Leave The Gun, Take The Really Time-Consuming, Slow-Cooking Sunday Dinner

1 November 2008

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"Cat? What cat? I don't know nothin' about no cat."

My ethno-geneological makeup is predominantly British, but because I’ve seen The Godfather over two hundred times, like to blatantly ogle and cajole pretty girls, and have hit someone in the face with a chair just because they looked at me wrong, I’m pretty that makes me at least 95% Italian.  Add in the fact that my truly Italian friend and I used to drive past Sam Giancana’s house in Cicero, and I’m practically a made man, to boot.  Hell, I’ve actually been to the Old Country a couple of times, too, and have even dated a girl from Palermo who, I’m pretty sure, is going to unexpectedly stab me sometime in the future.  She’s probably planning it right now – that’s just how blatantly Italian my predilections are.  But these predilections aren’t merely limited to my hot temper, slicked-back hair, and fuckin’ cool track suit.  No, they go beyond the aesthetic and barrel full-bore into the culinary.  I love reading old Italian cookbooks, picking the brains of elderly Italian family chefs, and adore watching Giada Di Laurentiis’ rack cook up a nice ravioli on the Food Network.  You’ll always know you’re at a Chef’s Prerogative party as soon as you see the veritable feast of Italian meats, cheeses, wines, and roofies in your drink.  And, even though I love a good lasagna or cannoli, my favorite Italian meal is the Sunday feast of spaghetti and meatballs with homemade gravy.  It’s simple, sure, but then again so is “put penis in vagina, remove, repeat.”

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Giada's beauty commands me to kill. But first, to masturbate.

What I like most about this time-intensive meal is that you can drink a lot while making it.  Your friends and family would be wont to worry if they caught you chillin’ on the couch at ten in the morning, nursing a scotch, watching a Scrubs marathon on Comedy Central.  Nurse that scotch while patiently stirring a rich gravy at ten in the morning, however, and. . . well, they’re still likely to worry, but fuck them, because you’re the chef, Goddamit.  In all seriousness, there’s nothing better than gathering all your friends and family around you in the kitchen, putting on Ol’ Blue Eyes’ Live At The Sands, opening several bottles of Chianti, and telling every one how they’ve let you down, each in their own special way.  It’s truly magical.

a

"Ha ha ha ha ha ha. You're adopted."

A quick note on this meal:  I’m generally one to cook lighter, more traditional, seafood-based Italian cuisine; but I’ll be honest with you – every once in a while I just get a hankering for some red-checkered table cloth, Bayonne-type Guido shit.  I make sure that my gravy has tons of meat, that my meatballs are big and rich, and that my gun is well concealed.  I also like to have a bunch of courses, just like they do in It-lee, but I don’t feel like writing a long post today, so go look it up.  Also, Your soundtrack is going to need lots of Louie Prima, Dino, and The Chairman.  For added authenticity, invite some crazy Italian broads over and have them threaten to cut you if you cheat on them.  Anyway, on to the cookin’, you fuckin’ mook. 

Buy dis shit, you rat bastahd:

Olive oil
Pork, Lamb, Beef
Sausage
Garlic
Tomato paste
San Marzano peeled tomatoes
Water
Basil, salt, pepper
Eggs
Parmigiano-Reggiano, Peocrino Romano
Parsley
Onions
Bread crumbs (non-seasoned)

Cook, You Motherless Fucking Mutt

Let’s start out with the sauce: sweat onions and garlic in some olive oil.  Throw in the tomatoes and tomato paste.  Oh, shit – actually, brown the sausage before you sweat the onions.  Okay, so then just season and let it simmer.  Also, I like to put just a little dried oregano in there, as well, and while I do, I like to say the word “oregano” in a British accent and pronounce it “Oh-ray-gone-o.”  I don’t know why I do this.  In a bowl, combine your three meats with two eggs, bread crumbs, parsley, onions, your cheeses, minced garlic, some olive oil, and a touch of water.  Mix that shit up and roll into balls the size of my testicles.  If you’re not sure how big that is, just go ask your mother.  Brown those in some oil, then throw ’em in the sauce. 

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"Oi, wass wrong wif cawlin' it oh-ray-gone-oh? Ass how it's pronounced, innit? Answah cayfully, mate, I don't wanna hafta shoot two blokes in the face, today, yeah?"

After cooking your sauce for several hours, peel yourself up from the kitchen floor, finish that fifth bottle of wine, and start the pasta.  I normally make my own pasta, but I’m way better at this than you are, so go ahead and just stick with the boxed kind (I prefer the thick spaghetti.)  Once you get it al dente, toss with some of the pasta water and gravy in a hot pan.  Plate with a few meatballs, some fresh parsley, and an ass-load of cheese.  Sit down with your gathered friends and family and discuss how, while you may have your differences, you can all agree that a good meal can be transcendent, that blood truly is thicker than water, and that the city of Pittsburgh can go eat a big bag of dicks.

 

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See? Even Mapquest thinks so.

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One Response to “Leave The Gun, Take The Really Time-Consuming, Slow-Cooking Sunday Dinner”

  1. […] it’s because I’m a de facto Italian, but the cooking of my make-believe homeland has always struck me as being about more than just […]

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