Erica De Mane

Recipes:

Gardiniera with Saffron
Braised endive with Garlic Cream
The Russo Family’s Cinnamon Ravioloni with Tomato and Shallot Sauce
Lobster with Tomato and Brandy
Pork Braciole with Provolone, Parsley, and Capers

In my family, traditional family recipes are not exactly a tradition. Many recipes haven’t been preserved and passed down so much as delegated to the category of no-longer-cooked-but-sometimes-talked-about, or even no-longer-cooked-and-completely-forgotten. Since I seem to have made it my life’s mission to promote the greatness of Southern Italian cooking, I’ve tried to keep my childhood’s flavors alive by cooking dishes like my mother’s baby meatballs with string beans and potatoes. That was something that I loved very much as a kid but that my mother doesn’t have much interest in now (I’ve had a recipe for it on this Web site since Fall 2000). I realize I make it a little different from my mother’s version, since my memory is imperfect and fantasy tends to prevail over fact when I’m in the kitchen anyway (I add pine nuts and pancetta and white wine, ingredients I’m pretty sure didn’t play a part in the original).

Beyond such recipes that have fallen from use in my lifetime, I have another layer of food memories knocking around; hearsay recipes. They are more ghostly. They’re mainly dishes my mother remembers from her childhood but never cooked herself. Her parents both died young, and much of their cooking slipped through her fingers. I’ve since tried recreating several very enticing-sounding dishes from her memory, such as a sweet cinnamon ravioloni her Sicilian grandmother used to make. It was a great family favorite, and it has now come back into her life (with a few alterations) and, luckily, into mine.

For me preserving family recipes also means discovering for the first time the origins of traditional family tastes. When I first visited the town of Castelfranco in Miscano, where everyone on my father’s side was born, I saw why my grandmother’s meatballs contained raisins, and why she added wild dandelions to her soups, but I also discovered many dishes in and around that dry little hill town on the border of Puglia and Campania that were new to me, like pasta with fava beans and onions, cooked without a trace of tomato. I learned that antipasto dishes like the sharp, vinegary vegetable giardiniera my grandfather always ate out of store-bought jars, or the cans of eggplant caponata we had stacked in the pantry, could in fact be nuanced and exotic when homemade.

My trips to Castelfranco, to Sicily, and to other parts of Southern Italy have kept broadening my thinking about Southern Italian cooking and inspiring me to create new family traditions. My mother’s classic fish-based Christmas Eve dinner always consisted of Italian-American standards like linguine with clam sauce and garlicky scampi. I still cook many of those same dishes for the holidays, but over the years I’ve developed my own family favorites. I now include braised endive with anchovy cream every Thanksgiving, and puréed salt cod with black olives, and a ricotta and tomato tart, on Christmas Eve. My husband and friends know they can look forward to those every year. (The ricotta and tomato tart recipe went up on this site in Fall 2001.)

Traditions have been loosely held in my world, but that’s not so bad. I’m sure I’d never have felt compelled to wander all over Southern Italy, or to track down old family recipes with such fervor, if a perfectly complete past had been handed to me intact. Here are a few of the new found and newly minted recipes that I’ve recently added to my evolving repertoire of family favorites. I hope you’ll enjoy them.

Gardiniera with Saffron

Little pickled vegetables are popular throughout Southern Italy, where they’re usually eaten alongside something rich and fatty like soppressata. Giardiniera, which means garden-style, is the name for a pickled vegetable assortment that usually includes cauliflower, carrot, sometimes celery or fennel, and hot or sweet peppers. My grandfather bought jars of Progresso giardiniera and ate it in the morning. I got the feeling that along with raw eggs, which he sucked out through little holes in their shells, giardiniera was his idea of a hangover remedy. The jarred versions from my childhood were none too subtle. When I make my own, I produce a kinder, gentler version. This recipe is scented with saffron. That’s not traditional, but saffron’s aromatic bitterness blends well with vinegar, so I think it’s a good addition.

(Makes about 2 cups of giardiniera)

About a half of a small cauliflower, cut into small flowerets
2 carrots peeled, 2 celery stalks, a large fennel bulb, and a large red bell pepper, all cut into chunks about the same size as the cauliflower.
2 garlic cloves, peeled but left whole
A cup of dry white wine
A cup of high quality white wine vinegar (I like using champagne vinegar for its delicate flavor)
2 tablespoons of sugar
A large pinch of saffron threads, ground to a powder with a mortar and pestle
A bay leaf
About 10 fennel seeds
Salt

Put up a large pot of water and bring it to a boil. Drop in all the vegetables, including the garlic, and boil for about 3 minutes. Drain them into a colander and run cold water over them to stop the cooking and to bring up their colors. Let them drain well and then place the vegetables in a large bowl.

In a medium sauce pot, pour in the white wine and the vinegar. Add the sugar, saffron, bay leaf, fennel seeds, and a generous pinch of salt. Bring this to a boil over high heat, lower the heat to medium, and let the mixture bubble for about 5 minutes.

Pour the vinegar mixture over the vegetables and toss everything well. Taste for seasoning. It should be highly seasoned and, because of all the other strong flavors, can take a fair amount of salt. Cover the bowl with plastic wrap and refrigerate it overnight (this allows the liquid to permeate the vegetables, deepening their flavors). Now it’s ready to serve.

I like giardiniera not only with cured meats like soppressata or capocolla, but as an accompaniment to strong cheeses like provolone, or even with meat stews, to cut the richness.

Braised Endive with Garlic Cream

Thanksgiving dinner at my grandparents’ always involved a brazen mix of dishes: Waldorf salad with canned tangerine sections and marshmallows; artichokes filled with sausage; lasagna with ricotta and tomatoes; sweet potatoes baked with pineapple chunks; cranberry sauce; a huge overcooked turkey; a big bowl of raw fennel and olives; pumpkin pie; and fried struffoli. It left me, even as a kid, confused and exhausted, with a sense of missing the natural flow of things.

Now when I work out my Thanksgiving menu, it tends to fall naturally into turkey and a few Southern Italian­style vegetable dishes. Endive is not a vegetable I recall ever eating anywhere in Southern Italy, but it is a member of the chicory family, with that bitter quality so beloved in the South. It marries beautifully with sweet, slow-cooked garlic, and together they’ve become a new addition to my Thanksgiving table.

(Serves 4 or 5)

1 large garlic clove, minced
A pint of non-ultrapasteurized heavy cream
Salt
Freshly ground black pepper
A few scrapings of fresh nutmeg
2 tablespoons of unsalted butter
Extra virgin olive oil
8 Belgian endives, any bruised outer leaves removed and the stem end trimmed, but otherwise left whole
A few thyme sprigs, the leaves chopped
About 3 tablespoons of freshly grated young pecorino
A handful of flat-leaf parsley leaves, lightly chopped

Preheat the oven to 375 degrees.

In a small bowl, mix the cream with the garlic. Season with salt, black pepper, and nutmeg. Give it a stir and let sit, unrefrigerated, while you get on with the recipe (this will allow the garlic to open up and release its flavor).

In a skillet large enough to hold all the endives in one layer, heat the butter and a drizzle of olive oil over a medium flame. Add the endives, the thyme, and a pinch of salt, and sauté the endives, turning them occasionally until they’re golden all over.

Place the endives in a nice-looking baking dish that will fit them snugly (I used an eight-by-twelve-inch ceramic dish). Pour the garlic cream over the top, cover with aluminum foil, and bake for 45 minutes. Uncover the dish and spoon some of the cream over the endive. Sprinkle the top with the pecorino and put the dish back in the oven, uncovered; then bake until it is bubbling and the top has lightly browned, about another 15 minutes. By now the cream will have reduced and the endives will be very tender, with the top lightly browned. Garnish with parsley and serve.

The Russo Family’s Cinnamon Ravioloni with Tomato and Shallot Sauce

My mother’s father was Sicilian, but she doesn’t much care to talk about old family recipes, perhaps because both her parents died very young. She’ll remember pieces of dishes in a vague way and then not want to discuss them further when I ask for details. Here’s one she remembers more vividly, evidently because some of the Italian ladies in her neighborhood would talk about how unusual the seasoning was (I suppose that was their idea of gossip). This was a dish of big raviolis filled with a slightly sweet cinnamon-scented ricotta (the other women used nutmeg, and no sugar). I’ve recreated it from my mother’s memory, and she says I’ve got the taste pretty much on target. She says she usually had it dressed with homemade tomato paste that her grandmother dried on boards in her Connecticut backyard, maybe thinned with a little water. She says the paste was so concentrated it was almost black. That’s not to my taste, so I’ve come up with a lighter sauce.

(Serves 4 as a first course)

For the pasta:

3 1/2 cups all-purpose flour, plus more for kneading and rolling
4 large eggs
A pinch of salt
A drizzle of extra-virgin olive oil

For the filling:

1 1/2 cups ricotta, drained
1 large egg
A pinch of ground cinnamon (less than 1/8 teaspoon, as you want only a hint of it)
About 1/2 teaspoon sugar
2 tablespoons grated Grana Padano cheese, plus a chunk to bring to the table
Freshly ground black pepper
Salt

For the sauce:

Extra-virgin olive oil
2 shallots, thinly sliced
1 35-ounce can of plum tomatoes, chopped, with the juice
Salt
Freshly ground black pepper

Make the pasta: Mound the flour out on a work surface and make a big hole in the middle of it. Crack the eggs into the hole and add a little salt and a drizzle of olive oil. Start mixing the flour into the eggs with a fork, pulling in flour from the sides. When you have a mass of sticky dough balls, start working them together with your hands until you have a nice big ball, continuing to pull in flour as you do. Flour another work area and tip the dough ball out onto it, leaving behind any little bits of dough and flour that have not been incorporated. Now knead the dough until it is smooth and satiny, about 5 or 6 minutes. Cover the dough with plastic wrap and let it rest for about a half an hour.

While the dough is resting, mix all the ingredients for the filling together in a bowl. The filling should be very slightly sweet with a subtle cinnamon edge, but it will also have a salty note from the pecorino. Put the bowl in the refrigerator while you roll out the pasta (this will firm it up a bit, making it easier to fill the ravioloni with).

Divide the dough into four pieces, keeping each covered with plastic wrap until you work with it, so it doesn’t dry out. Run a piece of the dough through the widest setting on a hand-cranked pasta machine two times. Start running it through thinner and thinner settings until you get to the next to last setting and the pasta is very thin and smooth. Lay the pasta sheets out on a floured surface. Roll out another piece of dough in the same way and lay it alongside the other one. Drop heaping tablespoons of the ricotta filling at even intervals on one of the pasta strips. Place the other pasta strip on top and press around the filling to get rid of any air pockets. Cut the pasta into approximately 2 1/2- or 3-inch squares and seal the edges all around with the tines of a fork, making a little ridged pattern. (This is how my grandmother made hers; I frequently use a 3-inch ravioli cutter, which is very convenient but makes them all uniform, so when I want a real old-fashioned look, I do them by hand.) You should get about 16 to 18 ravioloni. Lay the ravioloni out on a well-floured sheet pan. Roll out the remaining two pieces of dough and make and fill the ravioloni in the same fashion. Cover them all loosely with a towel to keep them moist. I would also turn them over once if they sit for more than an hour (they can sometimes get soggy and stick to the sheet pan). If they need to sit for longer than a few hours, refrigerate them, loosely covered.

To make the sauce, heat a few tablespoons of olive oil over medium heat in a large skillet. Add the shallots and let them soften for about 3 or 4 minutes. Add the tomatoes, season with salt and black pepper, and simmer at a low bubble, stirring frequently for about 15 minutes. Add the parsley.

When you’re ready to serve the ravioloni, set up a large pot of pasta cooking water and bring it to a boil. Add a generous amount of salt. Add the ravioloni and boil them just until they float to the surface, about 3 or 4 minutes. Scoop them from the water with a large strainer, letting all the cooking water drip off, and place them on a large warmed platter (Pouring them into a colander might break them apart; this method is much gentler.) Pour the sauce over the top and drizzle everything with fresh olive oil. Serve right away, bringing a chunk of Grana Padano to the table for grating.

Lobster with Tomato and Brandy

I’ve never understood the idea of drenching sweet, delicate lobster in an intensely spicy tomato sauce, fra diavolo­style, either with hot peppers or with a lot of black pepper; I find that this defeats the lobster’s reason for being (or for being eaten, at least). A Christmas Eve dish my mother’s father made was lobster simmered in a rich, boozy tomato sauce with no peppers. Here is my version, based on my mother’s recollections.

For the best texture, I should be adding raw cut-up lobster to the sauce, but after working in a restaurant where I was ordered to chop cratefuls of live lobsters, sometimes a hundred at a time, and bursting into tears on one occasion at the overwhelming carnage of the task, I don’t think I can ever butcher even one of them live again. So I boil them, whole, until they’re about half-cooked, and then chop them up. It is admittedly a compromise solution, but it works pretty well to achieve the velvety, tender texture you want for the dish.

(Serves 4 as a main course)

Extra-virgin olive oil
3 garlic cloves, very thinly sliced, plus a whole garlic clove for the bruschetta
2 bay leaves, fresh if possible
A few generous gratings of nutmeg
A tiny pinch of ground clove
Salt (sea salt is a nice touch here)
1 35-ounce can diced plum tomatoes (Muir Glen is my favorite brand)
1/2 cup low-salt canned chicken broth (or a very light fish broth)
Freshly ground black pepper
4 live 1 1/2-pound lobsters
Four tablespoons unsalted butter
A small wineglass of brandy or cognac
A few sprigs of tarragon, the leaves lightly chopped
A generous handful of basil leaves, lightly chopped, plus a few whole sprigs for garnish
A large handful of pine nuts, lightly toasted

Set up a very large lobster pot full of water and bring it to a boil.

Meanwhile in a large skillet heat about 3 tablespoons of olive oil over a medium flame. Add the garlic and sauté briefly, just until it gives off its aroma, about a minute or so. Add the bay leaves, nutmeg, clove, the tomatoes, and the chicken broth, and cook uncovered at a lively simmer for about 5 minutes (you want the sauce to stay fresh and brightly colored, so don’t let it go any longer). Season with salt and ground black pepper. Turn off the heat.

Add a heaping tablespoon of sea salt to the water, let it return to a hard boil, and drop in the lobsters. Cover the pot and boil for 5 minutes (they will be almost half cooked). Lift the lobsters from the water and let them cool enough so you can handle them. Pull off their claws and hit each claw with a hammer to crack it (cover the claws with a kitchen towel first, so shell fragments don’t fly all over the place). Do this over a large plate or something that will catch all the juices. Cut the bodies in half lengthwise, also making sure no juices get away. Add all the lobster juices to the skillet, and stir them into the sauce.

In a very large skillet that will hold all the lobster pieces and the sauce, melt the butter over medium high heat (you can use two skillets if you need to). Add the lobster pieces (shell still on), placing the bodies flesh side down, and sauté them in the butter for about a minute. Season with a pinch of salt and more generously with black pepper, and pour on the brandy or cognac, letting it bubble until it is almost evaporated. Pour on the tomato sauce, and stir to blend it. Turn the heat down to low and let everything simmer for about 5 minutes, just to finish cooking the lobster and blend the flavors. Turn the lobster pieces over and add the chopped tarragon and the basil. The sauce should be a little brothy and studded with chunks of tomato. Taste for seasoning.

Place the lobster pieces in a wide, shallow serving bowl, and pour the sauce over them. Sprinkle with the toasted pine nuts, and garnish with basil sprigs. Serve hot.

Pork Braciole with Provolone, Parsley, and Capers

The aroma of parsley mingling with that of an assertive grating cheese like provolone is a kitchen smell from my childhood that still plays an important roll in some of my recipes. My mother always made braciole (stuffed meat rolls) with beef, but I prefer pork for it, because that meat seems to cook up juicier and retain more taste after long simmering (beef gives up a lot of its flavor to the sauce).

A note about the pork for this recipe: At Faicco’s butcher shop on New York’s Bleecker Street, where I buy all my pork products, they slice the braciole from the shoulder cut. Usually the slices measure about five inches by six and weigh more than half a pound apiece. However, smaller slices work just as well for this recipe. If the slices are a little thick, I thin them with a meat pounder. For easy rolling, you want them no thicker than about an eighth of an inch.

You’ll need kitchen string for this recipe

(Serves 4)

1 garlic clove
A large bunch of flat-leaf parsley, stemmed (about a cup of packed leaves), plus a small handful of whole leaves reserved for garnish
A large handful of salt-packed capers, soaked for about 20 minutes in several changes of water and rinsed
3/4 cup grated provolone cheese (try to find a imported Southern Italian cheese, not a domestic brand, which can be salty and lacking in finesse)
Salt
A few pinches of ground cayenne pepper
Extra-virgin olive oil
About 3 pounds of pork, cut for braciole (see above)
3 medium shallots, cut into small dice
2 cloves, ground to a powder in a mortar and pestle
A bay leaf
A wineglass of dry white wine
A 35-ounce can of plum tomatoes, well chopped, with the juice

Place the garlic, parsley, and capers in the bowl of a food processor and pulse briefly until roughly chopped (you don’t want a paste). Transfer the mixture into a small bowl and add the grated provolone, a pinch of salt (not much, since the cheese and capers will be slightly salty), the cayenne pepper, and a drizzle of olive oil. Mix everything together.

Lay the pork slices out on a work surface. Spoon a heaping tablespoon of filling onto each slice and spread it out to about 1/4 inch from the end all around. Roll up the braciole lengthwise and tie each in about 3 or 4 places with string. They’ll look like they’re a lot of meat, but they’ll shrink down considerably during cooking.

Choose a casserole fitted with a lid and big enough to hold all the braciole and the sauce. Heat a few tablespoons of olive oil in it over medium heat. Season the braciole with salt and a pinch of cayenne and place them in the casserole. Take your time to brown them well all over (the browning will add great flavor to the sauce). Scatter on the shallots and season the meat with the ground cloves. Sauté a few minutes longer, just until the shallots have softened and given off flavor.

Add the white wine and let it boil for a couple of minutes, scraping up any cooked-on juices from the bottom of the casserole. Add the tomatoes and a pinch more salt. The braciole should be almost completely covered by the liquid (just poking out a little); if they’re not, add a bit of warm water. Cover the casserole, lower the heat, and simmer, turning the braciole occasionally, until they are very tender, about 2 hours. You’ll need to skim the surface once or twice during cooking. Uncover the casserole for the last half hour of cooking so the sauce can reduce.

When you’re ready to serve the braciole, lift them from the casserole onto a cutting surface. The sauce should be reduced to a medium thickness (it is not meant to be a dense tomato sauce). If it seems a little too liquid, boil it over high heat for a few minutes. You also may need to give the surface a quick skim. Taste for seasoning, adding another little pinch of cayenne pepper if you like and a little salt if needed. Remove the string from the braciole, and cut them into approximately 1/4-inch slices on a slight angle. Place them on a warmed serving plate and spoon a little of the sauce over the top (you can pour the remaining sauce into a small serving bowl and bring it to the table). Garnish the plate with the whole parsley leaves.

It’s customary to serve pasta dressed with the braciole sauce as a first course and then serve the meat second. You can certainly do this if you like, but I prefer to forgo the pasta and instead offer a dish of roasted potatoes or rice, bringing the extra sauce to the table so guests can use it to pour on the rice or to sop it up with bread.