Chapter 13: Jackson’s Spicy Gnocchi
I don’t remember the name of it, but I can see it in my mind’s eye—the pillowy gnocchi in a plain white pasta dish, glistening with olive oil and dotted with red pepper flakes. I recalled Jackson saying, after he’d eaten every bite, that he wanted to lick the bowl. It was that good. I asked our waiter for the recipe, and he grinned at me and told me he couldn’t give away Soldano family secrets. He then winked and explained the few simple ingredients that went into the dish. Armed with those, I knew I could do a pretty good recreation, even if I didn’t have exact measurements. In my world, measuring when cooking is for wusses. You eyeball and taste—that’s measuring. Baking, of course, is a whole ‘nother story, because baking is a science. Cooking is an a
