Brandacujùn ~ Ligurian brandade

Image © ristocasaebottega.it

Brandade is a fancy French word for pureed salt cod. Originally the cheapest ingredient around, poached and deboned salt cod that's been reduced to a pulp, often combined with potatoes pushed through a ricer and stirred with olive oil and garlic, is probably one of winter's best comfort foods. And despite its humble origin, with the culinary adroitness of the French, the concept behind this dish has been refined since its inception into a fine (and costly) delicacy.

The birthplace of this preparation is however disputed. Some say Nîmes in France is the world capital of brandade, while others in the Veneto region maintain "baccalà mantecato" came first. But my Ligurian friends declare their "brandacujùn", made with dried cod instead of salt cod, is the culinary ancestor of this delightful recipe.

Whatever the genesis, I love the pillowy combination of cod and potatoes, and enjoy it often smeared on crusty bread that's been generously rubbed with garlic. The flavor is delicate and the texture creamy, and I serve it to those guests who are worried about fish tasting too... "fishy".

dried cod from Lofoten Islands, Norway

The problem is I make way too much of it. When purchasing dried cod, it's never possible to just buy a small amount, the darn planks are huge! And so I end up making ginormous quantities and am left with lots of brandade leftovers. A great way of recycling leftover brandade is making my son's favorite croquettes, which I roll in small bullets, dredge in breadcrumbs and quickly fry in vegetable oil.

But before we talk leftovers, here's how to make easy brandade from scratch:

1kg (2.2 lbs) dried cod (I buy the Norwegian "Ragno" variety), soaked and rinsed until fully revived
1kg (2.2 lbs) peeled potatoes
1 cup extra virgin olive oil
1-2 cloves of garlic, minced
Salt and freshly ground black pepper
a pinch of nutmeg (optional)


Cover the cod in unsalted water and boil for 30 minutes. Lift out of the pot and allow it to cool before deboning, but save the cooking water for the potatoes.
Boil the potatoes in the cod water and when they are fork soft, add them to the deboned cod.

Now you can proceed in two ways: a quick and easy one, or the original method, which is more labor intensive.

Easy method (the one I use): Coarsely blend everything in a stand mixer, adding the minced garlic while pouring the olive oil, and finishing with a lashing of pepper and seasoning with salt at the very end if necessary.

Original method: Cover the pot and, armed with hefty kitchen towels and good muscles, shake the pot (the French term 'brandade' and the verb "to brandish" share the same root) until the ingredients are reduced to a soft emulsion!

Stay tuned for the leftover recycling recipe!

Succulent Cicale di Mare – Mantis Shrimp

The name mantis shrimp is actually a misnomer because despite their appearance, the animals aren't shrimp at all, some actually categorize them in the crab realm. They don't resemble crabs either, but much rather their namesake, the mantis, and are equally ferocious predators.

Mantis shrimps are highly aggressive and solitary crustaceans that capture prey using large, raptorial claws much like those of a praying mantis. Many are beautifully colored in neon shades of red, green and blue. The Italian Adriatic variety is grayish pink and sports a second decoy set of eyes on its frayed tail, to throw off its prey before lobbing it unconscious.

Called "sea locusts", "prawn killers" and "shako", mantis shrimp are sometimes referred to as "thumb splitters" by divers – because of the relative ease the creature has in mutilating small appendages. Italians dub these feisty little creatures a variety of names: pannocchie, cicale di mare, cannocchie, spannocchie, balestrin... whatever the name, they sport powerful claws that they use to attack and kill prey by spearing, stunning, clubbing or dismembering. The "punch" delivered has roughly the acceleration of a .22 caliber bullet. Not joking. Mantis shrimp easily break through shellfish and have been known to crack aquarium glass with a single strike from their lethal weapon.

actual size

But don't let this freak you out, inside that nasty camo armor is a tasty, succulent flesh.

In Mediterranean countries the Squilla mantis is common seafood, especially on Adriatic Sea coasts. Inexpensive and available year round, the best time to eat it – when the crustacean is the plumpest – is between March and November.

This particular Trieste recipe stars our belligerent spearers, locally called canoce.

• 1 kg (2.2 lbs) mantis shrimp (if you have difficulty finding them, opt for the sweetest shrimp or prawns you can get your claws on)
• 2 glasses of white wine (one's for drinking while you cook)
• 2 cloves garlic, minced
• A bunch of flat leaf Italian parsley
• 1/2 cup breadcrumbs
• Extra virgin olive oil
• Salt

Cut an incision lengthwise down the shrimp's belly, this will release flavor compounds leaving the flesh safely lodged in the carapace armor plates. Do not remove heads, they add flavor.

Sauté the minced garlic in 2-3 tbsp of olive oil, when the garlic starts to tan, add the breadcrumbs and parsley. Stir a bit and add your shell fiends. Pour in the wine, crank up the heat and boil it to evaporation.

If you have some leftover fish stock, either frozen or standing by, a few drops can add even more flavor. Regain a medium simmer, cover and cook over low heat for no more than 7 minutes. Serve immediately, with plenty bread to sop up the juices.

Now it's your turn to dismember, suck, bite off and give a dignified finale to the bellicose sea warriors. Nutcrackers, lobster picks, chicken shears and a large bib may come in handy.

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

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.

Seadas recipe

Seadas, or Sebadas, are traditional cheese filled fritters particular to the island of Sardinia.

They are the region's most famous dessert, but originally seadas were enjoyed as a main course, especially by shepherds.

The recipe for these remarkably original cheese fritter calls for a final drizzle of bittersweet corbezzolo honey. Corbezzolo is Italian for strawberry tree, an evergreen Mediterranean shrub whose flower nectar lends the signature bittersweet flavor to this specific honey.

Corbezzolo ~ Strawberry Tree

The pairing of these salty, crunchy, sweet and melty elements provides very interesting flavor and texture combinations.

Here's the recipe for sensational seadas:

200 g (1 cup) semolina flour
500 g (1.1 lb) all purpose flour
500 g (1.1 lbs) Fiore Sardo or fresh Pecorino (not too aged)
Zest from 2 large organic lemons
250 ml (1 cup) water, warmed
3 tbsp white wine
50 g (1/4 cup) butter, softened (ideally rendered lard)
2 tsp salt
1 egg white
Vegetable oil for frying
Organic corbezzolo honey

Dissolve the salt in the warm water, and in a large bowl, add it to semolina, flour, wine, butter (or lard, if you're using it) and knead well. Final result should be a soft and springy ball of satiny dough. Let it rest covered with a kitchen towel while you prepare the filling.

Blend the grated cheese with the lemon zest. This ingredient is what gives this traditional dish its siganture aroma.

Roll the dough flat with a rolling pin, or with a pasta machine, about 1/8-inch thin. Using a saucer or a cookie cutter, obtain 3-inch discs. Depending on how thin you manage to roll the dough, I'd say you'll come up with about 10-15 discs.

Divvy up 3 tablespoons of the cheese and lemon mixture onto half of your discs.

Wet the outer rim of each prepared disc with some egg white and lay the remaining discs to cover. Crimp down the edges with the tines of a fork or with a crinkled pastry wheel.

Fill a large cast iron skillet with vegetable oil for frying, and heat. Fry 2 seadas at a time until slightly golden. To make the floating pastry pocket puff up, carefully ladle some of the boiling oil on it.

When the first bubbles appear on the surface of the fried dough, remove with a slotted spoon and rest on paper towel to blot.

Warm the corbezzolo honey (I take the metal cap off and nuke the jar in the microwave for 30 seconds), drizzle on the seadas, and serve at once.

Buon appetito.

Risi e Bisi recipe

We're talking gourmet comfort food. This is a rich Venetian springtime soup made with the slow cooked technique needed for making risotto, and freshly harvested tender baby peas. I learned how to make Risi e Bisi during one crazy edition of Regata Storica, a few years back. Venezia's historic scull race aboard vintage gondolas, mascarete, sandali and other beautifully ornate antique boats, annually falls on the first Sunday in September, usually messing up Film Festival boat traffic, and leaving stars and publicists stranded on the Lido peer, hopelessly waiting for their Riva motorboat taxi.

The entire city of Venice and inhabitants of the six sestieri wards infact forget all divas and snob cinema flair, participating instead in loud hollering cheers, drinking and unplanned diving in canals from parked boats, madly rooting for their colorful team of upright rowers.

Here's the risi e bisi basics, as handed down by Angelo, the gondolier who kissed me:

1 onion
50 g (1/4 cup) pancetta, finely minced
400 g (2 cups/14 oz) Arborio or Vialone Nano rice
70 g (1/3 cup) extra virgin olive oil
70 g (1/3 cup) unsalted butter
1.5 kg (3.3 lbs) fresh baby peas, unshelled Note: don't discard the shells!
Freshly grated Parmigiano

Begin making a green pea broth by cooking the saved shells of the peas in lightly salted water and then saving the strained liquid. For a richer outcome, Angelo suggests to boil the pea shells in chicken broth instead of water.

Finely slice the onion and sauté it in oil and butter with the pancetta in a large pot.

When the onion tans, add 1 handful of rice + 1, per each person, and cook, stirring constantly. Do this until the rice is translucent (about 5 minutes).

Here comes the fun part: add the green pea broth one ladle at a time, stirring constantly. When you see the rice has given off some starch and looks half done, add the peas.

When the rice is al dente, remove the pot from the stove, stir in una noce di burro (a gob of butter the size of a walnut) and a few tablespoons of grated Parmigiano. The recipe calls for flecks of flatleaf parsley, but if you've been reading this blog long enough, you'll know I'm not super keen on the herb.

In this recipe the rice should be cooked all'onda (behaving like a wave), in other words creamy and moist, rather than pudding-like firm, like regular risotto. You eat it with a spoon rather than a fork...

Image © Rachel Roddy

Malloreddus recipe

The stunning island of Sardinia bears the marks of outsiders, from Phoenicians, Carthaginians and Romans to the seamen of Genoa, Pisa, and the Savoys who proclaimed the Kingdom of Sardegna. But Spaniards, who ruled for centuries before, lent the most pronounced accents to the language, food and wines. As a sum of all these influences, the cooking of Sardegna still remains as eccentric as the nuraghe, the prehistoric stone towers whose origins are still a rocky enigma.

Sardegna folks consume interesting quantities of dried pasta, in the familiar forms of spaghetti and maccheroni, though they also make the singular ravioli-like Culurgiones, toss Fregula buttons in their soups, and roll homemade semolina gnocchi called malloreddus, commonly described as the region’s most typical dish.

Here's the recipe to make them from scratch. Otherwise you can purchase them here.

800 g (4 cups) semolina flour
300 g (1 1/2 cups) warmed water
1 tsp powdered saffron
Salt

Mound the semolina and poke a hole in the top. Pour in the water, salt, and saffron in the crater, and using a fork, beat them together. Now begin to incorporate the semolina, starting with the inner rim of the volcano. When half of the semolina is incorporated, the dough will begin to come together. OK, now start kneading the dough, using the palms of your hands, mostly.

Discard any stray dried bits of dough and continue kneading for 10 more minutes, dusting the work surface with more flour if necessary. The dough should feel springy and a little bit sticky. Cover the dough with a clean cloth and allow to rest in a dusted bowl for 30 minutes at room temperature before using.

Cut the pasta into 4 parts. Roll each into a 1-inch snake, and cut into bolt-sized nuggets. Roll each piece on this tool, or down the back of a fork with your thumb to give it the characteristic ridges, and set aside on a floured surface until ready to cook.

Image © giallozafferano

For the sauce:

400 g (14 oz) canned tomatoes, crushed
200 g (1 cup) Italian sausage, peeled and minced
1 white onion, thinly sliced
A bunch of fresh wild fennel (can be substituted with fennel seeds if necessary)
Extra virgin olive oil
Lots of Pecorino or Fiore Sardo cheese, grated


Film a large skillet with a thread of olive oil, and lightly brown the sausage, when evenly colored, add the onion, and simmer over a low flame until translucent.

In a bowl, steep the chopped wild fennel in 1/4 cup olive oil and set aside.

When the onion and sausage have married, add the canned tomatoes and cook over mild heat for 45 minutes, stirring occasionally: do this for the pleasure of fogging up your glasses and inhaling the aroma. As every passionate cook knows, when you cook with love and pleasure, flavor and final outcome profit.

Bring a large pot of lightly salted water to a rolling boil, cook your homemade malloreddus, and drain quite al dente. 

Drop the cooked pasta into the pan with the tomatoes, mixing well until well coated. 

Stir in the fennel marinade, and simmer over vivacious heat for another 3-4 minutes. 

Sprinkle 3 handfuls of grated cheese, and stir some more. Serve straight from the cooking pan onto hot plates, dusted with more grated Pecorino or Fiore Sardo, and a large smile on your face.

Bruschetta recipe

The first thing to know before making this genius antipasto staple and its creative variations is how to pronounce its name correctly.

Not 'brushetta,' please. That's mortifying. It's bru–SKET–tah. An onomatopoeic homage to the sharp sound made when digging your teeth in the crisp charcoal baked sourdough bread, drizzled with olive oil and seasoned with sea salt. Sk! Sk! Think skyscraper! Basket! Skipper! Helter Skelter! Brusketta! Yeah, that's it.

In Tuscany, bruschetta is more commonly called fettunta, a contraction of two words (fetta unta) meaning oiled slice. When olives are taken to the local frantoio mill for pressing in late November, the growers typically take some country casereccio bread with them. There is usually a small fireplace burning in the corner of the pressing room, and when the fragrant liquid gold emerges from the press spout, the grower toasts a bit of the bread on the fire to sample the oil.

The meaning of the noun bruschetta has changed so that now some use the word bruschetta incorrectly to refer to the topping instead of the dish. Many grocery store chains worldwide sell bottled bruschetta, which is simply a mix of tomatoes, onion, garlic and oregano, usually cooked!

For original "red" bruschetta, only fresh tomatoes are used and never a sauce. And allow me to say this one more time, we Italians limit the use of oregano to few special dishes: common pizza toppings, Costata alla Pizzaiola and very few other applications. Any other use is a distortion of Italian flavor and a cliché.

All this said, here's my way of making delicious messy slabs of heaven.

For authentic bruschetta you will need:

Good, thick-crust preferably wood oven-baked bread: whole wheat, sourdough (with its typical chip structure and characteristic aroma) or delicious home-style pane casareccio bread. Bruschetta is a good way of recycling day old, or stale bread too.
Organic, cold pressed, extra virgin olive oil. The finest quality is key, particularly for this dish.
Numerous cloves of garlic, peeled
Sea or Kosher salt
Freshly ground black pepper

Optional:
Cherry tomatoes, chopped
Fresh basil leaves, hand-torn (cutting with a metal blade alters the flavor)

The term bruschetta comes from the word bruscare, which means to toast on the fire. So this is a procedure to be carried out on any red-hot surface, be it a barbecue grill, a wood burning oven or fireplace. Pop in a tosater if all else fails. The important thing is the degree of crunch.

While you wait for the coals or logs to reach meat-cooking temperature, place bread slices (max 1 inch thick) on the grill and keep a close watch. Turn with a pair of tongs and remove when lightly charred on the surface.

On a large serving platter place the hot slices and begin rubbing with the peeled garlic cloves to flavor the bread. The more vigorous the scrub, the more intense the taste will be.

Drizzle with abundant olive oil and sprinkle with salt and pepper to taste.

You can dress with chopped tomatoes and basil, or any other interesting variation you may wish to invent. I personally love bruschetta plain, but in the summer when I have guest over for a barbecue, I always like to present them with a variety of choices. Some favorite sample bruschettas include: slices of Prosciutto and a thin wafer slices of mild Nero di Pienza Pecorino cheese, sundried tomatoes and Gaeta olives, veggie spreads like olive or artichoke paste or a dollop of pesto sauce mixed with cream cheese. A very successful coastal bruschetta topping is a spoonful of shelled wedge clams stewed in garlic and olive oil, sprinkled with (very little) parsley.

Ziti alla Genovese recipe

This delectable pasta recipe is called "alla genovese," but it's not a dish particular to Genoa. This is a purely Neapolitan delight.

If you've been reading my posts, you'll know I always share a little bit of history. "La Genovese" is said to have been first prepared around the time when Columbus landed in the New World, by a selected group of Genoan chefs belonging to the rich and self-implemented Ligurian colony stationed in the Naples seaport district. It's the pasta condiment customarily made for Sunday lunch, and one of my all-time Napoli favorites. In detailing a Pasta primer a few months back, I had promised to post the recipe. Well, here it is.

Note: For its hearty and bold nature, weak stomachs and delicate appetites should abstain from consuming genovese in sight of a busy afternoon (or one that doesn't envision napping).


2 kg (4.4 lbs) of yellow onions
1 kg (2.2 lbs) of rump steak, chopped into stew size parts
250 g (1 1/4 cups) unsmoked bacon, diced
250 g (1/2 lb) pork spare ribs
1 carrot
1 celery rib
2 glasses of dry white wine
1 cup extra virgin olive oil
Salt to taste
2 cups of Ziti (or Penne Lisce) type pasta

Tip: This recipe requires extremely long cooking time, the longer you stew, the softer the meat will be and tastier the sauce.

Dice the carrot and celery and place in the pot with the oil and the meats. Thinly slice the onion holding a chunk of bread in your mouth to avoid tears and add it to the other ingredients.

Cover and simmer over vivacious heat until the onions are translucent and all liquid evaporates. When the onion mash starts to dry, pour the first glass of wine and lower the heat to extremely low. Stir occasionally and stew for 50 minutes.

Then add the second glass of wine, salt and pepper to taste, and keep braising for 2 hours, being extra careful that the sauce doesn’t stick to the pot floor. The result should be a thick, dark velvety purée and a tender meat stew.

This heavenly pasta sauce marries boiled al dente Ziti pasta, broken into 3-inch pieces, richly dressed and generously dusted with grated Parmigiano.

You can serve the stewed meat–or what's left of it after the long cooking–as your dinner entrée, alongside a fresh arugula and shaved fresh fennel salad. But remember, the star dish in the meal is the genovese.

Serves 5/6 big eaters.

Agnolotti recipe

Agnolotti are a type of square ravioli typical of the Piedmont region, made with thinly flattened pasta dough, folded over and stuffed with a ground meat and vegetable filling. Typically, agnolotti are made with leftover cooked meat. This is another example of how the ages-old habit of recycling food in Italy commonly results in an elegant and very tasty dish.

My mother and I made a batch for Sunday lunch today. Here is the step by step recipe, which yielded 70 agnolotti pockets. We cooked half and froze the rest in sealed freezer bags.

For the pasta dough
500 g (2 1/2 cups) flour, possibly "00" + more for dusting
6 eggs
3 yolks

For the filling
400 g (2 cups) beef pot roast leftovers
150 g (3/4 cup) roast turkey, chicken or other cooked white meat dish
50 g (1/4 cup) mortadella, roasted sausage or any other pork cold cut (not prosciutto)
2 tablespoons unsalted butter
A bunch of fresh spinach (you can use other greens if you like)
1 cup freshly grated Parmigiano
3 whole eggs
A pinch of freshly grated nutmeg
Salt and pepper

Make the dough from the flour and the eggs (see instructions if need be), put it in a bowl, cover it with a moist kitchen towel, and let it sit.

Blanch the greens for 3 minutes, drain, squeezing well to extract moisture, and mince them finely. Then sauté in the butter until done and set aside.

Remove bones, sausage casings and any sinewy parts, and grind the meats quite finely (you can blend them, but be careful not to make a paste!).

Combine ground meats, sautéed greens and all other ingredients for the filling in a bowl, and mix thoroughly with your hands to obtain a homogeneous mixture, seasoning to taste with salt, pepper and nutmeg.

Roll out the pasta dough dime-thin. I use an Imperia pasta machine, which gives me the necessary long and paper-thin sheets ready to be stuffed and cut into perfect agnolotti. But you're free to roll out the dough by hand, obviously!

Cut the rolled dough into long strips, about 20-inch long and 3 inches high, and cover to keep moist.

On your dusted work surface, dot a sheet with blebs of filling about the size of a small walnut, putting the dots in a row, about an inch apart. Make sure the row is in the bottom half of the pasta sheet.

Fold over the top part of the sheet, and lay it over the filling. Crimp the sheet down well around the filling to make it stick, and cut the agnolotti free with a serrated pastry wheel.

Boil the agnolotti in broth or salted water, fishing them out with a skimmer into a serving bowl, as soon as they rise to the bubbling surface.

Typically, Piedmontese agnolotti are dressed in beef broth with a little melted butter, or in a fresh sage and browned butter sauce. A complex condiment would play down the flavors contained in the agnolotti pockets.

I usually season mine with a simple tomato sauce, and dust with lots of freshly grated Parmigiano. As an alternative, you can dress your agnolotti with drippings from Braciole or Involtini.

Wine? This plate begs for a full-bodied, unoaked Piedmontese Barbera d'Asti!

Buon appetito.

Be my guest - Pasta con le sarde e finocchio

Earlier this week I wrote a guest post for Mangia Monday, a weekly column over at Wanderlust Women Travel, in which I spotlighted a secret Tuscan restaurant called Osteria il Vignaccio.

Today I welcome Wanderlust Women Travel's owner Lisa Fantino who will be launching our first installment of the 2010 be My Guest series. Lisa will be taking us to Sicily and introducing us to her Nonna0s rendition of a classic Sicilian dish, Pasta con le Sarde.

In Italy, this is a seasonal dish, one commonly made between March and September, i.e. the only time of year during which Sicilian pescherie (open air fish markets) carry the perfect size of fresh sardines; and when fields are most abundant with wild fennel just begging to be hand picked.

But let's hear how Lisa makes this delectable Sicilian treat.

Prego, Lisa. The toque is yours.

"Growing up in a Sicilian-American household my lunches consisted of mortadella sandwiches instead of bologna and capicola instead of ham. I also ate babaluci (snails) and vosteddi (spleen sandwiches) but one of my favorite dishes was Nonna's "Pasta Finocchio Sarde" (pasta with fennel and sardines). Now, don't roll your eyes or scrunch your face because I am about to share with you a bit of heaven that's really easy to make because it's partly ready-made.

Trust me, this dish is so easy that I have taught a native Jamaican woman how to make it and she's now speaking with a Sicilian accent. Also, you must know that Sicilians don't measure anything so everything here is an approximation.

Ingredients
5-6 cloves of garlic (or as many as you desire without scaring the neighbors) The garlic should be thinly sliced and not chopped
Handful of pinoli (pine) nuts
Handful of golden raisins (for some reason they taste better than regular raisins here)
Olive oil (extra virgin, first-pressed, certo)
1 can "Condimento per pasta con sarde"
Nonna's cast iron skillet if you're lucky enough to have one.
1 lb perciatelli pasta (some folks use thin spaghetti but I prefer perciatelli which allows you to make that sweet sucking noise as you savor this taste of heaven)

Start by boiling your pasta water so that it can cook while you prepare the dressing which only takes about 5-7 minutes. (BTW – the perciatelli should be cooked al dente. This is the wrong dish for mushy pasta!)

Heat the oil in your skillet until hot and toss in the garlic for a minute and then the pinoli nuts. Simmer until golden brown but do not burn them. Both of these ingredients are extremely delicate in that regard, and can both taste rancid if burnt to a crisp.

Toss in the can of sarde mixture.

Add the raisins and simmer on low for approximately 5 minutes, or until the wrinkles come out of the raisins and they look plump.

Toss the entire mixture over the drained perciatelli and mix well. Serve with grated cheese and/or muddica (typical Sicilian toasted breadcrumb) to garnish.

The dish itself is of Arabic origin, as are many things on the island of Sicily, but don’t tell that to my family."

Grazie Lisa, this was wonderful.
I'm sure many native Sicilians out there are swooning with memories of this great dish.

Lisa Fantino is an award-winning journalist and attorney, and the Italy travel concierge and creative force behind Wanderlust Women Travel and the recently launched Amalfi destination wedding site, Wanderlust Weddings. Her love of the Amalfi Coast has also inspired her to gather sterling silver jewelry and gifts inspired by the beauty of the region at Amalfi Blu. She also writes travel features for MNUI travel insurance and blogs as Lady Litigator.

Interested in reading more about Sicily and its glorious food?

Check out my articles (with recipes) on Pasta alla Norma ~ Panelle ~ Caponata ~ Grilled Swordfish Steak ~ Orange Salad alla Trapanese ~ Gelo di Anguria

Image credits and © cateringadomicilio.it | Adriao via WikimediaCommons

Pizza di Scarola rustic pie recipe

Originally a Christmas dish, this savory Neapolitan vegetable pie is an Italian mealtime classic. In the Napoli hometown, the stuffed pie crust has a hint of sweetness and needs yeast and lard. I use regular bread dough for a lighter outcome. It's a different way of eating greens, puts smiles on children's faces and gratifies your taste buds with a piquant filling surprise.

Image © giallozafferano.it

For the crust:
500 g (2 1/2 cups) flour
125 ml (1/2 cup) milk
60 g (1/4 cup) unsalted butter, softened
125 ml (1/2 cup) lukewarm water
12 g (1 tsp) active dry, or brewer's yeast
1 pinch of salt
1 tsp sugar
40 g (2 tbps) extra virgin olive oil
1 egg yolk stirred with a little milk for brushing


For the filling:
1 large or 2 medium heads of escarole (broad-leaved endive) washed and chopped
A fistful of Gaeta olives (or small purple Kalamata olives) pitted
A pinch of salted capers, rinsed
2 garlic cloves, halved
1 spicy red peperoncino
1 oil-packed anchovy (optional)
Extra virgin olive oil
Salt

To make the crust, first melt the yeast in a small vessel with the milk, lukewarm water, very little salt and a tsp of sugar.

Now place the flour in a large mixing bowl with the softened butter, olive oil and incorporate the yeasty blend. Mix well with a wooden spoon to obtain a moist ball, pouring the lukewarm water in slowly.

Turn the oily dough onto a clean surface, and knead briefly, just until it becomes smoother, about a minute. Cut the dough into two pieces, one slightly larger than the other. Wrap each piece in plastic, and let rest in a warm place, for about 2 hours. The dough pieces will double in volume.

Preheat oven at 180° C (350° F).

Boil the chopped escarole for 2 minutes in plenty of water. Drain and wring away excess water.

Meanwhile, lightly film a large pan with olive oil, and heat over medium-high. Brown the garlic and peperoncino to release their flavors, and discard when the garlic begins to brown. According to your taste you can decide to leave in the peperoncino. The original recipe calls for an added oil-preserved anchovy too, you're free to omit it but it does give the whole recipe a punch without ever noticing the actual anchovy flavor.

Sauté the parboiled escarole for 5 minutes in the flavored olive oil with the pitted olives, capers and a pinch of salt. Let it cool 10 minutes before the next step.

Roll the two dough disks or squares out; given the greasiness of the dough, no flour is needed, but just in case, you can line your baking pan with some parchment paper.

The larger dough piece should be bigger than your 9-inch pie shell. Drape the larger rolled dough over the lined pie shell leaving some overhang all around.

Fill with the cooked greens and cover with the second dough piece.

Trim away a little of the excess dough, crimp the edge all the way around to seal the pie, and cut 4 small slits in the top, or pierce the surface with the tines of a fork.

Brush the surface with some egg wash and bake 20-30 minutes (depending on oven vigor).

Let the pie rest on a wire rack for about 15 minutes before serving.

Cut generous slices and serve paired with the rest of your meal, generously washed down by big Aglianico wine. Otherwise you can enjoy it cold the next day, with a chilled beer.

Tuscan street food

Image © AT Casa

I wrote a post on Panelle some time ago, providing the recipe for the typical Sicilian street food fritter made with chickpea flour.

But I had completely forgotten about Cecina! During a recent weekend escape in Lunigiana, I was pleasantly reminded of this local delicacy. And I indulged in the reminder several times a day, to be honest.

Although very similar in its composition to Farinata–from Liguria–and Panelle, Cecina is not fried like its Sicilian counterpart, rather it is traditionally baked in a large copper pan called 'teglia' measuring over 1 meter in diameter (3 feet). Cecina is commonly baked in a wood-burning oven, but you can also make it at home. La cecina is a simple mixture of water, chickpea flour and salt. The rather liquid batter is poured with a jug into the special teglie and baked for a few minutes until crisp and golden, yet remaining incredibly soft and fluffy on the inside!

It is best eaten piping hot with only a sprinkling of ground black pepper. Its unique crisp/tender texture melts in your mouth and pleasurably scratches your throat at the same time. You can find Cecina sold as a snack all along the Tuscan riviera, in Lunigiana but also in Pisa, Livorno, Lucca and Massa Carrara.

Illustration by Olga Bruno © terraditoscana.com

This made me think of other Tuscan street food examples.

I ignorantly thought Rome held supremacy over tripe, but I was wrong. Toscana boasts a long tradition of offal dishes, and a long-established custom of selling them in roadside kiosks.

Take the Panino col Lampredotto sandwich, for example. Although widespread throughout the entire Tuscan region, this peasant preparation actually comes from Florence. The fourth and final stomach of common bovines, stewed in a seasoned broth, is shredded and stuffed in a bread roll. When asked if you want your €2,50 sandwich bagnato (wet) you should always say "Sì!" The trippaio preparing it will dunk the top portion of the bread in the lampredotto cooking sauce, and will therefore be served to you juicy, wet and dripping with tasty sauce.

Add on: Thanks to Oriana from Tuscanycious, who reminded me of the mandatory green sauce topping. Here's the recipe. You can also watch their fun video that graphically explains how to make Lampredotto sandwich.

Image © S-Punti di vista

Image © consumazione obbligatoria

Or the Insalata di Trippa, a cold plate made with boiled calf's tripe, sliced oranges, celery and seasoned with olive oil and cracked black pepper. It contends the title for best tripe dish with local Trippa alla Fiorentina, in which the meatier or spongy, honeycomb part of the stomach lining is cut it into very thin strips, stewed with battuto and tomato and then sprinkled with grated Parmigiano cheese before browning it in the oven for five minutes.

Other trippai specialties (kiosks that sell these snacks) include fried brains–which shortly after the popular cannibal movie saga was aptly renamed "the Hannibal"–nervetti (chopped up tendons and meat from the calf's foot), lingua (tongue), pan co' grifi (a sandwich made with stewed pork muzzle. The chopped meat is ladled into a deep bread pocket called "orcello", used like a soup bowl, and comfortably eaten with a spoon, during your passeggiata. Grifi, or musetto can also be ground into a sausage or used to add flavor to stews and soups); and Animelle, which according to the Italian Culinary Foundation are defined as, "sweetbreads, or the thymus glands of veal and lamb." The testicles (that's what they are, essentially) are skinned and soaked in chilled water for 2-3 hours before being fried and served in paper cones.

Another typically Tuscan snack is ranocchi fritti, or fried frogs (this is turning into a post not suited for those with a delicate stomach). This peasant dish is native to the watery lowlands of western Florence, and the best hunters for the main ingredient were notably kids, who took the chore as a game. The skinned amphibians are left to marinate in beaten eggs, lemon and salt, and then deep fried in vegetable oil.

Mau & Tamara, the trippai in Piazza Mercatale, Prato

A few favorite places in Florence banchini dei "trippai" where you can find the dishes mentioned above:

- Mario in Piazzale di Porta Romana
- Lorenzo in Piazza Artom
- Marco on Via Gioberti (near piazza Beccaria)
- Alessio on Via Aretina (on the corner of Via Casaccia)
- Orazio at the Loggia del Porcellino
- Sergio on Via de' Macci (on the corner of Borgo la Croce)
- Leonardo on Viale Giannotti (corner of Via Paradiso)
- Lupen e Margo (used to be called La Trippaia), on Via dell'Ariento (on the corner of Via Sant'Antonino)
- Simone in Piazza de' Nerli
- Il Trippaio di Firenze on Via Maso Finiguerra (corner of Via Palazzuolo)
- Maurizio, "il Molisano" on Via dei Cimatori

Image © Big Map

Buon FERRAGOSTO a tutti!

Parmigiana di Melanzane – Eggplant Parmigiana recipe

OK, I feel it's time we have a serious talk about this dish.

I've heard people overseas call it "Eggplant Parmesan," and learned that there are variations of it, the most popular of these involving breaded meat cutlets, named "Veal Parmesan." This particular recipe sounds awfully like a regional specialty called Cotoletta alla Bolognese or Cotoletta alla Petroniana. But I don't know where "Chicken Parm" was developed, because I've never heard of it here in Italy. It must be an American-Italian dish.

But, back to the eggplant. I am presently obsessed with this vegetable, and have posted other recipes that use it, like stuffed eggplant, or vegetarian meatballs and eggplant crumble. I was saving this one for summer, since the best, sweetest and slenderest melanzane grow between July and October.

Melanzane alla Parmigiana is a wonderfully complex, versatile and satisfying vegetarian preparation. I have been making batches on batches of it recently, and there never seems to be enough of it!

Down south in the Campania region, birthplace of this dish––and where I've had the best Melanzane alla Parmigiana ever––there's a curious dyslexia name issue: the dish is in fact commonly known as "Parmigiana di Melanzane," with the adjective becoming the noun, and vice versa.

Whatever its name, the city of Parma has no claim on this dish. The only component present in this dish from the northern Parma territory is Parmigiano cheese, a key element of this preparation. The remaining ingredients are 100% southern Italian.

This recipe has traveled far, broken boundaries and can be found imitated all over the world.

You can prepare it in roughly 1 hour and 15 minutes. For it you'll need:


4-5 eggplants (not the round kind, better use the teardrop shaped, purple ones)
2 cups of canned tomatoes, crushed
2 garlic cloves, minced
A fistful of fresh basil leaves
2 eggs
5 fistfuls of flour
1 medium mozzarella (around 4 oz), diced
1/2 cup Parmigiano, grated
Vegetable oil for frying
Olive oil for sautéing
Salt to taste

Preheat oven to 180° C (350° F).

Slice the eggplant lengthwise, no thicker than 1 cm (1/2-inch). If the eggplants are large, "purge" away the bitter juices by sprinkling the slices with sea salt and placing them in a colander weighed down between two plates for about 10 minutes.

Brush off any leftover salt, and dredge the eggplant slices in flour and set aside, while you heat a generous amount of vegetable oil for frying in a large skillet.

Beat the eggs in a large mixing bowl and dip the dredged eggplant slices in it briefly. Fry them in the skillet for about 3 minutes on each side, then rest them on a paper towel to absorb excess grease. (You could skip this step entirely, and use grilled eggplant slices instead, but who are we kidding? The fried version is ridiculously better tasting. And the real thing. A good compromise id frying the eggplant without the egg dip, for a "lighter" result.)

If you'll be using mozzarella di bufala, you'll want to set it in a colander or a sieve to lose some of its liquid, which could compromise the structure of your dish.

In a saucepan, sauté the minced garlic in 5 tbsp of extra virgin olive oil. When it begins to tan lightly, add the tomatoes and cook for 20 minutes. Add a dash of salt and some fresh basil leaves. I always add 1 leveled teaspoon of sugar... for superstition. Don't ask.

In a greased deep oven dish, alternate layers of the tomato sauce, fried eggplant slices and diced mozzarella. Sprinkle each layer with a generous dusting of grated Parmigiano and more basil leaves. Repeat the layers and top with a final blanket of tomato sauce, fresh torn basil leaves and lots of grated Parmigiano. 

Bake in the hot oven for 10-15 minutes. Allow the Melanzane alla Parmigiana to cool for 10 more minutes, then cut in 2" squares and devour.

Note: I've classified this recipe as a complete meal, bearing in mind that its filling nature can constitute a feast in itself. But consider that it normally rates as either an antipasto, or on very special holiday occasions, served as a side order!

Melanzane alla Parmigiana can be stuffed in a sandwich, or can be eaten cold straight out of the refrigerator to soothe all kinds of nervous symptoms. This is a marvelous midnight snack, and a potent antidepressant.

Buon appetito.

Panelle recipe

The pancake-thin chickpea flour fritter is a trademark of western Sicilian eating. To savor this dainty fried carb fest at its best, locals eat panelle as a sandwich filler, stacked between two slices of crusty homestyle bread. But no one will frown at you for scoffing them as is, simply sprinkled with salt.

Image © agrodolce.it

Sicilian friggitorie (shops that fry and sell several kinds of food) and street food vendors, cut their panelle in irregular squares. I like to make mine round, but you can shape them however you like, of course.

400 g (2 cups) chickpea flour
1 liter (4 cups) water
3 tablespoons Italian flatleaf parsley, finely chopped
Salt
Peanut oil for frying

An empty soda tin with the ends cut off


Place the chickpea flour, water and salt in a large stewpot over medium heat, and stir until the mixture hardens to porridge-like consistency. Let it cool briefly before pouring it over a flat work surface. Sprinkle some chopped parsley, level the "dough" evenly and let it rest.

Use the bottomless soda can to cut round panelle, and fry them in small batches, in abundant peanut or sunflour seed oil until golden on both sides.

Fish them out and blot the panelle on a paper towel before serving hot with sesame rolls or casareccio bread and chilled dry, white wine.

I love street food, don't you?

Taralli pugliesi recipe

Deciding to move away from the chaos of the city and retiring in one of Alberobello’s trulli cone houses–typical whitewashed dry-stone dwellings of the Valle d’Itria– has always been a dream of mine. This has however recently become a very trendy choice. Tangible proof of this are the price listings of the original edifices: sums well over €250,000 can be payed for the smaller units.

But there's far more to Puglia than lucrative real estate and picturesque olive groves. Puglia is a ridiculously beautiful region. And a very powerful magnet.

The Tremiti Islands, for example. The Adriatic Sea archipelago, north of the Gargano Peninsula (the stirrup of the boot) is divers' and beach lovers' paradise. It forms part of the impressive Gargano national marine park, the Parco Nazionale del Gargano.

The name of the islands is linked to their seismic activity, and their long history of earthquakes–the word tremiti aptly translates to "tremors."

Legend has it that the Tremiti isles were created by Diomede. As mentioned in the Iliad, she was one of Achilles’ mistresses. One of many. Upon her hero's return home back from Troy, Diomede discovered Aphrodite's charm and younger age had replaced her in her lover's bed. In a temper tantrum, she hurled the rocks Achilles had brought back from Thrace as a sheepish gift right into the sea. Those rocks are now the tremor islands.

The best diving spots on the islands' coasts are the Punta del Vuccolo and Cala degli Inglesi, but the Torrione dei Cavalieri di San Nicola, where the remains of a shipwrecked roman vessel with her intact cargo still sitting at the bottom of the sea 30 meters deep, wins first place.

Other things worth doing and that should not be missed when visiting Puglia:

• Visiting the Bari harbor at 10 am, where local fishermen feed early bird clients raw octopus, clams and mussels with warm bread and chilled beer for breakfast; between loud, barking rounds of zumparidde (the vehement version of morra, a numerical grown-up version of "rock, paper, scissors").

• Spending time in the towns of Vieste and Peschici on the Gargano peninsula to watch the wooden trabucchi fishing implements stretched out at sea from decks perched on steep rocky walls. The complex structured and spider-like "machines" are entirely hand operated–the long, slender pinewood arms couldn't bear the weight of a heavy motorized winch–by 2 to 4 trabuccolanti anglers, who spot the schools of fish, drop the netting and haul up the catch with a series of coordinated agile moves.

• Staying the night in a masseria, one of the many remodeled rural farms that dot the Canale di Pirro valley, in the municipality of Fasano. A few miles from intact Roman aqueducts, or a prehistoric menhir, 5-star b&bs inhabit the old farm buildings. These facilities usually boast high standards of comfort, spas, wifi, private beaches with dinghies for rent and sometimes 9-hole golf courses. On windy days, paragliding classes are held upon request.

• Shopping for tableware and majolica handicrafts in the small town of Grottaglie, in the province of Taranto, the original home of terracotta.

• Visiting Castel del Monte, a spectacular 13th century castle resting on an isolated hilltop, that dominates a vast plateau. Eight sides, eight rooms on each floor, eight eight-sided towers, the impressive stone structure stands inland from Barletta, in the middle of the countryside.

The abundance of red clay in the area promoted the production of pottery––mostly functional vessels, like large jars, pitchers, urn and pots––as early as the 8th century BC. Over time an increasing number of pottery artisans settled in the area, setting up their studios and kilns in natural caves. This "District of Terracotta" is still intact and absolutely worth a visit.

My beloved Emperor Frederick II built Castel del Monte around 1240. It was one of 200 fortresses that the Norman genius erected, but the only one with such an elaborate floor plan. Its shape is compliant to all manner of esoteric, astrological and geometric interpretations. Then again, it could have been just a geometrically pleasing hunting lodge. It doesn’t seem to have had a serious military raison d'être, although its location on top of the only high hill on a vast flat plain certainly gave it a commanding presence. Castel del Monte is listed as a UNESCO World Heritage Site, and you can find it pictured on the obverse face of the Italian Euro cent.

• Dancing pizzica in Salento. The remains of Greek and Roman temples, medieval castles and Arabian-style monuments are scattered all over the dry campagna, popping up amid cacti, olive groves and mill farms. And then there is Salento, a small rural area on the coast, unlike the rest of the region, where you can be liberated of all sorrows by a type of music therapy called pizzica tarantata.

La pizzica is a traditional healing trance dance, originally born in the southernmost part of the Puglian peninsula (Lecce in particular) and later spread throughout the entire Salento area. It is a fast and compelling rhythmic dance done to the accompaniment of a tambourine, or accordion and violin. Pizzica is danced to all summer long, in small beachside village festas or the mega annual Notte della Taranta event held in Melpignano, with guest musicians and massive crowds.

Besides the dishes I have written about, Orecchiette with turnip tops, Altamura bread and fave e cicoria, another Puglia must is at least once making (and then eating) the region's typical taralli.

Wheat flour, olive oil, fennel seeds and salt, are baked into small crunchy loop-shaped crackers, which are poached and then baked to a crisp. Traditional taralli Pugliesi are a snack that can easily pair with your antipasto platter, or become your favorite addictive munchies food.

1 kg (2.2 lbs) unbleached all-purpose flour
1 glass of dry, white wine
1 tbsp. salt + 1 pinch
Extra virgin olive oil
Lots of santa pazienza (patience)

Arrange flour in a volcano mound on your work surface. Pour the oil in the crater, add the wine and a pinch of salt. Knead with your hands until the dough reaches a homogeneous, smooth and elastic texture. Do not over-knead.

Let the obtained ball of dough rest for 20 minutes, covered with a kitchen towel somewhere not too cool and drafty.

In a large pot, bring about 8 cups of water to a boil with the remaining salt (about 1 tablespoon) while you preheat the oven to 200° C (390° F).

Shape the taralli from the dough by forming ropes about 1/2-inch thick and 3 inches long. Bend each rope to form a ring, overlap the ends and press down with a finger to clasp them. Some like their taralli bent in a figure-8 or in a horseshoe shape, that's entirely up to you.

Boil the taralli in batches of ten, fishing them out with a slotted spoon as they surface in the salted boiling water.

Rest the drained taralli on a clean kitchen towel to dry for a few minutes.

Grease a baking sheet with some olive oil and position the taralli so they don't touch one another. Bake for 40 minutes, or until they become light brown. It depends on the oven, it may take less. Don't worry if the taralli feel soggy once baked, they'll become crisp once completely cooled down. 

Taralli can be flavored in many ways. During the initial ingredient mixture, you can add 1 or 2 tablespoons of either: fennel seeds, sesame or poppy seeds, dehydrated onion flakes, chopped rosemary, peperoncino, black pepper or a squirt of tomato concentrate, etc.


Note: For 1 kg (2.2 lbs) of flour, your oven's capacity most probably will not contain all the obtained taralli in one single batch. Calculate how many to boil before baking according to sheet size, as the poached dough needs to be toasted right away, within a few minutes.