Most people who know me are aware that I love running. Yeah, yeah, I guess it’s weird, but give me a pair of magic shoes and I’ll go all day. I like it with people, I like it alone, I like it with music, I like it with roaring oceans, chirping crickets and little fat brown dogs. I like to eat green eggs and ham.

You know what other kinds of exercise I like?

None.

Bikram yoga pisses me off, and isn’t it kind of beside the point of fruity yoginess to spend 90 minutes hexing your crunchy-stupid-embrace-your-happy-bandas yoga teacher?  And I don’t do gyms. Here in SF, where we have miles of trails, roads with views of bridges and cliffs and trees, it just makes no sense to pay a ton of money to go INSIDE in order to exercise.

But one thing I’ve always wanted to try is a tri. A triathlon that is. Where you run, swim AND bike. Even the word gives me the tummy wriggles of fear and failure. The very reason I want to try one is that I don’t want to try one. If something terrifies me this much, I have to do it.

Wednesday was my first bike clinic. I don’t actually have a bicycle. I don’t even have the storage space for one. Or the spare $2000 to spend on a frame, wheels, tires, pedals, rack, helmet and shoes. Oh wait, I did buy shoes–the scary kind that clip in to the pedals–but everything else I rented at Mike’s Bikes. The pro met me outside Sausalito, along with this Australian triathlon/investment banker champ, and in the nicest way possible, the two of them showed me how far I was from the days of the pink Huffy with the banana seat. We went to the top of the Marin Headlands, and I was totally wrecked halfway up, panting and burning and wanting to die, but I would be DAMNED if I quit. And it was so much fun, and I was terrified before, during and after, but it felt awesome. And I also didn’t bust my ass with the shoe clips, although I did nearly flip over one time, trying to brake and wrench a foot free at the same time. Reverse wheely, HELLO! There were deer and eagles, and we even came back through the tunnel from Rodeo Beach.

But then I had such a weird experience going home. Driving by Golden Gate Park, I was listening to the radio, which was playing hits from the archives (yes, my high school songs are archived now), when this old Indigo Girls song came on that I used to luuurve, and I was singing along at the top of my lungs, remembering the dreams of yesteryear and thinking about Rasputin, when without preamble or so much as a lip quiver, I just BURST INTO TEARS. I wasn’t unhappy. Or sad. Or even particularly tired. But I freaking sobbed, making those sounds that send other people backing away from you, only of course, there was no one else there, and I could just cry to my heart’s content. And it felt really good. Cleansing. Cathartic. Heart’s content, indeed.

Was I relieved, since I’ve been so scared of this whole biking thing? I don’t think I felt all that proud of myself or exhilarated or fist pumping, but maybe I’d faced a fear and was releasing tension? (If so, I was prepared for a total nervous breakdown after the swimming clinic.). Maybe it was endorphins.

Simons just thought it was weird.

Yesterday, I met a bunch of members of the San Francisco Triathlon Club for an open water swim at Aquatic Park. For those of you who don’t know SF, it’s this big open water amphitheatre next to Fisherman’s Wharf and Ghiardelli Square and such. It has buoys and sea lions and boats in it, but lots of people swim there. Four laps make a mile. A MILE! OF WATER!

I squeaked into my wetsuit and swam 3/4 of a lap, swallowed about two gallons of dirty sea water, and almost figured out how to freestyle. Mostly I bobbed around like a cork with my mouth open, squinting through my foggy goggles. Apparently there are crazy-off-their-meds people everywhere in San Francisco, even in the Bay, because some sketchy man swore at me (I wasn’t anywhere near enough to cut him off or anything) and then got all threatening and started following me. I was all, “I ain’t studying you, Mister!” (really, I was just gasping for breath and contemplating how to punch somebody in the sack in a wetsuit). My new tough swimming posse were all for drowning him and hiding the body, and said I did great and even if you kick somebody in the head out there, you just say sorry and move on, so for him to be such a dick was just the crazy talking. But it kind of put paid to my idea of going out there without a group, at least without my trusty harpoon gun.

Whacko aside, swimming in the cold, cold water on a sunny day was kind of freeing. It’s something I’ve watched people do since I moved here, thinking admiringly that these were super-awesome athletes, braving the chill and angry sea-mammals. And now I’m joining them. I’m making a place for myself in this city, being a part of the community, meeting people, figuring it all out.

So I’m trying to tri. I don’t know if I’m any less scared, but at least I’m on my way.

Leah over at A Girl and A Boy is gorgeously pregnant, and has been writing some highly entertaining posts about her sprogged-upedness. A recent one included some photos of her potential baby, courtesy of MakeMeBabies.com, where you plug in some photos of you and your beloved (or you and someone else’s beloved if you could only make that stupid ho disappear…) or you and Madonna, etc.

Naturally curious, I plugged in a few pictures of Simons and me, and clicked Make Me A Baby!

Imagine my astonishment when I discovered that I am apparently carrying on an illicit affair with Tomas, our next door gaybor.

His partner, Mario, is going to be so pissed.

Saturday was one of those summer days that makes you glad not to live in a sleepy little beach community or in a mountain village in Spain or even in Paris. San Francisco was perfect. Everywhere, people were lolling in the grass making eyes at each other, and picnicking with their adorable toddlers or airing their tiny dogs, who blinked owlishly in the blinding sunlight. Even the chihuahuas took their sweaters off.

My team went for a run just as the sun came up, and I got to see the city silhouetted from a little bay at Tiburon, the pyramid a jutting finger over the retreating fog. On the way back, I found a gigantic patch of wild blackberries, prickling menacingly in a steamy green wall by the College of Marin. I was terrified I’d get pulled over on the drive home, looking like I’d just massacred a family with fingers stained with berry juice and arms covered in scratches.

Simons was standing at the stove making fresh pesto when I walked in, still frozen from his morning surf. We gathered up the (Beulah) Pants and dashed over to the ballpark for Dog Days, sadly missing the costume contest, which we totally would have won (swimcap, Doggles and medals = Michael Phelps). We would have been there on time, but as we were walking to the train, all three of us suddenly pressed our noses to the glass of the neighborhood Out Of The Closet (like Goodwill but somehow gayer) and saw the perfect dresser — modern, crazy copper handles, a ridiculous number of drawers…for $25. Elated with our furniture purchase, we traipsed into the stadium, and hot dogs and regular dogs and cold beer mean instantaneous happiness. The Giants won; Beulah got her photo taken AND she got to hold hands with her boyfriend, Stanley. Drowsy with sunburn, we took a three hour nap, waking just in time for the 8:00 showing of Dark Knight, rated deliciously violent.

In celebration of a perfect summer weekend, I made a tart with lime curd and the fresh Marin blackberries. We’ve made the mini tartlets properly before, but I didn’t have as much time today, what with dinner guests coming at seven and our apartment looking like the Huns had sacked it. So it was just one big tart, with Julia Child’s patee brise instead of mini rounds caramelized with a blow torch.

I think if I were to do it again, I would probably use the crust from this recipe instead, and still spoon all of the lime curd over the top. But I wouldn’t glaze the berries; they were sweet enough on their own. And having foraged for them myself made them all the sweeter.

Mini Lime Pies with Glazed Berries
Gourmet | August 2006
Makes 6 servings.

Ingredients
For lime curd
3 large eggs
3/4 cup granulated sugar
1/2 cup fresh lime juice
3/4 stick (6 tablespoons) unsalted butter, cut into 1/2-inch cubes
1 teaspoon finely grated fresh lime zest

For crust:
I used Julia Child’s pate brisee

For glazed berries
1/4 cup confectioners sugar
1/4 cup water
1 tablespoon fresh lime juice
3 cups mixed raspberries, blackberries, and blueberries

Preparation
Make lime curd: Whisk together eggs, sugar, and lime juice in a 2-quart heavy saucepan until combined. Add butter and cook over moderately low heat, whisking constantly, until curd is thick enough to hold marks of the whisk and first bubbles appear on surface, 8 to 10 minutes. Immediately pour through a fine-mesh sieve into a bowl, discarding solids. Cool to room temperature, stirring occasionally. Stir in zest, then chill, covered, at least 1 hour.
Make glazed fruit and assemble: Boil confectioners sugar, water, and lime juice in a 12-inch heavy skillet over moderate heat, stirring occasionally, until slightly thickened, about 2 minutes. Remove from heat, let cool for 5 minutes and add berries, gently tossing to coat. (There will be just enough to glaze berries; they will give off a small amount of juice as they cool.) Cool berries 5 minutes. Put curd in cooked pie crust. Layer with glazed berries, then drizzle plates with some syrup.
Cooks’ note: Lime curd can be chilled up to 3 days ahead.

Did anyone else do a little dance of joy when July finally turned up its toes and died? I did, right after I had the homeless crackhead who spit on me arrested and hauled off to prison. To be fair, he did brandish a broom handle at me after he spit on me, although I maintain that crackhead spit more than warrants the po-po all by itself. Then I went home and took a flamethrower to my dermis.

July can go suck it.

Not only did Simons and I dust off the tattered remnants of the dashed hope and broken dreams of July (involving identity theft, potential contest Indian-giving, and something else wretched that I have mercifully forgotten…oh wait, it was my birthday, no wonder I forgot, because I’m OLD), we also left the smog and smoke-drenched city for greener climes. That’s right, we went on vacation. And when you’re poor, vacation is called “going home.”

Simons and I went out in the boat, dove through waves at the beach, had fried shrimp and okra, steamed crab, fresh tomatoes and boiled peanuts. Hell, the first day we were back, I sat my butt in an inner tube all day in the Toogoodoo River and applied cold beer to my gullet in the hot, hot sun. I could have swooned with happiness.

It was heavenly. I gained five pounds! I snuggled my nieces, feasted on their little toes, and read Beanie bedtime stories about snakes to our hearts’ content. Both girlies romped joyously around Moïse Island, catching fiddler crabs and inspecting the sponges under the dock for creatures. And we celebrated their birthdays, and there was cake! And chicken salad sandwiches!

My sister, when she wasn’t being angelic, was just plain mean. She made us all dress the same for photographs at Margaret’s birthday party.

I think the children really loved the idea.

I had planned to stay an extra day in St Matthews to take the babies to the water park on Monday. However, when Melissa rousted me from bed at the crack of dawn the next morning, she said ominously, “Hurry, the caravan is waiting.”

Um, what caravan?

That would be the caravan of 25 church children we were taking to Whirlin’ Waters.

Not awesome. Not awesome AT ALL.

The place was crawling with little whippersnappers disobeying direct orders, hurling themselves off steep precipices and trying to drown themselves at every turn. And there were THOUSANDS of them! As soon as one was at the top of the highest tower, the other one would get scared or be too short or have to potty, so I’d have to take them back down. And then the other one would be shrieking “AGAIN! AGAIN” and I would have to drag my horrifically bikinified butt all the way back up. They really need to serve qualudes at these functions. It’s only fair. Here’s Margaret after she’d finally brained herself on the water slide.

Our parents fed us like it was going out of style, and all of our friends banded together to help us not make plans. And by that, I mean that we did not wake up each morning with an exhausting itinerary of so much fun stuff, we wanted to die. Instead, they all waited until we’d had coffee, called up and told us there were cupcakes and babies and pimiento cheese at the beach (not in that order), so come on.

I am OD’d on sunshine and salt water.

There’s no place like home.
There’s no place like home.
There’s no place like home.

….rats.

The swimmers are very distracting. My favorite moment so far is when Michael Phelps is stretching out on the block and taking his sweats off, and the line judge behind him is TOTALLY checking out his ass. And when he bends over, she goes all cross eyed and smirks. Can’t say I blame her…Jesus! Simons is having to be very patient with all of my eye bulging and gasping. They’re ALL hot. Even the ones who aren’t hot…they’re hot. I may have to encourage my husband to start swimming again. (does someone hear purring?)

Nastia Liukin was robbed on the parallel bars. Did you see her face? All nostril and hair scrunchy. I was just dying for her to rip the gold medal off the the Chinese toddler on the podium and cat fight for it. I would pay good money to see that. She’s about a foot taller, so I bet she could take her.

Every single woman on the American track and field team is awesome. They all have these huge smiles and coherent, witty responses to Bob Neumeier’s ridiculous questions. Our male runners are incredibly talented, but they come over after their heats and just sort of grunt and scowl and stalk offscreen.

Also, the women track and fielders have hilarious names, like Muna, Marshevet, Shalane, Lolo, Damu Cherry, Hyleas Fountain, and Pickler. Let that be a lesson. If you want fast children, name them something silly. Also, the way Sanya Richards keeps Aaron Ross in line slays me.

Was anyone rooting for Roqaya Al-Gassra of Bahrain? She came powering through her semi-final, covered except for her face? You know thousands of proud Muslim women are cheering her on.

The American woman pole vaulting coach is a massive douche. Jenn Stuczynski had just made an American pole vaulting record and won silver behind the 27x world record holder, Yelena Isinbayeva, and instead of congratulating his athlete, he just poos all over her. I hope she fires him, wins in London, and he ends up old and alone with a beer gut, watching the 2012 Olympics in a seedy bar with a hairy man named Earl.

Olympic trampolining is hysterical. I keep thinking one of them will stop during a routine, grab his stomach and go retch off the side. “Whoooaaa….too much bouncing. Sorry!”


I can’t believe how sad Alicia Sacramone’s performance was. The announcer who interviewed her was such a knife twister too…like, “How does it feel knowing you are a failure who has ruined your team’s chances for gold? Here, borrow my razor…” One of my guy friends said he cried over it, because she looked so completely destroyed.

How did Kobe Bryant go from being a rapist to this tri-lingual spokesman for American sport? I just can’t decide how to get behind him. But the US vs Spain basketball game was awwwwesome. I actually watched it twice, despite all the shoe squeaking (I know, I know, it’s dumb, but I can’t STAND all that squeaking!).

Why do none of these people know the words to their own national anthems? You’d think Phelps would have bothered if he was going to make them play it so often. No one’s asking them to make the high notes, but couldn’t they at least mouth along?

Does anyone else think that the Chinese women’s gymnastic team needs a collective sandwich. You know that every time they miss a landing, their coach is all, “No dinner! Tomorrow we sell your baby sister!”

Oksana Chusovitina, the German’s silver medalist in gymnastics: her Uzbekistan coaches must have given her some scary steroids, because her man-head is ten times bigger than the rest of her body. Stupid Soviet coaches.

Does anyone else just love the Sparkle commercial? It makes me want to buy roller skates.

While my friend Prescott is out of town, Simons continued his bro-mance with her husband, Jason, inviting him over for dinner and a little Olympic trampolining. Every time a trampoliner would come out, Jason would say that her little brother should come sneaking up and double jump her. Heh.

For the Whip It Up Recipe Challenge, I made the required appetizer, a great favorite: Sweet Potato Fries with a rosemary-yogurt dip. It’s very easy and tasty, and would keep us from self cannibalizing while we waited for the pizza dough to rise. I just made it up, but it’s probably the same one everyone in the world uses.

Ingredients
1 sweet potato for every two people
2 tsp chopped rosemary
2 Tbs olive oil
1 tsp sea salt

Slice your sweet potatoes into pleasing rectangles. Toss other three ingredients to coat. Spread out in pan. Bake on 400 for 45 minutes, checking after 35 to make sure they aren’t getting too black. They should be crispy, but not hard.

For dip:
1 small container of goat’s milk yogurt (plain)
1 tsp chopped rosemary
1/2 tsp sea salt

Stir up and serve cold as a dipping sauce for sweet potato fries. Everyone will love them, I swear.

Then you can drink beer and wait to make the Best! Pizza! Ever! Seriously, I don’t know how putting peaches on pizza has escaped my notice until now, but it’s amazing. The chevre and prosciutto mix perfectly with the sweetness, and they caramelize a little…oh god, hold me.

We’re going to make this every day for a month, and not just because Simons bought the world’s biggest bag of active yeast I’ve ever seen.

We could call this the frugal cheese scone recipe, or to delve deeper into my socioeconomic condition, you could say this is the my-client-went-on-vacation-for-two-weeks-and-forgot-to-pay-me-first recipe. Or we could root into my psyche and say it’s a Jemima’s-too-lazy-to-grocery-shop recipe, but at least the house is clean (Hello, Procrastination! If they redid an ad for a 50s housewife greeting her husband at the door—kitchen and woodwork gleaming as he hangs his hat—it would have Simons looking around saying, “Wow, big deadline?”).

Maybe we should call this the half assed-I-don’t-follow-directions cheese scone recipe. I was out of cream, didn’t have chives, fed the rest of the cheddar to Simons for breakfast, but no matter! We will have parmesan-rosemary-sour cream scones instead of cheddar-chive-cream scones. And a pox on wedge shaped scones, because I’m certain that’s half the trouble with those hideous brick-hard Starbucks glass case monstrosities. They are ruining Jane Eyre and clotted cream for generations everywhere. These scones will be round. And soft.

More accurately but perhaps less appetizingly, you could dub it the use-up-the-gross-stuff-already-in-my-fridge-and-marginally-past-the-expiration-date-
but-I’m-sure-it’s-still-fine recipe. I’m not sure when I turned into my grandfather, but somehow when I looked in the fridge today at my unopened tub of sour cream that said clearly August 4 on it, I didn’t hesitate. In it went. It’s already sour, right?

As they went into the oven, I was privately hoping they wouldn’t just be the Gross Scones. But about 10 minutes in, I had my nose mashed against the oven glass. I pulled them out, one after another, to test cooking time, and slathering them in butter, burned off the roof of my mouth at least three times, shoving them in as fast as I could.

Mmmm…NOM…NOM…I don’t care.

Cheddar and Parmesan Scones with Rosemary and Sour Cream
Makes 12 scones.

Ingredients
1.5 cups all-purpose flour
1.5 tsp baking powder
1.5 tsp sugar
1 teaspoons salt
1 Tbs finely chopped rosemary
1/2 cup grated Cheddar
1/4 cup grated Parmesan
1 cup sour cream

Preparation
Preheat oven to 400°F.

Whisk together flour, baking powder, sugar, and salt. Add rosemary and cheese, tossing to combine. Stir in sour cream with a fork until a sticky dough forms.

Turn dough out onto a lightly floured surface and knead about 8-10 times with floured hands. Press dough out to about 1 inch thick and cut with cookie cutter.

Arrange circles 1/2 inch apart on an ungreased large baking sheet and bake in middle of oven until golden brown, about 18-20 minutes. Cool on a rack.

I’d forgotten how spectacularly sweet The Breakfast Club is, especially from a blanket on the hillside of Dolores Park, drinking beer and eating Delphina’s pizza and watching it on a giant screen with thousands of (stoned) people my own age, singing Simple Minds, booing Mr Vernon and howling and clapping when Judd Nelson does anything remotely awesome, which is about every four seconds. He was the badass before Jordan Catalano ever learned how to lean.

The Breakfast Club is still just as delicious as it was a gazillion years ago, back when my parents wouldn’t let me go watch it in the theatre, and my sister had to sneak it into our house to watch it on the vee-cee-ar. My sister was five years older and a hundred billion times cooler than I was. She wore Benetton and her hair on one side and bowler hats and got bangs before everyone else. She convinced my parents to let me go to my first concert (REM – Green tour) and took me to the Earring Tree a year earlier than allowed and held my hands while I squeezed my eyes closed and let some lady with giant mall hair pierce my ears. Her record collection and posters of Culture Club, Duran-Duran and Thompson Twins were completely off limits to me, which means I snuck in every afternoon before high school let out and wallowed in her jean jacket buttons and Cyndi Lauper 45s. She also later beat the shit out of me for washing her Bangles T-shirt (it had touched the stage, you see). But she could always be relied on to teach me what was cool and what wasn’t. And Judd Nelson, he was cool.

Sadly, I think the last good thing he was in was From the Hip, or maybe Relentless. There just isn’t a lasting career path for Hollywood’s pretty teenage boys, but John Bender, he lives on. Yes, he does.

I got no truck with that astrology nonsense, with cusps and seventh moons in their astral orbit or whatever. But looking back, something fancy must have been its ascendancy in June, what with successful pitches, marathons, recipe contests and not being eaten by a bear while skinny dipping in the wilderness (good times). Now that it’s July, some beautiful beneficent star is being massively eclipsed. Because July…it sucks hair goat ass.

Not only am I officially another year older, um, tomorrow, but the place that I wrote about for my article MAY have burned down, which means I’ll have to rewrite it (lame, even apart from the stupid forest fires burning down homes and endangered redwood forest and ruining the air quality for kittens everywhere, because really it’s all about ME). Also, the recipe contest is now maybe taking back my prize because my family has used the recipe in other places…well, they didn’t say I couldn’t, so harumph. It’s not my freaking fault that it’s good. Maybe they won’t, so keep your fingers crossed.

AND, the really crummy creepy crappy part is that my identity got stolen last week. I went to make a deposit, then trotted across the street to the hardware store where my debit card suddenly didn’t work. I don’t know about you, but I find this deeply mortifying. I had to borrow some cash from my friend to cover it, and then went galloping across the street to raise hell with the teller. Only when I got there, they took the card away saying the account was being accessed fraudulently.

Whaaaa?

Apparently some dickhead got my card number AND pin and had withdrawn ALL of our money. ALL of it. So they had to enter my height (6 feet), weight (110 of course), hair color (well I went blonde for my Victoria Secret campaign), etc, so they could identify the thief. And they said that a lot of times, people will either watch you and record all those numbers while waiting behind you at a gas station or grocery, or they may have removed the slot or slide on an ATM and replaced it with their own. Whatever devious method they chose, I think it may have happened at one of my favorite cafes on Noe Street, which is the last pissant little ATM I’ve used. You better believe the next time I go in there, I’m going to watch everyone like a hawk, and the first moron to look like he’s writing down numbers, I’m beating him to death with my iBook. The good news is that our bank (which rhymes with Hells Blargo) is amazing and covers ATM fraud, not just credit fraud, and have promised to give us back our money…um, sometime. Soon, I hope.

So desperately in need of some comfort food this weekend, I made skillet chicken pot pie with cheddar herb biscuits instead of crust. And then parmesan crusted chicken breasts from America’s Test Kitchen, which was really crunchy and savory and not all gelatinous and gloopy like you get at Pomodoro’s (not that I’ve ever been there). I had intended to use it for my Whip It Up recipe, but my Flickr uploader chose last night to fart out, so the photos would not venture out to their celestial home in cyberspace, so now this is just for my own private edification, or I guess yours now too. This took almost no time to make, had relatively few ingredients, and was totally delicious, so I’m adding it to our rotation (we don’t actually have one….maybe, “recipe box?”).

Parmesan Encrusted Chicken Breasts

2 boneless, skinless chicken breasts (freeze 15 minutes and slice in half)
parmesan cheese (block)
all purpose flour
3 eggs
chives (chopped)
salt + pepper
lemon

Using the smallest holes in your cheese grater, shred 1/4 cup parmesan and stir together with equal parts flour in a shallow dish. In second dish, separate the yolks from three eggs, keeping only whites (using yolks too will make it fluffy and souffle-like). Whisk in 2 Tbs chopped chives. In a third dish, use large grater holes and shred 1/2 cup of cheese + 1 Tbs flour per chicken breast.



Put about 2 tsp olive oil in a non-stick pan and set to med-high heat.

Wrap chicken in plastic and pound to 1/4 inch thickness. A mallet would have been better, but considering the week I’ve had, a rock worked just fine.

Salt and pepper the very flat breast, dredge first in the finely grated cheese (shake off excess), then move to the egg whites and chives, and then finally the large grated cheese dish. Make sure you pat some cheese into it, if it looks too naked. Cook the breasts in skillet without touching, for 3 minutes on each side.

If you’re doing a lot, put them in a 200-degree oven to keep warm while you finish the rest. And clean the pan between sets, because the cheese bits that fall off will burn and taste crappy.

Serve with a lemon wedge and some salad if you’re feeling healthy.

Late last month, I found out I won the Morton’s Steakhouse Recipe Contest for my family’s grouper chimichurri, which entitles us to a page in their 2009 cookbook and a free trip to Chicago to have dinner with the owner. Yeah, I KNOW! How awesome is that? Although I’m a little worried about what in the world I’m going to say to this man for a whole two hours, Moose keeps telling me that it’s not like I’m interviewing for a job or anything, so quit worrying about it. I must remember not to drink too much wine and overshare.

Ever since, Simons has been even more enthusiastic about my messing about in the kitchen, suggesting dinner parties and cookouts, and even going on a mission to purge the courtyard of the ten million air plants and empty terra cotta pots (if you live in SF and want some pots, I’m your girl [NOT “pot,” I mean pots]). I say that without even rolling my eyes. So when I told him about the Whip It Up recipe challenge, he actually offered to cut short his Saturday afternoon post-surf nap and roll out the pasta dough. I think one of the nicest things about being married is having someone to cook with.

Here is the recipe we chose: Artichoke Ravioli With Tomatoes.

Simons is ace with the pasta machine, so he took my beautiful ball of dough and rolled it out, where I filled it with the artichoke and Parmesan puree. Then we boiled them up, layered them in a dish and baked them with cream and cheese and lots of tomatoes. And, oh sweet Jesus…don’t you wish you had one?

We thought this recipe was delicious and cozy, but maybe not as interesting as it could be. I think if I had it to do over, I would add toasted pine nuts to the filling, with a few sprinkled over each plate as a crunchy garnish–this really needed some texture. And definitely add a few shakes of red pepper flakes to the artichoke and tomato mixture. A hint of spice would be perfection! Definitely a keeper.

artichoke ravioli with tomatoes
Adapted from Gourmet | January 2007 (my changes in itallics)
Makes 4 servings

For pasta
1 1/2 cups all-purpose flour
2 large eggs
1/2 teaspoon salt
2 tablespoons water
1 Tbs olive oil

For filling
2 tablespoons unsalted butter, cut into pieces
1 small onion, chopped (1/2 cup)
1 (12-oz) can frozen artichoke hearts, well drained and squeezed
1 oz finely grated Parmigiano-Reggiano (1/2 cup)
1/3 cup chopped fresh flat-leaf parsley
1 large egg yolk
1 teaspoon fresh lemon juice
1/4 teaspoon salt
1/4 teaspoon black pepper
3/4 teaspoon freshly grated nutmeg
1 large egg white, lightly beaten with 2 teaspoons water (for egg wash)

For assembly
1 tablespoon unsalted butter, cut into pieces
3 medium plum tomatoes, trimmed and cut into 1/4-inch dice (3/4 cup)
1/4 cup water
1/3 cup half-and-half
1 oz finely grated Parmigiano-Reggiano (1/2 cup)
1/4 teaspoon salt
1/4 teaspoon black pepper

Special equipment: food processor; pasta machine; ravioli press; rolling pin; glass baking dish (12 by 8 1/2 inches)

To make pasta dough in a food processor:
Blend flour, eggs, salt, olive oil and water in processor until mixture just begins to form a ball, adding more water, drop by drop, if dough is too dry (dough should be firm and not sticky). Process dough for 15 seconds more to knead it. Transfer to a oiled bowl, covered with a towel, for 1 hour to let the gluten relax and make rolling easier.

Make filling:
Heat butter in a 12-inch heavy skillet over moderately high heat until foam subsides, then sauté onion, stirring occasionally, until golden, about 6 minutes. Add artichoke hearts and sauté, stirring occasionally, until tender, 8 to 10 minutes. Remove from heat and cool slightly.

Transfer all but 3/4 cup artichoke mixture to cleaned bowl of processor (reserve remaining artichoke mixture in skillet), then add cheese, parsley, yolk, lemon juice, salt, pepper, and nutmeg and pulse until mixture is coarsely chopped.

Roll pasta and make ravioli:
Cut pasta dough into 4 pieces, keeping them in the oiled bowl until you’re ready to use each one. Set rollers of pasta machine on widest setting. Lightly dust 1 rectangle with flour and feed through rollers. Dust with flour if necessary to prevent sticking. Turn dial to next (narrower) setting and feed dough through rollers without folding. Continue to feed dough through rollers once at each setting, until you reach narrowest setting. Dough will be a smooth sheet (about 24 inches long and 4 inches wide). Cut in half with scissors and fit one half over pasta mold.

Press “piece that looks like an egg holder” into pasta to make a round center to hold the filling.

Drop 6 (1 1/2-teaspoon) mounds of filling in center.
Brush egg wash around each mound, then stretch other half of sheet over filling.

Press down firmly around each mound, forcing out air. (Air pockets increase the chance that ravioli will break during cooking.)

With rolling pin, roll pasta closed, and the metal mold will automatically cut the raviolis. Line a large shallow baking pan with wax paper, liberally sprinkled with flour, then arrange ravioli in 1 layer in it.

Make more ravioli with remaining pasta dough, 1 sheet at a time, and remaining filling, transferring ravioli to lined pan.

Put oven rack in middle position and preheat oven to 350°F. Lightly butter baking dish.

Bring a 6- to 8-quart pot of salted water to a boil. Add ravioli, carefully stirring to separate, and, adjusting heat to keep water at a gentle boil, cook until pasta is just tender, about 6 minutes. Transfer with a slotted spoon to a colander.

Assemble and bake dish:
While ravioli boils, reheat reserved artichoke mixture in skillet with butter over moderately high heat, then add tomatoes and water and cook, stirring, until tomatoes are softened, about 5 minutes.

Transfer half of ravioli to baking dish and top with half of artichoke mixture, half of half-and-half, and half of cheese. Repeat with remaining ravioli, artichoke mixture, half-and-half, and cheese. Sprinkle with salt and pepper.

Bake, uncovered, until ravioli is heated through and half-and-half is bubbling, about 15 minutes.

Cooks’ notes:
• Dough can be made (but not rolled out) 4 hours ahead and chilled, tightly wrapped in plastic wrap.
• Ravioli can be made (but not cooked) 4 hours ahead and chilled in lined baking pan, covered.