Sal DeTraglia

HITTING THE SAUCE.

My uncle vacationed in Italy a few years ago, and was disappointed with the food. He considered it bland compared to the “Italian” food to which he was accustomed in the US.

I wasn’t surprised by his conclusion. In fact, I think that the reasons behind it are pretty simple. My uncle is Italian-American, and he was eating in the land of Italian-Italians.

Contrary to what many in the US believe, Italian-Italians and Italian-Americans are different beasts. And it’s not just because the latter has a propensity to scratch their crotches in public venues. The differences go right down to the food.

Italian-Italians like their sauces to have clean, fresh flavors. Italian-Americans like them to have intense, meaty (and especially, porky) flavors. Admittedly, I’m generalizing–but this has been my observation.

I’ve eaten in Italy many times, and I never encountered a sauce laden with meatballs, pork ribs, sausage, and beef hunks—in other words, the sauce on which my uncle and I were raised in Utica, NY.

No…nearly every tomato-based sauce that I’ve eaten in Italy tasted mainly of—hold onto your hats—TOMATO!

Sure, you can find sauces with additional flavorings tossed in (e.g., Bolognese with its ground beef, Puttanesca with its capers and spicy peppers, etc.), but these seem to be the exceptions rather than the norm.

So it’s a matter of apples and oranges. Personally, I’d be happy to eat a big bowl of either. But since not everyone is as flexible and open-minded as I am, I feel compelled to provide these folk with some sort of public service.

As such…I list below the recipe for my mother’s (and grandmother’s) classic, meat-heavy, Italian-American “Macaroni Sauce.” “Sunday Gravy,” if you’re from Chicago.

If you are Italian-American, planning a trip to Italy, and fear that your palate might be repulsed by the taste of an unadorned tomato, then you should pack a tub of this sauce in dry ice and wedge it into your suitcase.

Just don’t be scratching your crotch while standing in the TSA line.

OLIVA FAMILY’S MACARONI SAUCE

56 oz. Crushed Tomato
56 oz. Tomato Puree
24 oz. Tomato Paste
Salt & Pepper (to taste)
3-4 cloves of Garlic (crushed with side of knife and skins removed)
Water (no more than 28 oz.)
Olive oil
Red wine for deglazing (if needed)
1 lbs. Italian Sausage (recipe below, or store bought if you have a life outside the kitchen)
1 lbs. Pork “Country Ribs” or Pork Butt
1 lbs. Beef Chuck
1 lbs. Meatballs (recipe below, or store bought if you’re as lazy as I am)
1 lbs. Skirt Steak or Bracciole (optional, but it’s great if you aren’t a cheapskate like me)
Fresh Parsley and/or Basil (chopped)

Step 1: Cut meat and sausage into chunks. Combine meats and garlic cloves in large bowl or hotel pan. Salt, pepper, and toss.

Step 2: In a large sauté pan, fry meats and garlic (in batches) in olive oil at medium-high heat until browned on all sides. Transfer browned batches of all meats and garlic into large kettle (off heat).

Step 3: Add tomato paste to rendered fats and (stirring frequently) fry on medium heat until darkened, but not burned. Transfer fried tomato paste into the kettle with the meat and garlic. If any browned bits cling to the bottom of the sauté pan, then deglaze with red wine, reduce, and transfer to the kettle.

Step 4: Add crushed tomato, tomato puree, and water to kettle. Cook on low heat until the sauce gets hot, then simmer on lowest heat possible. Stir frequently, being very careful not to allow the sauce on the bottom of the pot to scorch or the meatballs to disintegrate.

Step 5: Continue to simmer. Read a book. Hell, write a book. Talk to your spouse. Just don’t forget to stir frequently. Your goal is to babysit that pot of sauce until all the meat to be tender and nearly falling apart. It sounds torturous, but the house will smell so good…you won’t want to leave. Total simmering time (from start to finish) can be anywhere from 8 to 12 hours. As my grandmother would say, “Just taste it.”

Step 6: When sauce is done, stir in the parsley (and/or basil). Top with freshly grated Pecorino Romano or Parmeggiano Reggiano cheese when served. Buy the good Italian stuff, not an ugly step-child from Wisconsin. I also like a good sprinkling of red pepper flakes or a drizzle of chile-infused EVOO, because I am a spicy dude.

Note: If making sauce on the stovetop, my preference is to double this recipe Seriously…if you’re going to trash an entire weekend making sauce, you might as well make a ton and freeze it in batches. It freezes very well, thank god. Also, I place a diffuser under the pot while simmering to lessen the odds of scorching the sauce.

Note 2 and Life-changing #ProTip: Did you know that you can skip 8-12 hours of babysitting a stovetop kettle by making this recipe in a slow cooker? Yeah, it’s true. You don’t even need to stir. I can’t believe it took me this long to think of it. Follow steps 1-4 as described above, BUT…instead of transferring the ingredients to a pot, transfer them to two (2) 6 quart slow cookers (or cut the recipe in half if using only one slow cooker…but seriously, just spend the extra $30 and buy a second slow cooker). Set the slow cooker(s) to “Low,” then come back in 8 hours to finish the job at Step 6.

Note 3: I tried to make this recipe (again, cutting it in half) in an Instant Pot–believing that 8 hours of simmering could be reduced to a mere 20 minutes under high pressure. And it would have worked, if it weren’t for that meddling “Burn” warning. Yes, sadly…the Instant Pot “Burn” function kept triggering before the sauce reached high pressure. If anybody can figure out how to get the sauce to high pressure without triggering “Burn,” you’ll likely find a Nobel Prize under the tree next Christmas. That said, if you have an old school/low-tech stovetop pressure cooker, give it a try and let me know if my hypothesis holds [pasta] water. I’ll betcha it does.

Note 4 (Update, May 19, 2026): I made sauce last weekend and tried two radical alterations. First, I doubled the quantity of meat. Why? Because meat that has simmered in sauce for 8-12 is the finest food on earth. My wife wanted more. And when your wife wants more meat, you [ahem] best give her more meat. Result: The sauce itself was a bit more savory (not a bad thing at all), and you get to eat twice as much meat. Second, instead of standing at the stove frying the meats, I roasted them in an oven. Beef, pork, and sausage in one roasting pan; meatballs in another (because meatballs cook faster). I drizzled the meats with EVOO, salt, and pepper, tossed in some garlic cloves, put them in a 450F oven for 20 minutes (because I roast everything under the sun at 450F–it’s easy to remember and hasn’t failed me in 40 years), flipped the meats with a spatula, and back into the oven. The meatballs needed another 10 minutes (total cook time 30 minutes) and the other meats needed another 20-ish minutes (total cook time 40-45 minutes). Ovens vary, roasting pans vary, so don’t take these times as gospel. Watch carefully and make your own judgement calls. But the important thing is that you don’t just want to brown the meats. You want a bit of a crust. Then, after adding the meats to the slow cookers (I use two slow cookers, as mentioned above), I deglazed the roasting pans with red wine to scrape up all the yummy fond (i.e., the Maillard effect). Verdict: Just as good as frying on the stovetop, but without the hassle or greasy mess. No, roasting the meats doesn’t save you any time. But while those meats were roasting, I was sitting at my kitchen island drinking coffee and reading the news–rather than wallowing in a mushroom cloud of greasy steam. Verdict: From this day forward, I will *always* double the meat and roast it in the oven. And use slow cookers. Always. Thank you for your attention to this matter. -Sal-

NONNIE’S MEATBALLS

¾ lbs. Ground Beef
¾ lbs. Ground Pork
3-4 slices of Bread (soaked in water and squeezed)
1 Egg
Garlic (minced)
Fresh Parsley
Fresh Basil
Salt & Pepper
¼ cup Grated Cheese

Step 1: Mix ingredients.

Step 2: Roll into balls.

Step 3: Fry in olive oil until browned. Let cool on cooling rack or paper towel-lined plate.

Disclaimer: I haven’t made homemade meatballs in years, much to my mother’s chagrin. It’s just too much trouble. I buy froze meatballs from the grocery store and fry them along with the other meats. Honestly, I can’t tell the difference in the finished product and it saves me at least an hour’s worth of labor.

NONNIE’S ITALIAN SAUSAGE

4 lbs. Coarsely-ground pork butt (i.e., pork shoulder)
2 teaspoons salt
2 tablespoons paprika
2 teaspoons fennel seed
2 tablespoons hot red pepper flakes (optional)
Sausage casings, soaked in water to soften and remove salt (optional)

Step 1. Mix pork and spices in a bowl.

Step 2. Cover and let sit overnight in the fridge.

Step 3. Stuff into casings. How do you do that? Look it up on YouTube.

Another Disclaimer: Steps 1 and 2 are pieces of cake. Step 3 is a bit of a pain. Plus, it requires special equipment. To be honest, I almost always just buy a good quality Italian sausage from the market when making sauce.

BRACCIOLE

1-1.5 lbs. Round Steak (sliced thinly)
Fresh Parsley
Salt & Pepper
Garlic (minced and sautéed) or Garlic Powder
Grated Cheese
Kitchen Twine or Toothpicks

Step 1: Pound steak with mallet.

Step 2: Slice steak into strips (i.e., wider/longer strips for big bracciole; narrower/shorter strips for small bracciole).

Step 3: Sprinkle steak strips with salt, pepper, garlic (or garlic powder), parsley and cheese.

Step 4: Roll strips like a jelly roll, so that the seasonings are inside the roll. Tie with twine or spear with toothpicks, so that they won’t unroll.

Step 5: Fry in olive oil until browned.

Yet Another Disclaimer: I rarely make bracciole. Honestly, the above combo of ribs, chuck, meatballs, and (most importantly) sausage is more than sufficient.

PERFECTING PUSTIES: UTICA’S MOST FRUSTRATING (YET WORTHWHILE) DESSERT.

If Tomate Pie is Utica, NY’s favorite entrée, then pusties are its superstar dessert.

Pusties (aka, pasticciotti) are little pastry tarts filled with custard and baked in a unique fluted tin. It’s a culinary jewel that is maddeningly difficult to find outside of upstate New York. It’s also maddeningly difficult to make at home—which may explain why 87% of all outbound flights from Syracuse Airport contain at least one box of pusties in the overhead bin.

I made up that last statistic, but wouldn’t be shocked if it were true.

You’re probably asking yourself, “What could be so hard about making a custard-filled pastry tart?” Well…several things.

First, the equipment. To make pusties, you need pustie tins. And you won’t find pustie tins in any Walmart.

Then, you need a good recipe. This is no small task. Most people that live in Utica don’t make pusties, because it’s easier to buy them at a local bakery. And most people outside of Utica don’t make pusties because…well, they’ve never heard of them. Much like the Amish, pustie culture tends not to venture far from the ol’ homestead. So finding a decent recipe (i.e., one whose dough doesn’t crumble like a sand castle when touched with a rolling pin) involves either raiding somebody’s grandma’s file cabinet or playing Internet Russian Roulette.

Even with a good recipe in hand, the pustie-making process is laborious, time-consuming, and temperamental. Making the dough, making the custard, lining each tin with dough, filling each tin with custard, capping each tin with another layer of dough—it’s a multi-hour marathon, and that’s *with* helpers.

Then there’s the baking. This is the most frustrating part. Why? Because the top of the pusty is exposed to the oven’s heat…whereas the bottom and sides are shielded by the tin. This means, all too often, that your beautiful pustie—whose top looked so crisp and golden brown when you pulled it from the oven—emerges from the tin a doughy, undercooked tragedy.

Yet all these downsides pale in comparison to a pustie-celibate life. So my wife and I sacrificed many hours and hundreds of calories on a Quixotic quest to crack the pustie code.

And we think we’ve finally cracked it. The recipe is set forth below. If it kills your entire weekend, don’t say I didn’t warn you.

THE DOUGH

6 c All Purpose Flour
1 t Baking Powder
1 c Lard (broken, cut, or shaved into small pieces)
1 stick (i.e., ½ c) Unsalted Butter (broken, cut, or shaved into small pieces)
2/3 c Light or Dark Brown Sugar
2/3 cup Sugar
¼ c Honey
2 Eggs
½ c Water

STEP 1: In a large bowl, add baking powder, lard, butter, and 3 cups flour.

STEP 2: Mix together with your hands, as you would a pie crust.

STEP 3: Add sugars and mix further.

STEP 4: In a separate bowl, mix the eggs, water, and honey. Beat well.

STEP 5: Make a well in the center of the dry ingredients (i.e., the bowl containing the flour, baking powder, lard, and butter). Pour the egg mixture into the center and mix well with hands.

STEP 6: Continue adding flour ½ cup at a time and mix well until your reach the perfect consistency (i.e., not to sticky, yet not too dry/crumbly). You may or may not need all 6 cups of flour.

STEP 7: Knead for a few minutes, cover bowl with plastic wrap, and let rest in refrigerator for a few hours or overnight.

NOTE: This makes enough dough for forty (40) pusties (assuming 3.5 inch diameter pusty tin).

THE CUSTARD
(IN THIS CASE, VANILLA)
2 c Whole Milk
1 c Heavy Cream
3 Large Eggs
2/3 c Sugar
3 T Cornstarch
2 t Vanilla Extract
¼ t Nutmeg (freshly grated)
⅛ t Table Salt

STEP 1: Heat milk and cream in medium saucepan over medium-low heat until steaming. Be careful not to let it boil, or you’ll have a mess on your hands.

STEP 2: Whisk together eggs, sugar, cornstarch, vanilla, nutmeg, and salt in bowl.

STEP 3: Whisk steaming milk and cream into egg and cornstarch mixture in slow, steady stream.

STEP 4: Return egg and milk mixture to saucepan and cook over medium-low heat, stirring constantly with wooden spoon and scraping bottom of pan.

STEP 5: When custard begins to thicken and clump at the bottom of the saucepan, toss aside the wooden spoon and grab a whisk. Continue whisking the custard (breaking up the clumps at the bottom of the pan) until it thickens to the point that the whisk leaves a “trail” in the custard. Or, stated another way, keep whisking until the custard is thick enough to coat the back of a spoon and you can draw a line through it with your finger. Be careful not to over-thicken.

STEP 6: Remove from heat, pour into a bowl or Cambro, and cool to room temperature.

NOTE: This will make enough custard for ten (10) pusties.

CUSTARD VARIATIONS

For chocolate custard, add ½ c cocao powder at Step 2 and omit nutmeg. Full disclosure: My father commented that he would like a bit more sugar in the chocolate custard.

For dark chocolate custard, add ½ c dark cocao powder at Step 2 and omit nutmeg.

For coconut pusties, just stir in a generous hand full of coconut at Step 6. Duh!

For almond custard, add 2 t almond extract at Step 2 and omit vanilla extract.

For lemon custard, add 1.5 T fresh lemon juice and 1.5 T grated lemon zest at Step 2 and omit nutmeg.

For orange custard, add 1.5 T fresh orange juice and 1.5 T grated orange zest at Step 2 and omit nutmeg.

For ketchup custard, add ½ c ketchup at Step 2 and omit nutmeg. Just kidding, sort of. Don’t be afraid to let your creativity fly. The pustie possibilities are endless…and man does not live on vanilla alone!

THE ASSEMBLY
Pustie Tins (you can buy these online from Flihan’s)
Pizza or Baking Stone
Rolling pin
Nonstick Spray (e.g., Pam)
Flour (for dusting work surface)
Egg yolks (beaten)
Pastry brush
Sugar (for sprinkling)

STEP 1: Place pizza stone on middle rack. Heat oven (and stone) at 500F for one hour. Seriously, let that stone heat for the full hour.

STEP 2: Meanwhile (as oven and stone are heating), spray pusty tins with non-stick spray. Do not flour the pustie tin, or my Uncle Sammy will kill you.

STEP 3: Break off little “meatball” of dough. On a lightly floured surface, use rolling pin to roll out dough into a thin round of 1/4 inch thickness. #ProTip: Alternatively, you can roll out a larger sheet of dough and cut out circles using a glass or bowl of the correct diameter (this method is faster than the meatball method, FWIW).

STEP 4: Place rolled-out dough round into pusty tin. Use thumbs to press dough into bottom and sides of the tin. Remove excess, overhanging dough.

STEP 5: Fill pustie with custard of choice. #ProTip: Don’t overfill it! Leave a half inch or so of breathing room. Both the custard and the dough will plump in the oven, so overfilling will cause the lid (described in Step 6 below) to crack and/or separate from the base. That said…#ProTip: Don’t underfill it either–or your guests will feel cheated. (This is a persnickety recipe. This is one of a thousand ways to screw it up.)

STEP 6: Roll out another little “meatball” of dough into a thin round. This will be the pustie’s “lid.” Cover pustie top with lid of dough, crimp with fingers to seal, and remove excess, overhanging dough. #ProTip: Brush the rim of the pastie with water before topping with and crimping the lid. This will help keep the lid from blowing open–yet another way to screw up this persnickety recipe. My grandmother (i.e., “Nonnie“) would place a little “button” of dough in the center of each vanilla pustie’s lid, so that we could distinguish the vanilla ones from the chocolate. Kids today would call that a “life hack.”

STEP 7: Brush top of pustie with beaten egg and sprinkle lightly with sugar. Then, using a paring knife, poke a couple small slashes into the pustie’s lid so that steam can escape during baking.

STEP 8: Repeat Steps 3 through 7 until you’ve prepared enough pusties to fill a baking pan.

STEP 9: When you’re ready to rock, lower the oven temperature to 450F and turn on the convection fan (assuming you have a convection oven).

STEP 10: Cover baking pan full of pusties with aluminum foil and place directly onto heated baking stone. #ProTip: Spray the underside of the foil with Pam before covering pusties, otherwise it may stick to the lids–another of the thousand ways to screw up this persnickety recipe. Bake for approximately 5 minutes. Remove foil and bake for another 20 minutes (#ProTip: Rotate the sheet 180 degrees after 10 minutes to ensure even browning), until the sides and bottoms of the pusties are golden brown. Listen to me, people! There’s nothing worse than a doughy, undercooked pustie. Well, actually…a hot dog baked into a chocolate brownie is worse. But you catch my drift. A lot of people screw up perfectly good pusties by removing them from the oven too soon. We know this from experience. You can’t judge a pustie’s doneness by the color of the lid. The lid will brown well before the bottom and sides, so don’t freak out. Those pusties need to stay in the oven until the bottom and sides are browned.

STEP 11: Let cool and remove from tins. Because, you know…you can’t eat the tins.

As with all recipes on this website, this one will be subject to a continuous improvement process. We’ll continue tinkering with this recipe until it becomes 100% idiot-proof. Updates to the original post will be identified below.

We’d welcome critiques or suggestions for improvement from you, as well.

#CrowdSourcing Question (December 23, 2021): Is the singular form of pusties (a) “pustie,” or (b) “pusty?” Any Utica grandmothers out there with an opinion on this life or death question? I hope the answer is (a), or I’ll have a lot of editing to do here.

UTICA TOMATO PIE: IT’S NOT JUST FOR UTICANS ANY MORE.

The city of Utica may be the Rodney Dangerfield of New York State, but make no mistake…its regional, Italian-American cuisine gets *plenty* of respect.

Think Fucazzo. Mushroom Stew. Chicken Riggies. Utica Greens. Half-Moons. And those ridiculously awesome Pusties.

But amongst all of Utica’s culinary jewels, my favorite—by far—is Tomato Pie.

What’s Utica Tomato Pie? Well, it’s not a pie—at least, not in the “post-Thanksgiving dinner” sense. It’s not a quiche. And, as any Utican will insist, it’s not a freakin’ pizza!!!

Arguably, it’s “pizza-like”—in the same way that, arguably, a chimpanzee is “human-like.” But Tomato Pie, like humans, is definitely the superior species.

The base of Utica Tomato Pie is a thick, soft, savory-cakey crust. Some compare it to focaccia. Others, to Sicilian pizza. But it bears no resemblance to the chewy, bread-like crust of a Neopolitan pizza, or the crispy cracker of a US thin-crust pizza.

Tomato Pie is topped with a thick, sweet, slightly chunky, slightly acidic tomato sauce. The sauce is dusted with grated Pecorino Romano cheese and a light sprinkling of dried oregano. It’s then baked in a shallow rectangular pan, cut into squares, and served at room temperature—preferably, with a pint of Saranac on the side.

That’s it! No mozzarella. No pepperoni. And, definitely…no triangles!

If you live in (or visit) Utica, make a bee-line to Roma Sausage & Deli, Holland Farms, O’Scugnizzo’s, or Daniele’s for a box of the real thing. But if you’re not in Utica, then life gets complicated.

Why? Because Tomato Pie is difficult to find outside of Utica. It’s even more difficult to find outside of upstate New York. And many a home cook has cried a river trying to replicate the beast at home.

But alas, Gentle Eater, your long, nasty nightmare of frustration and deprivation is over—because I have perfected the recipe for making a spot-on Utica Tomato Pie at home.

The recipe is listed below. I hope youse freakin’ like it.

THE DOUGH
2.25 cups all-purpose flour (I use King Arthur unbleached)
2 cups semolina flour (I use Bob’s Red Mill)
1 teaspoon sugar
1 teaspoon yeast (I use Fleischmann’s ActiveDry Original)
1.50 – 1.75 cups ice water
3 tablespoons EVOO
2.25 teaspoons salt

STEP 1: Using Kitchen-Aid mixer fitted with dough hook, mix all-purpose flour, semolina flour, sugar, and yeast on low speed until combined.

STEP 2: With machine running on low speed, slowly add oil and enough ice water until dough forms and no dry flour remains, approximately 1 to 2 minutes.

STEP 3: Cover mixer bowl with plastic wrap and let dough stand for 10 minutes.

STEP 4: Add salt to dough and mix on medium speed until dough forms satiny, sticky ball that clears sides of bowl, approximately 6 to 8 minutes.

STEP 5: Remove dough from bowl and knead briefly on lightly floured counter until smooth, about 1 minute.

STEP 6: Shape dough into tight ball and place in large, lightly oiled bowl. Cover tightly with plastic wrap and refrigerate for 48 hours.

THE SAUCE
28 oz can of Crushed Tomato
6 oz can of Tomato Paste
3 garlic cloves (put through a garlic press)
0.25 teaspoon oregano
1 tablespoon balsamic vinegar
3.5 tablespoons sugar
Salt to taste

STEP 1: Combine ingredients in a sauce pan and let simmer on stove top until thickened.

NOTE: I typically make the sauce in advance, and let it sit covered in the fridge for a day or two. I don’t know if this improves the sauce, but why tamper with greatness?

THE ASSEMBLY
17 x 11 inch rectangular baking sheet
Baking stone
Extra Virgin Olive Oil
Pecorino Romano Cheese
Dried Oregano

STEP 1: Spray baking sheet (including rim) with vegetable oil spray, then coat bottom of baking sheet with EVOO.

STEP 2: Remove dough from fridge and transfer to lightly floured counter. Lightly flour top of dough and gently press into rectangle.

STEP 3: Using rolling pin, gently roll dough into 17 x 11 inch rectangle. Transfer dough to baking sheet, gently stretching dough into corners as needed.

STEP 4: Rub top of dough with EVOO and cover with sheet of plastic wrap. Let stand in a warm place for 90 minutes. I typically place the pan on the stovetop while the oven is heating (see Step 5 below).

STEP 5: One hour before baking, place baking stone on middle rack and heat oven to 500F.

STEP 6: Remove plastic wrap. Ladle sauce onto the Pie, then use the back of the ladle to spread it evenly.

STEP 7: Grate Pecorino Romano evenly over the sauce.

STEP 8: Using fingers, lightly sprinkle oregano over the sauce. Don’t go crazy with the oregano, or you’ll taste it until Tuesday.

STEP 9: Reduce oven temperature to 450F. Place baking sheet onto the stone. Bake 10 minutes, rotate baking sheet 180 degrees, then bake another 10 minutes (until bottom crust is evenly browned).

STEP 10: Remove baking sheet from oven. Transfer Tomato Pie to wire cooling rack.

STEP 11: When cooled, cut Tomato Pie into squares.

STEP 12: Post on Facebook, and place bets on which relative arrives at your doorstep first. Pity the fools that arrive too late.

**************************************************************

UPDATE: When making the sauce, I used to slice, roast, and chop six Roma or Plum tomatoes and add them to the sauce. I don’t bother anymore, because the sauce is just as good without them. Why suffer extra pain for no gain, right?

EULOGY FOR NONNIE (AS DELIVERED BY MY MOTHER AT THE FUNERAL).

Hello, friends, family, and Uticans past and present. We are gathered here today to celebrate the life of my mother—Master Chef Frances Cecere Oliva. Hers was a long, giggly, gourmet life.

Frances was born in Utica in 1919. For those of you who might be math-challenged, that was almost 100 years ago.

Her parents, Angelo Cecere and Anna Agrusti, were born in the city of Alberbello in the Italy’s Puglia region—also known as “the heel.” Alberobello is an architecturally unique, UNESCO World Heritage site. It is famous for its white-washed buildings with cone-shaped “trulli” roofs, its orrechiette pasta, and its vegetable-heavy regional cuisine. Alberobello is a popular tourist destination for Europeans with good taste—and a popular destination for our family.

Angelo and Anna immigrated to the US. We’re not exactly sure when, but it predated the iPhone.

Fran was the third of four sisters—Mae, Molly, and Jo. We often refer to them as the “Giggle Sisters.” Giggling is what they did when they were together. They giggled at parties. They giggled on the phone. They even giggled during the final scene of Old Yeller.

She had a younger brother, Joe, who was also giggly—although, unlike the sisters, Uncle Joe’s giggles usually came on the heels of a dirty joke.

Rounding out the Ceceres was Uncle Frank. Not so giggly, but a handsome, quietly cheerful guy that was an artist of some renown in Upstate NY.

Fran married my father, Cataldo (aka, “Sam”…aka, “Gates”) Oliva in 1942. Dad was decidedly NOT giggly. His schtick was more of a razor-sharp, bone-dry, biting sarcasm—a trait that, for better or worse, has been inherited by some.

Fran was Yin to Sam’s Yang, but they made it work. They were married for 65 years, had three children, 8 grandchildren, too many great grandchildren to count on a normal person’s fingers and toes, and 2 great-great grandchildren.

When people reflect on my mother, she evokes many different memories. But the only memories that matter are those of my son…because I strong-armed him into writing this eulogy.

When my son thinks of his Nonnie, he thinks of her cooking. I suspect that many of you think the same.

The smells and flavors that came from her kitchen defined our family. Truly, the flavor, essence, and identity of the Oliva, DeTraglia, Gianfrancesco, Lowell, Sizemore, Occhipinti, and Weigand families can be reduced to—and is epitomized by—a spoonful of my mother’s tomatoey, meat-heavy Macaroni Sauce.

When my son was 20, he had a revelation: “Someday, Nonnie will die.” Ok…so his estimate was off by almost 30 years, but let’s not split hairs.

Since Nonnie would someday die, he saw a need to document the recipes for her best dishes. Her Macaroni Sauce. Her Fucazzo. Her Italian Sausage. Her Mushroom Stew. And most importantly, her Pusties.

So he sat down with her and said, “Explain to me how you make all this stuff.”

She immediately began rattling off a list of ingredients. “You add a little parsley. Then toss in some cheese. A smidge of this…a handful of that.”

Now, this sort of abstract explanation does not sit well with a 20 year old’s less-than-fully-formed brain.

“Wait, wait!” he said. “When you say ‘Add a little parsley’… how much parsley should I add?”

She looked at him as if he had just asked Abraham Lincoln, “So…what do you do for a living?”

Then she did what all truly great cooks do. She said, “How much parsley? I don’t know…just taste it.”

After a few more minutes of debating the merits of Art vs. Science, my mother said, “Let me play around in the kitchen and I’ll get back to you.”

A few weeks later, my son received a package containing a small stack of hand-written index cards. They were her recipes, written in the language of “teaspoons and tablespoons.”

Each person was put on earth for a purpose. My son’s purpose was to preserve my mother’s best recipes for posterity. Which he did…with 30 years to spare.

Her recipes have been posted to a website. They’ve been accessed, shared, and used by people around the world. They’ve been published in the “Taste of Utica Cookbook,” by Joe Mezzanini and Jeanann Murphy (available on Lulu.com).

And…believe it or not…if you Google the words “pusty recipe,” the first or second link listed is my mother’s pusty recipe.

The death of a loved one is never a happy occasion, except to the extent that it brings reunion, reconciliation, and remembrance. On behalf of myself and my family, we thank you for coming and celebrating my mother’s long, giggly, gourmet life.

We no longer can see or hear her, but we—and many others throughout the world—will continue to taste her for years to come.

EXIT THE NONNIE.

After a giggly, gourmet, ninety-six-ish year journey, my grandmother (“Nonnie”) has taken a seat at that great macaroni house in the sky.

When a family member dies, I’m usually asked to write a eulogy. It’s a task that, quite frankly, I’d be happy to do without.

But in Nonnie’s case, the eulogy was easy. I’ve been writing it for the past decade.

You’ll find it HERE.

Buon appetito, and save room for the pusties.

THE PASSION OF THE ALDI.

There are two kinds of people in this world: (a) Those that know and understand Aldi, and (b) Those that don’t, but make assumptions about it.

Aldi, of course, is the German-based, low-cost, low-frills supermarket chain that has been expanding like a late July brush fire around the world and across the US. It stokes passionate feelings on both sides of the spectrum.

People that have never set foot inside an Aldi tend to make bold assumptions—the most prevalent of which is that each Aldi resembles the East Berlin supermarket that I visited in 1988.

That pre-unification, East Berlin supermarket epitomized the term “Fifty Shades of Gray”—but with none of its sexiness. The supermarket had gray walls. Gray floors. A gray ceiling. On its gray shelves were gray cans sporting gray labels. Those labels said things like “Meat,” “Gruel,” or “Arguably, a Vegetable.” The store had no natural light. No color. No joy. The only fresh products I recall seeing were the ones scurrying underfoot across the floor.

This bold assumption, Comrades, is wrong. Aldi provides a bright, attractive, exceedingly pleasant, uber-efficient supermarket experience. I know this, because I’ve been shopping there for years. So let me provide some “Aldi Truths” to bring the naysayers out of the Cold War.

GIVE THEM NO QUARTER! No, wait! Actually, you’ll need a quarter. Aldi shopping carts are chained together in a corral. To take a cart, you must first insert a quarter in order to unlock it. But don’t worry, because you’ll get your damn quarter back when you return the cart. And you WILL return the cart. Why? Because—odd as it may seem—the prospect of forfeiting 25 cents provides enough motivation to dissuade even the most lazy Aldi shopper from abandoning his cart in the parking lot…within striking distance of my new Volvo. And in the unlikely event that a cart is abandoned, another Aldi shopper will pounce immediately and pocket a two-bits windfall. No abandoned carts means there’s no need for Aldi to hire extra staff to retrieve them. This keeps Aldi’s staffing needs lean and its overhead costs low.

YOU’LL SAVE A BUNDLE. According to a 2011 New York Times article, analysts estimate that Aldi prices are 20 percent lower than those of competitors like Wal-Mart. Aldi officials claim that the savings are closer to 45 percent. I don’t know which figure is correct, but I do know this. Before becoming an Aldi convert, I did my grocery shopping at Sam’s Club—where I would typically spend $240 per week to feed my family of six. My grocery bills at Aldi now range from $100 to $140 per week. You do the math. You just might save enough money to buy a new Volvo.

THE SELECTION IS SMALL, BUT IT’S BIG ENOUGH. A typical Aldi carries approximately 1,500 popular, high-turnover items. Competing large supermarkets may carry 25,000 items. A superstore, 100,000! So…you won’t find 16 different brands of peanut butter at Aldi, or 46 colors and textures of toilet paper. But who needs a smorgasbord of toilet paper?! You may think that you do, but you don’t. You really don’t. I distinctly remember the first time I entered an Aldi. I looked around and thought, “Jesus! This joint will barely make a dent in my shopping list.” But by the time I rolled into the check-out register, I had knocked-off 90% of my list. Aldi also carries a nice selection of organic products, gluten-free items, and fresh meats and produce. You’ll often find a smattering of interesting German imports, like krauts, marzipan cakes, and funky sausages. And as if that weren’t enough, Aldi frequently surprises (and delights!) by offering limited term specialty items. Last week, two lobster tails (for $12!) appeared in the freezer aisle. The week before, I noticed the debut of vegetarian samosas. So, fear not, Gentle Eater…for shopping at Aldi will not result in death from either malnutrition or boredom.

THE PRODUCTS TRULY ARE GOOD QUALITY. 95% of the products that Aldi offers are private labelled. This, admittedly, takes some getting used to. But the quality of those products is top-notch. I’ve eaten my way across the store and back, and (quite honestly) have found only one product that I didn’t like—the organic peanut butter…it needs more salt! And, again, private-labelling means that low-to-no marketing costs are passed-on to the consumer. Aldi is a super-secretive organization, but I suspect that many of their products are contract manufactured by the same companies that make the major, highly-marketed brands that we know and love. Why do I think this? Because my kids never complain that they are eating private labelled Aldi products. To be honest, I don’t think they even notice.

WHAT’S WITH ALL THE BAR CODES? Aldi’s product packaging is peppered with multiple, long bar codes. I’m talking obnoxiously long bar codes on all (or nearly all) sides. This is to increase check-out speed. These bar codes on growth hormones allow Aldi cashiers to whiz product off the belt, past the scanner, and into the cart at Mach 3 without ever missing a beat. Which leads us to…

THE CHECK-OUT PROTOCOL. There is a check-out protocol at Aldi. And while it’s not as intimidating as ordering a bowl of Mulligatawny from the Soup Nazi, it is taken seriously by employees and customers alike. First, you don’t dally while placing the contents of your cart onto the check-out conveyer belt. Why? Because once the Aldi cashier grabs the first of your items from the belt, you will enter a time warp. An Aldi cashier will grab, swipe, and dump $100 worth of groceries into your cart faster than it takes you to pull the debit card (Note: Aldi doesn’t take credit cards) from your wallet. Notice that I said he will dump the groceries into *your* cart. This, also, is part of the check-out protocol. Once you’ve unloaded your items onto the belt, you’ll push your empty cart to the end of the counter—where the cashier will either maneuver it around to abut the end of the counter, or he will move it aside because he has already grabbed and positioned the last customer’s cart. He does this because…

THERE IS NO BAGGING AT THE REGISTER! No, no, no! The cashier won’t bag your groceries at the register. A pimply-faced, 17 year old clerk won’t bag your groceries at the register. And you won’t bag your groceries at the register. What you *will* do, however, is take your receipt and proceed to “The Shelf!”

ALL HAIL THE MIGHTY SHELF! As you leave the check-out lane, you will encounter a deep, waist-high shelf running the length of the wall leading to the exit door. This is where you will bag your cart full of disheveled, freshly paid-for groceries. Again, this is done for purposes of efficiency. Bagging groceries at the register is a common (and annoying!) bottleneck in the typical supermarket machine. Aldi doesn’t do bottlenecks. Plus, you probably needed the exercise. There’s one more thing that you need to know about bagging groceries at Aldi…

BRING YOUR OWN BAGS! That’s right. Aldi doesn’t give out bags. You’re free to grab an empty box or carton if you find one lying around, but most Aldi shoppers come armed with a stack of eco-friendly, re-usable nylon bags for this purpose. Those bags often sport a Trader Joe’s logo, which is a bit ironic—since Trader Joe’s was founded by the brother of Aldi’s founder.

[Authors Note: Despite my clear passion for Aldi (and the fact that I live in the town where it is headquartered), please be advised that I don’t work for Aldi. Although…that’s certainly not for lack of trying. 😉 ]

DeTRAGLIA, ON WRITING GOOD…I MEAN, WELL.

I suspect that more people have mastered advanced calculus than good writing skills.

I’m not talking about writing novels or epic poems. I’m talking about every day, real world writing.

I’m talking about business letters. Personal emails. Explanatory memos. And don’t even get me started on Facebook posts and Yelp reviews!

The ability to write well will improve all aspects of a person’s life—whether professional, social, or romantic. It’s a skill that may seem hard at first, but it’s really not so hard. Writing well is like swimming well. It just takes mindfulness and practice. And once good writing skills become ingrained as “muscle memory,” they (like swimming) will feel effortless for the rest of your life.

I’ve been in a writing-intensive profession for twenty years, and have amassed a toolbox full of tips, tricks, and go-to techniques that have served me well. I share them with you, Gentle Writer, in the bullet points below.

KISS (Keep It Short & Simple): Readers have short attention spans. They don’t want to blow too much time or energy reading (or understanding!) what’s in the document handed to them. Your document should coddle the reader’s inherent sloth by being as brief and idiot-proof as possible.

ABC, 123: I am a huge fan of bullet-pointed lists. Hell, you’re in the middle of one right now! A bullet-pointed list is an effective way of breaking a long, dense hunk of text into non-intimidating, easy-to-swallow, easy-to-follow, bite-sized pieces. Think about it. Would you rather read David Letterman’s “Top Ten List” as a three inch tall paragraph? Or as ten numbered bullet-points? I think history has answered that question for us.

SMALL WORDS ARE BETTER THAN LONG WORDS: This point is indubitable. It’s also true. Using small words will make any sentence more comprehensible. It will also make it more clear. Remember…big words are for dumb people that are trying to sound smart.

TWO SHORT SENTENCES ARE BETTER THAN ONE LONG SENTENCE: Hey…nobody loves commas and semi-colons more than I do. But if that comma or semi-colon is in the middle of a sentence, replacing it with a period—thereby breaking it into two shorter sentences—will oftentimes make it easier to swallow. Which brings me to my next point…

IF YOU NEED TO READ A SENTENCE TWICE TO UNDERSTAND IT, THEN YOU NEED TO RE-WRITE IT: And oftentimes, breaking that sentence into two smaller ones is just what the doctor ordered. Good, hard, diligent editing. It’s what separates Hemingway from that insufferable Facebook friend that you hid last week.

TWO SHORT PARAGRAPHS ARE BETTER THAN ONE LONG PARAGRAPH: Go back and read the opening paragraphs of this post. See what I did there? Huh? Huh? See what I did?!

DON’T TRY TO WRITE LIKE A LAWYER: Even lawyers don’t write like lawyers anymore! At least, the good ones don’t. Good lawyers opt for plain English when writing letters, memos, or even contracts. Think about it. A crystal-clear contract is unlikely to go to court. Why? Because it’s crystal clear, dammit! There’s nothing to argue about!!! Crystal-clear is where you want to be. That said, not all lawyers are good lawyers. Strictly for infotainment purposes, I’ve reproduced below a portion of a document that I recently received from a country lawyer based in an unnamed southern state. I swear to god…this ain’t no joke.

Had you in your hands, or under your control, directly or indirectly, at the time of service of these interrogatories, or at any time since, any money, rights, credits or other property whatsoever, belonging or due the said defendant in WRIT or in which it has or had any interest for the whole or for a part; and if yea, what is the nature, description and amount thereof, and is the same sufficient to pay or satisfy the full amount of said writ or if less, to what amount? – you being asked and required to make full disclosure in relation to the same.

This, my friends, is *not* a good lawyer. This is nonsense. And while I appreciate the time and energy he took to hand me a laughable example for this blog post, he could have just asked the following question and saved his client a billable hour: “Do you have any of the Defendant’s property or valuables in your possession or control? If so, please describe what they are and the value of each.” KISS, baby…KISS!

A BRIEF EXAMPLE CAN CLARIFY ANYTHING: This is especially useful when the document you are writing includes a formula or the description of a calculation. For an example of an example, please see the example in Part IV of my recent cocktail blog post.

TELL THE READER WHAT’S COMING AT THE BEGINNING: A well-written document should not read like an M. Night Shaymalan movie script (i.e., no surprises at the end). State your point up front, then use the rest of the document to flesh-out and/or support that point. “How do I love thee? Let me count the ways…”

PASSIVE VOICE SHOULD NOT BE USED: Oh, snap! What I meant to say was, “Don’t Use the Passive Voice.” The passive voice makes you sound bloated, meandering, and pompous. Instead, use the active voice. Active voice makes your point more clear, punchy, direct, and powerful. The difference between active voice and passive is like the difference between Bernie Sanders and Rick Perry. Here’s a (usually) effective trick to help distinguish between the two? Add the words “…by zombies” to the end of your sentence. If it makes sense, then you are probably using the passive voice (e.g., “The passive voice should not be used by zombies”). If it doesn’t, then good job! You are probably using the active voice (e.g., “Don’t use the passive voice by zombies.”).

LEARN AND MASTER THE RULES, THEN YOU CAN BREAK THEM ALL YOU WANT: Your high school English teacher taught you never to start a sentence with a conjunction. And she was right. But I do it all the time. And it’s Ok, because I learned and mastered the rules first.

MIND THOSE SUBJUNCTIVES AND ADVERBS: Elvis implored the world to “Love Me Tender.” And don’t get me wrong…I love Elvis as much as the next guy. But had he paid closer attention to Schoolhouse Rock (“Lolly’s, Lolly’s, Lolly’s”), he would have asked that you love him *tenderly.* And while you may claim “I wish I was in Dixie,” I (personally) wish I *were* in Dixie. Adverbs and the subjunctive tense…not so hard. Google them, get the hang of them, and your perceived IQ will jump at least ten points.

AND FINALLY: Remember…Superman does good. You do well.

LIZ RYAN’S HUMAN WORKPLACE: MY CURRENT FAVORITE PROFESSIONAL BLOG.

I have a professional crush on Liz Ryan.

We’ve never met, but I’ve been following her delightfully subversive writing for more than a year.

Liz was a C-suite level Human Resources executive with a technology company, but is now a thought-leader and founder of an organization called Human Workplace. Her (and her organization’s) mission is nothing short of revolution: “To reinvent work for humans.”

Liz is a prolific blogger whose posts contain the most brilliant and counter-intuitive job search and career management advice that I’ve read.

Some of my favorites (of her hundreds of posts) include the following:

How to write a Human-voiced Resume
How to write a Pain Letter
Five signs you should be working for yourself
How to answer the five dumbest job interview questions
How to take charge of your career in 2016
Five job search truths nobody tells job seekers
The secret to job security
Five unmistakable signs that it’s time to quit your job
Better Ways to Get Hired
How to Cut your Job Search Time in Half
Ten Unmistakable Signs of a Bad Place to Work

Follow her on Twitter, LinkedIn, Facebook, and Forbes.

MOTHERS’ LITTLE HELPERS: COCKTAILS DE-MYSTIFIED FOR THE HOME BARTENDER.

You’ll find a copy of Mr. Boston Official Bartending Guide behind nearly every bar in the US. This Holy Bible of imbibing has more than 1,400 cocktail recipes. 1,400! That’s more than the number of hairs on the average middle-aged American male’s head.

It wasn’t always this way. In bygone years, one would simply order “strong drinks for men who wanna get drunk fast.” Today, however, it seems that most cocktails have 78 or 79 ingredients and are garnished with a sous vide-simmered Birch tree twig imported from the northernmost province of Finland.

It’s confusing. It’s intimidating. It’s enough to make a person just crack open a Heineken.

But is it really? Is mastering the art of the cocktail as complex as it’s now perceived?

The answer, in fact, is “No.” Like most unnecessarily complex things in life, cocktails can be broken into little pieces and re-assembled into a simplified, understandable system. And that’s what this post is all about.

In the paragraphs below, I’ll give you a template for creating both a solid foundation of classic cocktails and your own improvised riffs on those classics.

PART I: THE HOLY TRINITY OF COCKTAIL FLAVORS.

At its most basic level, cocktails are simply a mixture of whiskey, sugar, and bitters. Sure, many cocktails employ other elements. But whiskey, sugar, and bitters form the skeleton upon which the creature is built.

And when all is said and done, creating a cocktail—whether via a recipe or improvisation—is a matter of balancing three flavors: sweet, sour, and bitter. We’ll call these flavors the “Holy Trinity.”

As you’re adding an ingredient into the shaker, think about whether that ingredient will lend a sweet, sour, or bitter flavor to the cocktail. Then, think about how that flavor will be balanced against the others.

Maybe you want a balanced drink, in which all components of the Holy Trinity are in perfect harmony. Or maybe you want a cocktail that leans toward the sweet side. Or the bitter side. Keeping the Holy Trinity firmly in mind (and believe me, not everybody does) will raise the quality bar on whatever cocktail you’re building. By the way…this technique also works when cooking.

So…by now you’re thinking, “Yeah, I guess that all makes sense…conceptually. But I still don’t know how to make a damn cocktail!”

No. No you don’t. So, let me give you a template.

PART II: THE FOUR “MOTHER COCKTAILS”

A great home bartender needs a strong foundation upon which to create his liquid masterpieces. You will have that foundation if you master the four “Mother Cocktails.” They are the (a) Old Fashioned, (b) Whiskey Sour, (c) Negroni, and (d) Vodka Martini.

Master these Mother Cocktails, and you’ll have the power to create a whole slew of “Child Cocktails” by simply tweaking an ingredient here, swapping an ingredient there, and/or adding a little of this, that, or the other.

MOTHER COCKTAIL #1 (SWEET CATEGORY): THE OLD FASHIONED

The Old Fashioned is one of the oldest, simplest, and most elegant of cocktails. It’s also one of the most abused—often looking like a fruit cocktail dumped into an ice-filled glass of brown sludge. Order one in Wisconsin, and they’ll further ruin it with Sprite and Sour Mix.

Stop the insanity! A proper Old Fashioned is (surprise, surprise) nothing more than a beautiful balance of whiskey, sugar, and bitters.

OLD FASHIONED (i.e, the Sweet Mother)
4-8 parts Rye or Bourbon Whiskey
1 part Simple Syrup
2-4 dashes Angostura or Fee Brothers Old Fashioned Bitters
Stir with ice, strain into a cocktail or rocks glass, and garnish with lemon peel

There you go! The classic Old Fashioned! Now, you can spread your wings and create some sweet (in both senses of the word) “Child Cocktails.” Here’s how:

Replace the Rye/Bourbon with Brandy, and you’ve got yourself a Brandy Old Fashioned!
Use Peychaud’s Bitters (rather than Angostura or Fee Brothers) and strain into an Absinthe– or Pernod-coated glass. You’ve just made a Sazerac…the official cocktail of New Orleans!
Replace the Simple Syrup with Sweet Vermouth and swap the lemon peel for a Maraschino cherry. You hold in your hand a Manhattan!
Add 1 part Fernet Branca to the mix, and you’ll have a pleasingly bitter Toronto cocktail to keep you warm on a cold Winter night!
Feeling a bit like a lumberjack? Well, then…replace that Simple Syrup with maple syrup and add a few dashes of Black Walnut Bitters. Your Canadian friends will weep with joy…politely, of course.
Feeling really cocky? Good! Go into your liquor cabinet. Way in the back, where those dusty, untapped bottles of strange stuff have been banished. What do you have there? Some funky Italian Amaro? A bottle of Nocino, Frangelico, or Amaretto? Some crazy German liquor that you can neither read nor pronounce? A collection of unconventionally-flavored Bitters, like Aztec Chocolate, Rhubarb, or Cherry? Pull them out, take a sniff, have a taste…and think. Would a spoonful of one or a dash of the other lift Mother to an even higher plateau? If you think so, then give it go.

MOTHER COCKTAIL #2 (SOUR CATEGORY): THE WHISKEY SOUR

Whiskey Sour is that cocktail that your grandfather let you sip on the sly during some family function in 1975. You were only eight years old, but you liked it.

When made correctly, a Whiskey Sour tastes great on a hot day and—as with the Old Fashioned—is the Mother Cocktail from whose loins a number of sour Children may spring.

WHISKEY SOUR (i.e, the Sour Mother)
4-8 parts Rye or Bourbon Whiskey
2 parts freshly squeezed lemon juice
1 part Simple Syrup
Shake with ice, strain into a cocktail or rocks glass.

That’s the Mother. Here are her Children:

Vigorously dry shake 1 egg white before adding the other ingredients, and you’ll have a thicker, creamier, frothy Whiskey Sour.
Replace the Rye/Bourbon with Brandy, replace the Simple Syrup with Cointreau or Triple Sec, serve in a sugar-rimmed glass, and garnish with lemon peel. You’ve just made a Sidecar!
Replace the Whiskey with Tequila, the lemon juice with lime juice, the Simple Syrup with Cointreau or Triple Sec, and serve in a salt-rimmed glass. Guess what? Tu tienes una Margarita!
Replace the Whiskey with White Rum and the lemon with lime juice. You be drinkin’ a Daquiri, mahn! No blender required…or welcomed!

Do you see how easy this is? Let’s continue!

MOTHER COCKTAIL #3 (BITTER CATEGORY): THE NEGRONI

I was sitting in a bar in southern Italy around noontime in 2003, and noticed that most of the men were sipping a very pretty, intensely red drink. I asked the bartender what it was. He proudly informed, “Il Negroni!”

Negroni is a bracingly bitter cocktail that’s often drunk as an aperitif. It’s not always love at first sip. Acquiring the taste may take a few tries. But once you’ve acquired it, you’ll be in love forever.

And man-oh-man, is it easy to make!

NEGRONI (i.e, the Bitter Mother)
1 part Campari
1 part Sweet Vermouth
1 part Gin
Stir with ice, strain into a cocktail or rocks glass, and garnish with orange peel.

Mother, meet your Children:

Replace Campari with Aperol, and you’ll have a lighter, more citrusy, less bitter riff on the Negroni.
Replace the Gin with Rye Whiskey or Bourbon, and you’ll have a Boulevardier—Negroni’s tastier, more rugged offspring.
Replace the Gin with Spiced Rum, and you’ll be sipping a Kingston.

MOTHER COCKTAIL #4 (NEUTRAL CATEGORY): THE VODKA MARTINI

And then there are those times—or those guests—that are just not up for adventure. You’re feeling bland….non-committal…neutral. And you want a cocktail that will taste great, but won’t challenge you. Who you gonna call?

“Martini. Vodka Martini.”

VODKA MARTINI (i.e, the Neutral Mother)
2-4 parts Vodka
1 part Dry Vermouth
Stir with ice, strain into a cocktail glass, and garnish with three green olives.

Even the Plain Jane Vodka Martini got knocked-up:

For a Dry Martini, change the Vodka to Vermouth ratio to 6:1. Or, in more extreme cases, simply coat your glass with Vermouth and fill it with ice cold Vodka. Worst case scenario: Just pour a friggin’ glass of cold Vodka.
Prefer a brighter, less pungent Martini? Skip the olives and instead garnish with lemon peel.
Feeling grown-up? Replace Vodka with Gin for a more complex, herbacious Martini.
Swap the olives for cocktail onions, and your Martini will become a Gibson. A couple dashes of Celery Bitters will make it better still.
Swap green olives for black olives, and your Martini is now called a Buckeye.
Change the proportions to 6 parts Gin, 2 parts Vodka, 1 part Lillet Blanc, and then garnish with lemon peel. You’ve just made a Vesper.

PART III: PUTTING IT ALL TOGETHER

You now have the tools to be a fisherman, rather than a fish eater. Congratulations.

But your newly acquired, mad mixology skills cannot be kept quiet. They must be shared with—and shown off to—friends and family. At least, to those friends and family that agree to use Uber.

So, throw a party. Host a get-together. And when an indecisive guest hems and haws over what to order, try the following line of questioning:

Q1: Do you want something sweet, sour, bitter, or neutral?

Q2: Do you tend to prefer brown liquors or white liquors?

Q3: Do you like drinks with simple flavors, or complex?

Q4: Which type of complexity do you like most? Citrusy? Fruity? Winey? Herbacious? Nutty? Spicy? Salty? Smoky?

If (for example) the guest answers, “I want a neutral, white cocktail with simple, citrusy flavors,” then you’ll want to make a Vodka Martini with a twist of lemon peel.

If she answers, “I want a bitter, brown cocktail with complex, spicy flavors,” then she’d probably appreciate a well-made Kingston.

If he answers, “Gimme a sweet, brown cocktail that’s complex and winey,” then that dude needs a Manhattan.

If she gushes, “I’d love a sour, white cocktail that’s salty and smokey,” then duuuuuh! Hola, Margarita!

PART IV: FINAL THOUGHTS

In the end, the precise recipe for a cocktail isn’t the most important thing. It’s the care that you use when making the cocktail itself. Listed below are some nuggets of wisdom that I’ve amassed during years of research, self-destruction, and tinkering at my kitchen island:

The simpler the cocktail, the more important the quality of your base liquor. An expensive Rye Whiskey works wonders in an Old Fashioned, but would be wasted in a Boulevardier.
Fill your cocktail or rocks glass with ice water before you start mixing the cocktail. That glass will be good and cold by the time you are ready to pour.
A cocktail has two mortal enemies: (a) warmth, and (b) water. So, add your ingredients to the shaker first. Add the ice last. Once you are done shaking or stirring, don’t let it sit on the counter while the ice continues to melt. Immediately strain that drink into your chilled cocktail or rocks glass.
If your cocktail contains fruit juice, then it should be shaken. If it doesn’t, then it should be stirred. Sorry, 007…but you’ve been doing it all wrong. Stirring assures a crystal clear, ice shard-free cocktail. The only exception is the Bloody Mary (which should be “rolled”), but that’s a topic for another day.
Wisconsin, take note! Fruit juices should be freshly squeezed to order. Never use bottled juices or (god forbid) “Sour Mix.”
Don’t ever buy Simple Syrup! It’s a waste of money. You can make it yourself for mere pennies in five minutes. Just bring one cup of water to a boil, dissolve one cup of sugar into it, let it cool, and you’ve got Simple Syrup.
I prefer cocktails served up, rather than on the rocks. But if you take a cocktail on the rocks, then you want just one, very large ice cube or sphere—not a glass full of small ice cubes that will start melting before your first sip.
When garnishing with lemon, lime, or orange peel, express the oils over the surface of the cocktail, rub the peel two revolutions around the rim of the glass, then drop it into the drink. That peel should have no pith or pulp on the underside.
Not all cherries are created equal. Avoid those nuclear red sugar bombs found on supermarket shelves, and shell out the cash for a jar of Luxardo Maraschino or Griottines Morello cherries (i.e., the real thing!). The difference will be both mind-blowing and life-changing.
Rather than dealing with jiggers and ponies, buy an OXO Good Grips Mini Angled Measuring Cup. Measuring out liquors is faster, easier, and more precise with one of these. And they’re cheap!
A great source of quality, reasonably price bar ware is Cocktail Kingdom.
I recommend the following four books for your home cocktail library: Mr. Boston; The Bar Book: Elements of Cocktail Technique by Jeffrey Morgenthaler; The PDT Cocktail Book by Jim Meehan; and Bitters by Brad Thomas Parsons.
To stay on the cutting edge of cocktail culture, a subscription to Imbibe Magazine is a must.
The recipes above that I give for Mother Cocktails are written in proportions. Converting these to ounces or milliliters is easy, even for a math-phobe like me. The formula is as follows:

(# of parts liquor at issue/Total # of parts all liquors) * Total size of the cocktail (in either ounces or milliliters) = Amount of the liquor at issue (in ounces or milliliters) that you’ll need to add

Example:
If a Whiskey Sour is 4:2:1 parts Whiskey to Lemon Juice to Simple Syrup and you want to make a 4 ounce drink, then you would add:
(4/(4+2+1) = .57*4oz = 2.28 oz Whiskey
(2/(4+2+1) = .29*4oz = 1.16 oz Lemon Juice
(1/(4+2+1) = .14*4oz + .56 oz Simple Syrup

Feel free to round up or down. Even the OXO Measuring Cup isn’t that precise.

There are bars and restaurants that pride themselves on serving cocktails as big as a human head. This is unconscionable…and it hurts. A cocktail should not exceed 4 ounces in total. Or, as the kids say, #NoMoreThan4! Your cocktail will remain chilled to the last sip, you’ll have a realistic possibility of having a second one, and most importantly…you’ll thank me in the morning.

In the end, cocktailing isn’t rocket science. Hell, it isn’t even science. It’s art. No cocktail recipe—regardless of how long-standing or generally accepted—is gospel. If you have a cocktail recipe that you like, keep tweaking it until it becomes one that you love.

Then, share the love. You now have the skills to do it, and do it well.

YOU CAN’T.

Everyone is Picasso. At something.

That “something” might be epic or esoteric. Important or insignificant.

Doesn’t matter. Let it fly. Now!

And don’t let yourself be turned into a mediocre, middle school doodler.