Erica De Mane

Recipe below: Cavatelli with Artichoke, Saffron, and Ginger

I’ve been dealing with some deep family troubles involving mental illness, luckily not my own. In an effort to have the “not my own” stick, I’ve been trying to carve out cubes of time free from the trouble. It’s not easy, but as an optimist, I’m not giving up. Today I’m thinking about artichokes.

Italy’s artichoke season reaches full swing in March. I’ve taken many of my Italy trips then, mainly because it’s off-season and cheaper. I recall a lunch at a steamy little trattoria in Genoa on a chilly day in early March—grilled calamari, wine, and the main event was slim, long-stemmed, pointy artichokes braised in olive oil, basil, and garlic. They were the best artichokes I’d ever tasted. What a fine day. I love Genoa. After lunch, on my way out, I was offered a big bouquet of mimosa flowers, in celebration of International Women’s Day, which is March 8. That was so unexpected. I didn’t know Europeans like to bestow flowers on that day. I felt honored and drunk. Mimosas in Italy are completely different from the feathery, fragrant, silk-like pink-and-white flowers that grow here, for instance on a small tree in front of the building next door to my New York City apartment (we also had one of those trees in our backyard on Long Island when I was a kid). At the Genoa restaurant I was handed a big bunch of fluffy yellow balls. Voluptuous.

Since that long-ago lunch I’ve kept up a romance with artichokes. The Northeast doesn’t do artichokes. All ours come from California, mostly from big growers, and in my experience only the big globe variety, the ones my mother used to stuff with sausage and breadcrumbs for Thanksgiving, make it to New York. In my mother’s preparation the artichoke was like an afterthought. There’s not much flavor in those hulking green balls, and there’s no real season for them here, not like in Italy, where they’re a fleeting late winter to early spring treasure. Here they’re grown all year except in August, when it’s too hot. Why can’t we raise those beautiful Ligurian artichokes (they’re actually a Sardinian variety)? Can’t someone grow them?

Annoyed though I am by the lack of romance in my local artichoke selection, I don’t stop cooking what I find here. I always look for the little “baby” ones that occasionally show up. Those little guys aren’t really babies. They’re siblings of the big globe types that grow lower down the stems. They don’t have the rich sweet bitter taste of the Italian ones, but at least they have no developed choke, so they’re easy to clean.

This week I found a big bag of baby artichokes at my supermarket. They felt a bit flabby, but I figured they’d be okay, so I decided to use them in a pasta dish. I love artichokes with saffron, a truly beautiful combination. I added fresh ginger, sort of a Venetian touch. The pasta came out really well, but the flavors I added were mostly what carried it. If you find even better artichokes than I used, this should be truly excellent.

Cavatelli with Artichoke, Saffron, and Ginger

(Serves 4)

A big pinch of saffron threads
1 cup light chicken stock or vegetable stock
Extra-virgin olive oil
2 dozen or so baby artichokes, trimmed down to the tender leaves, cut in half, and dropped into a bowl of cold water, adding the juice of 2 lemons
2 medium shallots, cut into small dice
Sea salt
1 garlic clove, sliced
6 or 7 sprigs thyme, the leaves chopped
1 green jalapeño pepper, minced, with the seeds
1 1-inch piece fresh ginger, minced (I don’t bother to peel it)
A big splash of dry sake or dry vermouth
1 pound cavatelli
The grated zest from a large lemon
A big handful of basil or mint leaves, lightly chopped
A chunk of pecorino Toscano cheese

If your saffron is moist (as it should be), put it in a small pan, and heat it gently over a low flame for about 30 seconds. This will firm it up enough so you can grind it in a mortar and pestle. Do so, and then sprinkle the ground saffron into the chicken or vegetable stock, and give it a good stir. The stock should turn a light pink.

Set up a pot of pasta cooking water over high heat.

While the water is coming to a boil, set a large sauté pan over medium heat, and drizzle in about 1½ tablespoons of olive oil. When the oil is hot, drain the artichokes, and add them to the pan, along with the shallots. Sprinkle with a little salt, and sauté until everything is fragrant and starting to soften, about 3 minutes. Add the garlic, thyme, jalapeno, and ginger, and continue cooking to release all their flavors, about another 3 minutes.  

Add a good amount of salt to the boiling pasta water, and drop in the cavatelli.

Add the sake or vermouth to the artichokes, and let it bubble for a few seconds. Then add the chicken broth with saffron, and cook, uncovered, until the artichokes are just tender, another 5 minutes or so.

When the pasta is al dente, drain it, and pour it into a large serving bowl. Drizzle on a bit of fresh olive oil, and toss briefly. Add the artichoke sauce, and sprinkle on the lemon zest. Scatter on the basil or mint, and toss again. Check for seasoning, adding more salt, if needed. Grate on a little pecorino, and bring the pasta to the table, along with the rest of the cheese for anyone who might want more.