Pasta Pie 

Recipe follows story

On my way home from work, I gave my Uncle Louie a call.  It was his son Matthew’s birthday.  I was calling to send good tidings to the child - who really isn’t a child - as he’s 15 - and then ended up on the phone with my uncle for a bit.   

Once my Uncle and I got past the pleasantries, medical updates - he was in the hospital, I was in the hospital - the conversation quickly turned to food.  This is a trend in all conversations I have with my family and phone conversations usually proceed as follows:

1. How are you?
2. Been to the dr. lately?
3. Are you home from work yet?
4. What are you eating for dinner?
5. You making anything else this week that I should know about?

This isn’t one sided.  As much as I want my family to call me  and talk to me about my hopes, dreams, dates - wait, I don’t date - we always end up talking about food and medical ailments.  

I told my Uncle Louie I had a gallon of leftover spaghetti with cauliflower and he mentioned he had just made the same last week …  

I grew up in one house with all of my uncles, my grandparents, my mom, dad and brothers.  Uncle Louie would get home from work, in the city, which I thought was a big deal, and immediately come upstairs to our apartment.  He would eat dinner with us or, rather, eat off of my brother Louis’ plate because he knew it freaked him out.

While we’re at it:

1.  My grandpas name was Louis, but went by Luigi
2.  My uncles name is Louis, but goes by Louie
3.  My brothers name is Louis, but goes by Lou or Lou-ass (the latter is exclusively my pet name for him)

Uncle Louie lived to torment us and make my brothers and myself live in fear.  He is large.  He is bearded.  He is tall, for a family of short Italian men.  His voice carried.  He found out Louis was cutting school to play basketball and he stuck a knife through his ball.  Yes, he did.  He heard me talking street and saying things like, pass me the ball you cock sucker - and he chased me around the yard.  He would always catch me.  I was too fat to escape.

He would eat with us and then eat with my grandparents.  Clearly my dirty habit of eating double dinners was partly learned from my uncle.  In our house, dinner was often eaten twice, and when it wasn’t - we could be found eating together.  With an air of sadness and happiness in his voice, my Uncle Louie talked about my grandmas spaghetti with cauliflower, then he also mentioned his recent dinner of pasta pie.  He told me he still makes pasta pie for his kids.  The thought of my uncle cooking for his kids made me happy.    

I couldn’t remember the last time I had pasta pie.  

I knew I’d made some dumbed down super healthy version of it - years ago - with leftover whole wheat pasta, zucchini, egg whites and grated cheese.  This is not the way my uncle and I remembered pasta pie.  We described gooeyness to one another. Cutting into fat pieces with strings of cheese holding every bit of pasta together.

Typically, pasta pie was made from Sunday dinner leftovers.  Little bits of meat, interspersed with bits of pasta bathed in eggs and a lot of cheese, then fried on the stove.  Piping hot pasta pie was always served with a very wet and oily salad of iceberg lettuce and red onion.     

My uncle still works in the city, but now he lives in Jersey.  The house we lived in in Brooklyn doesn’t even exist anymore.  It’s gone.  

I wondered why my uncle and I only talk on birthdays and see one another at weddings and funerals.  He lived with us until I turned 10, that’s when he got married.

Were it not for him, I wouldn’t have learned that you don’t curse in front of people you don’t want to hear it.  I wouldn’t have understood that sometimes people do incredibly mean things to protect and teach lessons.  I wouldn’t have known how to sit down to a second dinner without looking guilty.  I followed his cues and secured many a double meal for myself - until my family caught on - as I was expanding at mountainous proportions.

We hung up the phone, and I promised - to myself - that I wouldn’t wait so long call and check in.  
It was glaringly obvious that pasta pie was the only way I should use my spaghetti with cauliflower leftovers.  

Pasta Pie

Leftover pasta (I had 4 full servings)
4 eggs
1/4 c. part skim ricotta
1/4 c. grated parmigiano reggiano
3 oz. mozzarella (cubed)
1 T. olive oil
Kosher salt and freshly ground pepper

-Beat eggs, ricotta, parmigiano, mozzarella, salt pepper
-Add leftover past and mix well
-Coat a heavy bottomed non-stick skillet with cooking spray and 1 T. of olive oil and place over a medium flame
-Pour egg/pasta mixture into the skillet and cook for approximately 12-15 minutes on each side (until deep golden brown)
*When it’s time to flip the past pie, place a large plate over the skillet and turn over, then gently slide pie back into the skillet and continue to cook