You Know You're Italian When...

When did grocery shopping get so complicated?  I remember the days when I’d go to one store, pick up everything that was on my list, come home...realize I had forgotten a few items...add them to my list for next week and put everything away while the kids helped and snacked on all the best goods.

Now it goes more like this:  drive to the store but while the rapini looks pretty good, the peppers and eggplants are disappointing. Too mushy. Hmmm...what to do? Buy the rapini and a few other things.  Drive to another store for some firm and amazing peppers only to discover the eggplants are musha-musha over there too. What is going on?  It’s January that's what. Soooo…it’s on to store number three for the melanzane while nursing a headache. If they’re not primo over there, I’m not buying them this week which gets me thinking about being Italian, or European, or just a Foodie who is so particular about veggies that are firm and flawless you’d think I was shopping for diamonds. 

And so, another list comes to mind as I drive home. I'm on a roll now so instead of cooking dinner, I focus on my list of You know You're Italian when and take my last emergency-backup lasagna out of the freezer for tonight's dinner.  Must make a couple of backup replacements for the freezer this weekend!  You never know when the next emergency will strike. So here goes. 

You know you're Italian (or a Foodie) when...

1. The size of the cantina might stop you from buying a house.

2. Family members check out the cantina before you sign the papers.

3. The brand of tomato paste you buy can be an issue.

4. Whether or not you buy tomato paste at all can be an issue.

5. You’ve had countless conversations about which pasta doesn’t stick when you cook it (with or without oil... another cause for discussion), how many packages of meat are left in the freezer, and how much money to put in the envelope.

6.     Someone in your family works in the food business.  No worries. If they work in contracting or hairdressing, they’ll know someone in the food business.

7.     You can have your hands on a Pizzelle Iron in one or two phone calls.

8.     Picnic is another way to say Family Reunion.

9.     You’ve driven up to an hour to pick up cheese, meat or porchetta.

10. You’ve gone as a group.

11. You’ve done this more than once.

12. You’ll do it again. 

13. At least one person you know owns a 40-year-old stove that sparkles like it just came off the assembly line. 

14. You recall hearing “Quanto arriviamo a casa facciamo i conti” of days gone by and know it has nothing to do with math.  Your parents most likely said it to you after you ate more than your fair share of cannoli at Zia’s house. 

15.  When you visit your parents or aunts and uncles, you sit at the table, even though it’s not lunch time. It’s not dinner time either. But there's food on the table.

16.   Summer camp involved dusting and vacuuming the house for your mom or cleaning out the garage.  Then you made pizza or biscotti. Or both.

17.  Your parents’ idea of downsizing is giving away only one of their pasta machines.

18.  Your parents’ freezer is packed to the brim with food even though they’re empty nesters. They never know when they"ll have to feed a crowd at a moment's notice.

19.  Your kids started peeling garlic to help with dinner when they were three.

20.  Going to the grocery store for eggplants only to find them mushy all over town can drive you more than a little crazy. But you know you'll do it again.

Enjoy your grocery shopping this week.  May the first store you visit stock everything to perfection so you don't have resort to your emergency back-up plan. I can't wait to see the Farmer's Market again this summer.  How about you?

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.