The Art of Eating In - Cathy Erway [24]
1 medium-large (or 2 small) zucchinis, halved lengthwise and thinly sliced
¼ cup sun-dried tomatoes, finely chopped
Sprinkle of sea salt (optional)
In a large bowl, combine flour, yeast, salt, and rosemary. Add water, and stir until blended; dough will be shaggy and sticky. Cover bowl with plastic wrap. Let dough rest at least 12 hours, preferably about 18, at warm room temperature, about 70 degrees.
Heat a saute pan with about 1 tablespoon of the olive oil over medium heat. Add zucchini and a sprinkle of salt and pepper, and toss and stir until just wilted, about 2-3 minutes. Remove from heat and let cool. Combine with the chopped sun-dried tomatoes in a bowl.
Knead the dough a few times on a lightly floured surface, then divide into roughly nine even pieces. Roll each one out into a thin log about 10 inches long and 2 inches wide. Distribute the zucchini and sun-dried tomato evenly along the length of each breadstick and fold in half lengthwise to close (dough does not have to be fully sealed around the fillings). Carefully twist the breadstick lengthwise a few times. Place them three inches apart on floured cutting boards or cotton towels. Cover with floured cotton towels and let rise for about 2 hours, in a relatively warm place.
Preheat oven to 400 degrees. Lightly oil the bottom of cookie sheets and transfer breadsticks to sheets, placed about 2 inches apart. Brush tops of breadsticks with remaining olive oil and sprinkle with sea salt if desired. Bake for about 20 minutes, or until golden.
CHAPTER 3
Mise en Place
Excellent mise represents the ultimate state of preparedness, whether the physical mise en place of food and tools or the mental mise en place of having thought a task through to the end and being ready for each step of it.
—Michael Ruhlman, The Elements of Cooking
Despite all this talk about baking, I’ve failed to describe the physical surroundings where my not-eating-out mission took place. The kitchen in the small two-bedroom I shared with Erin was more of a hallway between the living room and the bathroom. On one side were a refrigerator and a stove, pushed precariously close to each other. The other side held a sink and a small counter space that fit one person standing before it; it was usually one of us cooking and one of us talking just outside, maybe, but never could we both be actively using the kitchen at the same time. For lack of many drawers or space to put cooking tools, we’d hung a ruffled, red-and-white-striped apron against the wall just below the cabinets. Its front pocket was where we tucked all our wooden spoons, ladles, whisks, and spatulas. The weight from the utensils drew the pocket outward, so that the handles protruded into the counter space, ready to poke me with any move too flagrant.
The air was getting cool by the end of September, reminding me of how soothing it felt to cook when it was cold outside. Prompted by countless nights of staying in and cooking with Erin, I was becoming quite confident in my kitchen skills. I decided it was a good time to bring others into the fold by having guests over—if only because of the fact that there were so many different dishes I wanted to make and not enough mouths to feed them to.
One Friday night when Erin was out at band practice, I invited my friends Richard and Sam over for dinner, along with Ben. Richard and Sam had gone to art school with Ben, and the three of them were longtime friends. Richard was a Web designer, to Ben’s print graphic design. His girlfriend, Sam, who often wore her long, curly black hair in braids, was a jewelry designer and freelance painter and sculptor. The couple’s true calling, however, might have been hosting barbecues. Over the summer, they’d held more backyard feasts than I could remember, or at least remember in full. Their barbecues generally consisted of the basics: hamburgers, hot dogs, a pit bull trying to steal bites of your hot dog, kabobs, grilled corn on the cob, a table crowded with condiments baking