-This image looks pretty, but if you could see what the rest of the surrounding kitchen looked like you might actually have a stroke at the sight of the sheer mess I made.- "Guh-nahshe?" "Ganahce? No, that's chocolate." "Oh yeah....
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-This image looks pretty, but if you could see what the rest of the surrounding kitchen looked like you might actually have a stroke at the sight of the sheer mess I made.- "Guh-nahshe?" "Ganahce? No, that's chocolate." "Oh yeah. So, Guh-nochi?" "Nope, but that's what I used to call it too. Truthfully, I still do sometimes. 'Guh-nochi' is more fun to say," I smiled at myself. BF ignored my quip. "Gn-occhi?" he asked, guessing once again. "Gnocchi. Nyo-kE," I said sounding it out. "Gnocchi. Okay, yeah... who decided to spell it this way?" "The Italians," I smirked. "Ah," he gave the cookbook I was holding a look that reflected his confusion towards the messed up world of international linguistics. I smiled in a way that assured him that I agreed with his silent conclusion. Gnocchi was one of my New Years resolutions this year. This last January first I had decided to make a mental list that I could actually follow through with, ones with resolutions I could actually scratch off. Too often had plans to learn French, teach myself to juggle, and buy flowers more often been put up on a dust covered shelf with a note pinned on, "Do later. No time." Others were simply forgotten and left in to stew in the rot of gutters of city streets. The impetus finally came when I picked up a copy of Pasta Sfoglia by Ron and Colleen Suhanosky, the chef-owners of the Sfoglia restaurants in Nantucket and Manhattan. Now pasta, and Italian in general, is not my strong suit in cooking. I have ruined spaghetti, laid waste to perfectly good lasagnas, and ravaged raviolis until they were burnt to the bottom of my pot. Seriously, I cannot cook non-Asian food for the life of me. However, this book however had a welcoming approach. All the recipes are unique and intriguing utilizing for the most part ingredients I can find and afford. Furthermore, it has a section on making pasta and gnocchi from scratch. I purchased it on a whim and took it home hoping the fact I had spent money I didn't have would be enough to propel me into crossing a resolution off my list. "Sweet potato gnocchi," I read to myself. It sounded so simple, yet outrageous. A concrete recipe given new life through a modern twist. I rushed to the farmer's market for some russets then dashed over to Elise's to borrow her potato ricer (a mandatory piece of equipment needed for gnocchi that I did not have as I can't say I have a fervent need to rice potatoes very regularly) with the promise to return it before nightfall or face the wrath of Father Bauer (who apparently rices many potatoes). Since the man can fell trees with his bare hands I made sure to rush home and begin my project with the utmost speed. A short roast and some ricing went underway; then an egg, salt, flour and a bit of maple syrup came together to form a dough. The dough was then rolled into ropes and cut into puffy pillows of burnt orange dough. Delicate and fragrant. Their rustic appearance was beyond adorable and I couldn't help but coo at them as if they were tiny little puppies - they were certainly as soft as one. Now new processes and ventures into the world of food are rarely pretty and usually involve plenty of scrubbing. The kitchen however did not feel the same way about the process as I had. A storm of flour had coated every possible surface, and every speck of it had been somehow cemented into place by the fine layer of starch from the potatoes. Pots were stacked, some I couldn't recall what I had even used them for and I wondered if some, unhappy with how they had been so poorly washed before - I have no dishwasher - had crept back into the pile when I wasn't looking. In the end I had made two and a half pounds of sweet potato gnocchi. Enough to make nine or ten satisfying servings as each little puff expands into a mightier, floofier puff. It was an epic undertaking. One I would be happy to do again. Just not again any time soon. I froze the bulk of it and later gave some to Elise and Father Bauer when I returned the ricer. I threw some into some boiling water and watched intently for them to rise to the
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