Category Archives: Cooking with Nonna

Finding Buoyancy

02 Sunday Apr 2017

Posted by in Cooking with Nonna, The Basics, Vegetarian

≈ 12 Comments

We went to visit Nonna at her residence last Tuesday. She’s been there two weeks now, but it was my first time visiting her after her two-month stay at the hospital, where she’d been admitted on New Year’s Day. I’d heard that the first few days at the residence were difficult. She was angry and tired; she couldn’t fathom that she had ended up in what, at least on the surface, seemed like an extension of the hospital – a small room in a beige, paint-chipped ward where other residents wandered into eachother’s rooms, mistaking them for theirs.  As we rode over in the car, I was apprehensive, thinking about how she’d been feeling, her initial resistance and disbelief that she was never going back home. I thought about the empty house she left behind: the bedroom with the handmade doilies from Abruzzo, the dining room with the built-in buffet, filled with floral teacups and matching saucers; the kitchen with its tawny, 70s linoleum floor; the cellar where grandpa used to store demijohns of homemade wine…

My heart cracked.

On the night we visited, the residence was having a “brasserie” night. There was a raffle, dancing, and a DJ that played country music under a string of twinkle lights. Volunteers walked around in waist-aprons, handing out raffle tickets and prizes in the form of heart-shaped lollipops. The four of us sat at a table against the wall – mom, dad and I on plastic fold-out chairs and grandma in her plaid wheelchair. We encouraged her to have a glass of wine. They only had white, which she never drinks, but she had some anyway. After a couple of sips, she leaned in to tell me it was come l’acqua (“like water”). I promised to bring her the real stuff soon – the red Montepulciano she had every lunchtime at home, poured into a short tumbler from a twist-cap bottle. She nodded in collusion.

We shared a bag of Cheetos and watched people sway to a twangy version of Quand le soleil dit bonjour aux montagnes.  At one point I looked over at her, struck by how beautiful she looked, wrapped in a gold and burgundy shawl, and hair curled and set the day before by mom. It was lovely and disheartening in equal parts. Ninety-four years old. How does anyone get to ninety-four? It became clear that an era had ended, and that none of us were quite sure what would replace it. I thought about all the dinners and celebrations we’d had at her house – Christmas, Easter, birthdays, and everything in between, including the party we had after my brother and sister-in-law’s civil ceremony, when we hosted sixty people in a space that could comfortably hold thirty. I thought about the tomato-canning sessions every September that covered the kitchen in splatters of crushed passata, the assembly-line production of gnocchi, cookies, and ravioli; the summer afternoons in the backyard, sharing mounds of grapes and shooing away squirrels that snuck into the garden.

My heart cracked a little more.

It’s a strange type of grieving. The person you love is still there, still mentally with it, but their regular spark is missing, siphoned away by physical fragility, circumstance, and an obligation to adapt. It’s a difficult thing to witness, even if most families will – at some point – go through some variation of it.

As with all difficult transitions though, there’s always moments of reprieve, allowing some of the hard feelings to recede. On this night, it came in the form of some cheap wine, a bag of Cheetos, and an evening in eachother’s company. That combination somehow created a bit of buoyancy in all of us; we’d been given a chance to see a piece of our old selves again. And it was nice.

After an hour or so, when the DJ packed up his things and bright lights came back on, we brought grandma back to her room and got her settled in. I kissed her goodnight. Ti amo, Nonna. She smiled, È stata una bella serata. It was the first time I’d seen her smile in weeks. Instead of cracking, my heart brimmed with the best kind of love. I felt grateful instead of sad, beholden to all the indelebile experiences I’ve had with her, and will continue to have, for as long as I possibly can.

—–

On loss and recipes

When it became clear that Nonna wasn’t going back home, and that our family dinners wouldn’t be the same as before, I found myself thinking about her recipes more than ever. Part of me worries that if I don’t hold onto them tightly, they might fall between the cracks, and become hazy, far-away memories, in the same way that when you lose someone, the details of their face become less vivid over time.

In the spirit of holding on tightly, I’ve been making her recipes whenever I can, writing them down, documenting not only the recipe, but the memories attached to them. One week, it might be her tomato sauce; another week it might be a minestrone or pasta fagioli. This week, it was her rosemary peas, a fixture at family dinners for as long as I can remember. They would usually be served alongside potato gnocchi, or pasta and polpette, or a pan-fried chop or steak. The thing that makes them stand out to me is how fundamentally basic they are, the well-loved anti-hero to fiddly recipes that require special ingredients. For one, you use canned peas (not the bright, freshly-shelled or frozen ones) and dried rosemary (not the fresh, elegant sprigs you might find growing on the windowsill) (full diclosure: I cheated this time, because I had fresh on hand). The only other ingredient – if you don’t count salt, pepper, and oil – is onion, which you cut into half-moons and sautée until translucent. The result is a beautifully mushy, sweet, aromatic mash that pairs well with with pasta dishes and meats like lamb, pork, or veal.

Mine will probably never taste exactly like hers. But I can sometimes get close, which is reason enough for me to keep trying.

Rosemary Peas // © julia chews the fat

Nonna’s Rosemary Peas

  • 1 can of peas, rinsed and drained
  • 1 small onion, sliced into half-moons
  • 1-2 tsp dried rosemary
  • 2 Tbsp olive oil
  • salt and pepper to taste

Directions:

Heat the oil in a pan on medium heat. When the oil is hot (but not smoking), add the sliced onion and cook until softened and glistening; add the rosemary and cook for a minute more, stirring every so often. Add the peas and stir to combine. Season with salt and pepper. Cook, stirring occasionally, until the onion has become golden and the peas have broken down a bit (about 10 minutes). Serve warm.

Rosemary Peas // © julia chews the fat

Easy Cooking – Garlic & Chili Pepper

06 Sunday Mar 2016

Posted by in Cooking with Nonna, Lunch & Dinner, The Basics, Vegetarian

≈ 3 Comments

I recently came across an article by Elizabeth Dunn, published last fall in The Atlantic called The Myth of ‘Easy’ Cooking. It’s basically critique of the “easy cooking” empire that has proliferated in recent years over every media platform known to man (newspapers, magazines, TV, online tutorials, books, blogs, vlogs…), touting super simple! stress-free! meals made faster than you can say Rachel Ray. Reading it from the perspective of someone who likes making things from scratch – to the point of actually seeking it out – I felt conflicted. On one hand, it felt transgressive to agree with someone that cast such a critical light on home cooking. (It is, after all, the backbone of this blog and the thing I’m most enthusiastic about when it comes to food); on the other hand, I felt that she had a point – one that not many food enthusiasts or people working in the field of food media (like herself) would be eager to lay bare so candidly.

She’s calling bullshit, and I like it.

Because I think that the crux of what she’s saying is true – “fast and easy” recipes in the world of modern home cookery are often presented as more straightforward and simple than they actually are. It’s become very fashionable to sell the idea that an entire meal – from starter to dessert – can be effortlessly whipped up in under twenty minutes. And this, after a heavy day at work, bookended by two frenzied commutes, plus the discovery that, while you were away, your bathroom flooded, or the fridge broke down, or that your child has inexplicably lodged a Lego block deep into their nasal cavity. (I don’t speak from parental experience, but I have it on good authority that kids do these kinds of things. Bless them.) All this to say that on a run-of-the-mill Tuesday night – even without anything out of the ordinary happening – you’re likely not jazzed about the idea of assembling Piri Piri chicken, with two-type mashed potatoes, arugula salad, and natas tarts for dessert (as boldly suggested on page 120 of Jamie Oliver’s Meals in Minutes).

Elizabeth Dunn has, very articulately and succinctly, hit the nail on the head about how today’s cooking empire (the books, the shows, the magazine articles and all the rest of it) has hijacked the principle of “simple cooking”. Simple cooking isn’t tossing some iceberg lettuce with oil and vinegar anymore – it’s topping it with freshly roasted chicken, toasted nuts, homemade croutons and some esoteric dressing that requires three different oils. (Don’t get me wrong, I love the idea of that salad; it’s just that on most weekdays, who’s making that whole thing from scratch?). So, in that sense, I agree with her – in making cooking a fashionable commodity, we’ve built this unrealistic, unattainable image of what simple cooking is supposed to represent; in falling under the spell of pretty pictures in gauzy magazines, we’ve lost sight of what real, simple, day-to-day cooking actually looks like.

In all this, it’s worth mentioning that “easy” cooking means something different for everyone. My time, energy, and money constraints are not identical to yours; same goes for our interest in cooking, which not only varies from person to person, but also from day to day. There are days when I’m full of vim and vigour and have no qualms about making a 3-course dinner from beginning to end. But then there are days when stove-top popcorn and a glass of fizzy water sounds like a reasonable dinner. (to the chagrin of every nutritionist out there.)

All that said, I still really do believe in the importance in making food at home – in whatever way, shape or form that comes to be. And so, in defense of home cooking, I will say this: easy can still stay easy. On days when I don’t feel like pulling together a meal, often I’ll give myself a little nudge, and – after thinking about how much that hip, third-wave, stone-oven pizza next door is going to cost me after tax and tip – I’m usually able to scrounge together something decent, without much time and effort.

In many ways, I have Nonna to thanks for this. She’s taught me a lot about simple cooking, including the holy trinity of olive oil, garlic, and peperoncini (red chili flakes). When combined with care, these three ingredients can elevate more or less anything in your fridge. Toss in an anchovy, and you’re well on your way to gold standard of peasant food.

Below you’ll find three recipes that incorporate olive oil, garlic and peperoncini (red chili flakes)- one for sautéed rapini, another for braised Savoy cabbage and the last, an improvised pasta dish with Romano beans. This is true easy cooking – no fireworks or esoteric ingredients. Just a couple of things from the crisper or freezer that you can toss together in between the time you get home and your child decides to see how far a Lego will go up their nose.

—–

RAPINI SAUTÉED IN GARLIC AND DRIED CHILI
(Rapini aglio e olio con peperoncini)

Having a little stockpile of cooked rapini in the freezer is one of the best gifts your past self can give your present self, on those days when all you can do is stare into the depths of fridge, mouth-breathing.These are some of my favourite ways to use this rapini:

• as-is, with a chunk of crusty bread to soak up the garlic oil
• swirled into pasta, with a generous dusting of Parmigiano-Reggiano
• on top of polenta
• on top of pizza
• alongside roasted chicken, spicy sausage, or meatballs
• in a curry

Rapini

Makes about 3 cups

  • 1 bunch of rapini (broccoli rabe)
  • 3-4 large garlic cloves, sliced
  • 1 tsp dried chili flakes (peperoncini)
  • 3 Tbsp good quality olive oil (or 1-2 Tbsp more, if you’re adding this rapini to pasta)
  • sea salt (or flaked salt, such as Maldon)

Directions

1) Put a large pot of water on to boil. Rinse the rapini under cold running water and pat dry with a dish towel.

Rapini

2) Trim the stems (if they look a little rough), then run a paring knife along the inside of the stem to make a cross-section at the bottom, like so (this will help the stems to cook evenly, along with the more delicate leaves):

3) Once the water has boiled, add the rapini and blanch for about 3 minutes. Remove from the boiling water and drain in a colander. Once cool enough to handle, gently squeeze out as much water as possible, then roughly chop the rapini into pieces (manageable enough the eat). (note: at this point you can freeze portions of the rapini that you aren’t using right away – just make sure to drain really well, then transfer to small freezer bags)

Rapini

4) Meanwhile, heat up the olive oil in a pan on medium heat. Once hot, add the sliced garlic and fry until just beginning to turn golden. Add the pepperoncini as fry for 10 seconds further. Add the blanched, chopped rapini and a good pinch of salt and cook for about another 5 minutes, stirring every so often. Check the seasoning, then serve as desired.

Rapini

—–

BRAISED CABBAGE WITH GARLIC AND DRIED CHILI
(Cavolo stufato)

Makes about 4 cups

  • 1/2 head of Savoy cabbage, centre rib removed and cut into 1″ slices
  • 3-4 large garlic cloves, sliced
  • 1/2 tsp dried chili flakes (pepperoncini)
  • 3 Tbsp good quality olive oil
  • 1 cup water or chicken stock
  • sea salt (or flaked salt, such as Maldon)

Garlic-Braised Cabbage

Directions:

1) Heat the olive oil in a pan on medium-high heat. Once hot, add the garlic and cook until golden (almost golden-brown). Add the chili flakes and stir, allowing them to flavour the oil (about 10 seconds).

2) Add the sliced cabbage and stir to combine. Season with salt. Cook for about 2 minutes, then add the water or stock.

3) Bring to a boil, then reduce the heat to low, cover and allow the cabbage to cook and break down (about 20-30 minutes). Serve with crusty bread, on pasta or with fish.

Garlic-Braised Cabbage

Garlic-Braised Cabbage

—–

SPAGHETTI WITH GARLIC & DRIED CHILI WITH ROMANO BEANS
(Spaghetti aglio e olio con fagioli)

Makes 2 servings

I like to cook big batches of beans and lentils all at one time, then either refrigerate them for the week, or freeze them (more on prepping pulses and legumes in an upcoming post). If freezing, lay the cooked beans in one layer on a baking sheet, freeze, then transfer to containers of freezer-proof bags (this prevents them from sticking together). They’ll keep for a couple of months. If you’re short on time, just used canned.

  • 200g spaghetti
  • 1/4 cup good quality olive oil
  • 3-4 large garlic cloves, sliced
  • 1/2 tsp dried chili flakes (peperoncini)
  • 1/2 cup cooked romano beans (or canned)
  • 1 anchovy filet
  • 1/4 cup breadcrumbs (I used panko)
  • 1/3 cup Parmagiano-Reggiano, plus more for serving
  • zest from 1/2 lemon
  • optional: pesto (I try to make some in the summer/early fall and freeze them in individual portions. More on that here.)

Spaghetti with garlic, dried chillis and romano beans

Directions

1) Boil the water for the spaghetti. Meanwhile, heat the olive oil in a pan on medium-high heat. Once hot, add the garlic and cook until golden (almost golden-brown). Add the chili flakes and stir, allowing them to flavour the oil (about 10 seconds).

2) Add the whole anchovy and stir; it will melt on its own. Add the beans, stir,and allow to cook for couple of minutes. Then add about 1/4 cup of water to help them break down a bit and form a sauce.

3) When the water comes to a rolling boil, add a small handful of coarse salt and then add the spaghetti; cook until al dente. (If the bean mixture looks a little dry, add some of the pasta water. The starch will help bring the it together.

4) While the beans are warming through and the pasta is cooking, set a dry pan on medium heat and toast the breadcrumbs, shaking the pan every so often to avoid burning them (2-3 minutes). Set aside.

5) Strain the pasta and then return to the pot. Add the garlic and bean mixture and stir to coat. Add the Parmigiano and stir to combine; serve in bowls, adding a little lemon zest, the toasted breadcrumbs and some additional Parmigiano to taste.

Spaghetti with garlic, dried chillis and romano beans

Sugo di pomodoro

15 Tuesday Dec 2015

Posted by in Cooking For Your Peeps, Cooking with Nonna, Lunch & Dinner, The Basics, Vegetarian

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In the kitchen, there aren’t many things for which grandma, Nonna, has any steadfast rules. Tomato sauce, however, is one noteworthy exception. Here is an abridged, translated version of a recent conversation we had over the phone:

“Nonna, I made your sauce yesterday. Era buonissimo.”
“Did you put in the leek? And a bit of carrot? And celery?”
“Sì. Of course. Certo.”
“But not too much of each?”
“No, not too much of each.”
“And the butter? Il burro. Did you remember to put it in?”
“Yes, Nonna.”
“Ok, hai fatto bene. Brava. Good girl.”

I’ve made Nonna’s tomato sauce a hundred times over. Maybe even more, considering it was one of the very first things I learned to cook. Like all her recipes, the ones that I’ve been able to replicate with ease are like badges, tangible mementos of a culinary heritage – hers, mine, ours. It turns out that when you have Italian roots – even if it only makes up half of you – tomato sauce isn’t really just tomato sauce. It’s a birthright. You have to take special care to preserve it; to share it, but to safeguard it too.

Variations of sugo di pomodoro differ across Italy and across families – some might add aromatics, like basil; others sometimes add salt or a bit of sugar. It’s one of those great backbone recipes that’s slightly different from household to household. I think the key to Nonna’s recipe is poco poco, or “just a little bit”. You want just a little bit of leek, of onion, of carrot, of celery. These ingredients make up your base, your sofrito (or mirepoix in French); if you go overboard with any of them, the flavour won’t be balanced. That said, trust your judgement and your tastebuds – if you feel it needs more or less of anything, adjust it. As simple as it may be, this recipe gets better with practice. Keep making it, over and over, until you love it and think Nonna would too.

Nonna’s Tomato Sauce (sugo di pomodoro della Nonna)

Tomato Sauce

Ingredients

  • 1 medium onion, chopped (about 1/2 cup)
  • 1 small carrot, chopped (about 1/4 cup)
  • 1 small celery stalk, chopped (about 1/4 cup)
  • 1/2 small leek (white part only), chopped (about 1/3 cup)
  • 2 cloves of garlic, minced
  • 1 heaped Tbsp tomato paste
  • 800ml-1 L* canned or jarred tomatoes (preferably San Marzano)
  • olive oil (about 1/4 cup)
  • a knob of butter

*a large standard can of tomatoes is usually 796ml; we use homemade jarred tomatoes, each Mason jar containing 1L.

Notes! 

  1. Unlike a lot of recipes out there, Nonna doesn’t add salt, sugar, pepper, chili flakes or aromatics to her tomato sauce. This isn’t bolognese, so no meat either.
  2. You might have leftover chopped vegetables (i.e one small carrot be a little more that 1/4 cup); you can freeze any leftovers for stock or double the recipe.
  3. The sauce will be more flavourful if you allow it to simmer for an hour or so. (Grandpa used to start his sauce at about 10am to serve at lunchtime, but he was hardcore about sauce-making.)
  4. You can also use this sauce to cook meatballs the old-fashioned way; see recipe here.

Tomato Sauce

Directions

1) Heat olive oil and butter in a large saucepan or Dutch oven, on medium-high heat. Once the oil is hot (but not smoking), add the onion and sauté until softened. Reduce the heat to medium. Add the garlic and sauté for another minute. Then add the leek, carrot, celery and sauté together until everything is softened and the onion and garlic are golden to golden-brown. Add the tomato paste and sauté for another minute or so.

2) Add the tomatoes and stir to combine; reduce the heat to medium-low and allow to simmer, half-covered, for 30 minutes to an hour (depending on how much time you have). Remember to stir occasionally.

3) Remove sauce from the heat; blitz with a hand-blender until smooth, or leave as-is if you prefer a more rustic sauce. Serve on pasta, gnocchi, polenta, or pizza with a good sprinkling of parmesan. Alternately, you can freeze the sauce for up to 4 months.

Tomato Sauce

Tomato Sauce

 

 

A Soup Lost in Translation

08 Wednesday Apr 2015

Posted by in Cooking with Nonna, Lunch & Dinner, The Basics

≈ 10 Comments

In a recent phone conversation with my mother –

Me: Hi. What’re you up to?

Mom: Grandma and I are making cazzorelli.

Me (long pause): Wait, what? Cazzorelli? As in, cazzo?

Mom: Yeah, I guess so. That’s what grandma calls them. Hold on, let me ask her. Sono chiamati cazzorelli, no? (comes back to the receiver) Yeah, grandma says that’s it.

Me: That’s crazy. How come I’ve never heard of these? What are they?

Mom: They’re just these little polenta dumplings that you cook into a soup. They’re nothing special.

Me: Nothing special?? Mom, please. THEY’RE CALLED CAZZORELLI. They’re special. Why do you think they’re called that?

Mom: I don’t know. They’re Abruzzese. I guess it’s because the dough is cut into little pieces…and so the idea is they look like…little penises? (long pause) You’ll have to ask grandma.

If you know my family, you’ll understand that this is a pretty typical conversation – about food, about dialect, about the where-what-how of my grandmother’s recipes. While Nonna holds a relatively small repertoire of recipes, each have their own backstory. Some are direct imports from her tiny village in Abruzzo, others are improvised dishes pulled together from the resources they found when they first moved to Canada. Some of them are vestiges of wartime food rationing, while others are decadent offerings served up on big platters at weddings, baptisms and religious holidays. Every single one of them – from the soft lemon cookies with the crackled tops, to the peas fried in onion and rosemary – has a story, an anecdote, a memory attached.

Up until this conversation with my mom, I thought I knew all of Nonna’s recipes. But for some reason, “cazzorelli” were never part of the rotation of dishes I grew up with. The crudeness of the name, and the casual way that mom and grandma threw around the word, were an open invitation for follow-up questions. So, you’re telling me that people just go around Abruzzo saying, “Today I’m making little penis soup?” What if you make it for your in-laws? Do you still call it the same thing? Am I the only one that thinks this is hilarious??

I felt like I’d hit the dialect jackpot.

That is, until a few days ago, when I discovered that they’re not actually called “cazzorelli”. No. It turns out they’re called “cazzarielli”. Perhaps even worse, this (subtle! so, so subtle!) orthographic error was exposed, not by Nonna, but by a standard Google search. (I know, how boring). So technically, this dish isn’t called “little penis” soup. At best, it’s called “little pieces” soup.

Trust me, I’m just as disappointed as you are.

It serves me right, though; by this point in my upbringing, I should know that this kind of mix-up is par for the course when speaking in dialect. Entire syllables get lobbed off, vowels at the end of one word melt into the next. Genders get jumbled. And, inevitably, bits of the message get lost in translation. This soup (the one I began to call by a name that didn’t exist) is the perfect example of how dialect speaking – based almost entirely on phonetics – has a sticky habit of transforming words and their meaning. Food customs also travel an imperfect road, which is why it shouldn’t come as a surprise that there are pieces missing by the time they get to us. But I like to think that all that shifting and travelling allows them to gather substance for new stories and, ultimately, new memories. Like the name of this soup. Cazzarielli will always be cazzorelli to me, because that small phonetic flub is something I will always look back on with a big, stupid grin on my face when I think of that conversation with my mom. It’s one of the few things that’s worth being wrong about.

—–

And now, a few notes on this soup itself:

Like any good Italian peasant food, this soup fulfills three basic tenets – it’s inexpensive, easy, and satisfying. Small polenta “gnocchi” are cooked in a thick broth made up of water, potato, Brussels sprouts, fried garlic, and some chili flakes, all of it simmered with a slab of well-marbled pancetta. I imagine this was the kind of food they’d feed soldiers, or farmers, or the pregnant women who tended the fields in their third trimester (yes, yes they did). It’s robust, no-frills fare. And it certainly doesn’t win any points in the looks department. But what it lacks in aesthetics it more than makes up for in flavour. It’s rich, garlicky and full of pleasantly chewy bits of polenta, potato and cabbage. In other words, pure comfort in a bowl.

Grab a spoon and tuck in.

ingredients

For the dough:

  • 1 ½ cups dry polenta (grade 400, extra fine)
  • 1 cup flour
  • 1 ¾ cups hot (just boiled) water

For the soup:

  • 4-5 cloves garlic, halved lengthwise
  • 2-3 yellow, waxy potatoes (like Yukon Gold)
  • 1/4 cup olive oil
  • 1 tsp chili flakes
  • 1 small slab of pancetta (about 2 oz)
  • 2 cups Brussels sprouts (or the equivalent in Savoy cabbage)
  • 7-8 cups cold water

Directions:

1) Start by making the dough: pour the polenta into a large mixing bowl and slowly whisk in the hot water until the dough comes together. Then work the dough lightly with your hands to form a loose ball. Sprinkle with flour and set aside.

2) Start making the soup: heat the olive oil in a large soup pot; fry the the halved garlic cloves with the chili flakes until garlic is golden brown. Add the Brussels sprouts, pancetta and potatoes; stir to combine and allow to cook for 1 minute. Add seven cups of water and reduce the heat to medium-low.

prep - cazzarielli pancetta Brussels sprouts potatoes

3) While the soup simmers, make the cazzarielli: cut 1″ pieces of the dough and roll lengthwise into “snakes” on a floured surface. Cut the long pieces of dough (“snakes”) into small 1/4″ pieces. Place on a parchment or towel-lined baking sheet and sprinkle with flour to avoid sticking.

4) When the cazzarielli are all made, lift them in batched in your hands to allow excess flour to “sift” through your fingers and add to the soup pot. Allow to cook about 15 minutes, or until they are tender. You may need to adjust the amount of water if the soup gets to thick (helloooo starch!). We like our soup to be somewhere between a minestrone and a chowder in terms of thickness and texture. Serve hot.

rolling dough dough "snakes" cutting the dough cutting the dough laying out the cazzarielli flouring out the cazzarielli prepared cazzarielli serving cazzarielli soup

Cookies with Nonna

11 Tuesday Jun 2013

Posted by in Cooking For Your Peeps, Cooking with Nonna, Sweet Tooth

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On a few separate occasions, I’ve asked Nonna to teach me how to make cookies. Not just any cookies. The cookies – the ones from that tattered notebook she keeps tucked away in the top drawer of the china cabinet, next to the silverware and the birthday candles; the book that only comes out at Christmas, baby showers and weddings, when the recipes are tripled and quadrupled to suit the occasion.

It’s the kind of thing that is ubiquitous in the world of grandmas – the mythical recipe book that is beaten, bruised, smeared with grease-marks and filled with barely legible handwriting. The recipes are often a blend of tried-and-true methods and weirdly incongruous instructions. My grandmother’s notebook is no exception: in the recipe for “chichinotti”, tartlet-cookies made with chocolate and almonds, Nonna refers to “Crisco” shortening as “Grisco”, forgets to add the flour to the list of ingredients for the pastry, and does that annoying thing that cooking matriarchs often do, by mentioning “un po” (“a little bit”) as a baking quantity. Is that a pinch? A teaspoon? HOW MUCH IS “A LITTLE BIT”?!?

Oh and there are no assembly or baking directions, so good luck with that.

Despite all this, it’s still a disarming specimen of love and care and ancestry, which more than makes up for its shortcomings. The handwriting alone is a solid heart-melter…

The recipe

The recipe

Early on a Saturday morning, I get a phone call from Nonna, telling me that today is the day. Having only banked 4 hours of sleep prior to her calling, I didn’t exactly jump for joy at the prospect of shaping trayfuls of cookies. But I knew that this was a rare opportunity, so I rolled out of bed, grabbed a coffee, and with eyes at half-mast, hauled myself to the other end of town to her house.

When I got there, she was sitting at the kitchen table with all the ingredients laid out in front of her, ready to be measured and blended. The woman was clearly on a mission. First order of the day: she insisted that we take out her old mixing machine, the “Oster Kitchen Center”, a brutal-looking thing from the early 70s that weighed about as much as a toddler and was enrobed in a slick of greasy dust, thanks to a long hibernation in the kitchen cupboard. And yes, I would have the honour of restoring it to its original state.

In the midst of scrubbing it down with a soapy toothbrush, I began to have questions for Nonna. Are you sure we need to use this? Can’t we just use a whisk? Nonna shook her head. No, we would not be using a whisk. We would be using The Oster. Period.

Right around the time we were almost done cleaning it, I turned to my mom and joked, “Imagine after all this, we plug it in and it doesn’t work?”. Mom glared. “Julia, that isn’t funny.” At that moment, we both realised that testing it before spending so much time and energy cleaning it may have been the more intelligent way of doing things. I sheepishly plugged it in and prayed under my breath before pressing the button. Omigod, please please please – *click*.

Nothing.

No sound, no action.

Our hearts sank for a moment. Nonna shrugged her shoulders. Refusing to accept this state of affairs, I stubbornly disassembled and reassembled it – clicking all the bits into place – then took a deep breath and plugged it back in.

And lord have mercy, the thing came to life. It produced such an astonishing amount of noise and vigor, that we all took a step back. Nonna clapped and the rest of us laughed nervously as the monstrosity that monopolized half our counter space whirred and whizzed, deafening us with each turn of the beaters. It was like watching a robot come to life, or a horse giving birth – terrifying, yet oddly mesmerizing. We were so transfixed, you’d think we’d just discovered electricity.

Yes, my family is a cheap date.

—–

In the end, the machine felt like an integral part of the process, or at least of the experience. That said, you by no means need to use one. A handheld beater or whisk will do just fine (just don’t tell Nonna). The only special equipment you may need to purchase are the tin moulds, which should be available at most kitchen stores.

One last thing – promise me you’ll try one straight out of the oven. Well don’t, like, burn the roof of your mouth or anything….but once it’s had a minute to cool down, go for it. There are very few pleasures in life that will compare.

Chichinotti – makes about 3 dozen

For the filling:
• 14 oz skinless almonds (toasted, then ground)
• 10 egg whites (the yolks will be used later – see below)
• 4 oz cocoa powder
• 12 oz sugar
• 4 pieces of Baker’s bitter-sweet chocolate, finely ground
• finely grated rind of one lemon
• about 2 tsp cinnamon

For the pastry:
• 10 egg yolks
• 7 oz vegetable shortening* (such as Crisco), room temperature
• 10 oz sugar
• 16 oz all-purpose flour
• finely grated rind of one lemon

*shortening is not one of those products that I like to endorse, but to stay true to Nonna’s recipe, I use it here. You’ll probably be able to replace it with butter by tinkering with the quantities a little bit. If you try it, let me know how it works out!

Directions:

Preheat the oven to 350°F

1) Roast the almonds at 350°F for about 10-15 minutes until golden, turning once halfway through. Allow to cool, then grind them finely in a food processor. Set aside.

2) Prepare the filling: combine all the ingredients listed in the “filling” section above (except the ground almonds) in a medium-sized bowl. Use a stand mixer, hand mixer or whisk to combine the ingredients until uniform in colour and texture. Add the ground almonds, mixing with a wooden spoon to combine.

3) Prepare the pastry: combine all the ingredients listed in the “pastry” section (except the flour) in a medium-sized bowl. Begin to mix with a whisk, increasing speed as the mixture starts to come together. Once the mixture is smooth and creamy in colour, begin to slowly add the flour in batches, whisking between each addition. Once it reaches the consistency of a dough, knead it gently into a rough ball.

4) Prepare 2 baking sheets with parchment paper. With your hands, take a small quantity of pastry dough and press it into the mould, making sure that the bottom is completely covered and the sides as well. There are no exact measurements behind this, but you’re going for a medium-thickness – meaning that you don’t want it so thick that it would be un-enjoyable to eat, but not so thin that it burns and hardens. Try to reach a happy medium. Practice is key to getting this part right.

5) Fill each pastry shell with some of the chocolate mixture, nearly filling to the brim. Place filled tins on the prepared baking sheets.

6) Bake at 350°F for about 20 minutes, or until the filling is puffy and the pastry is golden.

7) Allow the tins to cool enough for you to handle; gently pry each cookie from the tins. Dust with powdered sugar once cooled and serve.

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Her Italian Clark Gable

14 Thursday Feb 2013

Posted by in Cooking with Nonna, Lunch & Dinner, Vegetarian

≈ 11 Comments

A few days ago I spent an evening with my Nonna. It’s rare that we find ourselves sharing some time and space together without any other family members in the mix, but on this particular night, circumstances lined up in such a way that it was just her and I. Nonna and nipote.

We put together a simple dinner – pasta with Swiss chard and ricotta – teasing each other about the “right” way to make it, a sort of a ping-ponging of questions and answers wherein I attempt (quite unsuccessfully) to enforce my points in broken dialect. We discuss the merits of handmade ricotta versus store-bought; she chops some chard and I watch over the garlic frying on the stove. Side-by-side in her kitchen, we reminisce about little details, many about my grandfather – how he liked his pasta cooked into oblivion; how he used to always help himself to seconds; how much he loved having people over for dinner, with a carafe of his homemade wine stationed on the table. His wine was practically undrinkable and we always complained that the pasta was overcooked – but we were happy.

Nonno didn’t talk much during meals, often telling us we talked too much, but he still found moments to inject a zinger or two into the conversation – usually something he knew would get a rise out of my grandmother, who would respond with a small, but swift whack to the back of his head. Without fail, he would peel into laughter and Nonna would shake her head, playfully lamenting: “Oh Lord, give me patience.”

gnocchislowres

The way they interacted was, to me, completely unique. It was integral to who they were as a couple and as partners, and inseparable from my memory of them as grandma and grandpa. We often think that romance is the first thing to disappear in a marriage, especially one that is decades old. But even in their late age, I would sometimes find him bringing her coffee in bed or holding her hand. They were simple gestures, but ones that were nonetheless tangible reminders of their love for one another; small expressions that slipped inconspicuously into their day-to-day, even in their last ones together.

Nonna&NonnoThe soul of that relationship lives on every time I talk to my grandmother about Nonno. She speaks about him with such tenderness. My mom once joked that he was her Italian Clark Gable. He no doubt drove her crazy in moments too – but when you strip it all down, what remains is the affirmation of a true partnership, one rooted in whole-hearted devotion and capable of withstanding the worst of life’s adversities.

As I sit with Nonna at the dinner table, I recognize the love she had for him. I also recognize the love I have for her and how spending this time by her side fills my heart with a warmth that is pure and unspoken and unparalleled.

Happy Valentine’s, Nonna. Ti amo. x

—–

Pasta with Swiss Chard and Ricotta – serves 2

  • 1/2 bunch Swiss chard
  • 1 small onion, sliced
  • 1 clove of garlic, finely chopped
  • about 1/4 tsp dried pepperoncini flakes
  • olive oil
  • 1/3 lb dry fettucine (or linguini)
  • about 1 cup fresh ricotta

Put a large pot of water on to boil.

Wash chard and dry well (a salad-spinner works best). Remove large ribs (the white part at the base of each leaf) and chop the leaves. Set aside.

Once the pot of water has reached the boil, add a handful of sea salt. When the water has reached a rolling boil, add the pasta. Cook uncovered until al dente, being careful to stir every so often.

Put about about 2 Tbsp of olive oil in a large pan set on the stove on medium-high heat. Once the oil is hot (but not smoking), add the onion and fry until transluscent. Add the garlic and pepperoncini flakes and fry for about 1 minute, until the garlic is fragrant and lightly golden (but not browned). Then add the chopped chard and sauté for 3-4 minutes*.

(*you can add a bit of the pasta water to help steam the chard.)

Drain the pasta and add to the pan with the chard. Move the pasta around the pan (tongs work best) to coat with the chard mixture.

Serve in pasta bowls with a generous dollop of fresh ricotta and a drizzle of your best olive oil (and a few flecks of Maldon salt – but don’t tell Nonna).

Note: a nice alternative is to lightly broil the ricotta on the pasta before serving (see image below). Set the oven on broil at 500°F. Once you’ve mixed the pasta and chard, spoon it into a baking dish and add a layer of ricotta on top. Broil on center rack for about 2-3 minutes or until cheese is golden.

Pasta with Swiss Chard

Nonna’s Meatballs (Polpette)

22 Tuesday May 2012

Posted by in Cooking For Your Peeps, Cooking with Nonna, Lunch & Dinner

≈ 4 Comments

When my cousin returned to North America after spending several years away in Taiwan, she was asked what she’d like to have at her repatriation dinner. Without skipping a beat, she uttered: “Grandma’s meatballs. I want Grandma’s meatballs.”

It made sense – anyone who’s had them knows the effect that they can have on people. I’ve even known vegetarians to try them. In fact, I wouldn’t be surprised if they’d secretly trade their first-born for one.

Like virtually everything that has come out of Nonna’s kitchen, her meatballs are straightforward and to-the-point; the recipe never changes and you can almost count the number of ingredients on one hand. These meatballs don’t mess around, people. I recommend that you respond in kind, resisting the urge to mess around with them by adding or subtracting components. This is not your opportunity to, say, make foie gras or quinoa-ball concoctions. Any attempt to get inventive would result in a polite, yet firm, “tsk” from Nonna, reminding you that some recipes are better left intact.

Like any good family recipe, this one has a secret weapon. I’d love to tell you that it’s the amore that’s put in it or that there’s some special, ancient rolling technique involved. But really, it’s the veal. It’s all about the veal. Forget everything you learnt about meatballs containing beef. Beef does not belong in this meatball. Trust me.

It’s worth mentioning that the recipe included here is actually a variation of Nonna’s decades-old recipe. Her version requires that the meatballs be cooked slowly in homemade tomato sauce. But on this given day, circumstances (and more specifically, time) dictated that we bake them in the oven. They are not identical to Nonna’s*, but they still contain the traditional ingredients and be absolutely delicious, the only real difference being that they will have a crispy exterior.

(*if you want them to be exactly like Nonna’s, add the raw meatballs to a simmering pot of tomato sauce to cook them through – gently and slowly. Cooking time will vary depending on the size of the meatballs.)

Polpette

  • 1/2 kg minced pork
  • 1 kg minced veal
  • 4 cloves of garlic, minced
  • a handful of parsley, minced
  • 3/4 cup of breadcrumbs
  • 3 eggs, beaten
  • 1 1/2 tsp salt + 1/2 tsp freshly ground black pepper

Directions

Preheat oven to 375°F. Place meat in a large bowl. Add garlic, parsley, salt & pepper; mix into meat. Add breadcrumbs and eggs; mix until combined and until ingredients are evenly distributed. Roll into golf ball-sized portions.

Arrange on a parchment-lined cookie sheet and place in the preheated oven. Bake for about 10-12 minutes, or until cooked through, turning them once halfway through the cooking process.

Note: these delightful little things freeze really well. Simply place cooked meatballs on a parchment-lined cookie sheet and freeze, later placing them in freezer bags or airtight containers equipped for the freezer.

Sausage factory

28 Tuesday Feb 2012

Posted by in Cooking with Nonna, The Basics

≈ 3 Comments

The other day, at 8:53 am, my mother calls me: “We’re making sausages tonight, you want in?”

Now, most people would shudder at the thought of spending their leisure time squeezing 15 lbs of pork meat into intestine casings. Especially before nine in the morning. But not me. This is the kind of stuff that makes me eager to roll up my sleeves and get to work. The stuff that gives me goosebumps, and the good kind.

It goes without saying that making sausages is not for the faint of heart. In part because you’re handling pounds of raw pork, intestines and a heavy-duty meat grinder, but also because someone will inevitably comment on how the much the act of strapping a wet casing onto a nozzle and filling it with meat resembles the use of a common prophylactic. In my case, TWO people felt at liberty to make this assertion. And before you call me a prude – did I mention we were doing this as a family?

One other caveat: since each intestine is blown into before it gets rolled onto the nozzle of the meat grinder, you’d better have someone who isn’t afraid to get up close and personal with pig intestine and nominate them as “casings-blower” (by the way, I’m almost certain that modern recipes skip this step, but it makes for an amusing bit of comic relief in a process that is pretty intense. Don’t be surprised if you are overcome with the urge to ask the casings-blower to make you a balloon poodle).

So why on earth would we put ourselves through something that sounds so unpleasant? Well, first, I should mention that we generally buy sausages from the butcher. But even the best butchers in town sometimes mix additives into their meat. The man behind the counter may look the part – authentically rotund, red-cheeked, moustached – but the fact is that they will most likely put preservatives in their meat to extend the shelf life of their product.  Since the word “nitrate” is no less disconcerting than the words “Aspartame” and “diglyceride”, I feel that any chance you can make something from scratch (with ingredients your grandma would use) is worth a shot.

***

A note on botulism: while it is understandable that you would avoid sausage-making for fear of killing your loved ones, fret not. As long as your implements are extremely clean and that you keep the meat chilled, you shouldn’t have to worry about contaminating anyone. In fact, in the 50 + years that our family has made sausage, we have never heard of anyone getting sick – and it’s not because we have magical immune systems. If you think about it, the foods that generally make us ill are the ones that have been processed in a plant somewhere miles from our home. In fact, the last few food-poisoning stories I’ve heard involved pre-packaged, highly processed foods. I promise not to get on my soap box – just a point to consider.

So, dear reader, I ask you to trust me and to trust yourself in this process. If you’re willing to take on this project, make sure to have a few people on board – it makes everything go much smoother and ultimately, makes for better stories.

Sausages (fennel, paprika and salt & pepper)

  • Two large pork loins (about 5lbs total)
  • Boneless pork chops (about 10 lbs; cut an inch thick)
  • 1 package of casings (from the butcher)
  • Twine
  • Meat grinder
  • 2-3 committed people

Seasonings (to be divided amongst 3 batches of meat):

  • 2 tbsp fennel (anise) seeds
  • 2 tbsp paprika
  • 2 tbsp each of salt & pepper
  • Extra salt for the fennel & paprika sausages

Directions

1) Soak the casings in cold water to soften them (the butcher will have packed them in salt).

2) Remove connective tissue from the meat, cut it up fairly small, and chill it.

3) Meanwhile, have someone rinse each casing three times in cold, running water. This step will remind you of the water-balloon days of your youth; admittedly, the activity of filling casings with water is far less thrilling.

4) Grind the meat in batches, alternating fattier pieces with leaner ones to evenly distribute the fat. Place a cookie sheet under the grinder to collect the meat. It’s important to make sure you’re turning the crank and pushing the meat through the top of the grinder at a consistent, steady pace. Failing to do so will invite comments from the more seasoned sausage-makers in the room.

5) Transfer meat to a large bowl, then add seasonings. At this point, you may want to cook a small meatball to test for seasoning.

6) Place a wet casing onto the nozzle and roll it up gently so that the entire casing is scrunched up against the base of the nozzle. Grind the meat again, so it emerges from the nozzle into the casing, wiggling the casing gently away from the nozzle as it fills. Wait for someone to make the first inappropriate joke about the way this all looks.

7) Periodically, tie the casing to make links. Lay out on a cookie sheet lined with parchment paper to chill or transfer directly to freezer bags.

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Zucchini puffs

20 Monday Feb 2012

Posted by in Cooking with Nonna, Vegetarian

≈ 3 Comments

Italians love their zucchini. Fried, steamed, stuffed – you name it. They’ve found savvy ways of transforming this standard (and virtually flavourless) squash into a variety of dishes, both savoury and sweet. The zucchini puff, mind you, remains a bit of an enigma. I’ve never seen it on a menu or in a cookbook. Not once in my 6-week stay in Italy did I come across one. And if you try looking it up on the Internet, you’ll often stumble upon an Americanized version that looks like a potato latke suffering from an identity crisis.

The zucchini puffs that Nonna makes are light and pillowy and charmingly goofy-looking. The ultimate in minimalist cooking, they are made by mixing a handful of ingredients to make a batter, which is then fried in batches. They can be served hot or cold and while they are generally eaten as an antipasti, can very easily become part of the breakfast rotation.

As this is your standard no-nonsense recipe, it involves few ingredients and requires barely any kitchen gear. Your best friend right now will be a small, sharp paring knife. It will allow you to cut and trim and dice rather efficiently, and if you’re feeling extra dexterous, could even eliminate the use of a cutting board. Your second-best friend will be a potato ricer. If you don’t already have one, I highly recommend taking a trip to your local kitchen supply store and getting one. They are ace.

You will need:

  • 4 eggs
  • 4 cloves of garlic
  • 4 small zucchini (skin on = more vitamins)
  • 1 cup flour + 1/2 teaspoon baking powder
  • 1/4 cup finely chopped parsley
  • 1 tsp salt
  • 1/4 tsp pepper
  • canola oil for frying

You will need to do the following:

*Note: these can be made ahead and re-heated in the oven at 375°F.

Image

Tomato canning

07 Tuesday Feb 2012

My half-Italian upbringing has led me to believe that certain things are normal: buying an entire prosciutto, pitting 15 pounds of olives in one sitting, knowing all the nicknames of the numbers in Tombola and all the lyrics to “Volare”. Never having to use canned tomatoes from the supermarket is another one of those things that I’ve always accepted as normal; it’s only as I’ve gotten older that I’ve come to appreciate how special this is.

If you’ve tried your hand at tomato canning, you are well aware that it is a laborious endeavour – nothing glamorous here. But it’s dead simple and really rewarding. Our family does it around mid-September, when the tomatoes are at their very handsomest. One big batch (100 jars or so) will last us for the year.

If you decide to take this on as a project in the near future, here are a few steps to keep you in check:

***Note: months after this was originally posted, I took a workshop offered by a former pastry chef, turned entrepreneur/canner-extraordinaire who instructed us to process the jars after they were filled, as you would do when making pickles and jams (i.e putting them in a pot of simmering water and allowing them to boil for 30-40 minutes). Though our family has never done this (and no one has ever died, or been sick from botulism), it’s an option that you may choose to incorporate in your canning project. Search the web for more detailed info.

Posted by | Filed under Cooking with Nonna, The Basics, Vegetarian

≈ 8 Comments