Erica De Mane

Tenerumi from the Union Square Greenmarket.

Recipe: Spaghetti with Tenerumi and Pomodoro Crudo

Often when cooking I find that just the look of an ingredient can  inspire me. As a kid, when I first saw cucuzza growing in our  neighbors’, the Cavuotis’, backyard garden, I knew that long, twisted, snaky zucchini type thing, which they called “zucca lunga,” was weird and mysterious and therefore attractive. I never knew what they did with it, and I was maybe a little afraid to ask.

I didn’t think much about zucca lunga for a decade or so after that, until it started showing up at city Greenmarkets. There it was, light green, really long, and just as weird as when I first spotted it taking over Mr. Cavuoti’s garden. I bought one, took it home, chopped it up, and went about cooking it as I would zucchini. Boy, what a disappointment. It was a bore.

Zucca lunga for sale in Sicily.

But as I learned a few years later, while traveling around Sicily for the first time, one of the treatments for zucca lunga is to candy it, just as they do with citron, and use it to decorate cassatas or cannolis. They also turn it into a dull, watery soup. But I also learned that the tendrils—the stems and leaves—are what are really prized. The beautiful, tangled greens the squash produces are a Sicilian summertime treat, usually worked into a soupy pasta dish. And that’s just what I made this week when I found tenerumi tied up in big, wild-looking bunches at the Union Square market. The tenerumi looked both lovely and frightening at the same time. I hate to say it, but to me the stuff almost looks like it’s moving. Its kinky coils resemble skinny worms poking their way out from amid a mass of stems and tender dark green leaves. That was fine with me.

A pretty standard Sicilian pasta consists of tenerumi, garlic, maybe a bit of hot chili, and tomato, all simmered together and finished with a sprinkling of pecorino. That is more or less the recipe I found in Natalia Ravida’s lovely book Seasons of Sicily, among other places. Broken spaghetti is the traditional pasta employed with tenerumi, but I always object to the messy look that produces, and I decided instead to just go with the regular pasta. Otherwise I didn’t stray far from the classic Sicilian rendition. I did, however, decide to keep my summer tomato raw, added only at the last minute, for a fresh burst of contrasting flavor and texture.

Tenerumi has a beautiful taste. Somehow I’d expect something so dramatic-looking to be bitter, but it’s actually very delicate. I’m not sure why, but its flavor reminds me of Chinese dishes that incorporate wilted greens, possibly because the taste is somewhat like pea shoots. But it’s much more subtle. Pea shoots taste like peas; tenerumi doesn’t really taste like the squash, and to me, in fact, the squash tastes like almost nothing.

I’m not sure what a good substitute for tenerumi would be. You could make a similar pasta with Swiss chard, I suppose, but this stuff really has a unique flavor and texture. I would say, if you find a bunch of tenerumi at your farmer’s market, pick it up and try this pasta.

Spaghetti with Tenerumi and Pomodoro Crudo

(Serves 2)

2 medium-size ripe summer tomatoes, seeded and cut into very small dice
Salt
Extra-virgin olive oil
1 big bunch tenerumi, the tough stems trimmed
½  pound spaghetti
About ¼ cup small diced pancetta
3 summer garlic cloves, thinly sliced
1 fresh hot chili (such as a jalapeño or a peperoncino) minced (remove the seeds if you like less heat)
A splash of dry Marsala
A handful of basil leaves, lightly chopped
A chunk of mild pecorino cheese

Place the diced tomato in a colander, sprinkle it with a little salt, and give it a toss. Let it drain over a bowl for about 30 minutes, and save the drained tomato water. Pour the tomatoes into a small bowl, and drizzle them with olive oil, giving them a toss.

Set up a big pot of pasta cooking water, and bring it to a boil. Add a generous amount of salt.

Cut the tenerumi into approximately 1- inch lengths, discarding some of the coily parts and any really thick stems that are still attached. Throw the tenerumi into the water, and blanch for about 3 minutes. Scoop it from the water into a colander with a large strainer spoon. Run cold water over it to bring up its green color. Squeeze as much water as you can from it. Bring the cooking water back to a boil.

Drop the spaghetti into the water.

In a large skillet, heat about 2 tablespoons of olive oil over medium heat. Add the pancetta, and let it get nice and crisp. Add the garlic and the fresh chili, and sauté until everything softens and gives off a good aroma. Add the tenerumi, seasoning it with salt. Sauté until the greens are well coated with oil and everything is fragrant, about 4 minutes. Add the Marsala, and let it boil away. Add any tomato water you’ve collected from draining the tomatoes.

When the spaghetti is al dente, drain it, saving about ½ cup of the cooking water. Pour the spaghetti into a large serving bowl, and drizzle it with a generous amount of fresh olive oil. Add the basil, and grate on about a tablespoon or so of pecorino. Give it a toss. Now add the tenerumi sauce and enough of the pasta cooking water to moisten everything well (the dish should be a little loose). Toss well. Serve hot with extra pecorino brought to the table for grating.

Cauliflower as interpreted by Bartolomeo Bimbi (1648–1730).

Recipe: Risotto with Cauliflower, Saffron, and Chervil

People who insist that they don’t like cauliflower make me sad, and if they stick to this irrational stand for any length of time, they get on my nerves. I don’t want anyone, especially my readers, to miss out, to limit themselves, in the good eating department. So what I always try to do is make it irresistible.

With cauliflower, my approach is to go all-out elegant with the admittedly somewhat dumpy vegetable. That’s where risotto comes in. And when I think of cauliflower risotto, my mind almost always floats toward the idea of saffron. That makes for a beautiful matrimonio di sapore. Saffron is expensive, and that makes some cooks timid. But it’s not particularly mysterious, and luckily you really want to use only a little bit, and heat it just briefly, so it retains its exotic flavor without taking on any bitterness. (In my recipe, I show you the best way to get the most flavor from your saffron.)

Cheese and cauliflower are another win-win combination. I use a sweet aged Piave for this risotto, but you could go with a Parmigiano Reggiano or its little sister, grana Padano. Both have beautiful, rounded flavors with no sharp edges to harsh your risotto mellow (the way a pecorino Romano definitely would).

And do yourself a big favor. Get your cauliflower at a Greenmarket or farm stand. It’s summer. Go for glory. You don’t want to deal with some withered up, miserable supermarket stand-in for the real thing. You can get one of those lovely orange “cheese” cauliflowers, or a green spiral Romanesco, which to me looks like a deep-sea coral, or just a simple standard creamy white one, as I used for this risotto.

Risotto is nothing to be scared of. It’s mostly a matter of good ingredients, like carnarolo rice, which produces a much more suave risotto than arborio, a rice that  can make the dish gummy. Chefs scream about perfect technique and convince you that you’ll fail if you don’t do it exactly according to Marcella Hazan or whoever. You’ll see while following my rather freewheeling recipe that that craziness of continuous stirring all in one direction is just what it sounds like—craziness, designed to keep you down. Risotto comes out great even if you don’t make yourself frantic.

Risotto with Cauliflower, Saffron, and Chervil

(Serves 4 as a main course or 6 as a first course)

A generous pinch of saffron threads (about 10 or so)
2 tablespoons unsalted butter
1 tablespoon extra-virgin olive oil
1 large sweet onion, a fresh summer one or a Vidalia
A small palmful of fennel seeds, ground to a powder
1 small cauliflower cut into very small florets (about 2 cups of ½-inch-size pieces)
½ teaspoon sugar
1½ cups carnarolo rice
Salt
Black pepper
½ cup dry white wine
About 5 cups light chicken broth
A squeeze of fresh lemon juice
A chunk of aged Piave cheese
A handful of fresh chervil, stemmed

If your saffron is moist (and it should be somewhat moist, if it’s fresh), place it in a small pan, and dry it for a few seconds over very low heat. Next place it in a mortar, and give it a gentle grind with a pestle. It should easily break down into a powder. Add about 3 tablespoons of hot water or hot chicken broth to the saffron, so it can release its entire flavor. (If you just throw saffron threads into a dish whole, you’ll lose much of their effect, since they won’t dissolve much; they’ll just float around in your dish without letting off any of their charm.)

Pour the chicken broth into a saucepan, and bring it to a boil. Turn the heat down, and keep it at a simmer.

The best pan for risotto is one that’s wide and has straight, not too high sides (see photo above). That will provide enough room for good evaporation and even cooking. So find a pan something like that, and get it hot over medium heat. Add the butter and a tablespoon of olive oil. When that mixture is hot and frothy, add the onion, and let it soften for a minute or so. Add the fennel seed, the cauliflower, and the sugar, and sauté until the cauliflower is well coated with flavor, about 2 minutes. Add the rice, season it with salt and black pepper, and sauté until it’s shiny, about another minute or so. This step puts a light seal on the rice, ensuring that it cooks up separate and glossy. Add the white wine, and let it boil away almost to nothing.

Add a big ladle of hot chicken broth, and give the rice a few good stirs. You needn’t go crazy stirring risotto constantly, so don’t get nervous about it. The main thing is not to let it stick to the bottom of the pan, so just test it every so often with a few good stirs. When the rice looks almost dry, add more broth, and give it a few more  stirs.  Keep the broth at a good, constant, lively bubble and you’ll be in good shape. Keep doing this until the rice is just tender but still has a little bite and the consistency has become somewhat creamy (if you run out of broth, just add a little hot water). In my experience this takes about 17 to 18 minutes. Now add the saffron broth and a squeeze of lemon juice, and give everything a few more stirs (in the opposite direction, just to torment Marcella Hazan). The rice should turn light yellow.

Take the risotto off the heat, add about 2 heaping tablespoons of grated Piave, and stir it in. Then add another small ladle of chicken broth, just to be sure it doesn’t get too dry (I like my risotto on the loose side). Give it a few fresh grindings of black pepper and add the chervil (leaving out of few sprigs for garnish). Give everything one final stir.

Ladle the risotto out into warm serving bowls, and top each one with a few sprigs of chervil and an extra little sprinkling of Piave. Serve right away.

Rosa bianca eggplants at the Union Square Greenmarket.

Recipe: Rigatoni with Eggplant, Walnuts, and Cinnamon Tomato Sauce

If I lived in Sicily, I know exactly what I’d do for a living. I’d open a trattoria in Ortigia, the gorgeous heart of old Siracusa, where I’d serve eclectic but still recognizably Sicilian cooking, and spend long evenings drinking Nero d’Avola and smoking cigars with the liveliest old men of the town. What glamor. What a life. This would solve all my problems. I could cook eggplant every night, and they’d still love me. I’d call it Trattoria Di Menna, from my original family name, my name before my grandfather started messing with it.

A piazza in Ortigia, Sicily.

Rosa bianca, a cute, round, violet eggplant, Italian in origin of course, is something I’ve been finding at the Union Square Greenmarket this summer. It’s strictly Italian in spirit, being both gorgeous and prickly. The fist-size vegetable has spikes sticking up from its stem, invisible to the eye but needle sharp when you grab one. Once you pull those off, you’re left with a creamy, white-fleshed eggplant, with no bitterness, that when cooked melts like a Sicilian dream (just like my trattoria).

For the Sicilian restaurant dish I cooked up the other night, not in Trattoria Di Menna but in my hot little New York kitchen, I made up a version of the classic Sicilian trio of eggplant, tomato, and pasta, pretty much the Sicilian national dish. A cook can take various approaches to this trilogy. The quickest is to sauté chopped eggplant and then add tomatoes and whatever flavorings you like, making an all-in-one sauce. This is good and quick, but I sometimes like to separate the elements, leaving the tomato sauce pure and draping fried eggplant slices over the top. Very attractive, I think. You can also layer the fried eggplant into the dish and then bake it, a bit much for high summer but really elegant and delicious and worth the effort on a not-so-sweltering night. Ricotta salata is the classic Sicilian cheese used in eggplant pasta, and I couldn’t find an excuse not to employ it here (Ragusano is also an excellent choice). I did get a little fancy with the walnuts and cinnamon, but these are also flavors in the classic Sicilian culinary repertoire, so I wasn’t far out at all to add them. (The aroma of this pasta would be familiar to any Sicilian grandpa.)

If, like me, you can’t get enough eggplant, you’ll be happy to own a copy of Giulano Bugialli’s Foods of Sicily & Sardinia, a big Rizzoli photo book from 1996, filled with good, classic recipes for this beautiful vegetable, including several for pasta, a great eggplant risotto, eggplant fritters, and a chicken with eggplant that I especially love. Whatever happened to this guy? I wonder if he wants to help me open a trattoria in Ortigia? (Actually I’ve heard he’s a little prickly, just like my pretty little Rosa bianca eggplants.)

Rigatoni with Eggplant, Walnuts, and Cinnamon Tomato Sauce

5 round summer tomatoes, peeled, seeded, and cut into small dice
Salt
Extra-virgin olive oil
1 tablespoon unsalted butter
4 fresh summer garlic cloves, thinly sliced (if you can find only supermarket garlic, use half the amount)
Ground cinnamon
Black pepper
A few drops of balsamic vinegar
1 pound rigatoni
4 or 5 small round eggplants, cut into ¼-inch-thick rounds
½ cup all-purpose flour
A pinch of semi-hot paprika, such as the Basque piment d’espelette
A handful of very fresh walnut halves, lightly toasted
A handful of basil leaves, very lightly chopped, plus a few whole sprigs for garnish
A chunk of ricotta salata

Summer tomatoes are often very juicy and can produce a watery sauce if you don’t drain them before cooking, but you’ve got to judge for yourself what you’re dealing with to decide if draining is needed. If your tomatoes are watery, put them in a colander, sprinkle a little salt over them, give them a toss, and let them drain over a bowl for about an hour. (Keep the tomato water, just in case you might need to loosen your sauce later on. You never know; you can overdo it with this draining.)

In a large skillet, heat 2 tablespoons of olive oil over medium-high heat. Add the garlic and a generous pinch of cinnamon, and let sizzle for a few seconds. Then add the tomatoes, seasoning them with a bit more salt. Cook the tomatoes at a lively bubble for about 5 minutes. They should let off some juice. Turn off the heat and add a few drops of balsamic vinegar, a generous amount of black pepper, and the butter, giving the sauce a gentle stir.

Set up a large pot of pasta cooking water, and bring it to a boil. Add a generous amount of salt.

Pour about ¼ inch of olive oil into a large skillet, and get it hot over medium-high heat. On a medium-size plate, mix the flour together with another generous pinch of cinnamon, the hot paprika, and salt. Dredge the eggplant slices in the seasoned flour. Brown them well on one side, and then give them a flip, and brown the other side. Take the eggplant from the oil with a slotted spatula, and let it drain on paper towels.

When the rigatoni is al dente, drain it, saving a bit of the cooking water, and place it in a large, wide serving bowl. Drizzle with some fresh olive oil, and toss quickly. Pour on the tomato sauce, and add the walnuts and the basil. Toss gently (if the pasta seems dry add a bit of the cooking water or some reserved tomato water). Lay the eggplant slices over the top. Grate on some ricotta salata, and garnish with basil sprigs. Serve hot.

Formanova beets at the Union Square Greenmarket.

Recipe: Beets with Walnut Rosemary Vinaigrette and Pepato

While sweating through the Greenmarket the other day, I found myself incredibly attracted to some bunches of beets that looked just like fat red hot dogs. What will these lonely farmers come up with next? Well, I immediately thought, those would be easy to slice into neat little rounds. When I asked the farmer who grew the odd beets what variety they were, he said they were known as slicing beets (and one of his worker girls giggled idiotically and added “weenie beets.” Well, obviously). The weenie beet turns out to be a variety called Formanova, one of several cylindrical beets that have actually been around for quite a while. I was amazed that I hadn’t come across them before. Live and learn. I had to have some of them, because of their shape, for sure, but also because they were a very dark red. There’s no vegetable more beautiful than a ruby-colored beet. When cooked, they’re very close in color to my favorite flower, the understated crimson dahlia (am I a guinea, or what?).

Crimson dahlias next to a copy of one of my all-time favorite Italian cookbooks, Italian Cooking in the Grand Tradition, by Jo Bettoja.

As gorgeous as red beets are, they’re of limited use in the kitchen (although I’m not quite sure where else they would be of any use at all). You can’t compose easily with red beets, since everything you toss or stir into them becomes uniformly red. I did once make spaghetti with red beets and thought it beautiful. The spaghetti turned bright pink, while the beet cubes stayed dark. It made a lovely contrast, but that was an exception to my usual murkier red beet compositions. I love all sorts of cheeses paired with beets, especially strong Italian ones such as pecorino Sardo or gorgonzola, or the pepato I chose for this recipe. I don’t like my cheese covered with red blotches, but there is a solution (aside from using yellow or orange beets, which to my palate lack taste). Just toss the beets with things that look nice tinted bright red or pink, such as red onions or slivers of garlic, and then plop any other things, like gorgonzola or green lettuce, on top of or around them, and eat it all right away, before everything becomes a big bloody mess.

Beets with Walnut Rosemary Vinaigrette and Pepato

(Serves 4 as a first course)

A note about walnut oil: I don’t know about you, but I don’t use walnut oil often. Every once in a while, though, it’s just the thing. I guess it goes without saying that it’s great on walnuts. It also blends well with beets and all sorts of lettuce salads. It turns rancid quickly, so I buy it in small amounts. I especially like the walnut oil packaged by L’Olivier. It has a fresh, pure taste, and it comes in small tins, so I can manage to use it all before it goes off.

5 Formanova or medium-size round red beets
Extra-virgin olive oil
3 tablespoons walnut oil
½ cup very fresh walnut halves (taste one to make sure it isn’t bitter)
3 small sprigs rosemary, the leaves well chopped
Salt
A generous pinch of sugar
Black pepper
1 red shallot, thinly sliced
A small palmful of capers, rinsed
1 tablespoon red wine vinegar
½ teaspoon honey
1 large head frisée lettuce, torn into pieces
A chunk of pepato cheese

Wrap the beets in aluminum foil, and place them on a sheet pan in a preheated 400-degree oven until tender, about 40 minutes. If you’d rather not turn on your oven, boil them instead. When the beets are tender, run them under cold water briefly, just to cool them, and then peel off their skins. Cut them into not too thin slices, and place them in a large, wide bowl. Drizzle on a tablespoon of olive oil, and season with a pinch of salt. Give them a gentle toss.

In a medium skillet, heat a tablespoon of walnut oil over medium flame. Add the walnuts, about half of the rosemary, and a little salt and black pepper, and sauté until fragrant and lightly toasted, about a minute or so. Sprinkle on the sugar, and sauté a few seconds longer. Spread the walnuts out on a large plate or counter, so they can cool for a minute or so without sticking together. Then add the walnuts, sliced shallot, and capers to the beets.

In a small bowl, whisk together the vinegar, honey, salt, black pepper, and the remaining 2 tablespoons of walnut oil and 1 tablespoon of olive oil. Pour three quarters of this over the beets, and toss gently. Add another tablespoon of olive oil to the remaining vinaigrette, and give it another quick whisk.

Place the frisée in a bowl, and pour the remaining vinaigrette over it (the dressing for the greens will be a bit less acidic than that used for the beets, since the sugar content in the beets means you need a slightly more assertive dressing). Toss gently. Divide the frisée onto four salad plates. Top each salad with some beets, and then slice several big shavings of pepato over each salad. Serve right away.

Recipe: String Beans with Pancetta and Lemon Breadcrumbs

Have you ever noticed how awful supermarket string beans are? What kind of question is that, you’re probably asking yourself, since they’re usually so obviously dry, bitter, woody, faded, and starched over? But somehow I got used to them. That’s really sad. I needed the Greenmarket to refresh my memory, reminding me how lovely these vegetables can be in July, when they’re fresh picked and piled up high, dark green, crisp, moist, and gorgeous. They’re an entirely different creature. Unbelievable. With all the boring and now somewhat embarrassing talk from food types about eating seasonally and locally, this is one time it’s so apparent the difference is startling. The vegetable isn’t dreary. It’s exciting and inspiring. I rushed a big bagful home yesterday and invited my sister, Liti, over for dinner.

I knew I needed a quick-cooking approach to preserve their green, moist beauty. I tried to recall how my mother usually prepared my father’s summer garden string beans, but I couldn’t remember ever eating them. I must have. We had tons of them. I guess it was with garlic and olive oil, but how could I not remember? They must have been good. Maybe she overcooked them so they tasted like the supermarket version, even though my father obsessively tended to them in our back yard. That’s not fair of me, and in any case it was my grandmother’s job to hammer vegetables to death. I pride myself on remembering just about everything I ever ate, going back years. Maybe my mother just boiled them.

I might put that dish out of my mind. I do remember her making string beans simmered in tomato sauce, sometimes with potatoes, but not in the summer (that was a dish, and a good one, that was definitely done only with the supermarket supply). Oh,well. Let me think about it. I’m sure it will eventually come back to me.

In the meantime I decided to go with my original instinct and employ olive oil—but really good olive oil—and garlic. Then I thought about breadcrumbs and lemon and giving the results a gentle toss with my fingers instead of a spoon (it seemed quick and easy, maybe a little scalding, but I’m used to that, and enjoy it, even). Maybe this is how I ate summer string beans when I was a kid. Doubt it though. I think I would have remembered it. These are really delicious.

String Beans with Pancetta and Lemon Breadcrumbs

(Serves 4 as a first course or a side dish)

For the breadcrumbs:

½ cup homemade breadcrumbs, not too finely ground
1 tablespoon extra-virgin olive oil
1 tablespoon unsalted butter
The grated zest from 1 lemon
½ teaspoon sugar
Salt

1 pound string beans, trimmed
Salt
Extra-virgin olive oil
½ cup small diced pancetta
1 shallot, minced
2 summer garlic cloves, thinly sliced
Black pepper
A squeeze of lemon juice

In a small sauté pan, heat a tablespoon of olive oil with a tablespoon of butter. Add the breadcrumbs, and sauté for a minute or so, just until they start to get crisp and golden. Add the lemon zest, the sugar, and salt, and sauté a few seconds longer, just to season them uniformly.

Set up a medium pot of water, and bring it to a boil. Add a little salt, and throw in the string beans. Blanch until tender-firm, about 2 minutes. Drain the beans into a colander, and then run cold water over them to stop the cooking and bring up their green color. Drain well.

In a large skillet, heat 2 tablespoons of olive oil over medium heat. Add the pancetta, and sauté until crisp. Add the shallots, garlic, and string beans, and sauté quickly, just until the shallots and garlic give off flavor and the string beans are well coated with flavor. Season with salt and black pepper and a squeeze of lemon juice.

Pour the string beans into a large serving platter, scatter on a heaping tablespoon of the breadcrumbs, and toss gently. Top with the remaining breadcrumbs and a generous drizzle of fresh olive oil. Serve hot.

Recipe: Warm Potato Salad with Grilled Octopus and Flowering Thyme

Sometimes on an oppressively hot Manhattan evening there’s nothing I like better than closing all the windows, jacking up the AC, throwing on a Chinatown bathrobe and lighting a cigarette (if I’m feeling tawdry), opening a bottle of red wine (a fresh, unoaked Barbera Castello del Poggio, for instance), and getting myself into the kitchen to cook up a big pot of something that bubbles and steams and smells rich but ultimately produces a dish of lightness. There’s where the octopus comes into play.

I’m not into those baby octopuses you find at restaurants these days. To me they look like waterbugs. I know they’re quick to sear up, but for flavor and texture I prefer the big ones. They need a long, slow simmer, something that couldn’t be simpler or more sultry. After that first step, you can move on to grilling or sautéing to create a summer masterpiece.

Get yourself a good-size octopus, about two pounds. Fresh and frozen are both fine. I’ve been finding fresh at my fish seller lately. Have it cleaned (which means excavating the head section), but otherwise leave it whole. Then all you need to do is lower it into a pot a liquid.

I know you’re wondering about the cork trick, right? Supposedly placing a wine cork in the pot helps tenderize the octopus—something about the cork’s enzymes. Many chefs and home cooks swear by this. I really don’t understand it. I’ve tried it several times, and I couldn’t discern any difference. I’d rather cook the thing in the wine itself. At least that gives it good flavor.

Warm Potato Salad with Grilled Octopus and Flowering Thyme

(Serves 4)

To simmer the octopus:

1 approximately 2-pound octopus, cleaned, and thawed if frozen
1 bay leaf
Salt
1 cup dry white wine
A few thyme sprigs
2 garlic cloves, lightly crushed

For the salad:

Extra-virgin olive oil
A generous pinch of hot paprika
A pinch of sugar for the octopus, plus another little pinch for the vinaigrette
Freshly ground black pepper
Salt
A dozen small red new potatoes
2 tablespoons dry white wine
1 red shallot, thinly sliced
A palmful of capers
About 8 large thyme sprigs, with blossoms if available, the leaves chopped
1½ tablespoons Spanish sherry vinegar
A generous pinch of ground allspice
Freshly ground black pepper
A handful of flat-leaf parsley leaves, lightly chopped

Put the octopus in a large pot, and add the bay leaf, salt, 1 cup of white wine, the thyme sprigs, and the garlic cloves. Add cold water to cover the octopus, and bring it to a boil. Reduce the heat to low, and simmer, partially covered, until the octopus is tender, about 1 to 1½ hours, depending on its size. Start testing after about an hour; you can overcook octopus, making it dry. It’s done when a skinny knife goes easily into the thick part of the tentacle. When the octopus is tender, turn off the heat and let it sit in the water for about 20 minutes (I find this helps tenderize it further). Then lift it from the water, and let it cool until you can handle it.

Cut the tentacles from the body of the octopus, dry them well, and then toss them with a little olive oil. Season with the hot paprika, pinch of sugar, salt, and black pepper.

Place the potatoes in a medium saucepan. Cover them with cool water, and season well with salt. Boil until just tender, and then drain well. Cut the potatoes in half, and place them in a large serving bowl. Mix the white wine with a tablespoon of olive oil and a little salt, and pour it over the hot potatoes. Toss gently with your hands, letting the wine mixture soak into the potatoes. Scatter on the red shallot and the capers.

In a small bowl, add the thyme and blossoms, vinegar, sugar, allspice, and about 3 tablespoons of olive oil. Season well with salt and black pepper, and whisk everything together.

Set up a grill pan over a high flame (or you can do this on an outdoor grill, if you feel like leaving the house). When the grill is nice and hot, add the octopus and grill it, turning it once or twice until it’s well grilled all around (but not charred, if you can help it). Pull the octopus from the grill, and cut it into 1-inch pieces.

Add the octopus to the potatoes. Pour on the vinaigrette, and toss gently. Garnish with the parsley. Serve right away.

Castelfranco in Miscano, home of my grandparents, a classic cucina povera town (note the taralli strung around the base of the Virgin).

Recipe: Round Zucchini Stuffed with Farro, Garlic Sausage, and Savory, Served with a Cherry Tomato Sauce

My taste in food tends toward la cucina povera, the traditional cooking of Italy’s less well-heeled. This is not because I’m dirt poor, nor is it a strict philosophy. I love this cooking for its taste (I guess I’m a peasant through and through). I’ve always been attracted to grains (any starch really), all vegetables, oily fish like sardines and anchovies, and little bits of fatty meat mixed with lots of filler. I really admire breadcrumbs.

Big slabs of relatively cheap meat were what my and everybody else’s grandmother found in urban grocery stores in the 1910s and ’20s, when they arrived in this country. What a pleasant shock it must have been, but, in a way, what a shame, since it corrupted many of their classic cucina povera dishes. In my opinion the meatball was ruined by Italian-Americans’ newfound ability to procure endless supplies of chopped meat. In their excitement over their good fortune, they cut back on, or abandoned altogether, the soft, wine- or milk-moistened bread that had provided the light texture for the homeland meatball, only to create heavy, dull, big, ugly meatballs that were nothing to be proud of. Exactly how my grandmother’s cooking changed when her family moved from miserable old Castelfranco, on the Puglia boarder, to Port Chester, on Long Island Sound, I can only surmise, but she served steaks and big roasts much more often than tough cuts like braciole that were traditionally stuffed with stale bread and hard cheese to make a little go a long way. The few times I’ve eaten with relatives in Castelfranco, we’ve had macaroni with tomato sauce, often baked and flavored with a little pork fat, or once with slivers of sweet peppers. The side attractions have included vinegared vegetables, really terrible homemade wine, a solid chunk of pecorino, and rock-hard taralli. Nothing too fancy, but it’s had its glamor.

I suppose it was inevitable that la cucina povera cooking would become hot in Manhattan restaurants. Why serve expensive meat when you can charge $34 for bucatini cacio e pepe (pasta with pecorino and black pepper)? However, if chefs were working within the true confines of la cucina povera, they’d be tossing their bucatini with breadcrumbs and dried red chili—as I’m sure some of them are. I’m guilty of corrupting the spirit of cucina povera myself, but I do feel that at times it just can’t be helped. I mean, imports are expensive. If I want to make pasta cacio e pepe at home and want it to taste the best it can, I’ll use my $40-a-bottle Sicilian olive oil, $24-a-pound pecorino, $8 box of Latini spaghetti, and the fancy Tellicherry peppercorns I pick up at Kalustyan’s. What a shame. Thank god I don’t have kids to feed. I suppose what I really feel about cucina povera is, don’t worry about the hypocrisy, just go for the taste.

One of my favorite kinds of cucina povera dishes is stuffed vegetables. I always find myself making them at times during the summer, at my first sight of local mini-eggplants, for instance. I love them for their improvisational design, for their compact beauty, and, above all, for their taste. Any vegetable that’s small and scoopable is great for stuffing.

To my mind, a stuffed vegetable should highlight the vegetable that’s stuffed. I always use some of its scooped-out insides in my stuffing. Then I move on to a starch filler of my choice. Lately I’ve been trying to get away from rice and dried bread. They’re both good and classic, but they’ve been done to death. So I’ve turned toward whole grains. I love farro and wheat berries. You can use either in this recipe. Once I pick my filler, everything else, especially any meat I might add, I use in minuscule amounts. In true cucina povera fashion, I find I can stretch the expensive ingredient almost to nonexistence. In this structure lies the beauty—a delicate flavor that doesn’t overpower but in fact highlights the vegetable itself.

I’ve been finding round zucchini at the Union Square Greenmarket. Yuno Farms calls it avocado squash, and its inside does resemble a firm avocado. This cute, light green zucchini seems to have no seeds (not possible really, though—they must be in there somewhere), and it has much less water than the usual long zucchini. It’s lovely and smooth, and it just beckons to be stuffed.

Round Zucchini Stuffed with Farro, Garlic Sausage, and Savory, Served with a Cherry Tomato Sauce

(Serves 6 as a lunch, a light supper, or a first course)

6 small, round zucchini
Salt
Freshly ground black pepper
Extra-virgin olive oil
1½ cups farro
1 2-inch piece of garlic sausage, cut into tiny cubes
1 small fresh onion, cut into small dice, using some of the tender, green  part of the stem
1 small inner celery stalk, cut into small dice, plus a handful of celery leaves, lightly chopped
A few sprigs of summer savory, the leaves chopped
A splash of dry vermouth, plus a little extra for baking
A good-size chunk of pecorino Toscano cheese

For the tomato sauce:

2 pints cherry tomatoes, quartered
Salt
Extra-virgin olive oil
1 fresh summer garlic clove, minced
2 scallions, cut into thin rounds, using some of the tender green part
Freshly ground black pepper
A small handful of flat-leaf parsley leaves, lightly chopped

Preheat the oven to 400 degrees.

Cut the tops off the zucchini about a quarter of the way down. Scoop out the insides of the round part with a melon baller, saving the insides. Cut a thin slice from the bottom of each zucchini, so it will sit upright. Place the zucchini, cut side up, in a baking dish that will hold it fairly snuggly. Drizzle the zucchini lightly with olive oil inside and out, and season with salt and black pepper. Bake for about 30 minutes, or just until it starts to soften but is still firm and holding its shape. Take it from the oven, and let it cool off a bit.

While the zucchini is baking, set up a medium pot of water, and bring it to a boil. Add a generous amount of salt, and add the farro. Cook at a lively bubble until the farro is just tender, about 18 minutes. Drain well.

Chop finely about half of the zucchini insides (avoid the food processor, as it can make them watery). You’ll want about a cup or so of chopped zucchini. In a medium skillet, heat about 2 tablespoons of olive oil over medium flame. Add the garlic sausage, the onion, the chopped celery, and the savory, and sauté about two minutes, just to soften the onion and release the flavors of the sausage and savory. Add the chopped zucchini, and sauté a few minutes longer. Add the dry vermouth, and let it bubble for a few seconds, leaving some liquid in the skillet. Add the farro, and mix well, seasoning with salt and black pepper. Add the celery leaves and a generous drizzle of fresh olive oil. Let cool for a few minutes, and then grate in about three tablespoons of pecorino Toscano.

Fill the zucchini rounds with the farro mixture, trying not to pack it down too firmly (save any leftover filling for a side dish, or for your lunch). Drizzle the tops with a little dry vermouth and then with a little more olive oil. Sprinkle a bit of grated pecorino over the zucchini. Now place the zucchini tops, flat part down, on a small, lightly oiled sheet pan. Drizzle the tops with a little more olive oil, and season them slightly with salt and black pepper. Bake both the stuffed zucchini and the tops until tender and lightly browned, about 45 minutes or so for the stuffed part, about half an hour for the tops.

While the zucchini is baking, mix all the ingredients for the tomato sauce together in a small bowl. If your cherry tomatoes are very juicy, you might need to salt and drain them for a bit before assembling your sauce.

Take the zucchini from the oven and place the tops on them. Serve warm or hot, accompanied by the cool tomato sauce.