Hunger for something I cannot get

We are trying to do most of our cooking on the weekends, so that we have food ready to go when it is dinner time during the week. Amália is not into waiting two hours for Babbo to roast a chicken when he gets home. Amália starts getting grumpy and doesn't even want to think about chicken. It is during those times that only sausage and blueberries will do: "SHAUSHAGE!" Or maybe "PIZ_ZZZZZAAAAAAA" but certainly not "wait and wait and wait for some chicken."

So the first week we did this, Melanie took advantage of my being out with Amália for a few hours and did a bunch of cooking. As I mentioned before, either here or on another blog's comments box, this food was fine, but I was uneasy all week. I would walk by the little bin full of wooden spoons and they would look at me with accusing glances, "Vergogna!" My ancient cast iron skillets refused to make eye contact, murmering, "fine, at least Melanie will touch us once in awhile." It was painful. I would eat a bite of Melanie's delicious beef soup and think, "well, this is fine, but I would have done it this way." I couldn't stand it any more. Last weekend I did the cooking and last week was much more restful.

Yesterday Amália was particularly difficult. It was getting closer and closer to time to go to Mass, and she was no closer to being dressed and even farther from being somewhat comported towards public existence. Melanie was not ready either, mostly because she was attempting the great adventure of Tame That Toddler. I can't really say that Amália was misbehaving, she was just, well, full of joie de vivre. So it came time, and I ended up going to Mass by myself, as I was on the schedule as an usher and could not wait. As I walked out the door I suddenly had a panic attack: there was a bunch of beef and pork waiting to be made into ragù. I looked at Melanie and said, "please don't make the ragù while I'm gone. I want to do it." She agreed, and I went on my way.

So last night I was chopping vegetables, sautéing chicken liver and anchovies, soaking and draining and chopping dried mushrooms, picking herbs, browning pork and beef, stirring, simmering, skimming, tasting. Pure joy!

A good ragù must simmer for hours, so I let it simmer overnight. Needless to say, when we woke up it was to the smell of all that is good in the world: traditional Tuscan brown meat ragù. As I was driving to work I had it in my head. As I wrote up new release sheets I had it in my head. Packing orders was done to the imaginary smellscape of ragù.

But I have leftover sausage that must be eaten today, and I will be in Sacramento tonight, so ragù will wait. It always does. But IT IS KILLING ME! Eating grilled Neiman Ranch Italian sausages as part of a North Beach sandwich should be more than satisfactory, but for that ragù.

Tuesday night I will sauté some pieces of celery and toss them in warm ragù with some tomatoes. We will eat this with tomatoe and crouton salad and perhaps slices of cold roasted chicken. Tuesday.