In defense of the fish

Italy is for the most part surrounded by sea, with the peninsula and its two large islands lapping up against various parts of the jagged Mediterranean. This makes most of us Italians very familiar with fish. Given such extended coastal real estate, it's hardly surprising that most Italians are raised catching, cooking and eating fish.

As a child I loved the act of fishing but hardly ever ate fish with bones. I was one of those kids parents dreaded, the ones too freaked out by le spine — bone or cartilage — to fully enjoy a meal of aquatic edibles. But mine wasn't a total embargo: I was simply more of a polipi kind of kid...

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Image courtesy of Massimo Capodanno

Guide to the Beaches of Positano

Forget long sandy stretches, the majority of beaches on the Amalfi Coast are mostly rocky. Shores in this part of Southern Italy are pebbly coves pulled from towering cliffs, with rapidly plunging deep blue sea underfoot.

Positano is often known for its main spiaggia grande central lido, but the “natural crèche village” boasts several other beaches to choose from. You can pick one of the Positano beaches listed below and lounge there all day, or hop from one to the next, chasing the sun as it starts to dip behind the mountains when evening approaches.

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Day trips along the Amalfi Coast

Picture yourself in a vintage fishing boat traveling slowly along the jagged Amalfi Coast. The boat stops at an attractive secret inlet. The engine is turned off, cicadas lazily buzz and small waves lap at the sides of the wooden hull of the boat. See yourself swimming in azure coves and deep blue grottos some of which can only be accessed by boat. Is that the captain singing a ballad? The restaurant on stilts beckons with the aroma of mamma's cooking...
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Unexplored Amalfi Coast and Sorrento Peninsula

©zingarate.com

Despite more than half-a-century of mass tourism and wildfire exploitation, the Sorrento Peninsula and the Amalfi Coast still possess a few unexplored and approachable places not yet corrupted by impossibly high prices and artificially piped lemon-scents.

Some remain authentically frozen in time, but you have to seek them out.

Here's my shortlist of lesser-known Amalfi Coast destinations that retain some of the dreamlike quality Steinbeck marveled at when he visited after WWII.

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My Edible City: Positano

Lovely Marie Asselin of Food Nouveau kindly asked me to contribute to her series Edible Cities. Every week, the popular blog features one of Marie's favorite bloggers, who tell readers about a city that left a big impression on them, and which dish they loved the best when they visited.

Thank you Marie for asking me to participate in this fabulous series!

Read my contribution in which I tell of my love story with Positano.

Positano for the weekend

It's October, I should be pulling out scarves, sweaters and rain gear; polishing apples and sweeping dried leaves from the doorstep, stowing away summer clothes and beach towels..

Not me.

I'm rubbing aftersun lotion on my brown shoulders after a spectacular secret weekend escape in Positano with my little boy.

We packed a small tote, left on the hush hush and spent two fabulous days swimming, relaxing in the sun, eating seafood and meeting friends in what is said to be the warmest Fall season in 150 years.

We like to catch the Laurito shuttle early, before the crowds. It's a 5 minute sail south of Positano, and the red fish ferries its lido patrons every half hour, despite what's painted on the fish (every 60 mins.)

We found a spot on the rocky beach and waited for Laura to arrive from Amalfi. It was a real treat to finally meet in person after almost two years of knowing each other via web.

We ate lunch on the terrace at Da Adolfo, and it was laid back and delicious as usual. I always have the house specialty, a mozzarella antipasto, which is grilled on wild lemon leaves... very tasty. We also slurped zuppa di cozze, sopped up the juices with a loaf of crusty bread and downed a caraffe of chilled white wine with chopped peaches bobbing in it.

After bidding arrivederci to Laura, we were swept away on a friend's motoscafo, and we laughed in the sun, giddy with acceleration and high on beauty.

More snorkeling and swimming at "il germano," a rock formation said to resemble a German soldier's profile. The water is deep deep blue, with patches of emerald green, and the mountains reflect on the surface.

We returned to Positano in time for aperitivo and...

My son couldn't believe it, and neither could I. Lou Reed's "Perfect Day" tune kept ringing in my ears.

...and dinner of course!! Paccheri are a regional type of broad, tube-like pasta whose name means "slaps." These were made with sautéed scampi, and just a few fresh tomatoes thrown in the pan. The Buca di Bacco holds cooking classes in the restaurant kitchen, taught by the charming Executive Chef Andrea Ruggiero. I'd like to join one before the hotel closes for the winter.

One last swim before heading back home yesterday. I have to keep reminding myself it's October.

Ciao Positano, a presto!

Please head over to Ciao Amalfi! for Laura's exquisite reportage of our Laurito rendezvous...

What I ate in Positano

Yes, that is someone swimming. March, 2011

You can find more photos of this glorious Positano vacation on my Flickr stream.

Analogue memories

In this age of digitalized photography, technology used to obtain a vintage grain on pictures captured by a phone, and retro image rendering, I thought I'd post these photographs taken in Positano with a Kodak Instamatic camera, in the summer of 1977.

I scanned the originals so I could post them here, but didn't tweak the levels. The prints actually look just like what you see: rounded edges, cool cross-processed, funky '70s feel (and slanted horizons).

No App could ever match this.

This precise spot on this very beach is where I plan to spend lots of time during the Easter holidays, enjoying a few days off with family.  Possibly doing handstands in the water.

Buona Pasqua!

Eggplant vegetarian "meatballs" recipe

Have I mentioned my partiality towards meatballs? Well, here's one of my favorite vegetarian meatball recipes. Borrowed from the restaurant menu of Buca di Bacco in Positano, with kind permission of the entire kitchen staff, an élite group of gourmet chefs to which, years ago for a brief period, I had the honor of belonging. 

Ingredients for 4 servings
3 large eggplants
2 egg yolks
1 tablespoons breadcrumbs
2 tablespoon pecorino Romano, grated
1 sprig fresh basil leaves, finely chopped
Salt and pepper to taste
More breadcrumbs for dredging
Olive oil for frying

Peel the eggplant and dice. Place in a colander, sprinkle with salt and let sit for 1 hour. This procedure purges the eggplant's potential bitterness.

Rinse well and blanche the eggplant in a large pot of salted water.

Strain the eggplant quite al dente, then press between two plates to remove excess liquid. Chop finely and combine with the egg yolks, breadcrumbs, grated Pecorino, basil and pepper, mixing well with your hands.

Roll the mixture into 2-inch fat patties, dredge in breadcrumbs and drop in boiling hot oil and fry until golden. The amounts indicated should yield about 12 patties, more or less.

Deposit shortly on blotting paper or kitchen towel before wolfing down.

The white wine must be chilled!

Night fishing in Positano with Mamma

"Destitute pea pickers living in tent in migrant camp. Mother of seven children. Age thirty-two."
Nipomo, California - February 1936 by Dorothea Lange

Grown don't mean nothing to a mother. A child is a child. They get bigger, older, but grown? What's that suppose to mean? In my heart it don't mean a thing.

~Toni Morrison, Beloved, 1987

This quote makes me think of my mom. She always says how I am forever her baby. My Mother is the woman I admire more than anyone I know. She is beautiful inside an out, she means the world to me. She is now my son's nonna (grandmother), and it has been a healing rebirth for her. Her name is Emi, short for Emilia. She is about 5'3" with short silver hair, big brown eyes and an intoxicating laugh. She has olive skin that tans quickly and smells like in my childhood. I like it when people say I look like her. Mamma is my best friend, source of guidance and comfort, and the strongest woman I have ever known. There are so many reasons why I admire her that I could go on for days talking about her. Those of you who have been snacking here for a while, know that I have posted about my mother a lot, and quoted her in this recipe roast post.

The episode that follows is one of the million similar events experienced with my mamma. I wish to share it here with you because it also portrays a beautiful moment of my early youth. A time before my own motherhood.

Night fishing excursions in Positano always meant 3.00 a.m. wake up calls and wearing itchy wool sweaters in the middle of summer. My mother would drag me out of bed with the promise of an exciting experience, and indeed it always turned out to be just that. 

On one particularly tense night, the four expert fishermen occupying the boat – who would usually welcome us on their vessel with a silent nod (females apparently bring bad fishing luck) – were oddly silent, casting sideways glances. As I squirmed in my stiff navy wool pullover, the engines roaring beneath us, I noticed one of them looking up at the sky and mumbling as the fishing boat set out to sea in the pitch black of the night. Something to do with foul weather coming in. Not the best way to begin.

We navigated for at least an hour, neither east nor west, just plain out in the middle of the dark Mediterranean waters before us. Our hair blew tangled in the black air and a distant look sank in our eyes, as the town lights behind us became few indistinct flickering pinholes, far far away.

Once we reached the designated spot, the anchor splashed into the deep and engines were turned off, the only sound was the swaying water, its tiny waves lapping against the walls of the boat. The sky was incredibly starry and the salty breeze made my nostrils tickle. The stillness and quiet lasted only a brief moment.

As the frenzy of preparation and excitement grew each minute, my mother and I sat nestled in a corner watching the angling miracle from a secure vantage point. With slow repetitive movements, the men began pulling up the fishing line from the crow's nest. It came up virtually empty. Only a dozen small silvery fish and a lot of seaweed caught in the mesh netting. The mood was not good.

The engines started again and we moved off to a second further location where a flag planted on a buoy signaled the presence of a palamito top line. As the fishermen began to harvest the sea, my mother and I looked at each other and simultaneously shared the same thought. We're never getting invited on board this barca again.

The first line came up empty... the second: nothing, as did the third. We began to worry that our presence indeed jinxed the expedition. The men were hissing and panting as they hauled up arm lengths of glistening nylon line. Their excitement, effort and expectations dulling as each bait came up prize-less.

And then suddenly, the miracle happened. A single mute signal and the men alerted their senses. A different weight in the lifting was perceived and the word uttered was a serious, hushed "Ecco." As each dropper surfaced with a precious silvery wiggling creature hooked to it, the men grew more vocal. Their usually comprehensible Neapolitan dialect became an obscure mix of Arabic, Greek and Testosterone in loud manly exclamations we failed to understand. Wet, chilled and slippery calloused hands, chaffed by the wind and cut by the nylon line, heaved up disproportionate weights. Scales and bloodshot gills glistened in the moonlight at our feet, we sat in awe.

The men pulled and pulled, retrieving the booty with glazed eyes and deep incantations aboard our vessel. Each catch was welcomed with a growing roar of pleasure and we became intoxicated with the spreading euphoria, pitching in with applause and squeals of joy. Gigantic groupers with bulging eyes surfaced from the deep, silvery sea bass behemoths, writhing tentacled octopus, slithering conger eels, a 50-pound bluefin tuna... one after the other the sea creatures appeared and progressively crowded the boat floor darting in a wash of salt water, seaweed and blood. The air around the vessel was soon filled with squawking gulls and the water surrounding us, a wriggling pool of silvery anchovies and sardines waiting for delicious bait debris. This went on for several hours.

Dawn escorted us back to shore, exhausted and elated. Docking the fishing boat and landing our crates after crates, full of sea treasures, I felt alive and excited. The exhilaration of the catch had me on a natural high for days.

I have returned many times on board that same boat, the old San Giovanni, again in the heart of darkness, but never was any event as miraculous as that 1978 mid-August night.

Happy Mother's Day to all the brave, wise, young, senior, zany, single, married, gay/lesbian/transgender, lonely, in a relationship, focused, forgetful, busy, lazy, accomplished, mindless, slender, overweight, working, jobless, underpaid, overworked, ill, healthy, laughing, sad, obstinate, flexible, indigent, wealthy, rational, crazy, worried, relaxed, stable, unbalanced, playful, intellectual, bookworm, outdoorsy, pregnant, menopausal, sophisticated, simple, intuitive, caring, devoted, sacrificing, endurably unselfish, compassionate, forgiving, protective, affectionate, superhuman, loving mothers of this world.

Purpetielli Affogati - stewed Baby Octopus recipe

When I was a young girl, my beach friends and I used to go skin diving on shallow reefs along the Amalfi coast, just between Positano and Praiano, and came home with octopus almost every day. We’d set off early in the morning with our blue & red canvas materassini (inflatable rafts), snorkeling masks and a piece of white cloth tied to a string.

We'd swim what felt like 300 miles hugging the coastline to reach the designated fishing spot, elected by the group's elder, Gianluca. He was 13, and we were all still in the third grade. We'd arrive breathless and sweaty (odd the sensation of sweating in water), scanning the shallow rocks beneath us. Half clung to the materassino, head plunged below water's edge, we'd let the string unfurl and start playing with the octopi. Cephalopods are like kittens, wave anything at them, like a piece of white cloth tied to a string, and they'd float right out from under their rocky enclave to chase the billowing fabric.

We would farm an average 8 to 12 polpi each in a little under 3 hours, just in time to swim back to our beach, parade the catch across town, and get home for lunch.

Normally, I would never share this secret (yet very easy) recipe. Call me selfish, but some tricks are best kept unsaid. I however can't stay a day without pampering you all with my silly stories, my kitchen tips and my family recipes. It's what I do. I like to cook and then write about it. I love it when my food gets complimented, even if only savored in a virtual world. When a fellow blogger actually sends me feedback of proven recipes being a success, my heart flies. This is how I show my love.

So...

Here's the recipe for Purpetielli (Neapolitan for polpetti, little octopi) affogati, which is a cooking term used commonly for savory dishes stewed in flavorsome tomatoes and wine, which means drowned.

The ideal mollusks to use for this dish would be the tiny moscardini (8 tentacles, single line of suction cups on each), but any small, tender kind will work. The smaller the octopus, the lower chance of a chewy, rubbery outcome, once cooked.

Polpo in fact, requires long, slow simmering, so keep your temperatures low and give yourself plenty of time. I like to do this with the baby octopus you find frozen in Asian markets, but as I said before, you can use any kind. Serve with homestyle, crusty bread for sopping up droolworthy sauce and juices, and keep the wine bottle well chilled.

8 small octopi, weighing an average of 150gr each (5 oz)
500 g (2 1/2 cups) plum tomatoes, chopped
250 ml (1 cup) dry, white wine
2 garlic cloves
A small bunch parsley, minced (optional, I don't use it)
100 ml (1/2 cup) extra virgin olive oil
1 small fiery red peperoncino hot pepper, crushed
Salt to taste

Clean and trim any hard or non-edible parts of the polpetti, like the beak, entrails, stomach sac, eyes, gladius and bony innards. If you don't want to do all this, have your fishmonger clean and prepare them for you to take home.

Take a medium, high-sided pot, and put all the ingredients in it, adding a little water as well.

Cover the pot, bring it to a boil, and simmer the octopuses drenched in the sauce for 20 minutes, after about 10 minutes, check seasoning. Serve with the sauce and lots of bread for mandatory scarpetta (a divine Italian table custom I will post about in the near future).

Tip: A popular belief suggests that to make polpetti (or any other size of octopi for that matter) become more tender during cooking, they must be stewed with a cork stopper in the cooking pot.
It actually works, so take that smirk off your face.