briciole

insalata di fragole

I have recently written about strawberries, since I used them in a cobbler, and in a Danish braid. I also wrote about fragola a while ago. Today, I will describe a way of using the beloved berry in a savory setting. A typical savory use for strawberries is as an ingredient of risotto. However, since I have developed a recipe for risotto with another berry, I am putting off elaboration of this topic until a later date.

A few nights ago, I concocted an alliterative salad. However, the alliteration works only in Italian: insalata di fragole, fave e finocchi (strawberry, fava bean and fennel salad). This fusion was the result of random acts of purchase. I got the three ingredients with different ideas in mind, then decided to hijack them into a salad. The result worked well and I realized that the color combination, which was not at all part of my concerns, matches that of the Italian flag: bianco, rosso e verde (white, red and green), contributed by fennel, strawberries and fava beans, respectively. The Italian flag is a tricolore (tricolor) and sometimes referred to by that name. The green of fava beans is not the same green as that of the Italian flag, so I added basilico (basil) to strengthen the green component of the salad.

I prepared each element separately, then combined them:

• fragole: wash, hull and slice 1/2 lb of strawberries, then season them with a teaspoon of balsamic vinegar. Toss and set aside to marinate for a little while.
• fave: get the beans out of 1 lb of pods and blanch them briefly. Let cool, then remove the tough outer layer. Set aside.
• finocchi: wash carefully one big or two small fennel bulbs and slice thinly, possibly using a mandoline.

Bring the ingredients together in a serving bowl and mix. Season as desired. I tend to stay very close to the tradition I grew up with, i.e., olive oil and vinegar. Make the first good quality and the second balsamic and you cannot go wrong. Add salt and freshly-ground pepper to taste and toss. Add a few leaves of fresh basil, finely shred, toss again and serve. The combination of textures is another interesting characteristic of this simple summer salad.

This is my contribution to Fresh Produce of the Month, a fun event organized by Marta of An Italian in the US. There is time until July 21 to contribute to il mese delle fragole (strawberry month).

Hear me pronounce the words on the fragola audio file [mp3] or go to the fragola audio page for more listening options.

Novel Food #4: caponata di melanzane

(a.k.a. caponata siciliana) eggplant (or Sicilian) caponata

Tornò a la casa, raprì il frigorifero. Adelina doviva essiri stata colpita da un'acuta forma di vegetarianesimo. Caponatina e un sublime pasticcio di cacoccioli e spinaci. Conzò il tavolino della verandina e si sbafò la caponatina mentre il pasticcio si quadiava. Appresso, si liccò col pasticcio.

Back in the house, he opened the refrigerator. Adelina must have come down with an acute form of vegetarianism. Caponata and a sublime pasticcio of artichokes and spinach. He set the table on the veranda and wolfed down the caponata as the pasticcio was heating up. Then he reveled in the pasticcio.

As you may have already surmised, it is Salvo Montalbano who has just wolfed down a bowl of caponata (caponatina literally means small caponata), while sitting at the table on his veranda, facing the sea, and listening to its soothing sound. A while ago, Peter of Detectives Beyond Borders mentioned to me the quote above from La luna di carta (The Paper Moon) by Andrea Camilleri and I promised him I would try and make caponata, a traditional Sicilian dish, to celebrate the arrival of summer. And that is what I did, after reading again the novel for good measure and renewed pleasure.

La luna di carta is the story of a murder and it involves two women who, in different ways, attract Montalbano. One of them scores points with Montalbano by sharing with him the need to eat in silence. It is also the story of a Montalbano disturbed by thoughts about his death, a story of dark passions and drug dealing, a satisfying read.

According to the glossary of La Cucina Italiana, caponata "features cubed eggplants, celery, and onions - each one fried separately in a generous amount of olive oil - flavored with tomatoes, raisins, pine nuts, olives, a sprinkling of vinegar, and a touch of sugar for a characteristically sweet-and-sour flavor... Caponata is usually enjoyed as an antipasto in its native Sicily, but it also makes a lovely side dish and is quite delicious spooned onto crisp bread for crostini.

Caponata marries many flavors in an agrodolce (literally, sour-sweet) medley. I love melanzane, so I don't need special prodding to cook them, but I don't like them fried, so I bake them. Being a traditional and popular dish means that there are countless recipes for caponata, with ingredients (like bittersweet chocolate) added and subtracted depending on location. There are also different theories about the origin, evolution, and the etymology of its name. Since I don't have a family recipe to rely on, I felt free to experiment with whatever blueprint I chose. A year ago I read an appealing recipe on Saveur. I made several changes to both its list of ingredients and its procedure, based on my taste and various idiosyncracies. The result of my first attempt was really good, though not quite authentic. I think Sicilians, Montalbano et al., would not agree with my choice of not frying the eggplant, and you are welcome to side with them. Here is the list of the ingredients I used:

• 2 eggplants, cut into 1/2"-thick slices
• sea salt
• 1 large yellow onion, chopped
• 2 anchovies preserved in salt, halved, cleaned and chopped
  
• 3 ripe medium tomatoes, briefly immersed in boiling water, peeled, cored and coarsely chopped
• 2 ribs celery, thinly sliced crosswise
• 2 tablespoons blackberry and raspberry vinegar
• 2 tablespoons tomato paste
• 2 tablespoons golden raisins
• 2 tablespoons pine nuts, lightly toasted in a dry skillet
• 2 tablespoons capers, rinsed
• 12 pitted Kalamata olives, quartered (I like them better than green olives)
• 1 red bell pepper, roasted, peeled, cored, seeded, and chopped
• freshly-ground black pepper
• 2 tablespoons slivered fresh basil (from my pot)
• 2 tablespoons chopped fresh flat-leaf parsley (from my herb garden)

Note that, with respect to the Saveur recipe, I halved the quantity of vinegar and omitted the sugar. This is because, for my first try, I wanted to keep the sour and sweet flavors a bit toned down. I have a memory of a caponata eaten eons ago that was a bit too vinegary even for the vinegar lover that I am. I also used a berry vinegar instead of a red wine one, for no reason other than because I like it. I love anchovies and make generous use of them. You may decide to be more guarded. 

Sprinkle the eggplant slices with salt and let them stand for an hour, then remove the excess salt and pat them dry. Distribute on a baking sheet and bake at 425 F for 15 minutes, then flip and bake for the same amount of time. When cool, cube (1/2") the eggplant.

Generously spray with olive oil a pan and add the onion and anchovies. Cook for 5 minutes, then add the celery and cook on low heat for 10 minutes. If the pan becomes dry, add a bit of the juice from the chopped tomatoes. Add tomatoes and turn up the heat to medium-low. Cook 5 minutes, then add the vinegar and tomato paste. Mix to dissolve the paste. Cook 3-4 minutes. Add cooked eggplant, raisins, pine nuts, capers, olives, roasted pepper. Cook until everything is hot. Add salt and pepper to taste. Transfer to a plate and let cool slightly. Sprinkle basil and parsley on the top. Let the caponata cool before serving it. Better yet, store the caponata for a day in the fridge, take it out in advance and serve at room temperature.

I made the caponata before dinner and we ate it lukewarm. I was very happy about the result. The day after, it was definitely better. The flavors of the different ingredients come together in a sumptuous chorus, where each voice is distinguishable, but also works in harmony with the others. Caponata has a rich flavor. It reminds me of Sicily: its colors, its many architectural styles, its composite historical heritage.

This is my contribution to the fourth edition of Novel Food, a seasonal literary/culinary event that Lisa of Champaign Taste and I concocted a year ago and have been co-hosting ever since. The deadline for sending us your literary-inspired culinary creations is tomorrow, Saturday June 21, 2008, 9 am (Pacific Time). 

Hear me pronounce the words on the caponata di melanzane audio file [mp3] or go to the caponata di melanzane audio page for more listening options.

zucca ripiena

stuffed acorn squash
I grew up without personally knowing any winter squash. After I moved to Milan, I tasted a few dishes like risotto con la zucca and tortelli di zucca. I then moved to the US and fell in love with winter squash.

Here is a photo from the Arcata farmers' market with dark green acorn squash in the background, next to colorful dumpling squash. I don't think acorn squash is available in Italy. The literal translation of the name would be zucca ghianda. Can any of my Italian readers confirm or refute my idea that this kind of squash has not reached our shore? Acorn squash can be easily halved when raw, something I no longer try to do with bigger squash, after a mishap involving a dislocated knife blade. Half an acorn squash is a perfect portion for one person, so a whole squash makes a great course in a dinner for two.

A while ago my dear friend Cloud made acorn squash stuffed with pears, hazelnuts and dried cranberries (nocciole e mirtilli di palude secchi). If you think the dish sounds interesting, I can assure you it was delicious. The experience got me thinking about using pears, but placing them in a different environment, like scalogno e timo (shallot and thyme). Toasted noci pecan (pecans) would provide the crunch to the ensemble. I am currently in love with pecans, so I put them everywhere I can.

The dish is quite simple, but requires a bit of time for the roasting of the zucca. The dish also needs a bit of thyme, which I get from my little herb garden, where I recently planted an additional specimen. Preheat the oven to 375 F. Cut the acorn squash lengthwise and scoop out the seeds with a grapefruit spoon or a melon baller. Spray with olive oil a baking sheet and place on it the squash halves, cut side down. Bake for 45 minutes, until almost done. In the meantime, spray a small frying pan with olive oil and warm it up, then add 2 oz of shallot, finely chopped, and half a tablespoon of fresh thyme leaves. Cook, covered, until the shallot is soft, about 15 minutes, making sure it does not become dry (in which case add a splash of vegetable broth to the pan). Cut the pera (pear) in small pieces. Leave it unpeeled, if possible. Add the pear pieces to the shallot and cook for a couple of minutes. Sprinkle some freshly-ground pepper and salt, to taste. Also, toast 2 tablespoons of pecans in a dry skillet or in the oven, then chop them with a knife and add them to the pear and shallot mixture. Use this to fill the two halves of the squash, then put them back in the oven for 8-10 minutes. Eat immediately and fall in love with squash over again.

Zucca in Italian is also used to indicate the human head. Una zucca vuota (an empty head) is not a good sign, and neither is non avere sale in zucca (to lack common sense). I wish zucca were used in more complimentary expressions, but, since I cannot do much to change the language, I can make amends by celebrating zucche in my cooking.

This is my entry for Weekend Herb Blogging, the world-famous food blogging event started by amazing Kalyn of Kalyn's Kitchen, hosted this week by yours truly. Here's my roundup of WHB #112.

Hear me pronounce the words and expression on the zucca ripiena audio file [mp3] or go to the zucca ripiena audio page for more listening options.

purè di broccoli

broccoli purée
This morning it was not raining, so I decided to go out in the garden and do a bit of cleaning and thinking. I found several broccoli florets to harvest. I also found my camera (macchina fotografica) sitting on the low wall outside my office, which meant that my camera had spent the night, a highly humid night, outside. The prospect of being left camera-less due to recklessness was rather disturbing, but I decided that, before assessing the digital damage, I would take care of the fresh broccoli. That's also how we call them in Italian: broccoli. However, while in English the name is uncountable, in Italian it is plural, the singular being broccolo.

Vegetable star, super-healthy broccolo (full name: cavolo broccolo) may one day decide sue the Italian language for slander. In fact, calling someone broccolo is not a compliment. A classic example of broccolo (or, to be correct, broccola, since I am female) is yours truly leaving her camera outside all night, and during a spell of rainy weather to boot. As a consequence, a photographic record of my fresh broccoli does not exist.

Maybe because I recently made an excellent version of puréed cauliflower, compliments of Kalyn, but the idea got stuck in my mind of making purè di broccoli, a dish I had actually neither made nor tasted before. I steamed the florets and stems (about 1 lb) until they were soft. I also sprayed with olive oil a small frying pan, warmed it up and put in it half an onion, chopped. I added some minced fresh sage and cooked until the onion was quite soft, a little over 15 minutes. At the end, I added un pizzico di sale (a pinch of salt) and some freshly-ground black pepper, then placed both onion and broccoli in the food processor and puréed until smooth. I poured the intensely green, healthy purée in a bowl and sprinkled a tablespoon of freshly-grated parmigiano over it.(I got to use my brand new grattugia!)

While the broccoli was steaming, I turned on my camera and it did come alive. I then cleaned the lens and dried out the water that had seeped behind the LCD screen. To my surprise, the camera then seemed to perform as previously, which is the reason why I am able to show you what the finished dish looked like. As an improvisation, my broccoli purée turned out very well, as demonstrated by the fact that there were no leftovers. And in case you are wondering about my camera current whereabouts, rest assured, it is inside the house.

This is my entry for the November edition of Heart of the Matter, a heart-healthy event hosted this month by Michelle of The Accidental Scientist. The topic for this month was Holiday Food. My purè di broccoli is a not a classic holiday dish according to the tradition I come from. Its green color, however, reminded me of a Christmas tree (albero di Natale), with the grated parmigiano filling in for the snow (neve): doesn't this make it into a Holiday Food?

Here is the round-up of HotM #9.

Note: according to the heart-healthy recommendations, a small quantity of cheese is allowed and with all the flavor parmigiano packs, a little goes a long way in terms of flavor.

Hear me pronounce the words and expressions on the purè di broccoli audio file [mp3] or go to the purè di broccoli audio page for more listening option.

Casa dolce casa

home sweet home
From where I write I don't see the piles of boxes that are scattered around the house, so I can forget that at some point I will need to deal with them and their content. Il giorno di Ognissanti (on All Saints' Day), we arrived at what is now our main residence in beautiful Humboldt County (we will still spend part of the time in the Bay Area and therefore keep a base there). The morning fog burned off to reveal a gorgeous day that made the movers' job easier. The hand-painted sign hanging on the front door shows the name we chose for the house, which is perched, like a little marine bird, over the ocean (no reference to the fish of the same name). The sign was my idea and having it was an important step to make the house our home. I am writing this paragraph thinking of fabdo of parole di cioccolato, who just recently found her casa dolce casa: congratulazioni!

At some point I gathered the courage and went to check how my little vegetable patch and herb garden had fared during my six-week long absence. Così così (so-so) was the final verdict. The herb garden has done much better than the vegetable patch, with the exception of una pianta di zucchine (one zucchini plant), which I found carrying three oversize specimens. They were a bit hidden underneath the broad leaves, so they probably went unnoticed until my arrival. In the photo you can see the biggest two sitting on our bench. I hauled my prize to the kitchen and made my husband and the movers laugh. Beyond laughing, what is one supposed to do with monster zucchini (zuccone, one would say, though this term usually refers to either a stubborn or a slow-witted person)? Stuff them, I said to myself. E così ho fatto (and that is what I did).

For no particular reason I decided that the stuffing must have roasted bell peppers and some other ingredients from a recipe I created a little while ago for involtini di peperoni (bell pepper rolls). This being a test, I decided to stuff only half of one zucchina, so the given quantities need to be adjusted depending on how many zucchine you have.

I placed a giant zucchina cut in half widthwise (otherwise it would not fit) into a pot of boiling water and cooked for five minutes, then drained and cut one piece in half lengthwise. In the meantime I prepared the stuffing by mixing in a bowl:

• 1 roasted bell pepper, diced
• 1 Japanese eggplant, diced and cooked with a clove of garlic, minced, for about 15 minutes in a frying pan sprayed with olive oil
• 4 halves of pecans, toasted and chopped finely
• 1 tablespoon capers, rinsed and drained
• 1 tablespoon currants, left for 15 minutes in a small cup with hot water, then drained
• 1 tablespoon minced fresh herbs: origano, menta, salvia 'hot lips' (oregano, mint, hot lips sage)
• 1 tablespoon minced prezzemolo (parsley)
• olive oil, salt and pepper to taste

With the help of a grapefruit (pompelmo) spoon I carved out the core of the zucchina and distributed the stuffing in the resulting space. The photo shows the 8" square pan I used to bake the zucchina before it went into the oven. After spraying some olive oil over it, I baked the dish at 375 F for 35 minutes, and served it immediately as a side dish to frittata with red beet greens. The baking time for regular-size zucchine will probably be less: I would check the dish after 25 minutes.

This is my entry for Weekend Herb Blogging, the world-famous food blogging event started by Kalyn of Kalyn's Kitchen, hosted this week by the founder herself. Here is the recap of WHB #107.

Hear me pronounce the words on the Casa dolce casa audio file [mp3] or go to the Casa dolce casa audio page for more listening options.

zucchine a modo mio

zucchini my way
In Italian, both zucchino (plural: zucchini) and zucchina (plural: zucchine) are used. I grew up calling this (now) beloved vegetable zucchine. Last spring I planted a few seedlings and during the summer I harvested some fruit, which was particularly satisfying. Zucchine are quite versatile: whether cooked simply or as part of a complex dish, they always shine.

My favorite way of preparing zucchine when I do not have a lot of time is the following. I spray a frying pan with olive oil, warm it up and add 2-3 cloves of garlic, thinly sliced. After a couple of minutes I add a pound and a half of zucchine, sliced, sprinkle some freshly-ground black pepper, and mix well. I then cook over low heat until the zucchine are tender. After turning off the heat, I add a quarter cup of chopped fresh prezzemolo (parsley), a tablespoon of minced fresh maggiorana (marjoram, shown in the photo) and a pinch of salt, mix well and serve as a side dish. Marjoram, which has become one of my favorite herbs, gives a distinctive note to this simple recipe. Its fragrance is sensitive to heat and that is why I add it at the very end. If I have leftovers, a rare event, I use them as base for a frittata.

I knew that in Sicily zucchine could be big, but I was not quite prepared for what I saw the other day at the market in Palermo: specimens of the zucchina lunga (photo on the left) can be two or three feet long. I really wish I had access to a kitchen where I could try my favorite recipe on this Brobdingnagian representative of the vegetable kingdom.
The tender leaves of the zucchina lunga, called tenerumi, are also used as an ingredient in Sicilian dishes.

And let us not forget that fiori di zucca (zucchini blossoms) are also delicious, an additional virtue of zucchine, if we needed one.

This is my on-the-road entry for the two-year anniversary of Weekend Herb Blogging, the famous weekly event started by magic Kalyn of Kalyn's Kitchen. The festivities include an exciting name your favorite herb and vegetable election. Make sure you check the roundup: expect amazing food fireworks from around the world.

Hear me pronounce the words on the zucchine a modo mio audio file [mp3] or go to the zucchine a modo mio audio page for more listening options.

Novel Food II: cipollata

Inspector Montalbano gets home at the end of a long day and he immediately looks for his dinner: he opens the fridge and utters a neigh of sheer joy. Adelina, his housekeeper, has prepared for him due sauri imperiali con la cipollata, a dinner with which he is sure he will spend the night quarreling (meaning, he will have difficulty digesting), but totally worth it. I am not sure what kind of fish a sauro imperiale is¹, but, based on the name, I can imagine it is not a small one, and Montalbano eats two of them, with a side dish of onions. As his usual, when the weather allows it, Montalbano eats on the veranda of his house, overlooking the beach, and he does a fine job: he polishes off the plate and leaves behind only the fish heads and bones.

This episode occurs in the novel La Gita a Tindari (Excursion to Tindari), where Montalbano, besides solving the mystery of sundry murders, schemes to prevent his second in command, Mimì Augello, to move away from Vigata.

I love cipolle (onions), so making cipollata was a temptation I could not resist. I know that the neigh of sheer joy Montalbano uttered was inspired more by the fish than by the onions, but the farmers' market has these big, fresh onions that are difficult to resist and make me neigh with joy (not to worry: I am saying this metaphorically). I looked at the usual web site with recipes from the Montalbano novels and found one for cipollata. As a side note, I knew cipollata to be an onion and tomato soup, an indication that the name describes different dishes in different parts of Italy. In the tradition of agrodolce dishes like caponata, (i.e., dishes that include both sweet and sour ingredients), the given version of cipollata uses vinegar and sugar. The recipe, however, does not give a sense of what the result should be in terms of texture, because it does not specify the cooking time. I decided I would add less vinegar than indicated, and when it was time to add the sugar, I added fresh herbs from my garden.

The pleasure I derive from eating a dish made entirely of cipolle comes from the fact that my mother uses onions only as an ingredient of soffritto (the base of a lot of Italian dishes: minced onions and other herbs slowly fried in oil or butter), never by themselves and never raw. I was almost 17 years old the first time I ate raw onion: cipolla rossa di Tropea (a very sweet variety of red onion grown in a seaside town of Calabria) used as seasoning for boiled snap beans.

Back to cipollata, I will describe what I will do when I make it again, because when I made it yesterday I cooked it for a shorter time, then put it back on the stove, because I decided that I wanted a soft texture. Slice two pounds of onions and cook them in a pan, uncovered, with half a cup of water for about 45 minutes (25 or so, if you want the onions on the crunchy side, in which case you should add less water at the beginning). Add one or two tablespoons of olive oil, stir well and cook for 5 minutes, then add two tablespoons of balsamic vinegar and cook about 5 minutes, until it evaporates. Turn off the heat and finish off the dish with salt and freshly-ground black pepper to taste, and with a tablespoon of maggiorana (marjoram) and two tablespoons of prezzemolo (parsley), both fresh and chopped together.

In this novel, Montalbano deals with an old mafia don and the cruel ways of modern organized crime. This takes a toll on his emotional life. Eating good food is the way he uses to reconnect to the basic elements of life. I don't solve mysteries for a living, but sometimes things get tense, crowded, unpleasant for me too. Cooking is the way I use to reconnect to the basic elements of my life and the smile on the face of the people at the table (my husband and our friends) is a precious gift. I wish Adelina could see the smile on Montalbano's face when he eats what she cooks for him.

¹ Giovanna kindly tells me in her comment that a sauro is roughly the size of a mackerel (Scomber scombrus).

This is my second entry for the Novel Food event that Lisa of Champaign Taste and I are co-hosting. The deadline for sending us your fabulous novel posts is this Friday, September 21, at midnight (PDT).

Hear me pronounce the words on the cipollata audio file [mp3] or go to the cipollata audio page for more listening options.

Novel Food I: peperoni arrosto

roasted bell peppers
Several years ago, after I was already living in California, an Italian friend of mine suggested I read one of Camilleri's mysteries. I followed her advice, read La Forma dell'Acqua (The Shape of Water) and fell in love with Camilleri's writing.

At the very beginning of chapter 10 of The Shape of Water, the first mystery Andrea Camilleri wrote that has inspector Salvo Montalbano as protagonist, our hero finds a generous portion of peperoni arrosto in the fridge and eating them has a regenerative effect on him. Adelina, the housekeeper, usually leaves food for Montalbano either in the fridge or in the oven, and he always welcomes what he finds with joy. If the weather permits it, he sets the table on the veranda, so he can eat while looking at, and listening to, the sea. After eating the peperoni arrosto, Montalbano is ready for his next move, a phone call to Ingrid Sjostrom, a Swedish woman married to a Sicilian man. The conversation that follows includes some embarrassing exchanges, but their relationship quickly recovers from the awkward start and in time it  evolves into a friendship that will help Montalbano not only in the current but also in future adventures.

Yesterday morning, as I arrived at the farmers' market, I was greeted by what you see on the photo. And that was just the beginning: stalls were overflowing with bell peppers of all colors, shapes and sizes. I bought four and roasted them: Montalbano would have approved. Following on Adelina's footsteps, I made a simple yet delicious dish, colorful and full of flavor, like a small piece of Sicily (which I will visit soon, though not the area where the Montalbano stories are set).

I roasted in the oven the four specimens I had put in my basket. Some people prefer to roast the peppers over a flame (I don't have a gas range, so I cannot use a flame). I roasted them at 375 F for about 40 minutes, turning them every 10 minutes. I placed the roasted peppers inside a paper bag until cool, then peeled them, removed the seeds and cut them into strips. I spread the strips on a plate, alternating the different colors. One thing Montalbano misses, since he is not a cook, is the smell of food as it is being prepared. I am sorry for him: I enjoy following the progress of what I am preparing with my nose, as well as with my eyes.

I minced 3 small cloves of garlic (tre spicchi d'aglio), together with a tablespoon of fresh origano¹ and two tablespoons of fresh parsley (prezzemolo) and distributed garlic and herbs over the peppers. I sprinkled some salt and freshly-ground black pepper and finally seasoned the whole dish with a thread of olive oil. I let the peperoni arrosto marinate for a couple of hours and served them for dinner, at room temperature. Salvo Montalbano was not a guest at our dinner table. I would be terrified at the prospect of cooking for such a buongustaio (gourmet). My husband and I enjoyed the peperoni arrosto while looking at, and listening to, the ocean.

This is my first entry for the Novel Food event that Lisa of Champaign Taste and I are co-hosting.

¹ The seasoning for my peperoni arrosto is pretty standard. The addition of oregano was suggested to me by a recipe for this dish displayed on a site dedicated to Camilleri and his novels.

Hear me pronounce the words on the peperoni arrosto audio file [mp3] or go to the peperoni arrosto audio page for more listening options.

panzanella

There are many variations of this traditional dish, which is fundamentally a way of dressing up stale bread, but I like my father's recipe the best. During my childhood, every August we would spend three weeks in Poggio Catino, my father's native village, located in the historic region of Sabina, north of Rome. Our morning walks in the woods of the Monti Sabini usually ended with a breakfast of panzanella, for which we would carry with us the ingredients. First of all, we brought pane casareccio (homemade-style bread) that was at least one day old. Then we brought tasty tomatoes, ripe, but not mushy, a few leaves of home-grown fresh basil, and a small quantity of olive oil and of vinegar. My father brought salt as well, but only for himself. Even as a child I opposed using salt in general and on tomatoes in particular, because I thought that salt altered their natural flavor.

Panzanella is made by moistening the bread (we used water from one of the springs that grace the ancient woods), without soaking it, then dressing it with the other ingredients. The most important step is rubbing tomato halves over the bread, while squeezing them, so that their juice is absorbed by the substrate, already loosened up by the water. The squeezed tomatoes are then cut into pieces and distributed over the bread surface, as you can see in this photo. A thread of olive oil and a touch of vinegar, plus the basil complete the oeuvre. Part of the fun for me was that we made and ate panzanella in a rather rugged fashion, since we had no plates or cutlery. In any case, panzanella should be eaten using one's hands as tools. As I mentioned in my most recent post, panzanella was featured also in family picnics, together with cocomero: my brother and I used the latter's rind as natural towelette to wash our hands and face after eating oily panzanella.

Side note: Some people scream at the thought of putting vinegar over tomatoes. You can certainly enjoy panzanella without vinegar. I have always belonged to the vinegar-crazy party and so I add a splash of it to my piece of panzanella.

This is my entry for Weekend Herb Blogging, a food blogging event started by Kalyn's Kitchen, hosted this week by Food Blogga. Here's the roundup of WHB #91.

Hear me pronounce the words and expression on the panzanella audio file [mp3] or go to the panzanella audio page for more listening options.

gnocchi

First described by Boccaccio in his Decamerone, gnocchi are considered the first type of pasta ever made: a mixture of flour and water (the flour from wheat, millet, farro) shaped into round dumplings that were then cooked in boiling water.

The best-known version, made with potatoes, is fairly recent in historical terms, since potatoes did not become common in Italy until the 1800s. Gnocchi made with other main ingredients are common, like the small Sardinian malloreddus, made with semolina flour, knödel, made with stale bread (a day or two old), and gnocchi di ricotta.

The strange-sounding word gnocchi traces its origin to the Latin term nucleus, from which nocchio, meaning gnarl, derived. In the dialect of the region around Venice nocchio became gnoco and from there it was an easy transition to gnocco and its plural gnocchi.

Potato gnocchi take time to make, but the result is well worth the effort. My recipe (derived by my mother's) is described here.

Hear me pronounce the words on the gnocchi audio file [mp3] or go to the gnocchi audio page for more listening options.