Happy New Year

I hope you had many heart-warming gatherings over the holiday season.  Or was it the type of Christmas that reminded you of boots?  As in I parenti sono come gli stivali…piu vanno stretti e piu fanno male. Rhyming translation: Family is like a pair of boots, the tighter they are, the more of a pain in your hootch. I’ve known both varieties of Christmas but Grazie a Gesu Bambino this last holiday season was a good one. Not every family gathering can be rapturous and for this, it's good to remember this simple recipe:


~ Start with 2 cups of patience, add a tablespoon of laughter, a teaspoon of thoughtfulness and a pinch of understanding.  Mix all together and serve to everyone you meet. ~ Of course, if this dish doesn't work out, it's always good to keep a couple of firm pillows handy so you can punch the living stress out of your system!


Thank you to the Secret Santa who gave me the pasta buttons you see above. A sweet surprise that's most appreciated. I love them.

December is the warmest month but come January, I feel so much ambivalence. No matter how much thought has gone into finding toe-insulating boots, it's hard to imagine any creature but Caribou is happy to tread outside these days. Mannaggia al'America. Though we have had a mild winter so far—che pasa?  Is it El Nino or are we just warming up the planet by all that extra pasta we’re cooking this time of year? 

I'm working hard to maintain an Attitude of Gratitude and counting on my kitchen comforts to see me through the next eight weeks. Comforts that feel like old friends. Can you relate to this? For example, has your favorite scolapasta ever broken its base?  Two minutes of silence are in order.  Oh no!  Not the scolapasta!  It’s like losing a best friend. It deserves a proper burial for all the al-dente joy it has given us.  True blue scolapasta, I release you to Cucina Heaven.  You will be missed. And now since we go on living, we need to find another just like you. Strong and dependable. 

Where to begin?  It needs to have a base that’s precision leveled, no rough edges, and easy enough to handle with one hand.  If you’re anything like me, you’ve spent as much time shopping for a scolapasta as you have for the perfect pair of shoes.  And you know how long that takes. There are some things I will pay more for and a scolapasta is one of them.  Here are a few other kitchen favorites. 

My oil and vinegar bottles...extra virgin olive oil and two for basic vinegars: red wine and balsamic.


My peperoncino bowl. Well loved by all the cooks in the family.

Mr. BBQ's stack of books that reminds summer is on its way.

No this isn't all of them. He has more.


Since we're stuck indoors most nights, it's TV with channel surfing being our favorite show.  How will we make it through these grey and dreary months?  If I get through last season's episodes of Desperate Housewives, there are two Italian movies I'd like to see before spring arrives. One is La Dolce Vita. I'm not a big fan of Fellini but I've heard it's very good. The other is Mediterraneo directed by Gabriele Salvatores, an Academy Award winner I longed to see years ago when it was released. If you've already viewed them, and you're considering something other than channel surfing, I recommend these three: Stanno Tutti Bene, a bittersweet and memorable story starring Marcello Mastroianni, Johnny Stecchino, a hilarious ride with Roberto Benigni and Nicoletta Braschi and Cinema Paradiso, great nostalgia with Philippe Noiret.


I have no recipes to share with you this time. The careful boxing up and storing of Christmas memories has gobbled up most of my energy. Instead of cooking interesting dinners, I've been wishing Tomie dePaolo's Strega Nona and her magic pasta pot would visit my kitchen. I did spend time browsing through some of my favorite cookbooks on the weekend, however, in case Strega Nona is a no-show. I found inspiration in Chef Pasquale's words: "The chef is like a composer, creating new recipes and adapting old ones to express the individuality that is found in each of us." Which is a very nice way to say: Moms create new recipes to express the lack of time they had to shop for groceries and to ease the panic they feel when dinner hour is almost upon them and there's nothing for the table. The holidays are over and we're slowly getting back to our hectic schedule. See you next week!

You want me to bring the cake?

Heaven help the hostess who asks me to bring dessert. I am not a baker, nor have I ever been.  The reasons for this are probably rooted in family medical history (a story for another day), and though I've tried my best over the years, it's probably in everyone's best interest if i dolcetti come from someone with a sweet tooth who can deliver. 


One of the worst cakes I ever baked was buried under one of the three plastic trees in our High School foyer. (Not M. High for those of you who know me...the other High School in sap country, as some of you used to call it, after I moved away.) It was a day in June and our grad year.  There were three of us. K., J. and me.  We cut the cake in the staff room...it didn't look too good...hmmm, not cooked in the middle...but we proceeded as planned. We wandered down to the lobby to wait for our rides home and delight in some cake. One bite and K. grabbed the box from my hands, lifted the first tree beside her, and stuffed it in. There it went, never to be seen again. I still gasp when I think about it. She was that brassy and zanier than anyone I've ever met.  J. and I still talk about it.  As for K., she moved away, to our relief. She could dream up trouble just by breathing. 

Any sweets I make now don't involve baking.  It seems to work out better if I stick to this rule. My kids agree, as they've tasted enough of my half-baked disasters. The trouble is, I substitute too much in my endless search for healthier alternatives. Whole wheat flour instead of white, honey instead of white sugar, pureed prunes instead of butter...no wonder nothing ever turns out. Here's one of my favorite dolci and a recipe from my local health-food store. I make them almost every Christmas and they're as good as any regular truffle out there. Try them and, trust me, no one will want to bury these in your house plants.


1 cup peanut butter
1 cup carob
1 cup honey 
1/2 cup each sesame seeds, crushed flax seeds and unsweetened dessicated coconut 

Mix all together (in a Cuisinart works best). If the mixture seems too dry, add more honey. Shape into balls and roll in carob or coconut.  Refrigerate for at least 2 hours before serving. 


So how does the buried cake story end? Well, much as I held my breath that summer, none of us got a call from the school principal, which still amazes me since there was a crowd of kids in the lobby that day and none of them with Blackberries to distract them.

Over the years I've thought of a few possibilities as to what happened after K. told me without telling me that my baking was more than unacceptable:
1. The caretakers followed their noses and found a moldy mountain of goo in a sand-covered box, cursed the kids with nothing better to do, and spent the rest of the day tidying up the planter.
2. The cake is still there.  It fossilized into a rock over the years and the plastic tree above it is a couple of inches taller than the others. No one knows why and no one cares.
3. One day while K. was baking a glorious cake for her adorable and innocent children in their new and happy home, she opened the oven door when the timer bell rang...and out sprang...a plastic tree! She then had an anxiety attack, a symptom that follows her to this day. No matter where she is in the world, every time she sees plastic vegetation, she faints. Her kids were traumatized as well and, as a result, have never tasted a morsel of cake. Think of all they've missed! Call it karma, I guess, or the perfect order of the way the universe evolves. Personally, I like this ending best. How about you?


Buon Natale a tutti!  Merry Christmas everyone. Buone Feste. Thanks so much for reading my blog this year. I wish you and yours all the best life has to offer this holiday season. May 2012 bring you much happiness, and an abundance of pasta that's cooked just to your dente.  See you next year.

Not Exactly Eggplant Parm

When my youngest was little, I was a stay-at-home mom for a few years.  Life slowed down in heaps. There was an abundance of time-- the kind that gets you moving fridges and stoves and dressers and commodes to get at dust bunnies and their babies.  There was time enough to make stuffed chickens, stuffed peppers and stuffed zucchini.  There was time for traditional Eggplant Parmesan.  The kind that's double-dipped in egg and breadcrumbs, gently fried in olive oil and topped with a homemade Ragu.  Nothing but melanzane and parmiggiano gratuggiato cotte in una barca di Ragu, then topped with mozzarella as far as the eye can see. In those days, I kept candles on my kitchen window sill and lit them every evening before starting dinner. I would read and reread my favorite cookbooks while my kids played quietly with their toys, and spent entire days dehoarding the basement til it felt as spacious as our living room.  

But then came school and homework, volunteer work, back to work, family feuds, renovations, aging parents, menopausal symptoms, and growing children who loved to store precious keepsakes...in the basement.  


Speed has a way of pulverizing traditions don't you think?  It has a way of taking the love out of grocery shopping, meal planning and generally running a happy home. My traditional Eggplant Parm recipe died somewhere during those years. A victim of our pick-up-the-pace life, it lies in wait for its very unlikely reincarnation. I guess somewhere along the way I learned that having dinner ready during a certain time frame was better than watching starved famiglia transforming into Joe Pesce. 

These days, rather than burning all kinds of time planning meals and flawless grocery lists, dinner ideas take shape while I'm walking the grocery isles.  It's pretty spontaneous and depends largely on how the spirit moves. When I pick up eggplants every two weeks or so, I place them gently in my cart and trust something good will come from my oven-- even if I tune out the cheese by the time I get to its isle.  Despite my mental notes, formaggio gets left behind when there are seven different types of hummus to choose from.  

Has my family noticed?  Yes and no.  Comments vary.  Some nights I hear:  "The last Eggplant Parm was better."  Some nights it's: "Hmmm, sooo goood."  Sometimes I get:  "Nonna's is better."


"Of course Nonna's is better!  Nonna can spend a whole day making Eggplant Parm if she wants to!"  Kids today are bold, aren't they?  No backhand to worry about and so they just comment as they please.


While I used to plan my Ragu in advance, now it's Ragu if I have time. I layer my EP with whatever leftovers are on hand and grill the sliced eggplant, brushing with garlic and olive oil as I go.  Which leftovers have worked?  Rapini, spinach, shredded zucchini and thinly sliced potatoes have been nice surprises, as have thinly sliced carrots, onions and hot peppers. What hasn't worked?  I would stay away from shredded cabbage.  Yeah.  What was I thinking?  Plain tomato sauce on each layer tastes as good as mouthwatering Ragu, and cheese doesn't have to be Parmiggiano.  Cheddar, goat's cheese and grated Romano all taste great. I may have used others as well but nothing comes to mind right now.


This time around, I found myself grilling eggplants...and reaching for the mashed-potato-and-cheddar-cheese filling left over from Mr. BBQ's homemade peroghies. I layered sauce, eggplant, grated parmiggiano and mashed potato with cheddar cheese.  Repeat again and again til you're done.  Top with goat's cheese. I guess you could call it Melanzane a Tre Formaggi...or if you're older and your kids have left home and have their own families, you could call it something more romantic. This week I was whining to my mom: "I feel like I'm always at the kitchen sink.  I cook. I clean. I cook. I clean. Is this the life my kids are going to have one day?"


"But that is the luv for your familee!  You cook and clean because yu luv your familee and by doing dat you keep ev-ery one too-gether!"  


Well, how about that? Or you can call it love. 


Some days Nonnas give you exactly what you need, don't they?  
Now if she could just explain the ol' backhand to me. 


I think I'll go clean out my basement.

What is the Meaning of Al Dente?

There are only two answers to that question.  One is short; the other one endless. The short one is pretty straight forward, and is an explanation most of us have heard many times: you know pasta is cooked al dente when you bite into it and it's still firm. Pretty simple isn't it?  And yet something is missing. Where's all the emotion, hand gesticulation, anxiety? And that's when the endless answer to al dente comes in. Pasta cooked al dente means...well, how much time have you got?  Because when we're asking about al dente, the best way to answer is with another question, as in whose dente is it?  Mine? Yours? Zio Nicola's?  Ask 10 different people to cook a serving of pasta al dente and you'll most likely get 10 different results.

Last year, there were nine of us sitting at our table at my niece's wedding.  We had just finished eating the antipasto and the pasta arrived, piping hot topped with a beautiful tomato sauce. We passed the grated parmesan around the table and began eating without much dialogue. Everyone was hungry.  It was a typical wedding.  The cocktail hour had gone on longer than usual and we were eager to get to the eating part of the party. I took one bite of the penne lisce and thought to myself:  "Finally, pasta cotta al dente! I can't believe someone cooked it the way I like it.  Two to three minutes past the half-cooked mark. I want to find the chef and shake his hand!"  Thirty seconds later, I understood that not everyone was sharing in my joy. You could break the tension at the table with a veal-chop mallet. There were concerto-like cries.


"It's not cooked."  
"E cruda."
"I can't eat this."


I looked up.  Dare I jump into the combat zone with my idea of what perfect pasta tastes like? This was, after all, pasta al dente. Propio al dente, the way God had intended it to be. I looked at my table mates. Emotions were raw. In this corner, my 80-year-old-uncle with daggers in his eyes. I think he was offended. What am I saying?  He's Italian!  Of course, he was offended! Across from him, our two fine-dining chefs.  Yes, my brothers-in-law, both who cook pasta (among other things) for a living and people rave about their dishes and come back for more. And then my two cousins (who lived in Italy for at least a decade) and they weren't touching theirs either. Could I risk it? Would I jump in with: "But this is what past al dente means!" Why take a chance, I thought. Why start another family feud? Haven't all of us had a lifetime of drama already? Just stay calm and consult with Mr. BBQ.

I leaned over to my husband. Before I could open my mouth he whispered in my ear: "Do you want mine? It's not cooked."  I grinned. "Is the sky blue?" Looking at my other table mates, I marveled at this situation. Where were the happy faces? There was pasta in front of us! We should have been eating and joking and pouring the wine. How could this be? Weren't we all Italian? How are we supposed to explain what al dente means to other cultures when we can't even agree amongst ourselves? 


That's when I decided I would be crazy to add my opinion to this magnum opus. Sing high: "I love it!"  Sing low: "I hate it!" I can't do it, I thought to myself.  If I open up that Pandora's opera box of al dente definitions, I may get a noodle in the head.  It's just not worth it. I ate in silence, contributed nothing to the conversation, traded plates quietly with my husband (cringing as I did so in case anyone noticed and confronted me with: "What, are you crazy?") and ate all of his share, too.  That was one night I definitely broke the 1/2-cup-per-person-rule.  I could have starred as Woman Versus Food at my table that night-- I know an opportunity when I see one--  but honestly, I just can't eat that much.


You know that explanation: throw pasta at the wall and when it sticks, it's cooked?  Well for me it's more like: throw pasta at the wall and if it bounces back more than a little, it's cooked.  That's how it is to my dente anyway. Which explains why my mom has this crazy way of cooking pasta. She leans to the person closest to her when the pasta is past the half-way mark and takes a filo out of the pot. It goes like this:


Mom: "Che dici, e cotta?" 
Taste tester:  "Ummm...two more minutes."
This prompts the next tester in the kitchen:  "Let me check!" Another filo goes out. Taste tester Number Two:  "Ummm...Io dico five more minutes." Other fili get distributed and while everyone is talking and tasting, mom drains the pasta and nobody notices. No one ever complains and almost everyone has seconds. But if there's ever any whining about the pasta not being al dente, we never really know whose dente mom went with. 


 In fact, in our family the only thing we agree on when it comes to Al Dente is that it's the name of one of our favorite restaurants. I mean, why expend all your energy on pasta? That would leave us no room to argue about who makes the best cannoli.  I've heard it's Francesca's Italian Bakery in Scarborough but don't hold me to it as I haven't checked out this tip yet.  In case you get there before I do, please spread the word.  If they're as good as they say they are, we want to keep them in business for as long as possible. And check out Al Dente Restaurant, too.  Here's their web site http://aldenterestaurant.com Delicious food, really good prices, a great place for private parties. Definitely worth the trip to Markham.