Syrian Pasta Adventure with my Cuisinart Dough Blade

I was nostalgic for some of my boyhood food this afternoon, thinking of the faves my mom used to make for me when she’d ask me what I wanted for my birthday. She made the most delicious squash pie. I always asked for it, as she well knew I would. After she passed away, I found her recipe in one of her old cook books. The page with the recipe was stained from use and spills. That’s how I knew.
The other dish I perpetually craved was a Syrian pasta: dough filled with cheese, called “kelsonnes”. Boiled, bathed in butter and some of the cooking liquid and baked, they were the best. They were just like raviolis but the dough was not like Italian pasta; it was more tender, thicker and had a nicer ‘chew’ than the Italian. It was also served with egg noodles, which generally were the shreds and cut parts of the dough that wasn’t made into dumplings. What most differentiated them is they were hand made; no two were alike.

My cousin Connie told me she used her Cuisinart dough blade to make the dough. The plastic do hickey which came with the processor, and which I never used. All of my pastas were always made with the steel blade, but today I was determined to test the dough blade. My results were better than the ones I got with the stainless blade. The dough blade does more kneading than cutting, and thus gives an elastic dough.
Arming myself with the ingredients: flour, an egg, water, salt, and a block of Muenster cheese; I started with the dough. There is always some idiot cookbook guru giving you measurements for dough in terms of water, flour, etc, but no matter what you do, you end up having to adjust for texture and dryness yourself. The ‘feel’ of the dough, the texture, firmness, and ability to both be elastic and also roll out obediently are key to understanding any pasta dough.
Two cups of flour, a big pinch of salt, an egg, and a bit less than a cup of water, and my dough ball began to form, but it was sticky. Adding a tablespoon of flour and running the machine another half minute made it perfect. After removing it, I had to knead it by hand, but that’s the best part; in fact, it’s a great feeling to get my hands into it, to work up the gluten, and know that the process isn’t all mechanical.
It turned out to be soft, pliable; I wrapped it in plastic and made the filling. I deep chilled a half pound of Muenster cheese: the better to shred it, added an egg, half a tsp of baking powder, being sure the mixture was very dry. Rolling the pasta began with my pasta machine, but I found it just as easy to do the job by rolling small walnut size balls of dough and making disks with my small rolling pin. The soft dough sealed easily, and after they were all set, they went into a deep pot of boiling, salted water. I had a problem keeping the little devils submerged. I think they floated because of trapped air, and the baking powder releasing CO2. I should have made my filling more finely chopped.
After they came out of the water, a baking pan with butter on the bottom was waiting for them. Some of the cooking water went on top, and I mixed them to coat them with the butter. Bottom line: they were everything I hoped they would be. As I just now read what I wrote up above, there is nothing that conveys the emotional link, the soul, the mood food that satisfies beyond mere ingredients.
One touch I did that isn’t on any of our family’s recipes: I sprinkled some dried oregano leaves on top. The herb was an excellent addition. I assume there must have been herbs back in Syria, but when my ancestors got to America, New York’s lower east side, fresh herbs were unavailable, or were eschewed because of the cost. But I think they would have used them if they had them available.