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March 9, 2020 In Best Of, Live By Nancy

The village vs. coronavirus

What is life like under the shadow of the coronavirus in my small village in Tuscany? Much feels different since the weekend decree holding 14 million Italians in quarantine in the North, and just finding out we are included in the lockdown. Some things remain the same, like my daily walk where I often see locals out for trail rides.

The villages of our valley issued a statement that in addition to all schools being suspended (preschool to universities), so are sporting events, public and private events, including theaters and cinemas, all civil and religious ceremonies, including funerals (?!), discos and clubs. Visitors to hospitals and nursing homes are strictly limited. Businesses, cafes, and restaurants remain open but must guarantee that any patrons are at least one meter apart. If the measures are disregarded the punishment is three months in jail. Everyone who just fled Milan is supposed to self-quarantine for 14 days.

A friend in Milan was sharing her large consulting firm’s response to the virus (this was from last week, not sure how it has changed as of today). All entrances were closed except for one. Everyone entering and exiting had their temperatures taken. No more than two people in an elevator.

Our local grocery stores are still well stocked, including toilet paper (still don’t quite understand the run on that in the States) and we are working on our hand sanitization routines. Ok, load bags in car, return cart, sanitize hands and bottle before unlocking car. Drive home. Unload bags. Shit! Now the contaminated bags are in the kitchen!!

I saw an elderly man at the shared sink outside the bathroom at a tiny local restaurant counting while thoroughly washing his hands. Another man was doing our disinfection dance outside his car after exiting the pharmacy.

The pharmacy is one of the great things about Italian life. It’s the first line of defense for all matters of health with smart, trained pharmacist/doctors who consult with you about minor health issues, do small procedures, and give prescription medicine if they deem appropriate. Now only one person in at a time can enter and the counter cordoned off so all customers stand over a meter away from the pharmacist and register. The best thing is that they have contracted with a local lab to make hand sanitizer. Pretty impressive with only two stores.

There is suddenly a big push on social media to not go out in public, complete with its own hashtag #iorestoacasa “I stay at home”.

Where am I in all of this? Trying to adhere to #iorestoacasa despite my hatred of being cooped up. We live in such a small town that work, travel, hanging in cafes, and having lunch out every day are my escape valves, and now I don’t have them. I had to do an errand this morning and passed a cafe with tables in the sun where I badly wanted to stop and have a coffee but decided not to. I feel so cognisant of how many elderly people there are in our village and I want to protect them as much as possible. Unfortunately Donella and Sebastian cannot return from London for Easter. It’s fascinating to me that London and Donella’s university, UCL, one of the most international universities in the world, are taking so few precautions. According to Donella, London is 100% normal with the exception of a shortage of hand sanitizer. She is required to attend 200 person lectures and they have given no guidance to avoid the London Underground, nightclubs, or pubs which are in full swing. Quite the contrast.

I am tremendously proud of my adopted nation for how transparent and economically selfless the government has been so far — particularly in comparison to my birth nation and the UK which seem to be driven by politics rather than public safety. Testing is abundant, health care free, and people, at least here, seem to be aware that this is important and want to cooperate.

And there’s comfort in the age of this place. That the core of my house used to be a defensive tower in the middle ages, which I am sure has seen its share of people sheltering inside with the huge wooden doors closed. Embracing waiting and uncertainty is hard for us, and I am sure it always has been, and it feels like something I need to look in the face right now.

Meanwhile I am loving the Italian sense of humor which is coming out in full force on social media. A 30-something relative of John’s who grew up the same tiny village in Calabria where John’s grandparents lived (but now lives in the north) posted this:

It means “Nothing works, factories closed, nobody at school, cash is hoarded, refrigerators are full. All of Italy seems to be Calabria.”

Apparently the North/South divide of, well, everything even extends to pasta. Quartz had an article that in Milan the pasta aisle is often bare with the exception of the fully untouched penne lisce boxes. Penne comes in two varieties, striped or ridged, rigate, and smooth, liscio. The Northern Italians scorn the smooth type, apparently not even deeming it adequate to eat during a quarantine, while Southerners, particularly around Naples, prefer it. (That preference transferred to American Italians with the emigration from the South.) Northerners claim that the ridges hold the sauce better. Southerners believe that the ridges cook before the inner part of the pasta resulting in the outer layer becoming overcooked. And that the ridges were a by-product of the industrialization of pasta and the shortcuts that lowered the quality. A Michelin-starred chef from Naples, Gennaro Esposito, was quoted in the delightful Quartz article as saying that penne rigate was “the apex of weak thought.”

A couple of baristas from a local cafe who are as close to Brooklyn hipsters as we get put a series of memes about the village on Instagram. I loved one of their latest. It’s a comparison of the village with, and without, the virus. We are so remote it’s like we are quarantined most of the time.

Today I decided to get cozy and make comfort food for lunch as we decided not to go out. Here’s what we made:

Pasta alla siege

Free form recipe but amazing. We sauteed three yellow onions and then added pork sausage to brown well. I had made some of Skye Gyngell’s Slow Roasted Tomatoes that we added (about a cup of them), a two of jars of chopped tomatoes, bay leaves, loads of black pepper and dried red spicy pepper, red wine, a few dried porcini, and a pinch of organo. It was hot, a little sweet from the roasted tomatoes that added a nice complexity, the porcini gave it a rich undertone. Pretty darn good for a siege.

September 9, 2019 In Best Of, Chow By Nancy

Aglione: my garlic is bigger than yours

It’s the time of year when I start to see giant garlic in the stores and pici all’aglione (which means pici and “big garlic”) on the local menus. As you can see in the picture above it towers over lesser garlic. Aglione is a special type of garlic that is only grown between Siena, Arezzo, and Perugia in the Val di Chiana. It’s a relative of the garlic everyone is familiar with, without some of the drawbacks, and has a much milder flavor. The plant was nearly extinct but has been brought back in recent years by around twenty devoted farmers who have been growing it.

According to the Aglione Association it comes in the following sizes:

Super-Giant (bigger than 90 mm.)
Giant (80 – 90 mm.)
Extra (70 – 80 mm.)
Big (60 – 70 mm.)
Small (smaller than 60 mm.)

They also state on their beautiful website that it can cure abscesses, is used to help diseases of the circulatory system, malaria, infestations of worms and parasites, pulmonary disorders, as a disinfectant or purgative, for animal bites and for convulsions, for exhaustion, migraine, insomnia. It protects against toxins and infections, has a diuretic effect, reduces blood pressure … and more.

So eat up.

Over the past few years I’ve tried it several times and was a bit underwhelmed, but this year I have seen the light and can’t get enough. It is incredibly easy to make if you can get your hands on the goods. If not I thing you could give it a go with elephant garlic.

INGREDIENTS

400 grams pici (best if made by hand with only flour and water, or purchased fresh)

4-6 cloves aglione (You won’t believe how much garlic it feels like you are cutting up, but just trust. It should feel a bit like you have cut up an apple in size and texture.)

1 kg small, sweet fresh tomatoes or I’ve also used a jar or two of chopped tomatoes

Olive oil for cooking

Vegetable broth

Pinch of sugar

Chili pepper to taste

Parmesan cheese, for serving

METHOD

Peel the cloves and chop roughly. It doesn’t have to be nearly as small as one would chop up regular garlic. If using fresh tomatoes down the middle lengthwise. Remove the seeds and chop into cubes.

In a skillet, heat the olive oil, a bit of the broth, the cloves of garlic, and the fresh, chopped, seeded tomatoes, or the chopped tomatoes from the jar. Let the mixture simmer for 30–45 minutes, adding more broth if necessary for consistency.

At the end of cooking, you can mash the garlic and tomatoes together with a fork for a smooth sauce, or leave it a rougher texture if you prefer. Add a pinch of sugar and season with chili pepper to taste.

Cook the pici in boiling, salted water. Drain well. Pour the pici into the sauce — this dish is much less sauced than what one might be used to — the pasta should just be barely covered. Heat through over the fire before serving with Parmesan on the side.

February 2, 2019 In Chow, Recipes By Nancy

Dangerous dinners: Vesuvio pasta

One of my favorite discoveries in the grocery store was Vesuvio pasta. It comes from the South of Italy and has loads of nooks and crannies for a good chunky sauce. It’s a fairly modern pasta made in an area that has been famous for making pasta since the 11th century, Gragnano in Campania. Apparently there is something special about the combination of the durum wheat from the area combined with the water that flows down from Monti Lattari. The shape is made by forcing the dough through rough bronze dies and letting it air dry.

This region is close to Naples, and thus Mt. Vesuvius, which dominates the area. I will never forget walking down a deserted street in Pompeii which perfectly framed the view of the summit of Vesuvius towering over it. I was imagining AD 79, but also realizing that this monster could go again, at any moment. Mt. Vesuvius is one of the most dangerous volcanoes in the world as over three million people live in its shadow. Vesuvius has erupted many times in ancient history, with a massive explosion in 1800 BC that buried some Bronze Age settlements. Since AD 79 there have been many times it has blown: 172, 203, 222, 303, 379, 472, 512, 536, 685, 787, 860, 900, 968, 991, 999, 1006, 1037, 1049, 1073, 1139, 1150, 1270, 1347, and 1500, 1631, six times in the 18th century, eight times in the 19th century, and in 1906, 1929 and 1944. It hasn’t gone since 1944, but it’s not a leap of faith to assume that it might erupt again.

We know a bit about the eruption in AD 79 because of the writings of Pliny the Younger. At the time the Romans were not sure Vesuvius was volcanic as it hadn’t erupted for nearly 30o years and the rich soil of its slopes was densely planted with vineyards and gardens. The volcano erupted for two days. After the first explosion Pliny the Younger writes that his uncle, Pliny the Elder, went by sea towards the explosion to rescue a friend and observe the phenomena first hand. He never returned and died on a beach when the winds changed and they couldn’t leave by boat. The others with him survived, so it is assumed that he might have had a heart attack or stroke. Pliny the Younger’s careful descriptions have earned the respect of volcano experts, who named this explosive type of eruption after him, Plinian. We have a fondness for Pliny the Younger because he had a villa somewhere near our home and wrote about our valley.

If you want to add a little danger to your dinner you can order your own Vesuvio pasta through Eataly. It’s great with any recipe that calls for a pasta like a fuselli. Eataly suggests a simple ragu with sausage.

December 26, 2018 In Best Of, Chow, Recipes By Nancy

How Santina makes agnolotti

Our reason for wanting to talk with grandmothers about cooking is to delve into a slice of Italian life: the role that nonne play in the family, traditions that are almost lost, and what all that means today, in modern Italy.

When we interviewed Santina about making agnolotti, a traditional Italian filled pasta, our goal was to capture more than just how to make it. Which we did. But those elements did complicate the edit. We decided to create an addendum to yesterday’s video, showing more practically how to actually make this wonderful dish, for those who want to roll up their sleeves.

So, here it is.

December 25, 2018 In Best Of, Chow, Recipes By Nancy

Making pasta with a grandmother

We are starting to develop our series on grandmothers cooking. Curious about what special things grandmothers make for the holidays, we were led to Santina, a pasta-making phenomenon. She always has fresh pasta she has made on hand to give to her family, including grandchildren, and great nieces and nephews. They frequently drop by for meals and keep her informed on the latest news in their lives.

We thought we’d be focusing on how Santina makes a filled pasta, agnolotti, but as is often the case here the people turn out to be more interesting than just what they do. Santina has inspired us to do two videos. This video gives you a sense of her special spirit, the role that a nonna often plays in Italian families, and what Christmas feasts are like in this small village. We wondered if there is a secret that Italian grandmothers have to keep their families legendarily close. We were surprised (and delighted by) the unexpected direction the answer to this question took, because of her wit.

Tomorrow we will share Santina, Part II, with some coaching and hints you need to make agnolotti, or any other fresh pasta, at home.

November 30, 2018 In Chow, Recipes By Nancy

Pasta! The Golden Tagliatella scandal

Have you ever looked down at your plate of tagliatelle bolognese and thought to yourself “The dimension of these noodles look slightly wrong?” No? Me neither. There is a very good reason for this, at least we naively believed. And with this, your pasta education continues.

Foodie friends of mine told me about their trip to Bologna, which for primarily one thing, a viewing of the Golden Tagliatella. Turns out that deep in Bologna’s Chamber of Commerce is something that I guarantee is more interesting than what’s in your neighborhood Chamber of Commerce. (Let’s just start with the building, the Palazzo della Mercanzia—Palace of Merchants— a gothic building that dates from 1382.)

What is there is the official measurement of a tagliatella (singular). It’s a noodle, in pure gold, housed in a wooden box. You need to make an appointment to see it, which judging by what my dogged friends went through, is quite difficult.

grazie al comune di Bologna per la photo

One only can wonder about what crisis of tagliatelle prompted the need for this particular measurement, which was installed on April 6, 1972, by the Italian Academy of the Kitchen. “Any other size, would make it lose its inimitable character,” says the charter.

But we had bigger questions on our minds. Does what you buy in the store actually correspond to the golden noodle? Or is all of this a marketing coup? (Even if they really don’t seem to market it and you have to make an appointment to see it?)

The specifications are eight millimeters cooked and seven millimeters uncooked. (This is precisely 12,270^th part of the height of the Asinelli Tower, a landmark in Bologna.) Length is not specified, by the some inexplicable lapse.

We purchased three different brands of tagliatelle at the local store and measured. Turns out that none of the tagliatelle we purchased logged in at seven millimeters. The reality is an average of just over five. Marketing coup it is!

In case you are not too disillusioned, here is the official recipe, notarized, copyrighted, and sealed in the Chamber of Commerce, for tagliatelle bolognese. (Sent you to a translated version for simplicity.) This ancient recipe was finally agreed upon and formalized on October 17, 1982, ten years after the golden noodle was installed at the Chamber.

Bologna is a beautiful and interesting city to visit in Italy, by the way.

November 15, 2018 In Chow, Live By Nancy

Bringoli: in praise of fat spaghetti

In Italy, it seems as if nearly anything is a possible subject for a celebration—I think it’s part of what makes the culture so joyful. One of the key celebrations around these parts is to honor a really fat spaghetti, called bringoli. And because I am dedicated to deepening your knowledge of pasta, you get to celebrate bringoli too.

I wouldn’t have guessed that fat spaghetti would be highly seasonal, but apparently it is, and late autumn is its moment. November 11, specifically, La Festa di San Martino. Apparently Martin, a Roman soldier, was standing guard one bitterly-cold night in 335 CE, and gave half his cloak to a very underdressed merchant. He spent the rest of the night freezing and hallucinating. In the morning, he promptly converted to Christianity.

I think he’s one of the better saints because there are great feasts in his honor all over Italy, celebrating the new wine, various local cookies, meatballs, and even one for radicchio, up near Venice. But here in the Valtiberina (Valley of the Little Tiber—the headwaters of the famous river), La Festa di San Martino means it’s the time for bringoli.

It’s an unassuming little festival, with several volunteers in one tent cooking bringoli with either a meat or a mushroom sauce, served up in a little plastic bowl. The actual cooking happens behind a kind of screen, which is mysterious. Perhaps it is to protect proprietary village secrets. The volunteers served our two portions with ragu, and were running behind on making the mushroom sauce for our third serving. By the time the mushroom bringoli was ready they decided to replace our original two with hot ones, as pasta is not something you eat cold.

This being Tuscany, there are plenty of open fires—when they grill something, the Tuscans do it over a fire that they’ve burnt down to embers, rather than using charcoal briquettes, and there are elaborate grilling carts to make it possible to keep a fire producing usable coals all evening. Over the flames volunteers roast sausages and toast bread that is rubbed in garlic and drenched in olive oil. (If you take hard, white Tuscan bread and toast it until it gets a little charred over coals, the bread not only gets slightly infused with smoke, but gets a texture not unlike sandpaper, which lets you grate down a half a clove of raw garlic when you rub it into the bread.) Other fire tenders roast chestnuts.

As you sit outside in the cold, huddled over your fat noodles and drinking Vino Novello (Italy’s answer to Beaujolais Nouveau) in an arcade under glowing, buzzing fluorescent lights, Italian village magic happens. Everybody is out and socializing, from a couple of four-year old girls twirling in the middle of the street, who clearly believe they are in charge of the whole event, to the packs of teens aware of every micro-movement of their peers, through to the old men and women, laughing with people they’ve known since childhood.

It’s my daughter’s favorite festival of the year, topping even the polenta and fried bread ones. Her friend, who is now studying in Venice (a good four-hour train ride away), came down for the weekend just for it. “He gets it,” she said. It is a unique time when everyone who appreciates anything good in life gathers together to enjoy local food at its simplest and best. It is also a celebration of community and the heart of our town. It’s rare to see anyone from outside town, but you’re almost guaranteed to see everyone from within.

To make your own, feel free to substitute pici, although they are in no way similar, the locals tell me. Top with a lovely ragu or a porcini mushroom sauce.

October 7, 2018 In Chow By Nancy

From the mouth of frogs

Many pastas come from very ancient traditions, but I recently discovered a pasta that is far more recent in origin. I’ve been intrigued by it since I spotted it on the shelf in a workers’ restaurant—the one with chef who rolls cheese for sport. The label reads “Bocche di rana”—”frogs’ mouths.” I thought I must be mistranslating until I bought a package and started looking closely at the pasta inside.

Frogs’ mouths pasta vs. its more boring cousin, the paccheri

The small, ribbed tubes of pasta are shaped a bit like a big rigatoni, or a paccheri, but the end of each pasta droops in a unique way that looks remarkably like how I could imagine a frog’s mouth moving when expressing a range of sounds and feelings.

I took it home and played with the pasta for an embarrassingly long amount of time, imagining them as frogs. I mean I didn’t make up voices or anything, but did look through most of the package finding the most amusing ones. It was an excellent break from thinking about politics.

I tried to find out more about this shape of pasta, but came up empty handed. (With the exception of a frog’s mouth being a kind of helmet in a suit of armor. Can you imagine going to war and asking your squire “Hand me the frog’s mouth and I will be ready for battle!”)

I drove over to the restaurant to talk with the chef’s son, who I had heard is friends with the people who started the small, local pasta company, called Toscodoro. He told me that he occasionally helps out with the pasta creation. One day they were trying to make paccheri, and kept failing because one side collapsed in unpredictable ways. And the frogs’ mouths pasta was born.

We love it—and its more more-predictably shaped cousin, paccheri—with any kind of meaty, chunky ragu sauce. The New York Times recently had a seafood recipe perfect for pastas shaped like paccheri, rigatoni or our frogs mouths, which sounds interesting to try.

September 25, 2018 In Chow, Live By Nancy

My pasta aisle is bigger than yours

Dear readers, I have decided that you do not, yet, know enough about pasta. I have started to accept as normal that there’s a pasta aisle bigger than Texas in every Italian grocery store.

On a recent trip back to California we were stunned to rediscover that the pasta section in Safeway was a mere 17 feet. Felt like trying to find provisions for a fine meal in a 7-eleven.

So I will begin to educate you. You need to be able to tell your frogs’ mouths pasta from your radiators and volcanoes. You need to know that al dente is far more crunchy than what you probably think. What sauces go with what shapes. That the cooking water needs to be salted far more than you probably do now.

And you need to know that you never have to do anything as uncontrolled as throwing pasta against a wall to test if your spaghetti is done. Italian cooking is far more scientific and precise than that. The know-all cooking times on the packaging need to be taken very seriously.

This spaghetti, for instance, is perfectly cooked at 11 1/4 minutes.

(Unless you finish cooking it in the pan, like spaghetti aglio e olio, when the spaghetti is removed two minutes early to finish in the pan with the garlic and oil, and a couple ladles of the pasta cooking water.)

Full disclosure—I don’t yet know everything about pasta. This is an excellent excuse for me to up my pasta game, and keep you informed of the discoveries.

September 7, 2018 In Best Of, Chow, Recipes By Nancy

The pasta we can’t quit (and recipe)

When I want a mini-vacation—and lunch—I head to the sleepy Tuscan hilltop village of Monterchi. In the piazza at the top is one of my favorite family restaurants, Ristorante Al Travato.

It’s only open from-kinda-around-Easter to kinda-around-the-end of October, depending on the weather and the back health of Laura. The family first opens the restaurant on weekends only, then slowly builds, with the heat, to being open most days in summer, and then winds it all back down in the fall. What they do all winter I am not sure, although they’ve hinted it involves skiing.

Marco, Laura’s husband, finds the wines for the cellar—a cave that goes back into the medieval walls—and Laura cooks. Two of their teenage daughters serve (yep, beauties. We can even get our 14-year-old son to eat there whenever we want), while the youngest daughter rides around the square on her small, enviable pink bike.

Our family craves one dish in particular, at least once a week— Spaghetti Aglio, Olio e Pepperoncini—true Tuscan soul food. It’s spaghetti that’s properly al dente, loads of garlic, and a few really hot peppers, all swimming in olive oil.

While it’s simple in its ingredient list, differing opinions of how it should be made abound. You could say of Laura’s (off-menu version): “questo spacca di brutto” (“this chops off the ugly”—I know, the translation doesn’t help me either, but the kids say it means something is a big deal). Best of all for anyone who wants to bring a bit of Italian soul food into their kitchen, it’s easy enough to do tonight with ingredients you probably already have on hand.

Here’s a two-minute video on how Laura makes the definitive Tuscan comfort food.

A cooking note: you’re going to save some of the water from cooking the pasta when you drain off the rest. Also—do this before the pasta has reached the “al dente” (still slightly firm when bitten) state. It will finish cooking when added to the pan with the other ingredients (while the last bit of cooking water helps their flavors go inside the noodles).