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Hi friends! Today I’m so excited to share what is honestly the recipe of my heart. If you’ve been following me on Instagram you know that last fall my husband and I took our four kids on a six-week sabbatical to a tiny stone farmhouse outside the village of San Casciano in Tuscany.
It was Nonna Lucia — our 86-year-old neighbor with a wood-burning oven older than the United States — who taught me the secret to this pasta. She didn’t speak a word of English and I, embarrassingly, speak only about twelve words of Italian (most of them food-related), but somehow we managed.
“Cara mia,” she would say, kissing both my cheeks. “It is not the cheese. It is the patience.” I’ve thought about that line probably four hundred times since.
There are a million baked pasta recipes on the internet (believe me, I’ve tried most of them). But this one is different, and here’s why:
→ It uses pantry staples
→ It’s deeply, deeply cheesy
→ The leeks bring something nobody expects
→ It reheats like a dream
→ My kids actually eat it (a miracle)
I didn’t grow up eating leeks. My mother considered them an affectation. It wasn’t until college, when I had a French roommate named Camille…
…and that, as they say, was that. From that night on I was a leek person. (Camille and I have since lost touch, which is one of those small, soft regrets you carry around.)
Cheddar: I prefer a really sharp white cheddar, aged 18 months if you can find it. Cabot is reliable; Tillamook works in a pinch.
Pasta: Big shells or paccheri. Anything that catches sauce in its folds.
Cream: Whole. We are not doing half-and-half today. Live a little.
If you’re new here, welcome! I’m Linda, and on this blog I share recipes, slow living, motherhood, and the occasional thought on midcentury textiles…
Hi friends! Today I’m so excited to share what is honestly the recipe of my heart. If you’ve been following me on Instagram you know that last fall my husband and I took our four kids on a six-week sabbatical to a tiny stone farmhouse outside the village of San Casciano in Tuscany.
It was Nonna Lucia — our 86-year-old neighbor with a wood-burning oven older than the United States — who taught me the secret to this pasta. She didn’t speak a word of English and I, embarrassingly, speak only about twelve words of Italian (most of them food-related), but somehow we managed.
“Cara mia,” she would say, kissing both my cheeks. “It is not the cheese. It is the patience.” I’ve thought about that line probably four hundred times since.
There are a million baked pasta recipes on the internet (believe me, I’ve tried most of them). But this one is different, and here’s why:
→ It uses pantry staples
→ It’s deeply, deeply cheesy
→ The leeks bring something nobody expects
→ It reheats like a dream
→ My kids actually eat it (a miracle)
I didn’t grow up eating leeks. My mother considered them an affectation. It wasn’t until college, when I had a French roommate named Camille…
…and that, as they say, was that. From that night on I was a leek person. (Camille and I have since lost touch, which is one of those small, soft regrets you carry around.)
Cheddar: I prefer a really sharp white cheddar, aged 18 months if you can find it. Cabot is reliable; Tillamook works in a pinch.
Pasta: Big shells or paccheri. Anything that catches sauce in its folds.
Cream: Whole. We are not doing half-and-half today. Live a little.
If you’re new here, welcome! I’m Linda, and on this blog I share recipes, slow living, motherhood, and the occasional thought on midcentury textiles…
Hi friends! Today I’m so excited to share what is honestly the recipe of my heart. If you’ve been following me on Instagram you know that last fall my husband and I took our four kids on a six-week sabbatical to a tiny stone farmhouse outside the village of San Casciano in Tuscany.
It was Nonna Lucia — our 86-year-old neighbor with a wood-burning oven older than the United States — who taught me the secret to this pasta. She didn’t speak a word of English and I, embarrassingly, speak only about twelve words of Italian (most of them food-related), but somehow we managed.
“Cara mia,” she would say, kissing both my cheeks. “It is not the cheese. It is the patience.” I’ve thought about that line probably four hundred times since.
There are a million baked pasta recipes on the internet (believe me, I’ve tried most of them). But this one is different, and here’s why:
→ It uses pantry staples
→ It’s deeply, deeply cheesy
→ The leeks bring something nobody expects
→ It reheats like a dream
→ My kids actually eat it (a miracle)
I didn’t grow up eating leeks. My mother considered them an affectation. It wasn’t until college, when I had a French roommate named Camille…
…and that, as they say, was that. From that night on I was a leek person. (Camille and I have since lost touch, which is one of those small, soft regrets you carry around.)
Cheddar: I prefer a really sharp white cheddar, aged 18 months if you can find it. Cabot is reliable; Tillamook works in a pinch.
Pasta: Big shells or paccheri. Anything that catches sauce in its folds.
Cream: Whole. We are not doing half-and-half today. Live a little.
If you’re new here, welcome! I’m Linda, and on this blog I share recipes, slow living, motherhood, and the occasional thought on midcentury textiles…
Ingredients
Method
Parboil the leeks
Heat oven to 425°. Cook leeks in salted water until a knife slides in with light resistance, 9–12 min.
Cook the pasta
Boil pasta until very al dente. Drain, reserving 2 c. liquid.
Build the sauce
Reduce wine, whisk in mustard, cream, pasta water. Add cheese a handful at a time until smooth.
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