meringue.

Prepare the meringue by first preheating the oven to 475 degrees Fahrenheit. Place the cooled cake on a Silpat- or parchment-lined baking sheet; set aside.

In the clean, dry bowl of an electric mixer fitted with the whisk attachment, beat the egg white to soft peaks. (Alternatively, you can use a hand mixer for this step -- in fact, I find it easier considering you're only beating one egg, which doesn't provide a lot of volume, and sometimes the KitchenAid whisk attachment doesn't "reach" all the way to the bottom of the bowl. One of the few design flaws of an otherwise perfect machine!) Add the sugar to the egg white in a slow, steady stream; continue beating until stiff, glossy peaks form.

Using a metal off-set spatula or a spoon, immediately spread the meringue in a thin layer over the top of the cake. Using a fine wire-mesh sieve, dust the meringue with confectioner's sugar.

Bake the cake until the meringue is lightly browned. about 4-6 minutes. Garnish the cake with mixed berries, if you so desire.

Serves 10-12.