Ribollita

There are two major categories of Italian hearty soups, or zuppe: those based on legumes of some sort, beans, chick peas, lentils, or whatever, added with grains or pasta, like farro or barley; and those that are based on green vegetables –– minestroni, in short.

In sight of the upcoming monumental holiday menus, a warm bowl of healthy minestra works wonders on the overworked digestive system. Plus dinosaur kale is starting to appear on market stalls, so Ribollita makes its yearly debut on my dinner table. Finalmente.

Probably the most representative of Tuscany's zuppa tradition, Ribollita honorably competes with co-regional adversaries Pappa al Pomodoro and Zuppa di Farro for the title of the world's best hearty Italian minestra. Ribollita was the soup typical of Tuscan farmers, and represented the feast of the harvest. Today it is a classic cuisine delicacy, often mis-interpreted and served at white tablecloth restaurants in bowls the size of a thimble. Heresy. Ribollita spells abundance! And thrift! End of rant.

After a first slow stewing, the vegetable-loaded ribollita is left to rest and re-boiled (hence the name, ri-bollita) the next day.

Cavolo Nero––the main ingredient of this twice-cooked bread and vegetable minestrone––is black leaf kale. Some English-speakers call it with its original name cavolo nero, while others refer to it as 'dinosaur kale' or 'laciniate kale' or 'Tuscan kale'.
If you live in the southern hemisphere and it's not exactly cavolo nero season now, here's a trick: adding a sprig of fresh thyme in the preparation magically lends the soup a cavolo nero-flavor. I swear.

There are many variations and family copyrighted recipes for Ribollita. My version is inspired by a combination of the one shared by Artusi, and the version of a Florentine housekeeper that taught my mom this recipe years ago.

500 gr (3 1/2 cups) cannellini beans*
1 leek, trimmed of all green parts and thinly sliced
1 carrot, diced
1 large (or 2 medium) celery ribs, diced
5 tbsp extra virgin olive oil
3 tbsp tomato sauce
500 gr (2 cups) kale (essential!)
4 plum tomatoes, peeled and chopped
1 large onion, finely chopped
2 potatoes, peeled and diced
2 zucchini, diced
1/2 large Savoy cabbage
250 gr (1 cup) Swiss chard
4 slices of day-old (or stale) homestyle bread, roughly torn apart
1 tsp salt and generous lashings of cracked black pepper
(A sprig of fresh thyme in substitution of kale)

*If the beans are dried, soak them in water for at least 24 hours; if fresh or canned, simply rinse after removing them from their pods or cans.

You'll be making this dish the day before serving your Ribollita, so be sure to budget time wisely.
Rinse the beans and boil them in salted water for 40 minutes. Set them aside soaking in their cooking water.

Sauté the leek-carrot-celery holy trinity mirepoix with olive oil, in a heavy bottomed pot. When the leek is translucent, add the tomato sauce. Puree half the beans in the blender with their cooking water and add them to the sauce base.

Stir in all the vegetables, and bring to a boil, then reduce heat and simmer gently for 1 hour.

Fold in the rest of the saved beans and the bread, seasoning to taste with salt and pepper. Keep simmering for 5 more minutes.

Turn off the stove, go to sleep and wish your Ribollita goodnight.
The next day re-boil the soup for 10 minutes and let it rest off the stove for an additional 15 minutes before serving in deep bowls, each containing a garlic-rubbed slice of bruschetta, a drizzle of raw extra virgin olive oil, and several more turns of the pepper mill.

The wine you should pour with Ribollita should be preferably three things: Tuscan, red and intense. I would go with the earthy Cecchi Bonizio, a marvelous blend of Merlot from Tuscany's coastal Maremma zone, and select Sangiovese grapes from the hills of Chianti Classico, loaded with lots of wild berries, spice and complexity, perfect with the round, full and rich mouthfuls of warm, comforting vegetables.

Buon appetito.

Image © Donna Moderna.com

Stracciatella

Such a funny word, stracciatella. A noun that means 'torn to little shreds' [strah·tcha·tell·ah] can be one of three things: a variety of egg-drop soup, a gelato flavor and a type of cheese.

The stracciatella gelato is a delicious and exotic version of chocolate chip ice cream, but this is gelato we're talking about, so creamy and not chunky and made with a white fior di latte (milk) base and minuscule dark chocolate shavings. Hence the name.

The stracciatella cheese is the sinful stuffing for burrata typical of Puglia. It is made with torn pieces of mozzarella and mixed with heavy cream. The outer shell is a pouch made of solid mozzarella, while the inside contains both the creamy stracciatella, which give burrata's unique pulpy texture. Cutting through a fresh new burrata and the witnessing the soft shredded pulp oozing out, is a truly mystic experience.

The stracciatella soup is a cucina romana recipe, but this comfort food is made made all over Lazio, which is the region of which Rome is the capital.

The recipe is super easy and brings the magical healing powers of chicken soup to a whole new level.
I once nursed a broken heart on a strict diet of stracciatella (in all three incarnations). Worked wonders.

2 eggs
100 gr (1/2 cup) Parmigiano, grated
1 lt (1 quart) meat stock
A pinch of nutmeg
Salt
Lemon zest

Lightly beat the eggs in a bowl with a fork, add the grated cheese, a pinch of ground nutmeg and a pinch of salt, and whisk to blend.

Bring the beef stock to a rolling boil. Using a whisk, create a vortex in the broth by swirling in the same direction. Be careful, boiling hot brodo is a bitch.

Carefully pour the eggy mixture in one slim stream into the eye of the whirlpool and keep swirling to break up the stracciatella, reduce the heat to maintain it at a gentle simmer for about 5 minutes, as you keep stirring and shredding as the egg cooks in the broth.

Serve sprinkled with a touch of lemon zest.

Have you uncorked the bottle of Colli Lanuvini?

Bagna càuda recipe

In the earliest part of my childhood I spent a lot of time with my Nonna Titta. I've spoken about her in many occasions on this blog. She was a pillar of my upbringing, and even though I was 9 when she passed away, she left me many memories and an impressive mark on my nature and individuality. I see a lot of her in myself today.

In particular, the memories I associate the most with Nonna are sensory. The taste of her gummy, black Allenbury candies stashed in a tin box at the bottom of her beauty case, the glint in her emerald green eyes while we played pretending to be ladies having tea, and mostly, the smells coming from the kitchen when she'd cook. Her pièce de résistance was bagna càuda, characteristic of her Piedmontese origins.

This appetizer/soup, whose name in dialect means "hot bath," is enjoyed by dipping raw, boiled or roasted vegetables in a manner similar to fondue in a heated blend of garlic, anchovy and olive oil. It is traditionally an autumn/winter recipe and must be eaten hot, as the name suggests.

Bagna Càuda can be served in individual dipping bowls, or placed in a larger terracotta pan, placed on a burner at the center of the table, for communal sharing. Pictured above is the clay pot in which Nonna cooked and served hers.

Whenever my mother or I make Bagna Càuda, this is what we we still use.

Here's how we continue Nonna's tradition:
500 g (2 1/2 cups) extra virgin olive oil
150 g (3/4 cup) salted anchovies
50 g (1/4 cup) butter
6 cloves of garlic, peeled

Assorted vegetables for dipping:
2 cardoons (if these are not available where you live, substitute with 3–4 ribs of white celery, cut in sticks)
2 yellow bell peppers, cut in sticks
1 cup cauliflower florets
2 topinambur (aka Jerusalem artichoke, sunroot, sunchoke, or earth apple), peeled and cut in chunks
5 radishes, peeled
2 carrots, cut in sticks
2 artichokes, cored, outer leaves removed and quartered lengthwise
3 spring onions

Scrape the anchovies with a paring knife, rid them of the bones and open them flat. Brush away excess salt with a kitchen towel, and do not rinse with water.

Thinly slice the garlic and trim away green parts, if any.

In an enameled terracotta pan (if you don't have one, a common nonstick saucepan will do), melt the butter over extremely mild heat, add the garlic and let it tan without browning.

Add the olive oil and the anchovies, gently simmering, stirring and breaking up the fillets with the back of a wooden spoon. Do this for 10 minutes, or until the sauce is creamy and evenly blended.

Serve on a fondue burner or on a cooling rack placed over tea light candles to keep the delicious bagna as càuda as possible while you gobble away, washing down with rivers of Barbera or Dolcetto.

Note: For those fearsome of such copious amounts of garlic, there's a trick: you halve the quantity of oil and compensate with a cup of whole milk, to be poured in at the same time. Identical garlic quantity, and same exact procedure: the milk tames the punch of the garlic.

It works, trust Nonna.

Canederli recipe

Imagine lying on a flowery Alpine meadow while inhaling the resinous scent of mountain pine, and enjoying the salubrious effect of a chalice of local wine. This is a typical relaxation treatment in one of many wellness centers scattered in the mystical Alto Adige territory, and where for an entire summer week I took some time off to embrace the power of the mountains and nature.

In seven days of pure bliss my tense body was wrapped in damp hay, massaged from head to toe with balsamic ointments, emulsions made from freshly pressed apple juice and wrapped in cotton sheets soaked in salt and apple vinegar. An entire week of bathing in mountain pine waters and lazy soaking in tubs of whey sourced from the farmstead just around the corner. The renovation phase was finally topped with a "Vinotherapy" wine bath. This local – and now very popular – pamper supreme begins with an initial body scrub using crushed grape skins, followed by a brief nap wrapped in a crisp linen sheet, followed by a hot bath, a glass of red wine and a massage with grape-seed oil. Not to mention the food that comes with it all.

I'm a lover of all soups, whatever the season, and in the seven days of spa heaven, I OD'd on Knödel, or Canederli. These scrumptious dumplings made with leftover bread, are tremendously similar to Jewish matzah balls, likewise cooked and served in stock, and consumed preferably in front of a blazing fireplace.

200 g (1 cup) stale bread
1 egg
20 g (2 tbsp) butter
80 g (5 tbsp) speck, diced (Optional)
1 small white onion
1 tbsp chives
50 g (1/4 cup) unbleached flour
100 ml (3 fl oz) boiling hot milk
1 sprig fresh marjoram
1 pinch of nutmeg
Salt and pepper

Prepare good meat stock, important for best results. No bouillon cube this time, sorry.

Dice the bread and soak it in the boiling hot milk, allowing the crumb to absorb milk for 2 hours. It should bloat but still remain sufficiently pliable, not completely melt.

Finely chop the speck (if you're using it), onion and cut the chives and marjoram.

Wilt the onion in some butter, simmering it gently for a few minutes. Let it cool.

Mash the pulpy bread with the tines of a fork or in a food mill. Add the onions, flour, the chopped speck, part of the chives and marjoram, and the egg. Season with salt, pepper and nutmeg, and knead well with your wet hands, shaping the mixture into several dumplings the size of golf balls, and set aside.

In a large pot, heat the skimmed meat stock with the remaining chives and marjoram. Toss in the canederli and cook for 6-7 minutes. Serve 4-5 balls in each individual deep soup bowl, swimming in the steaming clear broth.

Pair with a stuctured red.

At the above-mentioned spa in Val di Non where I was pampered for that divine week of nourishing treatments, the chef (who happened to be the chief masseuse’s husband) made his knödel as one single fist-sized orb instead of the usual several per bowl.

Winter pasta sampler

Chilly weather is the Italian invitation for starch-dependent menus. Though they're consumed with abandon year-round, winter gives carbs an even bigger welcome mat.
Some pasta dishes are particularly well suited to the colder months, most not necessarily dependent on seasonal ingredients. They include hearty grain and vegetable soups, richly dressed ragùs, and the best of all gourmet comfort foods, risotto.

Here are three of my favorite stalwart winter primi piatti, with a little bit of history and recipes.
Continue reading ➔

Zuppa Pavese recipe

According to tradition this dish was born in 1525, on the day King François I de Valois was defeated by Emperor Charles V of the Holy Roman Empire during the Battle of Pavia.

The king pronounced the historical phrase "Everything is lost but honor." According to legend, there was at least one other thing His Majesty hadn’t lost––his appetite.

He stormed the Pavese countryside, famished, in search of something to eat. Finally he arrived at a farm called Cascina Repentita, where a peasant woman was brewing a soup. The king told her who he was and that he was very hungry.

The woman placed a piece of old bread and some cheese in a bowl, covered it all with broth and then, thinking that this food was perhaps not noble enough for a king––even a defeated one––she went to the henhouse, picked up two eggs and broke them into his soup bowl.

After eating the peasant woman's Zuppa Pavese King François judged it "fit for kings," and upon his return to France had it included in the court's royal menu. How's that for an endorsement?

Ingredients for 6 serving:
6 tablespoons unsalted butter
2 tablespoon olive oil
Italian style bread, cut in six 1-inch slices
6 cups rich chicken or beef broth
6 free-range eggs
Salt and freshly ground white pepper
2 cups freshly grated Parmigiano, plus more on the table

Heat the butter and olive oil in a skillet and sauté the bread browning it on both sides, then remove and place on paper towels.

Meanwhile bring the broth to a vivacious simmer and keep it there.

Heat individual soup dishes or bowls in the oven, place a slice of bread in each bowl, and crack an egg onto each slice of bread, being very careful not to break the yolk.

Dust with Parmigiano, salt and pepper to taste; once all eggs are placed on the toast, carefully ladle the very hot broth in the bowls (not directly over the yolks, or they'll break). The heat of the stock will cook the eggs. 

If the eggs are not cooked to your taste, place bowls in a hot oven for a minute or two. 

What wine to pour with this dish? Pinot Nero dell'Oltrepò Pavese, of course.

Pasta e patate recipe

Don't let the name fool you, pasta with potatoes is a soup. Thick and hearty, but still, a soup.

It is usually prepared with pasta mista (pasta ammescata in Neapolitan dialect), which has recently been produced industrially as a distinct variety of pasta, but which was once sold cheaply by weight, made up of odd broken pieces of various different shapes of pasta.

The traditional cooking method for this kind of soup consists in cooking the condiments first, making the base of the soup, then throwing in the pasta. While cooking with all the other ingredients, the pasta retains precious starches, which would have been lost if normally cooked separately in salty water and then drained. Cooking pasta together with vegetables makes the sauce creamier; as a bonus, adding the secret ingredient* makes this a 100% authentic cucina povera specialty.

500 g (1.1 lb) small tubetti or mis-matched pasta (you can make your own with odd leftover pasta shapes, provided they all share the same cooking time)
500 g (1.1 lb) russet potatoes (best if old!), peeled and cubed
1 glass of extra virgin olive oil
1/2 white onion, minced
1 celery rib, minced
1 quart of beef broth
*200 g (1 cup) smoked provola, diced (can be substituted with any smoked semi-soft cheese)
1 garlic clove, minced
Salt and freshly ground black pepper to taste

Heat the oil in a large stewpot equipped with a tight fitting lid. Sauté the onion and garlic and when they begin to tan, add the celery, simmer lightly, and season with salt and pepper.

Pour in 2 ladles of stock and add the cubed potatoes. Gently simmer over medium-low heat, and bear in mind the potatoes mustn’t purée.

Add the raw pasta and cook as you would risotto, ladling in broth a little at a time as it absorbs. The degree of thickness is determined by this key step. Too much stock will make your soup too liquid, too little will result in a soggy "neither fish nor flesh" dish. Keep hearty Italian minestre like Ribollita in mind as a texture model.

When the pasta is cooked through, rank up the heat and toss in the diced smoked cheese, stirring constantly. Cover and let the cheese melt and form lovely long springy ribbons.

One last turn of the peppermill and devour while still burning hot.

Zuppa di Farro recipe

It's raining today, and we are all thankful. The air smells green and sexy. Heady notes of wet grass, rich earth and moss emerge from the ground. Shoulders suddenly drop, smiles return to flushed faces, and blankets are taken out of camphor-lined brown paper bundles from the back of the closet.

Tonight I will take care of the cambio di stagione, the season's clothes change from summer linen, cotton and pastels to an autumnal palette, heavier textures, scarves and rain gear. Mr E has begun preschool, and the novelty has brought a wave of excitement to us all.

Tomorrow morning, taking advantage of the last days off before the beginning of a new job, I will make a quick trip to the market where my mushroom guy will surely be selling his foraged goods from nearby forests and damp woodland undergrowth. I will stock up on pumpkin, cabbage, beautiful golden grapes, the last figs, lovely tangerines and buy fragrant bread and juicy steaks for dinner.

And if the showers and chilly wind keep up, I will be making some soup too.

Zuppa di Farro

Farro is a type of wheat grown in cold, inhospitable mountain areas. The small oblong kernel is used for soups, either shelled or unshelled (which is commonly called spelt) or for salad. Many regional varieties of zuppa di farro exist, this is my family’s recipe. A healthy and restorative treat to be eaten slowly and in silence while the autunno wind plays with fallen leaves outside the window.

200 g (1 cup) shelled farro
400 g (2 cups) boiled borlotti beans
1 white onion, minced
1 garlic clove, minced
1 celery rib, trimmed and left whole
1 carrot, peeled and left whole
Extra virgin olive oil
Salt and pepper to taste

Rinse the farro several times in fresh water and set aside.

Boil the dried beans with the celery, onion, carrot and garlic for an hour, there is no need for a pre-soak. Spoon out 2 tablespoons of beans and set them aside for later.

Whir the rest of the bean soup with its cooking water in the blender until smooth and creamy. Transfer to a stewpot and add the washed farro, and simmer gently for 45 minutes, stirring often and being extra careful that it doesn't stick.

Add the 2 saved tablespoons of beans to the pot, and season to taste. Serve drizzled with raw olive oil in large steaming bowls.

Wine? Bardolino!

Image courtesy of aniceecannella

Summer vegetable soup recipe

Soup is the primary comfort food, the product of cuisine and Nature combined to nourish the soul. Bisques, broths, vellutatas, chowders, bouillons – whatever.

I love to make and consume large quantities of soup. It's my weakness, perhaps more so than chocolate. My family and regular guest have been raised on my borscht, my Asian egg drop soups. I express myself at best equally on miso and barley Scotch broth. 

Over the years the people I cook for have demanded I constantly update my soup recipes, introducing new ideas and flavors in their bowls.

I personally make soup year round, regardless of season and temperature. A ton of gold tortellini swimming in hot clear chicken consommé can restore peace and heal the deepest of wounds, whatever the climate.

Cold winter nights call for liquid nourishment, so a steaming cup of lentil zuppa can uplift spirits and turn a simple dinner gathering into a festival of laughter. By the same token in summer, a chilled bowl of minestrone or gazpacho, a mug of vichyssoise, or a room temperature cup of thick Pasta e Ceci can be of great solace in times of heat distress.

Here's the recipe for a summer remedy tested to replete perspired souls, the failsafe vellutata fredda, summer vegetable cream.

In Rome it can get fiercely hot in the summer. The humidity level is equal to a Turkish hammam and your brain feels (and therefore acts) like a gelatinous inert blob. This cool, refreshing and revitalizing soup is ideal when it's 40° C (104° F) out and sloth has completely overtaken control of limbs.

Do what you must to drag yourself to the kitchen and assemble:

100 g (1/2 cup) zucchini, roughly cut
30 g (1 oz) peas
50 g (1/4 cup) carrots, roughly cut
6 asparagus spears, tails removed
50 g (1/4 cup) whole wheat bread, crusts removed
200 g (1 cup) yogurt
Extra virgin olive oil
2 bunches of fresh basil
Salt and pepper to taste

Boil all the vegetables until fork soft, save the asparagus tips and whir the rest in the blender with the yogurt. Stir in the oil, salt and pepper, and the basil leaves. Refrigerate and serve chilled in small bowls garnished with asparagus tips and whole wheat dry toasted croutons.

Save for the yogurt and croutons, this recipe works for both the vegan and the gluten intolerant. Yields 4 servings.

Mamma's Pasta e Ceci

Dinner and a Movie, this month's installment features 1987 Norman Jewison hit Moonstruck. In Italy this film was called Stregata dalla Luna.

I remember watching this film and drooling over its many food-related images. The sequences taking place in Brooklyn restaurants, the fornaio oven (tended by a young Nicholas Cage) churning warm Italian rosette buns and sfilatini baguettes, home-cooked meals and one particular scene where Cher and Olympia Dukakis (playing her mother) prepare breakfast during a heated conversation: eggs fried in a crumbless slice of sourdough bread, a dash of tomato concentrate, a jug of freshly brewed coffee and sizzling strips of greasy bacon. Hardly the Italian iconic prima colazione that first comes to mind, but oh, so yummy looking. Most of the comedy’s dialogue scenes take place with the family gathered around the kitchen table, and Grandpa dispensing wisdom and humor with each bite.

I wish to honor that same homey Italian family tradition that fills my household, by contributing my mother's famed Pasta e Ceci. The Italian thick creamy chickpeas mixed in with pasta is among my favorite soups for all seasons. A steaming bowl can replete lost energy and warmth in frosty winter nights; while the chilled version refreshes with each spoonful during sweltering Roman summers. My mom's rendition is by far the best I've ever tasted, and I know my ceci.

4 cans (200gr / 14 oz each) chickpeas (also called garbanzo beans), rinsed
2 tbsp unbleached flour, leveled
2 garlic cloves
2 sprigs rosemary
1 liter (1 quart) vegetable stoc
Extra virgin olive oil
Salt and pepper to taste
1/2 pot of water
150 g (3/4 cup) maltagliati or mixed pasta

Prepare a mazzetto odoroso (or, bouquet garni) by placing the rosemary and the garlic in a knotted cheesecloth or gauze.
Whir one of the cans of chickpeas in the blender and set aside.
Put all the ingredients – except the stock and blended ceci – in a large stewpot, and bring to a boil. Reduce the heat and simmer lightly for 1 hour over a gentle flame, seasoning to taste.

In a small saucepan, heat 2 tablespoons each of olive oil and flour and cook for 10 minutes, stirring constantly over very low heat. Add 1 ladle of vegetable stock to obtain a creamy, white sauce. Stir this into the simmering soup, along with the blended chickpeas. Remove the herbal pouch and add the pasta, cooking it directly in the soup, until done. Serve piping hot with a thread of raw olive oil and freshly ground black pepper.

Note: For the cold, summer version, simply reserve 2 cups of creamy broth aside, cool the soup down before refrigerating, and then add the re-hydrating broth back before serving (otherwise the pasta will continue to absorb the liquid long after cooking and become too cement-like).



Loretta Castorini: Bless me, Father, for I have sinned. It has been two months since my last confession.
Priest: What sins have you to confess?
Loretta Castorini: Twice I took the name of the Lord in vain, once I slept with the brother of my fiancee, and once I bounced a check at the liquor store, but that was really an accident.
Priest: Then it's not a sin. But... what was that second thing you said, Loretta?

Winters go down better with soup

It has started raining again. E. is snoring softly in the bed a few feet away. The pattering of raindrops behind the window panes and the rhythmic inhale-exhaling of my son's golden slumber create a unique and soothing incidental music, fitting for this moment: my first post on my first time blogging.
I switch his nightlight off and carry my laptop from my desk to the open space dining room/kitchen down the hall. God bless wi-fi.

The lights are dim, and another sound has added on to my all-natural musak. It's the minestrone simmering on the stove. I uncork a perfect bottle of Sassoalloro 2006, slide into a pair of tattered jeans and smile as my glasses fog up with the heavenly vapors spiraling from the bubbling pot.

Were it not for the spectacular double-rimmed rainbow embracing the centro storico this afternoon, the kiddie party was the usual agglomerate of frantic moms, scattered dads with iPhones taking silly pictures of their own kids, and the occasional bejewelled wealthy granny. I've grown accustomed to the whole Italian toddler birthday celebration routine. The miked clown, the balding magician with the wrap around hair, the overly loud salsa music and the groaning soap bubble machine. As usual at these events, I couldn't keep my hands off the silver dollar-sized mini pizzas, single bite croissant sandwiches with prosciutto and bufala, the lobster vol-au-vents. The venue was a guaranteed four star buffet, Antonini's canapées are rarely a disappointment. E. is tired, shy and wants more soda. The cake isn't anywhere in sight. We resist, if nothing out of curiosity.
With E's little hand firmly clasped to the hem of my vintage frock (that and my kajal eye make up got quite a few disapproving glances form Mink Coat Grandma #1 and Cashmere Mommy #9), I down a flute of warm Berlucchi, grab our coats and pack up the phallic sword partyfavor produced by the pimply balloon twister, a handful of lemon flavored gelatins and we're outta there. E. fell asleep in the car coming home, and carrying his limp 15-kilo body, umbrella, handbag, balloons, candy etc was no piece of cake, but I managed it. I always do.

So now, in the warmth of our 2-room apartment, the silence and the comfort of the simplicity I'm about to dine on are a panacea for my bleeding eardrums and upset soul.

If you've had a similar day and 20 minutes on your hands, assemble:
2 quarts of bouillon (ok you can cheat and make it with a stock cube)
OPTIONAL: 1 cup prosciutto cotto (regular deli ham), diced
1 1/4 cups fresh spinach, stems removed
2 fresh zucchini, thinly sliced
1 garlic clove, minced
1 medium onion, thinly sliced
2 tbsp pesto sauce
1 1/2 cups tubetti-type pasta
2 tbsp brandy
1 cup baby peas
Extra virgin olive oil
Profuse amounts of grated Parmigiano Reggiano and extra virgin olive oil

Bring the stock to a rolling boil in a large high-rimmed stew pot. Add the garlic, spinach, zucchini, onion and prosciutto (if you're using it) and simmer over mild heat for 10 minutes.
Add the pasta and cook it just shy of al dente (springy yet retaining some bite). Stir in the brandy, pesto sauce, and the peas until it's all well amalgamated and the liquid almost completely absorbed (I like my minestra quite thick). Drizzle a thread of olive oil and remove the pot from the stove. Dust with lots of grated Parmigiano and serve piping hot.

The rain's subsided somewhat. I sip the wine. I hit publish.