Summer pasta is an old Silver Palate recipe that I first tasted in my sister's kitchen, years and years ago.
I was working my way through grad school, spending summers waitressing in a restaurant that specialized in desserts (which meant I constantly craved all things salty) and my sister began raving about this recipe--this combo of tomatoes and brie and garlic--and slowly, the mere description of the dish became the call of the siren: something to weigh against the endless ice cream sundaes and almond pastries I ran back and forth from table to table, section to section, forever in the weeds (tanned legs never moving fast enough to stay ahead of the movie crowd, cigarette break never long enough to justify two smokes, the end of my shift never winding down before one A.M.)
One rare night off, towards the end of July, I dropped by my sister's after she had (as she put it) made a boatload of summer pasta, and while she and her best friend sat on the back verandah drinking red wine and smoking cigarettes, I nosed through the fridge until I found it, and then--after calling out I got it, no need to get up, please save me some wine--I shoved a lovely big bite into my mouth.
And then nearly spat it all out, the way babies--so practically, so methodically--spit out Things They Find Horrifying.
Summer pasta is best warm, but it also delivers a pleasing taste when mildly cold (or so my sister said) and I had dug in, only to find myself with a mouthful of icy, gelatinous nastiness. After I was silent for a full minute she called out, "What, you don't like?" (as if she were an old Jewish mother, not an Irish Catholic Grrl) and I considered my options: I was confused (THIS was the recipe I'd been obsessing about?) and horrified (This was the recipe my SISTER had been obsessing about?) and enraged (What is this nasty shit recipe in my MOUTH?)
"It's interesting," I said, and that word--that tone--said it all and she flew into the kitchen, shook her head at the container in my hand, removed a bowl from the fridge and said: "You're eating cold soup, you silly asshole--try this."
I did, and it was wonderful and salty and smooth--so good I wanted to lick the bowl--and now, every time I make this sauce, I think of high summer, her kitchen, the shock of jelly-like horror in my mouth, followed by the perfection of my first bite of summer pasta.
Revulsion and joy, all within less than three minutes: like being in the restaurant weeds, only to find a twenty dollar tip in your section.
Summer Pasta
Ingredients
4 large peeled, ripe tomatoes, 1/2 inch dice
1 lb Brie, rind removed, torn into small chunks
1 cup clean basil leaves, cut into strips/chiffonade
3 garlic cloves, finely minced
3/4 to 1 cup, best grade olive oil
salt & freshly ground black pepper to taste
a dash of red pepper flakes
1 box linguine /fettucine
freshly grated imported Parmesan cheese
Directions
To peel tomaotes: bring five quarts of water to boil, then drop tomatoes into boiling water for about thirty seconds. When the skins just start to split, you can go two ways: remove the tomatoes, drop them into an ice water bath and then peel five minutes later or (my version) remove, then immediately hold under cold running water as you peel.
Combine diced tomatoes, peeled Brie, olive oil and garlic in large serving bowl: let sit, covered, at room temp for at least three hours.
Bring 6 quarts water to a boil in a large pot. Add pasta and cook according to directions for al dente. Drain pasta, toss with sauce and correct seasoning with salt and freshly ground pepper. Let sit a few minutes (original recipe says serve immediately, but waiting five to seven minutes allows the sauce to develop better, IMO), then toss a few more times. Serve with freshly grated parm.
