Erica De Mane

Recipe below: Migliaccio

Ricotta is one of the defining tastes of my life. Yes it’s white and mushy, but its milky, sweet fragrance, with an almost undetectable acidity, has embedded itself in my soul. I think that underlying acid is what makes it unmistakable, plain out of the tub. Scent it with pecorino and parsley in a filling for manicotti, or with orange flower water and cinnamon for an Easter cake, and it moves from familiar to transcendent.

For years I’ve made two types of ricotta cake. One, usually a pastiera, has a crust and a lattice top, is firm with whole eggs, and sometimes has candied citron, orange flower water, and wheat berries, which are a necessity if you want to call it a pastiera. The other is a crustless cake made light with whipped egg whites and scented with lemon and orange zest. It collapses a bit when cooled, like an hour-old soufflé. Now I’ve added a third, migliaccio, a ricotta cake that falls somewhere in between.

Migliaccio is a Neapolitan specialty that’s cooked up for Carnevale. I’ve known about it for a long time, but somehow I figured it was close enough to the ones I already had in my repertoire not to bother with. However, the name stuck in my head, coming up every so often to say, cook me. Finally this Christmas Eve I did. What a wonderful thing it turned out to be, firm enough to stand on its own without the support of a crust, but delicate in the mouth. The addition of semolina flour somehow smoothed out the ricotta, which could have been grainy, creating a springy pillow of love.

Miglio is Italian for millet, and evidently this cake was originally made with that, not semolina. Even the ricotta is a later addition. When I researched modern-day recipes, I found them all pretty similar. You cook the semolina in a mix of milk and water, producing something similar to the first stages of cream puff pastry. This step seems essential, or at least traditional. I’m not sure why the water is in there, but I went with it because I was told to. Another tradition is simmering a whole lemon peel in the milk. That makes for an elegant visual, but I don’t find that it provides much flavor, so I grated the zest instead, to release more of its oil.

This cake is usually flavored with lemon, sometimes a shot of limoncello, and vanilla, a fragrant Southern Italian staple. I found I wanted the aroma of anisette, so I went with that, underlining it with a big pinch of star anise. The smell while it baked was just what I imagined, exactly what I wanted. Christmas at my grandparents’ house. All that was missing was the odor of Pop’s cigar smoke.

Migliaccio

(Serves 8 to 10)

2 cups whole milk
1 3/4 cups water
4 tablespoons unsalted butter, plus a little more for the pan
The grated zest from 1 large lemon
A big pinch of salt
¼ teaspoon freshly ground star anise
1 cup semolina
4 large eggs
1 cup sugar
12 ounces whole milk ricotta
2 tablespoons anisette
2 teaspoons good quality vanilla extract
Powdered sugar

Preheat the oven to 350 degrees.

Butter a 9-inch springform pan.

Pour the milk and water into a saucepan. Add the butter, the lemon zest, the star anise, and a big pinch of salt. Bring to a boil over medium-high heat.

Turn the heat down a touch, and add the semolina, stirring all the while. Let it all cook, stirring to prevent lumps, for about 5 minutes, after which you’ll have a sticky paste.

While letting the semolina cool a bit, combine the eggs and sugar, and blend them in a standing mixer until they’re lightly colored, about 2 minutes. Add the ricotta, the anisette, and the vanilla, and blend just until it all comes together. Add the semolina mixture to the ricotta, and blend quickly to combine.

Pour the batter into the pan, and bake it for 50 minutes to an hour. At the end the top should be lightly brown, the sides firm, and the middle a bit soft. It will firm up as it cools. When it’s cool, dust its top with powdered sugar.