Blood in the Bolognese
Every accomplished cook who knows a damn about Italian cooking has a recipe for Bolognese. The official recipe begins with a mirepoix, a combination of onions, carrots, and celery that forms the basis for a lot of Italian and French cooking.
I had the ingredients out for my Bolognese and was just getting ready to dice up the carrot when it leapt up, snatched my santoku out of my hand, and slashed me across the forearm. It wasn’t a deep cut, a mere scratch, but my blood splattered across the counter backsplash as the celery hurled my teapot directly at my head. I barely managed to duck out of the way as the teapot smashed against the refrigerator, showering me with glass. I grabbed my chef’s knife and parried the onion, which was now armed with a serrated bread knife it snatched off the magnetic rack. I leapt backward out of the kitchen, snapping a kick at the carrot, knocking into the sink. The celery threw the mortar and pestle at my face as I slid across the floor into the living room. I threw up my arm and gasped in pain as the mortar and pestle smashed into my forearm. I reached up on the coffee table for my art history book and flung it at the celery. It tried to jump out of the way, but my throw was too quick. The book snapped the celery in two. The onion screamed and raced at me, bread knife raised. I parried the blow and smashed the onion under my foot. My eyes started to tear from its fumes as I bounded into the kitchen. The carrot was just climbing out of the sink as I got to it. With a flick of my knife I sliced it in two. I turned to see the can of diced tomatoes tightening its grip on a pair of steak knives. I lunged for the can opener…
There’s blood in the Bolognese!
