Etymology and steak

For various reasons this morning, I have two expressions on my mind:

1. "Turn the other cheek," and
2. "shit the bed"

As many people are already aware, "turn the other cheek" was a fabulous concept Jesus delivered in his sermon on the mount, in rejection of the "eye for an eye" approach to life.  Now, I am not certain if Jesus meant that when smacked in the face a person should just sort of turn away and ignore their attacker, or if the victim is supposed to offer the other cheek for a smack as well.  What happens next?  Do you offer up each of your arms for abuse?  Legs?  When you run out of body areas to be attacked, do you start again with the original cheek, or do you hand them your puppy for a go? 

That being said, a smarter person than I once observed that an eye for an eye leaves everyone blind, and nobody wants that (duh).  But maybe there is a middle ground somewhere.  With all that is going on in the world today (see earlier post re: Freedom Chicken), I hope someone figures out where that middle ground is.  I'd like to but I am too busy blogging.

Now, "shit the bed" is an interesting phrase.  My extensive research on google seems to indicate that the expression comes from the unfortunate and final humiliation suffered by many upon death, when the bowels are evacuated spontaneously.  Since a lot of people probably die in bed, that explains why the saying is "shit the bed," instead of "shit the eames," or even "shit the toilet" (although many people, including Elvis, do pass away in this manner, and that seems even more humiliating than shitting the bed).

The urban dictionary tells us that "shit the bed" basically means the same thing as FUBAR (fucked up beyond all repair), or to really screw something up.  Here, let's use the phrase in a couple of sentences:

"I really shit the bed when I missed that deadline." OR
"My car shit the bed on the way to work today - I think it's the fan belt." OR

"My dog shit the bed."  No wait, this actually happened.  Last night.  Last night Tom was entertaining clients which gave me the opportunity to invite a good friend over to dine with me and Jake.  Christy is a wonderful gal and an all-around nice person.  Christy also has two dogs, Babs (blonde) and Ernie (black).  Babs and Ernie are sisters and I love them.  I really do.

But the problem is, sometimes these doggies are not well-behaved when they come to visit.  Case in point: last night they came bounding through the door, filled with enthusiasm and general puppyosity.  Babs immediately released her bladder onto the dining room rug (which reminds me, I really should get that cleaned up).  Christy was mortified and I laughed it off.  "Oh ho ho ho, don't worry about it, she's a good girl!  We don't care!  Have a glass of wine!  La la la..."

Approximately 30 minutes passed.  The dogs played outside quite a bit so it's not as if they didn't have the opportunity to use the proper potty.  Suddenly Christy noticed Babs was missing.  She went upstairs to look for her and came back down with a deeply disturbed look on her face.  I could tell something had gone wrong, horribly wrong.  I was just about to say "well at least she didn't shit the bed!" when Christy said "she shit the bed." 

Seriously, this beautiful precocious labrador climbed on top of my bed and shit the bed.  All I could do was laugh, because one thing that drives me crazy is when people use an expression and improperly insert the word "literally," as in "I was literally so broke I couldn't pay attention!"  Really?  You literally couldn't pay attention?  Maybe you need some adderall (but you probably can't afford it, since you're so broke).  And now I could say that Babs LITERALLY shit the bed!  Fun times.

You will note from the photo above that the rug is missing and there is just an ugly grey pad on the floor.  Well, let me tell you why!  That rug, along with the other area rug in our kitchen, is "in the shop" being cleaned.  I had Chem Dry come to the house last week to clean these rugs, because we had recently cared for two doggies while our friends Brooks and Brenna were galavanting around Florida for the holidays (lucky bitches).  Bo, the little guy, was almost perfectly well-behaved.  Buddy,the enormous dog, not so much. 

On Christmas morning, Tom and I went to my ex-husband's house for breakfast with him, his fiance, and Jake.  Yes, we are a very unusual family.  I wouldn't have it any other way.  Anyhoo, when we got home Buddy had gotten into our very very full garbage under the sink, and pulled it out.  What he didn't eat, he deposited throughout the house.  I am still finding chewed-up ribs in various nooks and crannies.  The rug right in front of the sink got the worst of it, and at least three days' worth of coffee grounds were smooshed into it.  As Tom and I were just about done cleaning up the mess, I looked at the other rug in the good room (I call it a good room, as opposed to a great room, because it's not all that big and the idea of calling a room in your house a great room just seems sort of braggy).  Right in the middle of my favorite persian rug was the biggest dog poop I have ever seen.  Buddy really shit the rug.

So, Chem Dry comes out and after taking a five seond look at these rugs, they call Tom downstairs.  I heard them speaking in hushed, concerned voices.  The tone sounded ominous.  I was frightened.  Trudging back upstairs, Tom came in the bedroom and sat on the bed.  I do believe I was blogging at the time, so I looked up from my computer to see his worried face.

"I'm afraid it's worse than we thought," he said quietly.  "They are going to have to take them into the shop and see what they can do there.  They just don't have all the tools they need to do it here.  I'm sorry."

"Will they be ok?  Will they survive?" I asked, a tear forming in my right eye.

"I don't know.  Maybe.  Let's just hope for the best."  The rugs are coming home today.  Needless to say, Buddy will not be left alone in the house anymore.  I'm starting to wonder what it is about this place that makes dogs act so naughty.  Maybe it's a bad dog ghost or something.  Maybe that Marley dog took up residence here after being such a terror to its owners.  Of course, they're rich now because of that bad behavior, so I'm sure all is forgiven.

Finally, because this is somewhat of a cooking blog, I am including my steak method.  It isn't much of a recipe really - it's very easy and I guarantee once you try this method you won't go back to grilling or broiling or whatever the hell it is you do.  PLEASE NOTE: the most important ingredient in this steak is the steak, meaning that you must purchase Kobe beef from Phil's meat market in uptown.  Because I am in cost-cutting mode and because I am trying to slim down, I almost never eat this steak anymore.  But last night was an exception, because things have been a little weird lately and I needed me some Kobe.  Bad.

THE BEST STEAK EVER

Take your meat (ribeye, NY, whatever) and apply kosher salt and fresh cracked pepper.  Get a good frying pan out of your cabinet.  Put it on the stove.  Turn the heat on high.  When the pan is very hot, put the steak in the pan.  Cook for four minutes.  Flip.  Cook for four minutes.  Take out of the pan and let rest for five minutes.  Eat.

Oops, forgot to mention that if you want to really make it unhealthy (and I know you do), be sure to buy the Oba Steak Butter at Phil's (please tell them I sent you - these are truly lovely people).  Apply some of the steak butter right after you take the meat off the heat.

And there you have it.  Best.  Steak.  Ever.

Gotta go now, as it's time to put in 90 minutes of cardio and do a little weight lifting.  See, I just remembered this blog was supposed to be all about getting healthy and lean.  Somewhere along the way I went off on a tangent.  Come to think of it, I prefer the current direction.  Tomorrow we will talk butterscotch/chocolate chip cookies, which are Tommy's favorite.

Onward and upward.  Try not to shit the bed today, and if someone is mean to you, turn the other cheek.

Spinach Salad and other random musings

Last night I was fortunate enough to spend the evening with about 14 remarkable women. The one thing we all have in common is how different we are, and it makes for a fastastic time. We covered all the basics last night: love, sex, marriage (those three things should go together, we decided) and the importance of reducing greenhouse emissions in the coming decade.

OK, we may not have talked about emissions. Not greenhouse emissions, anyway.

So, here is a photo of three of us. The other women were busy uncorking wine so couldn't make it into the picture. Also, we took this photo for our old friend Omid Khonsari and emailed it to him in hopes he would email one back. He has not done so. Omid, are you reading this???

I made the cauliflower tart included on an earlier blog and this is how it came out.  I tried to put a heart on top but it looked more like the letter "L."  Oh well.

I'm thinking next time to eliminate the truffle oil altogether and use pie crust instead of puff pastry.  I had an unfortunate truffle oil incident recently and have developed a serious aversion to the stuff.  I know all 10 (10!!!!!) of my followers are waiting with bated breath to hear how the next one goes so I promise to let you all know.

There were lots of other fun food items as well and my best girl Emily made my WORLD FAMOUS spinach salad.  Now, some of you may be thinking to yourselves, "selves, we have never heard of Robin's world famous salad, so how can it be famous?"  It is famous, but not yet!  It has yet to be discovered and that is why it is on my blog!

In the interests of full disclosure, this recipe was not invented by me.  Once I have cooked something for over 30 guests (this does not have to happen in one sitting), I call it mine.  Even though it isn't.  I hope nobody sues me for copyright infringement but if they do I plan to pull out the Fair Use Doctrine and hit them over the head with it.  The recipe appears at the end of this blog entry.  If you try it once you will NEVER go back to your old spinach salad recipe.  Assuming you have one, of course, which every civilized person should.

Finally, those of you that know me probably also know my dog Margot.  Margot is the sweetest dog in the world and loves everybody.  Everybody, that is, except Mike.  Mike is my contractor's sheetrock sub, and Mike looks like your everyday average sheetrock guy, whatever that means.  But Mike affects Margot in a very strange and bad, bad way.  Every time he comes in our home, she goes after him.  She barks, she growls, she bares her teeth like Gloria Alred if you try to get between her and a camera.  We are talking mean.

This has led me to believe that Margot can sense something evil about this man...he is off, somehow.  Tom and I (OK, it was really mostly me) came to the conclusion that Mike Sheetrock Guy is a serial killer.  Or something else sinister-like (a Republican perchance?).   He's got the perfect job to effectuate his serial-killer-career, as he can just bring his victims to his jobsites to get rid of their bodies!  I think there may be something besides a new shower going into my bathroom, and I don't like it, but I can't call the police and report him because I don't want to end up in someone else's kitchen wall.

Don't give me a hard time about it.  Not everyone is supposed to be a hero.  But I did save a guy's life from drowning in Mexico once, so karma is on my side.  True story.  Maybe I'll blog about it some day, if you're lucky.

Salad Sevillana
1 cup olive oil
1/2 cup red wine vinegar
1/4 cup chopped onion
1/4 cup sugar
1 1/2 teaspoons paprika
1 teaspoon dry mustard
1 teaspoon salt
1/2 teaspoon black pepper

1 10-ounce package ready-to-use spinach leaves or 1 pound fresh spinach, stemmed
1 8-ounce can Spanish artichoke hearts, drained, quartered
4 bacon slices, fried until crisp, broken into pieces
2 hard-boiled eggs, thinly sliced

Combine first 8 ingredients in blender or processor and blend until well combined and frothy. (Can be prepared 1 day ahead. Cover and refrigerate.)

Combine spinach, artichoke hearts, bacon and eggs in large bowl. Toss with enough dressing to coat generously. Divide among 4 plates and serve.


Bon Appétit

"Excuse me, I'm trying to panhandle here!!"

I've had a couple of strange incidents lately involving panhandlers (or, as Jake calls them, hobos, despite the lack of a long stick with a little bag attached at the end and a nearby train station).  A few weeks ago as I was walking along in the Pearl to meet a friend for lunch, I noticed two gentlemen in front of me.  One had a sign and was standing on the street corner attempting to guilt passing motorists into stopping and handing him some cash.  The sign said something like "If you live in the Pearl District you are a snotty rich bastard and you probably consume truffle oil on a regular basis and your dog cost more than my last car so give me some money, beeyotch."  I was surprised, but his approach seemed to be working.

The other man was just standing there, looking a little bewildered and bending over to retrieve a half-smoked cigarette from the street.  Yes, it is still legal to smoke outside in Portland, but I'm sure our capable mayor and city council will eliminate that luxury soon.  Anyway, I digress...

This hapless hobo had now put the garbage/smoke between his lips and asked me if I had a light.  "Sorry," I said, "I only keep matches at home since it illegal now to smoke anywhere but your own dwelling unit or in the middle of a corn field."

"Shit," he muttered, then his face brightened a little.  "You wouldn't happen to have a spare dollar or two, would you?  I'm really hungry."

I reached into my wallet and eyed him carefully.  "You're not going to spend this money on drugs, are you?" I asked, squinting my eyes in an accusatory fashion while simultaneously trying to emote concern about his well-being.  I was hoping worst-case scenario he might take my money and pop into Blue Hour for a spicy Blood Mary.  That, I could handle, but knowing my hard-earned cash was going to a meth lab entrepreneur would be too much.

"Nah, man, I just want to get a burger," he said, and I handed the money over to him.  Suddenly, the other guy was in his face, yelling at him.

"DO YOU MIND???" he screamed, "I'M TRYING TO PANHANDLE HERE!"

Put the emphasis on the word "panhandle" and it's even funnier.  This really happened.  Only in Portland, my friends.

The Last Supper (for a while)

Light night it was our pleasure to host all three of Tom's kids (plus JT's girlfriend Rachel) for what will be our last dinner all together for a while.  Kendall leaves today to go back to Moscow and JT will head back to Arizona in a week.  I'll miss them.  Taylor remains in Portland, and has agreed to take down our Christmas tree for $20.  It seems like money well spent.

My father gave me this recipe and I am passing it along to you.  However, I have changed the name (sorry, Dad).  Originally, it was called "Chicken Ali Bab."  I have renamed it "Freedom Chicken."  I'm sorry, but I just can't say "Chicken Ali Bab" without laughing and picturing Lawrence of Arabia careening around on a camel.  Also (or "and also, too," as my friend Sarah Palin would say), I have a little bit of a problem cooking food with a name that sounds even remotely middle-eastern.  Ever since the muslim extremists started flying our planes into buildings and trying to light their underwear on fire while seated on a commercial aircraft, I am careful not to do anything that would appear to support terrorism.  Finally, I think Dad meant to call the recipe "Chicken Ali Baba," even though there is no (open) sesame in this dish.  Ha ha. 

Actually, he claims Ali Bab was a famous french chef in the 19th Century, but since I have never heard of him, and google seems to not know who he is, I question this information.

A few notes on this recipe:
1. I found it took longer than 50 minutes to cook, but that may be because I had closer to 7 1/2 pounds of chicken crammed into my le creuset;
2. I added a little extra olive oil; and
3. I broiled the chicken at the very end to get it a little extra brown and crispy.  It did not dry the chicken at all.

CHICKEN ALI BAB (FREEDOM CHICKEN)


6 lbs chicken thighs or combined breasts and thighs
2 tablespoons coriander
2 ½ tablespoons ground cumin
1 teaspoon ground cinnamon
1 ½ teaspoons kosher salt
4 tablespoons minced garlic
1 lemon, sliced very thin
½ teaspoon freshly ground pepper
¼ cup olive oil
¾ cup shelled pistachio nuts
16 shallots, peeled and halved
3 tablespoons ginger marmalade
2 teaspoons granulated sugar
3 tablespoons fresh lemon juice
1/2 cup dried apricots
½ cup dried prunes

¾ cup white wine
2/3 cup packed brown sugar

Fresh cilantro for garnish

Combine all ingredients except chicken, wine and brown sugar in a large bowl and mix thoroughly.

Divide chicken pieces between 2 gallon plastic zip-lock bags and pour half of the mixed ingredients in each bag along with the chicken. Refrigerate for at least 12 hours.

Pre-heat oven to 350 degrees. Pour chicken and marinade into large flat baking dish. Arrange the chicken bone side down in one layer.  Pour the wine over the chicken and sprinkle with brown sugar. Bake for 50 minutes, basting several times with pan juices.

Remove chicken pieces and the lemon slices and set on a platter. Cover with foil and place in a warm (200 degree) oven.

Thicken the sauce with 2-3 tablespoons corn starch whisked in. Boil gently until the sauce is thick. Spoon the sauce over the chicken, and garnish with chopped fresh cilantro. Serve the remaining sauce in a pitcher.

Dieting: the man's approach, the woman's

Tom doesn't cook very often.  He works later than I do and I like to handle this aspect of our domestic life.  However, once in a while he will insist on preparing a meal.  I was doubly surprised in the last few days in that he cooked breakfast (Saturday) and dinner (Sunday).  The only problem with Tom cooking (besides the obvious - nobody ever taught him how) is that he is a bit clueless about food content.

Also, it annoys him when I linger over his shoulder, peppering him with helpful suggestions and moving the pan so it is actually on the flame.  Really, I have to do this.

Saturday Tom wanted to make scrambled eggs before we went to the gym.  Depending on how you make them, scrambled eggs are a fairly healthy way to start the day, especially when you are planning on working out that morning.

"Stay out of the kitchen, woman, I am in charge of the pan."  Fine.  Jake and I waited upstairs for the Man of the House to call us to breakfast.  However, that didn't last long.  My son insisted that I go downstairs to check on Tom and make sure he was "doing it right, because mom, he doesn't cook very often."  True dat.

I snuck down the stairs and gazed at the assembled goodies my loving husband was getting ready to throw into the eggs.  Summer sausage, gruyere, and onions.  Uh oh.  I think he forgot about the diet.  I crept upstairs and warned Jake about our situation.  "Mommy, can you please just cook me my own eggs?" he pleaded.  It isn't that Jake's on a diet, he just doesn't like lots of food in his food, if you catch my meaning.

I had a real connundrum on my hands: hurt my husband's feelings by reminding him that sausage and cheese are not exactly On the Program, or just go ahead and eat the breakfast and make up for it later with an extra hour of cardio.  That choice won the day, though Jake did get his eggs over-easy.

Indugence in carbohydrates was not a problem at this meal, however.  Tom had placed some rolls leftover from the Rose Bowl (Rolls Bowl?) into the oven to warm.  While I took my second bite into the aforementioned bread item, I noticed a lovely green fuzz sprouting out from its bottom half.

"Ew!" I shrieked, and dropped it back on the plate.  "Don't eat that, boys, it's moldy!"  Jake and Tom both looked at me and shrugged, and continued ingesting the offending bread product.  I felt sick.

"I can't believe you are eating that.  Disgusting.  I'm making a piece of toast.  Who wants one?"

"Not me!" said Tom, "nothing wrong here!"  Jake looked at me and looked at Tom, not sure what to do.

"Um, I'll just stick with the roll," he said, not wanting to hurt Tom's cooking feelings any more than he may have already done via the egg incident.  He spread more butter and jam on the roll, as did my husband, as if additional condiments could rememdy the fact that the bread was DECOMPOSING RIGHT BEFORE OUR VERY EYES.  Ugh.

As I fetched my (very tiny) piece of toast out of the toaster, I saw Jake inspecting his roll very carefully.  "Um, mom, is this mold?"  Well, yes, yes it was.  He handed me the roll and asked for a piece of toast.  I obliged, and asked Tom again if he wouldn't prefer a  piece of toast.

"Nothing wrong with this bread!" he annouced happily, and put some more butter and jam on it.

"Suit yourself, MoldMan," I muttered, and tossed Jake his toast.  We sat down again.  Suddenly, Tom started examining his second jam and butter-slathered roll. Closely.  I got up and threw another piece of bread in the toaster. 

Last night, Tom made burgers.  Cheeseburgers are Tom's specialty, one of two dinners he can cook (the other being roast chicken, but the chicken must be cooked by someone else, such as Zupan's).  As he made the shopping list, I peered over his shoulder.  "Are you getting beef?" I asked, in my nicest, least-judgmental tone.

"Well duh, what else would I get?" he laughed.  "I'm making my famous cheesburgers, not my famous roast chicken!"  I sighed.

"Well, since we are on this new diet, I'll try the Boca burgers!" I announced cheerfully.  "Remember how good that phony sausage was on Christmas at Patrick and Crista's?  It's soy!  It's low calorie!  It's high protein!  You'll love it!"

""Maybe next time," he said, and folded up the list.  Behold, my dinner, and the dinner for Jake and Tom.  I think it's time to start putting wagers on this weight loss thing.

Pure, unadulterated joy

This is slowly turning out to be a cooking blog.  Oh well.  I made the tart below for a NYE party and it was amazing.  If you choose puff pastry (as I did) be sure to poke a few holes in it before the pre-bake so the bottom doesn't puff up too much (thanks Autumn, and I'm sorry for molesting your gorgeous pregnant belly all night!).

I have decided that this year I am going to try to make a difference in Oregon law.  I will be heading to Salem in an effort to create alimony reform in this state.  Slavery was elimated a few years ago and yet this antiquated notion lives on.  Nothing like having big goals for the year.  Get in better shape, improve the golf game, change the law...no problem.

I don't have much to say today.  I am still suffering somewhat from overindulgence the past couple of days and frankly my intellectual resources are fully tapped.  Time to help Tom scramble some eggs and get all three of us down to the club for a good sweat.  You can't eat food like the tart below and not put in some serious time making up for it.

Here's to 2010.  I'll try to be more clever later.

Cauliflower and Caramelized Onion Tart
1 small head of cauliflower (about 1 pound), cored, cut into 1-inch florets

2 1/2 tablespoons olive oil, divided

1 tablespoon truffle oil


1 pie crust or puff pastry sheet

1 large onion, halved lengthwise, thinly sliced

1 tablespoon Dijon mustard

2 large eggs

1 7- to 8-ounce container mascarpone cheese
1/2 cup whipping cream

1/4 teaspoon ground white pepper

Pinch of ground nutmeg

1 cup grated Gruyère cheese

3/4 cup grated Parmesan cheese

Position rack in center of oven; preheat to 425°F. Toss cauliflower with 1 tablespoon olive oil in large bowl. Spread on large rimmed baking sheet, spacing apart. Sprinkle with salt and pepper. Roast 15 minutes; turn florets over. Continue roasting until tender, about 25 minutes longer. Cool cauliflower, then thinly slice. Drizzle with truffle oil; toss. Reduce oven temperature to 350°F.

Press pie crust onto bottom and up sides of 9-inch-diameter tart pan with removable bottom. Line pie crust with foil; fill with pie weights. Bake crust 20 minutes. Remove foil and pie weights; bake until crust is golden, about 5 minutes, pressing crust with back of fork if bubbles form. Cool crust. Maintain oven temperature.

Heat remaining 1 1/2 tablespoons olive oil in heavy large skillet over medium heat. Add onion; sprinkle with salt and pepper. Cook until onion is deep golden brown, stirring occasionally, about 40 minutes. Cool slightly. DO AHEAD Can be made 1 day ahead. Store crust at room temperature. Cover and chill cauliflower and onion separately.

Brush bottom and sides of crust with mustard. Spread onion in crust. Arrange cauliflower evenly over. Set tart on rimmed baking sheet. Whisk eggs and next 4 ingredients in medium bowl. Stir in Gruyère. Pour mixture over filling in tart pan; sprinkle with Parmesan. Bake until tart is golden and center is set, about 40 minutes. Transfer to rack; cool 15 minutes before serving.

Bon Appétit

March 2007

Three days of torture

I've been a good girl - really.  I have spent the past three days diligently tracking my caloric intake, exercise, and giving myself positive reinforcement through SC (silent cheerleading - it's a movement I have started but not yet publicized until now).  SC involves dispensing with the negative self-talk (your jeans are tight! you're getting cellulite!  nobody follows your blog!) to focusing on the positive (they shrunk in the wash!  I'll buy that magic cream from TV!  Dad follows my blog!).

So far, the SC has been minimally effective and I have found the most effective way to stay motivated is to picture myself at the finish line.  In Vegas.  In a flattering outfit.  With a cheesecake.  However, if you are going to engage in SC outside the privacy of your home, please remember to refrain from moving your lips as you construct your uplifting, positive self-talk.  At the gym yesterday I had a few people look askance at me as I silently mouthed "you go guuurl!" and "she's waaaay bigger than you!" while pumping my fists in a boxing motion on the elliptical.  People are so uncomfortable around anyone who's different.  Geez.

Today I spent 80 minutes on cardio and 20 on weightlifting.  The weightlifting portion of the workout consisted of lifting a small weight in the form of a wine glass up and  down, up and down, you get the drift.  My trainer tells me low weight, high repetition will give me the greatest result, so I am just following orders.  By May I should be toned, trimmed, and residing at the Betty Ford Center.

I kid!  I kid!  I would never drink excessively while dieting or engage in BUI (blogging under the influence).

Because Friday is the Rose Bowl, and because the Ducks make it to the Rose Bowl about as often as we get a blue moon on New Year's Eve, I am forsaking the strict meal plan and making a pork ragu ziti, recipe below.  It is not even remotely healthy.  However, I feel strongly that people like me more when I cook this dish.  Love me, even.  Try it, you'll like it.

Finally, I'd like to note that beauty is on the inside, not the outside.  You have no idea how gorgeous I am.  I'm Claudia Schiffer if you turn me inside out.  I've been working with my neighborhood plastic surgeon to figure out how to do that, but he suggests I explore Botox and liposuction in the meantime.  Whatever.

Baked Ziti with Spicy Pork and Sausage Ragù


2 tablespoons olive oil

4 ounces thinly sliced pancetta,* chopped

2 pounds Boston butt (pork shoulder), cut into 1 1/4-inch cubes

1 pound Italian hot sausages, casings removed

2 cups chopped onions

3/4 cup chopped carrots

3/4 cup chopped celery

6 large fresh thyme sprigs

6 large garlic cloves, chopped

2 bay leaves

1/2 teaspoon dried crushed red pepper

2 cups dry red wine

1 28-ounce can plum tomatoes in juice, tomatoes chopped, juice reserved



1 1/4 pounds ziti pasta

2 cups (packed) coarsely grated whole-milk mozzarella cheese (about 8 ounces)

1/2 cup freshly grated Parmesan cheese



Heat olive oil in heavy large pot over medium-high heat. Add pancetta and sauté until brown and crisp. Using slotted spoon, transfer pancetta to bowl. Sprinkle pork with salt and pepper. Add half of pork to drippings in pot; sauté until brown, about 7 minutes. Transfer to bowl with pancetta. Repeat with remaining pork. Add sausage to same pot. Sauté until no longer pink, breaking up with back of fork, about 5 minutes. Add onions, carrots, celery, thyme, garlic, bay leaves, and crushed red pepper. Reduce heat to medium-low; sauté until vegetables are tender, about 10 minutes. Add wine and bring to boil, scraping up browned bits. Add pancetta and pork with any accumulated juices; boil 2 minutes. Add tomatoes with juice. Cover and cook until pork is very tender, adjusting heat as needed to maintain gentle simmer and stirring occasionally, about 2 hours.


Uncover pot; tilt to 1 side and spoon off fat from surface of ragù. Gently press pork pieces with back of fork to break up meat coarsely. Season ragù to taste with salt and pepper. (Can be made 2 days ahead. Cool slightly. Refrigerate uncovered until cold, then cover and keep refrigerated. Rewarm over low heat before continuing.)

Preheat oven to 400°F. Butter 15x10x2-inch glass baking dish or other 4-quart baking dish. Cook pasta in large pot of boiling salted water until tender but still firm to bite, stirring occasionally. Drain pasta; mix into ragù. Season mixture to taste with salt and pepper; transfer to prepared dish. Sprinkle both cheeses over. Bake until heated through and golden, about 20 minutes.