
Chef Dean
Asian Sesame Coleslaw
A potluck legend built on crisp cabbage, sweet carrots, and the irresistible shatter of toasted ramen noodles, all lacquered in a sesame-ginger dressing that keeps people coming back for thirds.
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The humblest side dish in the Pennsylvania Dutch tradition, where wide egg noodles and good butter need nothing more than salt and a warm bowl to become the thing everyone remembers from the church supper.
There is a kind of cooking that refuses to apologize for simplicity. The Amish and Mennonite communities of Pennsylvania Dutch country have practiced it for generations. Buttered egg noodles represent their philosophy distilled to its essence: good ingredients, honest technique, nothing to hide behind.
I have eaten these noodles at farmhouse tables where the butter came from the family's own cows and the eggs from hens scratching in the yard. The dish arrived in a plain crockery bowl, steam rising, no garnish beyond a crack of black pepper. It needed nothing else. The noodles were tender and giving. The butter coated each strand without pooling. The salt was just enough to make your mouth water for the next bite.
This is potluck food. Church supper food. The side dish that travels in a foil-covered casserole to every funeral, every barn raising, every community gathering where people need feeding. It sits beside the roast chicken and the green beans, asking nothing, demanding nothing, and somehow disappearing first.
Don't mistake simplicity for thoughtlessness. The technique matters. Cook your noodles in properly salted water. Toss the butter in stages so it emulsifies into a light coating. Serve it hot, in a warmed bowl, the moment it comes together. These small acts of attention transform three ingredients into something worthy of the tradition.
Quantity
1 pound
Quantity
6 tablespoons (3/4 stick)
cut into pieces
Quantity
1 teaspoon, plus more for pasta water
Quantity
1/2 teaspoon
freshly cracked
Quantity
2 tablespoons
chopped
| Ingredient | Quantity |
|---|---|
| wide egg noodles | 1 pound |
| unsalted buttercut into pieces | 6 tablespoons (3/4 stick) |
| kosher salt | 1 teaspoon, plus more for pasta water |
| black pepperfreshly cracked | 1/2 teaspoon |
| fresh parsley (optional)chopped | 2 tablespoons |
Bring a large pot of water to a rolling boil. Salt it generously until it tastes like mild seawater. The Amish women who perfected this dish understood something essential: pasta absorbs seasoning from cooking water. Undersalt here and no amount of finishing salt will rescue your noodles.
Add the egg noodles to the boiling water, stirring immediately to prevent sticking. Cook according to package directions, usually eight to ten minutes, until the noodles are tender with just a whisper of resistance. These aren't Italian noodles meant for al dente. Amish egg noodles should yield completely to the tooth, soft and comforting.
Before draining, ladle out one cup of the starchy cooking water and set it aside. This cloudy liquid is your insurance policy. The starch helps butter cling to noodles and can rescue a dish that's gone too dry.
Drain the noodles in a colander, shaking once or twice but not obsessively. A little moisture clinging to the surface helps the butter emulsify into a light sauce rather than pooling as grease. Return the noodles immediately to the warm pot, off heat.
Add the butter pieces to the hot noodles. Toss gently with two wooden spoons or a large fork, letting the residual heat melt the butter gradually. Work in stages. Add a third of the butter, toss until absorbed, then repeat. This builds a glossy coating rather than a greasy puddle.
Sprinkle with the teaspoon of salt and the cracked black pepper. Toss once more to distribute. Taste a noodle. Adjust seasoning if needed. Transfer to a warmed serving bowl and scatter with parsley if using. Serve immediately while the butter still glistens and the noodles steam gently on the plate.
1 serving (about 240g)
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