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Fall Cooking Begins: A Recipe for Mezzi Paccheri with Butternut Squash, Pancetta, Rosemary, and Walnuts, plus My Current Favorite Dried Pasta, and Thoughts on “Siena: The Rise of Painting,” Now at the Met Museum

Posted in Uncategorized, tagged , , , , on October 14, 2024| 4 Comments »

Butternut Squash, by Oleksandra Shkarupeta.

Recipe in text below: Mezzi Paccheri with Butternut Squash, Pancetta, Rosemary, and Walnuts

Butternut squash can get to seem boring right now, when it’s all over the place, piled up in bins not only at the Union Square market but also at places like West Side Market, a local supermarket I have a love-hate relationship with (their fish department borders on disgusting). Butternut squash is clunky, bulbous, and colored a strange, dull peachy beige, but it has wonderful qualities, too. It tastes good, like pumpkin but gentler, sweeter, and less stringy. It’s easier to peel than pumpkin. Its seeds are contained in a little round pocket inside its bulbous bottom. Peeling that part can be a challenge, but the neck is smooth and clean and easy to cut into uniform cubes, so there’s an elegance to that alone. To make it easy for myself I often purchase a large butternut squash (or two smaller ones if they’re all I can find). I separate its long neck from its bulby bottom and then skin and dice the neck—a sharp chef’s knife slides right down the skin. I leave the bottom for another day, usually to cut in half, scoop out the seeds, and roast. A nice side show for two, along with, say, pork chops sautéed with apples.

Butternut squash is sweet, sometimes a little too sweet, but you can awaken it. In my recipe here I did so with a little dry vermouth and a few drops of rice wine vinegar that brought it into balance. I find that butternut squash is nice paired with something fatty and salty, so I included a good amount of pancetta, too.

 I’m getting to really love this vegetable. It makes fall cooking an event.

I also wanted to mention Faella pasta, my new favorite brand. It’s from the grand dried-pasta capital of the world, Gragnano, a town just south of Naples. I cook a lot of different brands of dried pasta, but lately this one has really been speaking to me. I love the way the pieces clink together in the bag, and the semolina dust they leave on your hand when you grab a bunch. Their color is a warm yellow with a rough, almost velvety look they get from the traditional bronze dies used to extrude them but also from the slow drying process used to finish them to perfection.

Faella is an old family-run company, started in 1907. In my opinion it’s still doing everything right. For my butternut squash recipe I chose Faella’s mezzi paccheri shape, one of my favorites. It’s not as giant as paccheri; it’s the same idea, hefty and bold, but easier to get into your mouth. Faella pasta is  available from www.gustiamo.com. I love looking and choosing from all the shapes they carry. Almost as exciting as shopping for shoes.

Before I show you how I put together this butternut squash pasta, I’d like to remind you that the Siena early Renaissance show has just opened at the Metropolitan Museum. I went to a  members’ preview the other day. The beautiful show covers the years 1300 to 1350, a time of phenomenal artistic creation in Siena, a first break from the Byzantine style and the dawn of the Italian Renaissance. You’ll see works from the four major artists, Duccio di Buoninsegna, the brothers Pietro and Ambrogio Lorenzetti, and Simone Martini, brought together from museums and churches all over the world. The colors are rich and bright, ultramarine, scarlet, vermillion, a powdery pink that I love. Lots of gold leaf. The medium is mostly egg tempera on wood. And you can get up close to many of the remarkably well-preserved works. A brilliant show. It’s up until January 26, 2025.

Christ and the Samaritan Woman, from Duccio’s Maestà predella.

If you’d like to try making my Mezzi Paccheri with Butternut Squash, Pancetta, Rosemary, and Walnuts, here’s what you’ll want to do:

Start with a large butternut squash. Separate the rounded bottom from the neck with a sharp chef’s knife, and save the bottom for another day. Skin the long stem section, and cut it into approximately ½-inch cubes. You’ll notice how pretty and uniform they look, and how orange. You’ll want about 2½ cups of them.

Get out a large sauté pan, and drizzle in a tablespoon or so of extra-virgin olive oil. Let it get hot over medium heat. Chop a ½-inch-thick round of pancetta into small dice, and add it to the pan. Let it cook slowly until it’s crisp and much of its fat has been released. Remove the pancetta bits with a slotted spoon, and set them aside.  I do this so they stay crisp, a good contrast to the soft squash, and I’ll add them back toward the end. Add a large shallot cut into small dice (you can use a leek instead). Add the butternut squash, and season with salt and black pepper and a little hit of allspice. I’ve still got decent-looking rosemary in my garden, so I added the well-chopped needles from a large sprig. Rosemary goes well with hard squash, and it’s a nice change from sage, which can turn a little musty with heat. Give it a stir, and let everything sauté for a few minutes.

While it is cooking, set up a pot of pasta cooking water, salt it well, and bring it to a boil.

Add a splash of dry vermouth to the sauté pan, and let it bubble out. Add a splash of chicken broth or water, cover the  pan, turn the heat down a touch, and let the squash steam cook until tender but still holding its shape, about 6 minutes.

Drop a pound of mezzi paccheri into the water (or use another similar pasta, such as rigatoni).

Uncover the sauté pan, add about ½ cup of crème fraîche, and stir it around until it’s melted and creamy. Let it simmer, uncovered, for a few minutes. By now some of the butternut squash will have broken down and blended in with the crème fraîche, creating a sweet light orange sauce. Give it a taste. You might want to add a few drops of rice wine vinegar for acidity, or maybe not. That’s a personal taste call.

When the pasta is al dente, drain it, leaving a little water clinging to it, and pour it into a large, warmed serving bowl. Add a drizzle of good olive oil, and toss briefly. Add the butternut squash sauce, the crisp pancetta bits, a few big gratings of Parmigiano or grana Padano, and a handful of toasted, lightly chopped walnuts, holding some back for garnish. Add a little more black pepper, and toss. Taste to see if it needs salt. Scatter on the rest of the walnuts. I also garnished this with a little chopped Italian parsley. It wasn’t entirely necessary, but I had it on hand.

This will serve four as a main-course pasta.

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A Recipe for Roasted Cauliflower with Tahini, Pine Nuts, and Lemon Thyme, plus How I Make My Finocchietto, and Photos of Colored Cauliflower from Story Farms, in Catskill, New York

Posted in Uncategorized, tagged , , , , on October 3, 2024| Leave a Comment »

Cauliflower and Pomegranates, by Pierre-Auguste Renoir.

Recipe in text below: Roasted Cauliflower with Tahini, Pine Nuts, and Lemon Thyme

We were lucky this year in New York: Fall flew in quickly, turning a lot of the green into yellow, orange, pinky red, seemingly overnight, but the temperatures stayed soft. I haven’t even cut my herbs back, even though some of them, especially the Greek oregano, have turned to grizzle, and the summer savory is shot to hell, self-trimming by nature. I did scissor off most of the seeds and pollen-topped umbels and some of the stalks from my fennel to get a head start on my finocchietto, the Italian fennel liqueur I make every year. I just steep the fennel in Everclear, the 190-proof nightmare you can purchase at just about any liquor store.  Almost immediately the Everclear pulls all the fragrance and color from the seeds and stems, turning brilliant green, actually a deep green with a blue undertone. A strange color leaves from the normally light green fennel stalks. It’s astonishing how well the Everclear sucks the life out of a plant. I’ll let the fennel steep for about two months, then add a sugar syrup to tamp down the bitterness (not a lot of sugar, as I don’t want it sweet like Sambuca), and then enough water to get the alcohol down to a manageable level. By Christmas it should be where I want it.

The produce at the markets changes as quickly as do the leaves on the trees. Pumpkins, tiny and huge, pile up, round, squat, ones with odd squared-off angles, orange, beige, white, even gray-green ones. I’m not sure why I find this so disturbing. What do people do with all these pumpkins? What happens to them after November? Growing all these things for reasons I don’t understand must take up a lot of land space. I do make a savory pumpkin torta with parmigiano and sage once or twice in the fall, but that’s about it. Why do farmers grow so many? I mean, there are so many pumpkins all over the place. I’ve never really gotten over this.

I do love when the cauliflowers appear. That I understand. They’re so lumpy and voluptuous, almost volcanic-looking. Story Farms has colored cauliflowers that drive me a little wild. Green, orange, purple, gorgeous things that started showing up at New York farm stands maybe about fifteen years ago. They are hybrids, crosses of traditional creamy-white cauliflower with other vegetables to achieve those colors. The green ones are a cross between white cauliflower and broccoli, the orange ones with vegetables high in beta carotene such as carrots. The purple ones get their color from anthocyanin found in purple vegetables, usually purple broccoli. The colors fade a little during cooking, but I find that the orange variety generally stays pretty orange. Here are a few recent photos from Story.

In addition to the orange, purple, and white cauliflower, in the upper left you can see a Romanesco variety with its spiral bud pattern. Itʼs an old Italian hybrid of cauliflower and broccoli.

Hereʼs their beautiful green variety.

For my Roasted Cauliflower with Tahini, Pine Nuts, and Lemon Thyme, I used regular white cauliflower, but you can make it with any type. Or you can use broccoli, if you prefer. To make it you’ll want to cut approximately 1-inch flowerets from a large head of  cauliflower and toss them in a little olive oil, a tiny drizzle of runny honey, lemon zest, salt, some chopped fresh lemon thyme, and a little piment d’Espelette.

Make a Tahini sauce by mixing ¾ cup of tahini with about ½ a minced garlic clove, a big pinch of allspice, salt, a bit more of the espelette, and the juice from about half a lemon. Slowly whisk in about ½ cup of water until the mixture loosens up and becomes smooth and pourable.

Roast the cauliflower on really high heat (450 is good) until it’s tender and browned. Transfer it to a large, wide serving bowl. Drizzle on the tahini sauce (you might not need all of it—judgement here), sprinkle on a good amount of toasted pine nuts, and finish with a few more lightly chopped lemon thyme leaves.

For me this dish is best right out of the oven, when the cauliflower is hot and crisp. It still tastes really good at room temperature, but also the cauliflower softens a little. I served it with a whole roasted sea bass I stuffed with lemon and a variety of herbs I still had in my garden, but it would make a good vegetarian dinner served over Israeli couscous, I think. One big cauliflower should serve four as a side dish or two or three as a main over some type of starchy thing.

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Caponata with Lovage, Thai Basil, and Pear, plus Some Thoughts on a Pizza Truck Called Mommò

Posted in Uncategorized, tagged , , , , on September 24, 2024| Leave a Comment »

Recipe below: Caponata with Lovage, Thai Basil, and Pear

If you ever get to upstate New York, you probably notice a lot of pizza trucks rumbling around. They show up at farm stands, breweries, wineries, fairs. They pull up and set up, churn out pizzas for a few hours, and then they’re gone. They’re not all great, but some are.

I often hang out at Slow Fox Farm Brewery, in Rhinebeck. It’s both a brewery and a farm, with its own tomatoes, herbs, cabbage, kale, beets, arugula, and rows of, at the moment, zinnias, cosmos, and celosia that you can pick while drunk. As well as more than half a dozen fine house-brewed beers and ales. You can often eat pizza there. So far they’ve had I think three or four different pizza trucks this summer (this should go on into the early winter, before they close up until the spring). All the pizza has been good, but one stands out for me.

I could tell right away from the aroma wafting out from the Mommò truck that I was going to like its pizza. Mommò, I just learned, is Neapolitan for “right now,” and that’s about right. The pizza takes three minutes to cook. Luca, the owner and pizzaiolo, is from Italy, and he has the Neapolitan flavor down. The crust is yeasty and pully and just a touch salty, with charred but not too charred bubbles circling its rim. That is the taste I want but often don’t get. He’s got wood, but unlike most of the pizza people who drag around a wood burning oven with their truck, Luca had it built right into his truck. It doesn’t seem possible, but I’ve seen it. He explained to me that it’s a stainless steel pizza oven made in Naples for backyard use. It’s a little tight, but he got it to fit. If he turns around without thinking, he can burn his arm. But he’s been doing this for almost three years now, and I guess he’s got the reflex down.

Luca makes an effort to use good ingredients, as not everyone does. He’s got that bright red tomato sauce I always look for, the type that’s ladled on raw but gets flash blasted in the extra-hot oven. So far I’ve tried his margarita, his pizza with shiitake mushrooms, an anchovy and burrata one, and his sausage pizza topped with a nice mellow local sausage. In true Neapolitan style he’s light on the toppings, but you still get that traditional Neapolitan moist spot in the middle that I love. There’s a gorgonzola pizza I’m interested in, too. Next time. If you feel like following Luca around the Hudson Valley, you can track his whereabouts at www.mommopizza.com.

As you probably gather, I do love a good pizza, but what about caponata? Not that they’re related, except for the fact that they’re both Southern Italian. It’s still eggplant season here in New York, so I’ve got to use eggplants every way I can while they’re still young and vibrant. Caponata is of Sicilian origin, one of those full-bodied Spanish- and possibly Arab-inspired dishes with strange lists of ingredients that combine to open up lusciously on the tongue. Eggplant is caponata’s anchor, and agrodolce gives it its swing. It’s an old dish (tomato being a recent addition), which when done up for high-class Sicilians used to include (and sometimes still does) Baroque garnishes such as chocolate, cinnamon, hard-boiled eggs aged in vinegar, and even baby octopus. I kept the cinnamon.

Basil, parsley, and mint are traditional contemporary herbs for caponata. But this September, since I’ve still had tons of lovage in my garden, I’ve decided to add a little of that. And it makes sense, since celery is almost always a component of the dish and lovage has a strong celery-like flavor. If you don’t have lovage, use a palmful of celery leaves instead. I also had Thai basil hanging on, so that went in as well. And since it’s early fall, instead of the more typical dried fruit, usually raisins, I went with pear, just to freshen things up. And I decided on almonds instead of pine nuts because they seemed to go better with the pears. Not sure why. Just a feeling.

And just one more thing about caponata: I don’t care what anyone says, caponata is not ratatouille. It’s not a side dish. It shares basic ingredients, such as eggplant, but the seasoning couldn’t be more different. Its agrodolce boldness steers it toward the antipasto category.  I like it served room temperature, along with bruschetta brushed with good olive oil.

Caponata with Lovage, Thai Basil, and Pear

  • Servings: 6, as an antipasto dish
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Extra-virgin olive oil
2 firm medium-size eggplants, stripe-peeled and cut into medium dice
Salt
A big pinch of cinnamon (about ¼ teaspoon)
A drizzle of honey (about a teaspoon)
1 red bell pepper, seeded, ribbed, and cut into small dice
1 medium onion, cut into small dice
2 teaspoons Spanish sherry vinegar
3 small inner celery ribs, cut into small dice, plus a handful of celery leaves (especially if you don’t have lovage)
1 firm pear, skinned and cut into small dice
A splash of dry Marsala
1 large, round summer tomato, skinned and cut into small dice
1½ teaspoons sugar
A palmful of salt-packed capers, soaked and rinsed
Black pepper
A handful of Thai basil leaves, lightly chopped, plus whole sprigs for garnish
3 lovage leaves, lightly chopped
A big handful of blanched almonds, lightly toasted and roughly chopped

Have a large serving bowl ready near the stove. In a large skillet, heat a big drizzle of olive oil over medium heat. Add the eggplant, and sauté until it’s tender but still keeping its shape, about 8 minutes. Season it with a little salt and the cinnamon. Add the honey, giving everything a mix. Spoon the eggplant into the bowl.

Add another drizzle of olive oil to the skillet, add the red pepper and onion, and sauté over medium heat until softened, about 4 minutes or so. Add 1 teaspoon of the vinegar, and let it bubble for a few seconds. Add this mixture to the bowl with the eggplant.

Add another drizzle of olive oil to the skillet, and then add the celery and celery leaves, sautéing them until they just start to soften, about 2 minutes. Add the pear, and let it sauté about a minute longer. Pour in the Marsala, and let it bubble away. Add all this to the bowl, and give everything a gentle toss.

Add one more drizzle of olive oil to the skillet, keeping the heat on medium. Add the tomato, seasoning it with a little salt. Add the sugar, and sauté the tomato for about 2 minutes (you want it to remain red and fresh-tasting). Add the other teaspoon of vinegar, and let it boil for a few seconds. Pour the tomatoes into the bowl.

Add the capers and a few big grindings of black pepper to the bowl. Add the Thai basil, lovage, and about ¾ of the almonds. Give everything another mix. Taste for seasoning. The caponata should have a gentle, well-balanced sweet-and-sour taste. Add a little more salt if you need to to bring all the flavors into focus. Let the dish sit and come to room temperature. Then give it another taste, just to check the seasoning. (Dishes taste different at different temperatures, and this one in particular will change flavors as all its various components meld. It might need a little drizzle of vinegar or a bit more black pepper.) Garnish with the remaining almonds and the Thai basil sprigs. Serve at room temperature.

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Cool Zucchini Soup with Lemon Thyme

Posted in Uncategorized, tagged , , , , on July 16, 2024| Leave a Comment »

Lemon and a Sprig of Lemon Thyme, by Julian Merrow-Smith.

Recipe below, in text: Cool Zucchini Soup with Lemon Thyme

I never used to love lemon thyme. I found it too air-freshener-y. But the more I’ve learned how to work with it, the more I’ve changed my mind. It’s a matter of application, of handling. Lemon thyme is a multipurpose herb. The thyme feature of its personality can make it work as an anchoring herb, one you’ll want to add during cooking so its peppery, allspice-like, woody flavor can open up with heat. (Ever wonder why Jamaican cooks use allspice and thyme together so often? It’s because they taste alike. There’s an affinity there.) But also you’ve got the clear lemon overtones that provide an uplift, especially if you include it at the end. In the case of this soup, I’ve added it at the beginning of cooking and then chosen to wait and add it again after I’ve chilled the soup, so it stays fresh and relevant. It’s deep and good this way. No air freshener, no stupid scented candle.

To make this soup you’ll want to get out a good-size soup pot and set it over medium heat. Drizzle in a few tablespoons of extra-virgin olive oil, and add a large summer onion, chopped, using some of the tender green stem. Add a medium-size baking potato, peeled and chopped. Add some salt, and let it all cook for a few minutes. Then add about 6 or 7 small zucchini, chopped, and the leaves from about 4 lemon thyme sprigs. Let it cook until everything is fragrant and just starting to soften. Add a splash of dry vermouth, and let it boil away. Add 4 cups of chicken broth or vegetable broth and enough water to just cover the vegetables. Bring it to a boil, and then turn the heat down a touch and simmer at a low bubble until everything is tender, about 15 minutes.

Next you’ll want to purée the soup in a food processor, probably in batches, pouring it into a large bowl as it’s puréed. Chill it for several hours. When it’s cold, add a little more salt, some freshly ground black pepper, and the chopped leaves from about 5 lemon thyme sprigs. I like this soup with body but still quite pourable. If you find it too thick, thin it out with a little cold water.

Give it a taste.  I found it needed a tiny drizzle of sherry wine vinegar to bring up its acidity. Your soup may not. Serve cold, garnished with a drizzle of your best olive oil and a few lemon thyme sprigs.

This will make four big portions.

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Calzone with Scamorza and a Spring Herb Pesto

Posted in Uncategorized, tagged , , , , on June 13, 2024| 5 Comments »

A poster with a calzone on a maiolica plate.

Recipe below, in text: Calzone with Scamorza and a Spring Herb Pesto

The word calzone doesn’t immediately make me think warm weather cooking. It reminds me more of being a broke, hungry 20-year-old, on a freezing day in downtown Manhattan, urgently needing to get hold of the most filling food I can find for the smallest amount of cash. Industrial prosciutto, dough, dripping ricotta, all in a hot, oily package. I worshipped the calzone back then. Still do, but maybe not as desperately.

National Calzone Day is November 1.

A calzone is not a thing of elegance (the word means pants leg, which kind of sums up its clunky look and feel), but as I was thinking about new dishes to make with all the herbs now exploding in my garden, I thought, why not a calzone? Why not lighten one up with fresh greenery?

My Italian parsley was growing fluffy and deep green, and it became the anchor for the pine nut–heavy pesto that got smeared inside my calzone. The rest was just Southern Italian knowhow, meaning I chose my cheeses wisely.

My parsley.

And speaking of Southern Italy, I always knew the calzone had been born in Napoli, since it’s basically a folded over pizza. It completely makes sense to me as a possibly unintended creation. I’ve inadvertently created many calzoni when shooting a pizza with a little too much force off its peel and onto the back of the oven, making a folded up but deliciously messy pocket. This may have also happened in Naples sometime in the eighteenth century, when the calzone became the perfect, self-contained street food.

In New York it was always a pizza shop option, and when a slice wasn’t enough I’d chose the calzone. In my experience, the New York versions were larger than Southern Italian ones, which is typical of Italian-American food in general, where more is somehow considered better. I certainly felt more was better as a starving 20-year-old.

For this version of calzone I went with a no-knead dough that spent an overnight in the refrigerator. It was soft but not hard to work with. I just pressed it out with my fingers into a round.

My calzones.

To make the dough, shake a package of dry yeast into a large bowl. Add a cup of warm water (110 degrees is ideal), a tablespoon of honey, and 2 tablespoons of extra-virgin olive oil. Give everything a stir, and let it sit and bloom. That should take around 6 minutes. The surface should be a little bubbly.

Add 2½ cups of regular flour and about a teaspoon of fine sea salt. Stir everything around with a spoon until it comes together into a sticky ball, adding a little more flour if needed to make it easier to handle. The dough will be soft. Turn the dough out onto a floured surface, and form it into a ball.

Get out another bowl, and coat it well with olive oil. Drop the dough ball into it, turning it around once or twice to coat it with oil. Cover the bowl with plastic wrap, and stick it in the refrigerator overnight and into the next day, for at least 18 hours. By then it should have doubled in size.

Turn the dough out onto a floured surface, and punch it down. Divide it into four pieces, and roll each piece into a ball. Place the balls onto a floured surface, and let them sit, unrefrigerated, for about an 1½ hours. By then they will have puffed up a bit.

In the meantime, make the pesto. You can use whatever herbs you have or like, but what I did was grab a handful of parsley and basil leaves, a smaller one of tarragon, and 2 lovage leaves, about 2 cups in all. I blanched them for about a minute in boiling water and drained and then shocked them in cold water to set their bright green color. When you’ve done that, squeeze out most of the water. If you want to include stronger herbs such as rosemary, thyme, sage, savory, or oregano, use only a little and bulk them up with basil and/or parsley.

I put a palmful of pine nuts, along with 1 spring garlic clove, into a food processor and pulsed a few times. Then I added the blanched herbs, salt, and good Sicilian olive oil (about ½ cup), processing until it was all fairly smooth.

Then I put about 2 cups of whole-milk ricotta into a bowl, added a cup of grated scamorza cheese, salt, black pepper, a  few scrapings of nutmeg, and a drizzle of olive oil, mixing it all together well. If you can’t find scamorza, caciocavallo is similar and will make an excellent substitute.

About an hour before you’d like to cook your calzoni, put a pizza stone in your oven, and turn the heat up as high as it goes.

Pour about ½ cup of good olive oil into a small bowl. Add a pinch of sugar and a more generous pinch of salt. Stick a pastry brush into the bowl, and keep it nearby.

When your oven is hot, flour a work surface, and press out one of your four dough balls to about a 6- to 7-inch round. Flour your pizza peel, and transfer the dough round onto it. Smear pesto all over the dough, leaving a little rim around the edges. Blob some of the ricotta mix onto one side, smoothing it out. Fold the dough over into a half moon, and crimp the edges.  

Brush the top of the calzone with the olive oil mix, and slide it on to the stone. With this method you really can bake only one at a time. Bake it until it’s golden brown. This will take about 7 or 8 minutes, depending on how hot your oven is.  I like eating these just out of the oven, with a glass of dry Italian white wine, such as a Greco di Tufo. They also reheat well.

Note: If you don’t have a pizza stone, just prep each calzone on an oiled sheet pan, and stick the pan in your hot oven. The stone will give you a quicker cook time and a crunchier crust, but both ways work fine. Just leave the calzone in until it’s good and brown.

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