Holley Pearce, my coordinator of chaos and close friend, loves food but doesn’t do much cooking. We met because she dined in one of our restaurants four nights a week. When Holley, who’s from Mississippi, started working with me, her lack of cooking skills became a running joke. One weekend, we had a little gathering at my office, and Pearce (as her friends call her) brought something she called BLT dip. She said it was just something her family had always taken to the beach. Unable to stop myself, I stood by it snacking till all that was left of the dip was a puddle of pink mayonnaise-y bliss.
This one is more ritual than recipe and, for me, a most perfect alchemy, arming the most novice of cooks with a precise and measured objective. I love fresh pasta, but, I must admit, I equally love a dried pasta that is select heritage grain, preferably organic, skillfully milled and extruded under the immense pressure of antique brass dies, and dried in a time-honored tradition. The same goes for tomatoes. Whether it’s a rumor or a tomato, consider the source — as well as how and where it was grown and whether it was picked at the height of ripeness. Both pasta and tomatoes have a permanent place in my pantry.