Recently, a loved friend who owns a house that he intentionally overstuffs at all time broke form and gave me an Atlas pasta machine, retrieving it from a high kitchen cabinet. He explained to me that he was reducing his carbohydrate intake drastically and replacing them with protein and fats, so there wasn’t much of a need in his life for a pasta maker. Jeff’s never eaten enough as long as I’ve known him--a sinewy man who subsisted, as far as I know, entirely on coffee, pita bread, and the odd piece of candy for years. So there’s something heartening about seeing him cook up kettles of chicken and vegetables for himself every day. And that leaves me with the pasta machine, only slightly dented from being dropped a couple of times traveling between his house in Fredericksburg, VA and mine in Bellingham, WA.
Making pasta is one of my earliest, revelatory memories of cooking. When I was in first grade, my elementary school had a day of hands-on workshops taught by teachers for students. You could sign up for four, but the only one I remember is the pasta tutorial. It was novel to crack eggs into a bowl and to crank a handle on a pasta machine as it changed from a lump to a smooth yellow sheet. The finished strands, fished out of the pot by one of the teachers, was tender and slippery. Six-year-old me went home extolling the virtues of homemade pasta to my mom and dad’s perplexion.
Making it years later, I really enjoy Alton Brown’s pasta recipe for its frugality--just two eggs rather than eight yolks--and it’s intention--a precise teaspoon of olive oil rather than a quarter cup of oil or none at all. On thing that puts me into a state of perplexion about Brown’s pasta recipe (and most) is the suggestion that one mix the dough on the countertop--building a volcano of flour and filling its crater with eggs. That never fails to create a wide scattering of flour and runnels of eggs stickily racing for the edge of the counter. I recommend ignoring Alton on this and using a mixing bowl. (I halved the pasta dough recipe and that made enough for two substantial dinner servings.)
I was all excited about using my Atlas for the first time, but if you’re patient you could successfully roll out the dough with a rolling pin on a well-floured board or counter. Bear in mind that there’s such a thing as too-thin pasta, whether you’re rolling by machine or hand--leading to noodles that break too easily when they’re raw and somehow fuse into a gummy glob as they cook. I aim for the thickness of a hard book cover, about an eighth of an inch thick. This time I used the cutters on the pasta machine attachment for novelty’s sake, but next time I will just use the rollers to roll out even sheets of dough and then hand cut tagliatelle.
I am also writing this post because the sauce we had with this pasta was a wonderful and simple one. Recently we were at the Squalicum Harbor park looking at sailboats through the huge telescope on its little knoll. We were surrounded by thousands of ripe rose hips of Rosa rugosa, also called beach rose. Their hips, consequently, have come to be called beach tomatoes. The resemblance when cooked is uncanny. I picked a bag of them while Tyler politely read on a nearby bench, dissociating himself from my squirrel-like behavior. Happily, beaches and seaside harbors aren’t the only places the beach rose grows. I’ve noticed it lately in corporate and campus landscaping as well as in home gardens, planted for its sturdiness and the beauty of its single magenta flowers.
Cooking beach tomatoes, aside from the annoyance of press the pulp through a sieve, is a cinch. You throw the hips, trimmed of their blossom ends, into a pot with about a cup of water, a big spoonful of sugar, and a pinch of salt. Simmer til very tender and some of the hips have split (this took about 10 minutes after they came to a boil). Then mash the hips with their liquid through a fine strainer or a food mill. I always find that this part gets old before it’s done, but after a few minutes of dedicated work you’ll be left with a bowl of lovely deep orange-red puree that is slightly sweet, slightly floral, and complexly fruity. The puree freezes well and would probably make an interesting sorbet or ice cream, but it turns towards savory with grace
To make the sauce, which is plenty to dress a pound of cooked pasta:
Finely chop a small onion and mince a clove of garlic.
Heat a couple tablespoons of olive oil and/or butter in a saucepan or saucier over medium.
Fry the onion and garlic with a pinch of salt until they’re soft and just starting to brown.
Add a cup and a half to two cups of beach tomato puree and bring to a simmer.
Add salt and pepper to taste. If it tastes too acidic, add a dessert spoon of sugar.
Toss with hot pasta and sprinkle with chopped parsley and cheese, if you like.
