Erica De Mane

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. Continue Reading »

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. Continue Reading »

Dino and the Duke. The pasta is probably not whole wheat.


The recipe below is whole wheat.

Recipe:

Whole Wheat Spaghetti with Cockles, Roasted Tomatoes, and Dandelion

I now eat pasta only about once a week, and I want each pasta dish I cook to be perfect. But I’m also conscious of the amount I eat (what a nuisance), and I add lots of protein and go for whole wheat as often as I can tolerate it.

Whole wheat pasta? Is that really Italian? Yes it is. And it’s currently even having a little vogue in Italy, since the backlash against refined carbohydrates has made its way out of New York and Los Angeles and into the world (or at least into some of the parts of the world, where they have the luxury to be picky about what they eat). I actually really like whole wheat pasta, but I’ve found that it makes me rethink my sauces. Not only is the taste different from that of the standard dried durum wheat types, but the texture is a bit more brittle, not quite as luxe and elastic. Cream sauces are definitely out; their taste hardly registers as a coating for the nutty flavor of whole wheat. Butter and parmigiano alone? Not quite forceful enough. But if you add a few chopped anchovies to a butter sauce, then you’re getting somewhere. That seems to be the traditional approach in Italy to creating beautifully balanced whole wheat pasta dishes. Continue Reading »

Cannolis minus all the calories.

When you need a little something sweet and somehow don’t see a whole tray of cannolis fitting into your diet plan, Italy still has a lot to offer you. A neurotic little trick of mine is to eat something extremely small but tooth-achingly sweet to curb my craving. It almost always works, since the thing I eat winds up being delicious yet ultimately sickening at the same time. Victory. Continue Reading »

Italian beauty on a stick.

Recipes:

Gremolata Chickpea Salad
Shrimp and Mushroom Spiedini with Rosemary and Lemon

My feeling about spiedini, Italian-style kebabs, is that since they’re long and lean, eating them will make me long and lean. Well, lean maybe, but long might be more problematic, since I’m only five-foot-one, and I’m likely to stay that way until I get old enough to start shrinking. But leaner would be welcome (I still have a bit of excess thigh blubber I’d like to whittle down before beach weather arrives). Continue Reading »

Anna Magnani in The Golden Coach, the film by Jean Renoir.

She’s my ideal. Not too fat, not too skinny. Never overly concerned about her ever-enlarging eye bags. A little tense, but she knows how to have fun. Loves to eat and drink. At home at a raucous party or in a bomb shelter. I love Anna Magnani.

Anouk Aimée takes a break from the high life.

Recipe:

Chicken Liver Crostini with Fennel and Celery Salad

I’ve often found that an old photo, something a friend is wearing, or even a hangover can inspire a desire for a particular flavor, I suppose by triggering off a freewheeling association from my past where that flavor played a part. Somehow this photo of Anouk Aimée in La Dolce Vita, with her pensive demeanor and oh-so-skinny silhouette, inspired this salad based on the classic Tuscan chicken liver pâté, a stern little dish but one with deep, unusual flavors such as capers, anchovies, and sage. Continue Reading »

Easter-egg bread at Rocco’s Pastry Shop on Bleecker Street.

Recipe:

Asparagus with Warm Orange Oil

Easter for the lapsed Catholic is a hollow affair. If it weren’t for the huge amounts of food and chocolate bunnies, tons of relatives and friends, prosecco, and Chianti, it would be meaningless. Even when I was a child, it was all about the pizza rustica and the Rodda Peeps (I lapsed at a young age). I’m pretty confident in my lack of faith, but somehow Easter has a way of making me feel ever so slightly guilty, and gluttonous. And why is it that the weather is almost always cold, damp, and irritating, not the wacky bonnet, daffodils, white-patten-pumps sunshine it’s supposed to be? But on the other hand if I focus on the original, pagan meaning of the occasion, the rebirth of the earth, I can give early thanks for the upcoming local harvest and the beautiful ramps, asparagus, watercress, and strawberries that will soon be filling the stalls at the Union Square Greenmarket. In honor of my expectations, here’s a recipe for asparagus that will go very nicely with an Easter lamb dish or a pork loin (which is what my mother’s making) or a slow roasted side of salmon. Continue Reading »