Showing posts with label italy. Show all posts
Showing posts with label italy. Show all posts
Monday, February 8, 2010
Say No to the McItaly Burger!
Thursday, December 17, 2009
Jenny's Italian Forest Ravioli
I never follow a recipe exactly - if I use one at all - but yesterday I quickly jotted down the ingredients as I threw them together, surer with every addition that this would be an exception and a recipe I would happily follow next fall.
I started with the pasta dough because it would need to rest. To be efficient, I planned to make the filling while the dough was resting in the fridge.
Pasta dough:
Recipe called for 200g of all purpose flour, but I didn’t have any so I used 100g pastry flour and 100g bread flour…which is what all purpose is anyways.
Then the recipe called for ¼ cup of white wine and as tempting as it is to open a bottle of your only white – a Chardonnay - just past noon, I decided to use ¼ cup of water. To make up for lost acidity, and to match with my chestnut filling, I decided to use something that would be in season at the same time because what grows together goes together. So, I zested in some orange…about one teaspoon.
Then I added one egg and 2 teaspoons of olive oil and kneaded it all together with my hands until the dough was shiny and smooth. Wrapped up tightly in cling film, my dough went into the fridge for some relaxation time.
I had wanted to do chestnut soup but for that I required whole chestnuts – and even though I could carefully read the excerpt in my Larousse about how to properly de-shell chestnuts without causing mini explosions in my oven and even though I knew that Fiesta Farms sells whole, shelled chestnuts – the Metro is closer and I know they sell canned, pureed chestnuts.
Imagining the chestnut tree forests around La Petraia (in Italy) gave me a direction for the flavours of my filling. Thinking Forest lead to a brunoise (about 1 ½ cups) of cremini mushrooms, which I browned in olive oil and butter. I browned them by heating the pan, adding the oil then butter and then the mushrooms, 1/3 at a time. If you crowd the pan then all the heat will go into steaming the mushrooms and result in a soggy pale mess. Season after they are browned. Chuck the mushrooms into a small mixing bowl.
Thinking about the necessity of textural variation, I brunoised ½ a large onion and sautéed it gently in butter with a little (less than a teaspoon, for you measuring types) brown sugar for good measure (and to match the sweet earthiness of the mushrooms). Tasting little spoonfuls at regular intervals, I added the onions to the mushrooms when they were soft and deliciously caramelized. At this point I started worrying about the sweetness of the filling and was thankful for the orange zest I had added to the dough.
Still needing more to offset the sweetness, I crushed half a clove of garlic (centre stem removed) and added that. Then soaked one small dried morel mushroom (we’ve had a bag of dried morels in the pantry - ignored - for almost half a year) in boiling water twice (and would have more if the bottom of the bowl still looked sandy, but it didn’t.). I chopped up the morel first into julienne and then into tiny brunoise. If the pieces of morel were any larger, they wouldn’t be evenly distributed and they would end up intruding instead of contributing.
The morels were a special ingredient that brought me to another: truffle paste. Another wonderful random forgotten ingredient, lost in my fridge for over a year – waiting for a special occasion to be opened. I made an executive decision even though the truffle paste wasn’t mine and added a little less than a teaspoon.
I opened up my can of dark brown chestnut puree (which was more like condensed chestnuts than ‘puree’ ) and added about 1 cup. After stirring it in and tasting, I decided to add some finely chopped thyme (about ½ tsp) for some floral notes to lighten up my rich, nutty mixture. Oh, and I added some grated parmesean for a little bit of salt and a little more Italian flavour. Italy *sigh*
Next, I made a beurre noisette. Aptly titled, 'nutted butter’ I thought it would be the perfect, simple sauce to go with my chestnut ravioli. It is easy to make ahead of time so that when plating you don’t have to worry about one million things plus burning butter. In a small pot, I melted about ½ cup butter with some (1tsp) dried sage from Trevor’s garden. Slowly heating the butter and keeping an eye on it, I let it slowly turn golden brown. Then, I strained it through a little sieve and left it in the fridge. Sage is always a friend of brown butter, and often paired with carotene-y vegetables like squash, sweet potato and pumpkin.
It's a lot of fun playing nonna and making ravioli and once you get into it, it is more fun than work. I promise.
Rolling out the pasta wasn’t as arduous as I had thought it would be – until my hard work amounted to only 17 raviolis. The trick to rolling out dough is patience. Divide the dough in three so that each piece is the size of the palm of my hand ( or yours, but mine are littler). Dust the piece lightly in flour and then roll in through on the largest setting (#1 on my machine). Then roll it through on size 2 then 3 then 4. Stop and re-dust and then continue rolling the dough through each size until size 6. If you work palms down, using the back of your hands to lift and move the dough then you are less likely to rip it. Put the rolled out piece on a surface lightly dusted with flour. Work faster without being careless so that you finished the next two pieces of dough before the first dries out too much.
I used a cutter about 2 inches in diameter to cut out as many circles as possible, then I lined them up in a grid to make sure that I had an even number and to be more efficient.
I used a measuring spoon and placed 1 tbsp filling into the centre of every other circle of pasta.
Using my finger, to drew a circle of egg wash around the filling of the first three soon-to-be-raviolis. Then I put the top sheet of pasta on and sealed the cardinal points. Making sure all the air had escaped, I sealed the spaces between the North, South, East and West of my ravioli. Placing them onto a tray lined with cling film, I moved onto the next three. Working in threes makes everything go faster.
Lightly dust the completed ravioli with flour and then cover with more cling film. Keep on the counter - or wherever - until you are ready. I kept mine out for a good 2 hours and they stayed happy.
Boil some salted water in a big pot about 20 minutes before you want to serve (this is enough time for the water to boil and for you to plate). If your pot is too small, your water will stop boiling when you add the ravioli and it will not cook as fast and you will be fucked with soggy ravioli. So use a big pot, like I said OR add your ravioli in two shifts (adding half, scooping out with a slotted spoon and then adding the next half batch).
Earlier, I crushed up some walnuts and toasted them in a frying pan with a little bit of butter. Then I took them off the heat stirred in some more orange zest. This step can be done while you are waiting for the water to boil. Or you can do it before hand and instead you spend this time drinking red wine and feasting on bread and olives like I did.
Once the water boils, it is time to start thinking about plating. Get your plates ready, or get someone to set the table for you. Reheat your beurre noisette in a large frying pan.
Boil your ravioli until it floats. It only needs 2 minutes. Add the ravioli to the warm butter and fry quickly then plate about three ravioli per person, topped with those walnuts you toasted earlier.
Light some candles and drink some wine (an oaked Chardonnay with nutty aromas would match well).
Enjoy!
Friday, November 20, 2009
Monkeys Taught Me To Love Swiss Chard
This week, an article in Macleans magazine brought to light the excessive waste produced because of strict regulations on the appearance of produce. When I lived in Italy, and we grew our own twisted and leggy carrots, we learned that even when our arugula was bug-bitten and our potatoes were looking everywhere, they were still edible, and better, they were delicious. Grown without genetic modification or pesticides, all of the vegetables we grew at La Petraia were truly ‘slow’: We planted, we fed and we harvested our vegetables proudly.
Four culinary students and I stayed in Chianti for the summer and worked at the agriturismo in Radda: La Petraia. We were all completing a stage, meaning; we were there for the experience (and working for free). We had our housing paid for and we were given a weekly grocery allowance so that survival was possible during the three months that we would be there. A restriction on our grocery list was vegetables. We were not allowed to buy vegetables because we had to eat what we had grown. It makes sense, until you start going mental from monotony.
Harvesting without the use of pesticides never seemed so right. We had no problem growing asparagus – and we often had to harvest them twice daily because they grew so fast. There was no need for anything but the earth, the rain (or the irrigation when it was August and drought season) and our care. So when the kitchen had already used a bunch of asparagus for that night’s dinner guests, we were sent home with asparagus. And when pink, yellow and white-legged swiss chard was overflowing in its patch only the size of a small dinner table, we were sent home with swiss chard.
Swiss chard has a long growing season. In Canada, I use Foodland Ontario to keep track of what is in season when; but the calendar shows me what months. In Tuscany, our strawberries were in season for two weeks in the beginning of June, and grew alongside the asparagus. Asparagus grows like little rockets erupting from their underground layer, but their season is over quickly too. It is the swiss chard that survives and thrives.
For one week, our fridge was filled with clear bags of zucchini and so ever day we would make pasta with zucchini, zucchini sticks, fritters, and bread until we had had enough. We would take the bags of vegetables home at night, and in the morning, we would bring them back to work and before we were caught, we would chuck the zucchini into the compost pile and be consumed by guilt. Zucchini season was still in full swing when the chard began.
We honestly didn’t know what to do when we harvested such an abundance of swiss chard. I often say that people don’t buy local because they are uninspired. There are only so many times you can eat a beet salad before you begin to protest and whine when you see it on a menu proudly displayed as a seasonal. Cooking anything but Italian food is difficult in a small town, where you are as likely to find soy sauce as you are a store that doesn’t take a two-hour lunch break. So when I found myself mixing dried herbs and spices to make a swiss chard hot and sour soup I demanded an alternative.
The next day, after we had been handed our two clear bags of swiss chard, we stopped on our way home. Exactly half way home, along a windy road with 16% inclination (or at least that’s what the sign with falling rocks told us) there was a big yellow sign pointing down a dark driveway: Parco Nazionale de Cavrilglia. I knew there was a zoo beyond the dark forest on either side of the road leading in because on one of the first drives to work, we were stopped by a lama. He stood is the centre of the road and looked straight at us as if to say, “Yeah so what? I’m a fucking lama. Move on”. Someone in the car explained that many years ago some lamas had escaped from the zoo but decided that they liked the area, stayed and started a family. Cute, but unexpected and possibly even untrue.
We drove in and found a parking lot and a small store selling ice cream, popsicles and drinks. After our popsicles, we wandered down a path behind the little snack bungalow. There, we found MONKEYS! Looking over the chest-high cement ledge - on my tippy-toes - we looked down into a pit of Japanese Macaque monkeys grooming, swinging and screeching at the children on the other side of the fence down below. One leaf of swiss chard fell from their sky. I looked around and none of the other monkey-gawkers had noticed and so I threw in another. A little monkey shuffled over and the instant he showed interest, so did his (I presume) mama. Soon our bags were empty and the monkeys were sitting cross-legged or squatting, munching on pink and white and yellow swiss chard and looking up at us adoringly.
We visited almost every day on our way home from work, saving some for the other animals. But the ostriches weren’t interested in anything but showing off their big legs (not knowing that they were being drooled over by four culinary students with a love for all food and lot of imagination). The mouflon (wild sheep) weren’t impressed with anything despite their beautiful big space shaded by a surprisingly Canadian-looking forest. There were also horses, and Canadian geese and one very large boar who was always asleep- but none of them were interested in our swiss chard. Only the monkeys.
As if their selective appetite for swiss chard rationalized it, we visited a few more times, until swiss chard season was over. It was the tomatoes’ turn to burst with fecundity, but I promise the monkeys didn’t see one red morsel. Every morning in August we would pick baskets of plump red and sun-warmed tomatoes from only two rows of vines no more than 10 feet long; And every morning the next day we would do it again. We made pappa al pomodoro, tomato sauce, tomato chutney, sun-dried tomatoes and tomato basil sorbet. The Italians were given tomatoes and they didn’t complain about variety, they made it. The next time I grow swiss chard, I will honor it and experiment. Maybe swiss chard pesto, or braised with a lamb dish, or mixed with goat cheese and stuffed in an omelet, or made into chutney. Whatever I do with the swiss chard, those cheeky monkeys won’t be getting any.
Four culinary students and I stayed in Chianti for the summer and worked at the agriturismo in Radda: La Petraia. We were all completing a stage, meaning; we were there for the experience (and working for free). We had our housing paid for and we were given a weekly grocery allowance so that survival was possible during the three months that we would be there. A restriction on our grocery list was vegetables. We were not allowed to buy vegetables because we had to eat what we had grown. It makes sense, until you start going mental from monotony.
Harvesting without the use of pesticides never seemed so right. We had no problem growing asparagus – and we often had to harvest them twice daily because they grew so fast. There was no need for anything but the earth, the rain (or the irrigation when it was August and drought season) and our care. So when the kitchen had already used a bunch of asparagus for that night’s dinner guests, we were sent home with asparagus. And when pink, yellow and white-legged swiss chard was overflowing in its patch only the size of a small dinner table, we were sent home with swiss chard.
Swiss chard has a long growing season. In Canada, I use Foodland Ontario to keep track of what is in season when; but the calendar shows me what months. In Tuscany, our strawberries were in season for two weeks in the beginning of June, and grew alongside the asparagus. Asparagus grows like little rockets erupting from their underground layer, but their season is over quickly too. It is the swiss chard that survives and thrives.
For one week, our fridge was filled with clear bags of zucchini and so ever day we would make pasta with zucchini, zucchini sticks, fritters, and bread until we had had enough. We would take the bags of vegetables home at night, and in the morning, we would bring them back to work and before we were caught, we would chuck the zucchini into the compost pile and be consumed by guilt. Zucchini season was still in full swing when the chard began.
We honestly didn’t know what to do when we harvested such an abundance of swiss chard. I often say that people don’t buy local because they are uninspired. There are only so many times you can eat a beet salad before you begin to protest and whine when you see it on a menu proudly displayed as a seasonal. Cooking anything but Italian food is difficult in a small town, where you are as likely to find soy sauce as you are a store that doesn’t take a two-hour lunch break. So when I found myself mixing dried herbs and spices to make a swiss chard hot and sour soup I demanded an alternative.
The next day, after we had been handed our two clear bags of swiss chard, we stopped on our way home. Exactly half way home, along a windy road with 16% inclination (or at least that’s what the sign with falling rocks told us) there was a big yellow sign pointing down a dark driveway: Parco Nazionale de Cavrilglia. I knew there was a zoo beyond the dark forest on either side of the road leading in because on one of the first drives to work, we were stopped by a lama. He stood is the centre of the road and looked straight at us as if to say, “Yeah so what? I’m a fucking lama. Move on”. Someone in the car explained that many years ago some lamas had escaped from the zoo but decided that they liked the area, stayed and started a family. Cute, but unexpected and possibly even untrue.
We drove in and found a parking lot and a small store selling ice cream, popsicles and drinks. After our popsicles, we wandered down a path behind the little snack bungalow. There, we found MONKEYS! Looking over the chest-high cement ledge - on my tippy-toes - we looked down into a pit of Japanese Macaque monkeys grooming, swinging and screeching at the children on the other side of the fence down below. One leaf of swiss chard fell from their sky. I looked around and none of the other monkey-gawkers had noticed and so I threw in another. A little monkey shuffled over and the instant he showed interest, so did his (I presume) mama. Soon our bags were empty and the monkeys were sitting cross-legged or squatting, munching on pink and white and yellow swiss chard and looking up at us adoringly.
We visited almost every day on our way home from work, saving some for the other animals. But the ostriches weren’t interested in anything but showing off their big legs (not knowing that they were being drooled over by four culinary students with a love for all food and lot of imagination). The mouflon (wild sheep) weren’t impressed with anything despite their beautiful big space shaded by a surprisingly Canadian-looking forest. There were also horses, and Canadian geese and one very large boar who was always asleep- but none of them were interested in our swiss chard. Only the monkeys.
As if their selective appetite for swiss chard rationalized it, we visited a few more times, until swiss chard season was over. It was the tomatoes’ turn to burst with fecundity, but I promise the monkeys didn’t see one red morsel. Every morning in August we would pick baskets of plump red and sun-warmed tomatoes from only two rows of vines no more than 10 feet long; And every morning the next day we would do it again. We made pappa al pomodoro, tomato sauce, tomato chutney, sun-dried tomatoes and tomato basil sorbet. The Italians were given tomatoes and they didn’t complain about variety, they made it. The next time I grow swiss chard, I will honor it and experiment. Maybe swiss chard pesto, or braised with a lamb dish, or mixed with goat cheese and stuffed in an omelet, or made into chutney. Whatever I do with the swiss chard, those cheeky monkeys won’t be getting any.
Sunday, September 27, 2009
Al Gallopapa: Discovering the Magic of Taste at a One-Star Michelin
It was at Al Gallopapa that I ate the most extraordinary meal of my life. Al Gallopapa is a one star Michelin located in a medieval stone passageway in Castellina in Chianti, in Tuscany. Castellina in Chianti is a beautiful town hugged by Etruscan ruins and medieval buildings.
I was seated in a quiet narrow passageway called the Via delle Volte. Its arched, stone ceiling leads the passage along the town’s east wall. The atmosphere in the evening is quiet and floor lights highlight the beauty of the stone. Along the passage there are small openings in the stone, where one can peak through and enjoy the lush rolling hills.
We begin with a water menu. Yes, a menu that offers a selection of water from different areas in the region, all for 3euro a bottle. We drank a bottle of Acqua Panna. Founded in 1899, this water is named after its source, the Acqua Panna spring, which is situated along the Roman road that stretches from Northern to Southern Italy.
The amuse bouche was a delicious trio of componets delicious on their own and together: Couscous with aged balsamic; a shot glass smooth watermelon gazpacho and a small cube of frozen tomato parfait.
Next, I had the “spam” (how could I not?) of mortadella with Prestige Cuvee and citrus fruit. The spam was a delicious cylinder of sweet and meaty mortadella suspended in a flavorful aspic jelly.
Next I had Acquerello Carnaroli risotto, which came on a plate in a single layer of white rice with three rings of golden, battered onion making a pyramid in the centre and dots of purple lavender oil around each one. Hidden and camouflaged under the onions was a small rectangle of goat’s milk parfait. Cold and salty, sweet, the parfait was an unexpected addition to an already fantastic dish. This risotto was truly a life-changing experience. Each grain was perfectly moist and covered in a light, reduced stock and dusted with Parmesan. The crispy onions were perfectly sweet with the lavender oil and the saltiness of the Parmesan. It was so far from starchy that I guessed that perhaps they had cooked the risotto and then washed it and covered it lightly with the sauce. When I got home that night I went straight to the computer to find out what exactly made Acquerello risotto so unique. This is the risotto that is preferred by Michelin starred chefs around the world. It is aged one to three years in chilled vats in Livorno, Italy. This aging process results in less water-soluble protein and vitamins. The rice is able to absorb more liquid and can therefore absorb more flavour. The cooked grains are larger than most risotto and far more flavorful. Heston Blumenthal, Alain Ducasse and Paul Bocuse all cook with Acquerello.
The next course was a strange surprise of new tastes. I ordered the veal entrecote with a mate crust, shoulder with blanquette sauce and kola nuts. When the plate was put down in front of me I was surprised to see a quenelle of mushy oatmeal. Thinking it must be filled, or have a secret surprise I tasted a bit with the prong of my fork. Nope: just mushy oatmeal. I hadn’t lost hope. In fact I was a bit excited to find out what the secret surprise was that would transform the dish. Next I tasted the entrecote. It was a small cube with a thick crust of yerba mate (the South American tea that a fellow cook would drink every brunch service. I tried it once- sipping the hot liquid through the straw- la bombilla- that filters out the leaves- and it tasted like a barn to me). The mate crust on the veal tasted the same, except with the texture of pureed leaves that had been spread over the veal prior to cooking. The veal was soft and succulent; the mate was a bit strange. The proximity of the quenelle to the entrecote was the hint I needed; I cut a small piece of veal and topped it with a small bit of the oatmeal, ate it, and sighed. It was a moment out of Ratatouille when the flavours dance across the screen depicted as colourful swirls and music. It was a magical moment that taught me the magic of taste. Despite the French intrusion on my plate, the blanquette de veau was tender and delicious. The final component was the kola nut. The kola nut has both stimulant and euphoriant qualities, increases tactile sensitivity, and suppresses the appetite (as well as a carcinogen when chewed habitually, but Anthony Bourdain would agree that dangerous food is the tastiest kind).
Good thing I chose the three-course menu (63 Euro) and ignored the desserts because at this point I was in an ecstatic food trance and slipping into a blissful coma. I finished the meal with an espresso and the promise that I would return.
I was seated in a quiet narrow passageway called the Via delle Volte. Its arched, stone ceiling leads the passage along the town’s east wall. The atmosphere in the evening is quiet and floor lights highlight the beauty of the stone. Along the passage there are small openings in the stone, where one can peak through and enjoy the lush rolling hills.
We begin with a water menu. Yes, a menu that offers a selection of water from different areas in the region, all for 3euro a bottle. We drank a bottle of Acqua Panna. Founded in 1899, this water is named after its source, the Acqua Panna spring, which is situated along the Roman road that stretches from Northern to Southern Italy.
The amuse bouche was a delicious trio of componets delicious on their own and together: Couscous with aged balsamic; a shot glass smooth watermelon gazpacho and a small cube of frozen tomato parfait.
Next, I had the “spam” (how could I not?) of mortadella with Prestige Cuvee and citrus fruit. The spam was a delicious cylinder of sweet and meaty mortadella suspended in a flavorful aspic jelly.
Next I had Acquerello Carnaroli risotto, which came on a plate in a single layer of white rice with three rings of golden, battered onion making a pyramid in the centre and dots of purple lavender oil around each one. Hidden and camouflaged under the onions was a small rectangle of goat’s milk parfait. Cold and salty, sweet, the parfait was an unexpected addition to an already fantastic dish. This risotto was truly a life-changing experience. Each grain was perfectly moist and covered in a light, reduced stock and dusted with Parmesan. The crispy onions were perfectly sweet with the lavender oil and the saltiness of the Parmesan. It was so far from starchy that I guessed that perhaps they had cooked the risotto and then washed it and covered it lightly with the sauce. When I got home that night I went straight to the computer to find out what exactly made Acquerello risotto so unique. This is the risotto that is preferred by Michelin starred chefs around the world. It is aged one to three years in chilled vats in Livorno, Italy. This aging process results in less water-soluble protein and vitamins. The rice is able to absorb more liquid and can therefore absorb more flavour. The cooked grains are larger than most risotto and far more flavorful. Heston Blumenthal, Alain Ducasse and Paul Bocuse all cook with Acquerello.
The next course was a strange surprise of new tastes. I ordered the veal entrecote with a mate crust, shoulder with blanquette sauce and kola nuts. When the plate was put down in front of me I was surprised to see a quenelle of mushy oatmeal. Thinking it must be filled, or have a secret surprise I tasted a bit with the prong of my fork. Nope: just mushy oatmeal. I hadn’t lost hope. In fact I was a bit excited to find out what the secret surprise was that would transform the dish. Next I tasted the entrecote. It was a small cube with a thick crust of yerba mate (the South American tea that a fellow cook would drink every brunch service. I tried it once- sipping the hot liquid through the straw- la bombilla- that filters out the leaves- and it tasted like a barn to me). The mate crust on the veal tasted the same, except with the texture of pureed leaves that had been spread over the veal prior to cooking. The veal was soft and succulent; the mate was a bit strange. The proximity of the quenelle to the entrecote was the hint I needed; I cut a small piece of veal and topped it with a small bit of the oatmeal, ate it, and sighed. It was a moment out of Ratatouille when the flavours dance across the screen depicted as colourful swirls and music. It was a magical moment that taught me the magic of taste. Despite the French intrusion on my plate, the blanquette de veau was tender and delicious. The final component was the kola nut. The kola nut has both stimulant and euphoriant qualities, increases tactile sensitivity, and suppresses the appetite (as well as a carcinogen when chewed habitually, but Anthony Bourdain would agree that dangerous food is the tastiest kind).
Good thing I chose the three-course menu (63 Euro) and ignored the desserts because at this point I was in an ecstatic food trance and slipping into a blissful coma. I finished the meal with an espresso and the promise that I would return.
Tuesday, September 15, 2009
So Tuscan: Pappa al Pomodoro
I recently returned from Tuscany. My heart is still there and my appetite for the food has not left me. I wonder how I will ever enjoy a tomato in Canada again, after having plucked the first one of the season from its vine and letting the sweet, sun-warmed juice cover my tongue. I lived and worked in an agrituismo for three months. In that time, I watched swiss chard and asparagus come and go, followed by radishes and beets and finally, tomatoes. Every day the ripe tomatoes would fall into my cupped hands, perfectly ripe and every following day there would be more tomatoes, ripe and waiting. Soon, every surface inside was covered with tomatoes and very pot was on the burner simmering and spattering tomato juice. Passata is a sieved tomato puree and the Italians’ answer to the abundance of tomatoes. Once jarred, this puree can last throughout the winter, giving a bit of summer to each dish.
When you live by the harvest on a small farm, you must also learn to appreciate the (often monotonous) abundance that changes week by week. I must be honest and admit I enjoyed our two-week tomato season far more than the two-week season of swiss chard. Tomatoes can be dried, purred and jarred or frozen and pickled or made into chutney. You don’t need to be a chef to create something different every day from the same ingredients, but you do need a bit of inspiration. What I learned in Italy was: What grows together, goes together. This saying can be expanded to include the region’s specialties, such as cheeses and breads. Papa al Pomodoro is a thick tomato and bread soup that is especially popular in the Chianti region of Tuscany. It is as Tuscan as a dish can get: Basil and tomatoes from the garden, olive oil produced just over on the next hill, and thickened with Tuscany’s saltless bread.
I spoke to an old nonna (grandma) in the town where I was staying and she asked me skeptically what I had been doing with all my tomatoes. I mentioned that earlier that day I had made Pappa al Pomodoro for lunch, thinking she would accept my attempt to be true to Tuscany. The nonna promptly told me that I had done it all wrong. I smiled. This was my third month in Tuscany and I had learned very quickly that every family has their own way of preparing even the most traditional dishes so that it is their own special touch, which makes their dish, ‘the best’. I had also learned by this point that most people were more than willing to share their secrets and even more willing to argue that their way is the only way. By the time I had finished the most intense conversation about soup, in the best Italian I could muster, there were three more old nonnas sitting around us, speaking simultaneously, and some old men close by, smoking and shouting over their opinion. Eavesdropping is ok when it is about food.
Tuscany truly is a food lover’s dream. The culture is so rich with food from farm to table to the espresso to the vin santo and cantucci afterwards. I don’t know the old nonna’s name, but I know her recipe, and she would be joyous to know that now you do too.
Nonna’s Pappa al Pomodoro
“ First in the pan: olive oil, basil, bread. Then tomatoes and stop”
The above recipe has no measurements because cooking should be free. If you have some special olive oil, add more. Use a hearty, stale loaf of bread so that the crumbs dissolve easily into the tomato juice. If you want a thinner soup, add less bread. Make adjustments to your taste and enjoy with friends.
Eating Italy
It was the last week of May and I was eagerly waiting for my plane to land in Italy. I was eager because I knew I would be working for a chef in Tuscany six days a week for three months but knew little else. Growing up in Toronto’s Little Italy, I thought I knew what to expect. I couldn't have been more wrong. In the summer between my first and second year of Culinary Management at George Brown Chefs School I was on my way to Tuscany. When I arrived at Florence’s airport I was waved through by smiling customs agents who had no interest in looking at my passport. I left the small airport and took a cab to Santa Maria Novella train station. The different trains and their times of arrival and departure were printed in English as well as in Italian and were easy to understand. It seemed nothing in Italy could make me anything but serene. There was a train strike (again) but mine was the last one out of the station. I boarded and went southeast to San Giovanni Valdarno. A 30 minute train ride cost me less than 5Euros! Everything about Italy made me smile and I had only been in the country for an hour.
San Giovanni Valdarno is a small town- although still 10 times bigger than most of the towns I visited during my stay. Valdarno gets its name because the Arno River runs though the town. For the next three months the town became the exciting weekly destination for groceries at the ‘Co-Op’ and visiting the Sunday market in the town’s centre (which always included a porchetta sandwich). I would walk along the crowded main street shaded by the street vendors selling clothing and would finish the market day at one of the three porchetta stands. To be fair, I made sure to rotate each week between them. Every single sandwich I ate was perfect: slightly salty pork with a fresh bun and the pork’s fat moisten the sandwich. It was in Italy where I developed my gluttonous addiction to and affection for fat- specifically pork back fat used to make the incredible lardo. It is mild and creamy and rich but not greasy, and is sliced thinly after it has cured for a minimum of 6 months in salt and herbs and served on crostini. It is fantastic. Lardo is classified as salumi, which means it is one of the many Italian cured meat (predominantly pork) products. It is also, for no justifiable reason, very difficult to find in Toronto, although places like Black Hoof (on Dundas) and Cowbell (on Queen) are sure to have something very close, if not the real thing. Unfortunately, it is also dangerous to eat if not stored properly but if you really want to, it is possible to make it yourself. There are many websites with recipes, so sift through them and ask your butcher for some tips.
When you live in the countryside in a village of less than 50 people, a drive into a town is an exciting adventure. For three months I lived in Massa in Sabbioni. From the hill where our apartment sat I could see the entire town : 2 perpendicular roads both leading to towns a ten minute jog away. At the centre of Massa in Sabioni there was an A.R.C.I’s We called it “Archies” but it stood for Associazione Ricreativa Culturale Italiana (Italian Cultural Recreational Association). It was a volunteer-run restaurant, only open on Fridays, and where every local would be on Friday. So I went every Friday as well and rotated though the selection of pizza. When I crave A.R.C.I.’s pizza, I go to Libretto on Ossington.
I worked at La Petraia, an agritourismo. An agritourismo is a restaurnant that grows all of its fruits and vegetables and raises animals for slaughter. I was there with three other culinary students. We worked every day and began by letting the animals (turkeys, chickens, rabbits, quail, guinea fowl and ducks) out of their cages, feeding them, and collecting any eggs that had been laid over night. There was usually one dead animal per day- either half eaten by a sneaky fox, or just natural death. It is amazing how difficult it is to grow animals without any antibiotics- but it is also very rewarding. Once the animals were happily stretching their legs we would harvest and irrigate the vegetables: asparagus, arugula, lettuce, radishes, beets, zucchini and potatoes (and in August, lots and lots of tomatoes). It was so magical to discover how quickly vegetables grow: If the asparagus wasn’t tall enough to be dug up, we would wait 2 hours and it would have grown at least an inch! And did you know that scorpions live in Italy and like to hide underground close to potato plants? Nope, neither did I; When I uprooted a potato plant I was severely made aware.
It was also incredible to be so aware the seasonal life of each plant. The tomatoes didn’t start growing until mid-August, but they took over and we couldn’t make tomato sauce fast enough. Every surface was covered in tomatoes. And I will never forget chard season, because all we ate for two weeks was chard. It makes you realize that eating with the seasons, although much better for the Earth (and earth) in every way, is tedious and requires quite an imagination. I also learned that vegetables aren’t perfect and they sometimes have weird looking bumps or scars but are still just as delicious. A problem in supermarkets today is that everyone now expects perfect produce, which means more waste and more genetic modification. We were all about slow-food at La Petraia.
We would bring all our daily harvest to the outdoor sink and soak and wash before bringing them inside. Inside, we would have a list waiting of what each person was to do. I made bread every day- a skill that is still and will be forever ingrained in my mind. At lunch we would share a table with the Italian gardeners and try to keep up as they raced though conversations in Italian. The afternoons would be spent indoors (much too hot in Tuscany to spend a full day in the sun) preparing mise-en-place for a cooking class or for dinner service.
Towards the end of July we harvested honey and wheat. To harvest wheat we first chopped down the three plots of Rye, Hard flour wheat and Soft flour wheat. Once each type had been divided in ‘manageable’ piles (about five feet tall) on top of a large tarp, we would beat the straw with pitchforks to loosen the grains. Then we would flip the pile and do it again, and again. We would remove the straw, layer by layer, after each beating and eventually all that would be left were the grains. We would sift them twice, then bag them and eventually grind them. It was extremely tiring but eye-opening how much labour is required for so little flour.
For me, Italy will forever be a reminder that field-to-table eating is possible, and is rewarding even though it takes work and sacrifice. Vegetables taste better when they grow when and how nature intended. The food and the respect for food, the people, their passion for everything in life and the traditions ingrained into everyday life was enough for Italy to capture my heart forever.
San Giovanni Valdarno is a small town- although still 10 times bigger than most of the towns I visited during my stay. Valdarno gets its name because the Arno River runs though the town. For the next three months the town became the exciting weekly destination for groceries at the ‘Co-Op’ and visiting the Sunday market in the town’s centre (which always included a porchetta sandwich). I would walk along the crowded main street shaded by the street vendors selling clothing and would finish the market day at one of the three porchetta stands. To be fair, I made sure to rotate each week between them. Every single sandwich I ate was perfect: slightly salty pork with a fresh bun and the pork’s fat moisten the sandwich. It was in Italy where I developed my gluttonous addiction to and affection for fat- specifically pork back fat used to make the incredible lardo. It is mild and creamy and rich but not greasy, and is sliced thinly after it has cured for a minimum of 6 months in salt and herbs and served on crostini. It is fantastic. Lardo is classified as salumi, which means it is one of the many Italian cured meat (predominantly pork) products. It is also, for no justifiable reason, very difficult to find in Toronto, although places like Black Hoof (on Dundas) and Cowbell (on Queen) are sure to have something very close, if not the real thing. Unfortunately, it is also dangerous to eat if not stored properly but if you really want to, it is possible to make it yourself. There are many websites with recipes, so sift through them and ask your butcher for some tips.
When you live in the countryside in a village of less than 50 people, a drive into a town is an exciting adventure. For three months I lived in Massa in Sabbioni. From the hill where our apartment sat I could see the entire town : 2 perpendicular roads both leading to towns a ten minute jog away. At the centre of Massa in Sabioni there was an A.R.C.I’s We called it “Archies” but it stood for Associazione Ricreativa Culturale Italiana (Italian Cultural Recreational Association). It was a volunteer-run restaurant, only open on Fridays, and where every local would be on Friday. So I went every Friday as well and rotated though the selection of pizza. When I crave A.R.C.I.’s pizza, I go to Libretto on Ossington.
I worked at La Petraia, an agritourismo. An agritourismo is a restaurnant that grows all of its fruits and vegetables and raises animals for slaughter. I was there with three other culinary students. We worked every day and began by letting the animals (turkeys, chickens, rabbits, quail, guinea fowl and ducks) out of their cages, feeding them, and collecting any eggs that had been laid over night. There was usually one dead animal per day- either half eaten by a sneaky fox, or just natural death. It is amazing how difficult it is to grow animals without any antibiotics- but it is also very rewarding. Once the animals were happily stretching their legs we would harvest and irrigate the vegetables: asparagus, arugula, lettuce, radishes, beets, zucchini and potatoes (and in August, lots and lots of tomatoes). It was so magical to discover how quickly vegetables grow: If the asparagus wasn’t tall enough to be dug up, we would wait 2 hours and it would have grown at least an inch! And did you know that scorpions live in Italy and like to hide underground close to potato plants? Nope, neither did I; When I uprooted a potato plant I was severely made aware.
It was also incredible to be so aware the seasonal life of each plant. The tomatoes didn’t start growing until mid-August, but they took over and we couldn’t make tomato sauce fast enough. Every surface was covered in tomatoes. And I will never forget chard season, because all we ate for two weeks was chard. It makes you realize that eating with the seasons, although much better for the Earth (and earth) in every way, is tedious and requires quite an imagination. I also learned that vegetables aren’t perfect and they sometimes have weird looking bumps or scars but are still just as delicious. A problem in supermarkets today is that everyone now expects perfect produce, which means more waste and more genetic modification. We were all about slow-food at La Petraia.
We would bring all our daily harvest to the outdoor sink and soak and wash before bringing them inside. Inside, we would have a list waiting of what each person was to do. I made bread every day- a skill that is still and will be forever ingrained in my mind. At lunch we would share a table with the Italian gardeners and try to keep up as they raced though conversations in Italian. The afternoons would be spent indoors (much too hot in Tuscany to spend a full day in the sun) preparing mise-en-place for a cooking class or for dinner service.
Towards the end of July we harvested honey and wheat. To harvest wheat we first chopped down the three plots of Rye, Hard flour wheat and Soft flour wheat. Once each type had been divided in ‘manageable’ piles (about five feet tall) on top of a large tarp, we would beat the straw with pitchforks to loosen the grains. Then we would flip the pile and do it again, and again. We would remove the straw, layer by layer, after each beating and eventually all that would be left were the grains. We would sift them twice, then bag them and eventually grind them. It was extremely tiring but eye-opening how much labour is required for so little flour.
For me, Italy will forever be a reminder that field-to-table eating is possible, and is rewarding even though it takes work and sacrifice. Vegetables taste better when they grow when and how nature intended. The food and the respect for food, the people, their passion for everything in life and the traditions ingrained into everyday life was enough for Italy to capture my heart forever.
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