Five Pantry Staples Worth Splurging On

My grandmother made tortellini on Sunday mornings, and I have spent the better part of forty years trying to reproduce exactly what she made. I have not succeeded. I am not sure I ever will. But the attempt has taught me more about cooking than any book I have read or restaurant I have studied.

The dough wants to be worked, not just mixed. There is a texture that experienced hands recognize — a smoothness that gives slightly without tearing, elastic in the way good pasta should be. My grandmother worked hers for fifteen minutes minimum, folding and pressing with the heel of her palm in a motion I watched so many times that I can still feel it in my wrists when I describe it.

The filling is the argument. In Bologna they insist on pork loin, prosciutto crudo, mortadella, Parmigiano-Reggiano, and nutmeg. In our family it was whatever was at hand, adjusted for what was in season. My grandmother added a little lemon zest, which is not traditional, which is also exactly right.

I made a batch last week for the first time in months. I served them in broth — not with cream, not with butter, just a clear golden broth that takes all morning to make. Drusiano called while I was eating them. I told him about my grandmother. He said his grandmother made the same thing. Of course she did. Some things travel perfectly.