Finally assembling the raviolis by the antique light of sunset. Cooking makes me feel connected to something. . . something historical and long-lived. Every piece I learn feels both important and inevitable.
These ravioli are part of a long-term obsession. Years and years ago, I went out for a holiday dinner with my whole work office at the restaurant "A Mano." Sister restaurant to its upstairs neighbor, Bin 36, it was one of the yummiest Italian joints I'd ever visited in Chicago. And the second course was pumpkin ravioli. . . coming at a time in my life when I hated pumpkin soup, butternut squash as a side dish, anything orange and squashy and edible. The only use for pumpkin was a Halloween decoration or pie.
But that ravioli--sweet and rich and buttery--served with walnuts, crisped individual leaves of brussel sprouts and tangy blue cheese changed my mind forever. And eating it, in the warm, sort of cavelike openness of A Mano, after the cold mile walk from work, up over the river, neck craned to take in the Marina Towers, surrounded by friends, I thought I might only want the waiter to bring that course again and again for the rest of the night.
And when A Mano went out of business in 2010, I knew that the only way to get those yummy ravioli again would be to make my own.
I've been working on it ever since.
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