briciole

tagliere

cutting (or chopping) board

In a recent post on mezzaluna, I showed the cutting board at my parents' house, and Lisa of Champaign Taste noted that it looked "like it was meant to be pulled out from under the counter." If I remember correctly, that cutting board was part of the kitchen table in the apartment where we lived until I was about 16. The kitchen furniture was custom-built when my parents moved into the apartment, their first after getting married. That table had two other items you could pull out: spianatoia e matterello (kneading board and rolling pin).

In my current kitchen, there are two taglieri that I can pull out of the counter like drawers. I can't imagine doing without them. The top cutting board is the one I use most often and is dedicated to vegetables. The bottom one is reserved for chopping chocolate or nuts and for mixing a dough for which I don't need a lot of space, like in the case of my biscotti.

Both boards were recently refinished by a thoughtful and skillful friend, and they look beautiful. The eggplant you can see on the photo is called Listada de Gandia, a recent find at our farmers' market. It is described as Italian on several sites, but the name is not Italian. Gandia is a Spanish town on the Mediterranean Sea, and listado means striped in Spanish, so the name can be translated as: striped [eggplant] from Gandia.

There is no such thing as having too many taglieri in the kitchen (cucina), I think, so I have three more, all made of wood, that I use in various ways, including as photo props. The rectangular one was handmade for us: a really nice gift. I use it mostly to cut [my homemade] bread (tagliare il pane). The bread in the photo below includes whey from some of my fresh cheese as one of the ingredients.

The irregular-shaped one is made of olive wood (legno d'olivo) and was given to us as a gift by an Italian friend. I love to look at the lines of the wood. I like to use this board to bring to the table formaggio fatto in casa con le pere (homemade cheese and pears).

Plastic and silicone cutting boards are handy too. I have two small ones made of recycled plastic and use them as support for cheese that is being aged. So, I have a use for all types of cutting boards.

Two cut-related Italian expressions:

• Tagliare la corda means to slip (or sneak) away (literally, to cut the rope)
• Tagliare la testa al toro means to settle things once and for all, to deal decisively with a problem (literally, to cut the bull's head)

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

mezzaluna

I was away for two and a half weeks. Physically, I am now back at home. Emotionally, I will keep wandering for a while. At some point, I will say more. For now, I'll write about everyday things.  

As a child, I was fascinated by my mother's mezzaluna (literally: half moon). She used it very rarely and I was not allowed to touch it — two facts that contributed to make it even more special to my eyes. I am not sure why I don't own one, considering that I find it not only quite useful, but also efficient and elegant. The mezzaluna in the photos is the one I used to admire from a distance.

The tagliere (cutting board) on which the mezzaluna is resting was part of my parents' first kitchen. Together with two other useful items, namely spianatoia e matterello (kneading board and rolling pin), the tagliere found a place in the new kitchen my mother chose for the apartment where we moved when I was 16. The wooden trio is still there.

The parsley (prezzemolo) I minced with the mezzaluna the day I took the photos contributed to season a simple potato salad. I think I will soon have a mezzaluna in my kitchen: after using it almost every day for two weeks, I miss it. Is there a mezzaluna in your kitchen?

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

sale e pepe

salt and pepper

In a recent post, where I talked about the items I had purchased during my most recent trip to Italy, I mentioned "something for the table (a pair of objects, actually), which I will describe in a future post." Like my beloved grattugia, I obtained the objects in exchange for "points" earned by my parents by shopping (fare la spesa) at a specific supermercato.

The objects were described as saliera e pepiera (salt shaker and pepper shaker), but the salt and pepper contained in them go through a grinder before coming out from one of their feet, so, they are actually a salt mill and a pepper mill, macinasale and macinapepe, respectively. I particularly like the salt mill, which allows me to place coarse sel gris on the table for our guests.

I like my salt and pepper mills a lot, because they are colorful and have a cheerful shape. My husband describes them as methane molecules, based on their shape: imagine the carbon atom as their core body and the four hydrogen atoms, one at the end of each limb. There is a lid on the "head" of the mill, which you open in order to fill the "body" with salt or pepper. To grind, you turn the upper part of the body and the ground salt or pepper comes out from one of the feet, which also has a lid that prevents sprinkling when the mill is not in use (both lids are visible on the pepper mill in the photo above).

A few expressions related to pepper (I have talked about salt in a previous post):

• pepe in grani (whole peppercorns)
• pepe macinato (ground pepper)
• sale e pepe (salt-and-pepper), as in capelli sale e pepe (salt-and-pepper hair)
• tutto pepe (spirited)
• peperino ((real) live wire)

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

cavatappi e apribottiglie

corkscrew and bottle opener

On Friday afternoon, I went for a walk around my neighborhood with my camera. I usually walk with my husband, but that day he wasn't with me, so my camera was my companion. Among the vegetation along the side of our strada di campagna (country road), it was the tendrils of the Manroot that mostly inspired me. I am a poor botanist, so I am not sure whether I was looking at California manroot or Coastal manroot (if you have any suggestions on this matter, please, send let me know). The light green tendrils gave me the idea of writing about two kitchen items: cavatappi e apribottiglie.

I like to say cavatappi (corkscrew). The word tappo in Italian (plural: tappi) is generic and may indicate a cork (tappo di sughero), a crown cap (tappo a corona) and other types of caps, plugs and stoppers, depending on the context. My father likes to use the word tirabusciò to indicate a corkscrew. It is the Italianized version of the French tire-bouchon.

Apribottiglie literally means bottle opener (bottiglie is the plural of bottiglia, bottle). The one in the photo is a gift from a dear friend. Sometimes I take it out just to look at it and smile at its cute shape. In case you are wondering, it was made in Italy.

The apribottiglie makes me think of the following three beverages: Coca-Cola, gazzosa and birra (beer). When I was growing up, drinking carbonated beverages was reserved for very special occasions. As a consequence, I have never developed a taste for fizzy beverages.

Coca-Cola to me is the dark, sweet drink in its characteristic slender bottle, which occasionally I was allowed to have, usually at kids' parties. Gazzosa and birra were bought by my father for our (infrequent) picnics. I have never liked birra and always preferred wine (with water, of course, as I was still a child). Gazzosa (or gassosa) on the other hand, was a favorite of mine. It is clear, sweet, but not too sweet, fizzy, but again not overly so, with a delicate lemon flavor. My parents mixed birra e gazzosa, while I enjoyed my gazzosa unadulterated, at a nice, cool temperature, no ice. Some of you may be thinking: what's about Italians and ghiaccio (ice)? That's a story for another day.

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

mixer ad immersione

(a.k.a. minipimer) immersion blender

I am rather gadget-averse: Before I add something to my kitchen, I need to become sure that I will use it. Last year, I finally convinced myself that I could use an immersion blender and I am happy to report that, since the day it arrived, it has been put to work often enough to justify its purchase.

Recently, during a conversation, the immersion blender was mentioned and I remembered reading, almost a year ago, an article in Italian (referencing one in Spanish) about his inventor, Gabriel Lluelles, whom you can see in this photo with his brainchild. According to the article, Lluelles invented the minipimer in 1959. The name comes from the producing company Pimer (Pequeñas Industrias Mecánico Eléctricas Reunidas). While the name of the gadget in question in Italian is mixer ad immersione (where the first word comes from English), the brand name minipimer is often used.

A few days ago, I used my mixer ad immersione to make something other than soup, and since I liked the result a lot, I will share it here. It was one of those cases in which I made things up as I went along. The dish started with a cavolfiore (cauliflower) that was joined in the steam basket by a cavolo broccolo (broccoli), both cut into florets. After steaming and mashing them with a schiacciapatate (potato masher — after you listen to the audio file, I hope you'll agree with me that this i a nice-sounding word), I decided that I wanted to add carote (carrots) to the mix. In the vegetable drawer I found a couple of pastinache (parsnips) and I thought they would round up the dish nicely. I washed, peeled and cut the root vegetables into pieces and baked them in an oiled pan at 400 F, together with the leaves of two sprigs of timo (thyme).

When the root vegetables were ready, I added them to the half-mashed cauliflower and broccoli and then realized that the next step would be a perfect application for my immersion blender. You can see the result in the photo. Some parmigiano, (freshly grated), salt and freshly ground black pepper, all to taste, completed the dish. We had it for dinner at a friend's house as a side dish to crab cakes and I was very pleased with both the flavor and the texture. What can I say? Viva il minipimer! (Hurrah for the immersion blender!)

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

posata

Every now and then I look at the searches people were doing when they arrived on a page of my blog and I feel kind of bad when I realize that they could not have found what they were looking for. This post was inspired by the unknown visitor who landed here while searching for the pronunciation of the word cucchiaio.

Posata is the generic name that refers to any one of the eating utensils. Posate (cutlery, flatware) is the plural. The basics:

• coltello (knife)
• cucchiaio (spoon)
• forchetta (fork)

Posate with a specifier is also used to describe serving implements, like in posate da insalata (salad servers). This does not cover the whole table, but I think it is enough for today. I would like to use the rest of the space for an update on my canederli/knödel adventure. As mentioned in my recent post on this dish, I had plans to make it again, and I did. This time, I used a different kind of bread, namely pane alle noci (walnut bread) from my beloved companion "Vegetarian Cooking for Everyone" by Deborah Madison. This is a really good, hearty bread made with mostly whole-wheat flour (farina integrale)¹.

The other day, I found myself with a piece of pane alle noci that was of a perfect size for my recipe for canederli, so I got down to work. What I made differently from the previous recipe, besides using a different bread, was that I added twice as much parmigiano (1/4 cup) and also half a teaspoon of thyme leaves to the shallots (together with the rosemary). The walnut bread had a harder crust (crosta) than the bread I used before, so I let the bread pieces rest for over two hours together with the egg and milk mixture before proceeding with the recipe. At lunch time, I had a couple of hungry young men waiting for their meal, so I decided to skip taking photos of the cooked dish. The image on the side shows the canederli before I cooked them in vegetable broth. There were no leftovers, but I got to taste a bite so I can tell you that the walnuts created a nice textural contrast, and the extra parmigiano worked well. 

I will conclude by connecting part 1 and part 2 of this post. I read that the guest is not supposed to cut canederli with the coltello (knife): doing so would imply that they are hard, and would be interpreted as a criticism of the cook. A soft knödel, on the other hand, will fall apart during cooking, so the cook's challenge is to achieve a happy medium.

Considering that coltello, cucchiaio e forchetta form a trio, instead of showing a photo of my nondescript posate, here is a trillium, whose name refers to its having three of everything: petals, sepals and "leaves," which are actually bracts. Trilliums are blooming everywhere around here. Their snow-white petals offer an elegant contrast to the dark green of their broad leaves. The lucky path wanderer can stumble upon, and admire, a quadrillium.

¹ My departures from the original recipe are: olive oil instead of walnut oil and one cup of chopped walnuts instead of 1.5 cups.

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

spianatoia e matterello

kneading (or pastry) board and rolling pin

Spianatoia and matterello are two important items in my mother's kitchen. She mostly uses them to make pasta all'uovo (egg pasta), one of her specialties. In the kitchen of my childhood, when not in use, both items were inserted in the kitchen table, underneath the table top, like special drawers. Only recently did I discover that my mother had that table and its wooden add-ons custom-made. When we moved to a bigger apartment, she left the kitchen table behind, but not the spianatoia and matterello pair. Since she could no longer store them in the place that had been built for them, they found a new home in the space behind the kitchen door. And, to this day, that is where they are.

At my aunt Lucia's house, we occasionally used the spianatoia (called spianatora in dialect) to eat polenta. My father told me that my paternal grandmother Caterina cooked polenta in the paiolo, a copper cauldron that hung from a thick chain inside the fireplace. When the polenta was ready, she would pour it over the spianatoia, spread it into an even layer with a wooden spoon, top it with tomato and pork meat sauce and sprinkle it with grated pecorino and a bit of pepper¹. The family gathered around the spianatoia and ate from this very special communal plate by cutting forkfuls of polenta with its topping. The idea is to start from a spot in front of you and then decide in which direction to proceed.

The five siblings (of whom my father was the youngest) would usually start some playful competition, eating as much as possible and carving paths to reach the sausage pieces my grandmother had distributed over the polenta¹. My aunt did not use the paiolo to cook polenta, and my brother and I did not care to compete for sausages, but that did not detract from my excitement about doing something quite different from the everyday eating from a small plate.

I grew up taking spianatoia and matterello for granted, partly because other kitchens I was familiar with also had them. As my passion for cooking developed, the need for those two items became acute. Until recently, I have used alternative surfaces in place of a spianatoia, but now I finally have the real thing: a spianatoia made of red maple. It is a lot smaller than the one my mother has: her spianatoia is about 23x46", while mine is 21x28", but it fits perfectly over my working table, and has been there ever since it arrived a couple of weeks ago. I also bought two matterelli, one made of light blue silicone and a wooden one, which is also longer, but not as thick as the one my mother has, which I jokingly compare to a weapon. In case you are wondering, I made the purchase online at Fante's.

¹ My father has corrected my childhood memory of this story: my grandmother used only pecorino, and the prizes along the race to eat were pieces of sausages, not a whole sausage. Apologies to the early readers.

Addendum: This post has had the honor of being included in the April 2008 edition of La Voce della Dante (pdf), the newsletter of the Dante Alighieri Society of Washington. I am thankful to La Voce's editor for her kind interest.

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

 

grattugia

grater

What did this expat Italian bring back from the recent trip to her country of origin? Un po' di cose (a number of things): several books (libri), including the most recent Montalbano novel and a Sicilian cookbook, temporarily lost in one of the still unopened boxes that crowd my space; some food items and food-related gifts, which I will describe in future posts; and a grattugia.

I am well aware that a grater is not featured in any 'must bring back from Italy' advisory lists, so why did I occupy precious luggage space with this item? Because I like my parmigiano, pecorino, asiago, etc. freshly grated, but using the food processor for a few tablespoons of cheese seems overkill, and the flat grater I have is not ergonomic. Then there is the issue of making breadcrumbs: pangrattato (literally, grated bread). I find that neither a food processor nor a blender are acceptable tools for this delicate task, and I refuse to buy breadcrumbs. This was the situation until one morning, while visiting my parents in my home town (Perugia), I went grocery shopping with my father.

By making purchases at the supermercato we went to, customers acquire points (punti) that they can use to get certain items for free or at a substantial discount. When I saw the small cheerfully-colored rotary grater on display, I decided I wanted it. My father was happy to oblige me and I walked out of the store with my grattugia, which later found space in my luggage and, finally, in my kitchen.

Turning the handle (manovella) rotates the grating cylinder. The piece of cheese or bread to be grated is inserted in a hole at the top and kept in place by a feeder (not sure if this is the right word, but hopefully you get the idea). The grated material is collected in the small bowl that functions as the base of the hand-powered appliance, so cheese bits and crumbs do not end up scattered around. Finally, the grattugia is easy to disassemble and all the pieces are dishwasher safe.

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

grembiule

apron

When my mother gets home, she always does two things: she changes into her home clogs (zoccoli) and puts on her apron. You will never catch her at home wearing shoes or without her apron.

As soon as my mother entered my kitchen in the house where my husband and I were about to get married, in Orinda, California, she asked me where my apron was. The direct consequence of growing up with a constant apron-wearing mother was that I had mixed feelings about aprons and did not own one. I did not explain to my mother the cause, only the effect, i.e., the total absence of aprons in the house. My mother frowned and then plotted with my (then still future) husband to get an apron for herself while I was not watching, which was the morning after her arrival, when I was at work. The covert operation encountered some difficulties due to the high cost of aprons sold at Macy's, the only place my husband could think of as a possible source of the wanted item. Fortunately, TJ MAxx saved the day, and when I got back home from the office in the afternoon I found my mother solidly installed in my kitchen, wearing an apron. When she left to go back to Italy, the following week, she packed her grembiule and therefore my kitchen went back to its prior apron-less state.

The word grembiule comes from grembo, meaning lap. The same word is also used to describe the protective garment children in Italy wear in primary school. The one mandated by our school district was white. At the time I loved writing with a fountain pen and you can imagine the result, about which my mother was not happy, though I thought that blue ink and white fabric were a perfect match. As an aside, I still write with a blue-inked fountain pen (penna stilografica).

A little while ago, Chef Paz posted a photo of herself (minus the head) donning a brand new apron that was very much admired: Ilva at Lucullian Delights liked the apron idea and launched a one off event called Show Us Your Apron, for which this is my entry. Here's the roundup for this extremely successful event.

Well, indeed, I now own an apron, which I had considered buying even before I had read about the event. The apron came from the Arcata Farmers' Market, my favorite place in the world to shop for organic vegetables, fruit, plants and fresh eggs. The bench in the top photo is located just outside my home office and overlooks the ocean. The stump is next to our house and until about six months ago was the base of a giant spruce that had to be cut to prevent it from falling on our house.

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