If you don’t make pasta for dinner at least a couple of times a week, you’re an idiot. Or you don’t have a day job.

It’s the only food that can take so many variations, so many sauces, pairs so brilliantly with nearly every food (meat or veg, and that includes potatoes), and can be prepared so quickly.

Nearly every cuisine has an equivalent of a starch with some delicious topping, but pasta is simply my favorite. And since I’m taking Italian classes on Mondays now, and I arrive home late and starving to death, it’s the ideal Monday dinner: fast, easy, Italian, delicious.

You’ve read that you can make a pasta sauce in the time it takes to boil the water. Well, that’s absolutely accurate. Here’s a good one to try when you need something quick and punchy. Vary at will.

Linguine with Sun-Dried Tomatoes

large handful of sun-dried tomatoes (dried, not the ones packed in oil)
2 large cloves of garlic, thinly sliced
a shake or two of chile flakes, or a crushed dried chile
3 medium slicer tomatoes (or a few more plum tomatoes)
olive oil (quarter cup or so)
handful of parsley, chopped
1 lb dried linguine
freshly grated Parmigiano-Reggiano (fresh only)

Set a large pot of water to boil. Now we steal an idea from the brilliant Mark Bittman: Mince half of your sun-dried tomatoes, and cut the others in half so they’re more or less bite-sized but not too hard to fish out of some boiling water.

Heat the olive oil in a large skillet over medium heat, then toss in your minced tomatoes, garlic, and chile. Turn the heat to low so the garlic starts to soften but won’t burn. While that’s cooking, dice your fresh tomatoes. When the garlic has turned golden, add the fresh tomatoes to the pan — juice, seeds, and all — and a pinch or two of salt.

When your water comes to a boil, drop in the large pieces of tomato. Let the tomato pieces float around for a couple of minutes, then fish them out and add them to the skillet (that’s the other part of the Bittman technique).

When the water comes back to a boil, salt it heavily, then cook your linguine. When it’s nearly done, save some of the cooking water (in case your fresh tomatoes were dry), then drain the pasta and add it to the skillet, tossing with your now insanely delicious-smelling sauce and a little of the cooking water, if needed, plus the parsley and some Parmigiano-Reggiano.

(I used to forego parsley in many recipes, since I didn’t always have it on hand, but the parsley is really a beautiful touch here, adding both freshness and some lovely contrasting color. Try not to skip it.)

Serves 2–4, depending on how hungry you are.

PS: I would have included a picture, but I decimated the dish almost immediately.

When the girls informed me that they were all coming over on Saturday to throw me a housewarming party, I couldn’t really say no — especially since celebration for us really means a flimsy excuse to put on dresses, eat a ton, and get drunk.

The theme was all things français, and though told not to lever un doigt, I sort of couldn’t help it. So besides vacuuming, stashing away my stacks of as-yet-unread magazines, and mopping the kitchen floor, I decided to make some cookies. Small enough not to interfere with anything the ladies might bring over, but a contribution of goodwill…sort of a party favor.

The first selection, of course, was French macarons, because they’re Shelli’s favorite. I thank David Lebovitz for the fantastic recipe, which I fucked up royally. (My fault, not his. Macarons are easy to overcook, and when they’re chocolate, and you can’t go by sight….)

Anyway, they were fine when sandwiching thick layers of dark-chocolate ganache, and anyway, the girls would be drunk by the time dessert rolled out. Sometimes it’s just the thought that counts.

The real fun was the second round: lemon tuiles from Alice Medrich’s Pure Dessert. I love tuiles. There’s something truly masochistic about eyeing the hot cookies for a full minute after you’ve pulled them from the oven, betting yourself that that one is just set enough not to accordion up when you try sneak the spatula under its edges. And they are really cute after you finally ease them from the pan and drape them over a rolling pin. So curvy.

So the tuiles were sufficiently tasty and lemony, enough to offset the overdone chocolate macarons a bit, but then I faced the plating. How do you arrange cookies that look like Pringles?

Well, duh.

(With thanks to Elise, who boosted my ego immeasurably when she squealed “Pringles!” as I brought them out to the table. )

Most of the time, I come home after a high-stress day and simply collapse in front of the TV. Other days I immerse myself in composing dinner as pure distraction from the stuff I really need to finish up…before collapsing in front of the TV. Then there are the days when I arrive on a mission, angrily going about dinner prep not because I’m mad that I have to eat, but simply to prove to someone (intangible) that I am capable of doing something other than responding to email and cleaning up other people’s organizational disasters.

So tonight I’m winging it. The plan was fish soup with lots of croutons made from three-day-old leftover ciabatta, so I was thumbing through Nancy Harmon Jenkins’s lovely Cucina del Sole for ideas, when I suddenly remembered the eggplant I stashed in the crisper on Sunday. I could have gone the caponata route, or pasta, but inspiration actually struck. Creative energy, maybe. And leftovers.

So tonight I’m having stuffed eggplant. I sliced the smooth and lovely berry (really! coincidentally learned that from Alton tonight) lengthwise, scooped out the innards, and sautéed them in some olive oil with a bit of garlic and oregano. Into the mix: a couple of scoops of the leftover meat sauce from this weekend’s kaddo bourani (an Afghan pumpkin dish), some fresh breadcrumbs (thank you, ciabatta), a handful of chopped parsley, and a couple of spoonfuls of ricotta.

Good enough to eat with a spoon, actually, but instead I stuffed it all back into the eggplant, coated the whole pile in a bit of olive oil, and popped it in the oven to bake until soft.

Someone’s Mediterranean grandmother would be proud.