Recipes below: Ricotta and Strawberry Torta with Anisette; Strawberries with Ricotta and Rosemary Syrup

Early morning anxiety is so predictable for me that I know exactly when I should reach out and find my colors. Staring hard at colors is an antidote, drawing me out, loosening the bad stuff. I’m now looking at my window box geraniums, reddish orange, light pink, peach. They’re catching the sun in spots. They look edible. Most things reddish or orangish look edible to me. Tomatoes. Strawberries.

Strawberries are just out. I picked up a few pints at the Greenmarket. I made a torta with one pint and an herby syrup for the others. Their colors, the more I look, should be simple to describe, but they’re actually hard. Deep red with tones of pink? Crimson? Sometimes they seem a little orange, depending on the type. That’s the thing about colors, they’re hard to tell someone about. I have these incredible geraniums, they’re orange verging on red, or red heading toward orange. I have strawberries that are red with under-hits of pinky blue. What that means to me it might not to you. Colors are personal. At times they seem empty but beautiful, but more often they’re confounding, especially the longer I look. When you really think about them they make you lose your words. Maybe that’s why color is salve for wasteful suffering. I can lose myself in color.

As a kid I was drawn to the tomatoes in my father’s small garden. I found red verging on orange, red verging on maroon, red verging on blue, depending. I loved slicing them to find out what went on inside (the same color as their skin?). I also loved watching their colors darken and their tastes change when they were heated. Tomato sauce is an amazing thing. It’ll be a while before we get good tomatoes around here.


When I bought my pints of strawberries, I knew wanted to pair them with something light colored, like cream or cheese, so that their juices could mingle, creating another color. Dark pink was what I wanted. I got that when I came up with this strawberry and ricotta torta. I knew everything would run a little. Actually the color is more pinky orange, like an old debutante’s lipstick.

If you don’t want to go the pasta frolla (pastry dough) route, you can get a similar color seep, more quickly, by making a syrup for your strawberries and pouring that over ricotta. I love rosemary with strawberries. It sounds like a strange pairing, but taste it and you’ll see. And the colors are beautiful.


Ricotta and Strawberry Torta with Anisette

This is for a 9-inch open-face torta. I used a straight-sided tart pan with a removable bottom, to get a rustic look. Nicer than fluted, I think.

For the pasta frolla

2½ cups regular flour, plus a little more for rolling
¼ teaspoon salt
¼ teaspoon baking powder
⅓ cup powdered sugar
The grated zest from 1 lemon
1½ sticks butter, cut into tiny cubes
2 large eggs, lightly whisked
About 2 tablespoons dry vermouth, maybe a little more

For the filling:

1 cup full-fat ricotta, well drained
⅓ cup powdered sugar
The grated zest from 1 lemon
1 tablespoon anisette or Sambuca
1 large egg
1 pint small spring strawberries, hulled but left whole (if you can find Tristar, they will be perfect)

To make the pasta frolla, put the flour, salt, baking powder, sugar, and lemon zest in the bowl of a food processor, and pulse a few times to blend everything. Add the butter, and give it a few good pulses, just until it is broken up into tiny bits. Add the eggs and vermouth, and pulse a few more times, until all the ingredients come together into a crumbly, moist mass. Tilt the dough out onto a floured work surface, and knead briefly, maybe with 3 or 4 strokes, until you’ve got a smooth ball. Wrap in plastic, and refrigerate for about an hour or so.

Take the dough out of the refrigerator about 15 minutes before you plan on rolling it.

Preheat the oven to 375 degrees.

Put all the ingredients for the filling, except for the strawberries, into a bowl, and mix well.

Grease the tart pan with a little butter. Roll out your dough, and drape it into the pan, leaving a little overhang. Place the strawberries, hulled sides down, in the pan (a nice circular pattern will look good). Pour on the filling. Now trim the edges of the dough, and go all around the pan making little folds.

Bake for about 35 minutes, or until the crust is golden and the insides look firm and a little puffed up. Let rest for about an hour before slicing.

Strawberries with Ricotta and Rosemary Syrup

Strawberries with rosemary whipped cream, or custard, or ice cream are all combinations I’ve heard of, mostly in the French kitchen A touch of rosemary’s deep resin flavor with sweet fruit makes so much culinary sense. I’ve Italianized my recipe by including ricotta, which cushions the strong herb nicely.

(Serves 2 to 3)

For the syrup:

3 tablespoons sugar
1 tablespoon wildflower honey (I used acacia)
3 big sprigs of rosemary, lightly crushed with the side of a knife to release their oil, plus a few small sprigs for garnish
A small piece of vanilla bean, split
A long peel of lemon skin
1½ cups of dry white wine


1 pint small local strawberries, left whole (again, Tristar are a good), or larger ones cut in half or quarters
About 1½ cups high quality whole-milk ricotta
Freshly ground black pepper

Put all the ingredients for the syrup in a small sauce pan, and simmer over medium heat until large bubbles appear on the surface, about 5 minutes or so (the bubbles will let you know that it has properly thickened). Let sit for about 5 minutes on the turned-off burner to further blend the flavors. Now strain into a small bowl. Stick the bowl in the refrigerator until cool.

Before using the syrup, bring it to room temperature.

Place the strawberries in a bowl.  Pour the syrup over the top, and toss gently.

Divide up the ricotta into small bowls or big wine glasses. Spoon on the strawberries and then some of their syrup. Finish with a few grindings of black pepper, and garnish with rosemary sprigs.

The Wild Mint Patch


The Ancient Romans experimented with a number of wild herbs for birth control, with varying degrees of success.

Recipes below: Limoncello Collins with Lemon Bitters and Mint; Roasted Zucchini with Mozzarella and Mint Pesto; Penne with Zucchini, Anchovies, Mint, and Pecorino

Down the road from my upstate house is an expanding patch of first-class wild mint grows amid downed trees, strawberries, and poison ivy. I first discovered it last spring. There are several spots of wild mint along the road, but this particular patch has the best flavor. It’s assertive, like all wild herbs, strongly spearmint but with a faint under hit of marjoram, giving it bitterness. Truly a beautiful thing.

A patch closer to my house, but only by about maybe ten yards, has an acrid flavor. I would never eat it. It seems to be biologically identical to the better one, but the difference in taste is dramatic. I didn’t understand that this could happen until I recently read Euell Gibbons’s Stalking the Healthful Herbs (a sequel to his more famous Stalking the Wild Asparagus). He says that the taste and aroma of any wild herb can differ dramatically depending on, well, I guess the word would be terroir. I was skeptical that the terroir from one end of my road to half way to the other end could vary so much. It’s the same slate-crammed soil in semi-shaded side-of-the-road situations. So what gives here? Maybe the plants nearby are different, and that affects the flavor? The inferior mint also seems to be growing on drier ground, maybe because it’s on a slightly hilly angle and the water flows away. I’m not sure I know what I’m talking about. Euell Gibbons would know, but unfortunately he’s now buried deep in his world of wild greens. I never imagined I’d be discussing Euell Gibbons, the Grape Nuts man from my childhood, in any context ever, but now he’s become a kind of hero to me. He was a great writer, funny too, and he really knew his wild plants. I’ll never make fun of Euell Gibbons again.

So this week I went about cooking with my good wild mint, adapting it to a few of my own classics. Mint with vegetables is a traditional Sicilian pairing, especially with first-of-the-season zucchini, which happens to be appearing right now. I made a simple pasta with zucchini and anchovies, something my mother used to cook, and it was elevated by the lovely but slightly in–your-face local spearmint. Then I made a pesto, which was also good, paired with zucchini as well.

I often get a caraway seed taste when I add spearmint to something hot, say the pasta with zucchini I tested for this post. Strange taste. I don’t get that when eating the leaves straight. I decided to do some research into this and was amazed to discover that mint and caraway both contain a molecule called carvone, which is what explains the odd flavor similarity, which must get released or at least amplified when heated. Has anyone else noticed this?

And about my cocktail. A few years back I was out for drinks with my Aunt Pat. She planned on ordering a regular old martini, but I knew she loved limoncello, so I suggested a martini made with that instead of vermouth. It was a hit (she may have had two). That drink is a little strong for me, so I came up with this fizzy version. I think the lemon bitters are essential, so maybe get yourself a bottle. They can really make so many drinks. I like Fee Brothers, because it doesn’t have a lot of Christmassy spices in it, like clove for instance, which many of the newer bitters contain. You really taste the lemon.

Just a final note on cooking with mint: All these recipes are created around spearmint. I hardly ever use peppermint in my dishes. It’s too sharp a taste to blend well with most ingredients. It makes a nice tea, though.


The better mint patch.

Limoncello Collins with Lemon Bitters and Mint

(Serves 1)

1 tablespoon limoncello
A big shot of vodka
3 dashes lemon bitters
1 big mint sprig, plus 2 mint leaves, lightly chopped
2 ounces seltzer

Pour all the ingredients except the mint spring into a shaker, and give it a good shake. Pour it into a tall glass, and garnish with the mint sprig.

Roasted Zucchini with Mozzarella and Mint Pesto

(Serves 4)

4 or 5 small summer zucchini, cut, on an angle into ½-inch elongated rounds
Extra-virgin olive oil
Black pepper
A sprinking of Za’atar
A drizzle of lemon juice
1 big very fresh (ideally never refrigerated) mozzarella, sliced
A scattering of spearmint leaves

For the pesto:

About ½ cup spearmint leaves
2 sprigs marjoram, stemmed (in case you’d like to mimic the taste of my wild mint)
1 small summer garlic clove
A palmful of whole blanched almonds
Extra-virgin olive oil

To make the pesto, set up a medium-size pot of water, and bring it to a boil. Drop in the mint and marjoram leaves, and blanch them for about 30 seconds. Scoop the herbs from the water with a large strainer spoon, and place them in a colander. Run cool water over them to stop their cooking and preserve their green color. Squeeze out as much water as you can. This blanching will prevent oxidation so the pesto doesn’t darken quickly as it sits. Place the garlic and almonds in the bowl of a food processor, and pulse a few times until they’re roughly ground. Add the blanched herbs and enough olive oil to create a rich texture (about ⅓ cup). Season with a little salt, and pulse a few more times until everything is blended. Transfer the pesto to a small bowl. This is at its most vibrant when used right away, so I wouldn’t make it too much ahead.

Heat the oven to 425 degrees. Brush the zucchini rounds with olive oil on both sides, and lay them out on a sheet pan. Sprinkle them with salt and black pepper. Roast them until they’re golden and tender, about 15 minutes. Take them from the oven and sprinkle on a little za’atar (just a touch) and tiny bit of lemon juice.

Set out a large platter, and arrange the zucchini rounds and the mozzarella in a nice pattern. Season with a little salt and black pepper. Drizzle on some of the mint pesto, and garnish with mint leaves.


Penne with Zucchini, Anchovies, Mint, and Pecorino

(Serves 2 generously)

Extra-virgin olive oil
4 or 5 tiny early summer zucchini, cut into not-too-thin coins
A sprinkle of sugar
1 small spring onion, chopped, including its tender green stem
2 small young garlic cloves, sliced
½ a fresh jalapeno, with its seeds, chopped
4 anchovy fillets, chopped
A splash of dry Marsala
½ pound penne
The grated zest from 1 small lemon
About 5 large sprigs of fresh spearmint, the leaves lightly chopped
A chunk of pecorino Toscano cheese

Set up a pot of pasta cooking water. Add salt, and get it boiling.

In the meantime, get out a big sauté pan, and set it over medium high heat. Drizzle in about 2 tablespoons of olive oil. When the oil is hot, add the zucchini and the sugar, and sauté, without moving the zucchini around too much, until it’s just starting to brown. Now add the scallion, garlic, anchovies, and jalapeno, and continue sautéing until the zucchini is just tender and the whole thing is fragrant. Add the Marsala, and let it bubble for a few seconds. Turn off the heat

Start cooking the penne. When it’s al dente, drain it, saving about ½ cup of the cooking water, and add it to the pan. Add the lemon zest, and sauté quickly over low heat to blend all the flavors.

Pour the pasta into a serving bowl. Add the mint, a drizzle of fresh olive oil, a little of the cooking water, and a few big gratings of the pecorino. Toss gently. Taste for salt (it might not need any, thanks to the anchovies). Serve hot or warm, bringing the rest of the cheese to the table.

Women with Fish


I’m dressed for my club. It’s the monthly meeting, which is always black tie. This is my version of black tie. I wear the tie on my head, which is  perfectly acceptable. Is my fish on straight?

I take the minutes, and drink Montezuma gin cut with Hudson River water. That’s the official club drink. It comes in a fish shaped mug with the name of a deceased member engraved on it. My mug says Eddie Fisher. This club is not just for women.


A pasta poster by Gino Boccasile, 1901-1952.

Recipe below: Thai Basil Fettuccine with Pine Nut Condimento

Flavoring fresh pasta with herbs seems to me a poetic task. Years ago, when I cooked at Le Madri, I learned to make fazzoletti (handkerchief pasta) with whole herbs pressed into them, usually sage or flat leaf parsley. I was so proud of myself for turning out those graceful things. We’d drape them over fish stew, and what an alluring dish. After I left the restaurant, I dreamed of the translucent pasta sheets. They were wonderful, but their herb taste wasn’t strong. I surmised that that was because the herbs weren’t chopped, so they couldn’t let off their essence properly. They were more of a visual presence than a flavor one. I’m now trying to create an herb pasta with a flavor presence. I think the key is the chop (rough, not minced) and also the choice of herbs. Thai basil immediately came to mind. It has a peppery perfume that barrels through even the hottest Thai chilies. And I’ve got a huge pot of it growing in my herb garden.

Silky, suave, delicate, romantic. Those are words that come to mind when I think of fresh egg pasta. But rolling pasta in my tiny Manhattan kitchen is such a pain in the ass that making it takes on a veil of frustration. For starters, I have no counter space. I have to use my dining room table. I have a problem with flour messes, and pasta making throws the stuff all over the place. It feels out of control, not the Zen experience I always imagine. And the cats attacking everything.


However, I will report that after finally abandoning the traditional well method, I am now much happier making pasta. I resisted the change for years, out of duty to my ancient heritage, but now I mix the dough in a food processor and roll and cut it with my KitchenAid pasta attachment. Not particularly romantic, but it lets me ease into the process without getting all sweaty and miserable. In the right setting, it can now even be soothing.

Note: One thing I always have to remind myself of when I make pasta in a food processor is that I need to add less flour than I’d use for the traditional well method, since the food processor pulls it all in (no crumbly stuff remains on the side to discard). I’ve adjusted my usual recipe taking that into consideration.


Thai Basil Fettuccine with Pine Nut Condimento

I don’t generally like using word deconstructed about food, but here it happens to be the perfect adjective. I’ve taken all the elements of a classic Ligurian pesto and pulled them apart, using some for the pasta and some for the sauce.

(Makes about 1 pound of pasta, enough for 4 generous first-course servings)

For the food processor pasta:

2½ cups all-purpose flour, plus extra for dusting
A big pinch of salt
A few grindings of black pepper
4 large eggs, lightly beaten
½ cup lightly chopped Thai basil

For the condimento:

Extra-virgin olive oil
Spring garlic
½ cup pine nuts
Black pepper
A big handful of very lightly chopped Thai basil
A chunk of grana Padano cheese

Put the flour, salt, and a little black pepper in the food processor bowl, and pulse a few times to blend everything. Add the eggs and the basil, and pulse until it all just forms a ball. If it’s not coming together, add a drizzle of water and pulse again.

Dump the pasta ball out onto a work surface, and knead it until the dough is smooth, about 5 minutes. It should be light green, flecked with green bits. I try not to use too much flour on the work surface, not wanting to add any more to the dough, as that can make it tough, but if your dough is sticky, you’ll definitely need a bit.

Cover the dough in plastic wrap, and let it rest, unrefrigerated, for about an hour. That will give the gluten time to relax, so it’s easier to roll out. Otherwise the dough can be too tight and fight back a little.

Roll it into sheets. I use the pasta attachment of my KitchenAid mixer, which works great, but use any method you like.

Now, and this I find to be a most important step, let your sheets dry for at least 10 minutes before cutting them into fettuccine or whatever ever you’re going to make of them. You want the sheets to be flexible but slightly leathery, not sticky. This can take, in my experience, anywhere up to an hour, depending on how wet your dough was to begin with and how much humidity you’ve got in the room. Drying is the only way I’ve been able to prevent pasta strands from sticking together, which is a most infuriating problem. This really takes care of it.

Then you can run the pasta through a fettuccine attachment or cut it by hand. Give everything a dusting of flour, and then lay it all out on sheet pans or a counter. It will be fine for several hours that way.

Put up a pot of pasta cooking water, add salt, and bring it to a boil.

In a large skillet, heat about 2 tablespoons of olive oil and 2 of butter. Get it warm over medium heat. Add the pine nuts, and let them color a bit. Add the garlic, and sauté a minute, just to release its flavor.

Drop in the fettuccine. It should take only a minute or so. When it is tender, drain it, saving about ½ cup of the cooking water.

Add the fettuccine to the skillet, and toss it quickly over low heat, seasoning it with salt and pepper. Pour it into a large serving bowl. Add a little of the cooking water to loosen the sauce. Add the basil and about 2 tablespoons of grana Padano. Toss gently, and serve right away.

Early Herbs


Mary Magdalene mistakes Jesus for the gardener, painted by Agnolo Bronzino in 1561.

Recipes below: String Beans and Potatoes with Wild Arugula and Almond Pesto; Cucumber Salad with Burnet and Breakfast Radishes

I plant my herb garden in stages, to avoid gardening burnout. I used to love gardening burnout. I’d get so elatedly wasted. But as I’ve gotten older, I find it a little scary. Ticks, knee pain, sunstroke. I’ve had Lyme twice. But still I need my herbs, so I press on.

I do pot gardening, so, every spring it all starts from scratch. The reason for this is that the soil in upstate New York is about 95 percent rock. Backbreaking work even just dropping in seeds. One of these days I’ll construct a big raised bed, I guess. But for now I’ve got a good collection of big terra cotta pots. They smell wonderful when wet, and I think they’re beautiful.

My first plantings this year were from the greatest hits parade—thyme, rosemary, oregano, sage. It felt good to get those in, giving them time to grow large (I put in a lot of thyme, especially). Then I went ahead and planted a huge pot of wild arugula seeds. With luck they’ll sprout in a few weeks. I got the seeds from Seeds from Italy, an excellent source for Sicilian eggplant, cicoria rosa, Calabrian chilies, mentuccia, and more. Their arugula is the real deal, cultivated from wild and not like the big blousy bunches you find in the supermarkets or the prepackaged baby stuff. If it ever comes up it’ll be forte. My father grew a similar spiky, super bitter arugula in our backyard for 30 years. It was a gift from our neighbor who smuggled it back from Sorrento in the early sixties, and it was so intense that most of my friends wouldn’t touch my mother’s salads. Poison in a bowl, but, in my opinion, wonderful poison. Unfortunately, I haven’t had much luck growing my own. Maybe Long Island, where I grew up, is closer to Mediterranean than the Hudson Valley. I’m trying again. I’ll let you know how it goes.

I’ve also planted salad burnet, which I’ve been curious about for some time but hadn’t previously seen at any of my usual herb buying haunts. It’s originally a Mediterranean plant, a member of the rose family. Evidently it grows wild in upstate New York, but I haven’t found any (and I’ve been looking). Luckily this year I spotted small pots of it at Northern Dutchess Botanical Gardens, a big place in Milan (pronounced MY-lan), New York, with an extensive selection including some oddball stuff. If you’re ever up near Rhinebeck, check them out. My burnet seems to be taking well to its big pot. At the moment, it tastes faintly of sweet cucumber, but I’ve read that in really hot weather it will take on a watermelon taste. Can’t wait for that, if actually true.

This week I’ll move on to the leafier herbs.

salad burnet with pixie leaves unfolding.jpeg

Salad burnet.

String Beans and Potatoes with Wild Arugula and Almond Pesto

I got the idea for this from the traditional Genoese pasta with pesto, which also often contains little diced potatoes and string beans. I just left out the pasta and changed up the pesto.

(Serves 4)

About a cup of small, spikey arugula
1 small clove of spring garlic, smashed
⅓ cup very fresh blanched almonds
Extra-virgin olive oil (about ¼ cup)
¼ cup grated grana Padano cheese
Sea salt
½ pound string beans, trimmed and cut in half if really long
1 pound of really tiny Yukon Gold potatoes, left whole (if you can only find bigger ones, cut them in half)

Put up a small pot of water, and bring it to a boil. Add the arugula, and blanch it for about 30 seconds. Drain it, and then plunge it into a bowl of cold water to stop the cooking. This will set its deep green color. Now drain it well, and squeeze it out.

Put the garlic and the almonds in a food processor, and pulse them until well ground. Add the arugula and about ¼ cup of good olive oil. Pulse until blended. Add the grana Padano and a little salt, and pulse again, until the mix is quite smooth. Add a little more olive oil if it seems dry. The pesto is best made shortly before you want to serve it.

Put up a medium-size pot of water, add a little salt, and bring it to a boil. Drop in the string beans, and blanch until crisp-tender, about 2 minutes. Scoop them from the water with a big strainer spoon, and run them under cold water to bring up their green color.

Add the potatoes to the string bean cooking water, and boil until just tender.  Drain them, saving about ½ cup of the cooking water.

Put the string beans and the warm potatoes into a nice looking serving bowl. Add the pesto, and toss, adding enough cooking water to make a creamy coating (probably only a tablespoon or so). Serve right away.

Cucumber Salad with Burnet and Breakfast Radishes

(Serves 4)

1½ English cucumbers (the Persian variety is also good for this, if you can find it), stripe-peeled and cut into thin rounds
3 French breakfast radishes, sliced on an angle
1 red scallion, thinly sliced
2 teaspoons rice wine vinegar
1 teaspoon light soy sauce
1½ tablespoons extra-virgin olive oil
Black pepper
A pinch of sugar
A pinch of piment d’espelette
A handful of salad burnet leaves, stemmed (A few big sprigs of tarragon are also nice here instead, even though their flavor is completely different, or you can use both, a good mix)

Combine the cucumber, radishes, and scallions in a wide serving bowl. Mix the rice wine vinegar, soy, and olive oil together, seasoning with salt, black pepper, a pinch of sugar, and a little espelette. Pour the mixture over the salad, and toss. Scatter on the burnet leaves, and toss gently. Serve now or a little later.


Spring fresco, ca. 1600 B.C., Akrotiri, Greece.

Recipe below: Lamb with Spring Peas, Saffron, and Ginger

When I first tasted a Moroccan lamb couscous I couldn’t completely sort out the foreign, deep sweetness on my tongue. It wasn’t a curry exactly, at least not one of the 6th Street heaps I was used to. It was curry-like but cleaner, I’d say. There was a gentle pull of flavors that never grew weary on my palate the way some too involved curries can. At the time I hadn’t yet been to a good Moroccan restaurant. That first lamb couscous was one I cooked for myself, in the early 80’s, from a recipe in Paula Wolfert’s Couscous and Other Good Food from Morocco. That fall and winter I cooked my way through the entire book. What a mind blower. I had been brought up on excellent Southern Italian food, and what Wolfert was writing about had some similarities, but it went off on a beautiful tangent, adding subtle spices in intriguing ways. I learned that you add only a few spices to any dish. In the case of that lamb couscous, it was the combination of saffron, ginger, and cinnamon that mingled to produce the soft, haunting taste that pulled me right into a new culinary world.

New York’s weather has finally, after a gray and cold six months, turned warm. The daffodils are up. I decided to test a lamb and spring pea recipe in celebration. The root of this particular lamb dish is Sicilian, an Easter stew I’ve made many times, flavoring it traditionally with bay leaf, white wine, and rosemary. This time around I had Paula Wolfert’s Moroccan version in mind. I have to admit I’m occasionally disappointed by the simplicity of Sicilian cooking. I guess I want it to taste more of its long Arab and Moorish past. Sicily has many of the same ingredients—olives, figs, mint, honey, orange flower water, saffron, pistachios, and prickly pears, and they’re all used to make gorgeous food. But for the most part, spices have drifted out of Southern Italian cooking, replaced largely by fresh herbs. I miss the spices.

Sometimes I cook up altered versions of traditional dishes, embellishing them to live up to my fantasies. Here I’ve borrowed my favorite Moroccan triumvirate of flavors—saffron, cinnamon, and ginger—to create a Sicilian-Moroccan hybrid but one with restraint. Adding layers to my familial cooking does give me freedom, but when I fear I’m verging into the realm of betrayal, I pull back. I dread 3 a.m. wake up calls from unrevealed ancestors telling me I’ve gone too far. Ridiculous, but there you are. So any of my Sicilian, Neapolitan, Tunisian, Moroccan hybrid recipes will always make for a fairly seamless blend. Still, I have to say, some of my excursions in this direction have made me very happy.

Happy spring cooking to you.

Lamb with Spring Peas, Saffron, and Ginger

(Serves 4 or 5)

2½ to 3 pounds boneless lamb shoulder, cut into roughly 2-inch cubes
Freshly ground black pepper
A sprinkling of sugar
1 teaspoon ground ginger
1 teaspoon ground cinnamon
Extra-virgin olive oil
1 round white spring onion, chopped, using all of the tender green stem
1 fresh bay leaf
1 tablespoon flour
A big splash of dry white wine
4 cups light chicken broth
A large pinch of saffron threads, dried, ground, and dissolved in a few tablespoons of hot water
4 spring carrots (a variety of colors is nice here), cut into thick rounds
1½ cups freshly shucked spring peas
1 tablespoon runny honey
⅓ cup whole toasted almonds, roughly chopped
About 10 big sprigs of fresh spearmint leaves, stemmed

Dry the lamb well and then toss it in salt, black pepper, sugar, ginger, and cinnamon. Heat a tablespoon or so of olive oil in a large casserole fitted with a lid. When it’s hot, add the lamb, and brown it well on all sides. You might want to do this in batches if the casserole gets too crowded. The lamb should smell of sweet spice. Next add the onion and bay leaf, and sauté, turning the lamb in the onion, until the onion has softened. Sprinkle on the flour, and stir it around so it coats everything well and loses its raw taste. Add the white wine, and let it bubble away. Add the broth and the saffron water. Add water if needed to just cover the meat. Bring everything to a boil.

Turn the heat to low, cover the pot, and simmer for about an hour. Now add the carrots, and continue cooking until the lamb is very tender, about an hour or so longer. Add the peas and the honey, and cook, uncovered, until the peas are just cooked through, about 10 minutes. Check for seasoning, adding salt and definitely a little more fresh black pepper. The broth should be soupy but have a little body from the addition of the flour. Skim the top, turn off the heat, and let the stew sit for a few hours to develop flavor (I find that this will also further tenderize the meat).

When you’re ready to serve it, gently reheat it, and then ladle it out into big bowls, garnished with the almonds and the mint. It will be nice with a side of buttery couscous or grilled bruschetta brushed with olive oil.

And here’s a little Vivaldi for you.


Recipe below: Penne with Peas, Watercress, and Spring Garlic

Spring peas sautéed with delicate lettuce was a highbrow dish in seventeenth-century France, where garden peas were all the rage. It was especially popular with the ladies. The combo is still served in France. When I first heard about peas with lettuce, I found  it odd (why would anyone cook  lettuce?) but also alluring. Certain food pairings that I’ve come across in my studies or just in life have had a strong pull, a tug of the exotic. They’ve gotten embedded in my brain, filed away as beautifully foreign, meaning, I guess, not Southern Italian. Radishes with butter. Pork with prunes. Manchego with quince. Peas with lettuce. Peculiar in concept, but all have made perfect sense once I tasted them.

So here’s peas cooked with Bibb lettuce, a green so delicate that it melts almost into a slime at the slightest touch of heat. As it turns out, that’s a good sort of slime, and it makes for a well-balanced dish, with back tastes of both sweet and bitter. There’s a reason for its longevity.

I played around with this spring pairing, looking to fit it more neatly into my Italian world, and came up with, what else, a pasta dish. I first tried the recipe with Boston lettuce (basically the same as Bibb), cutting it into chiffonade and wilting it into the pasta. I wasn’t crazy about the mouth feel or the mushy look of the result, and the sturdy pasta threw off the naturally delicate balance. I then tried romaine, which looked better, but I didn’t love the taste (I don’t like the dulled-out taste of romaine in much of anything, even in Caesar salad).  Arugula? Too strong against the peas. I finally settled on watercress. I like its unique gentle bitterness, and the dark green of the cress against the lighter green of the peas tosses up nicely with penne.  Pasta e piselli, a classic, but this time with lettuce. Spring is here, finally.


Penne with Peas, Watercress, and Spring Garlic

(Serves 6 a first course)

2 cups shelled peas (from about 1½ pounds of peas in their pods, and save a handful of the pods)
2 cups light chicken broth
Extra-virgin olive oil
A  1/4-inch round of pancetta, well chopped
1  large spring onion, chopped, including the tender green stem
1 stalk spring garlic, chopped, leaving behind any tough part
A few big thyme sprigs, the leaves chopped
A few big scrapings of nutmeg
Black pepper
A splash of dry marsala
1 pound penne
2 bunches watercress, well stemmed
A chunk of Montasio or Piave cheese

Pull out a medium-size pot and put the reserved pea pods in it. Pour on the chicken broth, and bring it to a boil. Turn the heat down, and let it simmer, uncovered, for about 10 minutes. Strain the broth into a cup or a small bowl. It should have a gentle sweet pea aroma.

Set up a pot of pasta cooking water, and bring it to a boil. Add salt. Drop in the penne.

Get out a large sauté pan, and set it over medium heat. Add a drizzle of olive oil and the pancetta, and sauté until crisp. Add the onion, garlic, thyme, and nutmeg, and season with salt and black pepper. Let it all soften and grow fragrant. Now add the peas, turning them around in the soffritto for a minute or so. Add the splash of Marsala, and let it bubble away. Add the chicken broth, and cook until the peas are just tender, about 4 minutes. Turn off the heat, and add 2 tablespoons of butter, stirring it in.

When the penne is al dente, drain it, and add it to the pan with the peas. Toss it all quickly over low heat until everything is well blended.

Pour the penne into a big pasta bowl. Scatter on the watercress. Add a little more salt and black pepper and a few big gratings of the cheese. Toss. The heat of the pasta will lightly wilt the watercress. Serve right away, bringing the rest of the cheese to the table.

And here’s a little video to go with it: