The other day I opened the kitchen cupboard and a bag of cashews fell on my head. I wish I could tell you it was the first time, but the truth is, I dodge falling legumes in my kitchen like hailstones in June. The pantry shelves are groaning with bags of this and that—various flours, dried fruits, nuts, grains, beans—all of them partially full, with not enough of any one thing to create a meal. They drive me crazy.
In the spirit of January parsimony, I have cut myself off from the grocery store and vowed to only buy fresh veg and meat until we’ve emptied (most of) the cupboard. This week, I started with the leftover pasta, gathering all the different kinds into one big rollicking, rustic dish.
At first I had doubts: Is it possible to cook different shapes in one pot? Yes, says Bon Appétit, and the varied sizes and cooking times create a lovely, complex texture, with some bits mushy and others al dente. Paired with a chunky chickpea puree, this is a hearty, wholesome, frugal winter dish.
Here’s what you do: Simmer some chickpeas (you could use canned) in salted water, along with bits of celery, carrot, onion, garlic, and/or whatever else strikes your fancy. In a sauté pan, sizzle up some minced garlic and chili flakes. Add the seasoned chickpeas and their veg, throw in a handful of cherry tomatoes. A few satisfying pounds of the potato masher will turn the beans into a soupy, crushed puree. When the pasta’s cooked—I boiled three shapes for an arbitrary time of nine minutes—mix the two together.
I ate this meal on a cold night as the wind howled outside and my heart unclenched from last week’s events in France, a hot plate of comfort to try to soothe my sorrow.
Rustic pasta with crushed chickpeas
Adapted from BonAppétit.com
This is a flexible recipe, both adaptable and expandable. Along with using up dried pasta, it’s also a great way to clean out any vegetables you’ve got hanging around the fridge. I used elbow macaroni, farfalle, and spaghetti, but any mix of shapes will work. I would, however, avoid thicker varieties that take ages to cook. Break up long strands of spaghetti or linguine when you add them to the pot.
1 1/2 cups chickpeas
1 stalk celery, finely chopped
1 carrot, peeled and finely chopped
3/4 lb mixed pasta shapes
1 tablespoon olive oil
2 cloves garlic, peeled and minced
1 teaspoon chile flakes
1 cup cherry tomatoes, halved
Delicious strong olive oil and Parmagiano Reggiano for serving
In a saucepan, add the chickpeas, carrot, and celery, and cover with an inch of cold water. Season and simmer for about 10 minutes.
In a sauté pan, heat the olive oil over medium heat and sizzle the garlic until fragrant. Add the chili flakes and then the chickpeas and their vegetables, moistening with dashes of the chickpea broth. Stir in the tomatoes (and any other vegetables you might be using). Lower the heat and cook until the tomatoes soften and start to fall apart. Using a potato masher, crush the chickpeas in an rough, textured purée. Add splashes of chickpea broth as necessary.
Meanwhile, in a large pot of boiling water, cook the pasta. (I boiled mine for 9 minutes.) Drain and stir the crushed chickpeas into the pasta, adding more chickpea broth to moisten the mixture. Taste and correct seasoning. Serve drizzled with lots of delicious, sharp extra virgin olive oil (I prefer the kind from Sicily), and drifts of Parmagiano Reggiano.
Update: A few people have asked me about the events of last week. To be honest, I initially started this post in a completely different direction. But as I struggled to process my feelings, I realized that it just didn’t feel right or true for me to comment on the situation in France. Last week I was New York, watching the events unfold via “live blogs” and Twitter, just like everyone else who wasn’t in France—and it felt disingenuous of me to blog about my jumble of emotions as if they’re meaningful. (If, however, you’re looking for insights, this opinion piece by Pamela Druckerman is pretty terrific.) I’m still reeling by what happened last week, still processing my thoughts, still grieving and terribly sad—and I’m guessing most French people feel the same way.