Meat Loaf (in this case): you took the words right out of my mouth

“In the kingdom of comfort food, meatloaf is royalty.” So say the folks at Good Housekeeping.[1] In a 2007 poll they conducted at the magazine, meat loaf was number seven on top favorite foods in the U.S. (I was unable to find out what the first six were.) At any rate, meatloaf makes for a tasty Sunday lunch on a semi-warm, semi-wettish day in Tuscany. (It’s sometimes one word, sometimes two, meat loaf, and today inconsistency prevails.)

Meat loaf has a long history in the western world: Apicius provides a recipe for it.[2] They call meatloaf/meat loaf “polpettone” in Italy. Fifteenth-century Italians may have availed themselves of a variation on this recipe from Maestro Martino: take good-quality veal thigh, cut it in long thin pieces, and pound it, add mortar’d and pestle’d fennel seed scattered on top of the pounded meat, add parsley, marjoram, buon lardo (good lard; white prosciutto as it's euphemistically called in the United States), add uno pocho di bono spetie (a pinch of good spices; unspecified – perhaps this is the genesis of cooks withholding a key ingredient when giving out recipes?), roll them up, and put them in a pan making sure that they do not dry out. (This sounds much more like involtini, but Maestro Martino referred to this as Polpette di carne vitello.)[3]

Bartolomeo Stefani, celebrated chef to the Gonzaga (sonnets were written praising his food), published his recipes and strategies for dining in 1662 .[4] One recipe calls for strips of veal thigh, dusted with dried basil and salt, stuffed with fresh ricotta, grated cheese, pounded lardo, parsley, pine nuts, raisins, various spices (see above), marrow from two or three veal bones, two fresh eggs; when it’s halfway cooked, you add a lemon/cream sauce. Doesn’t it sound terribly good and quite a business?[5]

He also provides an entertainment menu for a meal to be consumed on meat-eating days in August, September, or October “che si potrà fare in giorno di grasso nelli mesi d’Agosto, Settembre, & Ottobre”: polpettone appears midway through the “Primo servito di Cucina.” Sandwiched between minestra di granelli (a soup made from seeds?), goose liver (prepared with an equally improbable list of ingredients), a soup made with Spanish bread, calli vitello (?), it’s the ante-penultimate course. Pigeon follows the loaf, and the grand finale (at least, of this part of the meal) is un pasticcio brodoso fatto in forma di Castello (a pastry number stuffed with minced veal, latticini (dairy products of some sort), little birds (perhaps of the type being shot at this morning as I write), veal marrow, pistacchi, vaghi d’agesto mondi (?), chicken wattle (not as disgusting as you might think), other ingredients, shaped in the form of a castle (presumably, one belonging to the Gonzaga) and il pasticcio agghiacciato di spora con ghiaccio di zuccaro (this is some sort of sugar icing, but even the Scallion – who claims Italian as one of his native languages – is stumped). Two other serviti, equally lengthy, followed.

Laurie Colwin writes warmly about meatloaf: “I myself love meat loaf and find even ones that have been lying around on a steam table palatable.” She continues, “Meat loaf ranges from the sublime (the one in Marcella Hazan’s first volume that contains funghi porcini and is cooked in white wine) to the pedestrian …” [6] Even The King (Elvis Presley) loved it – a straight ground-beef concoction served with mushroom gravy.[7]

So, too, do Jane and Michael Stern. They have quite a few recipes for meatloaf, including Ann Landers’. They write: “We are told that Ann Landers runs the recipe in her column every year, presumably because its very goodness can miraculously cure almost any sick marriage.”[8]

As usual, the late, great Alan Davidson nails meat loaf brilliantly: “[its] visibility is considerable higher in real life, especially in N. America and Britain, than in cookery books. This situation might be changed if it had a French name (paté chaud de viande hachée, préalablement mariné dans du vin de pays et des aromatiques), but it does not.”[9] His statement is borne out: www.epicurious.com curiously lists only 62 meat loaf recipes.

What follows will make too much for two people, which is exactly the point, as you’ll have leftovers to see you through rest of the week and/or trying times still ahead. It’s best to start the tomato sauce first thing, as the longer it sits on a low flame, the more flavorfully thick the sauce will be.

We have been making meatloaf in bain-marie for ages; memory does not serve who gave us this idea, unfortunately.

Salsa di pomodoro (tomato sauce)

1 small red onion, minced
1 small carrot, minced
1 small celery rib, minced
2 T. extra-virgin olive oil
3 c. pomarola (your own homemade, in an ideal world: if not, best-quality bottled tomato sauce)
¾ c. black olives, minced
Generous handful each of flat-leaf parsley and basil, parsley chopped, basil chiffonade’d
Sea salt and freshly ground black pepper to taste.

Heat the olive oil in a saucepan, and add the battuto ingredients (onion, carrot, celery). Cook until well softened. Add the pomarola, olives, salt, and pepper. Cook on a decidedly low flame for at least two hours, stirring from time to time. About halfway through the proceedings, add the herbs.

Polpettone di pollo (chicken meatloaf)

1 lb. ground organic chicken breast
1 lb. ground organic chicken thigh
1 t. fennel seeds, mortar’d and pestle’d
1 c. fine dried breadcrumbs
½ c. fresh ricotta, preferably sheep’s milk
2 T. butter
1 T. extra-virgin olive oil
1 small red onion, diced
1 clove garlic, minced
Shot of hot sauce
2 T. fresh marjoram, chopped (use thyme if m. unavailable)
Sea salt and freshly ground black pepper to taste

Place the first five ingredients in a mixing bowl.

Preheat the oven to 425° F/230°C. Heat the butter and olive oil in a saucepan, add the onions, and cook ‘til completely softened (this meatloaf should not crunch). Let cool, add to the mix in the bowl, add the shot of hot sauce, herbs, salt and pepper to taste. Mix gently and shape into a loaf.

Place the meatloaf in a pan large enough to contain it, and place that in another, larger pan. Fill the containing pan with water halfway up the sides of contained. Cook for about 45 minutes.

You will have leftover tomato sauce and, undoubtedly, leftover ricotta. These can be combined, perhaps tossed with some hot pepper (either fresh or dried), and used to sauce polenta or pasta on a Monday evening when you’ve just gotten off a hot, crowded train jam-packed with talkative Italians nattering loudly on their cell phones when you really couldn’t be bothered.

[1] www.goodhousekeeping.com
[2] Book II, called “Minces,” lists seafood minces (seasoned with sea-onion, either lobster, crab, cuttlefish, scallops, or oysters, with lovage, pepper, cumin, and laser root added; a “kromeskis” of minced/pulped pork ground with winter wheat diluted with wine, peppered, crushed myrtle berries and nuts. The mixture’s then shaped into small rolls, wrapped in caul, and fried. He suggests serving it with a wine gravy. (Apicius, Cooking and Dining in Imperial Rome, trans. Joseph Dommers Vehling, Chicago, 1936.) Several Apicii were noted cooks, but it’s probably the one who lived during the times of Augustus and Tiberius (80 b.c. to 40 a.d.) who authored these recipes.
[3] He provides two versions, (Rub. 18 and Vat. 18) but both are just about the same. You can find these recipes in Claudio Benporat, Cucina Italiana del Quattrocento, Firenze, 1996.
[4] l’Arte di ben cucinare (La cucina ai tempi di Gonzaga, Milano, 2002).
[5] He then provides a recipe for polpettone nella maniera Romana: lardo beaten with odiferous herbs, like persa (untranslatable; no idea), mentuccia (mint), fagrizzola (this is apparently the same word in English; who knows what it means?), garlic, veal marrow, marzapane (imagine! -- and his translator's spelling, too), pomo d’Adamo tagliato in boccoccini (we really have no idea) , pine nuts, raisins, cloves, pepper, grated cheese, two eggs, cooking it, and adding a sugo di naranci (which were probably bitter oranges -- think marmalade -- as they were all the rage in 15th century Italy). He provides other recipes as well, all equally teeming with to our 21st-taste sensations seemingly improbable combinations .
[6] “The Same Old Thing,” in Home Cooking, New York, 1988. She is 100% right about that recipe; the loaf is slowly stove-top cooked. You can find it in The Classic Italian Cookbook, London, 1973.
[7] Are You Hungry Tonight? Elvis’s Favorite Recipes, compiled by Brenda Arlene Butler, Bluewood Books, printed, inexplicably, in Singapore in 1992. A highly questionable source, but source nonetheless (the author saw him at least 30 times in Las Vegas and, as far as I know, never lunched/dined with him).
[8] Square Meals, New York, 1984. The recipe’s the standard beef-veal-pork combination, with a package of dry onion soup mix.)
[9] The Oxford Companion to Food, New York, 1999. His point's made clear by the equally-late, great, francophile Richard Olney, who provides a recipe for Caillettes or, to our ears, Pork and Herb Meatballs. Makes me wonder what the difference is between a paté and a terrine and a meatloaf given that, according to Olney, if the caillettes mixture is poured into a fat-lined terrine dish it becomes a terrine aux herbes. Hmm. (Richard Olney, Simple French Food, New York, 1974.) Epicurious lists 62 recipes for meatloaf (as noted above); 46 for terrine; 53 for pate. Terrines and pates are terribly similar, so let’s say 62 meatloaf recipes bested by 99 very similar creations with French names. (The Scallion's most savvy brother once ate our caillettes and remarked something to the effect of "Nice meatballs." At the time, I was appalled: so much work! To be reduced to the mere appellation of meatballs! (Meat balls?) Rectitude prevailed: they were, in fact, nice meatballs. Nothing more, nothing less.)

Photo of Waldo en couch/divan thanks to treasured pal Heather Souvlaki.

Oh, the days dwindle down to a precious few

Today’s the perfect day, in between playing old Dylan, to play equally old Lou Reed singing Brecht/Weill’s “September Song.” It’s cool here, but the sun’s out, and surely it will heat up enough to have Sunday lunch in the Great Outdoors.

Lunch will be pollo tonnato, a riff on the classic vitello tonnato. It’s a perfect summer dish, and a perfect dish for a waning summer, reminding you that it’s still warm, and you could be at the beach, even though you aren’t. Vitello tonnato is cold poached veal (usually shoulder) with a tuna mayonnaise. You can make it much more cheaply with chicken or even cheaply-er-ish with turkey. And it tastes swell. This recipe has been in the Scallion’s family for longer than I’ve been in the Scallion’s family (which is some good while now).

Il Cucchiaio d’Argento (Milan, 8th ed., 2005) presents two versions of this – one hot, one cold. The ingredients are more complicated, as it involves tossing the veal in butter/olive oil, and ultimately garnishing it with pickles (which sounds really good, actually). The cold version suggests adding egg yolks to the mayonnaise. Elizabeth David (Italian Food, Middlesex, 1954) provides two recipes for this dish, including Artusi’s.

Artusi’s recipe is more complicated; you stud the veal with anchovies, and he says use the broth for a risotto (perhaps he did not have dogs). David’s “Tunny Fish Mayonnaise” (maionese tonnata) pairs with hardboiled eggs, sandwiches, or stuffing for ripe tomatoes.
You could make your own mayonnaise, but if you have Hellman’s on hand, why bother?

(The tuna mayonnaise works equally well as a potato salad dressing, and is just as tasty with cold sliced roast beef.)

Pollo tonnato (chicken with tuna mayonnaise)

For the chicken:

¾ lb. chicken breast, organic desirable, sliced about ½ inch thick
Slice of lemon
Half a red onion, peeled
5 peppercorns
2 garlic cloves, peeled
1 bay leaf
Pinch of sea salt

For the mayonnaise:

1 c. Hellman’s mayonnaise
8 oz. canned tuna, preferably Italian, preferably packed in olive oil
¼ c. poached chicken broth
¼ c. capers plus 3 T. for garnish
2 T. lemon juice
1 lemon, sliced, for garnish
3 anchovy filets
Handful of flat-leaf parsley, for garnish
Sea salt and (freshly ground) white pepper, to taste

Put all the “For the chicken” ingredients into a broad saucepan, and cover with water. Cook on a very low flame; when it comes to a gentle boil, flip the chicken slices, cover, turn the heat off, and let chicken continue to cook for at least five minutes. Remove from the pan, reserve the broth (excess broth will be happily lapped up by canines), and let cool.

To make the tuna mayonnaise: throw the mayonnaise into a blender, the loosely-drained tuna, reserved chicken broth, anchovies, ¼ c. capers, lemon juice, salt, pepper. Whirl. If it’s too thick, add a bit more broth.

Place the chicken slices on a platter. Gently ice with the tuna mayonnaise. Dot with capers, lemon slices, and chopped parsley. Eat right away.

Florentine Canine Monument Update from the Queen of Kansas: “ The next time you are in Florence, stop in at the church of S. Paolino near S.M. Novella. In the first chapel on the right is the tomb of Maso degli Albizi (too lazy to look up the date, c. 1418) which originally was in S. Pier Maggiore but later was moved to S. Paolino, cut in half lengthwise, and incorporated into an (I think) 18th- century tomb. My point here is that on the end of the tomb there is a marvelous relief image of a dog, nose to the ground. Not a monument for a canine, but certainly a touching monument to one and, presumably, his owner.”

A Query:

Dear Tillie's Tuscan Table,

My partner, in a fit of enthusiasm, bought a large bagful of purple figs from a street market. Whilst beautiful to look at, they are not all that flavoursome.

I've been looking for recipes of how to use them, since in their virgin state they are not all that interesting. Is baking them a good idea?

What is your advice?

Best wishes,
An avid blog reader and dog lover

Dear Avid Blog Reader and Dog Lover:

Why not make jam? You can convert them from their virgin state into a seasoned and experienced taste sensation.

The Venerable Marion Cunningham provides an easy recipe – 4 c. prepared fruit, 3 cups sugar. Take those flavorless figs of yours, peel them, chop them coarsely, throw them in a pot, stir constantly, add water as needed. Then add the sugar, continuing to stir (constantly), and cook ‘til thick (The Fannie Farmer Cookbook, New York, 1979). She, Cunningham, then suggests jarring/sterilizing the fruit concoction, but I say don’t bother and just eat it fast. It ought to taste really, really good with cured Italian pork products or a semi-stagionato’d Pecorino (or, in your case, with a nice Vinny Blue or Stilton). Fig jam also tastes divine on toast with butter (preferably from Cornwall).

You might also want to check out Nigel Slater’s just released Tender (2), where he delves into the mysteries of cooking with fruit. His book might be the perfect solution for the next time your overly-enthusiastic partner returns from a street market with, say, 15 pounds of quince.

Thanks for reading but, more importantly, thanks for being a dog lover.

Today's subject quotes Brecht/Weill. The end is "September, November/And these few precious days I'll spend with you/These precious days I'll spend with you."

Waldo, again, sort of

The internet is a mixed blessing, as anyone who uses it well knows. Now it’s possible to get hired (and fired) electronically[1]; it’s also possible to send messages that, a generation or so ago, would have dictated a handwritten note on lovely, Crane stationery (or its equivalent). One would write, with a ballpoint pen, “Congratulations on the birth of your son!” Or, “Heckuva promotion – way to go!”

Or, indeed, the condolence note, which always had to be handwritten, and written right away, mailed right away. Whereupon, on receipt, the bereaved would make a point of thanking each and every person who had troubled him/herself to do so.

Those days are gone. Now we have virtual Funeral Guest Books, where you don’t even have to bother to either go to the funeral, or put tongue to stamp to affix to envelope; you can write your words of condolence/empathy/sadness on the web, there for all to see. Ought grieving to be a public or a private thing? I am clueless.[2] If you want, you can go to http://www.legacy.com/, and write on guest books of people you’ve never even met. You can even click a button that sends “Sympathy Flowers Now.” (Oh, would that Jessica Mitford were still with us to muckrake this.)

If you read obituaries in most newspapers in the States (that is, if you’re lucky enough to still have a local newspaper), you might note that almost everyone these days – or so it seems – dies surrounded by family and, if they are even luckier, with friends as well. If they are Christian, they always go happily to Jesus (or so, at least, the obit writer alleges).

Guess it means you’re a loser if you die alone.[3] Maybe we’ll be lucky enough to be Ilaria del Carretto, and have a marvelous pup at our feet, sculpted into eternity.[4]

This got me thinking about canine monuments, a few of which I know, like the statue of Balto in Central Park.[5] Then there’s the lovely bronze statue in Torre del Lago dedicated to Pippo, who didn’t do really very much of anything except make a whole lot of people happy.[6] Wikipedia lists plenty more monuments dedicated to amazing canines. There’s Fala, FDR’s faithful Scottish terrier who is actually buried beside him (apparently the only presidential canine so honored). Other notables include George Tirebiter (a USC mascot), and Greyfriar Bobby, who’s honored with a statue in Edinburgh. There’s St. Guinefort unknown human martyr superimposed on a canine martyr venerated in the Dombes, north of Lyon until the mid 13th century when a Dominican preacher had the site of the cult destroyed. Wikipedia writes that although he was “never recognized officially by the Catholic Church” his cult persisted into the 1930s.[7]

A Welsh version of the St. Guinefort story with a brave wolf-hound named Gelert—unjustly killed by its owner, Prince Llywelyn, who thought the dog had killed his infant son when in fact Gelert had killed a wolf intent on eating the baby whose overturned cradle momentarily hid the child from view—is probably better known. (http://www.historic-uk.com/HistoryUK/Wales-History/Beddgelert.htm suggests it’s a late 18th-century adaptation by an enterprising inn-keeper who had just moved to Beddgelert, Wales. Plenty of other heroic mutts have had monuments erected to them. Some of the more colorful include Red Dog (1971-1979) who had his own bank account with Wales Bank in Australia, and two U.S. standouts: Sergeant Stubby (c. 1916-1926) who, as Wikipedia notes, “was the most decorated war dog of World War I and the only dog to be promoted to sergeant through combat;” and Smoky, a Yorkshire terrier who served in the South Pacific. She was “credited with 12 combat missions and awarded 8 battle stars.”[8]

But back to the Internet and an end to this long parenthesis, here’s where the internet can be wonderful, especially when death comes knocking: people can get in touch with you immediately. And this is especially invaluable when you’re talking about a dog, who should never, ever be confused with a human being (even though your dog might have been nicer than most of the people you’ve ever tripped across).

After Waldo died, we got a lot of email messages from friends in Europe and in North America. Some of them were not Dog People, let alone Animal People. But write they did, anyway. And we found this really soothing.

Since dead people get funeral pages on the web, I thought: “Why not Waldo?” We got a lot of wonderful stuff, all heartfelt, some of it inscrutable (see Canadienne Red, below: it makes sense, alas, only to us, but we thought wtf and included it). Many friends telephoned, and others simply were geographically proximate.

Molly from Pistoia: “For now here’s to Waldo and all the dancing dogs in the clouds!!!!!”

Body-Surfing Susie from San Diego: “ … he looked so sweet in those picture you have …”

Heather Souvlaki from Toronto: “I am absolutely stunned, and very saddened, and am sitting here thinking about all the wonderful times we had at night with mini-dog [Waldo] … I know that anyone who met him isn’t going to forget him soon … but please remember that he had five years of being one of the happiest dogs I have ever met …”

Aunt Bets from Toronto (and, at present, Virginia): “ … I was/am sorry about what happened to wee Waldo … [he] was a really great little button of a spunky pup and in the short time I got to know him, he really endeared himself to me. And me to him, I like to think, given the way he let me pick him up and tote him around during the last visit I made.”

Cousin Susie from Bethlehem, PA: “I am so sorry … dogs are so much more than our best friends. I am crying with you.”

Canadienne Red from Chicago: “ … And I am remembering that Bad Dog Waldito J He is gone to The Doggy Dog World outside of The Doggy Dog World J And I am thinking, too, of Lulu – she has lost a companion. And Zoe has lost her brother.”

Bell Guy from Chicago: “I loved that devilish Waldo, and will miss him lounging on my lap and wiggling when he meets me. I know he was happy … Rest in Peace you little Canine Terror.”

Josie from Seattle: "We who choose to surround ourselves with lives even more temporary than our own live within a fragile circle, easily and often breached. Unable to accept its awful gaps, we still would live no other way. We cherish memory as the only certain immortality, never fully understanding the necessary plan..." The Once Again Prince, Separate Lifetimes, by Irving Townsend.

Marion from Brooklyn: “I've always enjoyed getting Waldo stories from Kerry, particularly how in his tender youth he thought his name was "No Waldo"! It's so sad when we first lose our beloved pups, but it's a relief when over time you can laugh at those stories; just getting to speak their names to all those who loved them feels comforting. “

Treasured High School Pal from New York: “My grief and sadness for you run river deep. I am so very, very sorry for your terrible loss, and I know it's even worse because you were not there to hold his paws and comfort him. I know there is nothing I can say to take away the deep heart break. You have my love and hugs from far away, and I mourn with you … Sending all the love in my heart to you. Holding your hand, cross oceans.”

Daisy Pugh (from the Happy Hunting Ground): “Oh, Waldo, I’ve been thinking about you all the time these past two days. You were a great dog. I’ll miss everything about you, especially Patti’s cooing, “no, Waldo, no” as we spoke most mornings. You are breaking our hearts.”

This last needs some explication. Poisoning dogs in Italy is, sadly, somewhat commonplace. Truffle dogs are routinely taken out this way (we met a marvelous truffle dog last fall who was trained not to take food from anyone’s hand except Her Person’s); a number of dogs in and around Florence have died this summer due to poisoning. In the next (and last) condolence, “polpettone” refers to meatloaf … either meatloaf, or meat balls, a not unusual way to poison a dog.

Terracotta Sculptress from near Arezzo: “My deepest condolences to you for the loss of Waldo. I’m assuming it was a poisoned polpettone, and I hope the bastard’s balls fall off.”

Yup, us too.

Recipes of something next time, I swear. Happy Labor Day, all.

[1] A favorite pastime in the Republic of Letters. We have many friends who have both been hired/fired using this method.
[2] Perhaps we should have had this upon the death of Pope John Paul II? Future fodder for Benedict XVI?
[3] Insert Paul McCartney singing “Eleanor Rigby” here.
[4] Some of us know this, but for those of you who don’t: the dog is a symbol of fidelity, especially in Renaissance art. Ilaria’s tomb can be found in Lucca’s Duomo, sculpted by Jacopo della Quercia. I hope either he or Ilaria herself had a small dog in his/her life
[5] According to Wikipedia, he lived from 1919-1933, and was the lead Siberian husky who ran diptheria serum to Nome (Alaska). His trip – who knew – gave rise to the Iditarod.
[6] “Pippo, cane senza padrone, dal mantello marrone e dagli occhi dorati colori da dolori antichi e di un pace ritrovata, visse circa 20 anni sul belvedere Puccini. Comparso nel 1977 con un profonda ferita da arma da fuoco sulla schiena, seppe perdonare e conservare fiducia negli uomini. Adottato dagli abitanti del lago neon compi gesta straordinaria ma insegui a tutti il vero significato di bontà, perdona, amicizia e libertà …” See http://www.luoghimisteriorsi.it/)
[7] Here might be a cult worth reviving. For more on St. Guinefort, see Jacques Dubois, “Saint Guinefort Vénéré des Dombes. Comment un martyr inconnu fut substitué à un chien-martyr ,” Journal des savants 1980, Volume1, Numéro 1-2, pp. 141-155. (Accessed at http://www.persee.fr/web/revues/home/prescript/article/jds_0021-8103_1980_num_1_1_1408) Guinefort’s feast day was August 22, the first “dog day” of summer.
[8] She has a monument in Lakewood, Ohio.

Photo of Canadienne Red and Waldo tripping the light fantastic many moons ago.

Pomarola

It’s that time of year here in Tuscany when people are making tomato sauce (called, inexplicably, pomarola), and whipping out their guns. Hunting season officially started today (September 1st) and runs through the end of January. This morning, the sounds from the screeching owl just outside our window segued into the crisp sounds of guns firing.[1]

(Italians are crazy about hunting, and like to shoot at just about anything, it seems.[2])

Tomatoes, that staple of Italian cuisine, probably arrived in Italy, according to Waverly Root, at least by 1544, “when a description of it was published under the name of pomo d’oro (it is pomodoro today, golden apple).” But he then goes on to say that it took Italians about 200 hundred years to get around to eating them. Alan Davidson elaborates, and says that they were mentioned in a treatise, by an herbalist called Mattioli in that year.[3] The English were certainly eating tomato sauce shortly thereafter, as the inestimable Eliza Acton provides a recipe for said.[4] Many moons later, Elizabeth David provides five variations on the theme.[5]

Last year, we picked the tomatoes, 200 plus pounds of ripe San Marzano, mid-morning one hot summer day in August. The Fruit Ladies, as we call them, have a fruit and vegetable farm near us; if we picked the tomatoes ourselves, we saved even more money.

We were aiming to pick only about 70 pounds, but filled the containers they’d given us in just 45 minutes. Four of us on the job – the Scallion, Sam, Bobo, me. Sam’s almost-four-year old son started out helping, but quickly got the stumpings, and took himself to the car.

Why go to this trouble when you can buy it so cheaply in the stores? Is there a better joy in a drab winter kitchen than opening a jar in mid-January and inhaling the aromas of a hot summer day?

We set up shop outdoors, in the shade. First we washed the tomatoes. We took half of them (about 100 pounds), and cut them in half. Then we put them in a large cauldron on a gas ring, and brought it to a boil. We took turns stirring, and the three witches in Shakespeare’s Macbeth quickly sprang to mind (though they were mixing up more esoteric ingredients like eye of newt, tongue of frog, and lizard’s leg). The tomatoes melted rather quickly; the Scallion added red wine vinegar.

They then went through a specially-designed-to-make-tomato sauce contraption: the liquid/pulp went one direction, the skins and seeds another. Then we passed the skins/seed mixture through a second time (this year, indeed, a third).

We did the second hundred pounds but added chopped celery, carrots, and red onion to the mix. Thus, we’d done the two schools of thought – one, simply tomatoes, the other with more vegetables.

Various Italian web sites are divided about this. Maria Pellotti adds only 1 chopped onion to every 10 plus pounds of tomatoes; others, a ratio of 2.2 lbs. mature tomatoes, 2 carrots, 1 celery rib, 4 basil ribs, extra-virgin olive oil, salt, and a pinch of sugar.[6]

Then we jarred them. The whole exhausting process took about 12 hours.

Sam and Bobo had heated discussions about the method of jarring, and Sam won out in the end. The jars, which had been rinsed in a hot cycle in the dishwasher, were filled to the brim, lid put on, and then the whole works set upside down to cool down slowly.

The Monsters (Waldo, Lulu, and Zoe, Waldo’s sister) actively participated in the process, which mostly meant that they were often in the way and licking up spillage. (You can see documentation at right.)

We celebrated the conclusion of the day by making Bloody Marys, followed with a simple plate of spaghetti with fresh tomato sauce.

This year, there were far less tomatoes (as well as fewer dogs): Sam and Bobo were only able to pick about 83 pounds. July was too hot, and then it rained a lot, and rot began to set in. So making pomarola became urgent, and they settled down to do it, joined by the Scallion, last week. They opted this year for a simple tomato-salt-red wine vinegar concoction.

Our tomatoes, all infinite varieties of them, suffered greatly. They’ve largely been consumed by obnoxious pests once again making me wonder Why Not Spray? (as I do, inevitably, every year). We did manage to pick a few the other day, and had a nice tomato salad, recipe below.


Fresh Tomato Bloody Mary

4 c. fresh tomato juice
1 c. vodka
1 t. kosher salt
1 t. whole black peppercorns
2 T. preserved lemon liquid (or 2 T. fresh lemon juice)
Ample pinch celery salt
Celery stalks
Tabasco to taste (in our case, lots)

Put the tomato juice and vodka in a large pitcher. Mortar and pestle the kosher salt and black peppercorns; add mixture to pitcher, along with preserved lemon juice, celery salt and hot pepper sauce. Anoint with celery stalks and cracked ice cubes; drink.

Makes 4 hefty drinks.

Insalata di pomodori
Tomato salad

1 lb. just-picked tomatoes, preferably Canastrino, but any will do; chop them in small-ish pieces
2 T. extra-virgin olive oil
2 T. tamari or shoyu
1 small red onion, peeled, and thinly sliced in half diameters
3 T. sesame seeds, toasted and mortar’d and pestle’d
3 T. coriander seeds, ibid
Freshly ground sea salt and black pepper to taste

Combine all ingredients in a bowl, toss, let sit for at least 15 minutes for flavors to develop. This tastes really good with grilled steak.

[1] In Italy, these owls are called civette and they bear some resemblance to the screech owl found in the Americas (at least, they do to my untrained eye). Wikipedia observes that civette have a broad vocal repertoire, that males emit a malincholic hoo-hoo sound, and that their screeching is used in self-defense (to mark territory, presumably). “Le civette hanno un ampio repertorio vocale. Il maschio emette un malinconico “hu – u- u” ripetuto ad intervalli variabili, dopo 3-4 secondi .. [loro] emettono versi striduli e fastidiosi come autodifesa.”
[2] This being Italy, there are, as usual, special rules: for example, on September 1st, 4th, and 5th, the pigeon and the blackbird can be fired upon only between 5:30 and noon; meanwhile, the turtle dove, jay. magpie, and gray crow can only be shot at between 5:30 ‘til 7:30 at night. Clearly, most of this shooting’s for fun, as I have never tripped across any recipes for any those birds: pigeon sometimes appears on the menu in higher-end establishments
[3] Oxford Companion to Food, New York, 1999. He also adds, “The earliest known printed [tomato] recipe, which occurs in a Neapolitan book, Lo scalco alla moderna, by Antonio Latini (1692/4) is for “Tomato sauce, Spanish Style” and calls for adding finely chopped parsley, onion, and garlic – with salt, pepper, oil, and vinegar – to the finely chopped flesh of previously seared and peeled tomatoes.”
[4] She, however, stews them with either gravy, cream, or milk, and then thickens it with flour. More a roux-y tomato sauce than something to top a plate of spaghetti. (The Best of Eliza Acton, London, 1986.)
[5] See her Italian Food, New York, 1954.
[6] Maria Pelletti at http://www.aquabuona.it/, many-more ingredients at http://www.ricettericette.it/.

All photos by Sam and all taken last year.

Beef Tea

No one – as far as I know – has written a cookbook with the title Appropriate Dishes for Mourning or What to Eat When You Absolutely Have No Appetite, or Happy Meals to Eat When Feeling F’ing Miserable. Imagine the covers draped in crepe or widow’s weeds. These wouldn’t sell, would they? Or perhaps we know enough to bring over the obligatory casserole without having to consult a niche cookbook? People have, however, written recipes, articles, and essays re: feeding the invalid.

Let’s allow heartbroken-ness into the Invalid Category, shall we? Though we might not be in our beds awaiting our gaily decorated trays, we metaphorically are in those beds, and not getting up any time soon.

Seems that most of the experts think we ought to be eating Beef Tea. Eliza Acton (1799-1859), in her Modern Cookery for Private Families (1845), has a recipe for “Extract of Beef, or, very strong Plain Beef Gravy Soup (Baron Liebig’s Recipe)[1]: “Take a pound of good, juicy beef (rumpsteak is best for the purpose), from which all the skin and fat that can possibly be separated from it, has been cut away. Chop it up small like sausage meat; then mix it thoroughly with an exact pint of cold water, and place it on the side of the stove to heat very slowly indeed; and give it an occasional stir.” You then cook it for 2-3 hours before allowing it to simmer, then you let it boil for 15 minutes. You add salt when it comes to a boil but, she cautions, “[it] is the only seasoning required.” She then elaborates: “To make light beef tea or broth, merely increase the proportion of water to a pint and a half or a quart, but in all else proceed as above.”[2] Her proportions: 1 lb. beef, 1½ pints or 1 quart of water.

Mrs. Beeton’s Every Day Cookery and Housekeeping Book has a special section devoted to Invalids. Isabella Mary Beeton was roughly a contemporary of Miss Acton (1835-65): her Book of Household Management came out in 1861. Judging by these books, you can see why the British were an Empire.

Mrs. Beeton advises that all kitchen utensils be “scrupulously clean … For invalids, never make a large quantity of one thing, as they seldom require much at a time … Always have something in readiness; a little beef tea, nicely made and nicely skimmed, a few spoonfuls of jelly, &c.,& c., that it may be administered as soon as the invalid wishes for it.”[3] She also advises that the tray toting the food is clean, that the “spoons, tumblers, cups and saucers, &c. be very clean and bright.” Suggested dishes, besides beef tea? Gruel, milk kept on ice so as not to sour, roast mutton, chickens, rabbits, calves’ feet or head, game, fish, mutton chops. She also cautions: “Never serve beef tea or broth with the smallest particle of fat or grease on the surface. It is better to, after making either of these, to allow them to get perfectly cold, when all the fat may be removed; then warm up as much as may be required. Two or three pieces of clean whity-brown paper laid on the broth will absorb any greasy particles that may be floating at the top, as the grease will cling to the paper.” She must think making beef tea a no-brainer, as she doesn’t give a recipe for it. Instead, she offers up “Invalid’s Cutlet” (mutton, in this case), “Invalid’s Jelly” (made from 12 mutton shanks), and Lemonade for Invalids.

Agnes Jekyll (1861-1937) has an essay called “Tray Food,” which begins: “Ill-health may be said to resemble greatness in that some are born with it, some achieve it, and some have it thrust upon them.”[4] She tends to go on a bit about the esthetics of trays (referring to them as “exasperating”). She calls for attractive trays “in various sizes and japanned in cheerful colors.” What’s on them? Eggs and fish au gratin, or mushrooms, vegetables, or cooked fruit. She suggests putting a bunch of violets on the tray, or primroses, a single rose, a spray of lemon verbena. She doesn’t suggest imbibing beef tea, but a layer thick of chestnut puree “with a couple of stoned and heated black plums at each corner. On this lay several delicately-cut slices of pheasant or turkey roasted or braised, a little good gravy poured very hot over it.” That sounds like a lot of work, and a perfect dish for a cold November day.

The Joy of Cooking (1931 edition) advises 1 pound of round steak, placed in a quart mason jar with 1 c. cold water and ½ t. salt, then again placed in a pot with water to cover, bringing it to a slow boil and allowing it to cook for an hour; take out the jar, cool on a rack, strain.[5]

And then there’s the lovely, wonderful late Laurie Colwin, and her beyond-marvelous essay “Nursery Food.”[6] I would copy the entire essay, but it would take too long, and I could probably be sued for copyright infringement. But yesterday, reading it aloud to the Scallion, we both burst out into much-needed laughter. It starts like this: “A long time ago it occurred to me that when people are tired and hungry, which in adult life is much of the time, they do not want to be confronted by an intellectually challenging meal: they want to be consoled … Once upon a time when I was in mourning for my father I was taken home by my best friend who sat me in a chair, gave me a copy of Vogue and told me not to move until called .. When I got to the table I realized that this angelic pal had made shepherd’s pie. I did not know that shepherd’s pie was just what I wanted, but it was just what I wanted.”

She writes that she has stretched the notion of Nursery Food like Silly Putty, and includes fried chicken, lamb stew, macaroni and cheese, meatballs, baked beans, lentil soup, chili, baked stuffed potatoes, and lasagna under this rubric. But the best part is this: “The ultimate nursery food is beef tea; I have not had it since I was a child, and although I could easily have brewed myself a batch, I never have yet. I am afraid that my childhood will overwhelm me with the first sip or that I will be compelled to sit down at once and write a novel in many volumes.”

And here’s how her mother made it: one pound of ”absolutely fatless silver tip of beef … on a doubled sheet of butcher paper or a wood board cut into tiny dice. Place it and any juices the meat has yielded in the top of a double boiler and gently cook, covered, over simmering water for several hours. Do not use salt or pepper. Simply leave the meat alone to give off its juices. After several hours you will be left with pure essence of beef, perfectly digestible and nourishing. Strain into a warm bowl … The meat itself is useless, a mere net of fibers, and should be given to the dog.” (Fortunately, we still have a few living with us.)

It’s also occurred to me that Beef Tea might provide us a key ingredient for Bullshots; ah, bliss.

Guess what’s for dinner?

Read this three years ago, and remembered it, of course right around now. Do check out Arthur Phillips’s heartbreakingly beautiful “My Dog Days” in the June 10, 2007 New York Times. Expect tears. http://www.nytimes.com/2007/0

[1] Baron Justus Liebig, born Darmstadt 13 May 1803, was an “eminent chemist,” according to his 19 April 1873 obituary in the New York Times: “… by the aid of a traveling stipend allowed him by the Grand Duke he removed to Paris, where he remained from 1822 to 1824 … Baron Liebig was the author of numerous works, in which his researches are set forth with great minuteness … In his Familiar Letters he developed his views on chemistry, and its relations to commerce, physiology, and vegetation.” And, perhaps, beef tea.
[2] The Best of Eliza Acton, ed. Elizabeth Ray, New York, 1968.
[3] Mrs. Beeton’s Every Day Cookery and Housekeeping Book, New York, 1984.
[4] Agnes Jekyll, Kitchen Essays, New York, 2001. Originally it appeared in 1922.
[5] No recipe appears for it in the penultimate version of Joy; seems rather likely that it’s not in the most recent tweaking, either.
[6] From Home Cooking, New York, 1988. It is still very much in print, and any serious cook/reader should have it on her shelf.

A Waldo-less World

Waldo died late on Friday, August 13th. We last saw him on Monday; following the advice of most dog experts, we made our holiday exit as unobtrusively as possible. My last image of Waldo is him sitting in the nook of one of his couches, tiny black and white splendor poised against the red sitting room walls, his head cocked, alert. Four days later he was dead.

The local vet theorized that he’d been poisoned, and reckoned that Waldo had ingested said some 10 to 15 days before he died. Slow-acting, it ate his red blood cells.

According to Sam, Waldo’s aunt, he was perfectly fine on Thursday night. On Friday morning, he refused food (only the second time in his too-short life), which triggered alarm signals. To the vet he went, where he was put on an IV hookup, released, with a possible blood transfusion perhaps the next day. He died later that night; Sam buried him in the dog cemetery, near a cypress, and some of the sheep (of which there are presently fifty plus in the land around us) came to pay their last respects. Waldo had only just met them the week before, so it was very kind of them to honor him so.

He entered our lives purely by fluke.

We weren’t meant to have another dog. Tillie had died only eight months before, and we still mourned (nearly six years later, we still do). But a dear friend was looking for a pup, and I went along.

They were a scrappy lot, those five puppies, all black and white, their on-site mother Leila, amiable, blonde, tiny, with a rodent-like face. Love at first sight with those puppies.

Brought the Scallion back to check out the litter, and Waldo-to-Be immediately began gnawing on the Scallion’s shoes. We were sold (and he was free).

He came to live with us in July 2005. He was so tiny that he could neatly fit into our kitchen scales and he didn’t weigh more than 2.5 kilograms (five pounds). He was small, irascible. He grew a little, but he remained small, and he only became more irascible.

He was too small to jump on the bed which, at that point in time in his puppyhood, was a major life goal. We always gave in and lifted him up. The beginning of a most bad habit, as he slept every night on the bed with us, usually under the covers, sometimes stretched out alongside one of us. Always ready to alert us with a growl if we were invading his space beside us. Some mornings we’d wake up and his head would be on the pillow, between us.

Waldo had many names, but the one that stuck was bestowed upon him by Osvaldo, Argentinian by birth, Italian by here’s where I live, who, upon seeing this small critter, said, “Oh, Waldito!” Waldo also sometimes went by the aliases Shrimpy McPup, Lord Dainty Paw. R. W. Yapp (his hip-hop name) and, most importantly, the Squiggler. Because squiggle is what he did.

Imagine a Slinky, but a horizontal one. Add four paws and a tail. Walk into our apartment any time and watch him squiggle (or, at least, before August 13th). He squiggled out of happiness, a constant S curve in motion. He also (annoyingly to everyone except us, I suspect) had to stand on his hind legs to greet you. Bad Dog Behavior, but we didn’t discourage it.

He had other annoying habits: he yapped. He yapped from joy, he yapped from frustration, he yapped at ambulance sirens, he yapped at insects, he yapped at other dogs (of course), he sometimes yapped at air. (Or so it seemed.) He also scratched incessantly at doors. If he was in, he wanted to be out. If he was out, he wanted to be in.

He loved ladies’ lingerie. An unwitting turn in a friend’s fuschsia thong (which he’d found on the floor, and slipped into as if it were a cross between a turban and a tutu) led us to the theory that he had been a drag queen in San Francisco in a previous life. Chums Jonathan and James, upon hearing of Waldo’s death, wrote: “thinking of you and of Waldito dancing at a bath house in the clouds.” We hope he is.

Waldo’s antics convulsed us with laughter. of an evening when things were too quiet. He loved to chase his tail. He could stand on his hind legs for seemingly infinite amounts of time if an insect was involved. He was, as they say in these parts, molto sportivo: he played basketball, some tennis, and volleyball (he loved to hear the air oozing out of the ball).

He loved to hump Lulu. Visualize this: a pre-pubescent Chinese female Olympic gymnast humping a large NBA player desultorily lying on his stomach, not giving a rat’s a** about the details. Waldo, of course, the gymnast; Lulu, Shaquille O’Neal or his equivalent.

If you live with non-human animals, especially ones who share the same space as you, going away/taking a vacation is never easy. We have taken few; when we go, Zoe’s Person steps in and watches them.

In this case, Zoe’s Person was not around, though Zoe was (the rest of her family was in the United States). Fortuitously, two young friends wanted to come to Italy, and we told them if they would watch sometimes four dogs, they could stay in our place, drive our car, have all sorts of adventures. Unfortunately, they started having all sorts of adventures on their first day on the job, and then again on the third day, which meant that they weren’t around much the last three days of Waldo’s life. Waldo was a lap dog, a heat-seeking missile, and it’s a tragedy that his last days on the planet were largely lapless.[1]

We feel beyond lousy that we weren’t there when he died. Beyond lousy that Waldo’s Aunt had to bear the burden of watching him get deathly sick, watch him die, and then bury him.

Waldo spared us the agonizing luxury of watching him get old.

Had we been around him, would we – who knew him best – have noticed sooner that something was seriously amiss?

What do you do if you have animals who live with you? Hard to take three of them with you on vacation. Never go away? Stay at home watching the Discovery Channel, wine glass in hand, while listening to U2 sing “Even Better than the Real Thing?”

Waldo taught us much. He made us laugh again after Tillie died. Most important, he taught us how to greet the day. For him, each morning was a new adventure, his theme song Pink’s “Let’s Get this Party Started.” Daybreak or bird-chirping time (depending upon the season, sometimes one happened before the other) alerted him to the fact that it was Time to Get Up. His tail would beat out, metronomically, a rather mechanical line (think of Meg White’s drumming), and he would put his face in ours. He almost always won out, which is why we were often up at 6 a.m. when we had no other reason to be. No matter that this day would start exactly like any other: walk in the woods with Lulu, Harry, and the Scallion; breakfast, nap, pee break, pee break, perhaps a leap over the wall separating the terrace from the garden, a reconnoitering of the garden’s contents i.e. Waldo’s Domain (in fact, the last time I yelled at him was because I caught him peeing on the tomatoes), a long walk in the woods, dinner, pee break, bed – this didn’t bother him at all. In fact, he was thrilled.

Oh, to have so much enthusiasm every morning.

He blessed our lives for five years, and I thought about this while we were far away. David Bowie’s “Five Years” ran through my head, and though he certainly wasn’t singing about a dog, the last lines resonate:

“We’ve got five years, stuck on my eyes/We’ve got five years, what a surprise/We’ve got five years, my brain hurts a lot/We’ve got five years, that’s all we’ve got.”

Our hearts hurt a lot. And screw the experts: kiss your dogs every time you go out the door.

Waldo (c. May 30, 2005 – August 13, 2010). May you dance with the great Overdog into eternity.
[1] According to all reports, the dog sitters toed the line thereafter.

Ritual Dishes

We have them in the United States: stuff to eat at certain times (4th of July hot dogs and hamburgers, Thanksgiving turkey, ham or lamb on Easter, a great steak house to mark any celebration) and we have them here in Italy, too (fish-filled Christmas Eves, fava beans and pecorino on Pasquetta (Easter Monday), eating mostly fish on Fridays; though the ban on eating bi- and quadruped flesh on Fridays has long been lifted by the Roman Catholic church, habits die hard in this country, and Italians lean towards fish on Fridays in restaurants and at home). (They might not fill the churches on Sundays, but they cling to this tradition.)

The Scallion and I have ritual dishes based on no religious traditions and no calendar days. Ours are based on the following: 1) they’re a pain in the neck to make, hence we make ‘em once a year and 2) they’re seasonal and 3) they’re celebratory and 4) they just plain taste good.
So 5) we make them when lots of friends are around.

One such ritual dish is okrochka, a chilled Russian yogurt-milk based soup. It teems with cucumbers, fennel, and pickles; and then you can add shrimp and/or chicken and/or wurstel and/or veal (according to Marina, dear Russian chum and Designated Okrochka Expert).

Wiki, Italian version, says that the soup is either Ukrainian or Russian (imagine my dismay when a Polish acquaintance grudgingly told me that pierogies might, in fact, be Ukrainian and not Polish at all). The name comes from “krosit” meaning to cut things in little pieces.
It contains mostly raw vegetables, cucumbers and winter onions (strange that, as it’s a summer dish), boiled potatoes, prosciutto with kvas, and it’s usually served with sour cream. Totally clueless what made the broth for the soup … sour cream?

As always, we turn to Elizabeth David in these cases, who loftily informs us that she used to eat this soup at the Russian Club in Athens during World War II (did Rick’s Café serve food? Unclear). She ate it with kwass, and yogurt was served on the side.

Reactions to this soup were mixed, at best. Practically no one had seconds, except for us, and the Scallion’s Mother (who's English). One Italian painstakingly searched his way through the milky mire figuring out what he wanted to eat and didn’t. Another Italian – whose aversion to cucumbers I’d forgotten – minced her way through the soup, a real challenge when you’re vegetarian and are presented with only fennel and pickle swimming in a sea of dairy.

Since Italians almost always “take” seconds, and none of them did, we can chalk this up as a Never Again Experience. (Marina loved it.)(Let me reiterate. She is Russian, and knows.)

Not a disaster, but close. Fortunately, the starters of sorrel eggs (yup, it’s still growing), bruschetta, and anchovy/caper spread on toast ensured that no one starved , and the gruyere-laden curly endive/escarole salad (with optional pancetta on the side) helped ease any lingering hunger pains.

Fortunately, Poldo (idol of last post) met Harry, and we were all able to enjoy what, according to some, were dear friends meeting for the first time: for others, dog porn show; take your pick. Their antics took the sting out of the Really Don’t Much Want to Eat this Soup.

Do you need a Northern soul to enjoy this dish? Is it too wacky for Mediterranean tastes? Who in blazes knows? All I know is that it will remain a Ritual Dish, but perhaps only for family. Oh, and that one Russian chum of ours.

I very much enjoy this soup, which is why I give you this recipe, loosely based and almost-plagiarizingly so from my hero Elizabeth David. It tastes beyond brilliant on a hot summer day. It’s pretty and its checkerboard aspect, floating tiny bits of pink and green, might bring to mind Domenico Veneziano’s St. Lucy Altarpiece at the Uffizi, though I’m sure none of those ascetics (Francis, John the Baptist, and St. Lucy included in said) had much appetite.

(Jury’s out on St. Zanobius; Queen of Kansas? Your thoughts most welcome.)

Okrochka

4 c. diced fresh cucumber
3 c. diced wϋrstel (mild flavored, poach, then dice)
1 lb. chicken breast, poached with a bay leaf, half a carrot, thick onion slice, 3-5 peppercorns, generous pinch of kosher salt, thick slice of lemon, 3 garlic gloves, handful of parsley), then cut into dice around the same size as the wϋrstel)
1 lb. shrimp, preferably poached in an Old Bay Seasoning/vinegar mix, chilled, then peeled and deveined, chopped in pieces about the same size at the two above
1 c. chopped leeks, the part that bridges the area between green and white
1 c. diced fennel
1 c. diced pickles (kosher dills would impart a wondrous texture to this soup)
2 c. chopped flat-leaf parsley
1 pt. low-fat plain yogurt
4 c. low-fat milk
Salt and ground white pepper, to taste
Handful of fresh dill, chopped

Throw all ingredients up to the yogurt and milk into a big glass bowl. Separately mix the yogurt and milk, and then pour over the vegetables. Chill for at least an hour, and then serve.

Ostensibly serves 8.

Elizabeth David’s recipe comes from A Book of Mediterranean Food (London, 1950). She would probably sneer at the very idea of using low-fat yogurt and skim or 2% milk; she would probably also raise an arched, perfectly-formed eyebrow at my inclusion of all the animal products she suggests. She would also be quite disappointed, I think, that it wasn’t served with kwass.

(Photo of Two Stooges thanks once again to Alli S.)

We are off to northern climes on Monday; this will be my last post; blog will re-appear at the end of August. Buona vacanza!