(Not French) Onion Soup

Catherine de’Medici was fat, unattractive, and unloved by her husband who, as it turned out, became Henry II, King of France. She was infertile for the first 11 years of their marriage, and then started popping them out in rapid succession. Of her nine children, seven survived their infancy.

She was born in 1519 to Lorenzo, Duke of Urbino, the grandson of Lorenzo il Magnifico, and his French wife, Madeleine de La Tour d’Auvergne, both of whom died before Catherine was one. She spent some formative years in the Florentine convent of Le Murate before her worried uncle – in this case, Pope Clement VII – figured out a way to marry her off. And marry her out: like, to a foreign country.

History has not been kind to her. She had (and has) a nasty reputation, as is often inevitable with women who have any access to power. She had a hand (or didn’t) in the St. Bartholomew’s Day Massacre (1572), in which a whole lot of Huguenots were unnecessarily killed (those who survived limped their way to Canada and other places, or came to help populate Livorno, soon to be declared a free city).

Ask any self-respecting Italian about French cuisine, and he/she will inevitably say, “Oh! When Catherine de’Medici went off to France in 1533, she took her chefs with her, and thus French cuisine was born.”

Utter nonsense. The late, great Alan Davidson, in his majestic Oxford Companion to Food, has an entry entitled “Culinary Mythology.” Heading that list is “Catherine de’Medici Transformed French Cookery.” He quotes Barbara Ketcham Wheaton’s (1983) study which proves that the French already had their cuisine in place, thank you very much. But Italians need to believe in fairy tales, just like we do (think of our westerns), and so we should gently humor them, as they sometimes attempt to humor us.

Onion soup might be a case in point. In the States, the onion-filled soup, put in individual gratin dishes, iced with grated Fontina or Emmenthaler cheese, is called French onion soup. It’s got a slice of grilled, toasted, garlic’d bread as its base, then the soup is ladled on top, then the cheese on top of that, and then it hits the broiler. What emerges is crunchy on the top and non-crunchy from within. It’s heavenly.

A problem arose yesterday when making this soup, as I did not have the requisite amount of onions. So I went out to the garden and pulled up some long-suffering red onions that never properly came to fruition. The puppers were most interested in this, as you can see.

It was the Scallion’s birthday and we celebrated it by eating many things from the onion family: we started with a most marvelous pork/chicken liver pate with pickled onions from David Tanis’s brilliant Heart of an Artichoke (any self-respecting foodophile/buona forchetta should have this in his/her kitchen), and then followed it with onion soup.

What follows is the recipe. It is not Tuscan (since it has balsamic vinegar in it, giving a nod to Modena, which is in Emilia-Romagna). It is also not Tuscan because it has a generous dollop of gorgonzola/mascarpone in it (to hell with something on the top, and the broiler), and gorgonzola comes from the village of the same name near Milan, and mascarpone comes from just about everywhere.

But it still tastes pretty good, and Catherine, it is hoped, might have liked it.

Zuppa di cipolla/Onion Soup

3 T. butter
1 lb. red onions, peeled and thinly sliced
1 lb. white onions, peeled and thinly sliced
¼ c. best-quality balsamic vinegar
1 c. red wine
3 c. chicken or vegetable broth
1 bay leaf
3 sprigs thyme
Generous ¼ c. Gorgonzola (best if you have a combination of Gorgonzola/mascarpone)
Handful of flat-leaf parsley, chopped

Melt the butter in a heavy stock pot. Add the onions, thyme sprigs, and bay leaf. Cook 'til tender, then toss in the balsamic vinegar, and reduce.

Once the balsamic’s reduced, add the wine; let it bubble gently for a bit, then toss in the chicken broth. Let come to a boil, turn the flame down, and let cook for about 15 minutes.

Add the Gorgonzola, and swirl it around ‘til it melts. Remove the bay leaf and thyme sprigs.

Garnish with parsley, if you want a wee bit of color in an otherwise drab looking soup.

ADDENDA

Alan Davidson, The Oxford Companion to Food, New York, 1999.
David Tanis, Heart of the Artichoke and other kitchen journeys, New York, 2010.

to a porcupine

The Scallion is burying a porcupine as I write. She was discovered this morning on the usual pup walk (that means the adult dogs; puppers can barely handle the terrace), they found her on a path in the woods. Lulu managed to get to her, and the Scallion had to remove a quill from her mouth.

(Lulu is dumb. Just last week I had to remove a thorned twig of the recently-pruned-but-hadn’t-made-it-to-the-compost-pile Banks rose from her muzzle. We went into the woods, Lulu stopping her run to drag her head along the ground and mash her paw violently on her muzzle; I could find nothing in her mouth. We returned home, she was breathing fine, I went to the kitchen to find blood everywhere. Re-opened her mouth, saw thorned twig breaching the roof of her mouth. Taking a big, deep breath, I yanked it. She was fine, though had yogurt and pappa (in this case, reconstituted with water dried Tuscan bread for dinner that night.)

The Scallion returned the pups, took the wheelbarrow, and put the poor creature in it. Back at the house, he asked me if I wanted to see it.

She was a lovely animal (we know she was a she because we checked). Four prominent, practically fanged teeth, two on top, two on bottom. Paws that looked like they were part of a child’s stuffed toy. An ear that looked like it could belong to that child holding the stuffed toy.

Porcupines, according to Wiki, are the third largest rodents in the world (capybaras and beavers are bigger). Our porcupine was probably about two feet tall/long, with a dark coat, and white quills. We don’t know how she died. A gash on her neck, and foam at her nose (which would, of course, indicate poison) were the only indications of something gone seriously awry. We wondered if a wild boar had gotten to her, as wild boars forage in these woods (multitudinous signs of rooting appear; they are rummaging with their long, big noses for Jerusalem artichokes). Other web sources say that a type of weasel (the fisher) attacks porcupines by repeatedly having at their faces. Our porcupine’s face was mercifully undisturbed (except for that foam), and weasels don’t live in this part of the world.

Another possibility is the horned owl, of which there are many. But she was simply too large for an owl to cart away.

We discussed what to do next. The dumpster down the road was the easiest solution but, looking at her, we thought she deserved something more respectful. So the Scallion will be burying her with the remains of the Banks rose.

And then there’s a chicken head in a pot on my stove. What a lovely surprise after seeing a dead porcupine. I had forgotten this when attempting to strain the broth made last night. It’s early morning, and one of its reptilian feet had broken the surface of what will undoubtedly be a fantastic broth (thanks to the feet and head). Like the burial of the porcupine, the task of straining the broth will fall to the Scallion.

Mother Nature today somehow feels too overwhelming.

On our kitchen table are six eggs, a gift from neighbors via my mother-in-law. Straw is still attached to some of them. We got them yesterday, the day they were laid.
Dinner tonight? Zuppa pavese, a simple yet elegant dish (Elizabeth David: “.. it is a capital invention”).

The origins of this are fun, but probably not true. Waverley Root writes that a young peasant girl enriched a simple consommé with an egg before serving it to Francis I of France, who had been taken prisoner at the battle of Pavia. He liked it so much that he took the recipe back with him to France a year later when he was freed.

[This sounds like a prequel to the other culinary myth that Catherine de’Medici took her chefs with her when she married Henry, thus imparting the glories of Italian cuisine to the clueless French. But by this account, her future father-in-law beat her to it.]

You can either poach the egg in the broth, then pour it over the buttered toast. Or you can put the buttered toast in a deep soup tureen, put just the egg yolk on top, and pour the hot broth over it. This is advocated by Root, who then adds, in a parenthetical aside, “Persons inexpert at separating yolks often use the whole egg.”

Ada Boni goes for the whole egg approach, put on top of the buttered toast, the hot broth then is poured over it.

Zuppa Pavese/Soup from Pavia

4 slices of Tuscan bread
4 organic eggs
2-3 T. butter
¼ c. Parmesan, grated
3 c. chicken broth
White truffle, grated, if you’re blessed

Bring the broth to a boil.

In a saucepan, melt the butter, and brown the slices of bread (which you’ve cut in half) in said. Put the bread slices in two deep soup tureens, poach the eggs, remove with a spatula from the bubbling broth, and place carefully on top of the toast. Pour the broth over, and eat.

The possible inclusion of grated white truffle is not part of this classic recipe. But wouldn’t it taste swell?

ADDENDA

Elizabeth David, Italian Food, Middlesex, 1954.
Waverley Root, The Food of Italy, New York, 1971,
Ada Boni, La Cucina Regionale Italiana, Roma, 1985.

From Wikipedia.org: “The Battle of Pavia, fought on the morning of February 24, 1525, was the decisive engagement of the Italian War of 1521-26. A Spanish-Imperial army under the nominal command of Charles de Lannoy (and working in conjunction with the garrison of Pavia, commanded by Antonio de Leyva) attacked the French army under the personal command of Francis I of France in the great hunting preserve of Mirabello outside the city walls. In the four-hour battle, the French army was split and defeated in detail. The French suffered massive casualties, including many of the chief nobles of France; Francis himself, captured by the Spanish troops, was imprisoned by Charles V and forced to sign the humiliating Treaty of Madrid, surrendering significant territory to his captor. The outcome of the battle cemented Spanish Habsburg ascendancy in Italy.”

Happy Birthday, Virginia Woolf!

Chewing Dogs

Why do puppies chew? Why do puppies go exactly where they’re not supposed to, even if you’ve barricaded the no-go-to zones?

While pondering these impenetrables, I googled “why puppies chew” and came up with 2,780,000 hits. Evidently this is a major world-wide preoccupation. Googling “why puppies chew things you don’t want them to” revealed 11,000,000 hits.

What have they chewed? Their first major coup was the cover of the Bronzino catalogue from the magnificent drawings exhibition at the Met last year. Their second? They nibbled the corner of Vasari’s Lives (1568 ed.). They appear to be a bookish lot, and we happen to have a whole lot of books for them to … um … peruse. Just this afternoon I pulled Noah Feldman’s Fall and Rise of the Islamic State from their greedy little jaws.

From peteducation.com : “Puppies chew on whatever they can get their mouths on for any number of reasons: they are bored, they have a lot of energy, they are teething, or they are just curious. Dogs learn through their mouths. It is their tool; it is how they receive a great deal of information. They are naturally inclined to use their mouths whenever they can.” Peteducation.com then counsels puppy proofing areas, which we have dutifully done. But being imaginative pups, and dogged pups, they have managed to get into most places they’re not supposed to (who knew, for example, that they would crawl under the armchair, the aperture being only about two inches)? Funny how puppies can insert themselves into spaces you hardly thought possible.

The next bit of advice? “Confine your pup in a crate.” Yes, we have, but Yip discovered how to vault her way out of it (she combines fine athleticism with her chewing habits), thus causing us to literally put a lid on it (the lid, in this case, being the remains of an addition to an old family dining table).

Then “closely supervise your uncrated pup.” Ah, we do, but there’s three of them, and it’s hard to multi-task.

Peteducation continues: “Give your puppy chew toys.” Oh, we have, but why chew on the expensive rope gadget from a shop in Florence when you can chew on something far more interesting like the cardboard cylinder remaining after you’ve used up all the paper towels (which, of course, have been used to clean up after them). Besides, chewing on people is a whole lot more fun: just ask Yip, Yap, and Yup. It’s heaven when they’re all present in the same spot, as they are right now chewing on the wicker waste basket.

My favorite, however, is this: (again, from peteducation) :” If you catch your puppy in the act of chewing anything but his chew toy, remove the object and replace it with an acceptable chew toy. If your puppy then chews on the toy, praise him. You always want to reinforce desired behavior with praise. If possible, treat the 'inappropriate object' with a product designed to deter chewing, such as Grannick's Bitter Apple or Drs. Foster and Smith Chew Stop that will give it a bad taste.”

First off, we have Bitter Bite, in aerosol form. It appears to work as an aphrodisiac for them or a tonic; seconds after the book has been sprayed, they’re right back at it. We attempt to follow the advice above, but experience has shown that you remove pup(s) from Forbidden Object, and direct him/her/usually them to Appropriate Object. This keeps them busy for – oh, three seconds – before they return to the Forbidden Object.

Two large dogs live with us, and they would be perfect to chew on, if only the two large dogs could be bothered with three small puppers. They couldn’t. Lulu never properly learned to play with others; she entered our pack when Waldo was already installed. She learned to play with him (if you can count him hanging out underneath her and nipping at her hind paws, and her ending the discussion by sitting on him) but not with others. Today she made a couple of clumsy attempts to engage a pup in play (her coordination was equal to that of a center for the Boston Celtics attempting to do a plié). These attempts cowed the pups, caused Harry to howl … well, you should have been here.

Harry could not be bothered with them, though he has conducted innumerable site inspections of each pup – particularly Yup (the only other boy). It’ll be a great day when they start trying to out-pee one another; hopefully, the camera will be ready.

Outdoors, the puppers have attempted to massacre the Chinese mustard greens and bok choi. If they massacre that, I will massacre them (for those of you who don’t live in Italy: those two vegetables do not exist in this country; these are from seeds illegally brought in by Dogaressa of the Broken Halo and are, as such, treasures).

They’re killing the lavender. In fact, their choice of it as their outdoor commode has led others (named Lulu, Harry, and Rosie), to spend their pennies there, too.
They’ve torn little holes in a lot of my clothes (oddly, the Scallion gets off rather lightly in this respect). Yesterday, the Missoni shawl was put up high on the kitchen table so that they would not dig in, but some enterprising pup managed to pull it down, and the three of them engaged in a short, but vibrant, tug of war.

You are not supposed to yell at dogs, nor at puppies, but I swear my roars could be heard as far south as Rome.

If you want some laughs, go to google.com, click on Immagini, and type in Chewing Dogs. You'll see a lot of chewing dogs.

I mull over creating a dish that will keep those puppers chewing for centuries – a kind of Gladstone-ian method of chewing at least one hundred times before swallowing (although swallowing doesn't seem to be the conclusion to this exercise). Salt-water taffy comes immediately to mind, but that would probably kill them, and that is not the aim. Any suggestions would be most gratefully welcomed.

uno zucchino, due zucchini, tre zucchini, quattro

Is there a more boring vegetable in the world than zucchini? (You might counter by naming any root vegetable, and then I would counter-counter with green beans.)

This question occurred to me while contemplating all the zucchini we have in the refrigerator (the Scallion is fond of this vegetable). Started thinking about how to make zucchini interesting in time for lunch, consulted my usual vegetable go-to folk (Simon Hopkinson, Nigel Slater, Sophie Grigson) and even they didn’t really have much to say – lots of empty (to my mind, and I am a huge fan of all of three) recipes. Re-do the Talking Heads line “You’re talking a lot/but you’re not saying anything” to “You’ve written many zucchini recipes/but I’m not tasting anything.”

While out on the terrace with the pups and the puppers, I wondered why a (boring) vegetable originally from the Americas has an Italian name in the plural – theoretically, one zucchini would be uno zucchino (or, a/one zucchino)(even my automatic spellcheck corrects the o to an i); then I wondered why we in North America (Canadian readers, is it ok if I assume you call it so?) imported the Italian name, and the English imported its French name (which is courgette, which is why I originally didn’t find any zucchini recipes in the above three-listed English writers, because I was having a blonde moment).

These profound thoughts I had while watching Yip, Yap, and Yup attack many of the terracotta pots on the terrace: I can state with certainty that they enjoy curly parsley (especially Yip), geraniums (especially Yap), and artemisia (especially Yup). (Let the record show that they enjoyed chewing rue ‘til steered away from it, that the ivy was fun, too – oh, but fun-nest of all was chewing on the Banks rose, a stray vine fluttered very close to pup-level). The Scallion needs to prune it forthwith, but perhaps he won’t need to, as three small souls seem to be doing a nice job on it all by themselves. One of the beauties of shooing Yap away from the leaves-covered hyacinth pot was the revelation that the hyacinth is growing. Thank you, my little hyacinth girl ...

It will be a challenge keeping them away from the lavender, which Waldo never evinced any interest in. They have found the lavender/clematis-we-hope-this-year nook a fine spot in which to relieve themselves. Troubling.

(It should be noted that on Waldo’s first and only trip abroad (to the south of France) he displayed exceedingly good gardening/landscaping skills. He pretty much wrecked the herbaceous border of our rental; he did, however, counter that malicious canine behavior by eating raw snails, which is something that I hope the 3Ys will take to, since our garden teems with them.)

(Neither Lulu nor Rosie have any interest in the botanical world as experienced on our terrace, and Harry prefers the garden.)

Here’s some controversy, as I’d always thought that zucchini were native to the Americas: Alan Davidson sets the record straight, kind of: “That there is no true English name reflects the fact that, although courgettes were mentioned (in italic, to show that the word was a foreign one) in a few English recipe books of the 1930s, they only became popular in England after Elizabeth David in the 1950s and 1960s had introduced them (not in italic) to readers of her books; and that as zucchini they had a similar late arrival in the U.S., where Italian immigrants made the introduction.” Grazie tante, voi italiani. We give you the tomato and look what you give us in return.

Asks Elizabeth David: “ Why do we have to leave marrows growing until they are the size of pumpkins and taste of nothing but water? … Baby marrows, on the contrary, are delicious and delicate …” Perhaps. I hate to quibble with one of my heroes, so I won’t, though I would whisper in an audience-aside kind of moment that even baby marrows (zucchini) taste like water.

AHA! From Wiki: Zucchini, like all summer squash, has its ancestry in the Americas.[citation needed] However, the varieties of squash typically called "zucchini" were developed in Italy, many generations after their introduction from the "New World". (You will, of course, note the usual uncertainty with Wikipedia: “citation needed.”) In all probability, this occurred in the very late 19th century, probably near Milan; early varieties usually included the names of nearby cities in their names. (Do note that there’s a couple of citations needed here, especially in the last sentence which I stupidly just deleted.)

(And in the Who Knew? Department, from Wiki: In a culinary context, zucchini is treated as a vegetable, which means it is usually cooked and presented as a savory dish or accompaniment. Botanically, however, the zucchini is an immature fruit, being the swollen ovary of the female zucchini flower.)

Have you ever knowingly eaten a swollen ovary before? Well, now you know you have.

Yes, I know that the most recent recipe posted was a risotto recipe. We tend to eat a lot of it around here, and this was one way of disguising zucchini. Sort of.
In an ideal world, baby leeks would substitute for the red onion; I wanted to pull a couple from our garden, but the Scallion advised me to wait ‘til they got bigger. In an equally ideal world, this risotto would be finished with a handful of chopped fresh marjoram but, as it turns out, Harry peed on it today rendering that an impossibility. Do know that this risotto is Italianate, not Italian. Putting sour cream – a hard-to-find product in many parts of Italy (we only have it at the local supermarket because where we live in Tuscany is heavily trafficked by Germans). If you want to render this more Italianate than Alto Adige-ish, use cream or an egg yolk instead.

We begin to plan our garden, as very shortly we’re planting garlic, fave, and peas for an early spring harvest. Guess what else will be included?

Risotto al pollo e zucchini/Risotto with chicken and zucchini

1¼ c. Arborio rice
2 T. butter
1 T. extravirgin olive oil
1 medium sized red onion, chopped
1 c. good-quality white wine
3-4 c. chicken or vegetable broth, heated ‘til quite hot
2 c. cooked chicken
1 c. zucchini, diced
1 zucchino, grated
1 c. Parmesan cheese, grated
2-3 T. sour cream
Handful of fresh marjoram

Melt the butter and extravirgin olive oil in a large, wide-brimmed saucepan. Add the chopped red onion (or leek, even better), and saute ‘til the onion is translucent.
Toss in the rice, and coat to cover. Add a cup of white wine (remember, it has to be potabile, because you’re drinking the rest of it with lunch), stir ‘til the rice absorbs it. Keep adding, as usual, in increments, the broth.

About five minutes before it’s ready to eat (which would be about 15 minutes after you’ve started), toss in the chicken and diced zucchini, and stir. A minute later, add the grated zucchini and the Parmesan cheese.

When it’s done, add the chopped marjoram (if pee free) and the sour cream (or cream, or egg yolk). Add a couple of grindings of salt from the mill, and pepper from the mill, check for seasoning, and eat immediately.

This would feed six as a modest starter, and four as a main course. In today’s case, it generously fed the Scallion (who cannot remember if he had thirds or fourths), and allowed a generous dollop to the Pups (Lulu, Harry, Rosie) on top of their evening kibble.

ADDENDA

Line from “Psycho Killer,” Talking Heads: 77.
Alan Davidson, The Oxford Companion to Food, New York, 1999.
Elizabeth David, Italian Food, Middlesex, 1954.

The Joy of Cooking has a most excellent zucchini pancake recipe. It’s made most excellent by the inclusion of feta. Epicurious.com lists 589 zucchini recipes; most of those garnering four forks involved zucchini playing the supporting role to an animal product like cheese or meat. Zucchini flower recipes also receive great praise, but how could they not if stuffed with things like crabmeat and then fried? How could you possibly go wrong with that? Stig, Scottish chum in London, made a remarkable zucchini dish this past August – it had almonds and tomatoes in it. Eek! Did I just use “remarkable” in conjunction with “zucchini?”

Nine Ladies Dancing

For those of you not living in Italy, your holidays basically wind down today.

For those of us living in Italy, we soldier on, as things don’t wind down ‘til the Befana, which is the 6th of January, Epiphany, as it’s known most everywhere else in Christendom.

Yesterday, we meant to introduce our Puppers, Yip, Yap, and Yup, to the great outdoors on the 1st day of the year – taking them outside in the sun -- after lunching as always on the eve/or 1st on obligatory cotechino e lenticchie (fatty fatty sausage with lentils) but, as it turns out, Yip, Yap, Yup, the Scallion, Lulu, Rosie, and Harry were fast asleep when the sun was out.

So we didn’t.

Still in holiday mode, I’m trying to figure out the “Twelve Days of Christmas” and wondering when it starts. If it starts on Christmas Day, then it ends on January 7th … don’t think so. So it must start on the 24th of December.

That made no sense, either. I was dumber and dumbing myself to pieces. So I went to Wikipedia.org. They say: “The Twelve Days of Christmas are the festive days beginning Christmas Day (25 December). This period is also known as Christmastide. The Twelfth Day of Christmas is 5 January,[1] with the celebrations of Christmas traditionally ending on Twelfth Night and is followed by the Feast of the Epiphany on 6 January. In some traditions, the first day of Epiphany (January 6) and the twelfth day of Christmas overlap.”

So, then, Twelfth Night? Again, wiki: “In England in the Middle Ages, this period was one of continuous feasting and merrymaking, which climaxed on Twelfth Night, the traditional end of the Christmas season. In Tudor England, Twelfth Night itself was forever solidified in popular culture when William Shakespeare used it as the setting for one of his most famous stage plays, titled Twelfth Night. Often a Lord of Misrule was chosen to lead the Christmas revels.”

(Harry and Yup can vie for the role of Misrule, although right now, as I write, Yip would win hands down.)

People first started singing the twelve-day carol in 1780. This lengthy carol, which seems so secular really isn’t. Each verse refers to something Biblical (quoting catholic.org (unbracketed):

1 Partridge in a Pear tree = True Love, refers to God
2 Turtle Doves = the Old and New Testaments
3 French Hens = Faith, Hope and Charity, the Theological Virtues
4 Calling Birds = the Four Gospels and/or the Four Evangelists [why not the four cardinal virtues, she shrieked, especially since we just had the three theologicals?]
5 Golden Rings = the first Five Books of the Old Testament, the "Pentateuch", which gives the history of man's fall from grace. [Here I really want to bellow Five Golden Retrievers, for reasons that are only too obvious.][Apologies to the Old Testament.]
6 Geese A-laying = the six days of creation
7 Swans A-swimming = the seven gifts of the Holy Spirit, the sacraments [and why not on the 7th day He/She rested? … just wondering …]
8 Maids A-milking = the eight beatitudes
9 Ladies Dancing = the nine Fruits of the Holy Spirit
10 Lords A-leaping = the Ten Commandments [we all know those, don’t we?]
11 Pipers Piping = the eleven faithful apostles [no reference for Judas’s substitute, who came in off the bench]
12 Drummers Drumming = the points of doctrine in the Apostle's Creed

Christmas lunch gave us leftover roast beef/rosbif, leftover Jerusalem artichoke (topaminbur, and yes, we only had but one), and some broth: What to do with this refrigerator pot pourri besides make sandwiches? Why, risotto, of course!
(This risotto will look gray and muddy, as many inevitably do. But who cares? It tastes really good, and you’ll be too tired from the festivities to pay it much attention. You might feel good that you’re not feeding the rosbif to the dogs. Or not. To spruce up this risotto, and if you can be bothered, chop a handful of flat-leaf parsley, and adorn at the last minute before serving.)

Risotto al rosbif

140 g. Arborio rice
2 T. butter + 2 T.
1 T. extravirgin olive oil
1 c. red wine (can be the lousy stuff from the box, since you drank all the good stuff in bottles on Christmas Day)
4 c. chicken/beef broth leftover from the broth recipe I did not write about, warmed
¾ lb. mushrooms, sliced
1 c. (at least) leftover rosbif, julienned*
¾ c. leftover grated Parmesan (from the tortellini in brodo)
3 T. Worcestershire sauce
Sea salt and freshly-ground black pepper to taste
Handful of parsley (see above note)

Melt 2 T. butter and one T. extravirgin olive oil in a large saucepan on a medium-low flame. Add the rice, and toss to coat. Add the cup of wine, stir, and let it absorb. Continue adding the broth incrementally.

In between ladlefuls, melt the remaining two tablespoons of butter in a saucepan, add the mushrooms, and cook ‘til nicely browned. Remove from heat and reserve.
When the rice is just about done (after about 15 minutes), add the roast beef, grated Parmesan, and Worcestershire sauce. Five minutes or so later, taste for seasoning – add sea salt and freshly ground black pepper to taste, and the optional parsley.

*Astute reader Terracotta Sculptress pointed out that I'd omitted the amount of rosbif. Most excellent point, as this risotto is about that. Thank you, Terracotta Sculptress!

Serves two, generously.

On New Year’s Eve, the Scallion and I sat around the wood-burning stove, glasses of The Widow in hand, and talked about 2010 before watching Witness for the Prosecution for the 29th time. 2010 all came down to one word: Waldo. Which is why his picture is on the upper-left hand side of this note. He’d just come to live with us. We miss him as much today as we did on August 13, 2010.

Here’s hoping 2011 is better than 2010.

ADDENDA

I know at least one of my readers knows this by heart, but I also know that many of us don’t, so:

The Seven Gifts: Isaiah 11:2-3: The Spirit of the LORD will rest on him—
the Spirit of wisdom and of understanding,
the Spirit of counsel and of might,
the Spirit of the knowledge and fear of the LORD—
3 and he will delight in the fear of the LORD.
He will not judge by what he sees with his eyes,
or decide by what he hears with his ears;

The Eight Beatitudes: Matthew 5:3-12
Blessed are the poor in spirit: for theirs is the kingdom of heaven.
Blessed are the meek: for they shall possess the land.
Blessed are they that mourn: for they shall be comforted.
Blessed are they that hunger and thirst after justice: for they shall have their fill.
Blessed are the merciful: for they shall obtain mercy.
Blessed are the clean of heart: for they shall see God.
Blesses are the peacemakers: for they shall be called children of God.
Blessed are they that suffer persecution for justice' sake: for theirs is the kingdom of heaven.
Blessed are ye when they shall revile you, and persecute you, and speak all that is evil against you, untruly, for my sake: Be glad and rejoice, for your reward is very great in heaven.

The Nine Fruits of the Holy Spirit: Paul, Galatians 5:22-23 But the fruit of the Spirit is love, joy, peace, patience, kindness, goodness, faithfulness, gentleness and self-control. Against such things there is no law.

Twelve Drummers Drumming The twelve points of doctrine in the Apostles' Creed: 1) I believe in God, the Father almighty, creator of heaven and earth. 2) I believe in Jesus Christ, his only Son, our Lord. 3) He was conceived by the power of the Holy Spirit and born of the virgin Mary. 4) He suffered under Pontius Pilate, was crucified, died, and was buried. He descended into hell [the grave]. 5) On the third day he rose again. He ascended into heaven, and is seated at the right hand of the Father. 6) He will come again to judge the living and the dead. 7) I believe in the Holy Spirit, 8) the holy catholic Church, 9) the communion of saints, 10) the forgiveness of sins, 11) the resurrection of the body, 12) and life everlasting. (crivoice.org)

Io, Saturnalia!

OTTAWA — This year's winter solstice — an event that will occur next Tuesday — will coincide with a full lunar eclipse in a union that hasn't been seen in 456 years.
The celestial eccentricity holds special significance for spiritualities that tap into the energy of the winter solstice, the shortest day of the year and a time that is associated with the rebirth of the sun.” (This from the Montreal Gazette, addenda’d below.)

Wow. That’s today.

The last time that happened was 1554 say some sources; NASA says 1638. I prefer to go with 1554, since I will experience something not experienced since Cosimo I experienced this, that is if he experienced it. Cosimo might’ve been clueless, as he was busy taking over Siena. The last time the solstice and a lunar eclipse occurred, Cellini was putting the finishing touches on his Perseus. Or maybe he was already in the Loggia dei Lanzi. Perseus, that is.

Then I thought about the Saturnalia, wherein ancient Romans would have been whooping it up an even longer time ago. Was this feasting tied into the shortest days of the year merging into the beginning of more light?

Says the sometimes reliable Wikipedia: “Saturnalia was introduced around 217 BCE to raise citizen morale after a crushing military defeat at the hands of the Carthaginians.[1] Originally celebrated for a day, on December 17, its popularity saw it grow until it became a week-long extravaganza, ending on the 23rd. Efforts to shorten the celebration were unsuccessful. Augustus tried to reduce it to three days, and Caligula to five. These attempts caused uproar and massive revolts among the Roman citizens.”

It sounds a whole lot like Christmas, doesn’t it? Though we’re not sacrificing much of anything (unless you count spending a lot of money which you don’t necessarily have on presents) and the Romans surely did (probably the obligatory and unimaginative ram), Saturnalia involved giving presents, allowing gambling (even for slaves), Saturnalia, continues wikipedia.org, “ was a time to eat, drink, and be merry. The toga was not worn, but rather the synthesis, i.e. colorful, informal "dinner clothes"; and the pileus (freedman's hat) was worn by everyone. Slaves were exempt from punishment, and treated their masters with (a pretense of) disrespect … The customary greeting for the occasion is a "Io, Saturnalia!" — Io (pronounced "e-o") being a Latin interjection related to "ho," or less quaintly today, “yo” (as in "Ho/Yo, praise to Saturn").”

Why praise Saturn? Because he was the god of agriculture. He also was the father of Zeus, and failed to eat him (as he did most of his other children, fearing that he would be usurped) because Mother Earth (Gaia) put a stone in the swaddling clothes which Saturn duly swallowed. Zeus lived to tell the tale, and to enact a lot of his own misdeeds.

I continue to rip off/quote wiki: Seneca the Younger wrote about Rome during the Saturnalia around 50 a.d./c.e. (Sen. epist. 18,1-2): “It is now the month of December, when the greatest part of the city is in a bustle. Loose reins are given to public dissipation; everywhere you may hear the sound of great preparations, as if there were some real difference between the days devoted to Saturn and those for transacting business... Were you here, I would willingly confer with you as to the plan of our conduct; whether we should eve in our usual way, or, to avoid singularity, both take a better supper and throw off the toga.”

Richard Cohen, in an op-ed piece in yesterday’s International Herald Tribune remarks: “Thus, although the New Testament gives no indication of Christ’s actual birthday (early writers preferring a spring date), in 354 Pope Liberius declared it to have befallen on Dec. 25. The advantages of Christmas Day being celebrated then were obvious. As the Christian commentator Syrus wrote: “It was a custom of the pagans to celebrate on the same Dec. 25th the birthday of the sun, at which they kindled lights in token of festivity …”

Throw off the toga! Our plan of conduct? To eat and drink to excess. Except.

It might be the shortest day of the year, it might be a feast fit for the gods, except that it’s a pretty grim day on the Roman Catholic calendar. Ten saints are feted on the 21st of December: St. Peter Canisius, Bl. Adrian, St. Anastasius XII, St. Andrew Dung Lac, St. Themistoeles, St. Severinus, St. Glycerius, St. Honoratus of Toulouse, St.John and Festus, and St. John Vincent. Peter Canisius (1521-1597) spooked for the Vatican, toting heaving tomes of Catholic doctrine into Luther-filled zones; Bl. Adrian, who lived sometime in the 13th century, was executed with 27 others in Dalmatia by Muslims; Anastasius XII, patriarch of Antioch, might’ve been killed by Syrian Jews about 609 a.d./c.e.; Andrew Dung Lac, canonized in 1988, was martyred in Vietnam in 1839 and recently-ish canonized in 1988; St. Themistoeles, in Nicodemia, was martyred in 253 a.d./c.e., St. Severinus, bishop of Trier, around 300, with “No details of his labors are available” (one tends to think of Hercules at such moments), St. Honorius of Toulouse, 3rd century religious guy, seemingly escaped being martyred, St. John and Festus – this sounded promising – martyrs of Tuscany, “Their Acta are no longer extant”; St. John Vincent, a 7th century bishop and hermit (one wonders how he pulled that off – bishop and hermit? Kind of like a baby grand piano).

Had been hoping that, of those 10 saints honored on this day, at least one of them would be associated with something celebratory, something festive. But NO. At least half of them were possibly martyred. The most promising of the group was “St. John and Festus” – as “festus” suggests “festa” and “festival” and all sorts of good things. But again : NO. Virtually nothing’s known about this duo; even the go-to- www.santiebeati.it showed zip for these two so-called Tuscan martyrs.

Obviously, a most joy-less bunch in this period of joy.

"For see, winter is past, the rains are over and gone. Flowers are appearing on the earth. The season of glad songs has come, the cooing of the turtledove is heard in our land."

Merry Christmas/Buon Natale/Here comes the sun …

ADDENDA

For the rest of the article, go to http://www.montrealgazette.com/life/Solstice+eclipse+overlap+first+years/3983582/story.html#ixzz18Y6Wwy5P

Richard Cohen, “There goes the sun,” International Herald Tribune, December 20, 2010.

Italians often play Tombola on Christmas day. It’s a whole lot like Bingo, only funner [sic]. Sometimes $ is exchanged, as it will be at our house this year. So I guess you could say we’re running – if only for a day – a gambling den.

List of ten saints for December 21st from www.catholic.org.

Song of Songs 2:11-12

Photograph of the Mistress of Deportment (Georgia), Tillie, and Santa Paws … a long, long time ago.

Not about the broth

Every year, weeks before the day, we discuss what to eat for Christmas lunch. This is the subject of intense scrutiny and, often, of heated debate (well, not really heated, but it makes it all sound somewhat more exciting, no?). We decided to do the fish thing on Christmas Eve, which is what Italians tend to do (more on that in an imminent post).

We decided to mix it up on Christmas day: a little bit Italian, a little bit English (five are half English, and it’s this half of the group that truly thrills to the Christmas pudding and brandy butter concluding the meal). The rest of us – a German, a Russian, and several Americans – do not see what all the fuss is about.

(Hopefully, Florentine Sister (herself half Danish) will attend, but serious canine issues need to be worked out – like, this place isn’t big enough for six adult dogs & three wee puppers.)

The starter (which will happen after the pre-starter, recipe below) will be tortellini in brodo to be followed by roast beef (rosbif, for those of us who live in Italy) with Yorkshire pudding. Marina, Muscovite chum, brings a herring dish which, she assures us, is one of the heaviest holiday dishes Russia has to offer.

Decided to make the broth over the weekend and freeze it. Typically a capon serves as the backbone of this stock, but nary a one was to be found in our local supermarket (presumably other Italian casalinghe – housewives – had the same idea).

Eight pounds of assorted chicken backs/chicken wings/beef bones/turkey legs/ one whole chicken were placed in a large stockpot; the concoction was meant to come to a very slow boil whereupon various condiments (the typical stuff you throw into a stock when making one) were to be added. We put the pot on the wood-burning stove which, after a couple of hours, we decided was really too slow a boil. Even Artusi, who wrote that to make a good broth it’s necessary to place the meat in cold water and to bring it to a boil slowly slowly and never let it spill from boiling “mettere la carne ad acqua diaccia e far bollire la pentola adagino adagino e che non trabocchi mai” would surely have nodded his be-toque’d hat in agreement. So back on the gas stove it went.

Many, many hours later we put the broth outside – lidded, of course – to cool down. It’s since been kind of successfully drained (will have to apply the egg white process pre-serving it in order to remove various residue), put in Italian Tupperware, and frozen. We’ll make the tortellini this weekend, and freeze them as well (thereby freeing up our hands for more important things on the day like holding cups of egg nog and hanging out with our friends).

A messy operation, this whole broth business. Every time I do it I wonder why I do. The Senior Pups got the dregs from the beef bones, and the pretty-much-tasteless fowl products went into tonight’s chili.

A few months ago, Averardo, the Scallion’s urbane gourmet cousin, remarked that he found it a tragedy that tomatoes and olio nuovo (new olive oil, that of the first pressing) didn’t happen seasonally at the same time: tomatoes peak from July to mid-September, and olio nuovo’s pretty much a November thing. Imagine eating a tomato freshly picked from your very own vine (or someone else’s) and drowning it in olio nuovo with a pinch of sea salt! Or imagine eating insalata caprese (mozzarella di bufala, basil, and tomatoes) with olio nuovo.

Recently, I read something shocking in “Tables for Two” in the New Yorker. Reviewing a new restaurant called il Matto in Manhattan, Andrea K. Scott writes, “The tired combination of mozzarella, tomato, and basil is refreshed as a velvety buffalo-cheese soup, served with a dollop of tomato ice and herb-dusted crostini.”

TIRED COMBINATION??? Let me quote the good Dr. Johnson who said, “No, Sir, when a man is tired of London, he is tired of life; for there is in London all that life can afford.” (Unless you're lactose intolerant), substitute insalata caprese for London, and bring on the morphine drip for Ms./Mr. Scott! She (I assume she’s a she, unless he’s Italian, at which point ‘Andrea’ names a he) has evidently never had a proper insalata caprese; otherwise, she/he would never pen such a blasphemous thought. “Velvety buffalo-cheese soup?” Oh, my. Tomatoes in November? Oh, my, my. How would they taste of anything (unless, of course, the chef has studied with Ferran Adria and has infused that tomato ice with essence of tomato via blow-torch chemistry lab technique)? I digress …

For true fans of a properly executed insalata caprese – and we know who we are – there’s nothing like the first one of the season, usually sometime in early July. The cheese is at room temperature (and has been all morning, if it’s not too hot), it mingles with the tomatoes and olive oil … and, in fact, mopping it up with bread or, indeed, drinking the liquid is always the perfect way to finish off the plate. (Perhaps we could call that soup and perhaps it would find a place on the menu at il Matto?)

Now just imagine that with olio nuovo.

The following recipe is a wintry insalata caprese. No basil’s in this because it’s not growing outside right now, but arugula is. It will probably precede the tortellini in brodo.

Insalata caprese d’inverno/Winter Salad from the Isle of Capri

Two large handfuls arugula, spun dry and coarsely chopped
½ lb. freshest mozzarella di bufala, at room temperature, chopped into chunky cubes
¾ c. sundried tomatoes, in oil, drained and chopped
2 T. brine-packed capers
1 T. dried oregano, preferably Greek, perchance Calabrian.
A liberal amount of olio nuovo
Sea salt and freshly ground black pepper to taste

About a half hour before serving, put the mozzarella di bufala in a bowl, toss liberally with olio nuovo, sea salt, and freshly ground black pepper. Then throw in all the other ingredients, toss, taste for seasoning, and bring the salad – and the bottle of olio nuovo – to table.

This comfortably serves two, with nothing left over for any dog at all.

VARIATION: substitute the sundried tomatoes with green olives, pitted and chopped. It would be even tastier if you could find green olives with garlic, a wee bit of hot peppers, and oregano.

(If you can’t find the best quality mozzarella di bufala, don’t try this at home.)

ADDENDA

Pellegrino Artusi, La Scienza in cucina e l’Arte di mangiar bene, Firenze, 2003. He suggests adding grilled onion to the mix, but cautions: producing wind, this is not for all stomachs “questa essendo ventosa non fa per tutti gli stomachi.” He also thinks broth tastes better if made in a terracotta pot (as opposed to iron or copper).

Review of il Matto in the November 15, 2010 New Yorker. Let the record also show I’m sad I’ll never get a table at El Bulli (www.elbulli.com), and that if I were in Copenhagen, I’d make a dash for Noma (www.noma.dk), if lucky enough to get a table.

For more on S.J.’s witticisms, go to www.samueljohnson.com.