It was one of the first pasta dinners I made after my sister and brother-in-law announced they were going vegan. We were in their kitchen in southern Maine, where I spent last year helping them with their homestead, and I was making a sauce from the best of the early summer produce, right from the huge garden outside.
It was based on the classic French side dish of braised lettuce and peas, but I turned it Italian by tossing it with curly pasta and kept things light with a touch of mint.
As it neared readiness, I realized I needed to make a plea, to ask them to do me one little favor, to make one — OK, two — little exceptions to their diet in service of the dish and its integrity. “Please,” I said. “Let me use ricotta salata.”
As a pasta purist, however, I knew that there would be no substitute for this dish’s crowning touch: the pure-white ricotta salata, with its slight brine and uniquely firm yet slightly spongy texture that makes it perfect for shaving and crumbling onto vegetables that could use a little kick.