Sometimes the best dinners are a mishmash — one of the great gifts of living alone.

Backing up: Whenever I have piles of potatoes languishing in a bowl on the counter, my thoughts inevitably turn to gratin. The new nighttime chill doesn’t help (nor does my general propensity for carbs and cream, no matter the weather). Everything in moderation.

Tonight the mission actually started with a giant bulb of fennel. Three potatoes, one bulb of fennel, the (oh!) mandoline, a bit of cream, and some shredded cheese, and a dish of golden goodness awaits…in an hour.

An hour! And I’m starving. So time for a little snack. Something light: a few carrots and a bit of Trader Joe’s tomato hummus (I like that stuff, and always forget to eat it…we’ll see if I let this tub go bad from neglect like the last one, sad).

Just a few. The gratin still needs some time to brown nicely and set. Putting away the hummus, I notice the cute little peppers I bought at the market this weekend — and I wish I remember the name. They’re like pimientos de Padrón but Italian and, the seller confidently informed me, always sweet. I’m fine with the hot, but why not try them? Goddammit, I wish I remembered the name….

Anyway, some hot olive oil, a large pinch of salt, and a few minutes later, and I’ve got a small handful of blistered little peppers for my second snack. Or second course. The little dose of vegetable that will prevent me from gorging on the creamy potato-fennel concoction, and you’d better believe it, finger-licking, scrumptiously delicious. Worth ever cent of that 5 bucks, and I’ve got some to spare in the unlikely event guests swing by.

Take a small break to lift some weights. Pre-countering the gratin (I didn’t even use all cream! it’s part milk! but we skipped the gym tonight).

And back to the gratin. There is nothing more beautiful than a pan of crusty, bubbling…well, anything food-related, honestly. I really should have invited someone over for dinner.

Who knew the Italians were caught up in the small-production beer trend? Well, “caught up” is likely an overstatement, but then, this is the birthplace of Slow Food, so why not?

The Trentatre Ambrata pale ale-style beer I tried was actually quite good, and stood up nicely to the ravioli, cool breeze, and excellent people-watching I enjoyed in Trastevere over lunch. You can read more about the beer on the Italian site Cronache di Birra (Chronicle of Beer).

Since I ate way too much today, I’ll omit the play-by-play, but some observations:

• Artichokes properly fried giudia-style are my new favorite anything.
• Italians usually wield the knife with their strong hand, eat with the other. I continue to cut up my food at will…that’s how I roll.
• Romans love salt. Love it.

On Italian secondi: I don’t know why I keep ordering them, as they’re rarely worth the price of admission. I’m apparently experimenting to see whether they’re honestly mediocre or I’m simply too full by then to fully enjoy whatever it is I’ve ordered.

On a whim I went for the grilled baby lamb to follow a small bowl of bucatini all’amatriciana and its gloriously crispy guanciale bits. I skipped the fried lamb’s brains and sweetbreads in favor of an antipasto of Giggetto’s famous fried artichokes, fiori di zucchini ripieni (zucchini flowers stuffed with anchovy, I believe), and stockafisso (baccala). There’s really only so much fried I can do in one sitting.

Italians tend to cook the crap out of their meat (the exception being the nearly raw and phenomenally awesome bistecca alla fiorentina). My chop? For one thing, it seemed to have been hacked in one slice from the rib, the bone removal was such a pain in the ass, but the flavor was powerful: My lamb sported the charred, crusty bits that make the Italian grigliata so remarkable. But worth the trouble? I’d save room for gelato instead.

I get cravings sometimes, but I can usually calm them down. When I need hot and sour soup (usually when I’m sick), I really need it. Bad. And then I have to go through the whole mental battle of trying to decide whether I want to eat that much MSG; whether I want to spend a bunch of dollars when I could just make dinner; whether I have the energy to walk three blocks to pick it up…but dammit, I need my soup.

Well, I was skeptical about this one, but Cook’s Illustrated (not usually my favorite) came through with a recipe for hot and sour soup involving completely normal pantry ingredients that’s actually really good.

I had a pork chop and stock and most of the other ingredients, and just ran around the corner for some tofu, sliced bamboo shoots, and fresh shiitakes (ok, fine, so they’re not all common pantry ingredients). I found that my black Chinese vinegar had gone south, so I went with the red wine and balsamic vinegar alternative, boosted with a little more cider vinegar — the sour wasn’t quite sour enough.

Lots of white pepper and chili oil, and a half hour later, I am not joking: best hot and sour soup I’ve had in ages. I thought I hated bamboo shoots, but they added just the right tang. The little bit of pork gave it just enough heft for a light dinner. And the crunch of the scallions scattered over the top just reinforced that it was fresh.

Beautifully, I’m not even sick.

And yes, you need to eat, particularly if you’re going out for drinks. That’s rule #1.

So what to eat? Don’t want to eat anything too heavy, in case you veer off for snacks at some point, and to ensure you don’t nod off. Anything stinky or gassy, out…for obvious reasons. Rules #3 and 4. Starch might be good, so you don’t get hammered as you nervously burn through your first drink in 5 minutes flat. Well, just don’t do that anyway. Rule #5.

And rule #6: Whatever it is, it shouldn’t require a lot of cleanup, so you can get out of the house and show up on time. (I don’t know about you, but my date would lose points showing up late to a first meeting.) But frankly, you’re probably too distracted to get complicated anyway.

So I’m going with simple and delicious and comforting and aromatic.

A pal brought me a basket of Meyer lemons last week (the first crop from her tree), and I actually have some greens in the house, so I’m making the pasta with lemon, creme fraiche, and arugula from Amanda Hesser’s Cooking for Mr. Latte.

The dish couldn’t be easier: Cook some linguine, toss it in a bowl with a handful of grated Parmigiano-Reggiano, the zest of a couple of the lemons, and a few handfuls of torn arugula. Add a half cup of creme fraiche, some juice from the lemons, and freshly ground pepper. Sprinkle with a few tablespoons of the pasta cooking water, if it’s too thick. That’s it.

I don’t have creme fraiche today, so I’m using my new favorite ingredient: thick and creamy Greek-style Fage yogurt. I’ve been using that stuff lately wherever I’d use sour cream, and sometimes even to thicken a sauce when I’m out of cream…it’s awesome. I suspect the tang here will be lovely.

The date, we’ll see. But don’t forget rule #7: Brush your teeth before you leave.

Sometimes I feel like an oddball when I wake up early on a Saturday morning, reach for the milk for my coffee, notice 2 pounds of pork shoulder in the fridge, and decide I really ought to make carnitas before I head out for the day.

But that’s what I did.

I love my little slow cooker (though I think I need to upgrade to a full-size one if I’m ever going to use it for entertaining). I’m not sure why it’s any safer to leave that thing going instead of the oven while I’m out, but so far so good.

From pastry chef and all-around creative (and hilarious) cook David Lebovitz, I learned that carnitas is just a basic braise. Who knew? Brown chunks of pork in a heavy pan, deglaze with some water, and toss it all into the cooker with a cinnamon stick, garlic, a couple of bay leaves, cumin, and several kinds of chile powder (I had chipotle and Rancho Gordo New Mexican). Five hours or so later, shred the meat and spread it out in a roasting pan with the remaining liquid. Roast until crispy and utterly irresistible.

Why is it so good? Well, it’s pig. But it’s also pig roasted in a glaze of its own fat. Can’t beat that.

(Hey, the traditional method is to deep-fry the meat. This is better, no?)

The photo is horrible, but the carnitas made for a fine taco, particularly graced with some of those beautiful tomatoes I brought home yesterday, a good helping of avocado, and a healthy squirt of lime. I really should have invited someone over for dinner.

Well, not quite as much as I’d like — I still can’t choke down $5.99 a pound tomatoes, beautiful as they may be. Just a hint of mealy and I’ll feel guilty even looking at my wallet.

But fava beans, totally different story. I’ve enjoyed fava beans for ages partly as one of those delicacies you rarely toy with at home but love to order in little locavore-oriented restaurants along with your farm-raised whatever and a much-deserved glass of wine.

Anyway, I got over the precious factor and fell madly, deeply in love the day we arrived with Erminio for our annual visit to Davide’s fattoria in Panzano, in the Chianti. Yeah, I know, and it gets better. It was a beautiful day, and quiet, with only a few wine tourists arriving for lunch, a light mist over the vineyard (I am not kidding), and I was hungry, nearly salivating in anticipation of Davide’s mom’s grigliata or pappardelle con cinghiale. Or both. God.

Then here comes Mom herself, strolling out of the garden with a cheery ciao! and a basket full of fave, just picked, young, pert, so, so fresh.

Needless to say, we ate them all.

The second time I fell madly in love occurred only a few days later. (You can fall madly in love twice. It was in Italy, for god’s sake!) Dinner at Lino’s, always brilliant. Lino is a joker, but he does not fuck around with the food. I spoke bad Italian with Noriko, who’s been hiding out in Lino’s restaurant for years, learning Italian and very little English, cooking and serving, and refusing to return to her family in Japan.

We finished dinner and were relaxing with the rest of our wine as the last real customers trickled out when Lino sat down with a huge bowl of shelled but unpeeled fresh fava beans, chunks of crystally pecorino (a rare pleasure, as Erminio prefers the fresh and far milder cheeses), and a bottle of unmarked, weeks-old olive oil.

There is no better finish to a meal. I nearly cried.

So the fava beans are sort of near to my heart, and with their short, short season, I can’t help myself when I pass the bean and artichoke people at the market. Yes, they’re still $4.99 a pound, and yep, a pound of favas in their pods equals about four tablespoons of shelled and peeled beans (and yes, preparing them does take an ungodly 20 minutes or so), but I love them.

And I’m worth it.

So tonight, in honor of me, a play (courtesy of Biba Caggiano) on bucatini alla gricia, with bacon in lieu of guanciale, spaghetti in favor of the very difficult to eat gracefully bucatini.

How to make it? Put your water on and shell the beans (a couple of pounds). When you’re done shelling, the water will have boiled, so you can blanch the beans quickly, which will make peeling easier. Pop them out of their skins while the water returns to a boil. Now chop up an onion and a few strips of bacon, then cook ‘em up in that order in some olive oil. At the same time, start cooking your spaghetti.

When your onion is sweet and soft, and your bacon is near-crisp, add the peeled beans, the zest of a lemon (my addition), and lots of black pepper and stir it around for a minute. Add the cooked pasta with a little of its cooking water, toss with a large pile of freshly grated Parmigiano or Pecorino Romano, and you’re done. It doesn’t quite take me back to the farm, but it’ll do for now.

Wow.

In any case, starving, craving something healthy, and lacking much else in the way of fresh vegetables, I tried Anya von Bremzen’s rendition of Castilian garlic soup, which is insanely easy, really:

Chop up some prosciutto or serrano, slice 6 cloves of garlic, and chop 4. Cut up a hunk of country bread into large cubes. (I was lucky to have the some leftover ciabatta I made last weekend. More on that later, perhaps.)

Sweat the sliced garlic and ham in some very nice olive oil for about 7 minutes until it smells wonderful, then add your bread, stirring to coat with all the now even more delicious oil. Off heat, toss the whole mixture with 2 teaspoons of sweet pimentón, then return to the heat and add 5 cups of stock.

Simmer for a few minutes, then add the chopped garlic and simmer one minute more.

To serve, you add a poached egg. Since I made the full batch of soup, and am eating that sucker alone (probably not all in one sitting), I poached the eggs right in the soup. A little salt and pepper, a glass of wine, you’re good to go.

Now my house smells fantastic, and I’m warm, cozy, and well fed. Can’t beat that at the end of a long, long weekend.

(See Anya von Bremzen’s The New Spanish Table for the recipe.)

It’s delicious, and good for you, too — you just have to be lucky enough to find all these goods in your fridge.

Sauté some chopped prosciutto or pancetta in a little olive oil until sort of crisp. Take it out. Add some chopped garlic, a bit of sliced onion, and when that’s soft, some half-moons of zucchini. When less than crisp, add a half cup or so of chicken stock, some pepper, and some salt, depending on how salty your meat is to begin with. Add a small head of radicchio, sliced thin.

Cook up your pasta, and when it’s done, add the pasta with some of its cooking water and a big splash (or three) of balsamic vinegar to your pan. Stir, add freshly grated Parmigiano-Reggiano. (Avoid what I did and keep the cheese over the plate or pan, not countertop.) Eat and go to bed happier than before.

I’m actually not sure which came first: the mussels plan or my debt review. I realized tonight that with the money I’ve saved, I could actually pay off the heaviest side of my culinary school loans. I’d have to kiss my fuck-you money goodbye — and this is the first time in a while I’ve even had fuck-you money — but I just might be ready.

[side note: As I'm writing this, a culinary school ad appears on TV. Have you ever dreamed of being a chef? Don't borrow.]

So when I pay off my loans, is my culinary education officially over? It’s been long enough, for god’s sake, and I can’t really afford to pay it off yet, but I’m half-tempted to hold on to the bills as some misguided grip on the tricks I’ve known and lost. At the very least, it seems like I need to dig back in to some of my lessons.

And wow, I really do need to practice. A lot. My frites sucked.

I soaked, dried, and parboiled, and I fried again in hotter oil. Should’ve worked in smaller batches, though, because they were sogg-o-rific. Sheesh. I had to make fries as part of my graduation exams, and I’ll tell you, I passed handily. I’m going to chalk it up to an off night. But at least no one was here to give me a hard time about it.

And I did eat the entire bowl of mussels. All by myself.

Note: I actually loathe cottage cheese, but it functions brilliantly here.

Pasta with Creamy Basil Sauce and Peas
(adapted from Cooking Light)

2 cloves garlic
1 cup lowfat cottage cheese
2 tbsp plain yogurt or light sour cream
1 tbsp nice olive oil
1 cup basil leaves (or if you do as I do and freeze it in ice trays, 2 or 3 cubes of basil puree)
large handful of freshly grated Parmigiano-Reggiano
salt and pepper
several large handfuls of sugar snap peas (the best!), snow peas, frozen peas, or a mix, trimmed
1 pound short pasta

Set a pot of well-salted water to boil. In a food processor, combine the garlic and cottage cheese and blend until smooth. Add the yogurt, oil, basil, cheese, and salt and pepper to taste, and blend again until smooth. Scrape the mixture into a large bowl.

When your water is boiling, cook the pasta until it’s nearly al dente. Toss in your peas, allow them to cook about a minute, then drain. Add your hot pasta with the peas to your serving bowl, mix well, and eat.