The Perennial Staple

I have noticed a trend in the questions I get asked here in Italy. 


1. Ti piace Milano? (Do you like Milan?)
2. Ti piace cucinare? (Do you like to cook?)
3. Che cucini? (What do you cook?)

The last question always gets me. Last week I made stuffed mushrooms. Not only do I not know how to say "stuffed" in Italian, but I don't know how to really explain that the things I enjoy cooking are things with an aesthetic dimension, complex, detailed, kind of plebeian gourmet, slow food, vegetable-based, healthy chic, a little pretentious. Cooking in Italy tends to be simple- minimal ingredients because the ingredients are fresh, flavorful, and speak for themselves. 

In considering this further, I began to think about the ingredients I used to have on hand at my apartment back home. Lots of vegetables. Herbs. Spices. Alcohol. lots of alcohol. 

So I opened up my fridge in Milan...things looked more or less the same, except for one unmissable difference:


CHEESE.


CHEESE.


MORE CHEESE.


CHEESE EVERYWHERE.

The entire bottom shelf of our refrigerator is entirely dedicated to CHEESE. just CHEESE. only cheese. cheese alone. nothing but cheese. an arsenal of cheese.

I decided to take everything out and put it on the table, so you'd believe me. (an endeavor that warranted three round-trip journeys to the refrigerator and afterward, left me feeling fatigued and confused.)

cheese

• 3 x Gruyere
• 1 x Tomino (feculent and most often found wrapped in Prosciutto before being pan fried)
• 1 x something unknown- unwrapped and stinky and salty and very delicious (which I devoured immediately after snapping this photo).
• 1 x Granbu di Bufala (I have no idea)
• 1 x Grana Soresina
• 1 x Homemade provolone (from Giulio's patient)
• 2 x homemade pecorino from Sardinia
• 1 x package mozzarella balls
• 1 x pack Capra (of the goat variety)
• 1 x pack Linea (junction where mozzarella meets laughing cow meets tofu-extrafirm)
• 1 x feta
• 2 x serious wedges of Parmesan 

The list grows and recedes weekly, kind of like my waistline. but collectively, this group knows not mortality. Together, they are the perennial staple of my frigorifero italiano. 

Parmesan Sock Soup

I was probably ten when my father took me inside my first cheese shop in London. I recall standing outside a particular one in Covent Garden and being counseled on matters of etiquette before stepping inside: "don't touch anything and don't speak too loudly". His British accent has always been convincing. 

The clerk at the counter gave us each a slice of cheese to try. I remember watching my father so elegantly place the small cubed sample in his mouth, and then, in amazement, seeing his face melt into ecstasy. I was eager to do the same. And so I did.


Although I cannot remember what variety it was, I do remember those moments that followed once the cheese hit my tongue. And they were horrible. Absolutely horrible. Especially because I was expecting to be washed over with ecstasy the way my dad just had. Unwilling to be at the root of my father's embarrassment, I feigned a smile and buried the little nugget under my tongue,  waiting (a bloody century) for the most opportune moment to spit it out. I remember how desperate I sensed myself as the saliva began to accrue around this small, but pervasive piece of cheese. As we left the shop, and the little bell above the door chimed, I reflexively spat the bolus out onto the pavement in a way that may or may not have made Pavlov proud. And then I looked in horror as I watched it roll away, realizing what act of impropriety I had just committed. But before anybody could grow angry, I desperately explained that whatever I had been given had been an honest reflection of pure evil. Dad cursorily examined the chunk of partially masticated cheese and then burst into laughter.  "Oooohhhhohoohooo! it's the rind!!" he said, in his english accent. "oooohhooNoohooho! disgusting!" And so began my longstanding hatred for cheese rinds- akin to the distinct flavor of "dirty socks" as my father put it that day. 

But who knew that cheese rinds could actually be so delicious in soups?! Indeed, I now save my parmesan rinds in a bag in the freezer and toss them into soups to add richness and flavor to the base. 

For this vegetarian soup, you can pretty much abuse your artistic license and tailor it to whatever you have in your refrigerator. Furthermore, if you fancy being particularly lazy (as I tend to be) don't bother chopping anything up- it kind of adds a chic touch to the final product anyway.  


What you need

• 2 leftover parmesan rinds
• 2 fresh rosemary sprigs
• 8 cups chicken or veggie broth
• 2 tablespoons italian seasoning (or a divided combination of oregano, rosemary, etc)
• a couple shakes of red pepper flakes
• 1 onion
• 1 zucchini
• 5 carrots
• 5 celery stalks
• 1/2 head cabbage, chopped
• 2 roma tomatoes, quartered
• 1 can of beans (I used lentils)
• chopped fresh parsley
• salt & pepper to taste

Put the parmesan rinds in a pot with broth, whole onion, and rosemary sprigs. Bring to a boil, then simmer for 25 minutes. Add all the vegetables except tomatoes. Add the dried spices. Bring to a boil again, then cook on medium for an additional 20 minutes. Add the tomatoes. Cook 5 minutes. Add the beans, then a few tablespoons of parsley. Remove rosemary sprigs, rinds, and onion. Season with salt and pepper. I served it over 1/2 cup of brown rice to make it a more satisfying and nutritionally complete meal.
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Serves 6. 154 calories per serving

Buon Appetito!

Easter Bunny's Food Hangover Panacea

Our household is eclectic in nature, and so it is reflected in our "family dinners". We take turns cooking, and although it is not always the typical Cucina Italiana, it is always delicious.

It's been a while since I did a food post. Well, at least a food post of my own creation. Given the enduring Easter motif and the Colomba debacle, I thought this an appropriate occasion to debut my curried carrot soup recipe: food overdose damage control at its finest, and most delicious.

What you Need

• 1 tablespoon olive oil
• 1.5 onions, chopped
• 2 celery stalks, chopped
• 1 tablespoon curry powder
• 500 grams carrots (~12 medium), peeled & chopped
• 2 pinkish, medium sized apples, chopped. (also, if you're using organic apples, leave the skin on. if not, peel 'em)
• 1 bay leaf (or 4 in my case, they were old as sin)
• 4 cups chicken broth (regular sodium)
• 1/4 tsp salt

for garnish:

• 1 tablespoon thick, plain greek yogurt (I prefer Fage 2%)
• chopped parsley
• freshly cracked pepper

Heat the oil over medium heat, then toss in onions and celery. Cook for 10 minutes-ish, stirring occasionally, until the onions look sweaty, but not browned. Add the curry, bay leaf, carrots, and apples, and let cook for a few more minutes. Add the broth and salt. Bring to a boil. Reduce heat to simmer and cover for 20 minutes, or until the goodies inside grow soft and tender like your mother. Remove from heat. With your magic wand blender in hand, take no prisoners. Creamy puree ought in ensue.

Serve immediately with a dollop of yogurt, freshly chopped parsley, and cracked pepper.
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Serves 6. 110 calories/serving (without yogurt).

sunglasses are essential combat for merciless onion poison

Buona Pasqua

Giulio and I retreated to the countryside for Easter weekend. We reveled in the privacy & stillness of wide open spaces, the love and generosity of family, and the heartiness of friendship. The day was stunning- gentle and severe, consistently unpredictable. colors glowed and faded to black. and i sensed myself big and small in the scheme of things.

After our walk, we purchased the essential table accessory of Pasqua... 

Ta-da!

It is with great pleasure I present to you the illustrious, the delicious, the self-control obliterating, Colomba. Colomba, or "dove" in English, is the little cugina of the well known Christmas miracle Pannetone (and in my opinion, takes the cake). Like pannetone, it is made of flour, eggs, sugar, yeast, and butter, but instead of raisins it contains candied citrus peel, and instead of a soft top, it has a crunchy top. Crispy on the outside and soft on the inside always wins when it comes to my palette. Plus, it takes the shape of its name. Can you see it? 

How about now?

Now?

(Yea, me neither.)

But anyway, Colomba was commercialized sometime in the 20's or 30's by Angelo Motta- a Milanese baker and businessman. It is said that he beat out his esteemed competitor by making his Pannetone rise into a higher dome shape than the original, flatter standard. 

Up close: The Colomba, sprinkled with crack.

And so, my sky-high glycemic index Easter damage control starts today. Hope you too enjoyed a little vice-therapy. Buona Pasqua!

The Chocolate Breadstick

I've just finished my first semester exams (which explains blogosphere neglect) and PASSED EVERYTHING! Specialized knowledge evolved, general knowledge regressed. I reckon I've never felt quite so thick as I do these days, but I can proudly recite the different speeds of the action potential throughout the various fibers of the heart.

Anyway, there's been a host of goings-ons lately. 

Giulio took me to TermeMilano for a couple's massage. The venue was gorgeous and we were treated nicely, at least by Milanese standards. We were happy to have arrived early enough to enjoy the aperitivo which comprised an unusual assortment of goodies- wine and veggies (typical) and juice, yogurt, cereal, chocolate grissini, and hot cocoa (atypical). After a bit  a lot of noshing, we were taken upstairs to our private room and introduced to our masseuse and masseur. We were also each handed a pair of these:

It was in this moment that I realized this experience held the propensity to do great good or great harm. We stripped sheepishly and buried ourselves under the sheets of each our respective massage tables, face-down.


What ensued was unequivocally the worst massage of my entire life. I mean, I got the karate-chop technique and all. In hindsight, it was more akin to a back scratch- not the rich, body chilling back scratch that makes you all tingly, but the back scratch that makes you fidget and squirm and leaves you with a back more itchy than before. My anxiety amplified when the masseuse asked me to roll over, tummy side up. I felt the imminence of shame and awkwardness in that moment, though I still cannot explain why. Still, I followed her orders and rolled over. At this point I was nakey, with the exception of said see-through skivvies and the sheet that covered me. The masseuse continued my session by titillating my toes, then my calves, then my knees, then my thighs. And then, without a glimmer of hesitation, she whisked the sheet off my chest and torso as if she were performing the famed tablecloth/dinner table trick and my body was the dinner table. As I winced and lied there shivering and topless, she did the unthinkable and began to massage my belly. I tried not to squeek. or laugh. or cry. Call me prude, but I learned something about myself that day- that I am simply not the type to enjoy a bellyup/helpless/topless status while a random male has free reign to peek over at a random female rubbing my bitsandbobs. Furthermore, (and perhaps more importantly) I cannot conceive of a single individual on the entirety of this demented planet who could possibly enjoy a stomach massage. But that was that. And afterward, I consoled myself by stuffing my purse of chocolate breadsticks, and evacuating the premises. 

Then it was Carnevale. Unfortunately I can't show you a picture of the festivities because I was holed up over my books. Nor can I show you a picture of chiacchiere, the typical pastry of the holiday, because every time I purchased a bundle for photographic or artistic  purposes, I ate the entire bag before arriving back to my apartment. (This is notable considering I live directly above a bakery.) Anyway, if you're really curious, you'll just have to googleimage it. For good measure, I've included an old crappy photo of some treats from the local Sicilian Bakery.

Over the same week as Carnevale was Women's Fashion Week in Milan. Giulio and I went to a party on a side street of Via Montenapoleone (like, Milan's Rodeo Drive) and then had dinner with a court of models, designers, and otherwise fashion forward individuals. Amidst all of this shishi glamor was me, the unfortunately obvious black swan: greasy hair, study sweat, a muffin top, and a comparatively voracious attitude toward food and drink. But it was fun.

Last month, my roommate Yarden and I were walking to our local gym when we saw in the not-too-far distance an apparently glamorous woman having an emphatic but secretive conversation on her cell phone (as marked by her left hand stealthily covering the receiver.) As we drew near, we realized her phone was not only neon pink and made of shiny plastic, but also not even a cell phone, but an old-school handset with a curly cord that hung loose, disconnected from the dial pad (and, err... the wall?). She examined us skeptically in our workout clothes and then gave us a look as if to suggest we were in fact the ones who'd gone mad.

As a matter of coping with the stress surrounding our intense examination period, Yarden and I consumed pots of hot pudding, also known as "Italian hot chocolate". I highly recommend it.

we also dreamt of lobster dinners...

As an effort to assimilate, I decided (along with some friends) to take part in a local athletic event. We registered for the Stramilano 10K. Morning preparatory runs through Milan were wonderful, and the only opportunity for cityside solitude.

The event itself was well organized and heaps of fun. For a modest entry fee of ten euro, I received the best pre-race goodie bag ever AND partook in one of the most sensational athletic events I've ever experienced. I mean, women were actually running in full makeup while clutching designer handbags, people were dropping like flies after the eleventh minute (uttering dramatic phrases like "sono stanco"), and the majority I saw cheated the (untimed fun-run) course by bypassing any possible loop or corner. We also got these cool bibs which added an element of professional status to our ensemble.

Ahhh.. what else? Well, this happens several times a week, but that's nothing new.

This weekend, immediately following my final exam of the semester, Giulio and I retreated to the Ligurian Coast. We drove to Vernazza, the Cinque Terre territory that was devastated by mudslides last October. The city had been largely destroyed, but as we continued our way down the hill toward the seaside, we stumbled upon a gorgeous little seafood restaurant above the cliffs, which was one of the only places still in its fully operational state. 

We enjoyed a long lunch complete with Prosecco, fresh crusty bread, octopus salad, salt-baked whitefish with grilled vegetables, and spaghetti with sea-muscles; and all the while engulfed in an unparalleled ambience. 

http://www.ristorantebelforte.it/

When we returned home, Giulio negotiated the most impressive parallel parking job I've ever seen.

Two days ago, a classmate of Yarden and mine graciously invited us to her home in Lake Como where we spent the evening chatting with her family, eating pizza, and feeling generally enveloped by love. It is also worth mentioning that her brother admitted to thinking I was twenty years old, which, truth or fable told, was a sentiment I accepted without skepticism and buried in an irrevocable part of my consciousness.  The following morning, we went hiking through the mountains  near Como amidst a fresh fog and sweet mist. Delight.

Which brings me to tonight. Thursday night. Family night. Yarden is in the kitchen making homemade pita bread, and it's all suddenly feeling a little more like home.