Posts tagged ‘Italy’

Rocco has many friends, one of which is Marcus, a dog on the brink of fame. Justine van der Leun found Marcus while living in Umbria, a beautiful, rustic region in central Italy. Her memoir Marcus of Umbria: What an Italian Dog Taught an American Girl about Love was released yesterday by Rodale. Today, we are very excited to share with you a piece that Justine wrote exclusively for Good. Food. Stories. about her experiences with family, love and pork.

A pork chop followed by cured pork topped in pork sauce paired with a side of pork.

This is Umbrian cuisine, simplified. This is the diet that nearly imploded my fresh Italian romance. This is the diet that drove me temporarily mad. This is also the diet that changed how I think about food forever.

I moved to a 200-person Umbrian village the way only a 25-year-old woman in love with a foreign gardener can: Immediately, unironically, entirely. I had met Emanuele on vacation. Three weeks later, I pledged to return for good. I just had to sublet my apartment in Brooklyn, pack all of my worldly possessions, and score a one-way ticket to my new life. No biggie.

It didn’t occur to me that one of the most disconcerting and unfamiliar aspects of the move would be my brand new diet. My brand new, inescapable, pork-filled diet.

Of all the strangeness that I faced as an expat—language barriers, social constraints—it was the culinary culture shock that threw me for the biggest loop. This was the Slow Food Movement before it had a name. This was hardcore local eating. This was a place where I, a New Yorker accustomed to global cuisine, could not get a taco.

“What is a taco?” the Italians asked. “What is Thai food? Sushi?” When I explained it to them, they turned green.

“Che schifo!” they shrieked. How gross!

From the beginning, I ate with Emanuele’s family, a group of people I immediately adored. I ate as landlocked rural people have always eaten: Home-raised meat, potatoes from the cellar, wine from the vineyard, and minimal greens in the winter. Emanuele’s mother, Serenella served me clean, well-prepared, homemade food every night. I was in the cocoon of a new family, exploring a brutal and beautiful countryside. It should have been blissful.

And yet, after a month of Serenella’s food, I would have begged, robbed, and mauled for a smoothie. Or an imported Chilean orange. Or a falafel pita. Even at the local restaurants, one menu prevailed: 20 types of pizza (salsiccia, salame); pork chops; prosciutto; a porchetta sandwich. There were exceptions: A luscious arugula slice; a creamy black truffle pie; a crisp antipasto dish; sautéed, garlicky greens. But in the end, the flavors were monotonous. To a local, they tasted like home. To a guest, they tasted like the rustic countryside. But a month into my stay, they were making me claustrophobic. I was accustomed to variety. Like someone who’s watched too much reality TV, I couldn’t focus on a classic novel.

One day, sitting on the concrete floor of the mansion where Emanuele worked as a groundskeeper, I wrote an email to a friend back home. I wrote in a word document on Emanuele’s computer because it was impossible to stay hooked up to an internet connection for long enough to finish an entire email.

In my letter, I bemoaned my new life: I focused on the relentlessness of the cuisine. I was used to Caribbean chicken stews and three-spice fish tacos, to banh mi with crunchy pickled cucumbers, to green tofu curry, southern-fried chicken. From my apartment in Brooklyn, I could dial 100 numbers and get thousands of dishes delivered to my door. What I would give for a cheeseburger or some lo mein—anything to break up the wretched monotony of il maiale. The dreaded pig.

Before I sent my email, I saved it on Emanuele’s computer. Then I left town for a week, on a work trip. While I was away, Emanuele called to say he had found the email. In which I insulted his mother’s cooking and praised my urban culture above his.
>> Read on to find out what happened after Emanuele discovered the email. >>

Whether it’s a reaction to the brisk fall weather or the fact that I’m now able to have leisurely breakfasts at my dining room table, lately I’ve been obsessed with all manner of jams, preserves, and jellies. And ever since Danielle introduced me to the wonderful team at Gustiamo, they’ve been filling me to the brim with their selection of unbelievable Italian food sourced right from the local producers. Over the past few weeks, the Masseria Maida fruit preserves have been filling my belly on a near-daily basis.

Masseria Maida is based in Campania, a region in southwest Italy known for its incredibly fertile volcanic soil — as Tango Italia so eloquently puts it, the area was historically the Romans’ “vast vegetable garden and their orchard.” Using his grandmother Antonia’s recipes of only fresh fruit and sugar, Masseria Maida owner Francesco Vastola grows his own produce to make meltingly sweet jams, He’s also an expert creator of gorgeous red and golden tomato sauces, antipasto with unexpected bits of pumpkin and celery(!), and the most tender, delectable tiny artichokes.

But back to kicking out the jams. It seems so appropriately autumn that Maida’s pear-walnut flavor is my latest addiction. It’s honey sweet, with translucent ribbons of pears and crunchy walnuts studded throughout a loose golden syrup.

And because I’m happiest when adding a savory element to anything sweet, I’m swooning at how well these preserves match up with a salty cheese. A fresh and tangy goat cheese like Selles-sur-Cher, Boucheron, or this Sainte-Maure de Touraine is heaven when topped with the preserves on a piece of toasted baguette, but I’ve also been known to use a thin slice of Pecorino in place of a cracker and spoon the jam directly onto the cheese.

Should you be serving this to others (and not eating it over the sink at night like I have done), an elegant and impressive option would be these homemade Pecorino flatbread crackers.

Pecorino Flatbread Crackers
Makes about 60 crackers

• 3/4 cup finely grated Pecorino Romano
• 3/4 cup all-purpose flour, plus more for kneading and rolling out the dough
• 1/4 tsp baking powder
• 1/4 tsp salt
• 1 tbsp unsalted butter, cut into quarters
• 1/4 cup milk

Mix together cheese, flour, baking powder, and salt, then blend in butter with your fingertips or a pastry blender until the flour is moist and uniformly crumbly (using the same technique as making pie crust). Add the milk, stirring gently with a wooden spoon until a dough forms.

Sprinkle the dough with flour and knead gently until smooth, about 2 minutes. You can do this against the side of the bowl, actually, since it’s such a small ball of dough. Remove from the bowl, wrap tightly in plastic wrap and refrigerate for at least an hour.

Preheat the oven to 350° and cover two large baking sheets with parchment paper.

Divide the dough in half and roll out one at a time into thin (1/8-inch thick) rectangles, dusting your rolling surface and pin with flour to prevent sticking — it is a soft dough. Cut into square/rectangular cracker shapes and transfer to the baking sheets. I make mine on the larger side, about 3 inches by 2 inches. You may have to bake them in two batches depending on the size of your sheets.

Bake crackers for about 10-12 minutes, switching and rotating the sheets in the oven halfway through. Keep an eye on them as the crackers on the edge may brown more quickly. Pull the entire parchment paper sheet with the crackers onto a rack to cool.

Italian-Americans are well known for keeping the pasta sabbath. Every Sunday around 2 or 3pm, the whole family (and likely some extra cousins) will sit down for a big pasta meal.  This is the way it has been done for most first- and second-generation Italian families. But this modern life makes it hard to hold fast to such traditions. Many families like mine do Sunday pasta only once in awhile, when my brother and I are both visiting our parents, or for a birthday or special occasion. But why do we do this? Hasn’t Mario Batali let us all know by now that there’s more to Italian cooking than pasta and red sauce?

Much of this has to do with the fact that many Italian-Americans come from the provinces of Salerno, also known as the Ciliento.  There, Sunday dinner means hand-made fusilli, tomato sauce or meat ragù, and large gatherings of families. In New York, large communities of Cilentese settled in Italian Harlem (East Harlem), the Belmont section of the Bronx, and Williamsburg, Brooklyn. In these neighborhoods, Sicilians, Neapolitans, Calabrians, and Apulians lived together as they hadn’t in Italy. Their traditions, their families and their Sunday dinner recipes blended and soon created the culture that made them Italian-Americans.

Pasquale Maio runs the American arm of Cilento Experience, which presents gastronomical tours in the Cilento. He explains:

“According to tradition,  fusilli were only freshly made to honor Ferragosto, Easter and Christmas. But this succulent, typically Cilentano dish is eaten on Sundays for the family reunion or to celebrate a special occasion and relax at home with  family. My bisnonna (great-grandmother) always says to me that one MUST have fusilli al ragù as a Sunday meal and if you have guest you have to respect them by making fresh pasta.”

Here’s a simple recipe from Pasquale’s family for fresh Sunday fusilli, or, fusiddi, as they say in the Cilento.

• 2 lbs flour 
• 4 eggs
• 1 tablespoon extra virgin olive oil
• Room temperature water as needed

Prepare flour into a fountain shape on a pastry board. Add eggs, oil and water into the center of the flour. Using a fork, mix together all ingredients and combine well. Using your hands, slowly incorporate the rest of the flour and knead dough until the texture is consistent. Set aside for a half hour.

Using your palm, separate dough into small cigarette-shaped sections. Gently remove from board and lay pasta on a tray. Continue until dough has all been used.

Once pasta has been cooked, prepare with tomato sauce or with a meat ragù.

Today’s post is written by Lara O’Brien, our first guest contributor. Lara is a producer for CBC Radio’s morning news magazine, The Current. Prior to her life as a journalist, she honed her culinary skills by working in restaurants and eating her way across Europe. Lara will be writing regular posts about dining in Toronto and might teach us a thing or two about the metric system.

Pasta alla Norma might be one of the simplest yet most satisfying of all Italian pasta dishes. This is a great time of year to make it as basil is at its freshest and most fragrant.

When I first arrived in Florence for a year of study, my three roommates and I decided to explore the winding roads of Chianti and its spectacular vineyards. As we putted along in our rented Peugeot 306, we came across an unpretentious farmhouse and vineyard called Podere Terreno.

The small agro-turismo functioned as a B&B and produced and sold some of the most delicious Chianti wine one could imagine. Their production may have been small, but their wines were robust. As we tasted, my roommates and I quickly became acquainted with the proprietor’s son, one Pierfrancesco. Charming, suave and impeccably dressed in the relentless heat of the September Tuscan sun, we were smitten. Our visit ended with a promise from Pierfrancesco to come cook for us at our apartment in Florence and our Peugeot substantially heavier.

The following Friday, Pierfrancesco introduced us to Pasta alla Norma.

A popular 19th century dish, it was named after the Sicilian composer Bellini’s highly successful opera Norma. The ingredients were simple and noble, the combination sublime. Pierfrancesco made it seem effortless, and truth be told, it is. That meal was the catalyst for hundreds more that would be shared with friends around our big wooden kitchen table on Via Castellani in Florence.

This is best made with ricotta salata, a dried form of ricotta cheese, but regular ricotta will do in a pinch.

Pasta alla Norma
4 primi piatti

• 2 medium size firm Italian eggplants
• 3 gloves of garlic, minced
• 1 medium yellow onion, diced
• 1 small can of peeled chopped San Marzano tomatoes
• 1 1/2 cups of grated ricotta salata or equivalent of soft ricotta
• Large bunch of fresh basil
• Half a bag of rigatoni

Bring a large pot of salted water to boil for the rigatoni. In a heavy-bottomed skillet, saute the onion in olive oil until soft with a pinch of salt. Add the cubed eggplant and garlic and cook for about 8 minutes over med-high heat. You may need to add a touch more olive oil as the eggplant will absorb it. Add the canned tomatoes and a pinch each of sugar and salt. Let everything cook for another 6 minutes. The eggplant should remain somewhat firm. Add the drained rigatoni, ricotta salata, fresh basil and fresh pepper to the skillet, toss and enjoy.