9/11 memorial lights, seen from Coffey Park, Red Hook

It was a perfect sunny Tuesday in September. I was living uptown. Normally, I would have been on my bike, but I had to take the train to New Jersey for work. I was late, as usual. I hurried to my polling place, and voted in the Democratic primary. In the window of the deli adjoining the entrance to the Dyckman St. A train station, I was conscious of a strange picture of buildings on TV. The train came, and I got on it. Somewhere short of Columbus Circle, it stopped. Some suspected track work; others, a jumper. Eventually, the train made it to 59th St., where passengers were ordered off. On TV, through the window of another deli, I watched the second plane strike.

I can’t account for what I thought I saw on the deli TV uptown; either I caught the fastest A express in the history of the line, or nothing had happened yet. Likewise, I can’t account for what happened between the time I arrived back uptown and the next meal that I remember. I think it was the next day that I got together with some friends in Brooklyn. I made a beef brisket with beets. It looked horribly gory. I found it mostly inedible.

With the passage of time, I am surprised how affected I am by 9/11’s anniversaries. How the two stabbing lights stop me in my tracks, how I can picture where I’ve seen them each time, riding my bike over the Queensboro Bridge, or walking the dog in Red Hook. How when the sadness creeps up, I keep it down with food.

New York then was bright and sunny. This year, it’s cool and damp. Yesterday, the temperature dropped enough to justify the making of some serious comfort food. At the store, I loaded up on ricotta, mozzarella, noodles, tomatoes, sausages, and cookies, lots of cookies. I was going to make lasagne, and then I was going to have dessert.

I started by making a sauce. I slit open a pound of sweet Italian sausages, emptied the casings into a large oiled saucepan over high heat, and sauteed the meat until it began to brown. To this I added a cup of diced onion, and, when the onions were translucent, two minced cloves of garlic. After a few more minutes, I added a couple of tablespoons of fennel seeds, salt, pepper, and a large can of crushed tomatoes. When the sauce began to bubble, I reduced the heat to low, and let it simmer for an hour. I used this time to hang out with Missy, drink a glass of wine, and walk the dog.

When I was a kid, we’d parboil the noodles before laying them in the pan. Now, mostly out of laziness, I prefer to lay the noodles in dry, and trust to the moisture of the ricotta and the sauce to soften them. If I leave the sauce a little wet, this works fine. I buttered a baking dish, and laid in the first overlapping layer of noodles. On top of that went a layer of ricotta, with chopped parsley and sage from the garden sprinkled on top. (Usually, I mix egg yolks into the ricotta, but I had no eggs that weren’t hard-boiled. The ricotta being exceptionally fresh, I didn’t mind.) Onto that went a second layer of noodles; then a layer of sauce; then a third layer of noodles, topped with more sauce; then a layer of mozzarella, parmesan, and more chopped herbs.

The lasagne baked at 350 for about 45 minutes, and finished at 400 for about 10 minutes, so that the top would brown, the way I like it. This toughened the fresh mozzarella somewhat; it’s less tolerant of prolonged heat than the block mozzarella I normally use. I was, however, entirely satisfied with the result. It was compact, low to the plate, and, if slightly dry, then at least not soggy. The sausage and fennel came through clearly, without being overpowered by the tomatoes, and the locally-made ricotta tasted light and clean. We chowed down on it, with a glass of Nero d’Avola, and then got into bed to eat cookies and watch The Wire until we fell asleep.

When I woke up, it was 9/11/2009. A chilly, rain-spattered morning. If the lights were already on, I couldn’t see them, but neither did I really look up. I walked the dog, fed her, and heated up a plate of lasagne for breakfast.

comfort food