I was sick for much of last week, living on bowls of chicken broth and cups of ginger tea. For a few days straight, just the thought of real, solid food would make me cringe. I knew I was on the road to recovery one night when a new issue of Bon Appetit made me sit up, eager with anticipation. Late in the week, on a trip to the grocery store to buy my first solid meal in days (plain pasta with butter – still not feeling any too fancy around here), I grabbed a bag of Meyer lemons on impulse. I wasn’t feeling well enough to make anything, either from the magazine or with the lemons, but the idea of the food was enough to propel me towards health.

Though many would dispute it (Christopher Kimball jumps to mind), food – especially home-cooked food – is intrinsically linked to emotion. During a cold winter spell, I want nothing as much as a steaming mug and baked goods. Homemade pizza is a family activity, promising a night of boardgames and giggles. Usually, sickness makes me think of broths, extracting every ounce of richness from an animal’s bones, but one March day two years ago it meant triple cream cheese and velvety prosciutto.

In the winter, I am struck by a longing for what Wikipedia tells me is gemütlichkeit – “a situation that induces a cheerful mood, peace of mind, with connotation of belonging and social acceptance, coziness and unhurry.” Though I’ve lived in DC for nearly five years now, I still get achingly homesick for New York, a city where so many neighborhoods call to mind the smiling faces of the friends that live there.

This feeling, I would imagine, is the opposite of gemütlichkeit. Certainly there is no connotation of belonging and acceptance. Because I am no good at summoning this gemütlichkeit the old fashioned way, too shy to invite sometime strangers over for an evening of coziness and unhurry, I usually wind up conjuring gemütlichkeit in the kitchen.

What could induce more of a cheerful mood and feeling of unhurry than a braise? Specifically, for those of us without large Dutch ovens but with slow cookers (a distinctive breed), a slow-cooker braised pork shoulder.

The original recipe comes from the Dinner: A Love Story cookbook, adapted here for the slow cooker. Invite your oldest and dearest friends over for an evening of pork, wine and coziness, or cook it up for two in a tiny apartment kitchen and rejoice in the leftovers the next day.

Braised Pork Shoulder with Pappardelle
Ingredients

2 – 2.5 lb pork shoulder, boneless
1 small onion, chopped
1 garlic clove, minced
2 tbs olive oil
.5 tbs butter
1 28 ounce can whole tomatoes, with half the juice discarded
½ cu. red wine
5 sprigs fresh thyme
Dried oregano
2 tbs fennel seeds
1 tbs hot sauce
1 lb pappardelle or tagliatelle pasta
Parmesean
Salt & pepper (always)

1. Add the olive oil and butter to a large heavy frying pan over medium high heat, and let melt. In the meantime, dry your pork shoulder and sprinkle all sides with salt and pepper. Once the butter has melted, but before (heaven forbid) it burns, add the pork shoulder to the pan. The pan should be hot enough that it sizzles when the meat goes in.

2. Brown the meat on all sides. This means you’ve got to leave it alone for a few minutes before you try to turn it over. I know how challenging this can be, so remove yourself from temptation and go sit in another room for at least 4 minutes. Then you can flip it. Brown, repeat.
3. Once the meat has browned, place it in your waiting slow cooker. Add the onions and garlic to the pan and sautee until the onions are translucent and softened, about 5 minutes. Next, add the can of whole tomatoes, wine, oregano, fennel seeds and hot sauce. Break up the tomatoes with the back of your spoon, and bring the mixture to a boil.

4. Once the mixture has boiled, remove it from the heat and add it to the slow cooker, along with the thyme. Cover, and cook on low for eight to ten hours, until the meat is falling apart and fork tender.

5. About half an hour before you’re ready to eat, bring a pot of heavily salted water to a boil. Cook your parpardelle or tagliatelle according to package instructions.
6. Serve the pork over the pasta (only a little bit of pasta for diabetic boyfriends! Gleefully serve yourself twice as much!) with a fresh green side salad.

Carbs per serving: Really, this depends almost entirely on the pasta you use and how much of it you eat. When we made this, Dan had just a taste of pasta, while I had . . .  more than a taste. Check the pasta you’re using for a carb count, and dole it out accordingly.