Curried Lentil Soup with Tomato and Spinach

I spend a lot of time in bed these days, staring at the massive pecan tree just outside my window. 

I think about the future a lot.
I often wonder if everyone else is in their bed too, thinking about whatever it is that comes next, and staring at their respective trees. 

When the future makes me lonely, I think about Georgia O'Keefe who lived alone in a tiny adobe house in the red desert of New Mexico. When she couldn't sleep she would make yogurt and knead loaves of bread and sweep her floor in the middle of the night. Then I think about the food writer, MFK Fisher, who liked to leave peeled oranges on her window sill, especially in the winter, until the clear orange membrane became dry and crackly, and so when she bit, the orange was only a cold punch of crunch and winter and citrus. 

Sometimes, I think about a boy I knew only briefly, who once cooked me a dinner that mostly consisted of boiled carrots and brown rice, and how kind it was, but how much it needed salt. We  later went to a party, where everyone was older, and speaking languages I didn’t understand. We sat in a corner, and he told me about his lovers, while a tiny French man sang and danced along to "Like A Virgin." The little man danced up to me, "Whenever I feel sad,” he said, “I just listen to Madonna! Like a virgin! Like a virgin!!!" 

And often, I think about my friend Mary Margaret, who was the most beautiful old person I’ve ever known, and she died too soon, but she would throw these parties that were catered by Torchy’s Tacos, and the old-school literati and glitterati of my hometown would go, and there was always this man who wore his cowboy hat inside, he would sit and play groovy ragtime licks on her baby grand piano for hours. 

So lately, I spend a lot of time lying on my bed, staring at the tree outside my window. 

Lately, it rains. 

The other night I made this pot of lentils, and added potatoes and all the remaining odds and ends in my refrigerator.
And the simplicity of the lentils reminded me of all these tiny beautiful things; dancing to Madonna, cold oranges, and tiny houses in big deserts and cowboy hats. 

And how small it all is, and how perfectly beautiful. 

Curried Lentil Soup with Tomato and Spinach

from The Gourmet Cookbook 

1/4 cup vegetable oil

2/3 cup finely chopped onion 

2 garlic cloves, minced

2 teaspoons finely grated peeled fresh ginger

1 tablespoon curry powder

1 teaspoon ground cumin

1 cup lentils, picked over and rinsed

2 1/2 cups (20 ounces) chicken stock or store-bought low-sodium broth

2 1/2 cups water

2/3 cup chopped drained canned tomatoes

2 cups coarsely chopped spinach

fresh lemon juice to taste

salt and black pepper

Heat oil in a 4-quart heavy saucepan over moderate heat. Add onion and cook, stirring occasionally, until lightly browned, 6 to 8 minutes. Add garlic and ginger and cook, stirring, for 1 minute. Add curry powder and cumin and cook, stirring, for 30 seconds. Add lentils, stock, and water and bring to a boil. Reduce heat and simmer, covered, until lentils are tender, 20 to 25 minutes. 

Stir in tomatoes and spinach and simmer, uncovered, stirring occasionally, until spinach is wilted, about 2 minutes. Add lemon juice and salt and pepper to taste. 

Chicken and rice

No one told me how much of life is just saying goodbye. 

Because I was in a plane today, and then on a bus, and somewhere in between the two, I saw the ghost of my face reflected back at me. And I thought. 

My god. 

I'm not a child anymore. 

I'm not a kid.

I'm not a even a teenager. 

I'm somewhere. 

Maybe close to being a woman, but still so, so far. 

(It is a long way, to being a woman.)

And I realized all over again, that my sandbox sand castle days, and the shallow end of the swimming pool, and pretend and not having hips and going to piano lessons with my brother and never doing laundry because my mom did it and dolls and falling in love with books instead of boys and not knowing about things like funerals and pain-- without knowing it, somewhere, I said goodbye. 

And maybe it's because of that very specific goodbye, that I cling so fiercely to second chances. 

Because I have to believe I will see you again. 

Because I have to believe I will come back. 

Because it's too hard otherwise. 

And because, the thought of not eating the chicken and rice I had at this little place in Portugal, the thought of never eating that again completely undoes me. 

To never eat that chicken and rice again would be tragic. 

It would be the worst. 

I cannot handle a reality which does not have a repeat of that chicken and rice. 

So I believe in second chances and third chances and returns and surprise encounters. 

I believe in circularity and the stupid/fun/funny part of life that makes for good stories and plot twists and romance and mystery. 

I have faith in this. 

I'm looking forward now.  

Looking forward towards maybe being a woman someday. Sort of. 

But more than that, I look forward to owning a long, rectangular kitchen table, that maybe I build myself. A kitchen table I build myself, with lots of candles on it. And there are all the people I love, who have come back and second-chance-miracle-surprised me, sitting at this table. 

And then we will eat chicken and rice. 

XOXOXO

Chicken and Rice

From SmittenKitchen.com who adapted from Gourmet 

This my darling, is the recipe I want to make when I get home. 

Chicken

3 large garlic cloves

2 tablespoons distilled white vinegar

2 teaspoons dried oregano, crumbled

4 chicken breast halves with bone, halved crosswise

4 chicken drumsticks

4 chicken thighs

Rice

3 ounces Spanish chorizo (cured sausage), skin discarded and sausage cut into 1/4-inch-thick slices

1 tablespoon olive oil

2 medium onions, chopped

1 green bell pepper, chopped

3 large garlic cloves, chopped

2 teaspoons ground cumin

2 teaspoons dried oregano

1 1/2 teaspoons paprika, preferably the hot stuff, plus more to taste

2 Turkish bay leaves or 1 California

1 lb. tomatoes, seeded and chopped

1 12-ounce. bottle beer (not dark)

1 1/2 cups reduced-sodium chicken broth

2 cups long-grain white rice (14 ounces)

1/4 cup drained rinsed bottled pimiento or roasted red pepper strips

Marinate chicken: Mince and mash garlic to a paste with 2 teaspoons salt, then transfer to a large bowl. Stir in vinegar and oregano.

Remove skin and excess fat from chicken, then toss chicken with marinade until coated and marinate, covered and chilled, at least 1 hour.

Cook chicken and rice: – Cook chorizo in olive oil in a 6- to 7-quart heavy pot (12 inches wide) over medium-high heat, stirring, until some fat is rendered, 2 to 3 minutes. Add onions, bell pepper, and garlic and cook, stirring until softened, about 5 minutes.

Add cumin, oregano, paprika, 1 1/4 teaspoons salt, and bay leaves and cook, stirring, 1 minute.

Add chicken with marinade to chorizo mixture and cook, uncovered, over medium heat, stirring frequently, 10 minutes.

Stir in tomatoes, beer, broth, and rice and bring to a boil, making sure rice is submerged. [Deb note: I actually had a really hard time keeping the rice underneaththe chicken so that it would cook evenly. I'd suggest that you use tongs to temporarily remove the chicken from the pot, mix the rice in with the other ingredients in the pot, and then replace the chicken, pressing it into the broth a bit before going onto the next step. I will definitely do this next time.]

Reduce heat to medium-low, then cover mixture directly with a round of parchment or wax paper and cover pot with a tight fitting lid. Cook, stirring once or twice, until rice is tender, 20 to 30 minutes.

Remove from heat and let stand, covered, 5 minutes. Discard parchment paper and bay leaves, then scatter pimiento strips over rice.

Do ahead: Chicken can be marinated up to 2 hours in advance.

Kale Salad with Cherries and Pecans

Beloveds, 

I'm officially eating kale. 

Kale is such a thing. 

It's a super food, apparently. It's hipper than arugula, better for you than chard, and way more exciting than lettuce. 

Why kale?

Well, my sweet darlings. 

Being an almost 20 year old is really bizarre and complicated sometimes. And if kale will make my life more hipper, more better and more exciting, I am so down.  

Also, Fleetwood Mac lyrics have officially become my life. There's this line from the song "You Make Loving Fun" that pretty much sums it up: 

I do believe, in the miracles, but I've a feeling it's time to try

I do believe, in the ways of magic, but I'm beginning to wonder why

Right now I like to think that my official eating of kale as well as my official return to running and dance will be my miracles. 

I've a feeling it's time to try. 

COME AT ME FEBRUARY. 

xoxo 


Kale Salad with Cherries and Pecans
from The Smitten Kitchen Cookbook by Deb Perelman

This is really good. I forgot some things, like the cheese and pecans. But by all means. Do it. Go crazy. XOXO 

Salad
1/2 cup pecans
8 ounces kale (recommended varieties, Tuscan, Lacinato, Cavolo Nero, Black)
4 ounces radishes
1/2 cup dried cherries
2 ounces soft goat cheese, chilled

Dressing
3 tablespoons olive oil
1 1/2 tablespoons white white vinegar
1 tablespoon smooth Dijon mustard
1 1/2 teaspoons honey 
Salt and pepper to taste

Preheat oven to 350 degrees, and spread the pecans on a tray. Toast them for 5 to 10 minutes, tossing them once or twice to make sure they toast evenly. Remove from oven and set aside to cool. 

Wash your kale and let it dry on spread out kitchen or paper towels. Then, with a knife, remove the rib from each stalk, leaving long strips of kale leaves. Stack the leaves in small batches, roll them tightly the long way, and cut the roll crosswise into thin ribbons. Add the kale ribbons to a large salad bowl. 

Thinly slice the radishes, and add them to the bowl. Coarsely chop the pecans and cherries and add them as well. Crumble the goat cheese over the top. Whisk dressing ingredients together in a small dish, and pour the dressing over the salad. Toss the salad until it is evenly coated with dressing. This salad is great to eat right away, but even better after 20 minutes of tenderizing in the dressing. 

Tomato Sauce

I like it when songs perfectly fit into the rhythm of your life. 

I like it when the lyrics are what you would have written, if only you had known how to say it. Like this one. 

I like this time of year, because things are wrapping up. 

I like this time of year, because suddenly it's all about conclusions and twinkle lights and endings.

I like this time of year, because people make a lot of top ten lists, and a lot of top twenty lists, and a lot of top fifty lists. 

I might make a top ten list.  

I don't know. 

I want to make a top ten list of moments that I do not want to forget. 

There are too many. 

I don't want to forget all the doughnuts and the one drink too manys and the 3ams and the kisses and the hands out of windows in fast cars and the learning how to write songs and the clouds and the walks in the morning and the being bored and the being busy. 

Mostly though, I do not want to forget how beautiful everyone is. 

Everyone is so beautiful. 

My roommmates stood around me and ate this pasta. 

They are so beautiful. 

It was a top ten moment. 

I don't want to forget. 

xoxo

mary 

Tomato Sauce

This is no work. 

Take 3 cans of nice canned tomatoes. Add a hunk of butter. How much depends on how nice and rich you like your sauce. Chop an onion. And combine it all. Let it simmer for a while. Until the onions are soft. Ideally for about an hour or more. If the sauce starts to stick to the bottom of the pan, simply add water. When the onions are soft your can add cream if you're feeling luxurious. Salt and pepper liberally. 

Combine with cooked pasta and crumbled goat cheese. 

Baked Israeli Coucous with Scallops and Mozzarella

I saw the movie The Perks of Being a Wallflower last week.
  
I cried through the entire movie. Understand that I do not usually cry during movies. The last time this happened to me, I was in the depths of some serious teen angst, and wailed my way through the entirety of Rachel Getting Married. 


Which, needless to say, I am never watching again. 

The thing is, even though I like to think that I've left my teen angst behind, some of the experiences portrayed in The Perks of Being a Wallflower, and the feelings of being so young and so hurt and so confused and simultaneously so in love with life, I still carry all those with me. 
The film reminded me of some of the better/worse mistakes that I, as well as friends of mine, have made in the past several years. And it was excruciatingly painful, to see some of those mistakes reenacted all over again. I wanted to leave the theatre and go sob in a pillow, granted I didn't because I needed to find out what happened. 

Lately, whenever I realize that I have to go the grocery store AGAIN I feel a desire to start weeping with the exhaustion of growing up, because Number One on The List of Things People Do Not Tell You About Adulthood: 

You have to go to the grocery store ALL the time.

Which is frequently the anthesis of a GREAT TIME.  
I have been trying to convince myself that grocery shopping is really fun by ending things on my list in exclamation points and buying things like: Scallops! Cheese I Can't Afford! Chocolate! 




Actually the scallops I made were really great. I folded them into israeli couscous with fresh mozzarella, green beans and mushrooms. This meal was so beautifully delicious, the sheer memory of it makes me want to cry, almost as much as this did: 



XOXO

Baked Israeli Couscous with Scallops and Mozzarella 

 I cooked israeli couscous (a larger version of normal couscous), combined it with some sauteed mushrooms and green beans, and added uncooked scallops and soft pieces of fresh mozzarella cheese. I baked it in a heavy glass pan in the oven at 375 F for about ten minutes, until the scallops went from translucent pink to a creamy white.  

Creamy Avocado Pasta

Cooking for one is difficult. 

My whole life I've always made things for groups of other people: birthday cakes, family dinners and parties.

This whole cooking for one thing is just... very confusing. 



Because now I can eat whatever I want whenever I want. 
It's very overwhelming. 
So I eat lots of scrambled eggs and apple fritters and cheese at weird hours. 
This is not how I intended to live my life. 
I intended to cook real meals and sit down at a real table with a cloth napkin and possibly a glass of wine. 
This happens exactly never. 

So I eat lots of avocados. Avocados are the perfect thing to eat alone. Which is great, because I'm very greedy when it comes to avocados. 

I've been thinking a lot about what it means to be ONE. To be alone instead of part of a couple, or part of a family. 



I buy my groceries alone. 
I debate with myself, alone, in the cheese aisle. 
In fact, the other day, in a moment of tremendous self-empowerment I bought four different kinds of cheese. And there was no one to tell me not to. 
I was alone. 

I am not whining. 

I am not lonely. 

There is a difference between being  lonely and being alone.  

And I like to be alone.
Yet, I think there's a huge stigma, in our culture, especially among people my age, that you are never supposed to be alone. 

Ever. 

If you spend a Friday night alone, WHO ARE YOU. 

If you go to a show alone, WHO ARE YOU. 

If you eat lunch alone, then WHO ARE YOU. 

But I like it. 

It is okay. 

It's okay to not be part of something all the time. It is okay to not belong to someone. It is okay to take a break from people. It is okay to eat as many apple fritters and avocados as you wish. 

It is okay to make a strange avocado pasta sauce, just because it sounds weird and good. And it is okay to eat it all.  And it is okay to eat it on the sofa, in dying afternoon sunlight, without a cloth napkin or glass of wine, and it is okay to eat it in silence, and it is okay to be happy in that moment, and happy that you are alone.  

Creamy Avocado Pasta

The recipe says that this makes four servings. I adapted it for one. I also did not roast my tomatoes, was out of both lemon juice and pine nuts and was too lazy to deal with garlic. I give you the original recipe because I'm sure that it's superior to whatever adaptions I attempted... xoxoxo

recipe via theflourishingfoodie.com
prep time: 10 minutescook time:1 hour 10 minutes

INGREDIENTS
10 - 12 small Campari tomatoes, quartered
3 - 4 tbsp olive oil
4 servings of fettuccine noodles
2 ripe avocados, seed and skin removed
2 garlic cloves, peeled
1/2 tsp salt
2 tbsp lemon juice
1/4 cup pine nuts
grated fresh Parmesan cheese
salt and cracked black pepper to tastePreheat oven to 300 ºF.

Wash and quarter the tomatoes. Place on a baking sheet lined with parchment paper. Drizzle with 1 - 2 tbsp olive oil, just enough to make the tomatoes glisten. Bake for 1 hour in the oven.

Ten minutes before tomatoes are finished, fill a large pot with water and a sprinkle of salt. Bring to a rapid boil. Add the dry fettuccine to the water and cook until al dente.

While the pasta is boiling, add 2 tbsp olive oil, avocado, garlic, salt and lemon juice to a food processor. Pulse until the ingredients are smooth and creamy.

Strain the pasta, and combine with the sauce in a large bowl, until all the pasta has been covered.

Add the roasted tomatoes, sprinkle with Parmesan cheese and pine nuts. Add some salt and black pepper to taste.

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. 

Pasta with Creamy Tomato Sauce

Here is the true story of me and this pasta:


I just finished my freshman year of college. Talk about VICTORY. 


Talk about OH BABY I AM SO GLAD IT IS SUMMER. 


Talk about time to de-stress,time to sing really loud 100% of the time, time to go to the pool, time to dance again, time to read a real book, time to sleep in, time to work, time to contemplate and party and not think at all, time to adventure, time to clean my closet, and perhaps most important, time to eat real food again. 





As my first meal back at home, it seemed appropriate to make pasta. I'd been envisioning it for several days. I wanted to make a bowl of pasta that was thick and rich and a little heavy, the sort of bowl of pasta that would take me half an hour to eat. A bowl of pasta I could luxuriate in. The kind of pasta I would want to take a bath in. I mean, it would be a sludgey bath, but a bath, nevertheless. 


I do not believe in many things, but I believe in kindness and more than 6 hours of sleep and dessert first and indulgence and comfort food. 





And for me, comfort food is this kind of pasta. It's flavorful but not overwhelming, not exactly healthful but there are vegetables in it so you can feel mildly virtuous, and  as with most foods, it's very filling if you eat a lot of it. 


This pasta heralds the depths of summer we're about to encounter, barely hints at all the homemade pasta and fresh tomatoes and salads I plan on eating, all the watermelon that I can't wait for, all the mangos that I'm going to devour, all the pies I'm going to make. 


OH BABY I AM SO GLAD IT IS SUMMER. 


xoxo

Pasta with Tomato Cream Sauce

from ThePioneerWoman.com

I added some fresh tomatoes and bell peppers to my sauce, but ended up blending them in, because sometimes I just can't handle vegetables. I topped the pasta with some arugula, because I like it, and some more cheese. I was very happy. 

2 tablespoons olive oil

2 tablespoons butter

1 whole medium onion, finely diced

4 cloves garlic

2 cans (15 ounce each) tomato sauce

salt and pepper, to taste

1 cup heavy cream

grated parmesan cheese

1-1/2 pound fettuccine or bowtie pasta

Cook pasta according to package directions. Drain, reserving 1 cup of pasta water.

Heat butter and oil over medium heat. Add onions and garlic and saute for a minute or so. Pour in tomato sauce and add salt, pepper, and sugar to taste. Stir and cook over low heat for 25 to 30 minutes, stirring occasionally.

Remove from heat and stir in cream. Add cheese to taste, then check seasonings. Stir in pasta and chopped basil and serve immediately. (Thin with pasta water before adding basil if needed.)

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.