Sometimes it seems like all I do on this site is fall in love—with a new recipe, a novel cooking method, a city visited for the first time, or that roommate of mine. It’s not all that unlike my middle school years: a new crush practically every week. Except these days, instead of loopy, heart-filled diary entries about the latest gent to catch my eye, I gush about produce and pots and such on this site. What can I say? Cooking is thrilling for me. Maybe because, in the grand scheme of things, I’m relatively new to the endeavor. But, really, I hope it never changes. So I suppose that means that my gushy posts will continue to clutter up your Google Reader.

Today’s recipe had all the trappings of a gushy post—homemade pastry, hand-whisked lemon curd, billowy meringue. Just thinking about making this pie practically sent me into raptures. But (you had to know there was a “but,” no?) instead of becoming my next new heartthrob, this pie was a heartache, through and through. So much so that I could’ve just curled up with a pint of ice cream and some angsty, croony music (which would’ve rounded out the middle school image, quite nicely, I think), except I made the pie on Christmas Eve and there was no time for a pity party.

The crust wasn’t the problem; it was a snap. For Thanksgiving, I made four 9-inch pastry shells (Martha’s recipe) for three pies and tucked the one leftover portion of dough in my parents’ freezer for safekeeping. The day before I got home for Christmas, my mom excavated it from her freezer and let it rest in the fridge until I arrived. So all I had to do was take it out of the fridge, discard the plastic wrap and roll. (Oh, and make a decorative, pinched edge, which is so my favorite part of making a pie.) How easy is that? It’s got me seriously considering blocking off a Sunday afternoon real soon to make a quintuple batch of pastry so I have a moment’s-notice-type stash on hand.

And the lemon curd, too, was a dream. There is something deeply satisfying about taking a ho-hum bunch of ingredients—egg yolks, sugar, lemon juice and zest—and transforming them, before your very eyes, into something else entirely. Namely, a satiny, only-slightly-tart, butter yellow curd. I made a double batch (Martha’s recipe, again) and promptly scooped half of it into cute little Ball jars, which I wrapped with ribbon and gave to my grandfather and my stepfather for Christmas (big lemon curd fans, they are). The remainder (aside from a spoonful, savored straight-up, for the chef) went into a tupperware container which traveled in a cooler in our backseat to Minnesota.

That brings us to the meringue, which would be as good a place as any for this thus-far pleasant story to veer off course. But that’s not quite what happened either. I made the meringue with my grandma, who’s a bit of a pie maven herself. She beat the whites while I photographed (she’s getting used to my kitchen photo shoots, I think, but I suspect she still finds them, well, odd). Again, I got to watch the egg whites evolve from a slippery puddle into frothy folds, shiny and white as a fresh snow dune. The gushy post was practically writing itself in my head.

Next, we par-baked the crust, at which point it fell a bit, but I’ve come to expect that by now, so my spirits remained high. I then spread the sunny curd into a smooth layer in the crust. On that went that irresistibly beautiful, glossy meringue, through which I swooped a butter knife to make dozens of tiny peaks and curly-cues. I could’ve died from the preciousness at this point: so. beautiful.

And slipped into the oven, it only got better. The oven’s heat licked the meringue, leaving it golden-browned. At this point, I was smitten. I almost pulled out one of my old trapper keepers (my mom’s got a whole bin full of ‘em), just to scrawl “Kristin + This Pie = True Love” across the front. But, instead, I pulled myself together, carried on with the Christmas Eve preparations and let the pie cool. Once cool, I tucked it into the fridge to chill.

After Christmas Eve dinner, I played the proud baker, retrieving the pie from the fridge and showing it the family with a flourish. Amid ooh’s and ahh’s, I slid a knife into the pie to cut the first slice. Down through the crisp meringue, the thick curd, the flaky crust went my knife. And I scooped the piece out, ready to proudly plate up the first piece.

But—and here’s the but—the meringue was weeping. Which is apparently something that meringue is known to do. It was sad, it was messy, it was unappetizing. I broke up with the pie on the spot and promptly began serving the French Silk Pie I’d also made. My parents and grandparents, bless them, ate the weepy pie and assured me it was still good (if a little unsightly).

I don’t know where I went wrong. From what I’ve read, it could be that I didn’t let the pie cool enough. Or that I should’ve kept it at room temperature. Or perhaps I didn’t seal the curd beneath the meringue securely enough. Or it might have been the fact that I re-heated the curd, because so many recipes mentioned topping the “still warm” curd with the meringue. So this post, for once, doesn’t have a happy, swooning ending. When both the baker and the pie end up weepy, I suppose that’s to be expected.

Pastry recipe is here, and it’s excellent.
Lemon curd recipe is here, and it’s also excellent.
Meringue based on this recipe.

It’s been a while since I’ve posted a disappointing recipe, and this one was a real heart breaker. It’s not that there haven’t been less-than-stellar results in my kitchen lately. Oh, no, there have been more of those than I care to share. There have even been good recipes gone bad (just ask my friend Gena about my fairly disastrous take on this recipe which ended in one u.g.l.y. birthday cake). And there have been bad recipes that I can’t fix. I’m not sure which camp this recipe, for cranberry coffeecake, falls into, but I can tell you that it takes the cake (pun intended).

You see, this recipe led me on. I had been looking for a good holiday breakfast recipe (I don’t know why; I can bet my bottom dollar that my parents’ pantry will be bursting with an astonishing array of Woulette’s delectable pastries when I’m home for both Thanksgiving and Christmas) and this one had so much promise. It enticed me with visions of a holiday morning, mug of coffee in one hand and a thick slice of this garnet-swirled cake in the other, fat snow flakes drifting down outside. And, well, I fell for it.

(Click “more” for the rest of the story, more photos & the recipe.)

As I set out to bake the recipe, my crush only deepened. It was just so fun. I got to whiz up a couple handfuls of shiny cranberries with a shower of granulated sugar. Next, I mixed up a standard coffeecake batter, butter-and-vanilla laden and beaten into satiny folds. Then, then!, I spread some of the batter in the bottom of my trusty loaf pan, topping it with a thin layer of the sweetened, minced cranberries. I allowed myself a minute to swoon over just how gorgeous the cake was looking at this point. Then I covered it up with another layer of batter. And, because the first time around was so fun, repeat with another layer of cranberry and, finally, a top layer of batter.

Now, at this point, my hopes were sky high. How could anything so decadent (a whole stick of butter! nearly two cups of sugar! a couple eggs for good measure!) be bad? How could anything so beautiful go wrong? How could something as foolproof as a quickbread flop?

But bad it was, wrong it went, and flop it did. It was dry and flavorless and (by far worst of all) the thin cranberry layers which were supposed to bake into pretty red swoops and swirls through the sliced cake instead came out as a sad, splotchy mess that hardly showed up at all in some slices. I felt so duped. So used. So cheap. This recipe: it led me on.

I wish I could tell you that I was at least engaging in love-sick-gal remedies: sappy movies (I’m picturing Jake Ryan, cross-legged, leaning across the dining room table to kiss Samantha Baker, sixteen candles flickering in the background), ice cream out of the carton, turning the radio dial to a station that specializes in slow ballads. But, instead, I’m on a mission. I will find a new cranberry crush. Just you wait and see.

Recipe here, for the heartbreak prone.

The other day, I was cleaning out the freezer and I hit pay dirt. I found a pint of frozen raspberries from my grandparents’ garden. When they came to Chicago last August for our wedding, they arrived bearing a small Igloo cooler, packed with a Ziploc of fresh herbs, tucked inside paper towels; a cucumber, completely free of that weird supermarket wax; and a mother load of tiny raspberries. I felt so lucky to get the contents of that cooler, which I knew were the product of a garden my grandpa had been working on as early as the preceding winter, in his greenhouse. I made sure we used the herbs and cucumber before we left for our honeymoon and, after popping a couple like candy, I nestled the berries in the freezer.

And every few weeks, I’d excavate one of the pints for just the perfect use, thinking of my grandparents as I made whatever it was I was making. And then, when it was still very much winter, I sadly used up the final bit of my cache.

(Click “more” for the rest of the story, more photos & a plea for a recipe.)

Or so I thought! I was actually engaged in aforementioned freezer cleaning because I was making this quick bread and I was sure I had some frozen wild blueberries (from the Whole Foods freezer section, not a northern Minnesota garden; sigh) tucked in there somewhere. When I couldn’t find them without cartons of ice cream and bags of nuts raining down on me, I decided I needed to clean the freezer right then and there. (By the way: this scene is a sad little glimpse into “what Kristin does in her spare time during a week off.”)

As I neared the final frigid depths of the freezer, I began to fear that the wild blueberries were no longer there, used up in some muffins or somesuch long ago. And I got sad that my quick bread would go unmade. But that’s when I caught a glimpse of something magenta and slightly freezer burned. Could it be?!? And it was. A lonely little container of the last (really, this time) of the raspberries.

After putting the freezer back together (in a much more organized and slimmed down way), I got started on the bread. I’ve been hunting for a yogurt-based quick bread recipe that’s low on the bad stuff (butter, egg yolks, sugar) and high on the good stuff (yogurt, of course, but also whole grains). I couldn’t find one so I invented one. And, well, whoops. It was not my prettiest work by a long shot. The center collapsed into a slumping, defeated divot. And, even though I ate it, I’m pretty sure I only did so because I couldn’t bare to see my re-discovered raspberries go to waste. It was pretty bland, not sweet enough (note to self: a large loaf of bread with only a 1/4 cup of honey as a sweetener is just not going to fly) and, while the innards were extremely moist, the outer edges were rubbery. So it’s back to the drawing board. If you know of a recipe that fits the bill, please let me know. Me and next year’s crop of berries would appreciate it.

Well, it’s finally happened. It was inevitable. I hit a wall in my increasingly-unreasonable quest to bake all things carb-centric with whole grains. I’m sure my canister of all-purpose flour is smirking now or perhaps even laughing at me, from its back corner of the cupboard, where it languishes behind the canisters of whole-wheat flour (pastry and regular and white whole wheat), cornmeal, bran flour, old-fashioned oats, flaxseed meal, and … well, you get the picture.

As this site’s recipe index makes clear, I’ve ventured into loafs, rolls, biscuits, muffins, pancakes, pitas and, most recently, bagels—all in at least partially whole grain form. And, while the recipes haven’t appeared on this site (yet!), I’ve also dabbled in cookies and pastry crusts and pizza dough using whole grains as well. And, if I’m honest with myself, I knew that there would be a point when I would come up against a bread/baked good that was staunchly opposed to whole grains. Turns out, I was right. The focaccia you see here—based on Whole Foods’ Whole Grain Focaccia recipe—finally felled me.

(Click “more” for the rest of the story, more photos & the recipe.)

I selected the recipe because it used white whole wheat flour and the editorial section at the top of the recipe promised not to be “too grainy or dense.” Having allayed my whole grain-related fears, I plunged ahead and I came out with a pan of beautiful, dimpled, golden, rosemary-and-onion flecked focaccia. I chalked it up to another triumph as I began to slide it on to a baking rack to cool. But, as the loaf was sliding out of the pan, I noticed that it was pretty thin—not puffed, like I’d hoped. And as the loaf landed (actually, clattered) onto the rack, my heart sank as I realized it was crispy and rather leaden—not light and airy like I’d envisioned.

Before I trash the recipe too badly though I will say this: it was tasty. It just didn’t taste much like focaccia, in terms of flavor (the olive oil, for one, was subsumed by the heartiness of the whole wheat flour) or texture (it was more like a thick cracker than a traditional focaccia). And, also, I altered the recipe’s topping, and I’m wondering: had I loaded on the three pounds of caramelized onions as the original recipe instructed (rather than the mere 1/2 onion I used), might the onions have kept the focaccia from drying out and browning too quickly? If I had several more hours in my day, I would re-try this recipe in two ways: (1) following it to the letter and (2) using the topping I used here, but increasing the amount of olive oil I brushed on top (I only used a couple teaspoons and I think increasing it would boost the olive oil flavor and the moisture of the loaf) and decreasing the baking time (because I’m guessing that my loaf browned too quickly because it didn’t have the buffer of onions). But, since I live in a 24-hour-a-day world (sigh), I’ll probably just move along to my next whole grain recipe. And maybe find an irresistible traditional focaccia recipe to try in the meantime.

Here’s the original, un-modified recipe:

Whole Grain Onion Focaccia
WholeFoodsMarket.com

1 package (1/4 ounce) active dry yeast
1 teaspoon honey or maple syrup
1 1/2 cups warm (105 to 115°F) water, divided
3 1/2 cups whole white-wheat flour
2 1/2 teaspoons salt, divided
1/4 cup plus 1 tablespoon extra virgin olive oil
3 pounds sweet Spanish onions, cut in eighths and thickly sliced

In a large bowl, mix 1/2 cup warm water with honey or maple syrup. Sprinkle with yeast and let it stand 5 minutes or until foamy.

Stir in all-purpose flour, 11/2 tsp salt, 1/4 cup olive oil, and remaining 1 cup warm water until well combined. Transfer to a lightly floured work surface and knead until smooth and elastic. Transfer to a lightly oiled large bowl, turning the dough to coat. Cover and let stand 1 hour in a warm draft-free spot until doubled in bulk.

Meanwhile, in large skillet heat remaining oil over medium heat. Add onions and remaining 1 tsp salt and cook, reducing heat to medium-low to low, and stirring frequently, for 1 hour or until onions are very soft and golden brown. Set aside to cool to room temperature.

Punch dough down, transfer to a lightly oiled jelly-roll pan or large cookie sheet and pat dough out to 15″ by 11″ rectangle. Cover and let stand 45 minutes or until puffed and well risen.

Spread the onions over the dough. Cover and let rise again for 30 minutes.

Meanwhile, preheat oven to 425°F. Uncover and bake on the lowest oven rack for 25 minutes or until the crust is golden brown and crisp. Cut into 20 pieces to serve.

It was going to be so good: grapefruit sorbet, laced with honey and ginger. It was going to be light and refreshing. It was going to softly hint of summer—the season I’m currently having a very difficult time (a) remembering and (b) imagining could take place right here in Chicago (ever). And it was going to be a great way to make use of the gigantic bowl of grapefruits that I just couldn’t resist buying at the store:

(Click “more” for the rest of the story, more photos and the recipe link.)

I should have known. I should have known when I had trouble finding a recipe (in the end, I used a recipe that called for lemons). I should have gotten an inkling when I sliced into the grapefruits, waiting to be dazzled by their ruby-redness, only to find a muted pink. And I definitely should’ve taken a hint when I dug the bowl of our ice cream maker out of the depths of our freezer, only to find it scattered with some freezer debris. And, folks, I simply should’ve hung up the towel when I used a damp paper towel to wipe out the bowl. Have I not seen that scene in The Christmas Story where little what’shisname sticks his tongue to the pole? Did I not grow up in Minnesota and learn the hard way that, after December 1 and until March 31 (at least) wet anything will stick to metal? Well, I’ve done both of those things, but they didn’t stop me from ending up with a terrible ice-cream-maker-bowl-eats-paper-towel mess.

Luckily, after a mini-tantrum, Kevin (with a very scared looked in his eyes, I’m guessing from said tantrum) and I were able to chisel the by-then-encrusted paper towel out of the bowl. I was terrified that we’d let the bowl warm up too much and that we’d end up grapefruit gazpacho, rather than sorbet.

But it wasn’t the consistency that foiled us. The sorbet came out smooth, yet icy. And I couldn’t wait to give it a try. I expected the flavors to sing together (perhaps still having memories of my last ginger-and-citrus sojourn?). To delight. To transcend. And the list goes on.

As I’m sure you’ve probably guessed by now: they did not sing. They did not delight. And they certainly did not transcend. The grapefruit was at best a background flavor, overpowered by far by the honey. And the honey made it not only too sweet, but the worst kind of cloying sweet. Worst, the ginger was not discernible in the least. So I guess if I were to make this again, I’d amp up the citrus (most likely by adding zest), reduce the honey, and at least triple the ginger. But, in all honestly, I probably won’t be trying this again soon. I have better things to do with my grapefruits. In fact, I’ll tell you about one later this week!

Recipe here.

Okay, I’ll be brief today, because …. Well, because I’m busy. As I’ve told you way too many times, I’ve been delighting all week in cooking for two parties this weekend. And, can I just tell you, when you’re planning for two parties, the last thing you want to happen is for a recipe to totally, completely flop. That’s what happened with the rolls I had planned for tonight’s mini-burgers, the centerpiece of the Guitar Hero Party 2008 menu. What’s that? You think those rolls above look great? Well, that’s because they were my second attempt. The first ones—Ina Garten’s mini brioche rolls—are pictured below:

(Click “more” for the rest of the story, more photos and the recipe.)

See, I told you. I had envisioned perfect little golden domes, much like the vehicles for my favorite mini-burgers ever, which I enjoyed way too often when we lived down the street from their purveyor—Matchbox—in D.C. Instead, I got the mottled, lifeless masses I just showed you. Well, that would not do. So, instead of doing the sensible thing and heading to the grocery store for a suitable store-bought replacement, I foraged for a new recipe.

Apparently, I didn’t learn the lesson the first time that one should not attempt a brand spanking new recipe in the midst of a week’s worth of baking and chopping and roasting, oh my. Lucky for me, the second attempt was much, much more successful. For round two, I opted for Bobby Flay’s Parker House rolls, which I made in a miniature form.

And Mr. Flay didn’t disappoint. These little rolls came out puffed and golden brown, looking burger-worthy with their dusting of sesame seeds (which I adhered with a quick brush of melted butter before baking). I’m not sure where I went wrong with Ina’s recipe. I have to think it was my fault because I’ve never, ever had a problem with any of her recipes before. But no time to dwell on that now. I’ve got tiny burger patties to mold. Kevin’s promised to grill them up tonight despite the low, low temperatures here. And I can’t wait to slice into these rolls and stuff them with bite-sized burgers. Oh, and white cheddar and caramelized onions too, if you must know.

Parker House Rolls
Bobby Flay

1 1/2 cups milk
1 stick unsalted butter, cut into pieces, plus more for brushing
1/2 cup sugar
1 package active dry yeast
1/2 cup warm water
3 large eggs, lightly beaten
1 1/2 teaspoons salt
6 cups all-purpose flour

Place milk in a small saucepan and bring to a simmer. Remove from the heat, stir in the butter and sugar and let cool. Dissolve yeast in warm water and let sit until foamy. Combine milk mixture, eggs, yeast, salt, and 1/2 of the flour in a mixer with the dough attachment and mix until smooth. Add the remaining flour, 1/2 cup at a time, and stir until a smooth ball forms.

Remove from the bowl and knead by hand on a floured surface for about 5 minutes. Place in greased bowl, cover, and let rise in a warm place until doubled in bulk, about 60 to 70 minutes. On a floured surface, punch down the dough and shape into desired shapes. Place on a parchment paper-lined baking sheet. Cover again and let rise until doubled, about 30 to 40 minutes.

Preheat the oven 350 degrees F.

Bake for about 20 minutes or until golden brown. Remove from the oven and brush with melted butter before serving.

I am in the midst of making a package of treats as a thank you gift. It will include the granola I wrote about yesterday, the rosemary roasted cashews that I love too much and perfect squares of decadent peanut butter brownies (a recipe I got from Smitten Kitchen). In case the recipient is reading, I will say no more about the package. Except for this: it was also supposed to contain caramels.

Caramels—ends dipped in melted bittersweet chocolate and wrapped in pretty parchment squares—would be a lovely addition to the package, no? Well I’m sure they would have been … had they come even close to being edible. And the rock-hard mass that my “caramels” became was certainly not edible, unless of course you enjoy losing your teeth while eating.

I’ve never made caramels before. You see, before yesterday, I didn’t own a candy thermometer, which is an essential piece of equipment for caramel-creating. And, let me tell you, those suckers are apparently hard to find. I don’t know if it was a post-Christmas shortage, but I had to go to several stores to find one (a little too potato-ricer-esque for my taste). I’ve also held off on making caramels because I was a little scared. So I was comforted when I read Jacques Pépin’s description of his caramel recipe: foolproof. And I followed his recipe to the letter. Even when my intuition told me that the color had surpassed lightly-golden and descended into a rich brown, I forged on until my thermometer registered 320°, as Pépin instructed. And I trusted that, because I had followed every single one of his instructions, that if I just let the caramels sit for the prescribed four hours they’d transform into the soft, pliable wonders in Pépin’s photo, even though they hardened mere moments after I poured them into their mold.

Upon closer inspection of Pepin’s introduction to the recipe, I see he says it’s almost foolproof. Ha! So, I ask you dear readers: where did I go wrong? Faulty recipe (doubt it, it’s Jacques Pépin)? Faulty thermometer? And, perhaps more importantly, do you have a recipe that is truly foolproof?

Santa was very kind to me in the kitchen department this year. As you’ll see in a slew of upcoming posts, I was lucky enough to receive a host of cooking implements. One such gift was clearly in response to one of my recent kitchen failures. One weekend this fall, we endeavored to make our own ravioli. Well, the fillings we created were delicious, but the pasta itself was a disaster. I had read in a few places that it was entirely possible to roll out pasta sheets for ravioli by hand. Well, it might be possible, but it certainly didn’t occur when I tried it. Most of the raviolis ended up in the trash (Kevin was kind enough to eat a few, but I couldn’t take more than one). Santa must have known about this disaster and, in response, he got me this:

It’s not quite as scary looking as our potato-ricer-disguised-as-torture-device, but it’s definitely a somewhat ominous-looking contraption. It’s a pasta-making Kitchen Aid attachment. Various inserts allow you to make linguine, spaghetti, fettucine and even sheets of pasta. I spent quite a bit of time perusing the instruction manual and the reviews of the attachment online. Let’s just say that they didn’t exactly ease my fears. In what I thought was an effort to increase our chances of success, I decided to use Kitchen Aid’s pasta recipe included in the instruction booklet and the least risky-looking of the inserts, which promised to yield a thick spaghetti strand. Well, thick it was. And also completely bizarre looking:

Using the machine itself was a challenge. After mixing and kneading the pasta, we began feeding the dough into the attachment in walnut-sized bits, following the instructions. And when I say “we,” I mean it. Using this thing kind of reminded me of assembling Ikea furniture: half-way through the instruction manual full of user-friendly photos depicting two people assembling a dresser you turn the page and–bam!–suddenly there are three people in the photo with the dresser. Likewise, this pasta attachment requires at least two people. At least it does if you want to remain halfway sane during the process.

The difficulty and odd-looking results aside, the pasta was actually really tasty. Especially tossed in two of the three sauces I’d prepared for the evening. You see, my sister was spending the night with us. Her Friday nights typically involve stories along the lines of: “When that place closed we went to X and when X closed we finished off the night at Y. Oh and we stopped off for some food at Z on the way home.” So the least I could do to entertain her on a Friday night in with old, boring married people was create a “bar” of three sauces ready and waiting to douse our weird, but homemade!, pasta strands.

Kevin’s choice was carbonara, a sauce I know he loves (cream, bacon and eggs: shocking that a sauce featuring these ingredients floats his boat, I know). Ali opted for a spicy tomato-and-sausage sauce, with a touch of cream. I went for a porcini mushroom sauce (any time I make myself something that Kevin won’t be eating, it’s a safe bet that it will involve mushrooms). Ali’s and Kevin’s sauces were both really good–I’d recommend them both without reservation. Mine, on the other hand, was not great–runny, bland and, frankly, a waste of $10 worth of dried porcinis. And after my trials and tribulations with the Kitchen Aid, I needed something great. Fortunately, our dessert (recipe and photos coming soon) more than made up for it.

Basic Egg Noodle Pasta
Kitchen Aid

3 large eggs
2 tablespoons water
2 1/4 cups all-purpose flour

Break eggs into a glass measuring cup. Add water. Carefully check to see that the total liquid amount is 3/4 cup. If less than 3/4 cup, add additional water 1 teaspoon at a time until that amount is reached.

Place flour in a bowl. Attach bowl and flat beater [to a KitchenAid stand mixer]. Turn to speed 2 and gradually add eggs and water. Mix for 30 seconds. Stop mixer and exchange dough hook for flat beater. Turn to speed 2 and knead for 2 minutes.

Remove mixture from bowl and hand knead for 30 seconds to 1 minute. Cover with plastic wrap and let dough rest for 15 minutes before extruding through Pasta Maker.

Carbonara Sauce
Adapted from Food & Wine

1 tablespoon extra-virgin olive oil
6 ounces pancetta, sliced 1/4 inch thick and cut into 1-inch strips
1 cup heavy cream
Freshly ground black pepper
1/2 cup freshly grated Parmesan cheese
1/2 cup freshly grated pecorino cheese, plus more for serving
1 large egg yolk

Spicy Tomato & Sausage Sauce

1 tablespoon olive oil
1 cup fennel, diced
2 cloves garlic, minced
1/2 teaspoon red pepper flakes (or more, if desired)
2 links spicy Italian sausage, casing remove
1/2 cup red wine
1 28-ounce can chopped tomatoes, with their juices
2 tablespoons heavy whipping cream

Heat olive oil in a skillet over medium-high heat. Add the fennel, garlic and red pepper flakes and saute for several minutes. Add the sausage and, using a wooden spoon, crumble and brown the sausage. Once the sausage is browned, add the red wine and tomatoes. Bring to a boil and reduce heat to simmer. Simmer for 15 to 30 minutes. Just before adding the cooked pasta to the sauce, add the heavy whipping cream and stir to incorporate. Add the pasta, toss and serve.