Rosemary’s nose

Rosemary’s nose

The quick basics of Italian cooking: keep it simple and care intensely about the ingredients. Try to get them fresh and in season unless the preservation method makes them something better (sun dried tomatoes, for example, or spicy artichoke hearts or salt cod, the list a mouth watering few). I learned my first year here as a college exchange student in Bologna that one of the easiest ways to impress dinner guests is is baked potatoes and rosemary.
But you need fresh rosemary. Rosemary is a brush-like wooden herb that grows well even in cold corners of walls and outside windowsill pots. It’s a compulsory ingredient in Easter roast lamb and other early Spring dishes all over Italy, but especially in the mountains and the hills. Here around L’Aquila many people have a bush growing in a corner of their yard.
Cut the potatoes thin - whatever potatoes you like. I like them razor thin but have been known to cut them into thicker disks with the skins still on. Spread it out over oven paper or a pan slightly greased with olive oil. Sprinkle more olive oil, salt and a couple handfuls of fresh rosemary twigs. Bake away until they look as crispy as you like them. Open the oven a crack occasionally to free up the aroma of baked rosemary to fill the kitchen and tease the the dinner guests who are keeping you company. Bring them to the table warm, making sure that the plate gets passed around under everyone’s nose.
And if it smells good, it tastes good.

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Panzerotti

I just got back from a Friday business trip to Milan. The trip was a whirlwind of appointments but still, as I crossed through Piazza del Duomo on my way from one meeting to anther, I felt something familiar call out to me and draw me in for a greasy tasty pause: Panzerotti from Luini.
Even though the Luini bakery is tucked out of site behind the back entrance to Milan’s up-market La Rinascente department store, it is an institution.
Luini means panzerotti, and panzerotti mean deep fried pocket pizzas. Puffy and a bit chewy, the dough is slightly sweet and very addictive. The classic version is simple tomato and mozzarella, other seasonal versions (mozzarella and ham, pesto and cherry tomatoes) and so on give you enough variety to harden your arteries almost every day, and when I used to work nearby it was hard to resist.
Originally just a bakery, it’s now traditional stand up street food at it’s best. Their other specialty is focaccia pugliese and other traditional baked treats from the Puglia (Apuglia) region of Italy.


Via Santa Radegonda 16, Milano, www.luini.it

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Them apples

(Cinnamon Fall)

I missed apple picking weekend at Fabrizio’s this year, we came two weeks late this year and could only pick the stragglers.
Fabrizio is a friend of mine who lives in Trastevere in Rome but he’s originally from a small town near L’Aquila called Colle di Lucoli, a small hilltop village on the way up to the Campo Felice (“happy field”) ski slopes. His house is in the middle of beautiful area of rolling hills dotted with tiny stone villages full of hiking trails and curvy roads.
As Fabrizio was growing up his dad would plant a new apple tree every year on the steep slope cascading down from his childhood house. He planted a different tree every year - varieties ranging from big red delicious to the tiny, yellow apples called “limoncello”, which means lemony, a name which derives from their color, small size and aftertaste. They were once once coveted in the mountainous areas of central Italy because as they shriveled up slightly during the winter in basement storage rooms they became much sweeter just before spring.
It’s an organic apple orchard, in the sense that neither Fabrizio nor anyone else does anything to the apples or the trees. Bugs, birds, squirrel and the like have free reign. Many of them are scarred and ugly. But tasty. I’m not as adventurous as I may seem - I strategically bite where they are not scarred and where it looks like bugs have not travelled. Tiny, little bites. But wonderful.
The wind knocks most of them down before we can get to them so the sloping field is filled with the smell of wild mint and baked apples. We were able to fill just got two bags, not enough for apple sauce this time around.
Three years ago we came the right weekend and there was a bumper crop. After lugging buckets of them to the apple storage room (which doubled as storage for wine, oil and preserves from their little garden) and the pile was shoulder-high we stared taking the rest directly to our cars.
But what do you do with buckets full or apples in a city apartment?
Applesauce, of course.
No real recipe. Peel and cut the apples in little pieces, cook slowly in a big pot with just enough water at the beginning to keep it from sticking until the apples melt. If you want it a bit sweeter or more rustic at the end, melt in some honey. And my favorite touch - cinnamon to taste. I love the smell of caramelized apples, honey and cinnamon just before I take it off the burner.
Then eat and smile.

Isotta

Isotta

gallops and sways

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first October humid chills

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with lunchtime clear sky warmth from above

Slush puppy heaven

(Cinnamon Summer II)

Growing up one of my favorite dirty pleasures was the slush, or slurpy, or slush puppy. The names changed with the convenience store, but the recipe was always the same. Crushed ice was pumped into a cup and copious amounts of sweet, florescent dyes were squirted in.  You drank this concoction until it gave you a dizzy headache, or you sucked all the syrup out of the ice. It didn’t matter that your tongue was green for the rest of the afternoon. Actually, it did matter –– it was a fringe benefit!

In Italy, they have a name for it: Granite. Anyone who has been to Italy is familiar with the machines swirling the already mixed ice and mystery liquid that are in every bar or gelato joint around the main tourist attractions. The flavors are often better than the convenience store variety of my youth, but not enough to take your mind off the fact that they are just slightly more liquid snow cones. 

Only a traveler to Sicily, where they claim to have invented granita, will understand just how satisfying flavored ice can be. Although, it is possible to find standard, tourist-trap granite – those candy shop machines are everywhere–– I have yet to find a more sublime granita anywhere else in Italy.   One of the best is at the Bar del Porto at the, well, at the bar at the port on the small island of Panarea in the Aeolian archipelago just north of Sicily.  Here the granite is dished out of stainless-steel ice cream containers, like those at Giolitti in Rome or other historic Italian ice cream parlors. The choices may be few: lemon; coffee (great sandwiched into a brioche for breakfast); gelso (white mulberries and almond milk, but all are wonderful.  The almond milk classic is my particular favorite. 

Last year a friendly bartender (who sadly was not there this summer) suggested we try different combinations - gelso and almond, coffee and almond, etc. But, it was not until the third to last night of our vacation when he greeted us with cinnamon sticks an

Cinnamon summer

Cinnamon is one of those spices that bring back memories. Especially, freshly ground cinnamon. This evening I made a quick stop at the Caffè Polar, the tiny bookshop café, with a free hotspot (still not very common in provincial Italy) here in L’Aquila, the city in the Apennine mountains where I live. My goal was a short cappuccino and a newspaper break, but that change, as I stepped up to the bar to order and caught a whiff of that, oh so familiar spice. The young woman behind the bar was busy grating cinnamon over a small glass cup of espresso.  As she tops it up with panna (dense cream), I ask how she would do espresso and cinnamon cold. It is a warm day, after all. “I would make a

Caffè Shakerato,” is her response. 

Caffè shakerato is the hedonistic Italian version of iced espresso. It consists of two shots of espresso straight from the machine, ice and sugar.  The ingredients are mixed in a cocktail shaker then poured into a flute or cocktail glass. In Milan, and a few other parts of northern Italy, Rebarbaro, (a semisweet bitter), or Biancosarti, (a vanilla-based liquor) are added before shaking.   It is great with a touch of freshly ground cinnamon. 

What I like about the  best spices is how they can turn on your memories that play on all of your senses.   I’ll tell you how cinnamon transformed evening strolls on the Sicilian island of Panarea last summer, in the next installment how.

Blood on my hands

For two Sunday’s in a row we were greeted at the gate of my family’s country home in Navelli by a tree a blaze with cherries. I don’t know the exact species but when you have four buckets of fresh, organic (we do absolutely nothing to the tree) cherries just two steps up a ladder, you don’t really care about the name of the tree. I am not a gardener or farmer –– the very thought of taking care of a garden or having a little farm makes me want to hide in bed.  But, when cherries are calling out to you like that…..   Well, there is nothing to do, but put on some old clothes and started picking

As Emily rode her bike and chased farm cats, Sofia read under the pines, and Linda cared for her wide-blossomed roses, I picked cherries that were so ripe handfuls came off without their stems.  Within fifteen minutes, my arms and hands were so sticky that I was taking breaks to rinse the sugar build up off.  When I was done picking, I had four buckets of ripe Apennine Mountain cherries and I looked like a doctor in a Mel Brooks film. 

The problem, of course, with any abundance of fruit, was what to do with it.   By nightfall we had eaten enough to last us a year. A few Tupperware containers full went to friends and family. So, I tried to make a marmellata (marmalade). Fania, my sister-in-law, is the real expert on this, simple but long process of making topping for ice cream or yoghurt or to spread on toast. The recipe calls for melting down (but not boiling) sugar in a few tablespoons of water.  The amount of sugar you use is  in exact proportion to cherries (1lb cherries to one pound of sugar).   Just before the sugar starts to brown, you throw in the well-rinsed and dried cherries and bring the mixture to a slow boil, stirring periodically until the juice around the cherries no long rolls down a wooden cutting board. Fania and I prefer putting in as little as a quarter the amount of sugar (you can always add it in later), which means that the boiling process takes longer because you have to wait until the cherries’ own sugar kicks in.  If you want you can add cherry liquor, amaretto or limoncello.  Spices, especially cinnamon, can make a nice addition to the marmellata, as well. 

(actually this all happened in June;-)