Bacon, Apple, and Sage Turkey: A Holiday Hit

It's All About The Barding

Holiday time is once again upon us and flocks of “perfect turkey” tips are waddling around everywhere. (Turkeys don't fly, you know; ask the folks at WKRP in Cincinnati.)

I hit upon this simple recipe for moist, tasty turkey many years ago. We've adapted it slightly and it is now our “go to” preparation for Thanksgiving, Christmas, or any time we want to serve a really perfect turkey. We usually cook three or four turkeys every holiday season and we've never had a bad one yet. It's all about the barding.

I know what comes to most minds when the word “bard” is used, but the culinary application has nothing to do with Shakespeare. Not that The Bard didn't have a few things to say about culinary matters that could be appropriate for the holidays: “He hath eaten me out of house and home; he hath put all my substance into that fat belly of his.” – Henry IV Part I: act 2, scene 1. Or perhaps, “Eight wild boars roasted whole at breakfast, and but twelve persons there; is this true?.” – Antony and Cleopatra: act 2, scene 1

Barding involves preparing a cut of meat for roasting by covering it with strips of fat. The fat of choice is almost always some form of bacon. You can bard almost anything. Even the cheapest cuts of meat will benefit from the application of bacon, and the more expensive cuts – bacon-wrapped filet mignon, for instance – will be that much more delectable. But barding works particularly well on poultry. It's basically a deliciously foolproof self-basting method. We'll get to the details in a minute.

First, gather your ingredients:

1 medium onion, cut into 8 wedges, divided

2 apples (any sweet variety), cut into wedges
1 tablespoon dried sage
1 teaspoon dried thyme
1/4 teaspoon salt
1/4 teaspoon pepper

8 tbsp (1 stick) unsalted butter, softened
1 (12-lb.) turkey
1 (12 oz) package bacon
1 (6 oz) can apple juice concentrate, thawed

A quick note about the bacon: this is not the time or the place for expensive cuts of lean, meaty, artisan bacon. Nope. You want the cheapest, fattiest store-brand bacon you can find.

Equipment-wise, you'll need a roasting pan with a rack, and a thermometer. I highly – I'll emphasize that again – HIGHLY recommend a probe thermometer. Buy it for the big bird and you'll find yourself using it for lots of other things, too. The probe part of the thermometer gets stuck in the bird. A cable runs from the probe to a monitor that you place outside your oven. Set the monitor to 165° F and just walk away. When the thing beeps, the bird's done. No hassle and no guesswork. Yes, you can use an instant-read thermometer, but it's a pain, what with having to open and close the oven door – which affects the temperature and hence the cooking time – and makes little holes all over your bird unless you manage to hit exactly the same spot every time you check the temp. An old-fashioned meat thermometer works, too. But I'll swear by the probe variety any day. Please,whatever else you do, don't rely on those stupid little plastic “pop-up” thingys that they package with some turkeys. They are absolutely useless and are the cause of more dry, overcooked birds than almost anything else. Optionally, you may also want some butcher's twine, a bulb baster, and some turkey lifters.

Now, here's what you're going to do:

Make sure your turkey is thoroughly thawed and patted dry with paper towels. Don't forget to remove the plastic bag with the giblets. Unpleasant things happen if you forget.

Preheat your oven to 325°F. Scatter half of the onion around the bottom of the roasting pan and put the rack in place. Place the turkey on the rack. Some people advocate placing the bird “upside down” (breast side down) on the rack, as this allows the juices to flow into the breast meat as the bird cooks. And that's okay. For this recipe, though, the old “right side up” placement works best.

Make a compound butter by combining the sage, the thyme, and some salt and pepper in a small bowl. Mix the herbs and spices thoroughly with the softened butter, then gently lift the skin of the turkey and apply the butter mixture directly and liberally to the breast, taking care not to tear the skin as your work. You might want to remove extraneous rings and things. Save about a tablespoon of the butter for later. (You're doing this because it will add flavor, help retain moisture, and aid in achieving a nice, crispy skin.)

Rub the reserved butter around the inside of the cavity, then place the remaining onion in the cavity, along with the wedges of apple. (You're doing this for flavor and moisture. Apples and onions are very juicy and as they cook, they will release their moisture and flavor into the interior of the bird.)

If you're going to truss your turkey, here's how you do it: Place the turkey breast side up. Cross the legs and loop a piece of butcher's twine over, around and under the crossed legs several times, tying it off securely. Tuck the first joint of each wing under the body of the bird. Now you've got a nice compact package that will cook evenly and be easier to carve. This is where most people stop. And that's fine. Some people go a step farther and lace up the cavity. Meh. If you want to go to the trouble, you'll need to do it first. And you'll need trussing pins or needles. Then you start by passing the pins through the skin on both sides of the cavity. Beginning at the top pin, lace a piece of twine back and forth as you would shoelaces. Pull it snug and tie it securely at the bottom. Pull the neck skin over and fasten it underneath with trussing pins or toothpicks. Now you can truss the legs and tuck the wings under as previously directed. Me, I just truss and tuck. The lacing is usually reserved for stuffed birds (keeps the stuffing inside) and we're not going to get into a discussion here of the health hazards presented by actually stuffing a bird with stuffing.

Arrange slices of bacon over the breast and legs. (Again, moisture, flavor, and crispiness.) Some people do elaborate basket weave patterns and such. Some even tie the bacon blanket in place with twine. Again, meh. Just make sure the bird is covered. Then loosely tent the breast with foil.

If you're using the probe thermometer that I highly recommend, now's the time to place the probe. Proper placement is essential. Insert the thermometer about 2 1/2 inches into the thickest portion of the turkey breast or into the inner thigh near the breast. Make sure the thermometer does not touch a bone. This applies whether or not you're using a probe thermometer; same rules go for instant-reads or plain old meat thermometers. (Another quick tip: when inserting a regular thermometer into the turkey breast, insert it from the side. The thermometer is easier to read and more accurate than when you put it in from the top.)

Okay, into the oven! Bake for about an hour, then remove the foil and the bacon. I usually discard the bacon. Some people break it up and serve it like cracklings. Your choice. Some people also leave the bacon in place for the entire cooking time. Again, your choice. But if you choose to do that, you'll sacrifice your golden brown skin because the bacon will insulate it and keep it from browning.

Assuming you have removed the bacon, continue to bake the turkey for 30 to 40 minutes; then baste with the pan juices. Bake an additional 30 to 40 minutes and baste again. Now, pour the apple juice concentrate over the turkey and bake for another 30 to 40 minutes.

A word about basting: it's not entirely necessary, especially with the compound butter and the bacon providing lots of fat and moisture. Most people do it because Mom did it and Grandma did it and Great-Grandma did it, etc. Because poultry skin is fairly impermeable, you're not doing much for the moisture content of the meat. From that aspect, basting is like pouring water on a raincoat. Most of what you achieve through basting is extra flavor and extra crispness. The only place you really need to baste with this recipe is when you add the apple juice concentrate near the end of the process. And besides, all that opening and closing of the oven door makes it harder to maintain even heat in the oven, thus prolonging your cooking time.

Your turkey is done when the temperature reaches 165°F measured in the breast or 175°F measured in the thickest part of the thigh.

Using lifters or tongs, tilt the turkey to drain any juices from the cavity into the roasting pan. Remove the turkey to a carving board, cover it loosely with foil, and allow it to rest at least 20 minutes before carving. DON'T SKIP THIS STEP.......unless you like dry turkey. Trust us, the bird will remain nice and hot until you're ready to serve.

(Note: if you plan to make gravy from the pan drippings, be aware that the smoky flavors of the bacon and the sweetness of the apples and apple juice concentrate may affect the character of your gravy. You may like a smoky, sweet gravy. If not, prepare a more traditional gravy using butter, flour, and chicken broth.)

Buon appetito! And Happy Holidays!

An Explanation Of Why Some People Massacre Italian

Lookin' At You, New York and New Jersey!

I have long ranted and raved about misspoken Italian, particularly the brand misspoken along the Eastern Seaboard.

In the My Fair Lady song “Why Can't The English?”, Henry Higgins comments on the state of the English language, lamenting:

One common language I'm afraid we'll never get.
Oh, why can't the English learn to
set a good example to people whose
English is painful to your ears?
The Scots and the Irish leave you close to tears.
There even are places where English completely
disappears.
Well, in America, they haven't used it for years!

I got news for ya, Hank; they ain't been usin' Italian in America for years, either. And never mind the Scots and the Irish. You want close to tears? Listen to New Yorkers and/or New Jerseyans/ites mangle and massacre the most lyrical language on earth.

“Mootz-uh-RELL?” “Pruh-ZHOOT?” I once heard somebody talking about getting some “ruh-GOAT” and I didn't even know what they were saying. Never mind “gah-bah-GOOL.” I mean, what the hell language is that? It certainly isn't Italian, where those miserably tortured words are actually “mozzarella,” “prosciutto,” “ricotta,” and “capicolla.” And don't even get me started on “MARE-ee-oh” versus “MAH-ree-oh.” Where do these people – millions of them – get these horrible mispronunciations? And why do they persist in using them even when they know better? I've seen it on TV: somebody like Anne Burrell will properly pronounce “prosciutto” in a sentence, and then somebody like Rachael Ray will repeat basically the same sentence and call it “pruh-ZHOOT.” Mi fa impazzire!

Here's the answer: it's all Grandma and Grandpa's fault. Or maybe great-Grandma and great-Grandpa. And the point is, these progenitors of two or three (or more) generations ago weren't really ignorant; they were simply speaking another language; a language other than Italian.

The political entity we know as Italy did not exist until 1861. Before that time – and actually for a few years after – the Italian peninsula was populated by fighting, feuding, warring, struggling principalities and city-states that were, in effect, separate countries. And each country had its own language. Today we call the countries “regions” and the native languages “dialects.” There were linguistic similarities, to be sure, but it was not uncommon in those pre-Risorgimento days for people from one area to travel to a neighboring area and not be able to fully understand one another.

The unification process started around 1815 and continued until about 1870, with 1861 marking the establishment of a “unified” Kingdom of Italy. Some contend that actual unification was not complete until after WWI. But they still had to work out a few bugs. One of the biggest bugs was a lack of a common language. How do you govern a country where nobody uses the same words to describe the same things? Garibaldi could have been in Higgins' shoes, singing “one common language I'm afraid we'll never get.” Except ultimately they did. I'm not going to do pages of history here: suffice it to say that the choice was made to elevate the Tuscan dialect – the language of Dante and Petrarch – to “official” status, and the language we now know as “Italian” was born.

It was not a universally popular or accepted idea at the time. Think of it: if you lived in Atlanta and the government came and told you you had to start saying “youse guys” instead of “y'all,” you would probably resist a bit. And even the people who grudgingly acquiesced to the new “Italian” still used their native way of speaking in their homes and among their families.

Now comes the relevant part – and yes, there is one: The unified Italy was a great concept on paper. The problem was that “unification” wasn't all as equal as it sounded. There developed a class struggle between the northern and southern parts of the new country. Kind of like what happened here in America except with different issues and different end results. The power wound up being consolidated in the Italian North and the South felt that they got the short end of the stick. But rather than take up arms, the disenfranchised people of the South headed for the boats. Tens of millions of them. En masse. Which would actually be “di massa” in Italian. Most of them sailed to America and most of the ones that landed here landed in New York. They spread out a little, eventually covering Long Island, New Jersey, Rhode Island, Connecticut, and the area around Philadelphia. They brought with them their native customs, their native foods, and, of course, their native languages; languages that were not always the new “Italian.” Sicilians, Campanians, Calabrians, and others brought their unique dialects with them from the Old World to the New and settled in enclaves and neighborhoods where those unique speech patterns were perpetuated and passed on to succeeding generations. Even though they technically came from the same “country,” none of them were “countrymen.”

To make a really long explanation much shorter, the people in America who say things like “mootz-uh-RELL and “gah-bah-GOOL” are actually speaking a dead language. It's not “Italian.” It's an Italian dialect, but one that really doesn't exist anymore. If a dyed-in-the-wool Italian-American from New Jersey were to go into a salumeria almost anywhere in Italy and ask for “gah-bah-GOOL,” the proprietor would look at him like he was speaking a foreign language. Because he would be; one that died out over a hundred years ago, but is kept alive based on nothing more than tradition. You say “gabagool” because that's the way your nonna or your bisnonna said it when she came here from the Old Country, wherever that might have been. That wasn't necessarily “Italian;” it was whatever dialect she spoke when she came here. And that pronunciation got handed down through successive generations and that's why you say it the way you do. You might find a 90-year-old shopkeeper in Palermo who knew what you were talking about, but good luck with that in Rome. Because it's not Italian.

There's a mind-numbingly scholarly piece over at www.atlasobscura.com that goes into all the details of vowel deletion and voiceless consonants and raised sounds and other linguistic arcana. You can read about it at http://www.atlasobscura.com/articles/how-capicola-became-gabagool-the-italian-new-jersey-accent-explained. But there's one sentence there that sort of sums it up: “Italian-American Italian is not at all like Standard Italian; instead it’s a construction of the frozen shards left over from languages that don’t even really exist in Italy anymore with minimal intervention from modern Italian.”

The Italian side of my family hails from Emilia-Romagna and they got to North America before Italy was Italy. So I have no doubt there were some odd pronunciations somewhere in my family's past as well. But we wound up in Canada. French Canada. Just thinking about how “gabagool” would translate in French makes my head hurt. So when I learned Italian, it was “proper” Italian and not something filtered through a dialect.

Now I don't think for one tiny little second that anything I've written here or anything at Atlas Obscura is going to make the slightest difference to any of the Italian-American crowd who loudly and proudly say “pruh-ZHOOT” and “mootz-uh-RELL.” It's their piece of the Italian experience and they're gonna stick with it no matter what some Internet brainiac says. Especially an Italian-French Canadian. I mean, what do I know? Other than the fact that most of them probably don't know any “real” Italian at all and are limited to a few mangled words from their ancestral past. Another quote from Atlas Obscura seems appropriate: “There’s something both a little silly and a little wonderful about someone who doesn’t even speak the language putting on an antiquated accent for a dead sub-language to order some cheese.”

“Improved” Campbell's Chicken Soup? Here's A Better Recipe

Better Because It's Homemade

I can't remember a time when there weren't at least a few cans of Campbell's soup in the pantry. Like most of my generation, I grew up with the stuff. But times, they are a-changin'. And so are some of Campbell's soups. Chicken Noodle Soup is the first to undergo what the company says is “closing the gap between the kitchen and our plants.” Okay. We won't talk about how the “gap” got there in the first place. Or maybe we should.

The pressure is on Campbell's and other food manufacturers to catch up with more discerning consumers. Going, going, and soon to be gone are the days when shoppers strolled down the aisles of supermarkets loaded with literal tons of processed foods and somewhat automatically tossed boxes, bags, and cans of whatever additive and preservative laden junk the big food companies put out on the shelves into their carts and dutifully toted them home, heated them up, and served them to their families. People trusted food manufacturers. Of course, they also trusted lawyers, police officers, and used car salesmen. There was an innocence and naivete among the food buying public, one that assumed that the products they were buying at the altar of convenience were also healthy and wholesome. Many of the labels used those very adjectives. Surely they wouldn't mislead us for the sake of profit! You mean some of those ingredients I can't even pronounce aren't really good for me? Perish the thought! Today's shoppers are beginning to expect actual food in their food stores, not chemistry sets in a can. Hence the panicked rush on the part of some manufacturers to close “the gap.”

Campbell's says they're reducing the number of ingredients in their chicken noodle soup from thirty to twenty. Some of the excised ingredients are potassium chloride, monosodium glutamate, maltodextrin, and lactic acid. They're also removing onions and celery from the new soup, which is is a bit puzzling. Along with carrots, onions and celery form the basis from which nearly all soups are made. How do you maintain the flavor profile? Unless, of course, you've discovered a new chemical way to replicate the taste of onions and celery. Which sort of defeats the purpose, right?

Now, bear in mind, they are not messing with the ingredients in the “classic” condensed version of the iconic red and white can. No, the revamped soup is one that's being marketed for kids under a “Star Wars” theme. Campbell's plan, according to a spokesperson, is to take what they learn from remaking the kid's version and apply it to their other chicken noodle recipes over time. For now, the “classic” soup still contains MSG, sodium phosphate, soy protein isolate and a lot of other “classic” ingredients. Including good ol' “dehydrated chicken.”  

Anyway, I have a solution to the whole situation: cooking. You may have heard of it?

Now, I'm not gonna lie. I mentioned up front that Campbell's soups have been in the pantry for as long as I can remember. That includes this morning. There are six cans in there right now; three each of chicken noodle and tomato. They're my “emergency stash.” Also in the pantry are several cans of chicken broth and tomatoes. And there's chicken stock in the freezer. Those are the things from which real chicken soup and tomato soup are made. I'm a little short on modified food starch, flavoring, beta carotene, yeast extract, and MSG, so if you want those things, you'll have to go buy your own can of Campbell's. Otherwise, try my recipe for chicken soup. Who knows? Maybe it will help you close “the gap” in your kitchen.

A couple of ingredient notes before we get started: you really can make your own chicken stock. It's just not that hard, but it does take a little time and effort. So, with that said, packaged product is okay. The can of broth I'm holding contains chicken stock and 2% or less of salt, natural flavoring (an ingredient I'm always leery of), yeast extract, carrot juice concentrate, celery juice concentrate, and onion juice concentrate. I buy the stuff that's labeled “100% fat free, no MSG added, 33% less sodium.” It's not as flavorful or as good as the homemade stock I've got in my freezer, but it's an acceptable substitute.

As far as the chicken goes, just about any form of cooked chicken will do. Even the canned stuff, if you really must. But leftover chicken is really good, especially if you have some whole roasted rotisserie chicken from the deli left over. Adds a nice roasted flavor. Or you can get them to slice a couple of good thick slices of your favorite deli chicken and you can bring 'em home and shred 'em up.

Okay, here goes:

First, gather together the following ingredients:

2 tbsp extra-virgin olive oil

1 medium onion, finely chopped

2 garlic cloves, minced

1 medium carrot, small dice

1 rib celery, small dice

1 bay leaf

2 qt (64 oz) chicken stock or broth

8 oz dried egg noodles

1 cup shredded cooked chicken

Kosher salt and fresh ground black pepper

Flat-leaf parsley, finely chopped

Now find a sufficiently large soup pot like a stock pot or Dutch oven. It's got to be big enough to hold a half-gallon of liquid with room to spare. Place the pot over medium heat and coat the bottom with a little oil. We're not deep frying anything here, just sauteing some vegetables. Start with the onion. Season lightly with a little salt – called “sweating” in fancy kitchen lingo – and let it cook for a few minutes until it starts to soften. Then add the garlic and let it cook with the onion for about a minute. Don't let it brown; browned garlic is bitter and nasty. Now add in your carrots and celery. You're building layers of flavor. Don't dump it all in together. Altogether, the vegetables should cook for 8 to 10 minutes, or until soft.

Next, add the chicken stock or broth and bring it to a boil. Reduce to a simmer and drop in the bay leaf and the noodles. Simmer until the noodles are tender, about 5 or 6 minutes. Remove the bay leaf and stir in the shredded chicken. Season with salt and pepper and continue to simmer for another few minutes, tasting for seasoning as you do. Sprinkle the soup with parsley and serve in warmed soup bowls.

Yields four servings of chicken soup that fills not only that “gap” Campbell's keeps talking about, but your tummy, as well. It'll be better than anything Campbell's can can and better for you because you made it yourself and you know what's in it.

Buon appetito!

Rachael Ray Says She's Not A Chef: A Lot Of People Aren't

But She Plays One On TV

Food celebrity Rachael Ray has reiterated her longstanding objection to being called a “chef.” In a recent Huff Post interview she states that she prefers to be called “a cook.” Why? “I have pause when people refer to me as a 'chef' because I'm simply not.” She says she didn't go to the CIA (Culinary Institute of America) and she thinks that calling her a “chef” would be “disrespectful of people who did.” But let's think about that one, Rach. There are certain distinctions to be made.

In the 21^st century food and entertainment world, anybody who cooks on TV is called a “celebrity chef.” And sometimes the inaccuracy really grinds my gears. Wolfgang Puck is a chef. Mario Batali is a chef. Cat Cora is a chef. Emeril Legasse is a chef. Bobby Flay is a chef. Like her or hate her, Giada De Laurentiis is a chef. On the other hand, Sandra Lee is not a chef and former “Bag Lady” Paula Deen is definitely not a chef. (That's not a pejorative: when she started out in the food business making bag lunches for office workers in Savannah, Deen called herself “The Bag Lady.”) Her sons aren't chefs either. “Pioneer Woman” Ree Drummond is not a chef. Neither is the ubiquitous and vastly annoying Guy Fieri, although he at least has a degree in hotel management. Nigella Lawson may be a “Domestic Goddess,” but she's not a chef. And yet the undiscriminating public lumps them all together as “celebrity chefs.” Emphasis, I think, on the “celebrity” part.

Let's look at the word “chef.” Literally translated from French, it means “chief.” It refers to someone who is the head or the leader of a group of people. Old French-Canadian records indicate that all my male ancestors were chefs because that was how they were designated on the census forms. In that instance, the word related to their status as heads of their households. In the food world, the “chef” is the head of the restaurant staff. At it's most basic form, the position of “chef” is merely an indicator of the person who oversees the kitchen. The “chief cook.” And that certainly does not require an extensive and expensive culinary education. In simple terms, a “chef” needs to be able to cook to a degree that enables him or her to lead other cooks.

But, alas, we no longer live in simple times. The reality of life today lends itself to specialization. Everybody has to have a very specific job that includes a very specific title. And so it is with chefs. Most people define a “chef” as the person who creates the menu and oversees all back of the house functions like ordering and scheduling. They have to be up on food costs and they need to know their way around health codes and regulations. According to some purists, a chef has to meet the stringent criteria of the American Culinary Foundation. They have to be certified in nutrition and sanitation. There are exams and practical skills tests involved. They have to take management courses and have at minimum a two-year degree from an accredited culinary school. And, oh yeah, it helps if they can cook.

On the flip side, there are just a hell of a lot of chefs out there who never saw the outside of a culinary school, much less the inside. Their exams and practical skills started with washing dishes and working their way up. Let me be there when you tell Tom Colicchio, Jamie Oliver, or Thomas Keller that they aren't really “chefs” because they didn't go to culinary school. Certainly the world renowned Ferran Adrià is a classically trained chef, right? Surely he met all those stringent educational criteria before basically inventing molecular gastronomy, right? Nah. He dropped out of school and worked as a dishwasher in a hotel restaurant. Then he learned his trade from a bunch of other people who probably didn't meet the criteria for being “chefs” either.

Want to know who else doesn't qualify academically as a chef? How about the aforementioned Wolfgang Puck? His education came through apprenticeship. Does anybody debate the inclusion of Alice Waters among the pantheon of American chefs? She has a degree in French Cultural Studies, but no culinary school. Internationally recognized chef Jacques Pépin started out in his family's restaurant and later apprenticed in Paris. But no “Le Cordon Bleu” or other “formal training.” Similarly, French legend Paul Bocuse studied under Eugénie Brazier, the first chef to attain six Michelin stars. She also had no “formal training.” Daniel Boulud was a finalist in France's competition for Best Culinary Apprentice at age fifteen. No culinary school for him; he apprenticed his way to culinary stardom. Hunky Aussie chef Curtis Stone worked his way up ladder. Lidia Bastianich may head a restaurant empire now, but in her first eatery in Queens, she copied recipes from successful Italian restaurants and hired an Italian-American chef to execute them. No culinary school for her. And the late Cajun and Creole king, Paul Prudhomme, was entirely self-taught.

And, by the way, do you know what one of the highest culinary prizes in America is? I'm referring, of course, to the James Beard award. And did you also know that James Beard, the Dean of American Cuisine, never spent a day in culinary school? He was an unsuccessful actor who started up a catering business that ultimately led to cookbooks, speaking engagements, and to the establishment of his own cooking school. Not bad for someone who was never certified in nutrition and sanitation and all the other fal de rol that some people associate with chefdom. James Beard was nothing but a cook, and yet all the hoity toity chefs want his name associated with their restaurants. Strange, huh?

There are four generations of food professionals in my family. My grandfather and a couple of uncles were restaurateurs. I do what I do as a cook and a writer, and my son has worked his way up from fast food to management of a couple of pretty nice upscale places. My grandfather and my uncles cooked. My son and I cook. Despite the fact that we've all had a hand in creating menus, ordering supplies, supervising operations, and, oh yeah, preparing food, do any of us qualify as “chefs?” Meh.

The people for whom I cook often call me a chef. And for lack of a more comprehensive term, I sometimes bill myself as a “personal chef.” All that means is that I cook for people who pay me to do so. Perhaps “personal cook” would be more accurate, but such a term does not exist in the industry, so I go with what works. I do not, however, delude myself or others into thinking that I am a classically trained chef. Sure, I'm a better than average cook. If I weren't, people wouldn't be paying me to cook for them. Yeah, I know a lot about food and technique because I've taken a gazillion classes and read a gazillion books. And I've been cooking for a gazillion years. But am I a “chef?” Like Rachael, the word makes me squeamish, largely because I know my limitations.

Here's why I'm not a chef: Give me some basic, everyday ingredients and a decent kitchen and I'll whip up some unforgettably good food for you. A gas stove, some good pots and pans, a handful of tools and utensils, a few tomatoes, some onions, garlic, herbs and spices and I'll have you drooling over a delicious tomato sauce mixed with some of my handmade pasta. And you can sop up any leftover sauce with some of my fresh-baked bread. It'll be good, I promise. As long as I'm working with ingredients and techniques that fall within my comfort zone.

Now...drop off somebody like Mario Batali in the middle of the woods with nothing but a knife and a box of matches, and in ten minutes he'll make you a feast. THAT'S a chef! Oh, and did I mention that Mario dropped out of culinary school? He never got that minimal two-year degree that qualifies him as a real “chef.”

I mean, I watch “Chopped” and “Iron Chef” and “Top Chef” and similar shows and I sit there, mouth agape and eyes glazed over, as people throw together real, honest-to-goodness, edible dishes made from weird things, some of which I didn't even know existed. C'mon! Cactus flower buds, rose water, quince paste? Goat brains? Sea cucumbers? My wife and I are are like, “what the hell is that?” And then Ted Allen explains it and we're still like, “what the hell would you do with it?” And then the competitors do something wonderful with it in twenty minutes. Things that I couldn't conceive of in twenty hours. No, I'm not a chef. I'm a really good cook, but those people, the ones who can make something out of anything or nothing, are chefs. And some of them never went to culinary school either.

So what it really comes down to in the final analysis is the ability to walk the walk and talk the talk. Like James Beard, I came to the kitchen by way of the theater. There's another place where ability often trumps education. There are a lot of bad actors out there with good educations. A diploma does not make someone with no talent into an actor. You either are one or you're not. Same thing applies to being a chef. Give me somebody with raw talent and gut instinct any day. The old joke goes, “you know what you call a med student who finished last in his class? Doctor.” Just because you got a piece of expensive paper that says you went to school for two years doesn't mean you're any good in the kitchen. I've probably logged a thousand hours in online and hands-on cooking classes. In more than fifty years of standing at a stove, I've thoroughly tested my practical skills. I've even studied the ServSafe exam for food professionals. So I'm a chef, right? Nah. Not once you take me out of my comfort zone. I know a lot about food because I've studied it inside and out. I can make a phenomenal American breakfast and I can handle myself well in an Italian kitchen because those are the things I know and understand. The things with which I have great experience and familiarity. Take me out in the woods with a knife and a box of matches and I'll cut myself and burn down the forest just before I starve to death. So, no, I'm not a chef. And a whole lot of people who call themselves “chefs” aren't either. They're nothing more than over-hyped and/or over-educated cooks. Or celebrities.

Kudos to Rachael Ray for recognizing her limitations. That's the real difference between a cook and a chef.

Give Up Bacon? WHO Says!

A Far Cry From The Mass-Hysteria Media's Headline Grabbing, “WE'RE ALL GONNA DIE!!!”

Just in time for Halloween comes the latest fright: the WHO has spoken and bacon is a killer. Now, we're not talking about the rock group that gave us “Tommy” back in the sixties. No, the World Health Organization is making this proclamation (although Messrs. Townsend, Daltrey, Entwhistle, and Moon could probably have done it with greater entertainment value). Of course, various learned groups and individuals have been warning us about the dangers of processed meats for years, but the scientists who populate the halls of this prestigious Swiss-based institution have gone so far as to include bacon, ham, hot dogs, sausage, etc. in the same class – Class 1 – as tobacco, UV radiation, and diesel fumes. That's serious stuff. And red meat – you know, those big juicy steaks and chops you so love and enjoy – are in the next class down. In the black and white eyes of the WHO, steak might kill you and bacon definitely will.

The thing is, this is not the first time the WHO has issued this edict. They've been bashing bacon, hammering hot dogs, and reviling red meat for years. This latest hyperbolic scare tactic is just an amped-up version of what they've already said.

To be precise, this time the pocket protector crowd says that consuming just 50 g (1.76 oz) of processed meats per day – or 100 g of red meat – will increase the likelihood of colorectal cancer by 18 percent. For those of you who are metrically impaired, 50 g equates to about two strips of bacon. And because it's a slow news week, the media is all over it.

One of the things the headline writers aren't adequately emphasizing, however, is the relativity of the situation. The fact is that the average person has only a 5% chance at developing these cancers to begin with. So if said average person were to consume the “deadly” two strips of bacon every day for the rest of his life, he would be increasing an actual 5% chance by a relative 18%, thus raising his overall actual shot at developing cancer to 6%. Granted, such an increase is still an increase, but it's hardly a reason to declare a total moratorium on pork products.

Which leads to the other thing the alarmists are overlooking: moderation. Boys and girls, I l-o-o-o-ove my bacon. But my love is limited to two or three slices of it on a Sunday morning. If I go really wild, I might crumble a piece over a baked potato a couple of times a month and I might add an additional strip or two to a grilled cheese sandwich once in a blue moon. As for other processed meats, I also enjoy a ham sandwich now and then – one or two a week, I suppose – so I'm probably doubling my risk to a little over half of what the WHO considers dangerous. In short, I'm not too concerned.

What I am concerned about is where did these guys go to school? And were they all absent for the discussion on "correlation does not imply causation"? Unless all other variables are controlled for, impossible except for in the strictest experimental conditions. For example: It can be stated that sleeping with your shoes on is strongly correlated with waking up with a headache. Therefore, sleeping with your shoes on causes headaches. The problem here is that this plays into the “correlation implies causation” fallacy by prematurely concluding that sleeping with your shoes on causes headaches. Was any consideration given to a third factor, i.e. you went to bed dead skunk drunk? No? So the conclusion is false. Kind of like, “man eats bacon. Man develops cancer. Therefore, bacon causes cancer.”

The big bad in all this is nitrites. I'm not usually good at quick explanations, but here goes: A long, long time ago, man discovered salt as a preservative for meat. The most commonly used salt for the purpose is a naturally occurring one called sodium nitrate (chemically NaNO3). About a hundred years ago, it was discovered that when sodium nitrate interacts with bacteria in meat it forms a new compound. This is sodium nitrite (NaNO2). Sodium nitrite is the substance that protects us by inhibiting the growth of some really bad baddies like listeria and botulinum. It also keeps the fat in meat from going rancid. All good so far, right? It didn't take long for food processors to eliminate the middleman and start using sodium nitrite directly in preserving food, especially through the use of curing salt or “pink salt” which is 6.25% sodium nitrite and 93.75% common table salt. Well, then around 1970 or so, some other researchers discovered that when you heat up sodium nitrite in food to temperatures above 266°, it joins up with organic compounds called “amines” and converts yet again into something called nitrosamines. And it's these nitrosamines that are thought to be carcinogenic.

Still with me? Here's where it gets really funky. All these nitrates and nitrites and stuff don't just hitch a ride into your body on strips of bacon and beef jerky. Nitrites are naturally occurring substances in the human body. Your saliva, for instance, is loaded with the stuff. Scientists say that for every kilogram (2.2 pounds) of body weight you carry, your body naturally produces about a milligram of nitrite. And nitrosamine formation is inhibited by the presence of ascorbic acid – good ol' Vitamin C. Thus, the USDA limits the amount of nitrites added to cured meats and they require all products containing nitrites to also include vitamin C.

The real kicker is that we don't even get most of our daily dosage of nitrate/nitrite/nitrosamine from processed meat. Nope. Only about 6%. Around 80% of our nitrate consumption comes from vegetables. Good old healthy celery, leafy greens, leeks, parsley, beets and a host of other dietary delights are packed with it because the soil they grow in is packed with it. You know why? Because we dump tons of the stuff on fields as fertilizer. And when you eat those nitrate-laden veggies, guess what happens? Ding, ding, ding! The bacteria in your mouth converts the nitrates to nitrites! Just like it does with those aporkalyptic processed meats. Further, a recent British study found that nitrates can actually improve cardiovascular function by thinning blood and widening blood vessels, lessening the risk for clots and stroke. The bottom line here is that your body doesn't differentiate between the nitrates you ingest from meat and those you ingest from vegetables, water, and other sources. And chemical substances in our bodies – like Vitamin C – prevent the combination of nitrites and amines. No combination means no nitrosamines, the scary carcinogen about which the WHO is all exercised. But there's no “breaking news” in that, so we get the hyped up version instead.

Does that mean you can eat a pound of bacon for breakfast, a package of hot dogs for lunch, a slab of steak for supper and an entire sausage for a snack and expect to be healthy? Come on. Use a little common sense. For decades, eggs were considered little ovoid cholesterol bullets aimed directly at your heart. Better science now says that's not the case. But that doesn't mean I'm going to pillage the neighborhood chickens and eat a dozen eggs a day. I'll stick with my two scrambled on Sunday and be content in the knowledge that they're not really going to kill me after all. Not that I ever thought they would, but now I've got the nutrition nerds on my side.

Dr. Andrew Chan, associate professor of medicine at the Harvard School of Public Health, says, “The epidemiological data supporting an association between processed and red meats and colon cancer is very strong. There is definitely some reason for caution about the consumption of red and processed meats.” And then he opens the other side of his mouth and says, “It’s pretty clear that the link between consumption of meat with cancer appears to be dose-related. The more you eat, the higher your risk.” He goes on to state that it is “reasonable” to continue to include red meat in a balanced diet, provided it is done in moderation. Even the people responsible for this latest outburst, the researchers at the WHO's International Agency for Research on Cancer (IARC), have fessed up to the fact that moderation is the key. The head honcho on the study, Dr. Christopher Wild, acknowledged the nutritional value of meat and stopped well short of saying people should avoid it altogether. Instead, the WHO soft-pedaled the advice that government agencies should “balance the risks and benefits of eating red meat and processed meat and provide the best possible dietary recommendations.” That's a far cry from the mass-hysteria media's headline grabbing, “WE'RE ALL GONNA DIE!!!”

Besides, as I was writing this, I noticed that, in the face of a worldwide backlash, the WHO has already back-pedaled on the whole affair, releasing this statement: “The latest IARC review does not ask people to stop eating processed meats, but indicates that reducing consumption of these products can reduce the risk of colorectal cancer." Watching people back-pedal in lockstep is really quite amusing.

Am I going to give up bacon, the sublime porcine substance I have often referred to as “ambrosia”? Not likely. In the same way that I never bought into the media-hyped cholesterol myth that has now been so thoroughly discredited, I'm not going to believe that Porky Pig lurks in the darkness of my colon waiting to do me in. He hasn't done so in sixty years of consuming slightly less than a pound of bacon a month, even with the help of the double death-dealing whammy of fewer than a dozen eggs. And did I mention I use real butter?! So I will continue to exercise common sense and moderation, and, with careful driving, I may actually make it to 90 or 100 like my mother and my great-grandmother. (My poor grandmother only made it to 85.)

As for the WHO, maybe they should actually consider teaming up with The Who. It would make their next dire prediction really rock.

A Deadly Bread Additive And A Killer Bread Recipe

The “Staff Of Life” May Be Trying To Kill You

I make no secret of the fact that I don't buy bread. Haven't in many, many years. Oh, maybe the very rare “emergency loaf,” but even then I buy it from the supermarket's bakery section. At least it's closer to being bread that way. The plastic-wrapped bread-like substances that inhabit grocery shelves are not welcome in my kitchen. I don't like the taste – or lack thereof. I don't like the gummy, pasty texture. And I really don't care to be embalmed before I'm dead by all the preservatives. The idea that I can buy a loaf of “bread” that will still be “good”.....well.... intact anyway....after several weeks in my breadbox is frankly horrifying. Like the bread my mother made when I was growing up, the bread I make today begins to mold after about a week. Less in really hot, humid weather. And that's what bread is supposed to do. It's not supposed to last until Gabriel's trumpet blows. This store-bought Franken-bread that seems to live forever is just plain unnatural.

And now the word is the stuff can kill you.

A lot of cheap, store-bought breads and other baked goods are often made with bromated flour. That is flour to which potassium bromate has been added. This additive is used to strengthen dough, increase its rise in the oven, and to impart a nice white color to the bread. Tests on lab animals also indicate that it causes significant increases in kidney, thyroid, and other cancers. A recent (2011) study shows that potassium bromate can damage human DNA and cause oxidative stress. Potassium bromate is nephrotoxic in humans, meaning it has a poisonous effect on the kidneys when it’s taken orally. The International Agency for Research on Cancer has identified the substance as a “potential human carcinogen.” And potassium bromate has long been banned as a food additive by the European Union, the U.K., Canada, and Brazil. Here in the U.S. – where we have the best monitoring agency big corporate money can buy – the FDA allows the stuff to be fed to us, although they do set a limit of seventy-five parts per million. Short of banning potassium bromate outright, as other countries have done, our FDA “urges” bakers to “voluntarily” stop using it. And a lot of the major national bakeries have done just that, opting to use other “safer” additives to achieve the same effect. But many of the smaller, local “mom and pop” bakers still use the stuff because it's cheap and easy. Check your labels. To date, only California requires warnings to be posted on bromated products. Everybody else has to read the fine print.

Watch your flour, too. If you bake at home, beware of bleached and bromated flours. Bleaching and bromating are not the same thing, although they do serve much the same purpose. In bleaching, a chemical like benzoyl peroxide or calcium peroxide is introduced to the flour to aid in gluten development and to make it nice and white. Both of which are entirely unnecessary. And benzoyl peroxide and calcium peroxide are hardly lily white (sorry) when it come to health. The former has many researchers questioning its effects on the human digestive system and the latter, like potassium bromate, has been banned nearly everywhere except in the U.S. Bottom line: buy flour that is clearly labeled as “unbleached” and “unbromated.” I prefer King Arthur and use it exclusively.

Bread has long been called “the staff of life.” How curious and somewhat ironic, then, that modern-day store-bought, conveniently sliced and packaged bread may be trying to kill us. I know that's a bit hyperbolic, but honestly, between the scary preservatives and the possibly carcinogenic additives, it's not far from the truth. All the more reason to make it yourself.

Omar Khayyam waxed rhapsodic about a jug of wine and a loaf of bread. On the subject of bread and "whine," here's my favorite: “I don't have the ti-i-i-i-i-i-i-ime.” Or maybe, “It's too ha-a-a-a-a-ard.” Both are completely specious and bogus excuses. Whether for catering or home use, I bake all my own breads. French baguettes, crusty Italian loaves, pizza crusts, grissini, garlic knots, dinner rolls, sandwich rolls, or just plain old white sandwich bread – I bake 'em all. None take more than a couple of hours and none are at all “ha-a-a-a-a-ard” to make.

One of the easiest and most delicious bread doughs in my repertoire is made up of three ingredients and it doesn't even require kneading. It's a “slack dough” recipe, meaning it produces a very wet dough, and your refrigerator does most of the work. Best of all, the dough keeps in the fridge for up to two weeks. Make up a loaf today and when you use it up, reach into the chill chest, grab another handful of dough, and bake up another loaf. It really is that simple.

A couple of phenomenal bakers, Jeff Hertzberg and Zoë François, produced a wonderful book, "Artisan Bread in Five Minutes a Day." A lot of other bakers, including yours truly and the skilled artisans at King Arthur, have adopted and adapted their recipe for a delicious “no-knead” crusty artisan bread. You'll never find an easier or more delicious bread than this one.

One quick note: American bakers are the only ones in the world who still use “cups” as a standard of measurement. Everybody else weighs their ingredients. Digital scales are dirt cheap and I use mine for everything. If you're going to get serious about baking (or cooking), rustle up a scale.

For this recipe, you're going to need 907.2 grams (32 ounces; 2 pounds) of unbleached all-purpose flour. Again, I recommend King Arthur, but if you have another preference, just make sure it's unbleached. If you insist on using cups, allow for 6 ½ to 7 ½ cups. The difference is in the method of measuring you use. If you are a “sprinkle and sweeper,” that is, if you kind of fluff up or aerate your flour by scooping it out of the bag and into a cup, then leveling it off, you'll use the greater amount. If you are a “dip and sweeper,” one who dips a cup into the bag, tamps it down and sweeps off the excess, you'll use the lesser amount. If you want to do it right, you'll just weigh it.

You'll also need 3 cups (24 ounces) of lukewarm (about 105°F) water, 1 tablespoon (14 g; ½ oz) salt, and 1 ½ tablespoons (14 g; ½ oz) of instant yeast.

Combine all the ingredients in a large mixing bowl. Mix everything together until a very rough, very sticky dough forms. I wouldn't try this one in a bread machine. For one thing, two pounds of flour will overwhelm most of them. Same goes for cheap, low-powered stand mixers. If you don't have a KitchenAid or something of equal power, just mix it by hand using a big wooden paddle or spoon or a dough whisk. If you do have a decent stand mixer, about a minute at medium speed with the beater blade rather than the dough hook will do the job.

Now you just let it rise. My advice would be to invest in a restaurant quality six-quart food grade plastic container. You can get one at a restaurant supply store for five or six bucks. And you can use it for a ton of things besides bread dough. Otherwise, come up with a large sealable plastic container of some sort. You don't have to grease the container, but a shot of Pam will help in the long run. Transfer the dough from the bowl to the prepared container, cover it loosely (don't snap the lid on airtight) and let it sit at room temperature for about two hours. Then stick it in the refrigerator for at least two hours before you try to use it. Overnight is best. The beauty of this is dough is that it can actually live in the fridge for up to two weeks. One week is recommended by some sources, but others say two weeks works. Because of the volume of bread I bake, mine has never lasted more than a week so I don't know from personal experience. The longer you keep it, the more flavor it will develop. Don't be surprised if it tastes a little like sourdough after about a week.

To make bread out of this mass of dough, just reach in there and pull out a big hunk; about ¼ of the dough. If you have a scale, it should weigh in at about one pound, give or take an ounce. You might want to flour your hands a little bit if the dough is really sticky. Hold the dough and dust it with a little flour, then quickly shape it into a ball. Try to get a nice tight surface by stretching the dough around to the bottom on all sides, rotating ¼ turns as you go. Don't worry if it's not perfect.

Place the shaped dough on a parchment lined peel. “Wait a minute,” you ask, “who's got one of those?” Well...I've got two. But a flat, rimless baking sheet works as well. Cover the dough loosely with a towel and let it stand in a warm, draft free place for about one hour or until the dough is slightly puffed up and no longer feels cold.

Thirty minutes before you're ready to bake, place a baking stone on the center oven rack. “Baking stone?” Okay, don't worry about it. Just use the flat baking sheet. And you know that broiler pan that came with your oven that you never use? Time to use it. Stick it on the bottom rack. Now preheat your oven to 450°.

Dust the top of your loaf with a little more flour and, with a very sharp knife, make two or three 1/4-inch deep slashes in the top of the loaf. Then either slide the loaf with the parchment paper onto the baking stone or just slip your parchment lined baking sheet into the oven. Quickly pour a cup of water into the broiler pan (to create steam) and close the oven door.

Bake for thirty minutes or until your loaf is a deep golden brown. If you have an instant read thermometer, your bread should temp at 190° to 200°. But the old “tap it and if it sounds hollow it's done” trick works, too. Cool your boule (that's French for “ball,” which is what you've got) on a wire rack and you've got delicious, nutritious, preservative-free bread. How nutritious? I'll tell you: an average slice contains 80 cal; 0 g total fat; 0 g unsaturated fat; 2.5 g protein; 16.5 g carb; 0 mg cholesterol; 135 mg sodium; .5 g fiber.

There you have it: a killer recipe for bread that won't try to kill you. Enjoy!

Buon appetito!

Please Don't Break the Pasta

“Every Time You Break The Pasta An Italian Cook Cries.”

Do you remember these famous “cause and effect” sayings: “Every time a bell rings an angel gets his wings” or “Every time a child says 'I don't believe in fairies' there is a little fairy somewhere that falls down dead”? Or that old standard, “step on a crack, break your mother's back”? Well, I've got a new one for you: “Every time you break the pasta an Italian cook cries.”

For some unfathomable reason, American cooks love to take a handful of innocent, inoffensive spaghetti and viciously snap it in half before throwing it into a pot of boiling water. Apparently they don't realize that under such torture spaghetti emits a high-pitched scream that can only be heard by Italians. You don't believe me? I was watching an episode of “Chopped” when some bozo thoughtlessly broke the spaghetti in half. Scott Conant and I both visibly winced and I said to my wife, “Scott's gonna call him on that one.” Sure enough, he did. And the pasta abuser wound up losing, too.

Folks, don't break the spaghetti. And don't ask me why you shouldn't break the spaghetti because I don't know why you shouldn't break the spaghetti. All I know is that you shouldn’t. It's an Italian thing. (Actually, I do know why. I'll get to it in a minute.)

I was at the home of a friend of a friend and I was in the kitchen as dinner was being prepared. I almost came out of my chair when I saw the cook grasp a bunch of spaghetti in both hands. Everybody must have thought I'd gone pazzo when I shouted, “DON'T!” as she was about to snap it half. The cook looked at me like I'd grown a third eye and said, “We always cook it that way.” That's when I also learned that they never salt the cooking water and that they add oil to it. I just left the kitchen, weeping.

Don't break the pasta. Some Italians believe it's bad luck. Most agree it's bad manners and any Italian cook will tell you it's bad technique. The Chinese believe long noodles represent long life. You wanna risk half your life?

In case you think I'm parlare dal mio culo, allow me to cite some examples: besides the aforementioned anti-breakage chef Scott Conant, Mario Batali has gone on record as saying that breaking pasta is an insult to all those nonne who spent decades perfecting their long, thin noodles, engineered to hold the sauce in just the right way. The late queen of the Italian kitchen Marcella Hazan, in her bestselling “The Essentials of Classic Italian Cooking,” says, "Do not break up spaghetti or any other long pasta into smaller pieces." Another doyenne of the Italian kitchen, Lidia Bastianich, emphatically commands, “Do not break your pasta (noodle types like spaghetti, linguini, etc) before adding it to a pot of boiling water. It’s bad luck!” The folks at Real Simple unequivocally state, “Don't break pasta to fit it in the pot. Let the ends stick out until the submerged sections soften, about 1 minute. Then stir to bend the pasta and push it underwater.” Under the heading “Pasta Cooking Basics” the authorities at AllRecipes.com say, “let spaghetti and long strands soften for a minute before stirring. Don’t break pasta in half.” Food writer Dominic Armato lays out the “Ten Commandments of Dry Pasta” on his Skillet Doux website. Here's number VI – “Thou Salt Not Break The Pasta. I have absolutely no logical reason why. I just know you don't do it. You don't do it. It's a cardinal sin. If your pasta doesn't fit in your pot......well......get a bigger pot.” The Epicurean Table states, “never break long pasta to fit into the pan. Apply gentle pressure as the pasta softens and bend the strands. Wait a few moments and give a stir.”

Had enough, miscreant pasta breakers? Or shall I continue flagellating you with an unbroken wet noodle until you repent of your evil ways?

I know why a lot of people break pasta. The sad thing is they don't have to. It's a rookie cooking move. People who break pasta do so for two reasons: one, they think it fits better in the pot and two, they think it's easier to eat after it's cooked.

Addressing the second excuse first, let me be brutally honest: if you can't handle eating long pasta without breaking it or cutting it, may I respectfully suggest “SpaghettiOs?” C'mon! Only Italian children have their spaghetti broken or cut for them. And then only until they're about five years of age. After that they're expected to eat like adults, and adults never cut or break their long pasta. It is the ultimate breach of etiquette. That's why pseudo-Italian restaurants provide amateur eaters with those stupid big spoons. Even sitting there like an infant using a spoon to help you twirl the strands onto your fork is preferable to cutting it up. Breaking or cutting long pasta just isn't done, either before or after cooking.

And as far as fitting the pot goes, just learn how to cook. Okay, I get it. An average strand of spaghetti is just a smidge over ten inches long. The interior diameter of an average five-quart pot measures just under ten inches. Something's gotta give, right? So you bust up the spaghetti into five-inch pieces, right? So that they fit into the pot, right? WRONG! As the people cited in the earlier paragraph correctly instruct, put the pasta into the pot whole and unbroken. Sure the stuff is gonna stick out of the pot a little bit – for about thirty seconds. After that the noodles will have softened enough that a little gentle stirring will bring them all together into the pot nice and neat. Everything fits and no breaking required. Do you think Italian pasta manufacturers are stupid. Do you suppose they make pasta ten inches long just so that you can bust it into five-inch pieces? They call it “long pasta” for a reason. And if you don't want or like it long, buy short pasta! Leave the long stuff alone! Uffa!

Hey, it's a free country. And as Julia Child famously said, “If you're alone in the kitchen.......who's going to know.” Break the pasta in half. It's your dish. Heck, Barilla markets a pre-cut spaghetti called “Fideo.” It's about 3/4-inch long. That ought to fit in your pot and on your fork. And Mueller's wimps out with something called "Pot-Sized" pasta. Whatever. But if you want to prepare and enjoy spaghetti, linguine, and other long pastas the way they are intended to be prepared and enjoyed, leave them in their natural form.

Don't break the pasta. Grazie.

Buon appetito!