You might think he's doing something else. But in reality, he's learning how to sit/stay, and not doing a very good job of it (he eventually learned how to do so beautifully ... sort of ).

sabato 29 maggio 2010

Memorial Day, Pasta Salad


This weekend officially jump starts the summer in the United States. We’re all celebrating Memorial Day, which used to be called Decoration Day, first observed in Waterloo, New York, on May 5, 1866. According to Wikipedia, it was renamed Memorial Day in 1882, but the usage becomes common only after World War II.

It was started to commemorate dead Yankee and Confederate soldiers. Now it mostly means a long weekend, white clothes can once again be worn (this appears to be an old East Coast thing), and time to whip out the barbeque grill.

Which we’ll do, since it’s also Waldo’s official birthday the day before. It’s unclear when he was born; his mother’s people said sometime at the end of May or the beginning of June (his sister Zoe celebrates hers in June). We decided to make his the 30th of May, as it’s a date shared with SiouxZ, a treasured friend who turns 50 tomorrow. Auguri.

We’re having burgers, a birthday tradition established with Tillie. In this case, shu mai burgers, just published in Wednesday’s New York Times Dining section courtesy of the always-gives-good recipes Mark Bittman. The Stooges will have theirs without a roll; bipeds with. We’re serving it with a salad from our garden, and pasta salad.

Italians think pasta salad is weird. When the weather heats up, they’ll eat cold rice, they’ll eat cold farro, they’ll eat cold potatoes in the form of insalata russa (and that usually as a condiment on a sandwich, imagine), but they don’t much eat cold pasta.

Some of us of a certain age might remember our mother’s macaroni salad (which was basically the only pasta shape we ate in those days, skipping, of course, spaghetti with meatballs). We begin to find recipes for macaroni salad in U.S. cookbooks at the beginning of the 20th century; a 1916 recipe calls for ½ pound (or 58 sticks! Someone actually counted them out) of macaroni, which is cooked and tossed with horseradish, a bit of sugar and salt, and whipped cream.[1] My mother’s is a variation on that theme; it also includes hard boiled eggs and pickles, and no horseradish.

Epicurious.com has 133 recipes for pasta salad, and those include funky things (to the 1916 palate) like cellophane noodles (do note their divine recipe for roast pork with cellophane noodles). The Silver Palate, that must-have of the ‘80s and still-must-have of the new millennium, lists several.[2] Il Cucchiao d’Argento, Italian classic, equivalent to the Joy of Cooking, has none.
Pasta Salad I

½ lb. fusilli
1 c. green olives, pitted and chopped
3 large handfuls arugula, chopped
1 large tomato, chopped
½ lb. feta, soaked in water, drained, then mashed with a fork
1 cucumber, seeded and chopped
1 large bunch basil
6 T. extra-virgin olive oil
1 clove garlic, optional
Sea salt and freshly ground black pepper to taste

Cook the fusilli according to package instructions, drain, and run cold water over it to stop the cooking.

While the fusilli cooks, make the dressing: throw the large bunch of basil into a blender, add the olive oil, and whiz. If you’re using the garlic, toss that in, too.

Put the drained cold fusilli into a large mixing bowl, add all the other ingredients, pour over the basil oil, and toss to combine. Check for seasonings, and serve.

This comfortably serves 2 people and 3 dogs. It would be enough for four as part of a Memorial Day bbq.

Haiku del Giorno:
Waldo greets the day
Harry and Lulu follow
Where’s my tea and toast?

Happy Birthday, Sue Anne!
Bravo, Roy Halladay!
Dennis Hopper (1936-2010) r.i.p.

To the valiant soldiers who have died in Iraq and Afghanistan, we salute you as we salute all those scarred by these wars. We also salute those still fighting and striving to give meaning to these deaths and wounds.

Executive Mansion
Washington, Nov 21, 1864
To Mrs Bixby, Boston, Mass
Dear Madam,
I have been shown in the files
of the War Department a statement of the Adjutant
General of Massachusetts that you are the mother of
four sons who have died gloriously on the field of battle.
I feel how weak and fruitless must be any word of
mine which should attempt to beguile you from the
grief of a loss so overwhelming. But I cannot refrain
from tendering you the consolation that may be found
in the thanks of the republic they died to save. I
pray that our Heavenly Father may assuage the anguish
of your bereavement and leave you only the cherished
memory of the loved and lost, and the solemn pride
that must be yours to have laid so costly a sacrifice
upon the altar of freedom.
Yours very sincerely and respectfully
A. Lincoln


[1] See http://www.foodtimeline.org/; they quote a 1916 cookbook called Salads, Sandwiches, and Chafing Dish Recipes, written by Marion Harris Neil (Philadelphia, 1916). Wondered what, exactly, a chafing dish is, and if anyone still uses them? Wondering about Yankee Doodle, and the inclusion of “macaroni,” wikipedia tells the following: As a term Doodle first appeared in the early seventeenth century,[4] and is thought to derive from the Low German dudel or dödel, meaning "fool" or "simpleton". The Macaroni wig was an extreme fashion in the 1770s and became contemporary slang for foppishness.[5] The implication of the verse was therefore probably that the Yankees were so unsophisticated that they thought simply sticking a feather in a cap would make them the height of fashion.” Gives whole new meaning to the appellation “Dude.” Or maybe not.
[2] In their first volume (1979), a stunning recipe for pasta (“of some interesting shape”) and seafood salad with basil; in Good Times (1984), swordfish and pecan and tortellini, in Basics (1989), a “New Wave” salad with green beans and tomatoes.

domenica 23 maggio 2010

Salad Days?


Yesterday was, culinarily speaking, a big day for us. We ate salad whose greens, for the time this year, were gathered entirely from our water-logged garden. It comprised young red lettuce, just-about-ready-to-bolt arugula, valerian, and cress. Tasty. Dressing: sort of a Caesar, without the Worcestershire and Parmesan and perhaps the raw egg; with the addition of mustard and mayonnaise. Whirled in a great blender; bliss.

Many culinary differences exist between Italians and us. Italians rarely say, “I think I’ll just have a salad.” (They don’t much jog, either.) If you order a salad in most trattorie here, you’ll get – almost always – some green lettuce, perhaps some shredded radicchio, slivered carrots, and tomatoes, even in February. Restaurant salad arrives on the table undressed, and the waiter/ess then brings olive oil and vinegar (sometimes balsamic, sometimes not) to your table. You dress and toss it yourself, and wonder about the sameness of it all.

From Maestro Davidson: Salad is a “term derived from the Latin sal (salt), which yielded the form salata, ‘salted things’ such as the raw vegetables eaten in classical times with a dressing of oil, vinegar, or salt.”[1] Salad's been around a long time, but it seems that Italy – with its phenomenal food history – has contributed but one significant salad: the Caprese (tomatoes, mozzarella di bufala, basil).[2]

Father of the Church of Italian Cuisine, Pellegrino Artusi (1820-1911) only has three salad recipes in his La Scienza in cucina e l’Arte di mangiar bene: “insalata russa/Russian salad,” “insalata di patate/potato salad,” and “insalata maionese/mayonnaise salad.” In this last case, you make a basic mayonnaise with egg yolk, olive oil, lemon juice, salt, and then, instead of adding white pepper, add some mustard and a drop of vinegar. In the case of potato salad, he warns that this is "non è per tutti gli stomachi" (it’s not for every stomach). Unclear why: perhaps the idea of eating room-temperature potatoes was a novelty in 1896? Or perhaps the acidity of some of the ingredients (capers, cocktail onions, gherkins) could upset?

The real wonder is insalata russa. If you see it in salumerie (delicatessens) and grocery stores, it looks, usually, like a sodden mass of cubed peeled cooked potatoes, and cubed peeled cooked carrots, and peas (which inevitably must be frozen). It’s a horror. Marina, a Moscovite friend, assures me that what you find in Italy bears no resemblance to the real thing.

Insalata russa, according to both the English and Italian sites of Wikipedia.org, is a cold dish with diced cold vegetables (mostly potatoes) mixed with mayonnaise. The Italian text says it was born in the mid-19th century; the English is far more specific, and says it was created in the 1860s. The original version contained tongue, sausage, crayfish tails, prosciutto, hard-boiled eggs, and truffles; it was decorated with capers and anchovies, and then gelled in aspic (Italian).

The English version contends that it had grouse, veal tongue, crayfish tails, caviar, lettuce, and the highly inexplicable soy bean.

Both versions agree that Lucien Olivier, chef at the Hermitage (not the museum in St. Petersburg, but the restaurant in Moscow) invented it, and kept the recipe a closely-guarded secret. Or they sort of do, as the Italian text suggests that it might have been invented at the end of the 19th century in the Piedmont in honor of a visiting VIP from Russia. OR Bona Sforza (1494-1557) took the dish with her when she went to Poland to become queen.[3] (Why women are always credited with taking dishes some place rather than creating them is a subject for a future blog. (Let’s not forget the Urban Myth of Catherine de’Medici taking her chefs with her to France, thereby giving birth to (Italianate) French Cuisine.))

Artusi’s recipe contains beets, potatoes, fagiuolini in erba (string beans?), potatoes, capers, gherkins, and anchovies. And then the whole thing’s encased in aspic. No meats, no soybeans. Janet Ross’s, written at the turn of two centuries ago, includes asparagus, green beans, peas, carrots, capers, shrimp, anchovies, and a dressing made with olive oil and vinegar, topped with Danish caviar.[4] Though it sounds terrific, it bears zero relation to the aforementioned insalate russe. Larousse Gastronomique’s includes string beans, along with carrots and turnips, and stresses that equal quantities of the vegetables should be mixed together.[5]

None of the recipes calls for the addition of dill; it’s in this one because ours is just about ready to bolt. All call for the inclusion of peas, though Marina’s doesn’t, and I honor her recipe by excluding them. Artusi and Larousse Gastronomique call for green beans, and here they are. Next year: fresh fava beans as substitute for that highly suspect soybean. Ignored is the dictum of equal vegetable ratio. The green beans would have swamped the potatoes.

Below is homage to Marina’s insalata russa. The vegetables should not be swimming in a sea of mayonnaise, nor should they be dipping, as we Yanks often make our potato salad. They should be wading … we can sort of see part of them, but part of them are submerged.
(Most recipes suggest serving this salad on lettuce, usually as a starter. We had it as a side to roast chicken, without lettuce.)

Insalata russa di Marina

1 lb. potatoes, peeled
¼ lb. green beans, tailed
2 hard boiled eggs, crumbled (particularly pleasurable if you hold them in your hand and then squeeze)
3 T. capers
3 anchovies, finely chopped
1 c. best-quality mayonnaise (like Hellman’s)
Sea salt and freshly ground black pepper to taste
Handful of fresh dill, chopped

Steam the potatoes and green beans together ‘til cooked through but still crisp (about 5 minutes). (All recipes consulted suggested boiling the potatoes; this one doesn’t.)

In a deep mixing bowl, combine the crumbled eggs, capers, chopped anchovies. Chop the dill, and add to the bowl.

Drain the vegetables, run under cold water, and let cool. When easy enough to handle, cut the potato into small dice, cut the beans in thirds on the diagonal, and add to the bowl. Add the mayonnaise, and stir gently to combine. Taste for salt and pepper, and serve.

It’s possible to find divine plates of salad, meals in themselves, in Florence, but this is a fairly recent trend. Two places where you can feel free to say, “I think I’ll just have a salad”:

Coquinarius, via dell’Oca 15/r, Florence, 055/2302153, has a whole menu page teeming with delicious combinations (like the Scozzese (Scottish) with mixed lettuces, cold poached chicken (which they must dab lightly in flour before cooking, as it is so moist), avocado, and bacon - kind of like a deluxe BLT on a plate, only topped with balsamic vinegar).

Baldovino, via San Giuseppe 22/r, Florence, 055/241773. They’ve been doing terrific salads here for well over a decade. Pair it with focaccia from their wood-burning oven, and heaven awaits you.

[1] Alan Davidson, The Oxford Companion to Food, New York, 1999.
[2] One could, I suppose, argue that carpacci, besides being an Italian creation, are a form of salad. The original contained very thinly sliced pieces of raw beef with arugula and shavings of Parmesan. Giuseppe Cipriano invented this dish at Harry’s Bar in 1950. http://www.foodreference.com/ reports that the dish was named after Venetian artist Vittore Carpaccio (1460-1526) who used a lot of red. Actually, a whole lot of Venetians used a whole lot of red … the dish could’ve been called “Tiziano” or “Giorgione” or, indeed, “Bellini.” But that would create confusion with the apertivo of the same name. Now all sorts of versions abound: we could surely call un carpaccio di carciofi e zucchini (artichoke and zucchini carpaccio) a salad of some sort, as it does fit the meaning explained by Davidson.
[3] Bona Sforza had a very colorful life whose cause of death may have been poisoning (perhaps from a badly made insalata russa?). Her children Sigismondo and Anna commissioned a monumental tomb for her at the basilica of San Nicola in Bari, where it remains today.
[4] Janet Ross and Michael Waterfield, Leaves from Our Tuscan Kitchen, New York, 1977; originally published in 1899.
[5] Larousse Gastronomique, ed. Jenifer Harvey Lang, New York, 1988.

lunedì 17 maggio 2010

Under the Tuscan Deluge or Snails, Aphids, and Fava Beans



















Pity the poor traveler coming to Florence for the first time and experiencing nothing under the Tuscan sun, since it ain’t out. What a May it’s been, and it’s only the 17th. Yesterday the Scallion perused La Repubblica, whose weather page (the penultimate one in the rag) used the “sun/storm” icon. Well, we have seen zero sun. In fact, we have experienced torrential downpours but no thunder (bless the gods and goddesses; Harry did not quake); yesterday it hailed; and yesterday flash-flooding closed roads leading to where we live, which didn't much matter to us, but did to those who were evacuated, if only briefly.

The sun finally cracked open a smile in this all-too gray sky mid-afternoon a couple of days ago (you can get an idea of what that sky's been looking like with the photo up above), so we had absolutely no excuse not to hunker down in our already-out-of-control garden (and it’s only the middle of May!) and assess the damage of one weeks’ negligence (due to cascading rains).

Oh, my. Dorothy Parker once said, “What fresh hell is this.” Though she was referring to her train of thought being interrupted by a telephone call, and not to an overgrown garden, her words resonated.[2] The snails, always a problem in our garden, seem to have replicated mightily during the rains.[3]

Our carefully-tended fava plants have mostly been destroyed by aphids, despite the fact that I have religiously done the (as it turns out) highly ineffective regime of dish soap mixed with water. As I weeded a long, long row of onions, I stared bitterly at the fava plants across the way. Fava season is winding down at the local markets, which means that the only way you’re going to get any is if you grow them yourself.

Though we are committed to not using chemicals in our garden, I thought longingly of DDT or its 21st century equivalent as I stared at those plants. The flower of a fava plant is gorgeousness personified – white, with a dark violet, almost black streak, running through it (do check out photo above). In the case of our fava plants, however, most of the flowers were completely black, the victims of Mother Nature’s odd collusion of ant and aphid: ants like the honeydew secretion that aphids emit, so they protect the aphids from other predators.

The web comes in handy, as usual. At http://www.ehow.com/, “How to Get Rid of Aphids Naturally” provides the gardener with nine steps. Number 3 is “Cut away and dispose of infested foliage.” (At this point, in our case, it should be re-worked to “Dispose of infected plant.”) The writer then provides a recipe for non-chemical insecticidal soap (which we will try even though I have no faith in anything short of an insecticidal nuclear bomb). Step 9 is compelling: “Rid your garden of ants.” Oh, for an anteater.[4]

A simple google search of “What eats ants” shows that fish (we’re near no water) and bears (found, I think, only in the Abruzzo) eat ants. So, too, do lizards, so we’ll have to figure out a way to keep the tiny little creatures who dart in and out and around us coming back for more. Ants. Who cares if they’re industrious? They are garden thugs.

More galling than the aphids eating the fava plants was the fact that they were snail infested, too. This despite the fact that we’d very carefully taken ash from the wood-burning stove, and lovingly surrounded each plant with it (snails are said not to like ash – wrong; they are said not to like broken egg shells – wrong). So I checked out the delightful http://www.sustainable-gardening-tip.com/, written by Aussie Robyn Perry, and adored her suggestion to put porridge or oats around the base of each plant. They eat a whole lot, bloat up, and die. Birds swing by the following morning (Perry says in a lovely aside that the birds get both their protein and their grains in one go). She also suggests beer traps, and the beauty of these is that the snails imbibe, get drunk, and birds come and have them for breakfast. What a very nice idea.

A few days ago, at a local large open-air market we frequent, the fava beans were huge, if they were to be found at all (a couple of weeks ago every stall had them; they were much fewer and far between today). Upon inquiry, we were told that we could eat them raw as long as we peeled the outer cover off, which we do, anyway.

So here, kissing fava bean season just about good-bye, is a recipe for spaghetti with fava beans. It's a spring-time version of Pasta e fagioli.

Spaghetti con fave e menta (Spaghetti with fava beans and mint)

1/2 lb. spaghetti or other thin pasta
3 T. extravirgin olive oil plus additional for drizzling on pasta
2 lbs. fava beans, peeled, podded (to make a scant 1½ c.)
1 hot pepper, seeded if you feel like it, finely chopped
1 green garlic plant (or one clove regular garlic if not available)
½ c. vegetable broth
½ c. semi-aged pecorino cheese plus additional for grating
Handful of fresh mint, chopped (or chives, if you're out of mint)

Throw the spaghetti into a pot of boiling water, and cook according to package instructions.
Heat the olive oil over a medium flame in a saucepan. Add the chopped hot pepper and garlic, stir for a minute or so. Do not let the garlic brown. Add the fava beans, stir to heat through, and add the vegetable broth. Remove from the pan, add the grated pecorino, toss into a blender, and puree. Check for salt and pepper.

Drain the spaghetti and sauce it immediately with the puree. Garnish with chopped fresh mint.
Serves two, handsomely.

Burger Corner: This from vigilant reader formerly known as Spritzer Girl/Spritzer Gal. She would prefer to be referred to in future posts as Frau Doktor von Spritz, and since she is an erudite scholar, the name change seems most appropriate. At any rate, she sends in the following: http://gawker.com/5538452/this-is-what-the-british-think-new-yorkers-eat and the original link at:http://www.burgerbusiness.com/?p=4756
[2] See http://everything2.com.
[3] But in fact, they probably haven’t. A snail’s gestation period is from 6-8 months, and they breed best under soil (see http://www.wikianswers.com/) That’s practically human – at least, the gestation part of this equation. Some snails are hermaphrodites, and some can switch sex. Crazy snail literature abounds, especially if you type in “Snail reproduction” on a google search. Even more horrifyingly unfair is the fact that snails can live up to 10 years. That’s about the same as an average run for a golden retriever.
[4] Anteaters, sadly, are not found in the Mediterranean. In fact, they are mostly found in Central and South America, according to Wikipedia.org. They also have no teeth.

giovedì 13 maggio 2010

Stupid, Stupid Rain and Lasagne


In the marvelous 1991 movie Impromptu, the Countess d’Antan, played by Emma Thompson, has gathered to her country estate a host of Parisian artistes, including Georges Sand, Frederic Chopin (improbably but nicely played by an unknown Hugh Grant) (Chopin turned 200 this past February), Franz Liszt, and others. She’s hoping for witty conversation, great entertainment, and all she gets is rain, and a whole lot of it. “Stupid, stupid rain!” she exclaims, much to the amusement of Sand and Company.


But here Stupid, Stupid Rain truly does apply.

I have spent, and am spending, the better part of a morning making lasagne for a celebratory birthday dinner (Heather turned 23 a few days ago). This has led me to the conclusion that I will (probably) never post or create a recipe for lasagne. If you find yourself in a good restaurant, or even a fair-to-middling one, and lasagne is on the menu, order it. If you are the guest of a dedicated host or hostess who serves you homemade lasagne, consider it as the act of love that it truly is, eat it with relish, and praise effusively – even if it’s bland, as it so often is. If it’s good, there’s nothing like it. It’s a marvelous excuse to eat Lipitor-defying ingredients amassed in a béchamel-laden heaven.

(Do note that in the United States, we call it “lasagnA.” This is technically incorrect: the Italian is lasagnE, which means more than one sheet of pasta.)

Santo Pellegrino Artusi includes no lasagne recipes in his La Scienza in cucina.[1] Elizabeth David, in her seminal (if such an adjective can be applied to women and/or their work) Italian Food (1954) refers to the lasagne verdi al forno from Bologna. She provides a recipe, and remarks: “… a salad and fruit is about all one can eat after a good helping of lasagne.”[i] This green pasta dish is made with the classic ragù Bolognese and béchamel. Lynn Rossetto Kasper, in her splendid Splendid Table[2], writes, “Mere films of béchamel sauce and meat ragù coat the sheerest spinach pasta. Parmigiano-Reggiano cheese dusts each layer. There is nothing more; no ricotta, no piling on of meats, vegetables or cheeses; little tomato, and no hot spice. Baking performs the final marriage of flavors. The results are splendid.”[3] (Right now I am wondering why I didn’t make her recipe.)

Making lasagne is quite a business. Such a business that today’s recipe has nothing to do with it/them (—a/—e). It is, in fact, a recipe for polenta with a ragù of tomatoes, green olives, and mushrooms. Simple and easy to prepare, it takes about 1/10 of the time it takes to make the swell lasagne I’m serving up tonight. This polenta recipe is perfect for cold, wintry nights after a day spent snowshoeing in feet’s worth of snow, or for a cold, windy May night in Tuscany when you have bites to eat in between stoking the wood-burning stove. Tonight’s lasagne is called “Many-Mushroom Lasagna” and was created by Carol Kramer and Lori Longbotham; it appeared in the New York Times Magazine of September 16, 1990. It’s divine. But if you want to make it, organize a house party and assign tasks.

Polenta with a tomato, mushroom, and green olive ragù
For the polenta:
1¼ c. polenta
3-4 c. mushroom broth (vegetable broth will do, but mushroom broth enhances the sauce)
½ c. grated Pecorino
½ c. cubed Fontina
A handful each of fresh coriander and parsley, stemmed, chopped

For the ragù:
1 small red onion, chopped
1 chipotle pepper in adobo, minced (for those who don’t like heat, omit)
2 T. extravirgin olive oil
2 cloves garlic, minced
¾ c. mushrooms, trimmed, cut into small dice
¾ c. tomato sauce (preferably homemade)
¾ c. green olives, pitted and chopped
3 T. triple tomato paste
Additional Pecorino for grating, optional

Make the ragù: heat the olive oil in a saucepan, and add the chopped red onion and chipotle (if using). As soon as they become golden, toss in the garlic and mushrooms, and stir ‘til the mushrooms give up some liquid. Add the tomato sauce, turn flame up to high, and bring to a gentle boil. Immediately lower, throw in the olives, and let simmer for about 15 minutes.
Heat the mushroom broth on a medium-high flame in a deep saucepan. Pour the polenta in a steady stream, stirring all the while. You’ll be stirring for about 15 minutes, perhaps a little more. Towards the end of the cooking (perhaps at 14 minutes or so), toss in the cheeses, and stir furiously to melt. You’ll know the polenta is done when it starts pulling away from the sides of the pan. Toss in the freshly chopped herbs, stir to combine, and pour into a bowl which has been rinsed with water (unsure why one does this, but one does: perhaps it prevents sticking?). Ladle a generous amount of polenta into a bowl, and top with the ragù. Eat immediately.
This from globe-trotting Dogaressa of the Broken Halo (who, with her husband, created the Venetian Dog Theory) with two great suggestions should you luckily find yourself in San Francisco: http://www.gatherrestaurant.com/ (she thinks it gives Chez Panisse a run for its money) and http://www.seasaltrestaurant.com/ (she raved about the fantastic oysters, Dungeness crab cakes, grilled local squid with gigantes and basil-almond pesto, and artichokes poached in olive oil served with shaved pecorino, marjoram and pickled red onion).

[1] Plenty of recipes abound using pappardelle, spaghetti, and macaroni.
[2] New York, 1992.
[3] The Splendid Table, New York, 1992.
[i] Elizabeth David, Italian Food, New York, 1963.

martedì 11 maggio 2010

Frittering Away


Sustained rains and coolish temperatures continue to nurture our highly ignored sorrel patches, of which we have two.[1] (Perhaps this happened because we thought they wouldn’t grow?) Countless variations on the sorrel soup theme have plied our table, as many friends can attest. We have had hard-boiled eggs with sorrel mayonnaise, and we will eventually get around to making Richard Olney’s splendid sorrel tart once the Italian Scallion can be induced to make the pie crust. Today, however, we fry sorrel fritters. It’s hoped that these lively little fritters will enliven a windy, cold, rainy May day.


‘Fritter,’ writes Alan Davidson, “is the English word for a small portion of deep-fried BATTER.” He adds: “The Roman scriblita, described by Cato in the 2nd century B.C., was probably a precursor of both fritters and DOUGHNUTS.”[2] He quotes C. Anne Wilson (1973) quoting John Russell, who observed that “apple fritter is good hot, but the cold ye [should] not touch.”[3]

“Frittering” as in to waste time has no linguistic connection to fritter the thing-you-put in your mouth. According to the invaluable on-line Oxford Dictionary, the wasting time verb version comes from the obsolete fitter, which means to break into fragments. The noun – a piece of fruit, vegetable, or meat – that’s fried comes from the Old French friture, which itself comes from the Latin frigere (to fry).[4]

The late, much missed Laurie Colwin, in “How to Disguise Vegetables,” says “A more effective way is to turn the offending vegetable [in this case, sorrel] into a fritter. Most people think fried food is fun and not serious eating. A crisp little fritter slips right down (often as a mere vehicle for the catsup or tomato sauce), but never mind that it is fried: it is all for a good cause.”[5]

So, sifting through a pile of fritter recipes – for vegetables, fruits, and too-tough clams – reveals that you can either make the batter with beer, or not. You can use baking powder, or not. You can cook the vegetable(s) first, or not. You definitely use eggs, and if you want to give those fritters a 3D aspect, you will most definitely whip the egg whites ‘til almost stiff peaks form. Or you can simply mix the eggs, entire, with the flour.

A previous experiment with this fritter idea led to the inclusion of both baking powder and separated eggs and whipped egg whites, as who wants to eat a fried hockey puck (though perhaps that would appeal to some Canadians whom we know and love)?

These go really well with a nice cool glass of Prosecco or equally cool glass of white wine. Do remember the words of one of those John Russells. A dollop of sour cream or crème fraiche would sit nicely on top of these, and if it's crowned by some smoked salmon, so much the better.

Sorrel and Green Garlic Fritters

6 green garlic plants, ends trimmed, chopped
½ lb. sorrel, cleaned
1 c. flour
1 c. water
1½ t. baking powder
2 organic eggs, separated
1/3 c. grated Parmesan cheese
Sea salt and freshly ground black pepper
Sour cream or crème fraiche, for garnish (optional)
Smoked salmon, if you're living large
Olive oil for frying

Preheat the oven to 350°F/180°C. Melt the butter (over a medium flame) in a saucepan, add the green garlic, and still for a minute or two. Add the sorrel, and continue stirring ‘til it wilts and turns gray. Remove from the heat and let cool.

In a mixing bowl, combine the flour, baking powder, egg yolks, and Parmesan cheese. Add the vegetable mixture, sea salt, and freshly ground black pepper to taste. Whip the egg whites ‘til soft peaks form, and gently fold into the fritter batter.

Place some paper towels on a cutting board.

Heat a generous amount of olive oil, and drop heaping tablespoons of the batter into hot oil. Cook for a minute or two, then flip and cook for another minute or two. Remove, drain on paper towels, and keep warm in the pre-heated oven. Continue ‘til all the batter is used up, and eat immediately.
Makes at least 12. Dogs love this, even without the sour cream and smoked salmon.

The Parrot-Lured-by-Red-Wine-and-Pringles Absurdity Department: Flavio Briatore, 60, pug-faced suspended Formula One manager, and self-styled tycoon, has recently become the father of a baby boy.[6] We might even add Traditionalist Italian Male from the Stone Age to “tycoon” and “suspended Formula One manager” to his job description. Interviewed in Hello! Magazine, he’s asked if he will change young Falco Nathan’s diapers: “No, that’s a bit too much. If it was an emergency, but if everything is normal, absolutely not.” What about giving his son the odd night-time bottle then? This traditional Italian father looks momentarily horrified. “No, no. I think it is the job of the mother and the nanny. Not really the job of the father … I believe the mother has the bigger responsibility, especially now. When the child is three, four, five, six, I believe you start to have a communication, but not before.” From the May 3rd, 2010 issue. One wonders how Signor Briatore defines the difference between “normal” and “emergency.”


This in from ever-vigilant Spritzer Gal: http://lifehacker.com/5535018/what-can-i-do-with-leftover-wine. Worth a peek.

This from Terracotta Sculptress in the Hinterlands of Tuscany: she’s on a ribollita hunger drive ‘til the rain stops coming; this means she’ll be lunching and dining on said today. Winter-warm polenta recipe to follow.


[1] Please visit last post for well-written and tired-with-the-weather comment from Genteel Friend.
[2] The Oxford Companion to Food, New York, 1999.
[3] Would love to write more about this John Russell, but it’s hard to tell from Wikipedia whom he might be, as there are 38 listed – 16 politicians, 6 sportsmen (we could probably safely rule them out as caring about apple fritters), 3 artists, 13 others, and one “Jack Russell/Disambiguation” which, I’d hoped, might refer to the breed. It didn’t.
[4] www.askoxford.com
[5] Home Cooking, New York, 1988. For a lovely remembrance of her, see Jonathan Yardley’s July 1, 2003 “Laurie Colwin: A Story Too Short but Still in Print” at http://www.washingtonpost.com/.
[6][6] It’s well worth checking out his biography on http://www.wikipedia.org/. He’s had many, many brushes with the authorities over the decades.

sabato 8 maggio 2010

Primavera


Primavera. Spring. If you’re an art historian, or a licensed tour guide in Florence, thoughts turn inevitably to Botticelli’s large, magnificent, Birth of Spring. You might, if you live in Italy, wonder when you’ve last experienced such a joyless, rain-filled one as this year’s.

If you like food, you might think of a recipe called Pasta Primavera. Unclear how and why it was invented, but it’s pretty much 100% clear that it’s a United-States kind of invention (though it may have been invented by a Frenchman).[1]

Amanda Hesser’s informative May 2009 piece in the New York Times Magazine discusses the origins of pasta primavera. She refers to it as “an absurdity of 1980s so-called seasonal cooking.”.[2] Who invented it? She goes on to explain the controversies surrounding the possible inventor of this dish, as various theories abound. Perhaps it was Jean Vergnes, chef at Le Cirque, who whipped it up in the 1970s.[3] (To quote Hesser: “Despite his assertion that he invented it, Vergnes was said to have hated the dish so much, he forced his cooks to make it in a hallway.”) Perhaps it was Mrs. Sirio Maccioni, wife of owner of said restaurant, who did so.[4] Perhaps it was Ed Giobbi?

In fact, Jacques Pepin, in his delightful memoir, credits Giobbi: “one of [Ed's] claims to fame is that he invented the now well-known dish called pasta primavera. When Sirio Maccioni opened the first Le Cirque restaurant in 1976, he asked Ed if he knew of a recipe for pasta that would be a bit different and new.” Giobbi proposed a dish made by his grandmother using fresh raw tomatoes tossed with basil, garlic, and olive oil and mixed up with hot cooked penne.[5]

Food folk such as Amanda Hesser have observed that this dish is a merger of Italian ingredients (olive oil, Parmesan) with French (cream, cream, and then some butter). Sort of like what Le Cirque used to be like (a delightful union of both, with Italian heart and soul), in all its glory. But let’s be serious: if we’re going to have a dish with “spring” as an adjective, why obfuscate with needless creameries and out-of-season vegetables?

Really, does it matter? (To echo Mick Jagger in “Shattered.”) This dish incorporates the freshest of springtime things and then, depending upon whom you read/cook, adds frozen peas (horrors!) or prosciutto (tasty!) or tomatoes (not in season when the rest of the ingredients are!).

A quick glance at the invaluable epicurious.com shows some interesting takes on this recipe. All of them look intriguing, some of them downright tasty; many of them call for the somewhat puzzling addition of frozen peas (given that peas are spring vegetables and can be had fresh at this time of year). If you type “primavera” in the search engine, you get 15 recipes, some with pasta, some with rice. Bon Appetit, clearly smitten with the idea of primavera, offers five recipes – one in June 1994, another in April 1995, April 2003, and May 2005.[6]
Next on the Scallion’s and my soon-to-let’s-eat list: Jeremy Fox’s , chef at Ubuntu in Napa, terribly creative (red miso!) take on this somewhat tired, but always tasty, dish. You can download his recipe if you go to Amanda Hesser's article.[7]

(By the way: there are no pea plants, blooming favas, or asparagus shoots in the Botticelli painting. Just a whole lot of flowers and some citrus. Perhaps someone, someday, will take the time to figure out which ones, of the real ones, are edible. Primavere doppie/double spring ... what a thought.)

This dish should shriek Spring! (or Primavera!) when you put a rice-filled fork to your mouth.

Risotto alla primavera

2 T. butter
1 leek, trimmed, white part only, slit longitudinally, and then minced horizontally
¾ c. Arborio rice
1 c. good white wine (the kind that you would like to drink and cook with)
¼ c. thin asparagus, tough ends removed, cut on the diagonal
1 c. freshly-shelled peas
1 c. freshly-podded fava beans
3-4 c. mushroom broth, heated
1 scant t. saffron threads
½ c. grated Parmesan
Freshly ground black pepper and sea salt, to taste
Freshly scissored chives, for garnish

Heat the mushroom broth and bring it to a most warm, but not boiling, temperature. Add the saffron threads, stir, and reserve. Have all your vegetables prepped, and ready to be dropped en masse into the saucepan.

Melt the butter on a medium-low flame in a large saucepan, add the leek, and stir ‘til softened. Add the wine, and stir while it absorbs. Add the mushroom-saffron broth by increments, stirring all the while. Continue adding broth and stirring. After about 15 minutes of careful attention, tip in the vegetables. Keep stirring. The rice ought to be done in about 18 minutes or so, and when you’re about one minute away, add the grated Parmesan. Taste for salt and pepper, and remove from the flame.

Ladle the risotto into two white bowls or dishes (makes the saffron’d green combination really come alive on the plate) and garnish with snipped chives.

This in from Spritzer Gal. Has nothing to do with dogs or food, but ought to put a smile on your face: http://jezebel.com/5533434/runaway-parrot-lured-home-with-red-wine-and-pringles.
And this from Ms. Julie: “As a fellow dog lover, I wonder if you're familiar with the Animal Rescue website. I faithfully visit it daily and click, which ostensibly provides aid to rescued creatures. If you're interested, the website is http://www.theanimalrescuesite.com/clickToGive/home.faces?siteId=3.”

[1] The Scallion and I have a dear Florentine friend – Vittorio – who thinks that many of our (i.e., U.S.) pasta recipes are abominations but terribly tasty.
[2] Go to http://www.nytimes.com/2009/05/17/magazine/17food-t.html
[3] Who has sadly just died: http://www.nytimes.com/2010/04/23/nyregion/23vergnes.html
[4] It does not appear to be on Le Cirque Café’s prix fixe lunch or dinner menu at present. Nor is it on offer for Le Cirque’s $95 Mother’s Day Menu tomorrow. Check out www.lecirque.com.
[5] Jacques Pepin, The Apprentice: My Life in the Kitchen, New York, 2003.
[6] It makes some us really, really mourn for the demise of Gourmet.
[7] He was involved with Ubuntu at the time Hesser wrote her piece. The web reveals that he and his staff left the place in February 2010. His recipe still sounds good. Named one of the Best New Chefs by Food and Wine magazine in 2008, you can check out seven of his tasty vegetarian recipes at http://www.foodandwine.com/.

lunedì 3 maggio 2010

Averardo and Green Garlic


The Italian Scallion has many cousins, all interesting and wonderful. One of the most interesting and wonderful is Averardo, the Senior Statesman of the Scallion's generation. Averardo is warm, witty, learned, world-travelled, and a marvelous cook (perhaps one day I will extract his ragù di cinghiale (wild boar sauce) recipe from him. He likes his food, knows how to cook it, and appreciates a good dish of anything.

Imagine my dismay when he told me a few weeks ago that he thought a previously-blogged recipe bordered on mediocrity. (He’s far too much of a gentleman to speak that way; this is my inference.) The recipe he referred to was Samantha’s divine spaghetti-garlic-olive oil-bouillon cube. Though I stoutly defended the virtues of this dish, he was unforgiving. No, he said, if you’re going to mess with this classic, make it with olive oil and garlic, then, just before serving, add a couple of chopped anchovies, toss, eat.

In replying to my solicitation, Averardo writes: “I view aglio, olio e peperoncino [spaghetti with garlic, olive oil, and hot peppers] as a quick recipe, simple to make with what’s available in the pantry: if you have fresh garlic, great, otherwise regular garlic works equally well. It [the green garlic] will change the flavor a bit, but we change, too: with the seasons and their colors, their aromas, and their vibes, so it’s fine like that. On the other hand, when you have fresh garlic, you don’t have new oil[1] … As for the anchovies, it’s important to have them melt in oil that’s hot, not boiling! Otherwise they get bitter. So, after cooking the garlic ‘til golden (with the hot pepper), turn off the flame and wait for the oil to cool; then add the anchovy filets, breaking them up with a fork, while the pasta is cooking. There you go. Trust me: it’s better than with a broth cube!!!)."

So here’s a riff on Averardo’s recipe with green garlic rather than everyday garlic. (Though everyday garlic would work equally well during wet and rainy winters.)

Green garlic is a fleeting thing; it’s garlic at its earliest stage, before the bulb has set. It looks a lot like a scallion. If you’re lucky enough to have a garden, grow it. Otherwise, seek it out in the spring at any good farmer’s market. You can use it the way you’d use garlic, only then some: Chez Panisse, Temple of Gastronomy, highlights it in a cheesy soufflé, and in a creamy soup with potatoes and said, as well as another delicious soup with tomatoes.[2]
Gli spaghetti aglio e olio di Averardo in primavera (Averardo’s garlic, olive oil, and peperoncini spaghetti in spring)

200 g. spaghetti or other thin noodle’d pasta
4 green garlic plants, ends trimmed, minced
2 hot peppers, minced
3 T. extravirgin olive oil
2 salt-packed anchovy filets, scrubbed clean of salt, chopped
Handful of flat-leaf parsley, chopped

Put the olive oil in a saucepan, and heat over a medium flame. Mince the garlic and the hot peppers together, and toss in the pan. Do not let the garlic brown; if there’s even a hint of it doing so, turn the flame down.

Fill a deep pot with water, bring to a boil, and toss in the spaghetti. Cook according to package instructions, drain.

Remove the olive oil/hot pepper/garlic mix from the stove, and gently stir in the anchovies, which will melt upon contact. Add the spaghetti, and toss to combine. Sprinkle with the parsley, and eat immediately.
Serves two.

Averardo: we had it for lunch today; and though it isn’t better than dado (!), it was absolutely saporific. Apologies to all readers who find photo of said dish blurry and incomprehensible, which it is.

Photo of Dan having had his fun with Sol the Shark in Ipswich kind courtesy of James Hayward.

This just in from Sally, Art Historian Chum and Mistress of the Perfectly-Executed Roast: opening imminently at the National Sporting Library in Middleburg, Virgina is “Lives of Dogs Viewed Through Literature, Art and Ephemera” Exhibition on Display at the National Sporting Library from May 27 through December 11, 2010 . “Lives of Dogs Viewed Through Literature, Art and Ephemera” will open Thursday, May 27, at the National Sporting Library, located at 102 The Plains Rd. in Middleburg, Virginia. The exhibit features books and objects that span four centuries and are selected from the Library’s holdings as well as those of private collectors. Lives of Dogs provides a glimpse into the richly complex topic of the relationship between dogs and humans.Lives of Dogs is on display in the Forrest E. Mars Sr. Exhibit Hall at the National Sporting Library and is open to the public May 27 through December 11, 2010, during normal library hours, which are Tuesday through Friday from 10 a.m. to 4 p.m. and Saturday from 1 to 4 p.m. Admission is free. Curatorial Assistant Brenna Elliott, Librarian Lisa Campbell and Maureen Gustafson curated the exhibition. For more information, visit http://www.nsl.org/ or call 540-687-6542 x 10.
[1] An interesting, crucial, and sad point: olio nuovo (new oil) happens in the fall, usually in November. Green garlic season typically happens in mid-spring.
[2] See Chez Panisse Cooking by Paul Bertolli with Alice Waters, New York, 1988. He writes: “The quality of green garlic is unique and of great use in the kitchen. When cooked, it has none of the hot, pungent qualities of fresh garlic cloves. Its flavor, although unmistakably associated with the mature form, is much milder.” (p. 111) The folks at Chez Panisse also use it to make a ravioli stuffing (see Chez Panisse Pasta, Pizza, & Calzone, New York, 1984).