Dear Mom,
I thought about our phone calls when I was in college, the other day. Long distance, they were back then. I’d flood you with questions about cooking. Living away from home for the first time, survival was at stake. How much of this and how much of that. When do you add that, after how many minutes? I sought unequivocal answers, you kept giving me approximations: a little bit of this, not too much of that; when it’s, like, a little done, add this other thing.
It was frustrating, I wanted recipes to follow with surgical precision, formulas to apply rigorously to the third decimal point. But by watching you I learned that’s how you do it -- by trusting your senses. And who am I to judge an outstanding cook like you? You’re the best. And so I decided to write you a recipe, one of those you don’t do. Something simple, just as a reciprocation to all the stuff you taught me. Something to show you that, after all these years, I got to a decent level and I now no longer cook just to survive, but for the sheer pleasure of it. Also, for posterity.
Carbonara is possibly the easiest pasta dish to make (yet, the easiest to screw up). I know the first I ever made I learned from you (you admitted you had no clue yourself and had to figure it out on the fly -- something you’re so good at), but since then I’ve refined my technique and now your niece and nephew say I do it extraordinarily well. They might be the only ones in the world to think that but, as you know, theirs is the most important feedback. So here it goes.
Get some eggs, black pepper, three-four slices of guanciale (each about a quarter of an inch thick), and some pecorino romano. Pick a pasta format -- either long (spaghetti), or short (I like rigatoni or mezze maniche). A good pasta brand, though: De Cecco, Rummo, or Voiello (I’m listing only those you can find pretty much everywhere; there’s a plethora of other awesome small brands of artisanal pasta you can go look for, but that’s overkill). Put a pot of water on the stove and, while you wait for it to boil, cut the guanciale into small strips and place them in a skillet without anything else (no oil, no butter, nothing). Cook it over low heat. It should “sweat”: the guanciale will slowly release its own fat and start getting crispy. Don’t let it become all the way crunchy, though. Not too much. Turn off the heat when you see it’s three-quarters of the way there (how can you tell? It has shrunk, turned brownish, and the melted fat mostly covers the bottom of the skillet).
On the side, get the eggs and separate the whites from the yolks. You’ll only need the yolks here (but don’t throw out the whites; they’ll come handy for Friday’s omelette). How many? For a whole pack of pasta (500 grams, or half a kilo), I use five (one for every 100 grams). Put all the yolks in a bowl and grind a lot of black pepper on them. A lot, don’t be stingy. They should be almost completely covered in black powder. Then, grate the pecorino romano. A generous amount. Add it to the bowl with the yolks and black pepper and, with a fork, mix everything together. You should get a thick yellow paste. A deep yellow, cause of the black pepper. So, if you were going to ask me to be more precise with the amount of pecorino (which I know you weren’t), the litmus test is that there has to be enough to produce this thick deep yellow paste, its thickness and texture similar to that of toothpaste.
At some point along this whole procedure, the water comes to a boil. Maybe it’s when you’re separating whites from yolks, or maybe when you’re grating the pecorino. Whenever it happens, pause what you’re doing, lightly salt the water (with just a little coarse salt; not too much, as the guanciale, the pecorino, and black pepper already give this dish a salty-ish, tasty quality), and add the pasta. I like rigatoni, and they usually have a cooking time of 13/14 minutes. Forget that. Give them nine minutes tops. Plenty of time to get back to what you were doing, and finish up (maybe you’d already finished: I doubt it, but if that’s the case, congratulations, just sit on your hands for nine minutes).
Oh, I almost forgot. While you’re waiting, you might want to consider a non-mandatory step (I always do, but it’s up to you. Some people say this makes it heavier, but Carbonara has never been a light dish. You know what you signed up for here). Remember the guanciale in the skillet that got crunchy and released its own fat? If it’s cooled down (and I believe it has, as you switched off the flame when it was about three-quarters done), take a spoon, scoop up some of that fat (one, two spoons max), and add it to the bowl with the yellow paste. Mix the paste some more until it gets shiny. Just make sure the contents of the skillet have cooled down a bit, though (to lukewarm, wait for about seven or eight minutes from when you turned off the flame, to be safe), or you’ll risk turning the yellow paste into scrambled eggs. You don’t want that.
You’re now all set for the final two, most critical steps (this is where most people tend to screw up, as I myself did so many times; so pay attention). When the time’s up (nine minutes, remember?), switch off the flame, get the pasta out of the water, and put it in the skillet with the crunchy guanciale and its fat. Do not drain the pasta completely, leave it a bit watery: just pick it up with a colander and transfer it to the skillet (under which you’ve just turned the heat back on). Leave the water in the pot. Sauté (or, more vulgarly, mix) the pasta in the skillet with the guanciale, adding some cooking water from time to time if it dries up. Do this for three-four minutes with a lively flame. Once the starch from the pasta and the guanciale and its fat have mixed well (you can tell when the pasta gets shiny and its liquid gets creamy), switch off the flame. Take the skillet off the stove and wait a couple of minutes until the heat tapers off. This is key, as -- again -- you don’t want to make pasta with scrambled eggs. Now add the yellow paste and mix it all together. It should blend well to create a rich, creamy, smooth, yellow sauce. If it feels too dry or sticky, add a little cooking water and keep mixing. Transfer the whole content of the skillet to a serving platter, sprinkle with some freshly grated pecorino, and enjoy.
So, how did I do? Is this something you approve of? I know, this isn’t as sophisticated as the delicacies you make. This isn’t your cappelletti, or your tagliatelle al ragù di anatra, or your parmigiana di melanzane, just to cite a few. Dad used to say that you’re an artist. And I know you’re not really into Carbonara. But I wanted to write this to leave a trail, and show off a little with you. And check whether I did okay: who better than you can judge that?
Of course, you’ll say this is awesome: bravo! You’d say that even if I made burned popcorn. You’ve always been encouraging. And positive.
Anyway, I have to go now.
Love.
"Unsent Letters" is a series released every other week. These are imaginary letters to fictitious or real individuals who may or may not have influenced my life, not always mirroring actual events.
If you liked what you read, I’d be truly grateful if you shared it.
And if you’re not yet a subscriber and just stumbled upon this page because someone shared it or by divine intervention, and you liked it, please do subscribe to receive my writing every week in your inbox.
That made me think of a brand new but actually old category, which is "mothersplaing". That's the only one we could and should accept. By the way: your recipe is perfect and thought me a little detail: the two minutes you have to wait after you blend the guanciale and its fat with the pasta, before adding the eggs. Crucial! I've also heard from a Roman chef that he puts the eggs on the boiling water "a bagnomaria", just for a little while and to make the blend a little bit more creamy. Now I want a Carbonara, and it's very late, almost early morning.
Is this a recipe for Carbonara, or how to make your mother really happy?