20 things that nurture me, an exercise

20 things that nurture me
(thank you Robyn for showing me this exercise some time ago)

1. My son: You are my universe.
2. Friends: I love you. You pull me out of dark spots, and throw sunlight at me. Every day.
3. Love: All-inclusive nourishment.
4. Instinct: A part of me I have never disliked. My sixth sense has never failed me.
5. Trees: Important creatures in my life.
6. Writing: Therapy in expression.
7. Art: I am moved by it, nurtured by it, humbled by it.
8. Nature: My deepest respect.
9. Laughter: Above all, my son's belly laugh.
10. Compassion: The only way to live.
11. Spirituality: A safe place.
12. Imagination: Powerful self-preservation tool.
13. Touch: My child's gentle touch, hugging people, trees and animals, and a nice deep-tissue massage.
14. Oceans, Seas: Where I naturally rejuvenate.
15. Chiming tubular bells: Instant inner peace.
16. Music: I can't imagine life without it.
17. Smell: Freshly baked bread, mowed grass, my son'r hair.
18. Poetry, Literature: I can never get enough of them.
19. Water: Drinking a perfect glass of water when I'm thirsty is the best. I am among the lucky few who can open any faucet and drink from it freely.
20. Sleep: When I sleep well I dream. I had my first dream in a long time early this morning.

Like Robyn says, all the above are connected and wouldn't really mean much without each other. Please forgive this non-cuisine digression in the more personal sphere. I am in that place right now, not in the kitchen. This is a good thing.

Polenta recipe

Polenta is one of those ageless culinary lords, like bread. It has sprung from the hunger of mankind, and without apparent effort has always carried with it a feeling of strength and dignity and well-being.

~ M.F.K. Fisher, "How to Cook a Wolf"

Polenta is an ancient Mediterranean dish. The Greeks, Romans and others who lived in Italy in ancient times made puls by cooking farro, millet and other grains or chestnut flour in water or milk, then added legumes, vegetables, eggs and cheese for a complete and nutritious meal. The dish changed after Columbus returned to Europe with corn from the Americas in the 16th century. Corn cultivation expanded to Italy in the 17th century and was rapidly adopted, especially in the Northern regions. Polenta made with corn became a staple of the lower classes, in part because the "new" grain was cheaper than wheat used for bread, but also because of the sense of satiety it provided.

A peasant tradition established the custom of eating polenta on the spianatoia, a large wooden board placed on the common table with all the family gathered around. The polenta was spread in a large circle on the spianatoia, with a single sausage placed in the center–usually the only protein and rich meat available that day. Starting from the outer part, each seated guest proceeded inward consuming the section of polenta in front and tunneling their way to the middle of the table towards the sausage. The race was who could get to the sausage first, wiping the table clean.

That sense of family aggregation has endured. In the 21st century, my mother considers polenta the best food to keep her warm on a cold and rainy winter day. We live in Rome and the climate is mostly mild. She has, however often taken advantage of a providential summer thunderstorm to suggest making polenta. Peering at the light drizzle from the window I have often heard her announce: “Evviva! Perfect day for polenta.” She stirs hers in the mandatory copper cauldron called paiolo, serves it in wooden tray-like dishes that are supposed to keep it warm longer, and seasons each portion with a ladleful of sugo con le salsicce e spuntature (tomato and meat sauce with sausages, see recipe below), and finally sprinkles grated Parmigiano over all.

As we sit there, scoffing in silence, we all secretly pronounce our mental thank you at the sky for the unexpected downpour.

1 liter (4 cups) water
200 g (1 cup) cornmeal
Salt

Bring the salted water to a boil. While constantly stirring with a whisk, slowly add the polenta (cornmeal) trying to avoid forming lumps. Switch to a wooden spoon and reduce the heat to a gentle simmer, and brace yourself: you will be stirring constantly for the next 45 minutes to an hour. Or more. A tall drink might help. And/or nibbling on a chunk of Parmigiano. You must engage in all this stirring in order for the polenta to cook evenly and not burn and stick to the bottom of the pot.

Observe the rhythmic build-up of steam that results in small volcanic explosions. Pl-l-lop! Pl-ll-op! Lovely sound. The polenta is ready when smooth, and no longer granular. When it has finally reached the consistency of oatmeal and slides off the sides of the pot, you can rest your arm for a few minutes. But please don’t let the polenta cool down, you must ladle it steaming hot onto plates (wooden would be best, mamma says) directly from the cooking pot.

As a child I relished the polenta leftovers. Polenta solidifies fast and can be sliced. So now, to bring back gluttonous childhood memories, I usually put thick slices of polenta on the grill and dress each with thin slices of Sardinian Pecorino, smoked mozzarella or caciotta (a mild Italian cow's milk cheese). After removing the collection of lids that are permanently housed in my oven, which always come crushing down noisily when I open the oven door, I bake the polenta until heated through and the cheese sloppily melted.

Another great polenta leftover is crunchy fried polenta sticks, pure solace.

Tip: If you store leftover polenta in a cubic container, it is then easier to cut regularly shaped slices.

Salsicce e Spuntature recipe

Mamma's tomato, short ribs and sausage rustic sauce is the preeminent polenta partner. A meal intended for hearty appetites and brave digestive systems, a true winter staple.

Assemble the following ingredients while someone takes a shift at stirring the polenta:

2 celery ribs, minced
3 carrots, minced
1 1/2 medium onions, minced
4 fresh bay leaves
250 g (1 1/4 cups) ground veal
250 g (1 1/4 cups) pork short ribs
2 cups canned tomatoes, with their juice
1 cup dry, white wine
250 g (1 1/4 cups) beef stewing meat, cut into 1" chunks
250 g (1 1/4 cups) pork, cut into 1" chunks
250 g (1 1/4 cups) sweet Italian sausage
Extra virgin olive oil
Salt and ground black pepper, to taste
Parmigiano, grated

Heat approximately 1/4 cup of olive oil in a large stewpot. Add the celery, carrot, onion battuto and the bay leaves, and sauté over medium-high heat for 5 minutes. Reduce heat to medium low, add the ground veal and short ribs, and simmer with the vegetables for 10 minutes. Add tomatoes and their juice, and cook uncovered for 15 minutes.

Add the wine, the chunked beef and pork and the sausage, and cook uncovered for 30 more minutes, stirring frequently. Adjust seasoning with salt and ground black pepper. Serve immediately over soft polenta, with lots of grated Parmigiano on top. Place one symbolic sausage in the middle of your serving plank and eat your way to happiness.

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.

Emi's pork roast recipe

I noticed I've posted quite a number of recipes for fish, desserts, soups, vegetables, and pasta since I started blogging. Not to mention my love affair with cheese. What was missing so far was a proper carnivore's weekend entree. One to be made patiently and for the entire family, one that requires time and that will spill delicious aromas in the rooms near the kitchen.

The Italian word for roast is arrosto, a term that encompasses so much more that a mere cooking technique. It is an adjective, a noun, an onomatopoeic poem.

My mother’s theory is that if you can properly roast meat, you’ve learned how to cook. This was my 'test paper' when I first left home and had my mom over for lunch, what feels like a million years ago. My graduation to grown-up world.

I remember that day: the anticipation, the frenzied behavior, my nervous attempts to make it all perfect. Shopping for the right ingredients, assembling her favorite flowers and maniacally cleaning the house, readying it for her inspection. Not that she's much of a cleanliness freak, or someone fixated with order or form, but I wanted her first impression to be speckless. I wanted to prove that I could not only manage a home on my own, but that I could make one mean roast, too.

In Italy women leave the nest not upon going to college, but once married off to a husband. A man who - in a time not so distant in the past - would mainly be looking for a duplicate of his mother. I was 22 and single, my American side bludgeoning for autonomy. Through the conflict that ensued, I translated the energy into cooking and trying to reproduce my mother's and grandmother's culinary art.

So there she sat, eating quietly. She had a second helping... promising - I thought to myself, as I scanned the room for decoration debacles. I knew things were looking good when she sopped up the roast drippings with a chunk of bread, raising her eyebrows. My heart was pounding, and I'm sure she was feeling under examination too; but that didn't stop us from finishing our food, casually chatting and laughing (three elements of a perfect meal) as we always do.

The final Cordon Bleu moment came when she looked up at me with the most radiant of smiles and said, "La mia bambina ha superato la maestra!" My little girl has outshined her teacher.

My mother, Emi

1969

I passed the test. Here's how I did it back then and how I still prepare my Arrosto today:

1 boneless pork rib end roast, weighing about 1kg (2lbs). In Italy we call this cut arista
5 rosemary sprigs
3 tbsp extra virgin olive oil
Salt and freshly ground black pepper

Preheat oven at 160°C (320°F).

Trim away any fat from the roast and lace it with butcher’s twine to help it maintain its shape. Rub the meat with olive oil, and salt and pepper, massaging in the elements with love. Weave the rosemary twigs between the meat and the kitchen string, and place the prepared roast in the oven, using a high-rimmed oven pan (juice collecting is a must here).

Bake for an hour or until fork-tender. The meat must be well done but not overcooked, this will depend greatly on the size of the roast and oven power; it will be done when you stick a skewer into the middle and the juices run clear. A trick is to fill the drippings pan (one level beneath the roast pan) with water to maintain a good moisture level in your oven.

Remove the roast to a wire rack and let it cool for 15-20 minutes. This is an important step, juices tend to concentrate in the innermost part of the roast. By slicing it straight out of the oven, you would end up with a very watery and unattractive arrosto. Letting it rest allows the fluids to redistribute in the peripheral tissues and render a firm, juicy slice.

Discard the twine before carving. I usually serve my pork roast with applesauce and a side order of pan-fried string beans tossed with a clove of garlic, a fistful of toasted breadcrumbs and a thread of olive oil. 

"Il vino," you ask? Splurge with a Brunello di Montalcino, you deserve it! That or any rich, tannic red.

Buon appetito!

Tagliatelle al ragù recipe

Sundays in Italy mean family. They speak of tradition, repose and morning Mass. Sundays gather the family around the table for communal weekly updates, sports events (mainly soccer) and convivial merry.

As my son and I skip down the flights of stairs of our apartment building on our way out, we walk past Signora Rosetta’s door, inebriated by the smell of tomato sauce simmering on her stove. That divine perfume then wafts over and mingles with our downstairs neighbor Manuela's veal cutlets. And so forth, in a Babylon of aromas all the way down, all good, all Sunday-like.

Every Sunday lunch, my little boy E. and I go to my mother’s house, which is a 5-minute walk from our home. Wearing a nice blouse or a new pair of trousers, to honor our host, we head out. Mamma appreciates us wearing our Sunday best. She also loves it when E's hair is combed with a tidy part on the side. A rare image, E defines tousled. We breathe in the morning air and take a nice stroll to our favorite cafe, buy the paper, chat with people from our neighborhood. A Sunday ritual. We may go to Mass, otherwise we head straight for the pasticceria (pastry shop) and pick up a tray of assorted bigné, cannoli, sfogliatelle, éclairs and other pastries sold by weight and wrapped in gift paper, tied with curly ribbons.

We always arrive early, at my mother’s house. That too is part of a Sunday habit. All members of the family each chip in with the housework, helping in the kitchen, airing out the bedrooms, watering the flowers on the terrace. Every time I walk in the house where I have been raised, I am immediately overcome with a warm, reassuring feeling. Back to the womb. The aroma of my mother’s cooking returns me to all my childhood memories. The incidental music of the TV broadcasting the usual Sunday shows, the smell of fresh flowers. My mother’s books, her dust, her Persian rugs. The chandeliers, the framed black and white photographs, the Steinway grand piano. It’s all there, unchanged, thank God.

And then that which she is most proud of: la tavola, her table. It is a festive occasion, and she honors it beautifully by setting an impeccable table. She always prouds in laying a crisp embroidered linen tablecloth, ironed to perfection. China plates, double glasses – for both wine and water – shiny silverware and matching fabric napkins. Mamma cooks for two days in preparation for her family feast, and she prouds in displaying her efforts. The beverages are always served in glass (and not the bulky plastic) bottles. The wine is always chosen wisely to pair the food, and there’s alway an extra dessert, usually homemade.

My mother makes it a point to pick the best ingredients, priding herself in finding seasonal variations, local and organic staples. She cooks it lovingly, employing all her generosity, and enjoying the creative process. She provides for us, not merely nourishment and great tasting foods, but an on-going, weekly display of love.

Today I'm sharing the recipe of my mamma's signature Sunday dish, the one she is most fond of. It his her pièce de résistance; whenever she prizes us by making it, it is in fact a party. I have watched her make homey dishes like these countless times, as I grew into the mother I am today, and never once has she or her fabulous fares disappointed me.

The authentic Italian Sunday lunch tradition lives on in my mother's hallmark Tagliatelle al Ragù. 

This recipe is a classic. It results in the creation of an intensely flavorful, rich meat sauce to serve over home made tagliatelle, and dusted with lavish amounts of grated Parmigiano Reggiano. My mother starts preparing it early in the morning and allows it to simmer, very, very slowly for many hours, at least three and ideally four.

3 tbsp extra virgin olive oil
2 tbsp unsalted butter
1 large carrot, finely diced
1 small onion, cut into same size dice as carrot
celery stalks, cut up into same size dice as carrot and onion and in the same amount
650gr (1 1/2 lbs) ground beef and veal total (small variations from this weight are not significant)
200ml (1 cup) whole milk
200ml (1 cup) dry, white wine
1 kg (28-oz can) whole or crushed tomatoes, San Marzano would be great
A pinch of ground nutmeg
300 g (3/4 lb or 1 1/2 cups) tagliatelle. If you decide to make your own homemade pasta, the outcome will be a million times better. And those eating will feel even more loved by you.
Salt to taste
Lots of Parmigiano, grated

It all begins with an empty, heavy-bottomed, medium to large sized pot. If you have a Dutch oven, that is ideal. Place the oil and butter into the pot and bring to medium-high heat.

Add the diced battuto (carrot, onion and celery trinity) and stir to coat well, allowing vegetables to soften for about 6 minutes. Hark! Do not brown the onion or celery, they need to simply wilt.

Next, add all the ground meat to the pot. Here is where the most work is involved. Using a large wooden spoon keep breaking up the meat into smaller and smaller pieces as it cooks. Do not brown it too much or dry out. Don’t let it sit in the hot shortening on the bottom of the pot and sear. Keep moving it around; it should just lose its color. Keep working on the meat and keep breaking it up into smaller and smaller pieces. It should also begin to smell wonderful.

When the meat has lost all its pink color and is reduced to minuscule bits, pour in the milk and turn up the heat and bring to a boil. Stir well and allow the milk to completely boil away. When that happens, you should only be able to see the olive oil and butter between the meat pieces and vegetables, and no more milk. This will take about 20 minutes.

Now add the white wine and let it evaporate.

Add the tomatoes. Empty the entire can into the pot and use a wooden spoon to break up the whole tomatoes into large chunks. Season with salt and nutmeg, stir well and turn down the heat to a very gentle simmer, only the occasional plip, plop! bubble should come to the surface. Do not cover. Allow the sauce to simmer slowly for 3 to 4 hours, stirring occasionally; and to fill the rooms of your soul with warmth, love and a terrific aroma.

If you're pressed for time, or making home made pasta feels too big a task right now, you can decide over dried or fresh commercially sold tagliatelle, the only requirement is they be rough-surfaced and quite thick (at least 3 mm, 1/8-inch).

When the sauce is almost ready, bring your salted gallon of water to a rolling boil. Cook the tagliatelle, then drain them al dente, saving some starchy cooking water.

Return the pasta to the empty stewpot and add about a cup of meat sauce to the cooked tagliatelle and stir well. This only colors the strands lightly, but we’re not done yet. Serve the coated tagliatelle in individual soup bowls, spooning the divine Bolognese sauce over each and dusting with copious amounts of grated Parmigiano.

Mamma uncorked two bottles of Chianti today, and the first roaring toast was to the never-ending party she throws, come Sunday at lunch.

Pull up a chair and let's eat.