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 ).

mercoledì 21 dicembre 2011

Hard Candy Christmas


We’re coming upon Christmas, and we’re all supposed to feel full of joy and good will. If you’re not feeling full of joy (and we know who we are), we should at least try to feel full of good will, and go through the motions of perhaps stringing lights on a tree (if we decide to have one), of baking Christmas cookies (if we can be bothered), of playing Christmas music (if Dolly Parton’s “Hard Candy Christmas” won’t reduce you to tears), and of giving Christmas presents.

My Facebook wall is cluttered with many food writers promoting their own, just-published cookbooks. End-of-year lists promote the ten best of 2011. It’s pleasing to see that Yotam Ottolenghi has broken into U.S. consciousness (his “pepper tofu” might be the best tofu recipe, ever) – his Plenty was named one of the 10 best cookbooks of 2011 by the Washington Post.

My mother always gave me cookbooks at Christmas. I often returned the favor. It ran in the family: my sister also frequently gifted my mother with cookbooks, and we consistently and predictably gift our brother-in-law with them. (He is becoming the best cook in the family.)

My mother almost always inscribed these books. She was feeling a little full of swagger when she inscribed 1986’s present – in this case, Marcella Hazan’s Italian Kitchen in the following manner: “Merry Christmas to the 2nd or 3rd best cook in the family.” Clearly she thought she was the best, though whom she meant by the 2d best cook will elude me forever.

I own Marcella’s entire oeuvre, and I have always been partial to this, because I think it is her best. Is it because it is the only Marcella my mother ever gave me? Is it because when I made her “Baked Stuffed Bluefish Fillets” for my visiting sister my sister proclaimed me a marvelous cook? (It was the recipe!) Do the recipes taste better because my mother inscribed it? Unclear. But what is clear is that so many of these recipes have entered our repertoire, and have been part of our lives for 25 years.

In 1987, she gave me Deborah Madison’s (with Edward Espe Brown) Greens Cook Book. My mother had carefully cut off, in triangular fashion, as everyone did and does, the price tag. Her inscription? “Merry Christmas to the Gregarious Gourmet!” I can remember spending many an enjoyable evening in front of my mother’s roaring fireplace mentally devouring the recipes – this was the most sophisticated vegetarian cook book at that time, period. It was well-written, insightful. Better than that, the recipes were stimulating unlike those in Diet for a Small Planet, which exhorted us to eat vegetarian, whose recipes would have driven any well-meaning vegetarian wannabe to the nearest steakhouse. The recipes were stultifying, and could easily have done double duty as paperweights.

(That same year, for my birthday a couple of months before, she’d given me the 2d revised Joy of Cooking, with the following inscription: “Happy 28th, S.H. The great chef will get even greater!”)

1994 brought me Provencal Light by Martha Rose Shulman, and the inscription? “Merry Christmas, Patti. You can (and may!) practice on us anytime!” (Us, in that case, referred to her second husband who, unlike my mother, really didn’t much like food at all.) This volume isn’t nearly as dog-eared (excuse me Pups and Puppers) as her earlier Mediterranean Light, though I am very happy that it's on our shelves.

Chez Panisse Cooking arrived in 1998, with the inscription: “Merry Christmas, S.H. from a sous chef [my mother] and a salad boy! [non-food-loving second husband].” We cooked many, many wonderful things from this book, and we still overdose on all the marvelous green garlic recipes (our introduction to that product) every spring. In fact, the spine has cracked between pages 112-113. At left, “Green Garlic and Cheese Soufflés” and on the right, “Green Garlic Soup.”

Her inscription with the 1999 (Chez Panisse Cafe Cookbook) book was simple and to the point: “Merry Christmas, Patti/with love, Mums.” This was the first time in nearly 20 years that she didn’t sign her second husband’s name (he’d died that February) and even the printing of the book reflects the fact that things were awry. The “Sweets” chapter is totally muddled; the printer must’ve had a mechanical malfunction. One recipe appears over several pages. Apt, however.

I am 100% clueless how Thomas Keller’s French Laundry Cookbook came to be such a laughing matter in our family, but it did. It was the first, and only, coffee table cookbook she ever gave me, and it came via amazon.com early in 2000. She had one, too (I gave my mother’s copy to a dear cousin who loves to cook), and so did my sister. In fact, she gave it to me as a joke. It’s a glorious cookbook, brilliantly produced, but who really has time to make “Fricassée of Escargots with a Purée of Sweet Carrots, Roasted Shallots, and Herb Salad?” (Like St. Francis looking for inspiration and then receiving the stigmata, I just randomly opened the book and that’s what appeared.)

[Please don’t get me wrong here: I would kill to eat anything made by Thomas Keller –perhaps even snails.][Years ago, while Sunday lunching at a friend’s house in Florence, a Ducasse-trained chef – who made our Sunday lunch – stoutly defended the cookbook as a “how to” rather than a “do it” kind of thing, and his point was well taken.]

The Puppers chewed the hell out of this book just a few weeks ago, and it now needs to be re-bound.

My mother came from the United States twice to visit us. The first time, in 2007, she gifted us with Marion Cunningham’s re-revision of her Fannie Farmer Cookbook. It’s a glorious tome, sadly uninscribed, with a faint whiff of dog pee on it (Harry).

The second, and last time, she visited was in 2009 (the last time I saw her not in a hospital), and she brought with her the Momofuku cookbook. She would not have figured that one out by herself; it was my sister’s wise counsel that led her to gift me with it. The inscription, her last to me in cookbook-giving, was simple and to the point: “Merry Christmas, S.H.!”

I took two books from her shelves last month. One was one I’d given her – Anna Thomas’s Vegetarian Epicure in which I’d self-righteously inscribed (as only a junior in college can do): “May you turn your wandering eye to meatless vistas. Merry Christmas!” This in 1980.

Did she cook out of it? I know she loved the Cheddar corn chowder, and the book’s spine is inexplicably broken on popovers/hot herb bread on the left, corn bread on the right. (As much as I adore and treasure this book, it seems somehow dated.)

The other was the Better Homes and Garden Cookbook (1962), and I am sure that my mother took its lessons to heart. It’s a most amazing volume. It tells the fledgling cook how to put meals together, how to rely on canned goods (among other things). A two-page spread entitled “ Plan meals the easy way – borrow these ideas” puts the whole meal in perspective: Meat/Starchy Food/Vegetable/Salad/Dessert/Nice to serve. She eschewed the “Choose variety meats for change” – if we ever ate sweetbreads or kidney, the four of us must have been dining somewhere else.

The beauty of this book? Right up front, on the page that starts with “Why nearly 9,000,000 women cherish this cook book” is an explanation as follows: “the new Cook Book is easy to use” because it 1) has a washable cover, 2) has loose-leaf binding, and 3) it has tab-index pages (and, just so our priorities are straight, chapter 6 (Candy) precedes Casseroles and one-dish meals (Chapter 8), Chapter 9 (Cookies) … we don’t get to Meats/Poultry/Fish ‘til Chapter 13).

“Ideas for lunch-box meals:” Deviled Ham and Pickle Bunwiches (bunwiches?), Potato chips, Perfect iced tea, olive and celery (the salad or vegetable section), and brownies and/or a Ripe Pear. My mother didn’t pack many lunch-box meals for us once she, a single parent, went back into the work force. We were among those kids who “bought” and our elementary school lunches, if memory serves, cost 35 cents. Would that she had made us bunwiches!

The book seems largely unused except for the dog-eared pages in the pastry section. Thinking about it, my mother came a long way on her culinary path. From Better Homes and Gardens to Momofuku ...

This year I make her stuffing, to go with our turkeys (two boneless/stuffed with good stuff from our butcher) and remember that the last time I ate it, she was in our kitchen, making it herself.

As you may have gathered, my mother was a marvelous cook. She particularly went all out during the holidays, and this recipe I associate with Christmas at her house. For those of you not living in the United States, you can substitute speck.

Happy Holidays/Tanti Auguri.

DRIED BEEF DIP

8 oz. package cream cheese
1 c. sour cream
¼ lb. dried beef (or speck)
¼ green pepper, chopped
2 T. dried onion flakes*
½ t. garlic salt
2 shakes of pepper
2/3 c. pecans or walnuts, coarsely chopped

Preheat oven to 350 degrees. Put nuts in a shallow baking pan and toast until golden brown – about 5 minutes.

While the nuts are baking, combine the remaining ingredients in a one-quart casserole. Remove the nuts from the oven, put them on top of the dip, and bake for 20 minutes.

Serve immediately on rye or sesame crackers.

*Do dried onion flakes even exist anymore? Probably yes, somewhere. Use diced red onion instead.

ADDENDA

Paul Bertolli with Alice Waters, Chez Panisse Cooking, New York, 1988.
Better Homes and Garden New Cookbook, New York, 1962.
David Chang and Peter Meehan, Momofuku, New York, 2009.
Marion Cunningham, The Fannie Farmer Cookbook, New York, 2006. 13th ed.
Marcella Hazan, Marcella’s Italian Kitchen, New York, 1986. HEINOUSLY OUT OF PRINT.
Thomas Keller, The French Laundry Cookbook, New York, 1999.
Deborah Madison, The Greens Cook Book: Extraordinary Vegetarian Cuisine from the Celebrated Restaurant, New York, 1987.
Irma S. Rombauer, Marion Rombauer Becker, and Ethan Becker, The Joy of Cooking, New York, 1997.
Martha Rose Shulman, Provencal Light, New York, 1994.
Alice Waters, Chez Panisse Café Cookbook, New York, 1999.

For lyrics to as sung-by Dolly Parton Hard Candy Christmas, go to www.lyricsfreak.com.

giovedì 1 settembre 2011

Vegetable Porn


You know you’re old, or that you’re getting older, when your interests shift from keg (and bong) hits, when you cease to use that obnoxious phrase “pulling an all-nighter,” (why not push one?), when you go to bed long before midnight … and your interests have turned not to whom you might be having sex with tonight but to the flowers and vegetables in your garden. That is, if you’re lucky enough to have one.

Instead of bragging about how many shots of tequila you could knock back (where I grew up, we had a ritual of attempting to down 18 shots of whatever upon the advent of one’s 18th birthday; that none of us died, and that one of us actually did it and lived to tell the tale … well), now we’re bragging about our vegetables.

This braggadocio is most seen on Facebook where, it seems, everyone feels compelled to post photos of luscious produce grown by him- or herself – perfectly-formed zucchini, tomatoes the richest of reds, heirloom this, exotic that.

Call it Vegetable Porn.

Our greatest gardening success story is the three volunteer cherry tomato plants sprung from our compost pile. (You might wonder why we compost if we don’t have a garden. Well, we try to have a garden, but each year, even though the compost gets richer and richer, our garden morphs into the Tuscan equivalent of the Gobi Desert.)

We could blame the weather. It's been really hot in this part of the world for too much of July and August. Last week's heat wave seems, mercifully, to have abated. When it’s that hot, watering regularly really becomes key, and you have to accept the fact that your illegally-imported Silver Queen corn has just withered into Halloween doorway decoration many months in anticipo.

And then we look in our garden, at the tomatoes – in some cases, the tomato – on the vine, and we wonder why we even bothered in the first place. We drive by our neighbor’s lush garden, he of the Green Thumb, and curse him secretly, while we smile broadly and wave hello.

We could blame The Puppers. They kicked off the proceedings nicely in early spring by eating most of the mixed Japanese greens (contained in a large terracotta pot). We could blame them for all the chicken wire that prevented us from picking the lavender when it was at is absolute aromatic best; we could blame them for the fact that the irises …no! wait! That was Harry! He’s the one who trampled the irises… well, you could blame The Puppers for the fact that the bulb garden, pride and joy for many years, is now a sordid, tangled web of weeds.

We could blame one of the semi-feral cats for using the it-used-to-be-lovely thyme plant as an outdoor litter box. (Fortunately, we have other thyme plants, and we will put down pine cones, and pieces of citrus, as those are two things that cats hate, according to Google.)

We could think about blaming ourselves.

Lunched recently with Terracotta Sculptress. Over fajitas and a chicken club (yes, dear reader, we were at the Hard Rock Café), I moaned about our shortcomings and failures in our what-could-be-a-really-wonderful garden if 1) we only watered more and 2) we only had more time. Terracotta Sculptress, formerly an avid gardener herself and a confirmed buona forchetta, confessed that she’d basically given up on her basil. Silently, we probably were both thinking, “And how hard is it to grow that?” At least, I was.

Lunched equally recently with the London-based Musical Lads who have a lovely little spread near Barga. Theirs is a small, but lovingly well-tended garden teeming with lavender, tomatoes, and other stuff. When we finalized plans to meet, they asked if we wanted some of their tomatoes, then said, “Oh, no, but you have your own.” Imagine our shame-faced state when we confessed that no, indeed, we did not (to tell two men, one Canadian, the other English, that we have no tomatoes! The Scallion is Italian: it’s like bringing coals to Newcastle ). We accepted this charitable donation with humility and deep gratitude. We do not even have tomatoes … except, of course, for those Blessed Volunteers.

Add to jealousy of the success of various vegetable garden its evil twin: guilt. If you live in the Tuscan countryside (we do), ought we not to have a beautiful garden? Isn’t it expected of us? Why live in the country, if not to have a beautiful garden teeming with things to eat, the stray herbaceous border? Should we turn our attention to livestock and perhaps get a goat, or some chickens (which really aren’t, properly speaking, livestock. But they certainly are not plants.) We share our space with a flock of sheep, and they seem to be thriving. Perhaps they are trying to tell us something?

While I write this, a mini-drama unfolds in the kitchen. You can see photos on the right. At first, I thought it was a rat, but when it ran across the stove, the Scallion pointed out that it was a mouse. I confess I stood on a chair as Rosie waited it out (how 50s of me, and why the chair?). Rosie stopped waiting it out a little while ago, and my guess is that the rodent beat a hasty retreat (who wouldn’t, with seven dogs in attendance?)(Waldo’s sister Zoe has been spending some quality time with us.)

Yup: we live in the country, have no tomatoes, and have a mouse who wants to come to dinner. And, at present, a grasshopper walking up the wall. (He appears stoned.)

Here’s a tasty recipe for those of you who have too many tomatoes and simply don’t know what to do with them. This isn’t mine, but heaven knows where I plucked it from … we’ve been eating it since the 80s.

Tomato Pie (for those of you with excess tomatoes)

1 c. fresh fine breadcrumbs
3 c. sliced, peeled, vine-ripened tomatoes that have just recently picked (about 1 1/3 lb.(
1/3 c. thinly-sliced red onion
2 c. grated Cheddar cheese (about 6 oz.)
2 large eggs, beaten lightly
3 strips bacon or pancetta, halved crosswise, optional

Preheat the oven to 325°F and butter a nine-inch pie plate. Sprinkle ½ c. bread crumbs evenly on the bottom of the pie plate. Arrange half of the tomatoes on top of the bread crumbs, and top with half of the onions. Sprinkle half of the Cheddar on top and repeat layering (omitting bread crumbs). Pour eggs over all, and add salt and pepper to taste. Top the pie with the remaining ½ c. bread crumbs, arrange the bacon strips (if using) on top of the pie. Bake in the middle of the oven for 45 minutes.
This tastes good hot and cold.

RODENT UPDATE

It is no more, thanks to Rosie.

lunedì 4 luglio 2011

Hey baby, it's the fourth of July


On the stairs I smoke a
cigarette alone
Mexican kids are shootin'
fireworks below
Hey baby, it's the Fourth of July
Hey baby, Baby take a walk outside

Thank you, John Doe. Thank you, Exene. Oh, thank you X, and may those of you who have that blessed album blast that song loud and clear today. Happy Independence Day! Sadly, the only fireworks we’ll have here are those inside our heads. Perhaps we’ll be lucky enough to catch a glimpse in the sky from our men and women at the nearby U.S. base at Camp Darby. Here’s hoping.

It’s the first Fourth of July for the Puppers, who turned eight months old yesterday. They will celebrate by watching us eat bbq’d ribs and a delicious pasta salad concocted by Canadienne Red (who has a new moniker: Impeccable Housekeeper). They will listen to me read the Declaration of Independence aloud to a resigned Scallion (this is an annual ritual; he’s used to it). Hopefully, Pups and Puppers will understand the relevance of life, liberty, and the pursuit of happiness. Goddess knows they have all three.

Did you know that an Italian called Filippo Mazzei, friend to Thomas Jefferson, and long-time lover of liberty, helped him out with a phrase or two in that most marvelous document? Filippo’s family had been producing wine in the greater Carmignano area (west-ish of Florence) for about four hundred years when he and TJ became pals; Filippo’s descendants continue to produce seriously good wines in the greater Carmignano area (and elsewhere) ‘til this very day. (Indeed, I shall hoist a glass of their eminently drinkable, eminently affordable (3.19 euro at any Esselunga) Cappezzano later today.)

This from wiki:

In 1773 [Filippo] led a group of Italians who came to Virginia to introduce the cultivation of vineyards, olives, and other Mediterranean fruits. Mazzei became a neighbor and friend of Thomas Jefferson. Mazzei and Jefferson started what became the first commercial vineyard in the Commonwealth of Virginia. They shared an interest in politics and libertarian values, and maintained an active correspondence for the rest of Mazzei's life. In 1779 Mazzei returned to Italy as a secret agent for the state of Virginia. He purchased and shipped arms to them until 1783.

After briefly visiting the United States again in 1785, Mazzei travelled throughout Europe promoting Republican ideals. He wrote a political history of the American Revolution, "Recherches historiques et politiques sur les Etats-Unis de l'Amerique septentrionale", and published it in Paris in 1788. After its publication Mazzei became an unofficial roving ambassador in Europe for American ideas and institutions.

This contribution was acknowledged by John F. Kennedy in his book A Nation of
Immigrants, in which he states that: “The great doctrine 'All men are created equal'incorporated into the Declaration of Independence by Thomas Jefferson, was paraphrased from the writing of Philip Mazzei, an Italian-born patriot and pamphleteer, who was a close friend of Jefferson. A few alleged scholars try to discredit Mazzei as the creator of this statement and idea, saying that "there is no mention of it anywhere until after the Declaration was published". This phrase appears in Italian in Mazzei's own hand, written in Italian, several years prior to the writing of the Declaration of Independence. Mazzei and Jefferson often exchanged ideas about true liberty and freedom. No one man can take complete credit for the ideals of American democracy."

"Tutti gli uomini sono per natura egualmente liberi e indipendenti. Quest'eguaglianza è necessaria per costituire un governo libero. Bisogna che ognuno sia uguale all'altro nel diritto naturale.”

[“All men are by nature equally free and independent. Such equality is necessary in order to create a free government. All men must be equal to each other in natural law."

Happy Fourth of July!


And to any siblings/cousins who read this, shall we meet at Springers?

Canadienne Red found this recipe lying around at a YMCA somewhere in Chicago. She provides us with the recipe, and then her marvelous adaptations.

Canadienne Red’s Most Wonderful Orzo Salad

Official Recipe:

4 garlic cloves
4 medium carrots, peeled & cut into 1-inch pieces
2 T. extra v olive oil
½ lb. orzo
3 cups chicken broth
Salt & pepper to taste

Finely chop garlic in a food processor. Add carrots & pulse into 1/4 to 1/2 inch pieces.

Heat 1 T. olive oil in a medium saucepan over medium heat. Add orzo & stir until golden brown, about 3 minutes. Add the carrot/garlic mixture and stir to blend. Pour in 2¾ cups broth and salt to taste and bring to a boil. Simmer & stir over low heat until orzo is tender and broth is absorbed, about 12 minutes.

This recipe makes a risotto-like side dish.

My version follows in next message. Put the two together the way you choose, Baby.

This is my first version (as a salad): I blanch the carrots almost whole first. Then chop them up to suit the size of the pasta and place them aside. Next, I cook the pasta (orzo/semi di melone/ puntalette/riso) to al dente, drain, and then add a bit of olive oil to make them slippery. Then, I saute the garlic and some finely chopped sweet onion, adding cumin, coriander, cardamon (all ground) Add the cooled ingredients together in a large bowl. Taste (of course!) and add necessary flavours olive oil for sure, sale/pepe, perhaps a bit of lemon juice and/or zest, maybe a touch of sesame oil? Very good & Excellent!

And my twist on hers: I toasted the cumin and coriander seeds, and then mortar’d and pestle’d them.

Canadienne Red's second version: I sort of followed the original recipe, but I added a 1/2 cup of white wine to the pasta after it had browned and let it reduce before adding the broth. Sauteed the sweet onions with the spices and added them after the "risotto" was cooked. Then added sale/pepe, lemon zest, lemon juice, more olio, more sale.

ADDENDA

Lyrics to “Fourth of July” by X.

www.wikipedia.org for facts on Filippo Mazzei.

For fun, go to www.sporcle.com, click on “Just for Fun,” and do today’s quiz.

martedì 14 giugno 2011

Flag Day


It’s Flag Day today in the United States. On this day in 1777, the Second Constitutional Congress adopted the stars and stripes; in 1916, Woodrow Wilson made June 14th the official date of celebration, and in August 1949, it became official. (Um, why did it have to become official twice?)

Italy celebrates Flag Day on January 7. That day marks the occasion when, in 1797, the Italian flag was adopted. Highly puzzling, this, as Italy did not become a nation until much, much later (like, 1861). The Scallion theorizes that this flag was adopted in northern Italy after Napoleon made that part of the world his. No matter. Did the (Italian) Founding Fathers pick the colors red, white, and green to honor Dante, who thought that those colors symbolized the Theological Virtues (red/charity, white/faith, green/hope)? Or were they already thinking, as early as all that, that one day they’d have a queen called Margherita, and they’d name a pizza in her honor? (Red/tomato sauce, white/mozzarella, green/basil).

In Italy on this day in history? The aforementioned Dante does his stint in 1300 as prior, embraces White Guelf-ism, and is soon afterwards kicked out of Florence for picking the wrong color (Black Guelfs were the New Black).

(Let’s all praise the Powers that Be that he was kicked out. If he hadn’t been, would he have felt the urge to put a whole lot of his fellow Florentines in hell? Would he have written his ultra-divine Commedia? If he hadn’t had an axe to grind, would we still have Inferno, Purgatorio, and Paradiso?)

Today I would like to raise a tentative flag, a success flag. It’s looking as if The Puppers are just about housetrained. Given that they are well over seven months old, one could be inclined to mutter under one’s breath “About f’ing time.” Two little experiments related to running short errands and leaving them uncrated leads to this absolutely astonishing thought. Both times we returned home to find nothing – and I mean nothing – on the floor. Even Wilma, the Submissive Pee-er, did not leave a little submissive puddle this morning.

Indeed, this is a cause for celebration. Or it could be, if we thoroughly trusted these evil, cunning, rotten Puppers. So we’ll put the celebration on hold, and perhaps combine 4th of July festivities with continence successfully achieved.

Of late, lots of action, relatively speaking, in our part of the world. The Pups have had a veritable field day with wild life. Just the other day, Rosie flushed a badger on her morning walk, and Lulu shredded her second garter snake (she must be reminded that garter snakes are our friends). Many visitors have passed through, including the lovely Heather Souvlaki, R.N., and our equally lovely niece Mme. E., R.N.

The weather’s been crapola, though today the tide seems to have turned. In fact, at the beginning of the R.N. Duo’s stay, the weather was so crapola that we made meatloaf for dinner and invited them, and the Scallion’s Mum, down. A couple of days ago, while sipping a most wonderful pinot grigio at a local boite, the barwoman turned to me and glowed about the weather: “è settembrina,” she enthused. That means the weather’s a bit like what we get in September (literally, "It's Little September."). I did not point out – though I was tempted – that in September, most of us have fading tans. Tomorrow marks the middle of the month, and most everyone around here is pasty. We look like the English on any English beach in August.

Perhaps the weather has caused people to act oddly? Just the other day, in Caffe Paszkowski in Florence, I observed strange behavior on the part of four North Americans (it would be so very satisfying to say that they were Canadian but, as they did not have their requisite identifying marker – the maple leaf, mind you – on their persons, it seems safe to conclude that these four came from south of the (Canadian) border) ... at any rate, the parents and son (with, presumably, girlfriend) were seated at two tables inside the place. These two tables are for locals, regulars, who want to sit without paying an upped-up service charge.

Both of these tables sported beautiful fruit cups, waiting to be gobbled up, and I thought, “How odd. I didn’t know that Paszkowski does this of a morning.” I looked at the counters, through the glass cases, looking for evidence that I could buy one of those things, too.

Impossible. This dawned on me as I watched the young man eat spaghetti from a plastic container. Paszkowski does do a lovely light lunch at lunch time but, as this was 8 o’clock Sunday morning – a time well removed from lunch – the only possible conclusion to be drawn was that these four lousy tourists thought it perfectly acceptable to eat last night’s leftovers at an historic Florentine bar since they ordered cappuccini to accompany this.

I should have waved the flag.

The following meatloaf recipe is very freely adapted from Marcella Hazan’s “Polpettone alla toscana” from her Classic Italian Cooking. Once you make meatloaf her way, you’ll probably never make it any other. (At least, I don’t.) She rolls the loaf in breadcrumbs, and then gently cooks it stove-top. It is sumptuously succulent. She also uses dried porcini to give the loaf’s sauce great depth. To my mind, this is one of the best meatloaf recipes, ever.

Mine’s a little different. “The loaf should be firmly packed, not loose and crumbly, so that when it is cooked it can be cut into thin, elegant, compact slices,” writes Marcella. If you do her recipe, you can slice it into thin slices. If you do this one, you’ll probably be reduced to scooping it up with a spoon.

Since I posted this, Marcella and I have exchanged some fun correspondence. I haven't really told her this -- though I'm sure she'll read it here -- that she really was my Julia Child. Though I respect and adore J.C. (we attended the same college, for starters: quite a bond in itself), Marcella Hazan was my entry into cooking fantastic Italian food. Her recipes are lucidly written, very tasty recipes. And here's what she has to say about my meatloaf recipe:

(From Marcella Hazan): "Thank you for the complimentary words. All recipes, mine included, accommodate another cook¹s tastes (or foibles). It¹s okay about making
crumbly polpettone, but I suspect it¹s more a question of laziness than of predilection. Polpettone is not hamburger."

Oh ... she's so, so right. Love my foibles, and cook from her.

Polpettone settembrina in giugno (September meatloaf in June)

1 lb. ground beef
½ lb. sausage, casings removed
4 slices prosciutto crudo, finely chopped
2 slices mortadella, finely chopped
¾ c. freshly ground Parmesan cheese
1 egg, preferably organic
A solid cup of best-quality bread crumbs
1 small red onion, peeled and finely chopped
2 T. olive oil
1 c. red wine (white, if that’s all you’ve got)
1 lb. button mushrooms, trimmed and thinly sliced
2 T. butter, divided
2 T. olive oil, divided
3 c. canned plum tomatoes, chopped
In a large mixing bowl, toss the ground beef, sausage, prosciutto, mortadella, and Parmesan cheese. Don’t overmix.

Heat 2 T. of the olive oil and throw in the chopped red onions. Cook ‘til absolutely soft. When cool, add to the meatloaf mix.

Now heat the butter and olive oil and add the sliced mushrooms. Cook ‘til all the liquid they could possibly throw off has been thrown off.

Heat the remaining tablespoon of butter and olive oil in a Dutch oven. Form the meat into a loaf-type vehicle, and gently roll in the bread crumbs (which you’ve placed on a flat surface). Brown the loaf on all sides in the Dutch oven. When that’s done, add the red (or white) wine, the tomato sauce, and mushroom mixture. Put a lid on the oven, and forget about the loaf for about 50 minutes.

ADDENDA

Flag Day stuff from www.wikipedia.org

Marcella Hazan, The Classic Italian Cookbook, New York, 1973. Do note that our copy of this is in several pieces. Do also note that I apprised Marcella Hazan of this fact in fairly recent correspondence. She suggested I get a new copy. I told her that the fact that it was in pieces (13, I just counted) was evidence that she writes very very good cookbooks.

Caffe Paszkowski, Piazza Repubblica 6, Florence, 055/210 236.

This from Terracotta Sculptress and her Something Secret to Eat, who has had great difficulty posting on the blog (as have others; I shall look into it):

Dear P, As usual, wonderful post! Thanks for the M.F.K. Fisher info...where have I been?

You're lucky, you're half as unfortunate as we, since the Scallion is 50% English. I'll have the babe bring back several bakers dozens of Ranch dressing for you addicts in July. My secret? A half bag of Ronzoni wagon wheels, a small jar of Prego spaghetti sauce, and a can of Kraft Cheddar Parmesan cheese (the nuclear orange kind.) Overcook the pasta and drain. Simultaneously dump sauce and cheese into pot. Stir, but do not reheat. Eat with chopsticks. It has comforted me during my PMS for years, and pray it will do the same for my menopause.
Brava, P!!!

Thank you, Sculptress!

Stupendous photograph of roses in our backyard courtesy of The Scallion.

martedì 7 giugno 2011

Something Secret


“Almost every person has something secret he likes to eat. He is downright furtive about it usually, or mentions it only in a kind of conscious self-amusement, as one who admits too quickly, “It is rather strange, yes – and I’ll laugh with you.”
This from the late great Mary Frances Kennedy Fisher (1908-1992).

M.F.K. Fisher wrote about food, which is life to many of us. If you don’t know her, you should; and if you don’t know where to start, do please start with The Gastronomical Me.

This leads me back to secret food. I know of many cases of young women (and older women) with secret things to eat, but these have often led to obsession and weirdness: like a young friend who would open her mother’s refrigerator door, find the Ready-Whip, open her mouth, and squirt it down her throat.

Quick fix, secret.

That’s actually not having something secret to eat. That’s having something secret to shoot up (or, in this case, down). Or expel, later.

M.F.K. Fisher’s secret culinary vice is too lovely for words. While she was young and in love and living in France with her first husband, and after he’d left after a tasty lunch and just desserts (do, please catch my drift, and tell me that I’m not reading too much into this passage (again, from “Borderland”: “It was wonderful [their recently-rented pension] – big room, windows, clean white billows of curtain, central heating. We basked like lizards. Finally Al went back to work, but I could not bear to walk into the bitter blowing streets from our warm room.))”

What happens between lizards, the punctuation mark (a period, in this case, and Finally is anyone’s guess).

M.F.K. Fisher’s secret thing to eat was segmented tangerine pieces, which she would string, and then heat them up on a radiator, placed on top of yesterday’s L’Ami du Peuple (from Strasbourg). Beautiful, sensuous. Literary. Orange.

My something secret to eat is embarrassing. It’s so less soigné, so less high falutin’ … so, perhaps, scarily, White Trash.

It’s Ranch dressing from packets. White. Doesn't need to heat up on a copy of Tirenno. Not even La Repubblica. Indeed, not even il Sole/24 Ore.

A dear friend called Campobello writes a side-splitting blog about life in Italy (http://lettersfromflorence.blogspot.com) . She, like many of us, has made the sometimes unfortunate mistake of marrying an Italian man. She, like few of us, blogs about her in-laws in ways designed to make you laugh ‘til you cry ‘til you weep ‘til your sides hurt. She freely admits that she’s breaking a Cardinal Rule of Blogging: thou shall not blog about your in-laws. Fortunately for her, her in-laws do not read English.

In one of her most recent blogs (see May 26th), she alluded to stockpiling packets of Ranch Dressing. This made me realize that we were fellow addicts.

Many years ago, if you wanted a product from the U.S. or anywhere that wasn't Italy, you had to beg your friends/family to tote the product. In the past fifteen years, this has largely changed (you don’t have to grow your own coriander: with luck, you can find it at the Mercato Centrale in Florence; you don’t have to ask a beloved English aunt to bring you Marmite, as you can always find it at Vivimarket on via del Giglio, or even at a well-heeled Esselunga (again, both of these fine posts in Florence); you always, always, always, have to beg friends and family to stop en route to the airport from New York at the nearest bagelry and ply you with bagels, as bagels in this part of the world are pathetic facsimiles). You get the picture.

But then there’s the case of Ranch dressing. It doesn’t exist in Italy.

Ranch dressing includes buttermilk (an impossibility to find here in Italy, though a local cheesemaker has, in the past, promised us the buttermilk run-off from his sheep; we’ve somehow never gotten around to taking him up on this offer), sour cream (used to be impossible to find; bless all the Germans who vacation near where we live, because now it’s easy), minced green onion, garlic, and other things.

Wiki relates that, since 1992, Ranch dressing has been the best-selling dressing in
the United States surpassing Italian dressing (which, it should be noted, bears absolutely zero resemblance to what Italians put on their salads).

It’s called Ranch dressing thanks to Steve and Gayle Henson who, in 1954, opened Hidden Valley Ranch (near Santa Barbara). Wiki also relates the most alarming fact that Clorox bought them out and “reformulated the dressing several times to try to make it more convenient.” (This will cause me to look on my dwindling packets with some amount of alarm). Clorox’s biggest adjustment was was to add dried buttermilk to the mix, so that you don’t have to add the Real McCoy when mixing it up.

It’s also really, really high in fat.

Last spring, Heather Souvlaki asked us if we ever used prepared foods. Truthfully-ish, I said, No. In fact, I hoard packets of Ranch dressing as if I were hoarding a Faberge egg or two lifted from some down and out Russian noble. We’re down to two packets. Would someone please visit us, and soon?

Pasta salads are pretty much a made-up American thing. However, whenever I’ve served this to Italians, all I can say is that there are no leftovers.

Tortellini salad with Ranch dressing

1 lb. spinach/ricotta tortellini
1 packet Ranch dressing
1 c. mayonnaise (as always, preferably Hellman’s)
1 c. low-fat yogurt (you might wonder why, and I do, too)
½ lb. green beans, tailed, topped, cooked and chilled
½ lb. Swiss cheese, cubed
½ lb. boiled ham, completely optional, cubed
Handful of fresh chives, snipped

Mix up the Ranch dressing at least an hour before you plan to eat the salad: throw contents of the packet into a mixing bowl, and add the yogurt and mayonnaise. Thoroughly blend, and then stick it in the refrigerator.

Cook the tortellini according to package instructions (cooking it, probably, for at least one minute or two less), drain, and run under cold water.

In a big bowl, throw in the tortellini, the beans, Swiss cheese, and boiled ham (if using). Pour in as much Ranch dressing as necessary (in all likelihood, you’ll have some left over to dip pretzels in). When it’s all mixed up, add the snipped chives.

M.F.K. Fisher's essay concludes: “The sections of tangerine are gone, and I cannot tell you why they are so magical. Perhaps it is that little shell, thin as one layer of enamel on a Chinese bowl, that crackles so tinily, so ultimately under your teeth. Or the rush of cold pulp just after it. Or the perfume. I cannot tell.”

Wow.

ADDENDA

M.F.K. Fisher, “Borderland,” from Serve it Forth, in The Art of Eating, New York, 1976.

For her obituary, see Molly O’Neill’s glowing tribute of 6/24/92 in the New York Times.

Photograph of Lulu and Dwindling Packets of Ranch Dressing, June 2011.

mercoledì 25 maggio 2011

Memorial Day, and Waldo, once again


We’ll be celebrating Waldo’s birthday this coming Monday despite the fact that Waldo, who died stupidly and prematurely last August, will not be around to celebrate what would have been his sixth birthday.

It’s also Memorial Day in the United States, a day that obviously goes ignored in this part of the world. (For those of you who are interested, do please check out last year’s Memorial Day blog for historical trivia.) In Florence, on the same day in 1868, the royal family arrived to take up residence in Palazzo Pitti. Given that there is no longer a royal family of Italy (well, there are a couple who call themselves King and Crown Prince – interestingly enough, they are so not relevant that The Scallion, half Italian he, cannot remember the would-be king’s name), this seems somewhat of less importance.

For those of us of a certain age, we know that now's the time to wear white shoes (this never stopped my Uncle Jack, who wore them year 'round).

Family tradition – dating back to the Days of Tillie more than twenty years ago – dictates that all of us eat hamburgers whenever a canine birthday rolls around. They, naturally, get somewhat smaller burgers than the two of us and, like me, will eat theirs without a roll (The Scallion is always good for a roll).

This will mark the Puppers’ first foray into non-puppy food. It should be quite the occasion.

Fifteen years ago, finding a decent hamburger in Italy was a tough call (if you didn’t want to succumb to the deadly allure of anything at McDonald’s or spend too much money at Harry's Bar). Ten years ago, I went to our butcher in Florence and asked him to please grind a couple of pounds of Chianina beef (the beef that becomes bistecca fiorentina) so that Tillie could offer burgers to a number of friends (non-canine) at a special dinner party held in her honor.

The butcher was horrified at my desecration.

The dinner guests equally so.

In the past few years in the Tuscan restaurant world, anyone who’s anyone who’s worth anything is grinding Chianina beef, forming it into patties, grilling it, and slapping it between (mostly) lame hamburger buns. And all to great acclaim.

No, we will not be grinding Chianina beef this year. Instead, we will be grinding chicken. A few days ago at Santa Maria Novella, in the train station, I … um … succumbed to deadly allure and yet another McDonald’s promotion. (These are always inexpensive, as they’re testing the waters to see if the new product is marketable/edible.) It was called, inexplicably, the Ciociaro (according to The Scallion, it’s the name of a town in Lazio south of Rome). It bedeviled the whole notion of a fast-food establishment: i.e., I had to wait about 5 minutes ‘til they made it (something tells me that the Ciociaro will not make it on to the permanent McDonald’s rotation).

What was it? Well, it was chicken, breaded and fried, with a Parmesan mayonnaise served on a spinach-laced bun. It had mushrooms, too.

Its potential was enormous, the actual product a major disappointment.
I spent some time on the train ride mulling over this burger, as the ingredients were most enticing.

Here’s what all of us will eat on May 30th. Dogaressa of the Broken Halo will be with us that night, so we will be seven all told. Tomatoes aren’t yet happening, hence the inclusion of sundried tomatoes in the festivities.

Hamburger di pollo con mayonnaise e salsa di pomodori secchi /Chicken burgers with Parmesan/arugula mayonnaise and sundried tomato salsa

1½ lbs. ground organic chicken
2 c. best-quality mayonnaise (Hellman’s, in a perfect world)
1 c. grated Parmesan-Reggiano cheese
1 T. freshly ground/cracked black pepper
3 massive handfuls of arugula
1 c. sundried tomatoes, reconstituted in hot water
Large glugs of extravirgin olive oil
Hamburger rolls for those who want them

Fire up the grill.

Put the minced chicken in a bowl, add sea salt and freshly ground black pepper, and mix. Make three nice-sized burgers for humans, and then form the remaining meat mixture into mini-burgers for Pups and Puppers.

Make the mayonnaise: throw the mayonnaise (preferably, Hellman’s), grated Parm, and 3 massive handfuls of arugula into the blender. Don’t forget the pepper. Purée ‘til smooth. Scrape out the blender, and reserve.

Take the reconstituted sundried tomatoes after having drained the water, and put in the blender along with generous glugs of olive oil. Whirl ‘til a paste results. Scrape it out, and reserve.

Cook the burgers on a hot, fiery grill (for about 12 minutes, depending). Ten minutes into the procedure, toast the rolls for those who want them.

For humans: Put the cooked burgers on a roll, add a generous dollop of the sundried tomato salsa, and an even more generous dollop of the Parmesan/arugula mayonnaise.

For quadrupeds: skip the roll (who cares?) and dispense with mini-burgering. If there’s any mayonnaise left after human burgers have been iced, throw it to the hounds.

(If you have the energy, the penultimate edition of the Joy of Cooking has a most glorious recipe for hamburger buns.)

We miss you, Waldito. Happy sixth birthday, your first of many, in the Happy Hunting Grounds.

ADDENDA

Two Februaries ago, McDonald’s launched a McItaly campaign designed to showcase local ingredients in an American fast-food setting. Tasty though that burger with artichoke mayonnaise was, the project went up in flames. However, it appears that it’s not completely ended, as the McDonald’s at the train station in Florence is serving two burgers (280 grams … consider that a quarter pounder is about 125 grams) featuring Spek from the Alto Adige and cheese from can’t remember where. Interesting that Italians are supersizing us.

For those of you who didn't know Waldo, do know that the funny photo just below the masthead is of Himself.

This ran in last year’s blog. Am not at all concerned if this is repetitious (it is). It’s also simply beautiful.

To the valiant soldiers who have died in Iraq and Afghanistan (must we now add Libya?), 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

lunedì 2 maggio 2011

Vials of Blood


Yesterday was May Day, a day with roots in ancient Rome. Some of us also celebrated the birth of spring (in the non-tropical countries of the northern hemisphere), International Workers’ Day (in most countries outside North America depending upon where you are and your political persuasion), and the beatification of Pope John Paul II (depending upon your religious persuasion).

JPII (as some of us refer to him) canonized and beatified 484 (saints) and 1,337 (beatified). He holds the record for papal saint-making.

That’s a whole hell of a lot of holy people.

In order to become a saint, you first have to be beatified. Why didn’t Fra Angelico make the last cut? He probably only had one miracle to his name (i.e., all those marvelous paintings). How invigorating it would be to have a sainted Renaissance painter. One could stand in front of any of his works and say, “SAINT So-and-so painted this when not raising folks from the dead and curing innumerable people from Parkinson’s disease.” (Imagine, if you will, St. Masolino – John’s raising of Drusiana would give the painting an entirely different dimension, like: (St.) Masolino really knew what he was painting about here.)

Pope John Paul II and the House of Windsor have unwittingly formed a close association when it comes to grand occasions. JPII's death in April 2005 caused Charles, Prince of Wales, to put off marrying Camilla Parker Bowles, his long-time love, for one week (it simply wouldn’t do to be rejoicing while a huge chunk of Christendom was waiting in line for sometimes up to 12 hours to pay respects to a dead pope clad humbly in simple shoes though they were, in fact, made by Ferragamo).

Prince William tied the knot with Kate Middleton (whom we are now obliged to refer to as either Princess Catherine, Princess William, or the Duchess of Cambridge) the same weekend that millions, perhaps, thronged to Rome to watch JPII’s commencement on the Road to Sainthood (sounds like a cheeze-y title for the History Channel, no?).

Some scary details about this beatification process from www.cnn.com: “A vial of John Paul II's blood was placed before the crowds, which were expected to be the largest in the Vatican since the late pope's funeral in 2005 ... The blood, which was taken from him by doctors during his final illness for possible transfusion, but never used, was displayed in a specially made silver reliquary.”

This is as prescient as Monica Lewinsky’s mother advising her daughter not to have that Gap dress dry cleaned.

Again, from cnn.com: “John Paul II was fast-tracked to beatification when he died in 2005, and becomes "the blessed" John Paul II barely six years after his death -- the fastest beatification in centuries.” Well, he’s in good company: St. Francis of Assisi died in 1226, and was sainted in 1228.

Let it be noted that this beatification is not without its controversies, and then let us close the subject.

(As an aside, www.cnn.com notes: “Having visiting [sic] more countries than any previous pope and becoming the first pontiff from outside of Italy in 450 years, John Paul II also was the third-longest reigning pope in history.”)

On a secular note: yesterday was May Day. As wikipedia.org relates, “In many countries, May Day is synonymous with International Workers' Day, or Labour Day, a day of political demonstrations and celebrations organised by communists, anarchists, socialists, and activist groups. May Day is also a traditional holiday in many cultures.”

Here are its lovely roots (again, from wiki): “The earliest May Day celebrations appeared in pre-Christian times, with the festival of Flora, the Roman Goddess of flowers, and the Walpurgis Night celebrations of the Germanic countries. It is also associated with the Gaelic Beltane. Many pagan celebrations were abandoned or Christianized during the process of conversion in Europe.”

Let’s think about Flora, the lovely Roman goddess of flowers, let’s think of her reticent pre-Leonardo-esque smile in Botticelli’s Birth of Spring, as she tosses (or is about to toss) flowers to those assembled in Venus’s garden. Let's not think about the beautiful irises, trashed by the Puppers a few weeks ago as they happily romped in a No Dog Zone. Let's applaud their resourcefulness, and give up -- for at least this year -- the very idea of having anything beautiful and blooming.

Perhaps the canonization of Pope John Paul II will happily coincide with either the birth of the heir or the spare.

Recipes and dogs will appear next time. The Scallion proposed a recipe of blood sausage to celebrate JPII’s beatification and the death of Osama Bin Laden, but I wasn’t up to it, nor am I ever up for eating blood sausage, try it many times as I might. However, Lulu and Rosie, working in tandem late this afternoon, managed to cut into at least two pieces a simple garter snake. Explaining to them that we like garter snakes would probably have made no difference. The snake is dead, Lulu’s white coat streaked with blood, and we forgot to save a vial in the event that the snake would be beatified.

Damn.

ADDENDA

For the numbers of holy folk made holier by Pope John Paul II, see www.cbc.ca.
Parkinson’s disease was NOT selected at random, but chosen simply because JPII’s miracle, which led him on the path to becoming St. JPII, was curing a nun of Parkinson’s disease. But substitute anything else, really. Even the common cold would do.

For popes with longevity, they are as follows: St. Peter, exact dates unknown, roughly 35 years; Bl. Pius IX (died 1878), 31.6 years: JPII: 26.4.See www.catholic-hierarchy.org.

Lovely photograph of wisteria by the Scallion, May 2011.

lunedì 25 aprile 2011

Pasquetta


It’s Liberation Day today. On this day in history in 1945, the Allies liberated Italy, effectively drawing the Italian part of World War II to a close.

Natale con i tuoi, Pasqua con chi vuoi: an Italian expression that means, basically: Christmas with your family, Easter with whomever you want. We tend to do a little bit of both on both occasions.

We have a lot of leftovers from yesterday’s luncheon feast. We were eight in all, but we had enough food to feed many, many more. By the time the time for eating salad rolled around, no one could possibly. Even the desserts (colomba, the sweet cake shaped in the form of a dove; a large chocolate egg, and hot cross buns) were desultorily picked at, allowing most of our friends to take dessert home with them.

Naturally, we ate lamb, as most Italians do. “Flocks of baby lambs begin to appear in the fields as spring arrives, just in time to become the succulent centerpiece of Easter dinner. Lamb is one of the great delicacies of pastoral culture, but as a symbol of innocence it is also the sacrificial dish par excellence. Since 1500 the food of Easter has been the food of the Last Supper, the ultimate meal in gastronomy and history: lamb (the symbol of Christ), bread (from grain, the gift of Demeter), and wine (“the blood of the earth,” Dionysius’ contribution).” This from Carol Fields.

One of our dear Florentine friends present at the table is a dedicated animal rights activist. Just last week she attended a march in protest of the slaughter of these lambs. Another of our friends did not want to add another source of animal protein to her diet, even though she was told it was Happy Lamb – i.e., we know the shepherd, the mother of ours probably spent last summer on the Scallion’s family’s land. (We respected their views.)

(Two legs were deboned, butterflied, marinated in olive oil, lemon juice, smashed garlic, and then thrown on the grill. Opening Season of the Grill, and the most succulent lamb, ever.)

Today is also Pasquetta, or “Little Easter.” (The Italians have a way of making everything diminutive; we tend to be Size Queens (and Kings).) It’s a national holiday, and you’re supposed to go out into the country, eat raw fava beans and a young pecorino cheese. That is, if you’re Roman. Traditions differ from region to region.

An interesting vegetable, the fava bean (or broad bean, as it’s more commonly known elsewhere). My hero Alan Davidison writes: “There is a mysterious shadow over the history of broad beans, and an actual problem which may be linked with it. From the beginnings of recorded history, these beans have aroused superstitious dread. The ancient Egyptians, though they cultivated them, regarded them as unclean, and the Greek writer Herodotus claims that their priests would not even look at one, let alone eat it … There seems to have been a general belief that the souls of the dead might migrate into the beans.” He adds that beans were “associated with the dead and were eaten at funeral feasts.”

Fields continues: “On Easter Monday entire cities become deserted. No matter what else appears on people’s plates, it is traditional to eat a simple antipasto called il piatto benedetto, consisting of a hard-boiled egg, salt, and local bitter greens like arugula or radicchio, fennel, or sarset, the deliciously tart leaves grown in Piemont. It is very similar to the dish included at the start of the Jewish Passover Seder to remind participants of the bitterness of exile in Egypt and elsewhere and to keep those memories alive.”

In Greece, fava beans are eaten during Holy Week. The late, great Patience Gray writes, “During the weeks of fasting before Easter, these lavishly sown beans were eaten raw and represented the main item of diet. They were delicious but a prolonged consumption turned out to be a strain on the digestive system.”

Interesting how something relating to the dead has morphed into something celebrating rebirth and resurrection.

Gray: “The best cheeses to eat with raw broad beans are the Greek feta, salty, and the Sardinian marzotica, a kind of ricotta made from ewe’s milk, well drained, dried and conserved with salt (made in March, as its name implies).

We will eat our beans with a young pecorino, a knob of leftover French blue (not at all a classic combination), and another pecorino made by our shepherd friend. No need to provide a recipe for this: just have a whole lot of fave on hand, pod them, shell them, and eat them with cheese. You can, if you like, dribble extravirgin olive oil over it, and add a twist or two from the pepper mill.

ADDENDA

Hot cross buns are a Lenten delicacy. From Davidson: “In England, hot cross buns are traditionally eaten on Good Friday; they are marked on top with a cross … The mark is of ancient origin, connected with religious offerings of bread, which replaced earlier, less civilized offerings of blood. The Greeks and Romans had similar practices and the Saxons ate buns marked with a cross in honour of the goddess of light, Eostre, whose name was transferred to Easter.” Stefano made the hot cross buns, and his recipe will appear on this blog, as soon as I can extract it from him.

Carol Fields, Celebrating Italy, New York, 1990.

Patience Gray, Honey from a Weed: Fasting and Feasting in Tuscany, Catalonia, the Cyclades, and Apulia, San Francisco, 1990.

Alan Davidson, The Oxford Companion to Food, New York, 1999.

FROM THE ARCHIVES

April 25, 2010 post re: Liberation Day

For past-blogged fava bean recipes, do please check out 4/11/10 (risotto with goat cheese, fava, & peas), 5/8/10 (risotto alla primavera), 5/17/10 (spaghetti with fava and mint), and 6/15/10 (fava bean purèe).

How thrilling to cite oneself.

Pictures of Buster’s fairly recent training session (with mixed results). No relationship whatsoever between today’s text and today’s images; but isn’t he darned cute?

Photo credit of wisteria/roses to the Scallion, April 2011.

martedì 12 aprile 2011

You're talkin' a lot, but you're not saying anything


On this day in 1808, Antonio Meucci was born in Florence (on via dei Serragli, 44). Apparently he might have invented the telephone. His was an interesting and colorful life – he worked briefly at Teatro della Pergola (in Florence), lived in Cuba, and eventually settled on Staten Island. According to Wikipedia.org, “Meucci set up a form of voice communication link in his Staten Island home that connected his second floor bedroom to his laboratory.” His failure to renew the patent led to Alexander Graham Bell’s acquiring said a few years later.

How nice, and how appropriate, that an Italian possibly invented the telephone. When riding commuter trains, we can blow a kiss to the Goddess, and thank her for all those obnoxious Italians nattering away on their cell phones (yesterday, a young woman got on the train at Pisa and continued her long, boring conversation with probably an equally boring friend all the way to Florence; we were a captive audience; I wanted to strangle her).

The most civilized Amtrak has silent cars. You pay extra for it, but it’s more than worth it.

We have six dogs who like to bark. This is our aural equivalent of chatty Eyetals on their cell phones. It is, perhaps, more obnoxious. Theoretically, one could ask nattering Italian to lower his/her voice. And yes, in theory, one could ask one’s dogs to stop barking.

“Lulu! Please stop barking,” we plead.

Lulu, oblivious, continues to bark. (She’s outside, barking, as I write. Our neighbors must love us; of course, we have a neighbor who’s not very nice, so when the dogs bark, I sometimes inwardly glow.)

Tillie never barked. She only barked at the mailman, which is appropriate, since dogs and mailpeople have a natural antipathy toward one another.

Waldo yapped. And he yapped at everything. Lulu did not bark until Waldo taught her how to.

Harry’s latest fun trick is to bark at the Puppers while they are crated. He stands in front of the crate and eggs them on. They, being young and impressionable, rise to his bait, and join the chorus. It’s quite the din.

You might wonder why we crate these puppers. Four words will do: They are canine terrorists. They also are only sort of getting housebreaking. They are often outside for long stretches of time. Re-entry requires -- nay, it’s mandatory – to eliminate immediately upon said.

For any of you who has housebroken a puppy, multiply our load (bad pun absolutely intended) by three. Myrtle, cousin to the pups and puppers, is a puppy herself (and somewhat obstinate, according to reports). She’s just recently – according to my sister – really broken through the wall and is no longer peeing on the bed. My mother’s alleged bichon, now 11, has never really gotten it.

This is admirable (Myrtle). That is appalling (Peter).

Googled “how long it takes to housetrain a puppy” and saw 16,200,000 hits. Apparently this is a great preoccupation for many of us. www.drfostersmith.com has these words of (non)comforting advice: “The amount of time it takes to housetrain your puppy is primarily dependent upon you. Do it right and it should not take long at all – perhaps just a few weeks [italics mine].”

Right.

I wonder how long we’re going to have to navigate our apartment wearing flip flops. Pity: terracotta floors feel so nice under (bare)feet when the weather begins to warm.

Lulu barks, and Harry has joined the fray.

Why has no one invented canine cell phones?

ADDENDA

"Psycho Killer, from Talking Heads 77: "You start a conversation you can't even finish it./You're talking a lot, but you're not saying anything./When I have something to say, my lips are sealed./Say something once, why say it again." Lyrics D. Byrne, C. Frantz, T. Weymouth.

Curious about Staten Island, I googled “Famous People who have lived on Staten Island.” This led, of course, to Wikipedia, which lists 18 different categories. “Notorious” – number 12 – included Paul Castellano, Jeb Stuart Magruder, and, most importantly, Sammy “the Bull” Gravano who penned a most readable autobiography with the help of Peter Maas in 1996. According to Wikipedia, Mr. Gravano served as a mess hall cook while doing a stint in the U.S. Army in 1964. Le specialità dello chef? One shudders to think.

lunedì 4 aprile 2011

Aborted Floral Meristems


What visually marks the arrival of spring? Robin red breasts, with worms in beaks. Daffodils. Hyacinths. Forsythia. Flowering fruit trees. The arrival of asparagus, fava beans, peas, artichokes, and agretti in the markets. Americans who shouldn't be wearing them clad in shorts, wearing flip flops, and entering the Duomo in Florence.

In our case, it would be Lulu with a lizard wiggling from her mouth. Or it would be another lizard, dead, lying on its back, missing a large chunk of its tail, as well as all appendages on one side, nonchalantly hanging out on our terrace.

Our dogs love to chase these harmless, lovely creatures. Once it stops moving – i.e., when it’s dead – interest in the game is off.

What are the aromatic markers of the arrival of spring? Oh, those flowering fruit trees. The strong aroma of narcissi. A soft spring rain. Strawberries. A certain sweetness in the air.

In our case, it would be the aroma – if one can call it that – of a dog who’d rolled in unidentifiable carrion. Dogs do love to roll around on the grass, in the woods. But they’re more prone to doing this when it gets a little warmer outside.

Lulu rolled in just that (some unidentifiable carrion) yesterday. The picture you see at the right is not that of a bloody retriever. No, that is a golden retriever who has been doused in passata (tomato sauce which we made last August). You might notice how the other pups and puppers are enjoying helping apply/dis-apply our remedy. (Because the tomato crop was lousy last year, our passata has leaned to the acidic. This did not seem to deter any of the canines.) Lulu looks like a 70s shag rag gone seriously awry.

918,000 hits occurred after I typed in “why dogs roll in smelly things.” I went to the first that appeared on the screen, the well-written www.schoolforchampions.com. Ron Kurtus, the author, writes, “Although there is a temptation to scold your dog [when he/she rolls in smelly things], it is best to realize it is natural behavior and make sure your pet doesn’t have the opportunity to roll in stuff.”

Given that we live in the country, and that there’s woods, this is virtually impossible.

He continues: “But first of all, you must realize that what smells bad to humans may not smell so bad to a dog.” Eek!

He then lists a couple of reasons why dogs might do this, and here's my favorite: “Advertise to the pack – Another school for thought is that dogs may roll in feces of dead animal remains to ‘advertise’ what they have found to other members of the pack.” Charming. What we know lives in the woods: wild boar (we think); fox (saw one once); porcupine (strong evidence of them rooting): black squirrels; and who knows what else. Let’s say Lulu is wearing eau di porcuspino (porcupine water). Delicious.

Perhaps I should cook up something really stinky as retaliation. Perhaps this is the time to learn how to make kimchi or sauerkraut. Although, since we don’t know what smells good to dogs, they might find the odor of fermenting cabbage aphrodisiacal [sic].

How to say goodbye to wintry foods? Finish up what’s in the refrigerator and move on to asparagus.

In this case, it means using a head of cauliflower that’s been lurking for a long time in the back of the refrigerator.

Curious about this sort of boring vegetable, I consulted Larousse Gastronique, which informed me that it was “[d]escribed by Arab botanists and known to the Romans, the cauliflower originally came from Cyprus and was introduced to France from Italy in the middle of the 16th century.”

Alan Davidson writes, “It is thought that they were first grown in the Near East, but no one is sure when. The belief of Cypriots that the cauliflower originated in Cyprus derives tenuous support from the old French name for it.” He adds that Jane Grigson dismissed the Cypriot connection and gave it over to the Arabs.

Wikipedia says that “Cauliflower is one of several vegetables of the species Brassica oleracea … It is an annual plant that reproduces by seed. Typically, only the head (the white curd) of aborted floral meristems is eaten, while the stalk and surrounding thick green leaves are used in vegetable broth or discarded.”

Now, did you know that you were eating aborted floral meristems while tucking into cauliflower cheese? I certainly did not. Did you also know that you could use the detritus to flavor a broth? Again, I did not. Guess this means said will not go directly into the compost bucket.

Wiki adds that cauliflower didn’t really take off in French cuisine ‘til the court of Louis XIV (who sat on the throne from 1643-1715 … a very, very long time).

The photo above is what we’ll be eating shortly. Does anyone eat cauliflower in the summer (apart from perhaps nibbling on a floret found on a crudite tray?).

Cauliflower can bore at a party, but when it’s roasted it somehow tastes a whole lot better.

Fusilli con cavolfiore, olive, e pinoli/Fusilli with cauliflower, olives, and pine nuts

½ lb. of fusilli (or orecchiette)
1 small head of cauliflower, broken into tiny florets
¾ c. green olives, pitted and chopped
2 T. pine nuts, lightly toasted
½ c. freshly grated Pecorino Romano
3 T. extravirgin olive oil, at least
Freshly cracked black pepper
Handful of coriander, chopped (use flat-leaf parsley if you don’t have coriander)
One hot pepper, minced

Preheat the oven to 400°F. Put the water for the pasta in a pot, and bring to a slow boil (because you have to roast the cauliflower first).

Break the cauliflower into tiny florets, toss with a couple of tablespoons of extravirgin olive oil, and sprinkle with kosher salt. Put in the oven, and roast for about 45 minutes, stirring about halfway through the procedure. You want it crisped and browned; you do not want it brulée’d.

Put the toasted pine nuts, pitted/chopped green olives, grated Pecorino Romano, minced hot pepper, and coriander (or parsley) into a serving bowl.

Remove the cauliflower from the oven, and add to the serving bowl. Throw the fusilli in to the boiling pot of water, and cook following package directions. Before draining the pasta, take a couple of tablespoons of the cooking liquid and add it to the stuff in the serving bowl.

Add the fusilli to the serving bowl, add a couple more jolts of extravirgin olive oil, and taste for seasoning. The olives and the Pecorino Romano will probably provide plenty of saline sensation – so perhaps just check for pepper.

ADDENDA

Jennifer Harvey Lang, ed. Larousse Gastronomique, New York, 1988.

Alan Davidson, The Oxford Companion to Food, New York, 1999. The entry directly below is “cauliflower fungus,” which looks a whole lot like cauliflower. It grows on rotting conifer stumps.

mercoledì 30 marzo 2011

Don't fence me in


The Scallion was very busy over the weekend. He put up fencing to protect the flower beds on our terrace. It will certainly keep the Puppers out of it. It will also keep us out of it, as the fencing is well over five feet tall. Too tall to jump over.

“Many pet owners find it extremely difficult to maintain a garden and a good relationship with the family dog,” is a trenchant observation from the very helpful www.canismajor.com. Multiply that by six.

Do please note the flowering narcissi, and the flowering pear tree. Do note the safely-fenced in Banks rose. You can’t see the holes-to-China excavations conducted by the Puppers in previous research but trust me, they’re there. Today’s plan involves seeding lettuces, arugula, and chervil in pots on steps leading into the garden. Unfortunately, I’ll have to take the long route to get there, since the gate that leads to it is – you guessed it – fenced in.

Riccardo, our young and able dog whisperer, visits us every Saturday. He teaches us to teach them. One of his instructions is to socialize these puppies. Get them used to street noise and cars. Get them used to other people.

Today’s socialization project involves a pupper picked at random, who will accompany me to our little country bar. We took Lizzie a couple of Sundays back. The bar was crammed with local youths. Lizzie walked in, looked around, and promptly evacuated in a big way. Naturally, this caused all the teenage girls to hoot with laughter. (No, those girls don't do that: they have it laser'd out.)

Later, towards the end of our drink, a teenage boy came up to say hello to Lizzie, and she promptly peed out of happiness? Joy? Fear?

Lizzie will not be accompanying me to the bar today.

From Tillie’s sadly-unpublished memoirs: “Snacks and apertivo fare are again one of my favorite eating pastimes in Italy. The whole idea of “taking an apertivo,” as it were, is quite civilized. The aperitivo, which we crassly call “cocktails” in the United States, is taken before a meal, including both lunch and dinner. Italians usually have a glass of prosecco (sparkling Italian white wine) or a mixed drink. Many bars offer their own in-house specialties, and many of the bars are exceptionally creative. As I noted earlier, I don’t really drink except for that occasional finger-licking Veuve Clicquot moment. …

We walk through Piazza d’Azeglio which, at this time of the day, is usually teeming with canines accompanied by their people, little old Italian ladies sitting on a park benches catching up on the events (or non-events) of the day; and shrieking children in the playground while their parents sit and watch them carefully from the benches. Sometimes I run into friends, but I usually don’t stick around to sniff as something more important looms on the horizon: FOOD.

We proceed down those narrow twisting streets, and I shake sometimes as shopkeepers are often in the process of closing down shop for the day. This means pulling down metal doors that make screeching noises. For me, it is the canine equivalent of the human “nails on the blackboard” feeling. It is really one of the most unpleasurable sounds in the world.”

Tillie loved going for aperitivi -- practically up 'til the moment she died.

Pup Picked at Random will not experience any shopkeepers pulling down their metal grates, since they’re really aren’t any shops here where we live. Pup will, however, experience the raucous cries from the elementary school, and will have to endure car noise, and perhaps meet another dog or two (Penelope, a local pug, is often at the bar).

The Negroni is a distinctively Florentine apertivo, its creation credited to one Count Camillo Negroni, who apparently liked to drink this Italian equivalent of a double martini on via Tornabuoni beginning around 1919. (Efforts to -- ahem -- dig up more information about this genius came to naught.) Accounts differ, however, about the bar: was it Caffe Casoni? Was it Giacosa? Some folks from Forte dei Marmi stress it was invented there. (Many years ago, Giacosa closed (it’s since re-opened, but Roberto Cavalli has added his name to it) for seemingly good. They offered free negronis to all and sundry. It was quite a fest.)

To make a negroni, you need an old fashioned glass, lots of ice cubes, and equal parts gin, sweet vermouth, and Campari soda. Add a slice or two of orange, and sip … slowly. Then have another.

My late antiquarian friend Robi drank negronis at evening aperitivo time. He drank this, instead, at lunch time: In a long-drink glass, throw in a couple of ice cubes, and fill the glass 2/3 full with Bitter Campari. Add a generous pour of white wine, and drink. It probably has another name, but we call it the Robi, in his honor. It makes me think of him and his fine spirit whenever we drink them, which is often.

As it turned out, Pup Picked Out at Random was Lizzie. Her comportment was worthy of Georgia, a golden retriever who died many, many years ago but who maintains, as always and ever, the title of Mistress of Deportment.

ADDENDA

The Diggers, according to wikipedia.org, "were an English group of Protestant agrarian communists, begun by Gerrard Winstanley as True Levellers in 1649, who became known as Diggers due to their activities."

martedì 22 marzo 2011

How not to keep puppies out of the garden


It’s time to start thinking about planting the garden. Actually, it was time to think about planting the garden many many less-than-large fullest moons-in-the-world ago. In an ideal world (ours decidedly isn’t), a lot of stuff would already be planted. A friend came by a few weeks ago, and roto-tilled it, and it’s been long enough ago that bits of green (weeds, that is – not delicate baby lettuces) are already appearing.

Our excuse for not having planted the peas, the favas, the garlic? Well, we’ll blame it on the weather, or perhaps call it hubris, since I somewhat smugly remarked, upon the completion of the tilling, that we were ahead of our Green Thumb Neighbor who hadn’t, at last sight, tilled his plot.

This Green Thumb Neighbor, besides being the locus of great jealousy on our part, is actually a very nice man. His garden is much smaller than ours. It is tidy, and things grow in it, which is what’s supposed to happen in a garden. His tomatoes are always red when ours are full of stinker bugs (does he spray? we have wondered). A low-fronted rustic stone wall fronts his two-storey casa colonica (farm house); terracotta pots filled with flowers of vibrant hues are a pleasure to look at while driving by and so, too, are the little purple flowers growing through those stones in that wall which come tumbling out. Green Thumb Neighbor has pruned his wisteria to almost bonsai artistry; his roses seem to blaze far longer than ours do. Our wisteria: beautiful, unshaped, unpruned. Our roses? Up in the air given the presence of these three Puppers.

We kind of hate him – Green Thumb Neighbor, that is.

We have a Banks rose crowning the wall just outside our kitchen door. It should bloom magnificently if we can keep The Puppers out of it. Next to it was one of many varieties of lavender plants we have; “was” is the operative word here. Next to that is jasmine, which still has a chance in hell. This part of the terrace forms an “L,” and on the other end, myrtle covered the ground, and crept up the wall. Do please note the use of the past tense in many cases. Scads of terracotta pots filled with herbs and various illegally-imported hot pepper seeds that’d sprung into plants lined that wall. The Puppers, at a tender age, enjoyed eating the stalks of the peppers (I know, I know: what were they doing there, anyway? Why hadn’t we properly cleaned and closed our garden and terrace last fall?). Many of the pots cracked or were broken during heated pup chases; one pup – Buster, it must be pointed out – enjoyed prancing from pot to pot without his fat little paws hitting the ground.

Why is it that puppies go exactly where you don’t want them to go? For example, above you see Buster happily terracotta-ly ensconced in the remains of the mixed Japanese greens, which he and his sisters had joyously excavated while our backs were turned for oh, about 2.5 seconds.

Let the record show that the flower beds on the terrace are fenced. The daffodil bed’s wiring needed to be raised, as The Puppers delighted in prancing through them just as they were at their peak. The bed with the Banks rose, jasmine etc. is also fenced but, apparently, not high enough. Easy to leap over, trash the lavender, and dig a hole, all at the same time.

The internet provided a modicum of sage advice. Googling “Keeping dogs out of gardens” revealed the following. www.associated.com suggested red pepper solution, as well as “How About a Charming White Picket Fence?” The author continues: “I ended up using chicken wire to keep my dog from eating the tomatoes in my gardens. The green chicken wire blended in well with the surroundings, and it was tall enough to keep my dog out but short enough to allow me to step over.”

Unfortunately, making the chicken wire/green mesh high enough to keep The Puppers out also keeps us out because it must be so high. Associated.com also suggested creating a Designated Digging Box, putting some of their toys in it, and encouraging them to dig. We shall try that but since they eschew most of their toys in favor of books (especially Bronzino exhibition catalogue covers and cookbooks by Jane Grigson, cell phones, socks, sponges, wood for the stove), it wouldn’t work. Unless, of course, we ply the sand/digging box with electronic equipment, Ferragamo shoes thrown in just for the beauty of it, and limited edition prints.

This brings me ‘round to sorrel, our really only true Garden Success Story.

At this point, it continues to thrive, even with this cold snap we’re having. Or maybe because of it. This classic Florentine primo is typically made with spinach; mixing in some sorrel gives it a lemony kick.

The recipe comes from Mirta, Florentine sister, lawyer and phenomenal cook.
Perhaps I should invite Green Thumb Neighbor over for an aperitivo so he can admire our sorrel?

Crespelle alla fiorentina/Florentine pancakes stuffed with ricotta

1¼ lb. spinach (fresh or frozen)
½ lb. fresh ricotta, preferably sheep’s milk
2 c.flour + 3 T.
7 eggs, preferably organic
4 c. milk + 3 T., divided
12 T. butter, melted
2 heaping T. tomato paste (triple if you’re lucky enough, double if less so, regular if luckless) diluted in ¼ c. of your already-made bechamel
Freshly grated Parmesan cheese (about 1 c.)
Freshly grated nutmeg
Salt and freshly cracked black pepper

Stem and trim the spinach, place it in a steamer over boiling water. When it’s cooked through (in a couple of minutes), remove and let cool. While you wait for the spinach to cool, put the ricotta in a sieve over a bowl, and let it drain. When the spinach is cool enough to handle, squeeze all the liquid out of it, and chop.
Place the spinach in a large mixing bowl, add the drained ricotta, four eggs, nutmeg, salt, and pepper. Be generous with the spices. Mix well.

Make the crespelle: Combine the flour, 12 T. melted butter, flour, 1 c. milk, and salt. Stir to combine.

Heat a sauté pan over medium-high heat, drop in a 1 T. olive oil and 1 T. butter. When sufficiently heated, using a ¼ c. measuring cup, drop large dollops of the crespelle mix into it. Pick up the pan and roll the batter around: you want it as large and thin as possible. Cook on one side ‘til you can easily flip it with a spatula (about a minute, or less), and flip. You want it cooked through, but only barely, as these go into a very hot oven. Continue cooking until all the batter has been used up.

Preheat the oven to 400°F. Lightly butter a 13” x 9” casserole dish.

Make the béchamel by melting the butter in a small sauce pan, adding the flour, remaining 3 c. milk. Taste for seasoning, and add salt, pepper, and nutmeg. Again, remember to be generous.

Assemble the crespelle placing the ricotta/spinach stuffing on one half of the circle, leaving some room around the edges. Fold over the other half (you will have half moons on hand), and gently tamp the edges. Place in the lightly-buttered casserole dish, gently overlapping them, and continue stuffing the crespelle until either the stuffing’s all gone or the pancakes are.

Take the 2 T. tomato paste, diluted with ¼ c. of the béchamel, mix thoroughly, and pour into the remaining bechamel. Pour over the crespelle, and cover that with 1 c. of freshly-grated Parmesan cheese. Give the dish a couple more gratings of nutmeg, salt, and pepper.

Bake in the oven ‘til lightly browned and bubbling – about 20 minutes.

BOBO suggests pairing Crespelle alla Fiorentina with La Porta di Vertine rosato igt 2008.

martedì 8 marzo 2011

Wine, women, song ... and pork products


How intriguing that International Women’s Day and Mardi Gras collide on the same day, which is today. Perhaps it will give women extra license to eat, drink, and be merry: but shouldn’t we be doing that the other 354 days of the year? And shouldn’t we also be celebrated as female beings the rest of the year?

Today also marks the feast day of an obscure saint called S. Giovanni di Dio (St. John of God). It's also the 67th anniversary of the deportation of Florentine Jews to Mathausen: a plaque at the train station Santa Maria Novella (at the bottom of track 6) memorializes this. Today a special ceremony happens at the station, and both the mayor of Florence and the mayor of Mathausen, along with a survivor from the camp, are unveiling a new plaque.

How to involve the puppers in these Women’s Day/Mardi Gras celebrations? How to teach Lulu, Rosie, Lizzie, and Wilma about celebrating themselves as the bitches that they are? How to tell Buster that on this day he can let his natural exuberance exude even more? How to tell Harry that he can maraud even more than he usually does? What special treats can we give the three adult dogs? (The Puppers will continue on a restricted diet ‘til they’re a little bit older). Should we instruct Harry and Buster to bring bouquets of mimosa (yellow flowers that are traditionally given to women on this day) to the girls, or should we tell them to ignore this somewhat patronizing habit?

International Women’s Day was first celebrated on March 19, 1911, and it was originally a socialist holiday. Mardi Gras’s precedents date to ancient Roman times –such feasting and excess occurred on the Saturnalia, followed by the Baccanalia, and then, finally, the Lupercalia in February which, according to Carol Fields, priests, “called luperci, offered up two goats and a dog, animals known for lusty sexual appetites, smeared their own foreheads with blood from the sacrificial knife, burst into uproarious laughter, and ran naked through the streets snapping goat thongs at women to call forth fertility.”

This is alarming on so, so many levels. Though we have six potential sacrificial victims on hand, we won’t venture there. Isn’t it also alarming, visually speaking? NAKED PRIESTS? (However, it's all too easily imaginable to picture Prime Minister Silvio Berlusconi doing this: an outdoor bunga bunga party!)

Often on this day in the United States, we eat pancakes or doughnuts. In Tuscany, cenci (rags), a delicious sugared dough which is either fried or baked (there are two very strong schools of thought re: which is the True Way), appear several weeks before Ash Wednesday. They will disappear at day’s end, not to return 'til next year.

Fields continues: “Carnival in Italy is still a time when anyone who is hungry eats … At Carnival people eat everything left in the larder, but they also dip into fresh sausages and meat …”

Tonight we do not offer up a sacrificial pup, nor do we run around naked with goat thongs … but we are eating sausage. I’ll make it while channeling Helen Reddy singing “I am Woman.”

(No, I will not.)

Penne con salsiccia, olive, e rape/Penne with sausage, olives, and broccoli rabe

3 T. extravirgin olive oil, plus more for dribbling
1 red onion, halved, then thinly sliced
3 cloves garlic, minced
¼ c. pancetta, chopped
2 pork sausages, about 1/2 lb., removed from casings
2-3 hot peppers, stemmed, and minced
About 2 lbs. broccoli rabe, tough ends removed, chopped – you should end up with close to a pound
½ c. black olives, pitted and chopped
200 gr. penne/scant ½ lb. penne
Freshly-ground Pecorino-Romano
Freshly-cracked black pepper
2 bottles of wine

Bring a large pot of water to a boil (you can add salt if you want). Put the rabe on a steamer tray, making sure that the water subsumes it. Let it return to a boil, and let bubble away for about 5 minutes. When tender, remove the steamer, and reserve.

While you’re waiting for the water to boil, put the olive oil in a saucepan on a medium flame. Add the onion, and stir ‘til it’s slightly colored. Add the garlic, hot peppers, and pancetta. Do not let the garlic brown.

Toss in the uncased sausage, using a wooden spoon to break it up. You might have a greasy mess in the pan once both pork products have cooked through, and you might want to drain a tablespoon or two away. Or not: remember, it’s Fat Tuesday (and the Pecorino Romano will help absorb all that fat).

Put the reserved rabe and sausage in a pasta bowl, and add the olives.

Cook the penne according to package instructions; drain in a colander. Add the cooked penne to the mix, and taste for seasoning. You probably won’t need to add more salt, but be vigorous with the cracked black pepper. If it’s dry (which seems hardly possible), give it a jolt or two of extravirgin olive oil.

Eat immediately.

Serves two. The two bottles of wine? It’s Mardi Gras, and you don’t have to drink all of the second bottle.

ADDENDA

St. Giovanni di Dio (b. Portugal 8 March 1495, d. Spain 8 March 1550), apparently lived a life of adventure as a military man, but was hospitalized due to eccessive religious fervor (imagine how fervent he must have been, while keeping in mind that Catherine of Siena, among many a medieval nutter, was never hospitalized. Puts “eccessive religious fervor” into new perspective, what ho?). He was later released, founded a hospital in Granada, and is the patron saint of nurses, doctors, hospitals, cardiologists, among others(www.santiebeati.it).

International Women’s Day: It’s a common misconception that this day commemorates the 146 women who either died of smoke inhalation or jumped to their deaths at the Triangle Shirtwaist Factory in New York. It doesn’t. That terrible fire happened several days later on March 25, 1911.

Carol Fields, Celebrating Italy, New York, 1990. The recipes she includes for Carnival festivities include a scrumptious-sounding “Fricandò” from Ivrea, which translates to “Spareribs and Sausages Braised with Wine Vinegar.” She, too, raises the Catherine de’Medici issue: “Some say another dish with the same French-sounding name went to France with Catherine de’Medici and then made its way back to Milan and Piedmont at the end of the 18th century. Others insist that it was brought by Hagy, Napoleon’s omnipresent Egyptian cook, who opened a restaurant in Milan when the emperor’s fortunes went into decline.”

If you’re interested in checking out other expatriot blogs, do please visit www.expat-blog.com.