Recipe:

Sweet Christmas Eve Lasagna

Dear Erica,

My father was born in Barile, Provincia di Potenza, Basilicata. His father was from Bari. My grandmother and my mother always made their lasagna with eggs mixed in the ricotta, and with sugar and cinnamon. We ate this with the meatballs layered in between, and with tomato sauce. I never liked this lasagna, and when I married I started making it without the sugar and cinnamon. I married a man from Naples who doesn’t like my family’s way of cooking.

I was wondering if this was a recipe that was brought over from Italy. My mother seems to think that my grandmother mistook nutmeg for cinnamon, and that we just carried it on. But why the sugar? I love trying to find out Italian customs. Thanks for any info.

Sincerely,

Rita

My own mother is not a nostalgic person, very far from it actually, but every once in a while she gets sentimental about some old family recipe that I’ve never heard of, and she hits me with memories of a fabulous-sounding Southern Italian concoction that makes me crazy with desire, hearing about it but never tasting it. So many interesting dishes from early Italian immigrants have slipped away, leaving, it seems, a kind of generic, boring idea of what Italian-American cooking is all about. Sad, but I suppose inevitable, with the passing of years and generations. But of course, that is exactly the reason I started “Lost Recipes Found,” because this type of loss makes me unhappy.

Such a situation occurred a few years ago when, out of the blue, my mother started reminiscing about a sweet ravioli her grandmother used to make for Christmas, a beautiful and unusual-sounding thing, flavored with cinnamon and sugar, but nonetheless served as a first course, not a dessert. My mother is a very good cook, but homemade ravioli was a little out of her league. (Believe me, I didn’t mind at the time. I was just as happy having her throw a steak on the grill and stir up a batch of negronis, which I was allowed, for better or for worse, once I turned sixteen.) But this large ravioli, filled with ricotta and flavored with sugar, cinnamon, black pepper, and parmigiano, made by her Sicilian grandmother, was an idea that haunted me, so I badgered her for details and finally got enough information to reconstruct it according to her fairly intact recollection.

And boy was it good, so good I including the recipe in my book The Flavors of Southern Italy. And then last week I get this e-mail from Rita describing a lasagna from Bari that sounds like it would taste very similar to my great-grandmother’s wonderful dish.

It’s hard to trace food origins for certain, and I’m no historian, but I do know that Southern Italian cooking is dotted with strange creations, including savory dishes that have unexpected tinges of sweetness to them. Sweet-and-spice-laced pastas were standard in medieval times, when dishes were devised for the rich to show off their ability to purchase costly spices, such as sugar, black pepper, saffron, cinnamon, nutmeg, and cloves, and vestiges of these foods remain in the contemporary repertoire. In Sicily, where it’s believed pasta got its start in Italy, the Arab influence was apparent in the use of almonds, rose water, and dried fruit, as well as spices and sugar.

The use of spices in Italian cooking has fallen off a lot, in both the north and the south, Italians seeming to prefer the freshness of herbs instead, but fragments of these flavors still punctuate many dishes, especially in the deep south. In Sicily some contemporary fish dishes, such as pasta con le sarde which incidentally is seasoned with almonds and saffron, are often topped with sweetened breadcrumbs, and sweet pastry encases savory fillings such as in the salami and provolone stuffed pizza rustica we always have for Easter, which also frequently incorporates hints of nutmeg and cinnamon. A strange mix of flavors, you’d think, but it all makes sense on the tongue. And the most interesting thing about some of these surviving dishes is the way they’ve evolved to include New World touches. My mother’s sweet ravioli, for instance, was always served with a tomato sauce, as was Rita’s lasagna.

The note from Rita got me thinking about how much I love the Southern Italian mix of sweet and savory. And it reminded me that Christmas Eve is only a week away, and for various family-related and emotional reasons, I haven’t yet focused on what I am going to be cooking. I know it’s going to be a very pared-down affair this year, not the big fish extravaganza I usually do. I’ve started playing around with Rita’s lasagna idea, coming up with a meatless version suitable for Christmas Eve. With all the sweetness and spices, it tastes very Christmasy to me. I’ve taken out the meatballs but added instead toasted almonds, an Arab-Sicilian touch, and I’ve also included an abundant amount of fresh basil, along with the cinnamon, nutmeg, and sugar, and a lightly cooked, uncomplicated tomato sauce to pull it all together. I think I’ll make it.

Rita says she never liked her family’s sweet lasagna. Possibly she needs to try it again with a fresh palate. Maybe her Neapolitan husband will even go for this one.

Merry Christmas to all.

Even though this is a meatless lasagna, the spices and sugar make it rich. I would serve it as a first course.

(Serves 6 or 7 as a first course)

For the filling:

1 1/2 pounds whole-milk ricotta
2 large eggs
1/4 teaspoon fresh ground cinnamon
2 teaspoons powdered sugar
1/8 teaspoon fresh ground nutmeg
Salt
Freshly ground black pepper
1/2 cup grated Parmigiano Reggiano cheese
A large handful of flat-leaf parsley, the leaves lightly chopped

For the sauce:

2 tablespoons extra-virgin olive oil
2 tablespoons unsalted butter
2 medium shallots, minced
2 garlic cloves, thinly sliced
A generous pinch of ground nutmeg
A splash of brandy or cognac
2 28-ounce cans plum tomatoes, chopped, one can drained
Salt
Freshly ground black pepper
A few basil leaves, lightly chopped

Plus:

3/4 pound homemade, or very thin store-bought, sheets of fresh lasagna
Salt
1 cup blanched almonds, lightly toasted and roughly chopped
3/4 cup grated Parmigiano Reggiano cheese
A large handful of basil leaves, lightly chopped
Extra-virgin olive oil for drizzling

In a large bowl, mix together all the ingredients for the filling. It should be slightly sweet but with a salty edge from the cheese. Be liberal with the black pepper; it serves to balance out the sweet spices.

In a large skillet, heat the 2 tablespoons of olive oil and the butter over medium heat. Add the shallots and the nutmeg, and sauté until the shallots are softened, about 4 minutes. Add the splash of brandy or cognac, letting it boil away. Add the tomatoes, and season with salt and black pepper. Let the sauce bubble, uncovered, for about 10 minutes. It will have thickened slightly but still have a fresh taste and bright color. Add the basil.

Preheat the oven to 400 degrees.

Set up a large pot of pasta-cooking water, and bring it to a boil. Add a generous amount of salt. Boil the lasagna sheets, a few at a time, until just tender. Scoop them from the water with a large strainer spoon and into a colander. Run cold water over them to stop the cooking, and lay them out on kitchen towels.

Lightly oil an approximately 9-by-12-inch baking dish (you’ll want it 2 1/2 to 3 inches deep). Put down a layer of tomato sauce and then a layer of pasta. Add a layer of the ricotta mix, and then scatter on some almonds, some parmigiano, and then some of the basil. Put down another layer of pasta, and cover it with tomato sauce. Make another pasta layer, and repeat the ricotta, almond, parmigiano, basil pattern. Repeat this pattern (you’ll probably get four layers of pasta), finishing with a layer of pasta, a layer of tomato, and a sprinkling of parmigiano. Drizzle the top with olive oil, and bake, uncovered, until bubbling and crisp around the edges, about 30 minutes. Let sit about 5 minutes before serving.

Recipe:

Cavicionetti all’Abruzzese

Dear Erica,

I am a big fan of your books, and having discovered your wonderful “Lost Recipes Found” feature, I decided to see if you could help me out. I spent a few years in Abruzzo about 14 years ago. Around Christmas, I recall, a friend of my host mother made wonderful little pastries stuffed with a spicy (clove, cinnamon) and orange-flavored (maybe) dried-fruit filling (prune for sure). The pastry was a bit like pâte brisée in texture. However, maybe my memory is twisting the reality a bit. Have you ever encountered anything like this either in your travels or among your books? It would be great if you could help me out.

Thank you very much in advance!

Best regards,

Victoria

Hi Victoria,

Thanks so much for your note.

I remember when I was a kid making dried-fruit-filled Christmas cookies that sound a lot like what you’re describing. They weren’t a family recipe but something I found in an Italian cookbook, I think. I believe they were called something like cavicinelli and they were a specialty of the Abruzzo. I recall these things looking like little half moons and finished off like ravioli with a zigzag edge. Probably different families have their own ways of making these things. The filling was a mix of spices and dried fruits.

I’ll look into this for you, and if I can track it down and come up with a good recipe, I’ll post it, but I’ll let you know in advance if I do.

Ciao for now,

Erica

Hi Erica,

Thank you very much for your quick response. In fact, what you are describing is exactly what I remember. The cookies were half moons and finished like ravioli. The flavor was very unique-spicy, not too sweet. I don’t remember other sweets we ate, but these stand out. We spent Christmas with friends of the family who owned a large farmhouse, and the memory of playing in the snow with the other kids and then returning home to these spicy and rich cookies makes them even more special. Thank you for your help. I would love to find a recipe.

Also, I am very much looking forward to your new book!

Best regards,

Victoria

As a teenager I went through what I now recognize was a manic baking phase, turning out massive amounts of Italian pastries and breads at strange hours, filling our Long Island kitchen with ancient aromas. At some point during this turmoil I latched onto the idea of filled cookies, and I began hunting down recipes. One of the cookies I remember making, choosing it because it sounded annoyingly complicated, was, I believe, a version of the Abruzzi Christmas cookie Victoria describes. I went back and looked through all my old cookbooks from that time but couldn’t find the recipe anywhere. The name cavicinelli kept popping into my head, so I checked through all the newer cookbooks I’ve picked up in Italy during my travels but still came up with nothing. I then Googled it and sure enough, there it was on several Italian websites, although the proper spelling is cavicionetti (I’ve also found it called calcionetti, caggionetti or caviciunitt). And it’s a traditional Abruzzese Christmas cookie, so I’m fairly certain this is what Victoria is talking about.

These cookies are also made in Naples, usually going by the spelling caggionetti there, but it’s unclear whether the Abruzzo version traveled to there or from there, or if they were simultaneously invented, which seems unlikely. When I looked these words up in my gigantic Italian dictionary I can’t say anything I found made much sense in terms of the origin of the name. Calcio means kick, which is why soccer is called calcio in Italy. The cookies don’t look like a soccer ball (maybe a football though. Little football? Doesn’t sound very Christmasy or Italian.) Calcio also means calcium, but that doesn’t describe the texture, or at least I hope not. Cavicio doesn’t seem to mean much of anything. If any readers out their can shed light on the etymology of this name, I’d be grateful.

The pastry for these rich but not too sweet cookies seems always to be achieved with the help of white wine and olive oil, and they are folded over into mezzaluna (half moon) shapes and most often finished off with the tines of a fork, giving them that filled-pasta look. Often, it seems, the cookies are deep fried, but I also found versions that were simply baked, as Victoria remembers and mentioned in a later e-mail.

The filling can be a spiced-up dried-fruit concoction like what Victoria describes; the ones I made during my baking madness were filled with dried figs, orange zest, and chocolate. In my search I also found versions stuffed with sweetened chickpea purée and chocolate, some with chestnut purée instead, and others including grape must, Marsala, various dried fruits and nuts, and cinnamon. Another recipe incorporated pig’s blood, orange zest, almonds, and chocolate (much like the horrifying sweet blood pudding Sanguinaccio that my great grandmother used to make for Christmas). One simply filled with black grape preserves and chocolate sounded particularly enticing, but it was unclear to me how this filling would stay put inside the cookie during baking. I didn’t, however, find a recipe that included prunes, but since there seem to be tons of variations for cavicionetti or however you prefer to spell it, I’m sure what Victoria remembers is correct, so I went about trying to recreate her filling by including all the tastes she remembered, adding a few other typical ingredients from all the recipes I collected, and throwing a few prunes into the mix.

Victoria, when you try these cookies, I suggest adding filling ingredients slowly, and smelling and tasting as you go. See if one particular ingredient gives it the flavor you remember, and add more or less according to your taste memory. I’ve included dried figs with the prunes, but if this doesn’t seem right to you, use all prunes. I thought the cookies were delicious, not too sweet, something you might want for breakfast or in the late afternoon with an espresso or a glass of fruity red wine. I hope these bring back Christmas memories for you.

One final note: My recipe here is for a baked version, since that’s what Victoria recalls. It makes a wonderful, if slightly dry cookie. Just for the hell of it, I tried frying a few in a mix of olive and corn oil, since many recipes took that route. The fried ones were richer. They’re good both ways.

Cavicionetti All’Abruzzese

(Makes about 35 to 40 cookies)

For the pastry:

1/2 cup dry white wine
1/2 cup water
1/2 cup extra-virgin olive oil
3 cups all-purpose flour
1 teaspoon baking powder
2 tablespoons powdered sugar
A pinch of salt

For the top:

2 tablespoons powdered sugar mixed with a teaspoon of ground cinnamon

For the filling:

10 pitted prunes
10 dried figs, the tough stems removed, the figs roughly chopped
1/2 cup dry Marsala
1/2 cup whole blanched almonds, lightly toasted
1/4 teaspoon ground cinnamon
A pinch of ground clove
2 tablespoons sugar
1 tablespoon honey
1 heaping tablespoon orange marmalade
The grated zest from 1 orange
The grated zest from 1 lemon

To make the pastry:

Pour the white wine, water, and olive oil into the bowl of your food processor, and pulse a few times to blend. In a small bowl mix together the flour, baking powder, powdered sugar, and a tiny pinch of salt. Add this to the food processor, and pulse quickly a few times, just until it forms a ball. Turn the pastry out onto a floured surface, and knead for a few minutes, just until it holds together (it should be very smooth). Wrap the pastry in plastic, and let it rest for about an hour, unrefrigerated.

To make the filling:

Place the prunes and figs in a shallow bowl, and pour on the Marsala. Let sit for about 30 minutes, stirring it around a few times to soften the fruit.

Put the toasted almonds in the food processor, and pulse until finely chopped (not to a powder, though). Add the prune mixture, the cinnamon, the pinch of clove, sugar, honey, orange marmalade, lemon zest, and orange zest, and pulse until you have a sticky, well-mixed mass.

Preheat the oven to 375 degrees.

Cut the pastry in half, keeping the half you’re not working with covered with plastic. Flour a work surface, and roll the pastry out thinly (a little thicker than fresh pasta dough). Flour a 3-inch round cookie cutter and cut as many rounds as you can. Place a teaspoon of filling on each round. Wet the edges all around with water, and fold the cookies over to form a mezzaluna shape. Seal them well by going around the cut edge with the tines of a fork. Do the same with the second piece of pastry (you can gather up all the scraps and reroll them together to get a few more cookies out of it if you like).

Place the cookies on a Silpat- or parchment-lined cookie sheet and brush each cookie with a little olive oil. Bake for about 30 minutes, or until they’re light golden brown. Let the cavicionetti cool for a few minutes, and then dust them with the powdered sugar and cinnamon mixture.

Fresh cardoons for Felice’s lost recipe.

Recipes:

Pumpkin Agro Dolce with Vinegar and Mint
Batter Fried Cardoons with Anchovy Tomato Salsa

Hi Erica,

I am second-generation Italian, my maternal grandparents coming from the hills of San Fratello in Sicily and my paternal ones from the mainland around Naples. My mom’s mother (I’m her namesake) was the only grandparent I met, and I recall two recipes from when I was small that I wish I could reconstruct.

She passed away when I was a teenager, and of course during the 1970s being Italian, or eating Italian regionalized foods, wasn’t cool, so I never paid much attention to how things were prepared. I was, however, a closet Italian-food eater, and I absolutely loved the foods grandma made . . . just not in front of my more American friends!

There are two recipes that I wish I could reconstruct, since I have very fond memories of them. Unfortunately, in those days, everything was done without measuring and was committed to memory, not paper. Anyway, here goes:

Recipe 1: Fried Pumpkin Strips

I recall that Grandma would peel a pumpkin and slice it into strips. She’d wash them, dry them, and then fry them in olive oil. After she removed the strips from the pan, she would add fresh mint, fresh sliced garlic, and I think vinegar or lemon to the pan and deglaze. Then she’d pour the liquid on top of layers of pumpkin slices. It was so good. I recall the pumpkin part, but I just can’t recall the vinegar- or lemon-based part or if there were any other spices included. I’ve tried making it, from my recollection of course, and I’m not sure if I’m missing ingredients or if it just doesn’t taste the same because Grandma isn’t here to make it. She also made bluefish in a similar manner.

Recipe 2: Fried and Battered Cardoons

Grandma, aunts, uncles, cousins, and Mom and Dad would go cardoon picking in New York State. She would then slice the stalks (she saved the leaves for something else, but I don’t recall what), clean and peel them, and then add them to a batter (almost like a tempura) and fry them up. I couldn’t get enough of them. My attempts to make this have failed miserably. She obviously used flour, but I don’t know if she used water or milk or what spices she used. I do know that it was a very thin (almost like a crepe) batter.

Erica, your help is appreciated. I’d love to bring these two recipes home again.

Felice

Since starting my “Lost Recipes Found” feature, I’ve become increasingly interested to learn of the dishes most loved and most missed by my Italian-American readers. Pasta dishes are often requested, which doesn’t surprise me. Holiday cookies are also high on the list. But what I have found odd is the number of people who longed for various vinegary preparations called a scapece, or sweet-and-sour dishes that usually go by the name of agro dolce. These are common antipasto dishes throughout Italy. I’ve had requests for puckery preserved eggplant, zucchini with vinegar and hot chilies, for giardiniera, the vinegar-preserved vegetable mix from Southern Italy that my grandfather went wild for, and even for a sweet-and-sour liver dish from Procida (see Fegato a Scapece Vicidomini). It’s been strange to learn that these intense little dishes were fond childhood memories for many people. I think people’s relationships with these foods may have started out as a love-hate affair, forcing the stuff down as a kid, finding it disgusting, then somehow getting used to it and ultimately liking it. And now that the food is no longer a part of their lives, a coming-of-age nostalgia seems to take over, and a longing to taste them again creeps in, usually somewhere around early middle age. I know that the hot pickled peppers stuffed with anchovies that my father bought in little jars and popped into his mouth like jelly beans were a thing I’d force myself to taste, almost as a test. And then I got to love them, and now I actually make my own from time to time, just to fulfill a craving. Same goes for caponata, the sweet-and-sour eggplant antipasto we always seems to have on the table. So I suppose these memories of enticingly unbearable flavors reemerge in adulthood as emotionally charged, super loaded taste memories that must be addressed one way or another.

The pumpkin agro dolce that Felice requested is a classic Sicilian dish, very strongly flavored and maybe a taste that you needed to grow up with to love, or possibly an acquired taste, as it was for me. I remember preparing this dish for a Sicilian cooking class I was teaching and everyone seemed stunned by its flavor, a mix of pumpkin, vinegar, garlic, and mint. I still find it strange on its own, but I’ve grown to enjoy it a lot served alongside roast pork or lamb, since it gives the palate a little jolt, breaking up the sometimes monotonous taste of the meat.

The cardoon is one of those vegetables, like the artichoke it’s related to, that seem romantic chiefly because most people don’t know what the hell to do with them. It has a unique slightly lemony artichoke taste, but the work required to make it edible can be a turnoff for the contemporary cook. However, since one of my goals in life has been to take up all the weird, dropped Italian kitchen tasks of my heritage and make them live again, I was excited to have a reason to purchase a big bunch of this winter thistle and start playing around with it. I also love the idea that Felice’s family would go cardoon picking in upstate New York. I can’t imagine where one would find wild cardoons in New York; maybe they just strolled out into their garden. At any rate, this is a bizarre thing to visualize, something like watching my grandmother collect dandelions from a local golf course is Westchester, a hobby that mortified my family.

My family, to my recollection, never cooked cardoons, but I ate them several times at Italian-American friends’ homes when I was growing up, usually as part of the Thanksgiving meal, served right alongside the marshmallow sweet potatoes. I’ve also had them in Sicily, where they were breaded and fried, and also once fashioned in a kind of cardone parmigiano; breaded and fried and then layered with tomatoes and mozzarella, just as you’d do with eggplant. This was exceptionally delicious. I’ve never had them batter-fried the way Felice describes, but I’ve certainly had batter-fried artichokes that were amazing, and in general anything fried is enticing to me. So I knew these would be good.

I love the look of the things, like overgrown, unruly celery but with the violet-gray-green hue that many artichokes also have. You need to tackle cardoons by first pulling off all the spiky leaves, and then scrape off the outer, tough fibers with a vegetable peeler, making sure to drop them into lemon or vinegar water right away, since, like artichokes, they will darken. Then they have to be blanched before you can go ahead and fashion them into anything remotely edible. I tried a few different batters, finally settling on a very simple one, with just a touch of baking powder, one I’ve use for artichokes and also for zucchini blossoms. A squeeze of lemon and a grating of grana padano or pecorino cheese is a great little embellishment, or you can try them with my tomato anchovy salsa I’ve included here.

So, Felice, I hope these recipes will bring back some taste memories for you. The technique for each is solid, but you might want to tinker with the amounts of seasoning to bring them closer to what you remember. My renditions are fairly classic ones, so they should provide a very good starting point. I just may serve both of these lovely dishes as part of my Thanksgiving Day dinner this year, just to break up all that boring mashed sweet potato.

Pumpkin Agro Dolce with Vinegar and Mint

(Serves 4 as an antipasto)

1/2 cup dry white wine
About 1 teaspoon sugar
A tiny pinch of ground cinnamon
1 tablespoon champagne vinegar or any high-quality white wine vinegar
Extra-virgin olive oil
Half a small cheese pumpkin (about a pound and a half), peeled, seeded, and cut into approximately 1-inch-thick slices (or you can use butternut squash)
2 garlic cloves, peeled
Salt
Freshly ground black pepper
A small handful of mint leaves, lightly chopped

In a small saucepan, mix the white wine with the sugar, a pinch of cinnamon, and the champagne vinegar. Let it bubble over medium heat for about 2 minutes, just to dissolve the sugar and burn off some of the alcohol.

Pour about half an inch of olive oil into a large skillet and let it get hot over a medium flame. Add the pumpkin slices and the garlic cloves, season everything generously with salt and black pepper, and let the slices cook without moving them around at all, until they’re lightly browned on one side. Flip them over and brown the other side. Pour off all but about 2 tablespoons of the olive oil. Pour the wine mixture over the pumpkin, turn the heat to low, and cover the skillet. Cook gently for about another 4 minutes, just until the pumpkin is fork tender but not falling apart. You should have a little liquid left in the skillet.

Turn off the heat, uncover the skillet, and let the pumpkin cool for a few minutes in the skillet to help it absorb all the flavors. Add the mint. The dish should have a subtle sweet-and-sour taste, more mellow than sharp. Serve warm or at room temperature. The taste will deepen if left to sit overnight in the refrigerator (but bring it back to room temperature before serving).

Batter Fried Cardoons with Anchovy Tomato Salsa

(Serves 4 as an antipasto)

2 tablespoons white wine vinegar
1 pound cardoons (about 5 stalks)
Salt
1 cup all-purpose flour
A generous pinch of nutmeg
1/8 teaspoon baking powder
Freshly ground black pepper
1 cup cool water
A generous squeeze of fresh lemon juice
1/2 cup grated grana padano cheese

For the frying:

About 2 cups cooking oil ( I like a mix of half neutral-tasting vegetable oil, such as canola or corn, and half extra-virgin olive oil, for flavor; you can use all extra-virgin olive oil if you like, but it is expensive)

For the salsa:

Extra-virgin olive oil
2 garlic cloves, thinly sliced
4 anchovy fillets, minced
A pinch of sugar
A splash of brandy or grappa
1 35-ounce can plum tomatoes, well chopped, with the juice
Salt
Freshly ground black pepper
5 marjoram sprigs, the leaves chopped
A handful of flat-leaf parsley leaves, chopped
The zest from 1/2 lemon

Fill a bowl with cool water and add the vinegar. Cut the tough ends and trim the leaves from each cardoon stalk. Peel off the outer stringy layer from each stalk with a vegetable peeler, and cut the stalks into 2-inch pieces, adding them to the vinegar water as you finish working with each piece.

Bring a large pot of water to a boil, and add a teaspoon of salt. Drain the cardoons, and drop them in the water, boiling them until tender, about 30 minutes. Drain and dry with paper towels.

To make the batter:

In a medium bowl combine the flour, the nutmeg, and the baking powder. Season with salt and a few grindings of fresh black pepper, and stir well to distribute everything evenly. Slowly add the water, whisking, until the batter is smooth (it should be the texture of a very heavy cream). Let it sit at room temperature for about an hour.

Pour the canola or other vegetable oil and the extra-virgin olive oil into a medium pot to a depth of about 4 inches. Turn the flame to high, and heat until the oil reaches about 375 degrees. Dip the cardoon pieces into the batter, and fry until golden brown, turning them once or twice with tongs (you’ll probably need to do this in batches to avoid crowding the pot). When done, pull the pieces from the oil with the tongs and drain them on paper towels. Arrange the cardoons on a serving platter, and season them lightly with salt. Squeeze on some lemon juice and sprinkle with the grana padano. Serve right away, either with the anchovy tomato sauce or just as is.

To make the salsa:

In a medium sauce pot, heat 2 tablespoons of olive oil over medium heat. Add the garlic and anchovies and a pinch of sugar, and sauté until the garlic is fragrant, about 2 minutes. Add the splash of brandy or grappa, and let it boil away. Add the tomatoes, season with salt and black pepper, and cook, uncovered, for about 8 minutes. Turn off the heat, and add the marjoram, parsley, and lemon zest. Serve warm.

Orange and herring salad with almonds and frisée.

Recipe:

Orange and Herring Salad with Almonds and Frisée

I recently came across a reference to a recipe called “Mackerel, Almond, Orange, and Fennel.” The combination sounds great, but I can’t find an actual recipe. Do you have one?

Herbert D.

When I first read this intriguing but vague request from one of my readers, I immediately thought of a hot dish of mackerel roasted with fennel and orange zest and then garnished with toasted almonds. Delicious. But then I remembered that this flavor combo was familiar to me in another incarnation. About eight years ago, on my first trip to Sicily, I ate dinner at a place in Palermo that specialized in traditional Sicilian dishes (most places in Palermo specialize in traditional Sicilian dishes, but this one seemed to do so in an especially antiquated and formal way). I unfortunately can’t remember the name of the place, but I recall an interesting dessert, a watermelon gelatina, poured into a pastry shell and decorated with fresh jasmine blossoms. The gelatin itself was flavored with cinnamon and rosewater, and dusted with cocoa, a strange but delicious combination with obvious Arab lineage. Another dish I ate that evening was an antipasto, a salad of smoked fish, which may have been sardines, herring, or mackerel-something strong-with orange slices and toasted almonds. The taste was startling, in a not altogether good way. Something about the fish and orange mingled to produce the aroma of low tide. But I thought about that dish when I got home and somehow felt the combination had potential.

I began searching for recipes in Sicilian cookbooks and came up with a reference to something similar in Pomp and Sustenance, Mary Taylor Simeti’s excellent book on Sicilian cuisine and culture. She talks about “insalata di arance e aringhe,” a salad of acidy oranges and smoked herring, as an cold antipasto typically served in some of Palermo’s restaurants, mentioning only herring, orange, and olive oil as ingredients. Obviously I ate in one of those restaurants.

After getting this e-mail from Herbert, I decided to look into the matter afresh. A complete recipe showed up in a paperback cookbook I had bought in Palermo on a later visit. “Nsalata d’aranci e arenga ovata” contained oranges, thin-sliced onion, herring, green olives, and wild fennel. Unfortunately it was in one of those pamphlet-type book I always buy when I’m traveling that usually have great recipes but not much background information.

I made the dish as directed, substituting bulb fennel for the unavailable wild stuff, and the results were interesting, good even. On my next attempt I added whole toasted almonds, a scattering of basil, and a handful of frisée to lighten it up, creating more of a proper salad, and the whole thing came together in a beautifully balanced, sweet, smoky, salty, excellent-tasting dish.

For my first go at this I used herring; good but strong. But then I made it again using a smoked chub (a baby whitefish), and its more mild flavor was very appealing. It would seem to me any good quality smoked fish would work. If you like a stronger flavor, go for herring or mackerel, or bluefish; smoked trout is a tamer option. Whatever fish you use, the flavors of Sicily will be there in all the island’s glorious Arab, Spanish, French, Greek confusion.

Orange and Herring Salad with Almonds and Frisée

(Serves 4 as a first course)

1 medium head frisée salad, torn into pieces
About 1 cup smoked herring (or another smoked fish such as trout, mackerel, or whitefish), torn into small pieces
3 oranges, peeled and thinly sliced
1 small fennel bulb, very thinly sliced
A palmful of whole, blanched, lightly toasted almonds
A palmful of whole green olives
A few very thin slices of red onion
2 1/2 tablespoons extra-virgin olive oil
1 teaspoon fresh lemon juice
Salt
Black pepper
A dozen basil leaves, cut into thin strips

Place the frisée, herring, orange, fennel, almonds, green olives, and red onion in a salad bowl. Drizzle with the olive oil and the lemon juice, season with salt and black pepper, and scatter on the basil. Toss gently and serve right away.

My new take on a classic I learned years ago.

Recipe:

Eggplant and Ricotta Gratinée

Many of the recipes I attempted when I first got serious about cooking many moons ago have left me with the sweetest nostalgia, even more than some of my beloved childhood dishes. It must be because they are foods I was drawn to and first learned to cook completely on my own. The culinary romance that was brewing in my head took me to the lands of Mediterranean flavors. Being a Southern Italian by heritage, I wasn’t surprised to find myself going in this direction, but at first my snobbism sent me looking for something more glamorous than my grandmother’s meatballs. (Now I think of her meatballs, studded with raisins and pine nuts, as the height of glamour.)

Early on I went out and bought Richard Olney’s big book Provence: The Beautiful Cookbook. I was mesmerized by his descriptions of food and longed to be a part of his gorgeous world of sunflowers, zucchini blossoms, chipped ocher-glazed earthenware, wildly colored Indian tablecloths, rosé wine, anchovies, and garlic. Provence seemed similar in spirit to the Southern Italy I had grown up with, only a lot more chic. It was the Southern Italy of my dreams, where even poor people had charming farmhouses and wore expensive leather sandals. Same vegetables, similar flavors, but, as depicted in Olney’s book, in glorious overdrive. I’ve since more or less gotten over my infatuation with Provence. The adorableness of the décor can get on my nerves, and I know full well that, just like in the Southern Italy of my heritage, there’s a lot of misery under the surface there. (In the town my grandparents came from, the misery was right on the surface.) But I haven’t gotten over, and I’ve come to appreciate even more profoundly, the recipes in Richard Olney’s big book. I page through it every once in a while just to make sure I haven’t forgotten something wonderful.

One of the first things I ever cooked from Provence: The Beautiful Cookbook was Olney’s Gratin D’Aubergines, or Eggplant Custard Gratin. I was drawn to it first because I loved eggplant and second because he called the dish “exquisite.” I thought every recipe in the book was exquisite, so I figured this one must really be something (if you know the book, you know it’s huge and filled with glossy food-porn photos in almost unnaturally intense color). When I first tried the recipe, I had only a week earlier made an exquisite tuna and artichoke braise. I was so proud of myself I could hardly stand it, so I decided I had to go ahead and try the eggplant gratin. It consisted of slices of fried eggplant layered with a fresh tomato basil sauce, covered with a creamy ricotta Parmigiano custard, and finally baked until puffy and tender.

My first attempt was not a success. I failed to drain the ricotta, so the texture was grainy and watery, with large cracks on the surface. I also failed to drain my very juicy summer tomatoes, which gave off so much liquid after cooking that they made the eggplant soggy. Olney doesn’t mention dealing with all that excess liquid, but it really is essential for a good result (maybe his French brousse-a French sheep’s milk version of ricotta-is dry and firm, but seasonal tomatoes, unless you use the plum variety, which he doesn’t suggest, are extremely juicy). The second time, I drained and salted the tomatoes and drained my ricotta, whirling it in a food processor with the eggs and cheese. That made all the difference. The gratin came out creamy and elegant, with all the flavors of my Southern Italian childhood but way more fabulous. It was the best eggplant Parmigiano I had ever tasted. The first few times, I made it in the summer, using locally grown eggplants, which gave it sweetness and, even more important, a lack of bitterness. I tried it again months later, to serve as a Christmas Day offering, and it was not exquisite at all, so I learned that one of the secrets to its exquisiteness was to keep it seasonal.

I hadn’t thought about this dish in a long time, probably in about ten years, in fact, until last week, when I stood eyeing all the gorgeous August eggplants at the Union Square Greenmarket. This summer I had already made eggplant Parmigiano (using my mother’s wonderful recipe, which includes hard-boiled eggs), eggplant stuffed with lamb, eggplant stuffed with eggplant, ciambotta (see my “Lost Recipes Found: What’s in Your Ciambotta?”), caponata, ratatouille with baked eggs, and grilled eggplant with Sicilian nut pesto, so at this point I was getting a little desperate to come up with something fresh before the summer eggplants disappeared and that feeling of missed culinary opportunity set in (which I find extremely upsetting).

This time around I used some exceptional (and exceptionally huge) burgundy-colored heirloom tomatoes (drained, of course), and included a pinch of nutmeg and cinnamon just to warm up the taste. I also found a thick, non watery sheep’s milk ricotta at DiPalo’s fabulous cheese shop. The results were wonderful, better even than I remember from my first go-round. I love this dish, and I’m happy as can be to have it back. Olney felt it was so special it needed to be served as a separate course. I completely agree.

Eggplant and Ricotta Gratinée

(Serves 4 as a main course or 6 as a first course)

3 medium summer eggplants (use the long kind), unpeeled and cut lengthwise into 1/2-inch slices
Salt
Black pepper
A pinch of ground cinnamon
Extra-virgin olive oil
1 large summer garlic clove, thinly sliced
1 large shallot, minced
3 medium summer tomatoes, seeded, cut into small dice, lightly salted, and drained for 30 minutes
1/2 cup whole-milk ricotta, drained if watery
2 large eggs
1/2 cup heavy cream
A few scrapings of nutmeg
1/2 cup grated Grana Padano cheese
A large handful of basil leaves, lightly chopped

Season the eggplant slices on both sides with a little salt, and lay them out on paper towels for about 20 minutes (this will allow them to release water, so they brown better). Then season the eggplant with black pepper and the cinnamon.

In a large skillet, heat about 1/2 inch of olive oil over medium flame. When the oil is hot, slip the eggplant into the skillet and brown it all on both sides. You’ll probably need to do this in several batches, adding more oil as it gets used up. Let the eggplant drain on paper towels.

Preheat the oven to 350 degrees.

Wipe out the skillet, and add 2 tablespoons of fresh olive oil. Sauté the shallot over medium heat until it has softened. Add the garlic, and let it sauté a minute longer. Add the tomatoes, season with salt and black pepper, and sauté just to warm through, about 3 minutes. Set aside.

In the bowl of a food processor, combine the ricotta, eggs, cream, nutmeg, all but about a tablespoon of the Grana Padano, a pinch of salt, and a little black pepper. Pulse gently, just until the mixture is smooth and creamy.

Line an approximately 9-by-12-inch baking dish with about half of the eggplant slices, letting them overlap somewhat. Pour on the tomato sauce, and smooth it out. Sprinkle on the tablespoon of reserved Grana Padano, and then scatter on half of the basil. Make another layer, using up the remaining eggplant, and then scatter on the rest of the basil. Pour on the ricotta mixture, and smooth the top. Shake the dish gently so the ricotta can settle. Bake, uncovered, until the gratinée is lightly golden and puffy, about 30 to 35 minutes. Let rest about 10 minutes before serving.

Fresh summer ingredients for Pete’s ciambotta.

Recipe:

Ciambotta with Fried Capers

Dear Erica,

I love your “Lost Recipes Found” feature, and for months I’ve been trying to think of an old family recipe that nobody seems to know how to make anymore. With the eggplants, zucchini, and tomatoes coming up from my next-door neighbor’s garden (and some winding up on my porch), I realize what it is: ciambotta. This was a big vegetable stew my family made often but only in the summer, with vegetables from my father’s own backyard garden. I never paid much attention to the garden when I was a kid, but I loved ciambotta. I unfortunately also never paid much attention to what was going on in the kitchen, but I can tell you this stew contained zucchini, eggplant, tomatoes, and probably other things. I think we added oregano. My sister remembers olives, but I don’t think that’s correct. But I remember something sharp, possibly capers. It was thick and very rich. I recently tried my hand at it, but the texture was very watery and it really didn’t have much taste. I added garlic, but now I’m thinking my father used some sort of red scallion he grew. I’d love to taste a good version of this again. I know it’s a well-known thing, but I imagine families all have different versions that make it special for them.

This summer the memory of this stew came back to me very strong, and I’d love to make it for my kids, who say they don’t remember ever tasting it. Maybe they never did, but I’m determined to cook it for them this summer. I think more than a list of ingredients, what I need is a cooking lesson, so I don’t produce another watery, mushy mess.

Thanks for any advice you can give me. And if this helps, my father’s family was from a town in central Campania, near Avellino.

Sincerely,

Pete Riccio

Since my family is also from a town not too far from Avellino (about 30 miles northeast toward the Puglian boarder), I’m thinking my family’s and Pete Riccio’s family’s ciambotta were probably similar. My family, like every other Southern Italian family I knew, pronounced it “jambot,” and the word has come to mean, in both Southern Italian and Italian-American slang, a big mix-up or a mess, as in “I’m in a real jambot at the track, throwing money on everything I see,”-a line, or variation on a theme, I heard my father deliver many times in his long life. So jambot in our family came to translate as something like “Somebody stop me before I do it again.”

But as far as the actual dish went, our ciambotta always included eggplant, zucchini, and tomatoes, a very pared-down version of a stew that can contain a wide variety of vegetables. Occasionally we added red peppers or yellow squash too. I also recall eating a more elaborate creation at a neighbor’s that contained cubes of potato and celery, and I liked it very much. I also like Pete’s capers idea. Capers and/or olives are often a Neapolitan addition.

Ciambotta (or ciamotta, as it is sometimes written) is made throughout Southern Italy. The versions from Basilicata often include that region’s signature hot chilies. In parts of Puglia it can be a fish and vegetable stew, but more often it’s a mix of vegetables much like what I remember. I’ve also seen springtime recipes for ciambotta that contain young greens and fava beans and peas, but that’s nothing my family ever made (or if we did, it went by the name of fritedda, and came from the Sicilian side of the family). Olive oil is the usual cooking fat for a ciambotta, but you might add a bit of chopped prosciutto fat or pancetta or, for Old World charm, some good-quality lard. I prefer my ciambotta to taste exclusively of vegetables, so I go with the olive oil.

There was a wild-man version my godfather, Billy Passarelli, used to make when I was a kid, cooking it in a big iron pot he’d hoist onto his outdoor grill. This was a real crazy mix that included string beans, potatoes, tomatoes, eggplant, chunks of corn on the cob, zucchini, red basket wine, and big pieces of pork sausage. He’d ladle it out into huge bowls and stick pieces of grilled bread in each serving. This was a Neapolitan-American concoction of the highest order, and it was fabulous.

Despite my godfather’s elaborate creation, when I make ciambotta now I like to keep it simple. For me it’s a classic summer dish, and summer is the only time I ever make it, since the ripeness and richness of the vegetables is all-important. I always add a little fresh hot chili, and sometimes I include fennel bulb and herbs such as marjoram or the very un-Italian tarragon (which goes great with fennel).

I believe Pete is right when he mentions technique over ingredients, since just about any seasonal vegetable can go into this thing (the eggplant, zucchini, potato, tomato, and sweet peppers combo seems most typical). To avoid the mushy mess he describes, it’s important to cook the dish quickly and over relatively high heat. If you keep that in mind, you should get a good result. Aside from that, there are several ways to go about assembling the dish. Some people cook all the vegetables separately, combine them, and then give everything a final bake to blend the flavors, but I find that just adding the vegetables to the pot one after another, according to how long each takes to cook, gives a beautiful result, and it’s much less work.

Another cause of a watery result might be big, round, juicy summer tomatoes. They can be tricky to cook with, since most of them give off a tremendous amount of juice. I almost always seed, lightly salt, and drain them for about a half hour before cooking with them, unless I’m using a plum variety, which is meatier. But I do like saving the drained-off tomato water, just in case my ciambotta looks dry (it’s much better for flavor than plain water).

I’m glad Pete wrote me this email, for it reminded me that I hadn’t made ciambotta in a few years (so many gorgeous things to cook, so little time). I went about creating a version that was partly my mother’s recipe but also included aspects from versions I’d eaten in Campania and at friend’s homes when I was a kid. I’ve incorporated Pete’s capers idea, not by mixing them in but by frying them crisp until they burst open like little flowers and then scattering them on top. I think the taste and texture will be something quite close to the ciambotta of Mr. Riccio’s childhood. And Pete, I know you didn’t mention potatoes, so if they seem inappropriate to you, leave them out, though I find they add a certain suavity).

According to Carlo Middione, in his wonderful book The Food of Southern Italy, published in 1987, ciambotta is always served hot (as opposed to many Southern vegetables dishes such as caponata and even minestrone that are eaten at room temperature). We always had ours steaming hot and served alone in bowls, not as a side dish. I think that presentation is fitting for a beautiful creation that celebrates summer vegetables at the peak of their powers.

Ciambotta with Fried Capers

Note: To peel tomatoes, just plunge them into a large pot of boiling water until you notice their skins starting to split, after about 3 or 4 minutes. Scoop them out with a large strainer spoon and run them briefly under cold water. The skins will now slip right off.

(Serves 4 as an ample first course or light supper)

Extra-virgin olive oil
3 red summer scallions, chopped
2 small inner celery stalks, chopped, plus a handful of celery leaves, lightly chopped
1 red bell pepper, seeded and cut into small dice
1/2 of a fresh red peperoncino, seeded, and minced
2 garlic cloves, thinly sliced
4 little new potatoes, peeled and cut into small cubes
1 medium eggplant, unpeeled, cut into small cubes
2 medium zucchini, cut into small cubes
1/4 cup dry Marsala wine
Salt
3 medium, round summer tomatoes, peeled (see note above), seeded, chopped, lightly salted, and left to drain over a bowl in a colander for 30 minutes (save the tomato water)
A handful of basil leaves, lightly chopped
1/2 cup capers, well dried

In a large casserole, heat 2 tablespoons of olive oil over a medium flame. Add the scallion, celery, red bell pepper, and the peperoncino, and sauté until fragrant, about 4 minutes. Add the garlic and the potatoes, and sauté a minute longer. Add the eggplant and zucchini, season with salt, and sauté about 5 minutes longer, covering the skillet for a few minutes if the vegetables get too dry. Add the Marsala, and let it boil for a few seconds. Add the tomatoes, and simmer, uncovered, at a lively bubble for about 8 minutes longer or until all the vegetables are just tender, adding the reserved tomato water if the ciambotta looks dry (the texture should be like a thick stew). Add a drizzle of fresh olive oil, the basil, and the celery leaves, and season with a little more salt, if needed. Give it a stir.

In a small skillet, heat about 1/4 inch of olive oil over medium-high heat. When hot, add the capers, and fry them until they just start to open up and become crisp, about 2 minutes. Drain well. Reheat the ciambotta if necessary, and scatter the capers over the top. Serve hot.

Recipe:

Farro Spaghetti with Zucchini Blossoms, Mozzarella, and Anchovies

Several years ago, while in Italy, making my way by car to Puglia, I stopped en route to see Hadrian’s Villa, the second-century estate and gardens of the emperor Adriana, at Tivoli. I had never been there before but the place’s crumbling glamour beckoned. A friend, a painter, had recently given us a painting he did of the estate, and looking at it on our wall for several months made me feel I needed to go take a look for myself.

It was a chilly but sunny day in October when we arrived. Walking around the Greek-inspired Roman ruins at first gave me a sense of being hopelessly lost in one of those demeaning who-am-I-and-why-am-I-so-petty ways. Then, after strolling silently though the ruins and vast lawns and pools, I lightened up and somehow felt I belonged there. I am, after all, a sorella d’Italia, and one from a town not too far from that palatial estate (although my ancestral home is a bit more humble, and that has got to be the biggest understatement). I still felt lost, but in that wonderful way of being lost into something better than me but still connected to me that I feel when I’m cooking. I remember most vividly the majestic pool lined with amputated Greek statues, first for its grandeur and then for the fact that a little tribe of chewed-up-looking white cats followed me around the entire time, alternately looking up at me and poking their paws in the water, maybe thinking I was going to fish for them. I guess they sensed I was a cook. Cats have an ability to seek out people with a feeding gene.

After wandering around for a few hours, slipping in and out of once-lively doorways, my husband and I left and, next to the entrance, noticed a pretty outdoor café. All of a sudden we were starving. We ordered glasses of Frascati, the wine of the nearby Castelli Romani area. It was light, slightly frizzante, and virtually flavorless, perfect for a sunny afternoon. Just about everything on the menu was a pasta. One dish I zeroed right it on was a pasta tossed with zucchini blossoms, anchovies, tomato, and mozzarella. Strange combination, I thought at the time. But then I recalled the Roman fried zucchini blossoms that are almost always stuffed with mozzarella and anchovy, and how delicious they are. Then the mix of ingredients in this pasta made perfect sense. The dish was brought to the table, and the first thing I noticed, even before taking in its sweet and fishy aroma, was its beauty; wilted yellow blossoms, bright red tomatoes, melting cubes of white mozzarella, specks of green herbs, all in a glossy slick of olive oil and little pasta-cooking water, I assumed. This pasta, on that day, seemed to be the best thing I had ever eaten. And the cats left me alone. I think they knew they weren’t allowed passed the maitre d’. I did enclose a few strands of especially anchovy-flavored pasta in a piece of bread to sneak out for them. The cats appeared to like it as much as I did.

Every June, when I first notice zucchini blossoms in my greenmarket, I recreate this pasta. This year, instead of the fettuccine it was served with at Hadrian’s Villa, I used a farro spaghetti, which seems to me a better match for the salty, tomatoey sauce, than the delicate egg pasta. I love the mix of acid from the tomatoes with the creaminess of the mozzarella, the sweet freshness of the zucchini blossoms, and the solid underpinning of anchovy. This is not something Adriano would have eaten in his once-nearby dining hall, since tomatoes didn’t exist in Europe until the 1500s, but the elegant yet rustic dish certainly went well with the elegant but now rather rustic surroundings of the estate.

Our painting of Hadrian’s Villa, by Joseph Keiffer.

Farro is a type of spelt, very popular in central Italy, where it’s cooked as a whole grain, or ground like polenta, or made into pasta. It makes wonderful pasta, but some companies do a much better job at it than others. Latini makes the best farro pasta I’ve tried. You can order it at www.gustiamo.com.

Farro Spaghetti with Zucchini Blossoms, Mozzarella, and Anchovies

(Serves 2 as a main course)

2 tablespoons extra-virgin olive oil, plus an extra drizzle
Salt
1 medium summer onion, thinly sliced, using some of the tender green stem
1 summer garlic clove, thinly sliced
1/2 pound farro or whole-wheat spaghetti
5 oil-packed anchovies, chopped
1 pint cherry tomatoes, cut in half
About a dozen zucchini blossoms, wiped clean, the pistils removed, the stems trimmed
Freshly ground black pepper
5 scrapings nutmeg
A splash of sweet Vermouth
A handful of basil leaves, roughly chopped
1/4 pound mozzarella, cut into little cubes
A chunk of grana padano cheese

Put up a large pot of pasta-cooking water, and bring it to a boil. Add a generous amount of salt.

In a large skillet, heat 2 tablespoons of olive oil over medium heat. Add the onion, and sauté until just starting to soften, about 2 minutes. Add the garlic, and let it sauté for about a minute.

Drop the spaghetti into the water, and give it a stir.

Add the anchovies to the skillet, and let everything sauté a few moments longer, until it is very fragrant and the onion is lightly golden. Add the cherry tomatoes, and let them sauté until they start to give up some juices, about 4 minutes. Add the zucchini blossoms, and season with salt, black pepper, and nutmeg. Let this simmer about a minute (the blossoms need just to heat through). Add a splash of sweet Vermouth, and let it bubble for a few seconds.

When the spaghetti is al dente, drain it, saving a little cooking water, and pour the spaghetti into a warmed serving bowl. Add a generous drizzle of fresh olive oil and the basil, and give it a quick toss. Pour on the sauce, add the mozzarella, and toss again gently, adding a little pasta-cooking water if needed for moisture. Taste for seasoning, adding more salt or pepper if needed. Serve right away, with grana padano for grating.

Vincent’s family’s Easter liver dish.

Recipe:

Fegato a Scapece Vicidomini

Dear Erica,

Something in one of your Lost Recipes struck a chord with me. It was about Southern Italians using strong vinegar in certain dishes. My grandfather who lived with us came from Southern Italy, from the island of Procida in the Bay of Naples. He is long deceased, but I still retain wonderful memories of his foods. One of the ritual dishes he made was at Easter, specifically a week before, since it needed to marinate. The recipe was ofliver pieces marinated in a “sauce” of vinegar, mint, and garlic. God only knows why I liked it at the time. Perhaps it was because my grandfather made it. It was the only liver I would eat, and liver was almost a health food in the 1940s. Parents tried to force feed it to you because as a source of dietary iron.

Anyway, it was made a week before Easter to be served at lunch on Holy Saturday, along with other cured meats and cheeses, mostly ricotta salata and soppresata. I’ve tried to duplicate the recipe, but I never get it quite right. My memory is that small pieces of liver were sautéed rather quickly and set aside. Then garlic was added to the pan, and the pan was deglazed with copious amounts of red-wine vinegar. Chopped mint was added (dried, I believe), and the mixture was poured over the liver pieces in a jar and kept in the refrigerator for a week. The pieces were about two by three inches and fairly thick. I remember them being slightly pink on the inside when cut. The sauce was very much like an emulsion, not thick but not thin like vinegar. I think when I tried to make it I used calf’s liver, and it did not have the texture I remember. The pieces were slightly chewy. My guess was that he used beef liver. Have you run across this food in your travels? I’m really projecting current cooking techniques on my memory of my grandfather making this dish. My mind’s eye sees him at the stove, and I can smell the vinegar cooking. Next thing I remember is a week had passed and I had eaten it. Any suggestions on the technique for emulsifying the marinade? Thanks for any tips you might have. Love your website and your books.

Best regards,

Vincent Vicidomini

Dear Vincent,

I really enjoyed reading your note. You’re a good descriptive writer. I don’t know this exact dish, but I’m familiar with things quite like it, belonging to a category of Southern Italian dishes usually called a scapece, where fish, meat, or a vegetable is first sautéed and then doused with a hot vinegary sauce and left to marinate. It’s a way of preserving food. My grandmother used to make something very similar to what you describe with small whole fish. I hated it as a kid, but I love it now. I believe your grandfather’s liver was an a scapece. Those dishes are very common to the Naples area and to Sicily. I’m going to look into this for you and try to come up with a traditional recipe. But I do have a few questions for you.

Do you recall this having any sweet aspect to it? Often these vinegary dishes contain something sweet like sugar or honey, or raisins. In that case they’re usually referred to as agrodolce (sweet and sour). In Venice a sweet-and-sour liver dish is made, but it goes by the name in saor (and often includes pine nuts and raisins). Can you recall any ingredients besides the mint, garlic, and vinegar? If not, it’s probably a straight a scapece technique.

I think you’re correct about your grandfather using beef liver. That’s what my family often bought since it was less expensive and would make the dish more chewy.

Most a scapece dishes are served at room temperature, not hot. Was this the case with your liver dish?

Procida is a beautiful Island. I wish I were there right now. Oh well. If you can answer these few questions for me, I’ll start looking into this and try to work out a good recipe for you.

Happy spring to you.

Erica De Mane

Thank you for the reply, and for the compliment! All those years of Catholic school education paid off!! Sister Aloysius and Sister Alphonse Liguori are bursting with pride!! The reference to “a scapece” in one of your lost recipes was what triggered the memory. No one in the family ever called it that, that I remember, but you must certainly be correct. There was no hint of sweetness to the liver dish that I remember. The vinegar was overwhelmingly present and it was a store-bought red-wine vinegar. I believe the mint was dried only because fresh mint was not readily available around Easter back in the late 1940s. There were no raisins. I’m sure of that. Another memory that was triggered by this discussion was a fish dish-a whole fish, roasted in the oven with red vinegar and mint. That dish wasn’t very vinegary but had just enough vinegar to make it palatable to a six-year-old. Was it something from Procida or Ischia, or even Capri, that encouraged using vinegar? Did all their wine spoil once and the result was a million recipes using vinegar? Or a Sicilian influence? Again, any preparation tips to get that liver marinade right would be appreciated. Thank goodness for Spring. Enjoy it. I have a feeling that we will be moving into summer weather rather quickly-at least in the suburbs of New York where I live. Best regards,

Vincent

When I first read Vincent’s e-mail I thought, ‘Oh, I know this dish exactly. It’s a classic. The blend of garlic, vinegar, and mint is typical of many dishes made in Southern Italy, ones that fall into two categories, a scapece, a vinegary treatment for lightly preserving food, and agrodolce, another vinegary dish, but this one including a sweet element, such as sugar or honey. Since Vincent’s liver dish didn’t contain any sweetness, I figured it fell into the a scapece group. But then when I started poking around my usual sources, I couldn’t find any reference to this exact dish made in the Naples area. Most of the a scapece dishes I’ve come across around Naples and in Sicily, where this style is also popular, were made with fish or vegetables, such as zucchini or eggplant. Agrodolce dishes are more likely to be made with meat, especially rabbit, but I did find several recipes for fegato agrodolce (fegato is Italian for liver). I had first run across this recipe several years ago when I was researching my book The Flavors of Southern Italy, and I was amazed to learned that the fegato in this dish is actually pumpkin. It’s one of those ironic cucina povera dishes, like “pasta che sardi a mari” (pasta with sardines still in the sea) from Sicily, vegetable dishes designed to mimic the flavors of ones preferably made with a costly protein. I devised a version for my book; it is made by pouring a hot, reduced vinegar, garlic, and sugar mixture over slices of sautéed pumpkin, finishing it with a scattering of fresh mint, and then leaving it to marinate. In theory it is very much like Vincent’s liver dish. I kept thinking the fancier liver version, which is still made in the South, would probably taste a lot better.

I was still frustrated that I was finding no exact reference to this “classic dish,” so I asked Arthur Schwartz, author of the excellent book Naples at Table, if he had every run across it, figuring since he knows so much about Campanian home cooking he certainly would have encountered this in his travels, but he had never heard of a scapece made with liver either (he is still looking into it for me, so maybe something will turn up). I also have a ton of Neapolitan cookbooks I brought back from various trips to Italy, and I went through all of them, finding two references to fegato agrodolce made with actual liver and garnished with raisins and pine nuts, but nothing for the more austere, sugarless treatment. Nevertheless I went about creating a recipe for fegato a scapece because it obviously existed on the beautiful little island of Procida, and probably still does.

As far as the type of liver to use, Vincent was probably correct in guessing his grandfather made his with beef liver. It is much less expensive than calf’s liver, and since it is older and spongier it would lend itself nicely to a long marinating process. But I couldn’t find any in fancy old Manhattan, so I went with calf’s liver. I remember eating lamb liver in Campania in a fritto misto (a mixed fried skewer that also included cauliflower). The taste was mild and delicious. I suppose that would make an interesting agrodolce or a scapece as well.

I cut the liver into thickish chunks, as Vincent directed, dusted them lightly in seasoned flour, and gave them a quick sear in olive oil. I then removed them from the pan, added garlic, red wine vinegar, and a tiny splash of balsamic and one of red wine, just to take the edge off, swirling everything around to reduce and pick up all the crusty liver cooking bits. I got a powerful, syrupy sauce whose intensity went right up my nostrils. I put the liver in a shallow glass dish, scattered on fresh mint and a much smaller amount of basil (just to soften the chewing-gum taste of the mint we get here), and poured on the vinegar mixture. I sensed that in one respect I hadn’t quite followed Vincent’s directions. His grandfather had placed the liver pieces in a jar, pouring the vinegar on top in what sounds like a total immersion. I was afraid that would produce something too powerful and maybe with a mushy texture, so I chose to lay the pieces out in a shallow glass dish and pour on a vinegar mix that wouldn’t quite cover them but would be sufficient to soak in a good strong flavor.

One thing I did find odd in Vincent’s description was his memory of the dish’s having been made a week before eating. I understand the marination process does to a certain extent preserve food, and many scapece or agrodolce preparations are made ahead, a day or two, to develop flavor, but an entire week, especially for a meat dish, seemed like a precariously long time. He might be correct in this, but I didn’t feel comfortable waiting and then tasting it. I marinated it overnight in the refrigerator and then let it come to room temperature before trying a piece. It was really delicious and not overly vinegary, as I had feared. I served it with chunks of provolone, olives, and toasted sliced of good Italian bread brushed with olive oil. This was a lovely antipasto. I tried it again the next day. It was a touch stronger in flavor but still really good.

I’m posting this recipe without my usual historical trackings mainly because it’s unusual and delicious. I also want to bring it to the attention of my other site readers, many of whom are of Neapolitan background. Does this liver recipe ring a bell with you? Let us know.

Fegato a Scapece Vicidomini

(Serves 4 as an appetizer)

1 pound calf’s liver, sliced 1/2 inch thick and then cut into approximately 3-inch pieces
1/2 cup milk
1/2 cup all-purpose flour
Salt
Freshly ground black Pepper
A pinch of cayenne
Extra-virgin olive oil
2 garlic cloves, thinly sliced
3 tablespoons high quality red-wine vinegar
1 tablespoon balsamic vinegar
A splash of dry red wine
5 large sprigs fresh mint, the leaves chopped
A few basil leaves, chopped

Place the liver pieces in a shallow bowl, and pour on the milk. Let it soak for about 20 minutes (this will subtly sweeten the liver, removing excess bitterness). Lift the liver from the milk, and dry the pieces well. Sprinkle the flour out onto a plate. Season it with salt, black pepper, and the cayenne. Coat the liver on all sides in the flour, shaking off excess flour.

In a medium skillet, heat 2 tablespoons of olive oil over medium-high heat. When hot, add the liver, and brown well on one side, about 2 minutes. Flip the pieces, and brown well on the other side, about 2 minutes longer. The liver should be just cooked through and tender, with a touch of pink at the center (in other words, you don’t want rare liver for the dish, but you don’t want it hammered either). Take the liver from the skillet and place it in a shallow dish with low sides, more or less in one layer with some overlapping.

Pour off any excess oil from the skillet, and add 2 tablespoons of fresh olive oil over medium high heat. Add the garlic and sauté until it just starts to turn golden. Add the red-wine vinegar, the balsamic vinegar, and the splash of wine, and let it all bubble until reduced by half. Add a pinch of salt and some freshly ground black pepper. Turn off the heat.

Scatter the mint and basil over the liver and pour the vinegar mixture over the top. Cover and refrigerate overnight or for up to two days. Bring the liver to room temperature before serving. The dish is especially good served with hot bruschetta, slices of good Italian bread simply grilled and brushed with olive oil.

Garnish options: Vincent didn’t mention any other ingredients, and it really doesn’t need any, since the herbs and vinegar give the liver a lot of good flavor. But for those who like to gild the lily, a scattering of capers and pine nuts just before bringing it to the table is a nice touch.

Mario Ghini’s classic recreated.

When I was a kid the occasional fancy dinners out with my parents were usually free of the stupidity and bitchiness that would crop up at home (“acting up” was less acceptable in public, although certainly not unheard of). This made those evenings extremely memorable for me, and if in addition to the uncharacteristically calm atmosphere, the food was exciting, well, then the moment could even occasionally rise to greatness. Pappagallo’s was a restaurant were this melding of positive forces could occur.

This temple of decorum was run by my father’s good friend Mario Ghini. Elegant Mario from Bologna, with his wavy, prematurely white hair and bright blue eyes was someone my sister and I were in awe of. He seemed so much more refined than most of my father’s friends, I mean, he wasn’t from Port Chester or Bay Ridge, he was actually from Italy. And his restaurant seemed so classy, with its arched doorways and cream-colored walls, notches above the usual Italian places on Long Island in the ’60s and ’70s, most of which resembled suburban dens with their wood paneling and barrel chairs. A birthday dinner at Mario’s was a night of Shirley Temples and treatment so special that a feeling of unworthiness would sometimes slip in to spoil my good time.

Pappagallo’s featured that now basically annoying tableside cooking. Burners on a rolling cart were wheeled right under your face and the show would begin, with food flipped, tossed, and flamed with concentration and drama; fettuccine Alfredo, hot spinach salad, steaks lit with brandy, and zabaglione whisked in a copper bowl by a sweating but nonetheless still intimidating waiter with an indecipherable accent we always assumed was Italian but turned out to be Albanian. This was American Continental dining at its most aggressive.

But what my brother and sister and I remember best, what we still almost drool at the thought of, is Mario’s chicken Pappagallo, his signature dish. It was something ridiculously elegant to a child, because it was meat and fruit-savory and sweet-on one plate, something nobody would ever make at home. The kitchen started with what I now know is referred to as a French-cut chicken breast, the breast with a part of the wing still attached like a little bat. It was sautéed and then bathed in an agro dolce, a very shiny brown sauce, and punctuated with warm, whole green grapes. At the time I considered this so delicious and so fancy I could barely contain myself in anticipation of its arrival at the table. My little brother felt exactly the same way.

My brother, Richie, is now the chef at Leila’s, a lovely bistro north of Los Angeles (neither of us, I guess, could stay out of the kitchen after experiencing Mario’s cooking). We happened to talk about chicken Pappagallo a few weeks ago, and since then I haven’t been able to get it out of my mind. I had to get into the kitchen and try to recreate it. Several years ago Richie, in one of his earlier throes of Pappagallo nostalgia, called Mario, who now lives in Florida, to talk about his chicken. Mario had at the ready a printed recipe that he was very happy to send to my brother. Richie was surprised how complicated this recipe turned out to be, a real old-fashioned restaurant dish with various reductions containing fruit juices, brandy, vinegar, and demi-glace, a French brown-sauce concoction. Hearing this I knew I’d want to go about it in a more homey way.

I didn’t have the actual recipe to work from, since my brother seems to have lost it, and I decided not to call Mario to ask for it again, figuring it would be more fun and challenging to go it alone and see what I came up with. My goal was to come up with a version of Mario’s glazed and coddled chicken for the home cook, albeit the sophisticated home cook.

While shopping for ingredients for my first chicken Pappagallo try, I noticed a bottle of verjuice on the shelf right next to the champagne vinegar I was reaching for. I hadn’t considered this ingredient, thinking I would go with a vinegar, lemon, and chicken broth arrangement that would be closer to the original recipe. But this, I thought, could be the key. Verjuice is a concentrated, sour green grape juice used in cooking, mainly to deglaze but also to include in a braise. It’s made by reducing white-wine grape juice. I had never cooked with it before, but I decided to give it a try. Boy, is it sour, not rich and unctuous like the Southern Italian vincotto, a red-wine grape reduction I was more familiar with.

My first tries included chicken stock, but I quickly realized that the lack of demi-glace and the blandness of the white meat made for a boring result. I started adding herbs and shallots and various things that may or may not have been included in the original. The verjuice was sour but lovely, adding just the right amount of acidity, but I still missed that glossiness I knew I’d get only from demi-glace, so I bought a high-quality frozen one. This, along with the verjuice and a good dose of sugar, gave me a hint of the Pappagallo chicken taste, but just a hint.

Eating chicken Pappagallo in 2007 with my husband in our small West Village apartment was a peculiar experience. I was surprised at how clearly my version brought the taste memory of this dish back to me, but what I created was not exactly what I had eaten then. Chicken Pappagallo, I now recall, was a much sweeter thing than I would now prefer; it had almost a New York Thai-food taste, glazed, sugary, and fruity. That old-fashioned “continental” cooking seems very far away from the rustico stuff I now make at home and from the flavors I come in contact with at contemporary Italian restaurants. This elegant but somewhat otherworldly pan-European restaurant cooking tastes unlike anything I usually have nowadays. But I love the recreation of it I’ve come up with.

1/4 cup Wondra flour (a fine ground flour works best for sautéing)
Salt
Black pepper
A few scrapings of nutmeg
A pinch of cayenne
2 French-cut chicken breasts, skinned
1 tablespoon extra-virgin olive oil
3 tablespoons butter
1 shallot, thinly sliced
1 garlic clove, thinly sliced
A small sprig of rosemary, the leaves minced
A sprig of thyme, the leaves chopped
2 teaspoons sugar
1 cup seedless green grapes
A splash of brandy
1/4 cup verjuice (I bought an Australian one made by Maggie Beer)
1/4 cup demi-glace (I used one made by D’Artagnan)
A squeeze of fresh lemon juice

Preheat the oven to 400 degrees.

Place the flour on a plate, and season it with salt, black pepper, nutmeg, and the cayenne. Coat the chicken lightly with the flour.

In a large sauté pan, heat the olive oil and 2 tablespoons of the butter over medium heat. When hot, add the chicken, meat side down, and brown well. Turn and brown the other side. Put the pan in the oven, and roast until just tender, about 10 minutes.

Have all the remaining ingredients prepared and ready next to the stove. Pull the pan from the oven (be careful, as the handle will be really hot), and place the chicken on two dinner plates. Pour any excess fat from the pan, and set the pan over high heat. Add the shallots, garlic, rosemary, and thyme, and sauté quickly. Add the sugar, the grapes, and the brandy, and let it all boil for about a minute. Add the verjuice, and let it bubble about a minute longer. Add the demi-glace, season with a little salt and black pepper, and reduce quickly to a loose glaze. Turn off the heat, and add the remaining tablespoon of butter and a squeeze of lemon juice, and give the pan a swirl. Spoon the grapes onto each piece of chicken, and pour the sauce on top. Serve hot.

Sara’s rosemary olive oil cake topped with sweetened mascarpone.

Recipe:

Polenta cake with Olive Oil, Moscato, and Rosemary

Dear Erica,

Have you ever come across a Venetian wine cake made with white wine, olive oil, rosemary, and almonds? It’s moist but not overly sweet. I’m dying to find a recipe. I tasted it in a little hole-in-the-wall Italian restaurant somewhere in Brooklyn (Bensonhurst?) I went to the first time I visited New York City (almost 20 years ago)-taken there by an old family friend (now deceased)-don’t remember much about the meal but this-don’t know where the restaurant is/was or whether it still exists. You see my problem!

Thanks in advance.

Best,

Sara

About a dozen years ago I was cooking at not a hole in the wall but Le Madri, one of Pino Luongo’s first restaurants. It was a very fancy place, packed with demanding celebrities, and a very exhausting job. I did learn a lot there (how to cut baby artichokes on a meat slicer without cutting my hand off, for instance, and how to make a paper thin frittata that was crisp and delicate). An occasional dessert was a polenta cake flavored with rosemary, olive oil, and white wine. I believe it was called a Tuscan polenta cake, not a Venetian cake (this was after all theoretically a Tuscan restaurant). I don’t recall almonds being a part of it, but I’m sure they wouldn’t have killed it. It is true that Italian food in this country can get sweeping labels, and when I see something on a menu called Tuscan, Venetian, or Sicilian, it often doesn’t mean much, and I wonder why the chef ever bothered to name it as such. I looked up Venetian olive oil and rosemary cake in all my usual sources and couldn’t come up with anything specifically Venetian. I did find a few rosemary and olive oil cakes-no polenta-that were referred to as Tuscan.. Whatever the actually origin of the Le Madri cake, I was crazy for it. At the time I had never tasted a sweet thing that included rosemary, and the idea of olive oil in a cake turned me off before I tasted the delicious thing. Sara’s e-mail brought the lovely fragrance of the cake back to me. She didn’t actually mention polenta being a component of her cake, but all the flavorings were the same, so I just went with my hunch that this would be close to what she was looking for.

I didn’t have a recipe for the Le Madri cake, so I decided to try to recreate it for Sara (and me) from my foggy memory. It was not something I ever cooked at Le Madri myself, being basically a line cook, but I used to snoop around while the Italian “mothers” were cooking, so I more or less watched what went into it. I can’t recall what type of wine they used, but I sensed that a sweet one such as a moscato would be very nice in this, so that’s what I went with. As I started playing around with it, baking my first one, I immediately came to realize that one of the keys to the cake’s charm is in not going crazy with the rosemary. My first cake tasted too intense, like a medicine, or somehow reminiscent of the hashish brownies of my childhood. The quality of olive oil in the cake is also extremely important. I wanted something fruity and olivey, with no greasy heaviness (no extra-virgin Colavita here). I went with my much-loved Sicilian oil Ravida, thinking that a Tuscan oil (even for a supposed Tuscan cake) might be too green and biting. The Ravida gave it a beautiful flavor.

While testing the cake, I remembered another polenta cake I had made not too long ago, and that one really had been Venetian. It was called pinza or pincia Veneziana, and was a cake eaten in Venice on the feast of the Epiphany. I jumped the gun a bit last year, baking one for Christmas. The recipe was elaborate, I believe involving cornmeal, grappa or rum, and dried figs and raisins and candied orange, maybe pine nuts too; it is very much a fruitcake, although lighter than most American or English ones. No rosemary in it, but I recall using fennel seeds at some point (maybe to sprinkle on top?). I cooked that cake from a recipe I found in The Da Fiore Cookbook, from the famous restaurant of that name in Venice. I seem no longer to have the elegant book, so I can’t check on the ingredients, but I know it to be a traditional Venetian cake, and I figured it would have many variations, as I discovered when I looked into it elsewhere (some are made with breadcrumbs instead of polenta, for instance). This, of course, doesn’t sound anything like the cake Sara remembers, but I thought I might as well just throw it in to confuse her.

I do have a feeling my “Tuscan” cake will be very close to what she tasted in Brooklyn many years ago. I had to reach back in my own culinary memory to recreate it, but it came out, not exactly like the one I remember from the restaurant, but pretty close. My first try at baking it resulted in a dry and very lightly sweetened cake, more like a quick bread (plus, as I already mentioned, sickeningly laced with too much rosemary). I kept adding more olive oil , more sugar, and less cornmeal, until I came up with something that seemed familiar. My cake was less dense than the original, but I nevertheless liked it very much, so I stopped testing.

I wish I could taste this cake again for the first time, but since that’s not possible, I’m just happy to have it back in my life in some form. Sara, I hope I’ve come close for you too.

Polenta Cake with Olive Oil, Moscato, and Rosemary

(Serves 8)

Softened butter for greasing the pan
1/2 cup finely ground yellow cornmeal
1 1/4 cups all-purpose flour
1 tablespoon baking powder
1/2 teaspoon salt
1 1/2 tablespoons minced fresh rosemary
1 cup sugar
4 large eggs
2/3 cup extra-virgin olive oil
1/4 cup sweet white wine, such as an Italian moscato or a Muscat de Beaume de Venise
Powdered sugar for the top

Preheat the oven to 350 degrees.

Coat a Bundt pan well with soft butter.

In a medium bowl, combine the cornmeal, flour, baking powder, salt, and rosemary, and stir well to blend.

Place the sugar and eggs in a large bowl, and beat with an electric mixer on medium speed until pale yellow and fluffy, about 2 minutes.

While still mixing, slowly add the olive oil. Add the wine and then the flour mixture, and mix just until blended.

Pour the batter into the pan, and bake until the cake is fragrant, golden, and springy to the touch, about 35 to 40 minutes. Let the cake cool for about 15 minutes and then turn it out of the pan. After it’s cooled, dust the top with powdered sugar.