Proust can have his madelines, I'll take pasta

Many of you know about Proust's madelines. For those of you who don't, Marcel Proust wrote one of the longest (possibly one of the greatest, but definitely one of the longest) novels of all time, call "A la Recherche du temps perdu." I grew up, calling it "Rememberances of Times Past." These days, they tell us the translation is wrong, and it should be called "Recollections of Lost Time." Whatever. I can never seem to get past page 300 of a 3000 page novel. But in any event, for purposes of this piece, if you haven't gotten to page 50, after Proust sets out some of the characters, he writes about eating a madeline, one of those fluty French crosses of a cake and cookie, dipped in lime tisane and BAM. He recalls another 2950 pages of story.

I suspect there was more than sugar in that cake. I'm not much of a fan of madelines, but I DO like lime tisane. In any event, the combination of memories of specific events and food is a fascinating one. You eat a dish, you remember "OH YEAH. I first ate this when...." And sometimes it's the reverse. A friend asked me a question today, and it brought back to mind a favorite dish, that I used to cook, a lot, and which I haven't made in a while.

When I was very young, there were times when my grandmother would make a dish she called "pasta al moleek." And she cried every time she served it. As kids, we didn't know why. We loved it. It was pasta, usually a tube shaped one, with a "sauce" of breadcrumbs that had been toasted in olive oil and garlic, with parsley over it.

Today, I know why. "Moleek" is a dialectical word for "Mollica," which is a bread crumb. Bread crumbs take the place of grated cheese when you're so poor you don't even have a piece of parmesan to put on your pasta. So when we were eating that, we were flat broke. And it broke Nana's heart that she couldn't do better. Even though we loved the dish, she felt she should have been able to do better.

I also know now that the traditional dish has anchovies in it. Nana LOVED anchovies, but she never put them in. Why? Because the kids didn't like them. So she gave that up, so that we would eat it. She was like that.

Occasionally, you'll find it on the menu of an Italian restaurant. It goes in and out of popularity. These days, with carbs getting such a bad rap, you'd be fixed to make it yourself. It's really easy to do, and if you do it with good olive oil, well, it ain't cheap. And I'll tell you this. I make it at parties sometimes, and it's one of the first things to get eaten. Nana, are you reading this? Mine isn't as good as yours, but I try.

Anyway, the memory that spurred the recollection was a friend asking me about someone I dated over 20 years ago. Cooking is part of courtship for some of us. The guy I was dating is Italian, and a lover of good food, and we would, in fact, cook for each other. Young guys being competitive sorts, there was always a kind of "bet you don't know how to do THIS...." Well, Tony loved this dish. I still love it. Guy loves it. And I have to make it again. You make it too. Here it is.

For a pound of pasta, you'll need a cup of dried bread crumbs, a half cup of olive oil, four cloves of garlic, and a few tablespoons of chopped parsley. Also salt and pepper. The pasta should be something like rigatoni, or tubettoni, something of a macaroni type of shape. Start cooking that as always, in rapidly boiling, salted water. While it's cooking, pour the olive oil into a frying pan next to your pasta pot, and while it's heating, chop up the garlic nice and fine. Here , it IS important to do as fine a job as you can. Toss that garlic into the oil, with the bread crumbs. You'll get a sizzle, and the bread crumbs will almost immediately soak up all the oil. Don't worry. Just start stirring, until you can smell a nice kind of toastiness coming off of them. When that happens, take the pan off the heat, and finish the pasta. Save about 1/2 cup of water, and drain the pasta when it's cooked.

Toss the pasta and the water into the bread crumbs, and then stir them all together. Some of the breadcrumbs will break up into smaller pieces, and others will not. That's supposed to happen. When it's all done, toss in the parsley, add some salt and pepper, and also pour another "glug" or so of olive oil over the thing. Stir it all up, and sit down and smile at your unrepentant dispatching of this high carb delight.

You may note that I left out the anchovies. Put them in if you like. And you could also "bend" the rules and add some grated cheese. But I don't do that. When I make this , I want to remember Nana, and try to tell her, if she's listening that day (sometimes she is, and sometimes she isn't. She's busy. She has three other grandchildren), that I miss her everyday, and that I wish I could cook as well as she did.