A Torch Taken

After making my first taganu, I told my family about it, discreetly, one person at a time. Taganu is an Easter "pie" traditionally made in my Dad's home village of Aragona, Sicily. Aragona is a tiny commune outside of Agrigento, a province in southwestern Sicily. My dad and his sisters are all from this little village. Every Eastertime families bake up this eggy, cheesy contraption and, I'm told, bring it to a town square where some resident experts judge them and choose a winner. As my family started to open up about the whole tradition (my first taganu earning me additional details), the most outstanding part of it is how small and exclusive the group of people who know about this thing really is.

Now that I think about it, maybe it's the whole competition thing that made getting the recipe and technique for taganu so difficult. I guess you're trained not to divulge your special touch if there's a contest every year. Anyway, two of my aunts have carried on the tradition here in the States, and I've been eating taganu every Easter since I've been little. They never share much more than the already obvious ingredients, however, and there are definitely some technique pointers that need review.

I turned to the Internet, I googled "dianoo" (that's the phonetic), "dianu", "dyanu", "dyanoo", etc. Nothing. It begins with a T. I finally found a recipe when I typed in "Aragona" and "Tuma" - the name of the mild, semi-soft, sheep's milk cheese used in the dish. There's an article about it on about.com. It gives a brief history and the recipe, and I followed it loosely.

I actually came pretty close to the taganu of my childhood with my first attempt (my aunts never mentioned whether or not any of my family's taganus (tagani?) ever won the competition). Here's a recipe and some thoughts on the process. As you'll see from the list of ingredients, the whole congenital-heart-problem thing sort of makes sense now!

Makes 1 Taganu*
1 ciabatta roll, sliced about 3/4 inch thick for 14 slices
1 lb. Tuma cheese (or substitute 1 lb. Toma Piemonte), finely sliced *
3 cups Pecorino Romano, grated
12 large eggs
1 lb. mezzi rigatoni
13 golfball-sized Italian meatballs, halved (see notes)
1 1/2 cups fresh Chicken broth
1 heaping tsp. cinnamon
pinch Saffron threads
1/2 cup Parseley, finely chopped
Anti-stick lipid of choice (lard, butter, PAM, oil)

Preparation
1. Make the meatballs, set aside to cool, half them.
2. Saute the sausage meat for about five minutes
3. Cook the rigatoni in boiling, salted water two minutes short of package instructions, drain, set aside.
4. Heat the broth and as it comes to a gentle boil add the saffron threads, set heat to lowest setting.
5. Beat the eggs, then add the grated cheese, parseley, cinnamon, salt and pepper.

Assembly
1. Coat the inside of the oven pot with anti-stick agent.
2. Dip both sides of 4 slices of bread in the egg mixture and line them up on the bottom of the pot. Repeat with 6 more slices of bread and line up around inside walls of the pot.
3. Take a handful of rigatoni, dip in the egg mixture, and spread out on top of the bread. It should be 1 rigatoni high.
4. Scatter a few halved meatballs in this first layer.
5. Pour a little egg mixture over the first layer.
6. Cover the first layer with Toma cheese slices and a little sausage meat.
7. Repeat at least once more, reserving a little more egg mixture for the last 4 slices of bread.
8. Gently poke three holes in the cheese-egg-meat mixture and pour the chicken broth over the top.
9. Dip the last 4 pieces of bread in the egg mixture to cover the taganu.
10. Layer more Toma slices on top of the bread, maybe drizzle some olive oil, and say a rosary for your arteries.

Cooking
1. Bake the taganu, uncovered, for three hours in a 350 degree oven.

Notes
- I used a metal "loaf pan" that I bought for $0.79 from the supermarket. It's about 12 x 6 x 6 inches if I had to guess. I'm going to continue making it in this shape, it works well with the bread slices.
- Don't drown the bread slices in the egg mixture or you won't have enough for the inside. Just gently cover both sides with a brisk dip.
- You don't need much additional salt for this or you'll ruin it...there's three cups of grated cheese, a POUND of another cheese, sausage meat, chicken broth, and salted pasta. Basta.
- The photos above and below don't show the sausage meat, I'm going to add this next year.
- The photos also don't show the rigatoni-egg mixture dip, I'm going to do this next year.
- And finally, about the cheese. I told my family I found tuma. I thought it was just another pronunciation miscommunication, but it was not. The correct cheese, for the Platonic taganu, is definitely tuma, a sheep's milk cheese from Sicily. I used toma piemonte, a cow's milk cheese from Piedmont, all the way up near France and Switzerland. I defrauded the taganu deities, and I will try to get my hands on tuma next year as penance.

Hopping Home with Ed and Jim

The afternoon was normal. I sat atop the metal ladder and chatted with Jim over the top of the aluminum shelving between aisles twenty-three and twenty-four. I turned away from Jim for a second to sneeze. I wiped my nose with the bottom of my Centre Megamart apron. I looked down at aisle twenty-three. I have been fronting premade pie crusts for an absurd amount of my life, I thought. "No, I'm working a double this weekend. I don't think I'll get out in time." Jim looked disappointed. "I guess I could try to switch with someone." Jim looked up. "I'll let you know." I had been a lousy gambler all my life. The carnival was in town, but that wasn't the point. The point was that I never asked anyone to switch, and I missed Jim's party.

After my double I went out to my lonely car in the lonely parking lot under the tall white lightpost. I sat on the hood of my red clunker, shoulders surrendering inward, neck stretched low. I looked down at my stupid shoes. What kind, what symptom of a, where should the...I straightened my back, trying to crack the tension out of it. I leaned back slowly and finally laid down completely, legs dangling off the side of the Dodge.

Bells rang and some old woman answered. She said, "won't it stop?" The next and last stop on this train is...warm and inviting, who could refuse? The bells were counting down the ties in a cord attached to a hulking steel orb cast in deep black. The ties slid down and down until eventually, a yellow-caped hero revealed himself. It was this kind of eventuality that slowed progress so. It was this anticipation that momentum consumed and languished therein. And I stirred and stirred this ingenious machine's tanktop - but it was weak and lethargic and refused the warm air.

It was this cartoon scenery that called us all back. It was this nursery tale that swatted and gashed us, our faces mangled and throats sore. Against an ancient brick wall the black orb pounded, weakly at first and more weakly thereafter. There are carpets of course and such traditions well-noticed. A fire on the crossties shimmered in the rain. We doubted so much and counted our chances, in a redrock hotel on the Utah frontier. A shadow moved up and shifted in the crackway, the door was less open than closed.

Anticipation personified as a blackboard under fire by an impotent brainstorm of timid white chalk. The blackness retreated as the scrawling lay siege, propped up by the classics, bold-face texts and maybe six or seven magazines. Its hand was shaky and it's sketches suffered, but more directly, the board grew unwieldy - and what remained, of course, was misdirected passion, aimed anywhere but the board — that's generous — aimed away from the board. Hope grew out of this meaningless fog, it was the hope for a cleaning, a fresh start, more daylight, shifted responsibilities, crafty excuses, all things hardly head-on.

When the board cleared up and the blackness returned, the walls eroded and deposits formed. It was a false sense of security, indeed, a trap. There will never be order when the clean slate is restored. May the texts be erased and bold-faces scorned, may the periodicals be shredded and foundation fall. I want to peel off this hood and build a new engine, I thought, but I got in my car and drove straight home.

The Dust

Ever see one of those Aztec cheekbone sets coming at ya down the street? Two tan roof slopes at a subtle incline type of thing. A while ago, I stood before a mirror and set my type. "Ah yes." That moment of realization. I need a few to get from here to the next city. The next city was Tegucigalpa, at the intersection with the whitewashed church sitting cozily on the dusty yellow sand. As usual.

Two bikes slowed to the intersection rhythm. They stood and said something in their native tongue. Something along the lines of, "I thought you were gonna go." So then they each started at each other, and slowed again. One said, under its breath, "For God's sake I thought you were going to go." The other one said, under its breath, "Jesus, I thought he was going to go." This kept on for a while, in front of the white church at the intersection of two dusty gravel roads in the yellow desert. Surely God was present, who else was driving?
If God tilted this scene on its side, as if it were the background under a glass cutting board in God's kitchen, and all the stones on the gravel path rolled out onto God's kitchen floor - THEN, I'd believe in God. Holy Moholy. If God picked up one of the bikes and twirled it around in a dusty wind funnel that was actually the water drain in God's kitchen drain - THEN...you know. Joan. Joan.

All the little rocky gravel chunks rushed down the serpentine staircase and crashed in a most inconvenient manner for the earthball, and by that I mean the volume on Earth was turned up by a few thousand centibels. It was like when you get your ears back after a cold a thousand times magnified. And he stood there, Napoleon, standing all Vitruvian in between the Legend's legs (he was also standing Virtuvian - only there was fire coming out of his mouth and he looked glorious). I've never been so proud, I've never been so spiritual.

And then a drone came - it was God's amplification correction system, correcting the rolling stone's effects on the earthball. A few ballerinas slipped sideways off a bridge, off the "cutting board." Ted, a man, crashed his car. Two Aztec men looked up at the sky from their rooves (well, not their rooves). The drone had to continue for a while. Oh it was gross. It was a Dark age. It was not what I'd expect. Then the drone receded and these little fader tests slid up and down and the sky flickered as the drone came back in the background. The church shuttered. The floors creaked and the kickstands used all their might to prop the bikes up. They both said, at the same time, "let's get out of here man."

All this at the same time it was too much for me to believe. I've been fed dogma before.

Empty Are The Fairgrounds

A smile or a smirk thick a downbound chat leaves my blood fuzzy and heartbeats gluggin. I lick it up! The tall brown trunks gallop brisk by the castle. An old English estate roll gently nudge a thick blurry line left to right climbsky, fairground, south border. The downbound border swim a silky slick reptile, stride an old English horse - from America, fly a fruited plane, [exam] pass an ocean too many, you've gone too far.

We watched the dinghy descend with the tide. Some seaweed was visible on its shaft. It looked as if the nutrients had been sucked dry. There was a stiff skeletal breeze on my nose and knuckles. I pocketed my hands and hummed a lunar tune. Flies are 'seabugs' when they live near the ocean. They scratch and crawl and hum lunar tunes. I picked up the news and the top fold whipped in the wind. A headline ran and drops of inky water hit the sand between waves. I heard wood creak and felt insects on the undersides of my ribs and crawling in my earlobes. The bridge of my nose itched interminably and the salty air bit at my eyes. All the wood tunes were lost on me. All the fiery warmth escaped me. And I stood and wished I were leaning. I breathed out and didn't feel like breathing in, because all the goddamn seabugs sang meekly in my ears and slid down little tracks on my scalpstrings.

In a black pasture we groomed and grazed. The man in suspenders sat there thinking about nothing, and alternately, he realized his hunger and the noise his workers made. He achieved this great little equilibrium among the swinging bench, his ass, the sole of his foot, and a porch spindle. He thought, supper bowl grain tax hummer yelluh spring pitch plow sleepy trucker tax chain. I ran up to the aluminum door next to the swing and bashed at it with my skull until blood from the gash ran in the metal crease.

After our ears stopped ringing in the flourolight hellhole, the perpetrator left the room and we gazed at each other. He went down the elevator and bounded down the lobby stairs. He clicked and clacked in his highway shoes. "Until further notice, the answer to that question is 'same shit, different day.'," he replied, but he had no idea the troubles we'd seen. And the troubles mounted tall black steers. Down the highway we escaped, these two tricky chords rapped successively. Rain clapped on the hood and filled the streets.

Thirty-Five Minutes To Ten

I neatly folded some harina masa into my stockings, and this left the commission bewildered. And what was the name of that ridiculous song I enjoyed so. What I'm trying to say is that I never liked the Simpsons as much as you guys did! I'm a friend in the end, and the word 'testicles' is both an ice-breaker and a powerful punchline word. Those are the two, these are the two, them's the two. Lisa and Bart. Lisa double-peeled the fleshy beans while naked and amidst the exotic jungle animals. They were quiet but very, very aware. Demarcus and the pinstriped haircut kid, staring at the canvas. "It's a Gauguin, and it's not for kids." (I would check with the MPAA on that one - last I checked...PG...[shrug]).

The commission laughed heartily and the bald man in the back with the South African accent dropped a few coins on the ground. Everyone laughed some more, and I kept folding the corn meal. Lisa kept parboiling and peeling those dreaded, fleshy beans. Bart cried at night, when the pencils were down, when graphing calculators recharged. Antonio fell on the Tampa ice, and when he looked up at the sky, he felt America. The America from that song about the fruited plains and the multitudinous bounty of wheat.

This is a back-loaded endeavor said the man indicted in the automobile manslaughter lawsuit. You are a suit, Thrill, and that's ironic, sure, but it's more than that. You're a whore. Lisa's no ho! Bart! I went to this new city the other night, and I noticed some sweet nothings. I caressed them on their legs; between me, my love of carnal pleasures, my hands, and Her sweet nothings, were some tamale-ass stockings like you can't believe! And that's what happens down under when I'm involved.

Through a small hole in all of this (it had been cut by an Italian-American craftsman), I saw a birthmark on a butt cheek, but that went out of focus quite, and I mean, very, quickly, and in the distance I resumed my quest. In a distant era, beyond major chords, where brass isn't a factor, a faction, or another word for testicles, there are tightly-pulled lines. And on that banjo he played a fishing ditty, and it went something like this:

To all the rocks and stones who delight in my hunger
I don't care, I'm a fisherman proper
You're a wild salmon robber
I'll have my way with you.

I slapped everyone all at once, and in doing so, irritated lots of people I didn't know and never had a problem with. This is the method. This is the mathematical method. Step one, oh shit! You fell down the abyss! There was an abyss so close to step one and look what you did. I suppose you're still falling, it's an abyss for god's sake. I made some eggs, they were gritty, and I slathered them all over my pool table. Picture a pool table with corn-ass grit felt, pale yellow because I used inexpensive eggs dropped down a conveyor belt that screams its anthem:

So this isn't my day, but what is?
There are the stinky ovulating gatekeepers
But the shop is a Catholic shop, and Master believes.
So nothing slides on Sundays. Just my icy steel, weeping pysche.

There are insects, and there are parties. There are green hues, and there is a war with guns and bullets and heat. Do you know what's involved in refueling a fighter jet in mid-air? They do it. They do it, you need a cable. I fear for our collective organs. And then the typo came. The typo was bent over like a desperate twenty-something on an anonymous Friday night when the monotony of the city got to her like a hurricane gets to all the marine animals. And it cmae hard. Like the second-hand starting a run from the summit. I whirled around and picked up some sand. And I uh...picked up a glob of it, it was sandy. I whirled around like an Olympian discus-thrower, and I showered like a decrepit man - and the acid stung - it climbed and slithered through my skin. I felt the temporary pain; I felt my rationale.

I know these two dudes, god I wish I had a story about a time they made a corn joke, but the bottom line is that corns don't happen to them. This is a different era and there just aren't advertisements like that anymore. There are products, there are white, porcelain plates and they know no owner. Misplace me. Mommy I'm lost. There are quiet fish and loud fish and tiny fish and big-ass cornbread jalapeño dunkers and I'm gonna turn myself in, once and for all - spill my GUTS! "You should come too!" one dude said to the other dude! There was a knock and the units filed in. There was a sinister man keeping track of everything in the corner with a clipboard and some banana chips. It's always...always about nutrition. Ain't it Thrill? You suit. I'm bitter, and you don't want to see me up-close, Lisa. "Go ahead!" she said.

But I had to save you. Your altitude was distressing. Terminal velocity is reached very quickly when you fall into an abyss. I jumped into the abyss, singing the Song of the Abyss:

Roll and throw and lift and listen
I'm the captain's whip, the seamstress' zipper
Can you feel my depth or hear my whisper?

We're headed down to the Maker's lair
Wheels and apples - laws and globes
Expose your bare neck, chest, and bones
Your fancy moves aren't your own.

You've scaled and froze and wiggled around
So trace back brother! Swim back, friend!
They'll find you one day!
Rotting far down, fancy clothes on bones
Filleted and poached for dinner!

Changing Guards

In consideration of an edifice's verticality, that is, its upright girders, one needs context. So we provide this measure, at once, below. References are provided in short fragments - specifically - if unsophisticated.

Throughout its history, my street has maintained relative anonymity. And for that reason it believes in the Lamb. For that very reason, it elaborates upon weighty matters in brief gasps and short strokes. It is the attention-deprived nervous system of city streets. It can not deliver packages of increasing complexity or increasing volume. My street has fulfilled the promise of streets federated upon the fleshy underside of the Manhattan island, and has done so with quiet dignity despite its short stride, ambiguous pronunciation, and deepening paracitification.

You may recall that during the last few years [exposition of statistical trend]. I mean, isn't that a kicker? Big smile. Frantic chuckle fishing, frantic code red code blue the worst color code alarm. Nothing? So it's passed. I seek to describe the rigid cell wall in uncertain terms: it's over. It's over. Continuity is no longer an option, I doubt ordinary chemical treatments can help in this matter. There are two hard outer crusts between us, and I learned of these conditions bathed in a golden light at an uneasy altitude atop the city.

So the throne awaits. The lofty throne that has been occupied so many times before. From this perch, a panorama of the ages surfaces awkwardly against the walls. You can see the breaks in the wallpaper. You can tell that the architect was unable to acquire certain permits. So walk up to the throne. Stumble up, this is a public monument, after all. This is a split-second recalculation, an unthinking audible, a fiery near-disaster. There is an inscription but I'm too lazy to read it. So I stumbled down. I rolled off like a statistic in a mime show. We cornered in together, but agreed on something at once: [secret opinion on the Anglo-Saxon linguistic arsenal]. The train was packed, so we wedged. We ruined a world we weren't always part of - no I'm not thirsty.

It's Grand Really

Stunning in its Understatement
I actually watched this video for the entire 4:06. I can't tell you, I just, I - what would POSSESS someone to post this! I mean it's useful. Please imagine for a second the person behind the camera. They stood over a bowl of clams, one of nature's most inanimate living objects, for FOUR MINUTES. Arresting.



Inspired by the best linguine white clam sauce I've ever tasted (prepared by the Golden Goddess, she of Legend fame), I give you my recipe for spaghetti and Manila clams. As a soup fiend, I love it when my sauces collect at the bottom of the bowl and wait for me to finish the pasta before I tuck in for a delicious, passionate, saucy finale. Slurping sauce off a fork for ten minutes is the reason I love food, and in turn, life.

This is not linguine white clam sauce, the Italian-American standby. That's a simple recipe too, but I would use bigger, littleneck clams for that. Whereas linguine white clam sauce is most delicious with each component cranked to 11 (garlic, clam juice, cheese, parseley, butter, olive oil), my spaghetti Manila clams relies on a more delicate harmony of flavors.

The idea with this dish is to let each component impart its freshness onto the just-undercooked spaghetti (which I prefer to linguine because it's lighter). I leave the clam shells right in the bowl because I want the essences of the clam juices to mix with the pasta as much as possible. I use tiny pieces of crispy diced bacon and hope that they find their way to some nook in the clam, because everytime you eat cured pork meat and shellfish in the same bite, a baby stops crying.

z911spaghettiManilaclams
Serves 4 as a first course
Serves 2 if you're a close friend of mine

1 lb. Manila clams (2 or 3 dozen), scrubbed under cold water
6 strips of bacon, trimmed of fat and diced
1/2 lb. good spaghetti (like DeCecco), split in half lengthwise
2 cloves garlic, 1 razor-thinly sliced, the other cut in half

small baguette, cut into half inch slices
extra virgin olive oil
parseley, chopped
red pepper flakes

1. Fill pot with water, salt aggressively, transfer to stove on high heat
2. Bring water to a boil, drop in the pasta, stir immediately.

3. Pour a glug or five of olive oil into a saute pan and heat slowly, drop in the garlic halves. Just as they turn golden, throw the bacon in the pan. Bring the heat up slowly so the bacon crisps up. Remove the garlic.

4. Lightly dunk both sides of the baguette pieces in the garlic/bacon oil, place in a broiler pan or some tin foil and broil/toast until crispy.

5. Meanwhile, in the saute pan, introduce the clams and the thinly-sliced garlic. Splash the pan with a some pasta water to coat the surface of the pan, or, if you're so inclined, use white wine here. Cover the pan so the steam circulates and cooks the clams' muscles into submission (causing them to open).

6. Once the pasta is about two minutes shy of recommended cooking time, transfer it to the saute pan using tongs. You definitely want some of the pasta water to hit the clam juice/bacon/garlic/olive oil mixture. Cover the saute pan again and cook for a minute more.

7. Take a crostini piece and place one in each serving bowl.
8. Add a pinch of red pepper flakes and a pinch of parseley to the pasta and clams, and mix well. Serve the pasta over the top of each crostini, making sure you portion out the sauce evenly.

Notes and Tasty Substitutions
You can definitely purchase premade crostini or croutons at any supermarket. They'll work fine. To that point, if you don't add enough of the pasta water to the oil mixture, you won't get enough liquid to soak the bread and make it taste delicious. At the same time, if you drown everything in salty water the subtlety of the clam juices and garlic/bacon oil will be lost. You're going for a greyish solution with globs of olive oil to coat the bottom of your saute pan. I would top the dish with a quick drizzle of olive oil.

In my mind, Manila clams are the poor man's cockles. I get my Manila clams on Grand Street for about $3.99/lb. That means you can easily pull this dish off for under $10.

Cockles are these vibrant, symmetrical, uniform little clams. If you can find and afford cockles, more power to ya.

Substitute pancetta for bacon? Definitely. In general pancetta has a more subdued flavor, and the theme of this dish is to remove knock-you-over-the-head-ingredients.