Scarpetta's Winter Table - Cornwell Patricia (читать книги онлайн бесплатно полностью txt) 📗
Scarpetta includes the following on her shopping list: green peppers, onions, fresh herbs such as oregano and basil, fresh mushrooms, artichoke hearts, lean ground beef, pepperoni, smoked oysters, Italian sausage, crushed tomatoes (Progresso if you don't have fresh or canned homegrown), olive oil, fresh garlic, and the cheeses already listed. It is very important to remember that both the mozzarella and the vegetables will produce a lot of water when cooked. Therefore, we must take care of this problem in advance. Begin the night before by wrapping the balls of mozzarella in cheesecloth (or towels) and storing them in the refrigerator. Some of the liquid will be absorbed.
Chop and lightly cook the vegetables. Drain them in a colander, pressing out all liquid. (The broth can be saved for soup or stew.) Put vegetables in a large bowl and allow to cool. Mix in grated Parmesan and fontina cheeses. Now it's time to start the sauce. It's really very simple. Mix crushed tomatoes with herbs and plenty of pressed garlic and a few drips of olive oil. Allow to simmer. Begin working on dessert.
Scarpetta's Childhood Key Lime Pie
Without fresh limes, don't bother. Scarpetta is a hanging judge on this matter. The key lime tree in the backyard of her childhood home in Miami once bore an abundance of her favorite citrus fruit, and when days were hard and unyielding, Scarpetta would absent herself from the house to be soothed in the sunlight of the yard, where the solitary tree, not much taller than her father, leaned against the chainlink fence.
She would fill her pockets with key limes and gather them in her skirt. Scarpetta made key limeade and pies, and everybody felt just a little bit better. She carried key limes to her neighbors when she was hurting, lonely, and sad. Her family had just the one tree, and Scarpetta thought of it as hers. It began to die when she was in her late teens, and she consulted a number of greenhouses, horticulturists, the Department of Agriculture, and even a plant pathologist at Cornell, where she spent her undergraduate years. There was a citrus canker, she was told. It was wiping out thousands of key lime trees in south Florida.
She doused her tree with micronutrient spray and cleaned out the dead wood. She made certain the roots weren't being damaged by the lawn mower or the trunk wasn't being rotted by standing water. Her tree continued its decline, lesions in the stems, leaves turning yellow and drifting to the grass. Scarpetta's tree died long before she gave up on it. She would not let her mother cut it down.
These days, not surprisingly, key limes are very difficult to find, thus making the dessert all the more rare and wonderful. Scarpetta gets her limes from Florida Keys Key Lime Products by making generous donations to the Marine Resource Development Foundation, in hopes that science might yet save the precious fruit. She usually orders half a bushel a month and freezes the juice, which is why she happened to have some on hand the day after Christmas when she entertained Marino and Lucy. Scarpetta thawed half a cup, which also included a hint of grated rind.
Her crust is a very basic mixture of two cups of all-purpose flour kneaded with two-thirds of a cup of softened butter. Sprinkle a little water and spread the dough paper-thin in a pie pan. Bake until a light golden brown.
Mix the key lime juice with one can of Eagle Brand condensed milk (it works as well as anything made from scratch). Add a touch of salt and two barely beaten egg yolks. Stir until thickened. Pour the filling into the pie shell and lick the spoon and swipe the sides of the bowl with your finger when no one is looking. Don't waste a molecule of it. Whip up a quick meringue using the two leftover egg whites and two tablespoons of sugar. Beat until stiff but not dry and spread in thick peaks over the pie. Bake for maybe fifteen minutes until lightly brown. Return your attention to the main course.
By now your sauce should be getting very thick and rich. Continue to simmer and stir, and at least forty-five minutes before you're ready to assemble what everyone is impatiently awaiting, place a pizza stone in a very hot oven. Begin the crust by mixing one teaspoon of salt, a shake of sugar, and one teaspoon of active dried yeast with maybe a fourth of a cup of warm (but not hot) water. When frothy, add several cups of the high-gluten flour and a tablespoon of olive oil. Mix and knead on a floured surface for a good ten minutes. Place in a greased bowl and cover with a towel. Let this rise in a warm place.
Scarpetta favors a very simple salad of arugula or Boston lettuce, or whatever mixture of greens you wish. She might add tomatoes and shaved carrots and diced celery, but nothing more. Her dressing is a hearty red wine vinegar mixed with olive oil, pressed garlic, fresh ground pepper, and oregano. For the more robust appetites, she might add crumbled feta cheese. Do not toss the salad with the dressing until you are ready to call your guests to the table.
Now we are ready to create our pizza. When the dough has doubled in size, knead it some more, using your knuckles to press it out to the edges. Swipe olive oil on the pizza stone and center the dough on it, being careful not to make contact with the stone or set it on the wrong surface, as it is extremely hot. Spread a generous layer of sauce over the crust, followed by at least an inch of the meat/vegetable/cheese mixture. Squeeze the balls of mozzarella, removing as much fluid as possible. Pinch off pieces and place them over the top of the pie. Cover cookie sheets with aluminum foil and place On the second rack of the oven, as the pizza will drip no matter what. Place the stone on the top shelf, baking your pizza at the highest setting. Cook until the cheese is browning. Remove from the oven and allow to rest a moment as you serve the salad and pour a nice red burgundy. If white or red makes no difference, a Puligny-Montrachet is crisp and cleansing. You will have to eat Scarpetta's holiday pizza with a knife and fork.
On this night after Christmas, it was quiet all through the house as Scarpetta's guests sat around her table and began to eat and drink. After several lusty moments, Marino spoke first.
"Anybody don't want their oysters, you can hand 'em over here," he said.
"And how are we supposed to extract them from everything else?" Lucy wanted to know.
"Pick ' em out. Assuming your fingers are clean."
"That's gross."
"Who's in charge of music?" Scarpetta asked.
The three of them looked at each other as they ate, then Marino scooted back his chair. He got up and went to the CD player, red-checked napkin tucked into the front of his shirt. He put on Patsy Cline.
3
The New Year began with a chasing out of the old and a reckoning of what was to come. For Lucy, this meant brunch on January 2. It was raw and barely snowing in Richmond. She had followed her Aunt Kay's advice and had invited friends to drop by. Scarpetta was still visiting her mother in Miami, and therefore was not present either to supervise or indulge in her niece's culinary talents.
"Who wants eggs?" Lucy asked her visitors, all from various federal law enforcement agencies.
"What kind?"
"Chicken eggs," said Lucy.
"Very funny."
"Scrambled," Lucy told the truth.
"Okay."
"I thought you were making Bloody Marys," said an FBI agent whose fourth transfer had brought her to the Washington Field Office in our nation's capital, where it was not possible to catch up with crime.
"What about bacon?" Lucy asked.
She was in her aunt's kitchen, with all of its stainless steel appliances and overhead copper racks of Calphalon pots and pans. Lucy was busy snatching eggs, bacon, milk, English muffins, and jars of V-8 juice out of the refrigerator. A fire was lit in the great room, and snow was scattered, small, crazed, and cold beneath a thick gray sky. It wasn't likely Lucy and her friends were going anywhere this day. Lucy was a bold and physical get-out-of-my-way kind of cook. Her recipes had never been written down and tended to change as she did.
