layering for warmth

It has been cold here. Really cold. Unbearably cold. Freeze the balls off a brass monkey cold. And, after returning from an all-too-brief trip to southern California during which I basked under a bright sun, I have not been particularly good about putting up with this winter chill. I have mumbled complaints. I have whinged loudly. I have screamed bloody murder waiting for my car to heat up (try it; it helps). I have even cried while walking from my car to the supermarket door (though the tears froze immediately upon falling from my eyes). In a word, I have been insufferable. So, to soothe my malcontent, my beloved suggested that we do a little hearty cooking. Nothing fancy. Just a vegetable lasagna, a crisp salad, and some “American-style” garlic bread. But, stick-to-your-ribs cooking nonetheless.

Lasagna is, of course, nothing more than a template. It is a casserole, a baked dish of infinite variability as long as you have some kind of starch and some kind of sticky stuff to hold the layers together. There is the classic American version, with which most of you are no doubt familiar from your desperate visits to the Olive Garden/Macaroni Grill/Vinny T’s/insert generic Italian-American restaurant name here.  This is most often made with a tomato/meat sauce, dried noodles that have been par-boiled, a usually rather dull ricotta/spinach mixture, and oodles of part-skim mozzarella cheese. There are the many versions from Martha Stewart, who almost always insists on including butternut squash (something about the color palette, I’m sure). There is the classic Italian version, too. Usually made with sheets of fresh spinach pasta, a long-simmered meat ragu, a bit of parm, and, glory of all glories, a béchamel sauce. This last ingredient is the subject of my post today.

Béchamel sauce. It sounds difficult, not least because it has a haughty little accent above the first “e.” It is not. Indeed, learning how to make a béchamel sauce (less intimidatingly called a “white sauce”) is one of those tricks that, once learned, opens myriad culinary doors for you. One of those doors leads to consistent lasagna success, no matter what kind of lasagna you make, even a totally classic American style lasagna, which is basically what I made.

The classic béchamel starts with a roux. That’s the most difficult part. A roux is nothing more than a flour paste. You cook it a little to take the edge off the flour (later in life, Julia Child became totally and unhealthily obsessed with this issue…apparently she had been offended by the scourge of floury roux one too many times). Then, you pour in milk, (whole milk, as if you had to ask), slowly at first, until this frothy thing bubbles up and all the liquid is magically absorbed into the roux. This paste will thicken the milk as you continue to add it (and you want to do this carefully, stirring to incorporate the milk into the roux before adding more). Within about five minutes, you have a gorgeous, creamy white sauce. You throw in a little salt, a little freshly ground pepper (white pepper if black flecks in your white food seem disconcerting to you), maybe a wisp of freshly grated nutmeg, and you’re done. You have the mortar of one great lasagna, to use an unappetizing metaphor.

Yes, you can still use your ricotta cheese or whatever else floats your lasagna boat. You could even ditch the lasagna and use barely cooked penne or other pasta. The béchamel makes the dish. If you want to do a traditional tomato/veg lasagna, do it. Just pour a thin layer of béchamel over each layer of tomato sauce and finish with pasta+sauce+béchamel+parm. You think that bubbly mozzarella is good? Bubbly, crunchy, tomato-ey béchamel is better.

And there are so many other things you can do with béchamel. You want classy mac and cheese? Stir a cup of extra sharp cheddar into your sauce and pour over pasta. Or smoked gouda? Or Point Reyes blue? Add some crumbled bacon, maybe some caramelized shallots, a pinch of Smoked Spanish paprika and you’ve really got something good on your hands. Top it off with some chunks of buttered bread and you will find crunchy, buttery bliss. You can even use the same cheese sauce to make a Welsh Rarebit, spreading a bit of the thick cheese sauce on toast and broiling. Are you convinced yet that this is the little black dress of sauces? I feel like I’m selling something…

In sum, make a béchamel sauce tonight, people. With a few minutes, some ingredients you already have (or should have…), and a little attention to the process, you too could be a warm and happy frau with a full belly.

Hardly a Recipe for Classic Bechamel Sauce

4 tbsp butter

4 tbsp AP flour

3-4 cups of milk depending on how think you want it

salt to taste

pepper to taste

nutmeg, freshly grated (fussy, I know, but it really is better)

1. Melt butter over medium heat in heavy-bottomed saucepan.
2. Add flour and stir (with a wooden spoon, preferably) until paste forms.
3. Cook for about two minutes, until golden. It will bubble. Just watch that it doesn’t burn (you’ll notice the smell changing as well as the color; the fragrance should be nutty but still retain a whiff of flour).
4. Add ½ cup of the milk and stir. Milk will evaporate. Slowly add the milk in cupfuls. You might want to transition to whisk here. Don’t worry if you see little tiny lumps of flour. Just keep whisking and they’ll eventually melt away.
5. Sauce will continue to thicken and become saucy. You have reached the ideal consistency when you can draw your finger down the back of the wooden spoon and the line doesn’t disappear. (Does that make sense?)
6. Okay, the lumps aren’t disappearing. Your sauce is a little lumpy. Add some cheese. It’ll still be good. Next time, add the milk more slowly and take care to fully incorporate each batch of milk before adding more. Also, if you are really hopeless at this technique, heat the milk before you add it. And be heartened that you are "mastering" something.