I’m amused by my 7 year-old and believe we all need buttered noodles in our lives. This isn’t a cry for kid-feeding help or anything. Finally, just a little vibe check: Every one of us knows that the way to get a child to stop eating buttered noodles every day is to stop making buttered noodles every day.Egg noodles needn’t have a real bite to them.
While they shouldn’t be cooked to mush, this isn’t the time for an aggressive al dente. I’m choosing egg noodles here because they’re pure comfort food for me and I don’t have enough excuses to feature them, but any pasta shape will work.You will know in your heart whether you’ve correctly buttered your noodles that day. Oh you want this in tablespoons? I’m sorry, but this is not the moment for such earthly concerns. I am insistent that a mid-bowl forkful of noodles shouldn’t drip back into the bowl with butter runoff, in part because I’m the one getting the stains out of clothes and in part because buttered noodles should suggest excess, not wallow in it. The correct amount of butter for buttered noodles is not a wading pool or anything, but enough so you might have a little runoff puddle at the bottom of the bowl to drag that last, lucky noodle through.If the butter isn’t salted, be sure to season it well. When a recipe has two ingredients and one is butter, that moment is now. I buy basic unsalted butter for baking and salted higher butterfat butter for spreading on toast (or blueberry muffins, which my daughter picks the blueberries out of, or zucchini bread). There’s a place for basic butter and a place for better butter. A pat always must be added at the end over the top. While there are no cheffy twists, the only tiny cooking technique I employ is finishing them in the pan with some cooking water and butter together, creating a glossier emulsification that better clings to the noodles.Will she one day come around to these things? I remain hopeful. Would my Frances eat it? No she will not. Would it be excellent with some browned butter, minced garlic, parmesan, flecks of parsley, paper-thin slices of scallions, crushed salted pistachios, and/or my favorite, a finishing glitter of minced chives? Yes it would. Let’s get this out of the way: These are just butter, noodles, and salt.
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Because I have yet to figure out how to turn my brain off when I’m cooking, here are a few parameters: But I also insisted, and still insist, that “not all beloved things elicit, or need to elicit, popular fervor.”Īnd so with that understanding, from the depths of the dual midsummer trenches of heat waves and cooking ambivalence, please welcome the recipe I make more than any other on this planet. I said that it turns out to be a total conversation thudder because you cannot explain the bliss of buttered egg noodles to people who do not derive bliss from buttered egg noodles. I mentioned that I’ve been asked a few times over the years what my desert-island foods would be and that I’ve often disappointed people who were hoping I’d say something nuanced or epicurean when I’ve said, instead, buttered egg noodles.
Once upon a time, I wrote in a cookbook about my own love for buttered noodles. Every recipe writer deserves a child that will simply not participate in their antics it keeps us humble! It’s the inevitable conclusion of our culinary hubris! But I did not, it turns out, conjure her out of thin air. We joke that she is the child I had coming. I want you to know that on what might be the sixth or sixteenth day, I’ve stopped counting, she has yet to request anything else. After the first week of trying to serve regular meals - food with variety and interest, the kind of stuff you might find on any page of the site but this one - I gave up and made buttered noodles every night. Our badger is cut from more stubborn cloth. It does the trick - she tires of it and begins to embrace what the rest of the family is eating. Her parents decide to give her exactly what she wants while the rest of the family eats poached eggs, green beans, and breaded veal cutlets. Have you read the book? In it, a very picky badger named Frances doesn’t want to eat any of the food her mother makes, she only wants bread and jam. For the last four weeks my son, the child who actually likes and encourages my cooking, has been at sleepaway camp, leaving us home alone with the one I affectionately call Buttered Noodles for Frances.
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