No, not Brickman’s, again. This time, I was my own worst enemy.
I roasted and mashed the pumpkin, added sautéed onion, Romano cheese, thyme, and fresh grated nutmeg, and then wrapped it all up into dozens of little pasta packages. I planned to smother my new-fangled cappellettis in brown butter and sage, and then weep softly as I polished off my own plate as well as those intended for the rest of my family.
One of my pet peeves about ravioli and such is when the delicious filling leaks out into the pasta water as you boil them. It’s especially irksome when it exposes and/or eliminates the mystery vegetable intended for your children (or yourself, whatever). So, with this in mind, I dug out (avert your eyes, Nonni) my bamboo steamer and proceeded to lay the little dumplings out in a single layer on each of the two levels.
In my mind, Terry Gross was probing me with fascinating questions about my brilliance. Meanwhile, a different little voice in my head was yelling “Alert, alert.” Another one of my pet peeves is when that little voice interferes with my plans. I ignored it. Continue, Terry, I said. I’m sure you can see where this is going.
The cappellettis were nicely steamed (although the pasta isn’t quite as tender as when it’s boiled) and all beautifully intact. That is, until I tried to pry them off the racks to which they had become fused. Okay, so maybe oiling the racks would have been a good idea. Chalk one up for the little voice. After a series of ungraceful spatula maneuvers, and several disapproving looks from Terry, I got them all off. Their structural integrity was woefully compromised, but at least all the holes were on the bottom. And they were still good.
Take that, Terry Gross.