Erica De Mane

Scallops seared on only one side, so they’re crisp but meltingly tender throughout.

Recipes:

Watercress Salad with Sautéed Apples, Pine Nuts, and Bra Dura Cheese
Seared Sea Scallops with Watercress, Farro, and Green Olivata

I’ve been fascinated with watercress ever since I was introduced to a wild patch growing in a little stream in the Catskills near where we from time to time rent a cabin. I knew watercress had to exist up there, with all the shallow roadside trickles of water. I could sense its presence, but for years, even with all my searching in spots that seemed promising, it eluded me.

That part of the Catskills is a place where in the 1950s and ’60s many French food professionals settled and opened restaurants, mostly people from Brittany. Most of the restaurants have now closed, but many of the people are still scattered around. One French lady, a former pastry chef and somewhat morbid type who I often noticed taking her constitutionals near our cabin, had for years been keeping the location of a big watercress patch to herself. She’d occasionally show up at the cabins with little bags full, as a gift to the proprietress, but she wouldn’t let anyone know where the spot was, and frankly I think I’m the only one who really cared. She knew I was a cook, and she’d occasionally brag to me about some leek gratin or plum tart she had just cooked up. Finally one day, for no apparent reason, she told me where the patch was (she still won’t divulge her spots for morels and ramps, and I’m not gonna push that).

I could barely contain my excitement when I first laid eyes on the watercress. It’s a prolific patch, sprouting up in April and getting bigger and lusher into the summer. The watercress is peppery, deep green, and absolutely delicious in that gentle bitter way that I and most Italians (and apparently French) love. The thick stems near the roots are hollow, and they seem very delicately hinged to the watery earth. I have to be careful about pulling them up, since the plant is easy to uproot, so I usually bring scissors and clip the tender, leafy stems. Around late summer the watercress starts blossoming with little white flowers, and at that time it turns a little too bitter, but I still love it, using it more in soups and sautés than in salads.

Here are two recent watercress creations of mine that came out especially well. They were made not with my own foraged watercress but with $6-a-bunch wild watercress from the Union Square Greenmarket (which may very well have come from a patch near my special Catskills spot). (more…)

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A springtime treat: soft-shell crabs, crisp and juicy, on a warm escarole salad.

Recipes:

Soft-Shell Crabs with Warm Escarole, Potato, and Lemon Salad
Whole Wheat Penne with Asparagus, Pancetta, and Green Jalapeño

My new goal is to try to replace about 75 percent of the refined carbohydrates in my diet (white rice, white bread, white spaghetti, white ziti, cannolis, and so on) with green vegetables, mostly of the leafy variety, either cooked or in salads. When I really stick to this I lose weight and feel good, since I not only cut down on my sugar intake but load up on Omega-3 fatty acids from all the greens. I feel pretty good about all those vegetables—except when I think about the cannolis and ziti I could be eating.

Working more vegetables into my life has really not been hard at all, especially since I grew up on leafy greens, bitter and otherwise but almost always prepared in a way that made them delicious. It’s the Southern Italian way, whether you live in Basilicata or in Greenwich, Connecticut. My grandmother picked dandelions, watercress, mystery weeds she insisted were edible, and all sorts of sprouting stuff from golf courses and neighbors’ backyards in Westchester County. It was humiliating for the family, but she couldn’t be stopped, she said. Her health would be in jeopardy, although her health was probably actually in more jeopardy from all the weed killer and bug spray and dog pee she ingested along with her greens. But she lived to be 99, so I guess she was doing something right. Maybe the gallons of fizzy purple Riunite Lambrusco she drank along with all the weeds canceled out all the bug spray.

Whole grains, green vegetables, small amounts of meat and fish: That’s a great diet. And wine, of course. Not Riunite if you can help it; drink really good wine with your vegetables. It’ll make you forget about all the cannolis and fettuccine Alfredo you’re missing. A good Southern Italian white for both these dishes is the Fiano di Avellino made by the great producer Mastroberardino, in Campania. It’s light and incredibly refreshing but has a slight honey taste that gives it richness and unique Southern Italian character (Fiano is an ancient Southern Italian grape).

In my continuing effort to provide you with the most delicious, slimming recipes, loaded with the Italian flavors you crave, here are two more good ones to keep you sleek and elegant and also very healthy. (more…)

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Purposeful exercise, Italian-style.

I haven’t lost much weight from exercise, at least not from the type of routine I’ve fallen into lately, twenty minutes once of week on one of those hamster wheels. I think to really make a dent in your load you need to exercise a lot, every day, running in circles or cycling in one place for hours. But I find that kind of exercise soul-deadening. Maybe if I had a stronger sense of self, I wouldn’t let it get to me.

When I was in my twenties I spent most nights dancing at clubs. That was an amazing freedom, certainly nothing I ever viewed as exercise but rather movement driven by a mysterious purpose, something most people would label as purely sexual, but I didn’t think of it that way, since it was done mostly at gay clubs with no potential dates in sight. It was purely artistic expression.

A few years ago, with the memory of my old club days in mind, I decided I once again needed to exercise with a purpose other than slimming my thighs. Flamenco was what I settled on, for no particular reason other than that I liked the outfits, especially the Mary Jane–style shoes with the nails in them. This is an intense solitary dance, quite regimented even though in performance it looks freewheeling. I quickly got caught up in a Moorish fantasy, but it burned itself out after about 8 months, because ultimately it wasn’t me, plus my left heel got inflamed from all the pounding, so I could barely walk. I called it quits. I then went on to ballet, something I had studied as a child and thought must be imbedded in my brain, like an early language. But when you’re twelve it’s one thing. Ballet in middle age with obviously no intention of becoming a ballet dancer is one of the most miserable, pointless, and painful pursuits imaginable. I felt like a Zelda Fitzgerald in the making, and it scared me.

After some soul search I finally decided on something closer to my Southern Italian ancient heritage. The tarantella would be my next pursuit. This is a fantasy for most Southern Italian girls at some point in their lives (isn’t it?), with all its out-of-control screaming and jumping. But I discovered that there are two tarantellas, one a graceful Neapolitan courtship dance, something I was definitely not interested in, and the other, from Puglia, the highly agitated dance supposedly performed by a victim of tarantula bite, the dance I had in mind. That’s a convulsive fit that could engulf an Southern Italian neighborhood in dancing mania, with its music working its way from hysterical to soothing and finally, after hours of shaking and screaming, to harmony in the town and a cure. This was my kind of dance, but to my astonishment there seemed to be no lessons for it available in Manhattan.

As much as I could relate spiritually to the tarantella, I think I actually get most of my true, quality exercise from lugging heavy grocery bags around town. That seems, as much as I hate to admit it, an exercise most dear to my heart. It’s the most honorable exercise for a cook. It has the highest purpose.

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A perfect dish; hot, crispy, cool, and refreshing.

Recipe: Pork Scallopine with Parsley and Grape Tomato Salad

Whenever I go to an Italian restaurant and crave something luxurious but still want to stick to my low-carb, vegetable-heavy diet, I order scallopine topped with salad. Many restaurants in New York serve versions of it, especially places that like to think of themselves as Tuscan. I’ve had the dish made with a deluxe, bone-in veal chop pounded so thin it’s wider than the plate and then crisp-sautéed and topped with a tangle of raw shaved zucchini; I’ve also had a much humbler version made with a hammered-out chicken breast topped with a little mesclun. The most common version is boneless veal scallopine, breaded and crisp-sautéed and then covered with an arugula and cherry tomato salad. To me just about any variation is alluring. The mix of hot, crispy scallopine with the vinegary sparkle of a cool salad makes for an extremely satisfying dinner.

The dish is very easy to turn out at home too. I like making mine with pork, just for a change, since it stays very juicy when quick-cooked. I leave a tiny amount of fat around the edges, which crisps up nicely. I vary the salad part, depending on my mood. Here I use a big handful of flat-leaf Italian parsley, which I love, and whose flavor I feel is underrated. (more…)

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Swiss chard gets a quick sauté to heighten its flavor.

Recipes:

Cauliflower with Capers and Brown Butter

Swiss Chard with Yellow Raisins, Pine Nuts, and Marsala

Escarole with Anchovies, Cumin Seeds, and Garlic

When I began cutting back on the carbohydrates, I didn’t fill the void with big amounts of protein, as I assumed I would. Instead I started preparing more vegetables to replace all the rice, potatoes, and pasta that had formerly crowded my plate. I attribute this perversion to my Italian-American upbringing. We really loved vegetables in our house. My father had a beloved little garden that he tended with a vengeance, and a lot of ceremony went into preparing and presenting all sorts of vegetables that my non-Italian friends probably viewed as evil—dandelions, broccoli rabe, cauliflower, escarole. I loved all that stuff.

Don’t get me wrong. When I was a kid I ate a lot of crap, Pop-Tarts and the like, but my mother, being a Southern Italian, always insisted on cooking unusual greens and serving a salad with every meal, all stuff loaded with Omega 3 fatty acids, although I’m sure she didn’t know that at the time. I loved her vegetables, her broccoli rabe with garlic and fennel seeds, her string beans with fresh tomatoes and basil, her spinach with raisins, her escarole with hot chilies and garlic.

The trick to working more vegetables into your life is making them outrageously appealing. That’s where Skinny Guinea comes in. There’s nothing less Italian in spirit, culinarily speaking, than a plate of steamed vegetables, and there’s just about nothing more boring. I’ve seen so many dieters get into the steamed-vegetables rut, to punish themselves, I imagine. They steam them, and then they don’t eat them, because they’re so dismal and watery, so they wind up eating a loaf of bread instead. Not good. In the Italian world, vegetables were made to be adorned. A quick sauté in good olive oil does wonders in coaxing out flavor. Roasting and grilling are other good approaches. In fact, any quick cooking method that lightly caramelizes a vegetable’s surface will improve its taste. (more…)

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My idea of a fine runway model.

A bill now working its way through the French Parliament would ban websites that promote eating disorders through “thinspiration” and starvation tips. I’m sure, since it’s a French bill, it was partly inspired by all the somewhat unappealing bony models who walk the Parisian catwalks, particularly that one sad Brazilian model who died from anorexia a few years back.

Skinny Guinea advocates an Italian lifestyle, and that means looking and feeling good without deprivation. Skinny Guinea embraces the classic Italian body type for women: curvy, with a little padding in all the right places. To achieve this look, it is essential that you eat really great Italian food and enjoy it immensely. You just don’t want to be a pig about it.

The photo above of Claudia Cardinale gives a good example of what I’m talking about. Okay, the waist is impossible, probably all girdled in and hence exaggeratedly small, so don’t worry about that too much. But the hips and thighs, especially the thighs, would give Karl Lagerfeld an aneurysm. This girl could not set foot on a Prada runway. So be it. We love her.

If you’re interested in looking more like Claudia Cardinale than Mary-Kate Olsen, you’ve come to the right place. Stay tuned for upcoming Skinny Guinea spring recipes to keep you looking and feeling properly and proportionally Italian.

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Crispy salmon with Sicilian flavors.

Recipe:

Oven-Seared Salmon with Orange and Fennel Whole Wheat Couscous

Salmon, it’s a wonder food, right? Isn’t it the diet Dr. Perricone insists on? If you eat nothing but salmon and broccoli, you’ll be smooth-skinned, sleek, and gorgeous? Salmon is a lovely fish, but it’s a rich one, almost too rich.
After many years cooking it, I’ve come to understand two big truths about it.

The first is that salmon needs acid to break up its richness. Lemon is good, of course, but orange, which I’ve chosen for my recipe here, or tomato, or wine, or lemon mixed with mustard, capers, a touch of vinegar—those are all good options. I’ve never understood the French habit of presenting salmon in a cream sauce. That, to me, is the French palate at its worst. But a dish even more sickening than that, and one probably invented by my own people, the Italian-Americans, is a pasta version of that concept, sort of a salmon fettuccine Alfredo: salmon, either smoked or fresh, heavy cream, some type of grated cheese, garlic, and fettuccine, all tossed together into a bowl of throat-slicking fat. That was popular in midpriced Italian-American restaurants in the 1990s (and also at wedding buffets). The very thought of it gives me a gag reflex. (more…)

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Creative alternatives to the itsy-bitsy.

The truth is, no matter how thin I am, and I’m pretty thin at the moment, I’m not going to look seventeen in a bathing suit anytime again soon. But that’s not a problem for me. I’ve always found those underwire tops that look just like bras a little trashy, and the thong bottom is almost a strip of insanity no matter what shape you’re in.

The great thing about bathing attire is that there are so many ways to go about creating it, depending on your shape and your outlook. Something that feels very me, a look I’ve come up with variations on season after season, is the boy-brief bottom with a tight striped (or solid black) T-shirt top. It’s got a kind of 1920s quality to it, which to me is much sexier than any thong, and stretchy boy briefs make your butt look really cute, especially if it’s a little on the big side, which is the case for many Italian girls and certainly many Italian-Americans. I also like a full-blown sort of scuba look, with long, tight, black, thigh-long leggings and a racer-back top. (more…)

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A bottle of Aperol and my new faux zebra throw pillow.

In my ongoing effort to rid myself of the habit of drinking red wine as an aperitivo, something that for starters is not very Italian, but more important just makes me want to consume large platters of mortadella before dinner, I’m always experimenting to try to come up with delicious alternatives—real aperitivi.

On one of my first trips to Italy I noticed a bottle of bright red, cheerful-looking booze at the bar at the Siena train station. I asked the bartender about it and wound up drinking two little glasses of Aperol, straight up. The taste was sweet and slightly bitter. I was familiar with Campari, but this was different, sweeter and less bitter but still with that elusive herbal kick, sort of a junior Campari, and extremely easygoing in every way. I was so taken by it that I went to buy a bottle on my return home. I was saddened to discover it was not exported. Well, now it is. (more…)

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La bella figura in Amarcord.

Montasio melts onto asparagus straight from the hot oven.

Recipes:

Roasted Asparagus with Montasio and Lemon Zest
Calamari and Watercress Salad with Chives and Pistachios

You’re not fat, so why are you dieting? I hear this all the time, but the truth is I used to gain a few pounds every year just going about my business eating gobs of mozzarella and downing bottles of semi-cheap wine. I started to notice a touch of dumpiness. I was stunned. A few extra pounds on my five-foot-one Sicilian/Neapolitan frame are, I’d say, equivalent to at least ten on a normal person. It’s so unfair. When I began mentioning my weight to people, that’s when I got laughed at or, worse, condescended to. But if I continued at the rate I was going, I figured in ten years I’d be truly huge. How fat do you have to be before you can knock off a few pounds without offending such friends? Dieting as an act of betrayal? Forget it. Everyone has a right to be comfortable in his or her own body, and personally I feel more comfortable without a bulge of blubber hanging out over my belt loops. Call me narcissistic. If that’s narcissistic than getting up in the morning and combing my hair and putting on deodorant is narcissistic too. I also wasn’t in the mood to develop diabetes, as many of my aunts and uncles and grandparents had. They seemed to accept that as an inevitable part of aging. Getting “the sugar” was like sprouting gray hairs—just happens. But I’m now enlightened, and unlike my grandmother, I now know that it’s not inevitable that you get dumpy and diabetic when you pass forty. You just need to change your tack. There’s no getting around it. I had to start paying attention. (more…)

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