Bolognese

The best time in making bolognese is when I can stand back and watch things come together and know I played a major part in the making.

After I've browned the vegetables in olive oil and unsalted butter, added the milk and the red wine, the tomatos, ground turkey and pancetta, and am stirring the big saucepan with the wooden spoon, I'm thinking how well we're doing as animals, as a species of opposing temperments and ambitions! It's remarkable that we get along so well in such a finite physical space, despite the many conflicts.

Sometimes everything's so weird with people. Someone you love leaves you and somone who loves you stays around long enough for you to see how much you love them. The restaurant in NYC where I got the recipe for bolognese--Insieme--has closed, but it's still the best bolognese in the world. Time consuming and complex, ultimately incomparable because it's all mine. 

The bolognese thickens. It's getting close to being what it is. I know what's in it, and it's a good feeling that it's all good stuff I know. Then I say a prayer for the late artist Martin Kippenberger who I once heard say that making a decent bolognese was the highest art he could imagine making. I heard that in my old life when I lived in LA.

The peppermill sounds like a hawk when I turn it. The lemon grater, that I'm sure has lasted so many years because it's painted yellow, is ready for the secret that is at the heart of the bolognese and which I invented all on my own.

The bolognese tastes so good because it's beautiful.