Bulla Soup

My Danish great-grandmother used to make this soup for my mother, and my mother used to make it for me. Last week, when Jacob was staying with me, he felt sick, and so I had to call my grandmother, who knew my great-grandmothers recipe, and told me how to make it over the phone, and so now I am sharing it with you. 

This soup is called Bulla Soup, and I don’t know exactly how to describe it to you, but it’s like dumplings. Really rich, floury, wonderful, boiled dumplings. 

November is the time for soup. 

In New York,  when I was very hungry, I would go to this crazy dumpling place where you could get eight fried pork dumplings for three dollars, and I would walk and eat all the dumplings just dripping with soy sauce, and I felt so young and so free and so good. 

It’s food like that, that makes me feel the richness and glory of the world. 

Bulla are not pork dumplings, you have to sit down and eat them in a soup, with a spoon. You do not get the romance of walking through grimy streets alone, while taxi cabs howl at you when you cross the street before the little flashing hand signals you can go. (I was always crossing streets at the exact wrong time.) 

But bulla are a quick thing to make. Very simple, and satisfying. 

Here is how to do it: 

First, you heat some broth, such as chicken broth. Make sure it just about boiling. 

Then in a separate pot, heat a cup of water to a rolling boil, add 1/2 cup butter. 

You heat these together, and then, all at once, stir in 1 cup of flour. Stir rigorously over the heat, until the mixture forms into a ball. Remove from heat. Then, thoroughly beat into the flour/water mixture, four eggs, one at a time. 

Next, take a spoon,  and grab a rounded scoop of the mixture, gently lower it into the boiling chicken broth. 

And then you wait for the bulla to rise to the top. 

And when it has risen to the top, you know it is finished. 

The simplicity of good food, occasionally speaks for itself. 

So I'm not going to say anything beyond, "These really do it for me." 

I hope you’re so well. 

Talk soon. 

I love love love you. 

XOXO

m 

Chicken-in-the-pot

Last night when I couldn't sleep I started going through pictures of myself on Facebook, which is narcissistic, but also, I guess it's in the perpetual attempt to try and figure out where I actually am, versus where I actually was, and actually how is it that anyone gets from Point A and arrives at Point NOW? 

I don't know. 

I've been thinking about the past year a lot, because years always seem to sort of roll themselves over in the summertime for me, and also I've been thinking about the future. 

I think I'm supposed to be thinking about my "career" and "the job market" and other imposing, adult, grey-sounding words that make me want to bury my head in the sand. 

Instead though, I just daydream about being home with my little brothers and making chicken-in-the-pot. 

I want to make this chicken every day for a week, because it smells like the actual smell of heaven, and I want to make it with bright sweet potatoes and fat sticks of celery and thin, translucent slices of yellow bell peppers and the rinds of pickled lemons. 

I want to make this more than almost anything else right now, but at the moment, I don't have a kitchen. 

I don't know what I'm supposed to do with all the past selves, that linger on various social media platforms, and I don't know what I'm supposed to do with the future cubicle that real adulthood sometimes appears to be. 

I'm trying to trust that even when I can't fall asleep, everything is still okay. 

I think this is what they call "faith." 

Besides, the future isn't here yet, and the past went. 

So I'm craving chicken-in-the-pot. And for the time being, I can't have it. 

It's okay. 

So I guess I'm here, at Point NOW. 

And really, it ain't so bad. 

Chicken-in-the-Pot Makes 4 servings (but you can multiply the recipe easily)
from cookbook goddess Dorie Greenspan 

Approximately 2/3 cup extra-virgin olive oil
4 heads of garlic, broken into cloves, but not peeled
16 shallots, peeled and trimmed, or 4 onions, peeled, trimmed and quartered, or 4 leeks, white part only, halved lengthwise
8 carrots, peeled, trimmed and quartered
4 celery stalks, trimmed and quartered
Salt and freshly ground pepper
4 sprigs fresh thyme
4 sprigs flat-leaf parsley
3 sprigs fresh rosemary
Grated zest of 1 lemon
16 prunes, optional (apricots or dried apples are also good in this dish)
1 chicken, whole or cut-up
1/2 small (2 lbs or less) cabbage, green or red, cut into 4 wedges (try Savoy cabbage)
1 cup chicken broth
1/2 cup white wine, or another 1/2 cup chicken broth
About 1 1/2 cups all-purpose flour, for the seal
About 3/4 cup hot water, for the seal

Preheat the oven to 450 degrees F.

Set a large skillet over high heat and add about 2 tablespoons of the olive oil. Toss in the garlic cloves and all the vegetables, EXCEPT the cabbage - you might have to do this in two batches, you don't want to crowd the skillet - season generously with salt and pepper and cook, stirring, until the vegetables are lightly browned on all sides. Spoon the vegetables into a large Dutch oven with a tight-fitting lid - you'll need a pot that holds at least 5 quarts. Stir in the herbs, lemon zest and prunes, if you're using them.

Return the skillet to the heat and add another tablespoon or so of oil. Season the chicken with salt and pepper and brown the chicken on all sides. Put the chicken in the casserole, nestling it among the vegetables. Fit the cabbage wedges around the chicken.

Stir together the chicken broth, wine and 1/2 cup olive oil and pour the mixture over the chicken and vegetables.

Now you have a choice: you can cover the pot with a sheet of aluminum foil and the lid, or you can make a paste to seal the lid. To make the paste, stir the flour and water together, mixing until you have a soft, workable dough. Working on a floured surface, shape the dough into a long sausage, then press the sausage onto the rim of the casserole. Press the lid into the dough to seal the pot.

Slide the pot into the oven and bake for 70 minutes. If you need to keep it in the oven a little longer because you're not ready for it, don't worry - turn the heat down to 325 degrees F and you'll be good for another 30 minutes or so.

The easiest way to break the seal, is to wiggle the point of a screwdriver between the dough and the pot - being careful not to stand in the line of the escaping (and wildly aromatic) steam. If the chicken was whole, quarter it and return it to the pot, so that you can serve directly from the pot, or arrange the chicken and vegetables on a serving platter.

Tarte Noire (chocolate tart)

When I was traveling, people were always asking me where I was from, and whenever I said "I'm from Texas," there was always some spark of recognition and excitement. 

Saying you are from Texas is not like saying you are from North Dakota. 

Or Wisconsin. 

It's just not. 

It was the best when someone who happened to be French asked, because their eyes would light up and they'd say something like, "OH! TEXAZZZ!" Before making finger guns and asking me about horses and cowboys and Chuck Norris. 

So while I was so far away from home, I fell in love with the with the pie-making, porch-sitting, beer-drinking, no bullshit, music-loving, Tex-Mex-eating, lonestar, cowgirl, wildflower piece of myself. 

A piece of me I didn't even know I had. 

I fell in love with the vastness and vulgarity of Texas from a thousand miles away. 

The poet Charles Bukowski wrote: 

“Texas women are always

healthy, and besides that she’s

cleaned my refrigerator, my sink,

the bathroom, and she cooks and

feeds me healthy foods

and washes the dishes

too.”

And I know and love this now as well. 

I am home now. 

I've been lying in the hammock some, drinking pots of coffee, walking the dog. 

And then, on Tuesday, suddenly, I was ready to be in the kitchen again. 

The first time I actually felt like being in the kitchen in over a year. 

So I baked a chocolate tart. Which was not Texan at all, but French--because the world is topsy turvy like that sometimes, and it is possible to crave Tex-Mex when in France and French food when back in Texas. 

And while I pressed the tart dough into the pan, I thought about Paris. 

I thought about Paris, and how the only real way to understand a city, is to walk through it. 

But mostly I thought about all the people, who made the past few months a sort of miracle. 

Roberto told me, that if you want to cook, you have to cook with "the love." 

And that it's cooking with "the love" that gives food the real flavor. 

So I thought about Paris. And I thought about Texas. 

But mostly, I thought about you.

This tart is one of the best I've ever, ever made. 

xoxo

m 

Tarte Noire (chocolate tart)

from Dorie Greenspan's From My Home to Yours 

Another thing, is that this tart is stupidly simple, and very, very sexy. Even if you can barely bake, this tart is unbelievably doable, if a bit time consuming. Additionally, for the chocolate ganache, it is imperative that you use the highest quality baking chocolate. 

For the Filling

8 ounces bittersweet chocolate, finely chopped

1 cup plus 2 tablespoons heavy cream

1/2 stick (4 tablespoons) unsalted butter, cut into 4 pieces, at room temperature

1 9-inch tart shell made with Sweet Tart Dough (recipe below)

Put the chopped chocolate in a heatproof bowl and have a whisk or a rubber spatula at hand. 

Bring the cream to a boil, then pour half of it over the chocolate and let it sit for 30 seonds. Working with the whisk or spatula, very gently stir the chocolate and cream together in small circles, starting at the center of teh bowl and working your way out in increasingly larger concentric circles. Pour in the remainder of the cream and blend it into the chocolate, using the same circular motion. When the ganache is smooth and shiny, stir in the butter piece by piece. Don't stir the ganache any more than you must to blend the ingredients-- the less you work it, the darker, smoother and shinier it will be. (The ganache can be used now, refrigerated or even frozen for later.)

Pour the ganache into the crust and, holding the pan with both hands, gently turn the pan from side to side to even the ganache. 

Refrigerate the tart for 30 minutes to set the ganache, then remove the tart from the fridge and keep it at room temperature until serving time. 

Sweet Tart Dough 

NB: Don't roll the tart dough out, simply press it into the pan and save yourself much time and angst. 

1 1/2 cups all-purpose flour

1/2 cup confections' sugar

1/4 teaspoon salt 

1 stick plus 1 tablespoon (9 tablespoons) very cold (or frozen) unsalted butter, cut into small pieces

1 large egg yolk

Put the flour, confectioners' sugar and salt in a food processor and pulse a couple of times to combine. Scatter the pieces of butter over the dry ingredients and pulse until the butter is coarsely cut in-- you should have some pieces the size of oatmeal flakes and some the size of peas. Stir the yolk, just to break it up, and add it a little at a time, pulsing after each addition. When the egg is in, process in long pulses-- about 10 seconds each-- until the dough, which will look granular soon after the egg is added, forms clumps and curds. Just before you reach this stage, the sound of the machine working the dough will change-- heads up. Turn the dough out onto a work surface and, very lightly and sparingly, knead the dough just to incorporate any dry ingredients that might have escaped mixing. 

To press the dough into the pan: Butter a 9-inch fluted tart pan with a removable bottom. Press teh dough evenly over the bottom and up the sides of the pan, using all but one little piece of dough, which you should save in the refrigerator to patch any cracks after the crust is baked. Don't be too heavy handed, press the crust in so that the edges of the pieces cling to one another, but not so hard that the crust loses its crumbly texture. Freeze the crust for at least 30 minutes, preferably longer, before baking. 

To fully bake the crust: Center a rack in the oven and preheat the oven to 375 F. 

Butter the shiny side of a piece of aluminum foil and fit the foil, buttered side down, tightly against the crust. (Since you froze the crust, you can bake it without weights.) Put the tart pan on a baking sheet and bake the crust for 25 minutes. Carefully remove the foil. If the crust has puffed press it down gently with the back of a spoon. Bake for another 8 minutes or so, or until it is firm and golden brown. (Watch it though, to make sure it doesn't get too golden brown.) 

Blackberry Buttermilk Bundt Cake

When I was young, my mother and I would go blackberry picking in McDade, Texas. 

We always went to the same farm, which was owned by a very small old woman who had puffy white hair. 

We would get there in the morning, wearing old clothes and wide-brimmed hats. 

My mother always wore gloves, because she has beautiful hands, and blackberry bushes are very thorny. 

We would pick blackberries for hours. 

It was hard work. Because the thorns tore up our hands, and because there were fire ants. 

We always got stung by fire ants. 

It was fun though: my brothers and I would run between the bushes 

and eat berries until we felt sick and dig in dusty red dirt that coated our skin. 

Whenever I think back though, I  forget about the fire ants and the dirt and the thorns. 

Instead, I remember that when we drove home, after a day in McDade, 

in the trunk of the car, all of my mother's pots and pans

were filled with 

gleaming 

blackberries. 

It made me feel plenty.  

It's many years later now. 

These past months have been difficult, what with school and all the uncertainty and ache that I guess comes with being 

20.   

But it doesn't matter anymore. Like the thorns and ants and dirt didn't matter. 

Summer is here now. 

And I feel plenty. 

And life feels like blackberries. 

Life is all blackberries. 

XOXO

Blackberry Buttermilk Bundt Cake
via SmittenKitchen.com

SmittenKitchen suggested making this with a variety of berries. But I love blackberries. So there ya go. I've included her recipe for glaze, which sounds amazing, but which I was too lazy to make. 
This entire cake was eaten in under 24 hours. I kid you not. 


Cake
2 1/2 cups (355 grams) plus 2 tablespoons (20 grams) all-purpose flour
2 teaspoons (10 grams) baking powder
1 teaspoon fine sea salt or table salt
1 cup (8 ounces or 225 grams) unsalted butter, at room temperature
1 3/4 cups (340 grams) granulated sugar
Zest of 1 lemon
3 large eggs, at room temperature
1/2 teaspoon vanilla extract
3/4 cup (175 ml) buttermilk
3 cups (350 to 450 grams) mixed berries
Glaze
2 cups (240 grams) powdered or confections’ sugar
Juice of 1 lemon
1 tablespoon (15 grams) unsalted butter, very, very soft
Preheat your oven to 350°F. Generously grease a 10-cup Bundt pan, either with butter or a nonstick spray.* Set aside.
In a medium bowl, whisk or sift 2 1/2 cups flour (leaving 2 tablespoons back), baking powder and salt together and set aside. In the bowl of a stand mixer or large mixing bowl, cream together the butter, sugar and lemon zest until light and impossibly fluffy, about 3 to 5 minutes. Then, with the mixer on a low speed, add your eggs one at a time, scraping down the bowl between each addition. Beat in vanilla, briefly. Add 1/3 flour mixture to batter, beating until just combined, followed by half the buttermilk, another 1/3 of the flour mixture, the remaining buttermilk and remaining flour mixture. Scrape down from time to time and don’t mix any more than you need to. In the bowl where you’d mixed your dry ingredients, toss the berries with the remaining 2 tablespoons of flour. With a silicon spatula, gently fold the berries into the cake batter. The batter will be very thick and this will seem impossible without squishing the berries a little, but just do your best and remember that squished berries do indeed make for a pretty batter.
Spread cake batter — you might find it easier to plop it in the pan in large spoonfuls, because it’s so thick — in the prepared baking pan and spread the top smooth. Bake for 55 to 60 minutes, rotating the cake 180 degrees after 30 (to make sure it browns evenly). The cake is done as soon as a tester comes out clean of batter. At 10 minutes before my baking time was up, a tester was totally wet with batter and I wascertain it would never be done in the estimated time. 7 minutes later, the same tester was clean as a whistle, so fret not.
Set cake pan on a wire rack to cool for 30 minutes, before inverting the cake onto a serving platter to cool the rest of the way. Cool completely. Once cool, whisk together the powdered sugar, lemon juice and butter until smooth and very, very thick. (If you’d like it thinner, add more juice, but I like the thick drippiness of it, seen above.) Spread carefully over top of cake, letting it trickle down the sides when and where it wishes. Serve at once or keep it covered at room temperature for 3 to 4 days.

How to Be Brave With Squash

A letter to my brothers:

I miss you.

I miss your hands and your smiles and the real talk and I miss how noisy you are and how nosey you are, and even though we live in the same city, I'm living such a different life now, and I wish I could share the best bits of it with you, because I know you'd like it.



I want to tell you some stuff that has been in my head.

I want to tell you that people are awesome. That if you ask, people will tell you really magical things. That there is so much learning you can do, if you just listen. No one ever told me. 
I want to tell you that people are disappointing. That given the chance, people will disappoint you. And that this is the hardest lesson to learn. No one ever told me. 



I want to tell you that no one is actually judging you, and if they are: fuck 'em. 
I want to tell you that you should not be afraid, that whatever you are doing in this moment, is okay.
I want to tell you that sleep is really grand. 
I want to tell you to hold doors open. 
I want to tell you to stay away from users and losers. 
I want to tell you that making things is good. Even if what you make is shitty.

I want to tell you about this squash.

It was too big.

THE BIGGEST SQUASH.

I bought it with some friends at the Hope Farmer's Market. I think the name of the squash is "Marrow Squash." It was huge. As big as a medium sized pumpkin. Which is very large for a squash. 
I called it my baby. 
Which was awkward when I cut it up and roasted it and baked it into a savory tart. 



And it was really fucking good. 

Darling boys, here is what I really want to tell you. 

Be brave. Be brave. Be brave. 

Be brave in the kitchen, especially with intimidating squashes. 
Be brave with putting yourself out there. 
Be brave with friends. 
Be brave with strangers. 
Be brave enough to go to the party, and brave enough to leave when you're ready.

And as we all run into strange new worlds, in which we lose touch more easily and speak less, I just want you to know this:

If nothing else, be brave with the squash. 



XOXO

How To Be Brave With Squash

I cut my monster baby squash in half, scooped out the seeds, and rubbed the insides with olive oil, salt, pepper, paprika, red pepper flakes, dried thyme and basil. I cooked it for half an hour, at 4oo degrees, until the flesh was soft. And then, when it was cooked through, I scooped the insides out, chopped them into a soft pulp, and added more salt. Then I patted it into a soft shell of uncooked pie dough that I hadn't used yet, grated Some Very Fine Irish Cheddar Cheese over it and baked it at 375 for 30 minutes. 

It tasted good. 

I was lucky. 

Strawberry Shortcake

Right now, what I really want to do is cry. 

Not because I am sad. 

I'm not. I'm calm. I'm joyous. It's summer. 

I want to cry with tiredness. 

I keep thinking about all the places I've been and all the people I've met and hugged and laughed with and in my mind I see all the paths I've taken, as if every place I've been this year is crossed and zig-zagged with red threads, all finally leading back to where I am now: home. 

Like this song, I'm home again. 

And home is the same, the doors and chairs and books and rugs are all the same. But I have changed. 

My mind is flooded with ideas and people and places. It's just too much. 

I am so grateful for all of it. Even though the past few months are incomprehensible to me, even though I have no idea what just happened, I know it was good. All of it. All the joys and all the aches. It's all been so FUCKING GRAND. I would do it again in a heartbeat. All of it.



I am just so grateful.

But the strangeness of being home again, of listening to my parents talk and eat dinner and drink beer, and the sound of my brothers playing basketball and shouting to their friends in the front yard, and here, me alone again, in the room I am trying to reclaim as my own, the unreality keeps coming at me in waves. 

Where have I been? What have I been doing? 

No. 

I need to stop. 

What does it matter? It's the past. 

There is only now. 

And in my now, I want lots of strawberry shortcake. 

As a sign of gratitude I give you a recipe. Finally. 

XOXO

Strawberry Shortcake

From The Art of Simple Food by Alice Waters

I'm actually a cheater, I know Strawberry Shortcake is supposed to have whipped cream in the middle and all that jazz, but honestly I only had ice cream. So I just skipped all the extra steps that Alice write about involving the whipped cream and I felt very decadent and super simple. Which is a very good thing. After all YOU ONLY LIVE ONCE. But for those of you who are fussy and like whipped cream more than ice cream I've included the rest of recipe. Also, my mum suggested I make this, so I have to give her credit for the idea. Because I wouldn't have thought of it on my own. She's a genius. 

For Shortcake:

Preheat oven to 400 F. 

Stir together in a large bowl

1 1/2 cups all-purpose flour

1/2 teaspoon salt

4 teaspoons sugar (optional)

2 teaspoons baking power

Add

6 tablespoons (3/4 sticks) cold butter, cut into small pieces

Cut the butter into the flour with your fingers or a pastry blender until they are the size small peas. Measure: 

3/4 cup heavy cream

Remove 1 tablespoon and set aside. Lightly stir in the remainder of the cream with a fork until the mixture just comes together. Without overworking it, lightly knead the dough a couple of times in the bowl, turn it out onto a lightly floured board, and roll out about 3/4 thick. Cut into eight 1 1/2 inch circles or squares or whatever your heart desires. Reroll the scraps if necessary. 

Place the biscuits on a baking sheet lined with parchment paper and lightly brush the tops with the reserved tablespoon or cream. Bake for 17 minutes or until cooked through and golden. 

The The Other Stuff that is On Shortcake:

Hull and slice about 4 cups of strawberries (roughly 2 pints)

Stir in about 1/4 cup sugar (or to taste

Puree one quarter of the strawberry mixture. Stir the puree back into the sliced strawberries and let sit for 15 minutes.
Combine in a bowl:
1 cup heavy cream
1/2 teaspoon vanilla extract
1 tablespoon sugar, or to taste

Whip together, until the cream just holds a soft shape. Slice in half:

6 baked 2 inch shortcakes or biscuits or whatever

Place the biscuit bottoms on serving plates. Over each biscuit, spoon strawberries and a DOLLOP of the flavored whipped cream. Top with the other biscuit half and dust with powdered sugar if you so wish. Serve immediately.

Pasta Primavera (again)

I can't remember the last time I made Pasta Primavera. But I remember that I had cooked it for my family and chopped all the vegetables myself in my home. And I remember that I ate most of the balsalmic tomato topping, because that is my favorite part. 


But times they are a changin'. 


On Sunday, I went home and my mother made this for me and my family. I did not make it. 
And I always used to make it. And we sat and ate it with some grilled chicken and white wine, except for my dad who had a Corona:

I keep having these little revelations that everything is so fucking transient, so you better enjoy everything as much as you can. And I'm changing too, all the time.  Which is a little bit crazy. 
Sometimes I think I know very much. 

But that is infrequent.

I am learning things all the time. 

THINGS I HAVE LEARNED

-It is good to make words your own.

-Only buy the utterly fabulous.

-Cigarettes are nasty.

-The most flattering gift you can give is your complete and full attention.

-Do not make assumptions. (HARD)

-"What are you saving for? For another time? There are no other times. There is only now. Right now." -George Balanchine

-Compliment honestly and frequently.

-It is okay to begin the day with chocolate.

-Love is so much bigger than I ever thought it was. It's bigger than clouds. It's more huge than sky. It goes beyond. Hearts are like galaxies within galaxies within constellations within universes. 

-Do not wash your hair every day. Even though it is sad looking on day 2.

-Never let them know.

-Academic snobbery exists and it is noxious.

-Make a list.

-Ask for what you want and risk extreme embarrassment, because sometimes, despite the extreme risk and embarrassment, you actually get what you want. And it's pretty great.

-Pasta Primavera was delicious, is delicious and always will be delicious. 

And that's about it. I really don't know much more than that





xoxo

Pasta Primavera

from The Gourmet Cookbook

This recipe is a little complicated, but completely worth the effort. Also, this is the second time this recipe has appeared on the blog, which means that it's really, really, really good. The previous post about Pasta Primavera is here.

1 ounce dried morel mushrooms

1 1/2 cups warm water

1/2 pound asparagus, trimmed and cut into 1 inch pieces

1/4 green beans, cut into 1 inch pieces

1 cup frozen baby peas, thawed

4 tablespoons extra virgin olive oil

2 teaspoons minced garlic

rounded 1/2 teasoon red pepper flakes

salt and freshly ground black pepper

1 1/2 pints tomatoes

1 tablespoon balsalmic vinegar

3 tablespoons water

1 pound spaghettini

1/2 stick (4 tablespoons) butter

2/3 cup heavy cream

1 teaspoon finely grated lemon zest

1 cup grated Parmigiano-Reggiano (about 2 ounces)

1/4 cup finely chopped fresh flat-leaf parsley

1/4 cup finely chopped fresh basil

1/3 cup pine nuts, lightly toasted

Prepare the vegetables:

Soak morels in warm water in a small bowl for 30 minutes.

Lift mushrooms out of water and squeeze excess liquid back into bowl. Pour soaking liquid through a sieve lined witha dampened paper towel into a small bowl: reserve. Rinse throughly to remove grit, then squeeze dry. Cut off and discard any tough stems. Halve morels.

Add asparagus and beans to a 6 to 8 quart pot of boiling salted water, and cook, uncovered for 3 minutes. Add peas and cook until beans and asparagus and just tender, 1 to 2 minutes more. Immediately transfer with a slotted spoon to a large bowl of ice water to stop the cooking, (or simply rise with cold water in a colander), drain.

Heat 2 tablespoons oil in a 10 to 12 inch heavy skillet over moderately low heat. Add 1 teaspoon garlic and rounded 1/4 teaspoon red pepper flakes and cook, stirring until garlic is fragrant, about 1 minute. Add drained vegetables and salt and pepper to taste and cook, stirring for 2 minutes. Transfer to a bowl.

Cook the tomatos:

Cut half of tomatoes into quarters and halve remainder lenghtwise, keeping quarters and halves separate> Heat remaining 2 tablespoons oil in same skillet over moderately low heat. Add remaining 1 teaspoon garlic and remainging rounded 1/4 red pepper flakes and cook, stirring, just until garlic is fragrant, about 1 minute. Add quartered tomatoes, with salt and ppepper to taste and simmer, stirring occasionally, until tomatoes are softened, about 3 minutes. Add halved tomatoes, vinegar and water and simmer, stirring occasionally, until sauce is thickened and halved tomatoes are softened, 3 to 4 minutes. Remove from heat and keep warm, covered.

Cook the spaghettini:

Return pot of water to a boil and cook spgahettinini until al dente; drain in a colander.

Immediately add butter, cream, zest and morels to (empty) pasta pot, bring to a simmer and simmer gently, uncovered, for 2 minutes. Stir in cheese, then add pasta, tossing to coat and adding as much of reserved morel soaking liquid as necessary (1/2 to 2/3 cup) to keep pasta well coated. Add green vegetables, parsley, basil, pine nuts, and salt and pepper to taste, toss gently to combine.

Serve pasta topped with tomatoes and if desired more Parmigiano-Reggino shavings.