Dad's favorite dishes

I need to write. Writing is my preferred form of therapy. My father has flown away, and I still can't believe it's true.

I'm grieving and I have no idea how to do it. My emotions overlap and my heart aches. I can't make any sense of what's happening. FYI You're in the wrong place if you're expecting to read a cheerful post.

What follows is a moment of intimate reflection, of deep therapeutic writing that I'm putting out there in the universe (secretly, I'm hoping Dad will read it and smile, from wherever he is right now).

Although we did have time for our goodbyes, for whispered I love yous, and no remorse of anything left unsaid, there are so many other moments that I would have wanted to share with you, Dad.

I would have wanted to see the look on your face when reading the dedication of my first book to you.

Your reaction to the wink in the camera I gave as I joked about eating blue cheese (which you hated) on the gorgonzola segment of my show.

I would have loved E. to hang out with you more, and finally play that golf match you two have been talking about for years.

I so wanted to take you to the Navy museum in Anguillara on lake Bracciano, you would have loved it!

I wanted one more walk on the beach together. One more granita di caffè at Tazza D'Oro. One more impromptu softball game in Santo Stefano di Sessanio together. One more.

Just like this blog started eight years ago as a journal of thoughts followed by recipes, today I'm honoring the memory and the greatness of my Dad by assembling an ideal menu made up of all the dishes he loved, the majority of which were Italian––or so I like to think. I'm going to cook them all for him.

So here goes, Dad, I hope you enjoy it.

Antipasto
Prosciutto e Melone – Dad, you loved this classic Italian hors d'oeuvre. If prosciutto was unavailable, you'd sprinkle salt on your cantaloupe. This created the same perfect umami contrast. You often told a story of your Navy days in the Philippines. One of these memories was of you and a fellow officer riding on a boat to a local's house. It was a sweltering hot day. In the distance you saw the woman whose house you were headed to standing on the jetty, holding a jug of what looked like pulpy orange juice. You hated pulpy orange juice more than you hated blue cheese. A mix of disgust and fear of being impolite when declining to drink the beverage washed over you. Imagine your surprise when you soon realized the contents of the jug was crushed cantaloupe melon! You said you didn't let anyone else have much of it. Eating melon will never be the same for me. I will always smile and think of you with every bite.

Primo piatto
Anything al Pesto – You had this thing with pesto sauce. When you'd come visit us in Rome, this was always your first pasta choice. I remember this one time you came to visit when E. was 2 and for the welcome dinner I made gnocchi al pesto for you, a classic go-to and, modestly, a personal showpiece. Well, that night the gnocchi turned out to be a disaster: a collapsed, sticky mass sunken at the bottom of the pot. I fished it out and attempted dressing it with my homemade pesto sauce, which somehow had oxidized and looked dark gray instead of bright green. You ate a full helping of it and feigned appreciation, but I could sense the effort each time you swallowed a bite. Maybe you would have rather eaten my pesto lasagna. Damn, I wish I had baked that for you instead.

Secondo piatto
Scaloppine al limone – I think these were your favorite over saltimbocca alla romana. Whichever veal cutlet recipe it was, the competition was close. I remember how you savored each bite, carefully cutting small portions with your knife and fork, eating them slowly in order to make the joy last.



Remember that great Christmas we all celebrated together in Rome, when Amy and the Anderson gang came over, and we celebrated Christmas Day all together ice skating and then dining in my small apartment? Well, the day you arrived from the airport we went out to eat at La Scala. I'm pretty sure your entree was scaloppine al limone that night.

Contorno
Insalata di finocchi e rucola – You taught me to enjoy shaved fennel bulb and arugula salad. You'd order this side dish at the restaurant, or enjoy eating it at home when you lived in Italy while married to Mamma. The simple condiment, a thread of extra virgin olive oil, a pinch of sea salt and a few turns of the peppermill was all it needed. One side dish we would never dream of serving with lunch when you were in town was broccoli. In a later time of your life you actually did come around to eating broccoli, but as long as I can remember, you hated the stuff as much as you loved mangling its name, "brrrahcklee!"

How I loved your voice, Dad. It was deep and melodious. When I'd curl up on your chest as a little girl, scared or crying for some reason, you'd breathe out with a deep, vibrating hum. That sound was so soothing and calming. It was like Om, but better.


Bread
Focaccia – I'm so bummed that the restaurant Cesarina is no longer what it used to be in the Seventies. You always said how amazing the food was: authentic dishes from Bologna (a sad lack of which we suffer in Rome), courteous service, a legendary Felliniesque host and the balloon focaccia.

You loved that flatbread! Maybe more for the show than the actual taste. The large rolled out dough was baked so that it would puff up into beach-ball size and then swiftly sliced horizontally to obtain two large discs. What I'd give to see you working your way through one of those again.

Dolce
Ricotta e caffè – I don't know how you learned about this typical Roman dessert. It's not really a dessert, it's more of a snack for mid-afternoon merenda, but you loved to eat it at the end of the meal. You'd scoop a couple spoonfuls of fresh sheep's milk ricotta – a Rome specialty – and use a fork to mix it with powdered coffee and sugar. I have a image of you flattening out the resulting beige paste and leaving fork marks all over the surface, and then slowly lifting small bites of it. Sometimes there'd be bread involved too. Or cacao powder.

One thing you were on the other hand very swift at eating was gelato. You adored your Italian frozen delight, and in particular tartufo. Given the amount of tartufo you ingested during your time living in Italy made you a virtual shareholder at Tre Scalini. You ate gelato so quickly that you'd get terrible brain freeze and would moan in pain holding your temple with one hand while wolfing it all down with the other.

Vino
You were never a drinker. I remember you sometimes ordered non-alcoholic beer, but that fad didn't last very long. I don't think you ever drank liquor regularly. There's a story told in the family of when you went to ask my Grandfather for my mother's hand in a Paris restaurant. Waiting to approach the subject during the meal, table manners included sipping some wine. You were in France, what did you expect? When the waiter arrived carrying a 1955 bottle of Château Haut-Brion swaddled like an infant, you accepted a glass but before toasting poured half a pint of Evian in it to water it down. The waiter nearly fainted and I don't know how Nonno reacted. Mom may have kicked you under the table.

I'll end this meal with a treat I know you loved. I made it myself and E. whipped the cream, so there's snow-white spatterings everywhere, including on the kitchen ceiling. We froze the espresso coffee in a shallow tray and scraped it several times to the desired texture. It's not summer, but in heaven there are no seasons, so enjoy. Don't rush it, though.

Those interested in learning more about my Dad's amazing career, can read this beautiful obituary published on the Hollywood Reporter.

Buon appetito, Dad
your Doodah

The food in my 'hood

I have written at length about the well-known food stores and markets in my fancy Parioli neighborhood, these are places which get constant attention from blogs and press. But it's the small, unpretentious businesses on my block that I find the most charming. Still managing to resist through the bad economy are a handful of small family owned businesses that manage to combat the growth and popularity of larger convenience stores and supermarkets. These tiny shops scattered on my block is where I buy most of my food.

New, younger businesses have taken over as older generations have retired or passed away, sadly changing the last remaining authenticity and character of this old part of town. This means that where the old tabaccaio used to be – selling cigarettes, lottery tickets and boxes of sea salt – now is a tattoo parlor. In place of a boutique where residents knew to find elegant interior design items and vintage wallpaper now is a hipster clothing store that I don't think is doing very well (it's always empty).
The Bangladeshi mini market that occupies the space once managed by a family-run photo developing studio (obsolete, the landlord branded it) is ok for quick emergency cleaning supply runs, but given their not-so-competitive prices, it's not really worth it.

Fortunately the best, more historical places still hold fast and provide us residents of the block with the best, most reliable service and constant product quality. And a good bit of neighborly conversation.

My shoe repair man Francesco, for example, where I take my boots and best leather shoes for a good buff or to fix a broken heel, is holding on by the teeth to keep his little shop open, because less and less clients prefer to fix rather than buy new shoes. But, boy does he know how to live: every year he takes the luxury of closing his business down for a week to go with his wife for "cure termali" at a spa town in northern Italy where he detoxes drinking special spring water.

Rosalba, the lady that sews hems and fixes zippers in her little workshop just up the road is a chain smoker, but her needle work is unrivaled. If I need a good replica of a designer item she can do that too, at an affordable price.

Then there's GioFerCas, a small family owned store that is a little bit of everything haberdasher-type place: a cross between a giocattolaio (toy store), a ferramenta (hardware store that also makes copies of keys), and a casalinghi – the place where you can get home supplies, from brooms and shaving cream to alkaline batteries and stainless steel pots. Patrizia, who now helps her retired parents, put on the best store front decorations on Halloween this year, and all the Italian neighborhood kids got heaps of candy.

The little "Pica Pica Porro" specialty store is where I get my exotic fruit fix. If I want avocado and dates, sweet mango and proper papaya, this is where I go. The sales are managed by the father and daughter in law, while the son (owner) is always out and about delivering groceries with his 1974 Moto Guzzi which I can hear roaring in the street even with my windows closed.

Antonio is the neighborhood fruttivendolo and his shop – once dubbed by us residents 'Bulgari' for what he used to charge for fruit and vegetables – has drastically reduced prices to reclaim customers back from the new Bangladeshi minimart competition. Antonio boasts the area's best seasonal produce (his clementines for example are the juiciest) sweetest on the planet. He's serious about seasonality and doesn't give in to the haywire primizia trend of selling produce out of season, therefore his fruit and vegetables are always top-notch. He also sells beers, a few bottles of average wine, fresh eggs, a few kinds of pasta and small choice of canned foods and bottled goods. When I get home late after work, it's great to pick up some rinsed and trimmed salad or pre-chopped minestrone, cubed pumpkin and cauliflower florets, which Antonio prepares himself. In case of bigger emergencies, his sweet Slav assistant delivers the groceries to your doorstep, for free.

My favorite neighborhood store is however Forno Nonno Franco.
As I approach my neighborhood bakery, attracted by the aroma of freshly baked bread, I know I'm in for a sensory overload and a long wait in line.

I'm here every morning to get bread and there's always a crowd elbowing to the front of the small counter. The bread is baked around the clock from dawn 'til sunset, and store opening hours reflect that. In the oven area works the young and passionate heir of retired baker Franco Fiorentino who opened the shop in 1994. His two sisters manage the front end dealing with customers. The three communicate, fight and laugh through a window that connects the bakery ovens and the actual shop, and through which the products are fed on large hot pans before everyone's eyes.

After 10 a.m. is when the place gets the busiest since that's when the hot loaves of Lariano, Altamura and Pane della Salute are ready, and sell still warm, in a matter of minutes. A thick crunchy crust conceals a fluffy, airy wholegrain crumb studded with assorted seeds. A large loaf of this 'bread of health', if properly stored, can last 4-5 days. In my house, it only lasts a few hours. As soon as I buy it, I break off the end and eat it in the street, still warm.

Besides the various types of sourdough, farro and grano tenero bread, the Fiorentino brothers also bake and sell different products, like breadsticks or low-hydration bread pockets filled with an ever changing selection of fillings that range from sautéed dandelion greens to pumpkin & gorgonzola. Their focaccia pugliese is award winning, as is the crisp "scrocchiarella" cracker-like pita, plus buns, savory croissants and ciabattas of every size.

The pizza romana stuffed with porchetta or mortadella is weighed, cut and wrapped in €1 squares ready at 7 a.m. for kids to stuff in their school backpacks for merenda (mid morning snack time). They even make a whole wheat or plain version without yeast called "suolo". The quality of their other types of pizza al taglio (sold by weight) is nothing short in terms of quality compared to the one sold in the more famous centrally located bakeries. Crisp yet chewy, it comes topped with good quality homemade tomato sauce, select cheese and fresh charcuterie. The choice is not ample but turnaround is rather fast.
And this is just the savory offer.

There's a whole universe of pastry that Forno Nonno Franco excels at, in which the strudel and artisan cookie galaxies shine the brightest. The other day I nearly threw a tantrum in the middle of the small store because they had run out of their cinnamon sablé biscotti. Mini crostatas filled with homemade jam; custard and pine nut torta della nonna cakes; lemon curd tartlettes, fried donuts and flaky sublime cornetti (forget the crappy industrial 'croissants' you find at coffee bars in the morning) are sold fresh daily. And there's always something baked new every day, so it's fun to walk in just to see what they've come up that morning. Oh, and the fridge in the entrance near the cookie shelf is stocked with bottles of fresh milk... and chocolate milk. Help!

The secret ingredient that makes the products taste better at this little neighborhood establishment is not a flavor enhancer – there's been lots of controversy around how commercially sold bread in larger Italian wholesale bakeries has been known to be spiked with a "miglioratore", a chemically obtained flavor improving agent. No, what makes this place really special is the courteous, friendly service. The girls are always smiling and crack jokes with customers, despite the frantic crowds pushing at the counter and lined up in the street. You can call ahead of time to reserve your bread should you be running other errands, and they will bake cakes and other typical Italian party food (mini pizzas, bite sized stuffed sandwiches, quiche and other snacks) on request.

Low prices, constant quality, wide variety of products and friendly service.
No wonder the cue outside is so long.

Opening image romasparita.eu - All other photos in this post © Eleonora Baldwin

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.

I made the papers!

There was a lovely article about my food blogging in the Rome issue of Corriere della Sera this weekend. It talked a bit about my childhood, my family, how I came to blogging, and how my career has evolved out of film and into food writing. It was a very well written article, and condensed the friendly, hour-long chat I had with columnist Maria Egizia Fiaschetti, who penned the story.

Here is an online version of the printed article.
Definitely going into my book proposal package to publishers!