RECIPE: Twin Olive Bolognese

This recipe started with my old Italian neighbor, who grew up in one rowhome with sixteen brothers and sisters (maybe not all at once) and to this day dyes her hair shining copper-red. She makes it with pepperoni. She gave the basic recipe to my mother, who has since never bought a damned jar of spaghetti sauce, and makes it with sweet Italian sausage. I stole it from her, and made it just a little weird.

Twin Olive Bolognese 

Photo Credit: morgueFile

1c Ground Beef
6oz Can Black Olives (drained)
6oz Jar Spanish Olives (drained)
8oz Can Tomato Paste
29oz Can Tomato Puree
6-7 Garlic Cloves (minced)
2-3 Carrots, thinly sliced
1tbsp Parsley Flakes
1/2tbsp Red Pepper Flakes
2tsp Salt
2tsp Black Pepper
1tbsp Olive Oil

I don't like to peel my carrots. I don't like to peel anything. So long as your carrots are washed sufficiently (and by that I mean rinsed so there's no visible guck, and then a little bit more if you're touchy) and you cut off the nib and the stem end, there's no reason any bit of a carrot should go to waste. Wash and slice your carrots into thin coins, about the size and thickness of a dime, penny, or quarter, depending on the circumference of the carrot.

Today, we are particularly interested in the anatomy and treatment of carrots. Moving on.

Drain your olives, mince (get them nice and mixed up, they aren't shy), and set to the side. Mince your garlic; feel free to use a food processor, remembering to 'PULSE' in twitchy, nervous jabs. You want dainty, sticky little bits; you do not want aioli.

In a medium to large pot with a lid (if you can't find a lid, a large plate will do) saute your minced garlic, 1 teaspoon of salt, 1 teaspoon of pepper, and your parsley in the tablespoon of oil on medium-high heat for 30, I sa-I said THIRTY seconds, giving it a good stir. The 30 second rule was passed along by my Sicilian friend's mother, and you never, ever doubt Faith. The instant those thirty seconds are up, dump your cup of ground beef (when I say 'cup', I mean a lump the rough size of a fist) and start breaking it up with your spoon. You want it to brown, but you don't want it to clump, so poke away at the meat until you've got an even layer of non-clump beef, nicely browned.

Photo Credit: morgueFile

After sufficient browning, pile your minced olives, black and green, on top. Mix the olives in until the meat, olives, and garlic are all one multicolored mush. The great thing about this bolognese is that when it's finished, texture-wised you can't tell the meat from the vegetables; they all melt on your tongue. That's Strega Nona stuff. It's pure dead magic. Throw your carrots in after that, then pour your first can of tomato puree and stir it in.

I say first because you are now going to take that can (trust me, I know what I'm doing, are you going to doubt a 70 year old Italian woman's recipe?) and fill it with water, just ordinary tap water, pour that in, and stir til it blends nicely. Then open your tomato paste, spoon every last plop of that gunk into the pot, then repeat: fill with water, smush it around in the can to get any remaining scrape of paste, pour into the pot, and stir. You want this all to blend evenly; at each moment in the pot your spoon should touch every ingredient at once. Throw in your remaining salt, pepper, and red pepper flakes. Raise your flame a fraction of a hair and bring that puppy to a boil.

And when it boils, bring it down to the lowest possible flame. Stir periodically so that nothing sticks to the bottom. This is the tricky part: set your lid on the pot so that there is a thin, sliver-crescent 'vent' for steam, but it is still mostly covered. Then, let simmer for an hour and forty five minutes.

You heard me. Get comfy. Don't you dare take that thing off the flame. (Just remember to stir it, so it neither sticks nor burns.)

Pasta night is a routine battle in my house because I (spoilt brat I may be) refuse to pair my gravy with anything ever except spaghetti. There's something about spaghetti; it is the pasta king. However, this meaty bolognese works just as well with macaroni, ziti, penne, rigatoni, any hearty, exceptionally Italian sounding pasta. (I say farfalle as well, but I've nearly been boxed in the ears by Old Boston Chef, who insists that bow ties are too delicate for meat sauce. She also calls it 'sauce.' Take as you will.)

An hour and forty five minutes later, you have a rich, sweet, kicky, zesty, melty, otherwise delicious bolognese, and my sweet (and spicy) old neighbor's recipe lives on through yet another wacky incarnation, just in time for tomorrow's Sunday dinner. Cin cin!