0 Orecchiette with Cime di Rapa

We landed in Bari on a Saturday in September, past dinner time. We had spent the day - the week even - in anticipation, thinking about our first meal in Puglia, perhaps outside on a terrace, with the air still balmy and the white wine well chilled. We both needed this weekend away so desperately. Not because of London per se. The city had been particularly generous with us throughout the early fall - warm and sunny, with very little rain - and we loved how we could always pick and choose something different to do every weekend. But we were restless, and exhausted. We needed a few days of that lifestyle we both adore and miss so much: easy, inexpensive, next to the sea, and most of all, slow. A lifestyle that only belongs to holiday time now, and that we seem to find only in Mediterranean coastal areas - like Puglia.

When did it happen that Italy became the idyllic place to spend one's holidays? When did I stop calling it home, or hoping it would be one anytime soon? When did I end bragging about how much better the (insert: lifestyle, food, wine, weather, landscape, culture...) is, and started realising that all these things are available to me only if I choose to spend my vacation time (and hard-earned money) there? I think I hadn't completely realised it until the end of this trip.

 We booked a small apartment in Polignano for the whole length of our stay. The listing didn't have any reviews yet, but it was very inexpensive and looked promising, clean and bright - we decided to go for it. Our host had even agreed to pick us up at the airport for a small fee, so that we could avoid renting a car in case we didn't need one. We accepted, ready to drop any responsibility, any scheduling, any 'must see'; ready to embrace the aimless wandering, the idle contemplation, the slow pace of whom have no clear plan. His name was Paolo. When I first saw him, waiting for us at the arrivals hall, I immediately thought he resembled my roommate Paolo from University: thirty-ish,  very tall, with short jeans above his bony knees, an almost-bold head, and a warming smile. For some reasons, this connection, this similarity with a person I love and trust made me like him at first sight. He was kind, and helped me with my little carry-on. 

A fifty-minute drive separates Bari airport from the little, hidden, stunning gem of a town that is Polignano a Mare. Paolo was chatty enough to make the drive extremely pleasant, and quick. In his broken English, he asked us a lot of innocent yet personal questions, of the kind a stranger would never ask in London. "Ok, so let me ask you this - why Polignano?" he said at one point, accompanying his question with a very Italian, inquisitive hand gesture. It took us off guard. Why not Polignano? Wasn't it the most beautiful corner of Eden on earth - peaceful, dramatic, with its beautiful sea and its panoramic views? We tried to give him some good reasons - we said that it all started when we stopped in Polignano during our Master's study trip around Puglia, that we only had half-day to wonder and enjoy, and that we felt we needed to be back ever since. He nodded, but still didn't quite understand - to him, it was probably just a boring, small, provincial town that held some fun only during the busiest summer months.

He escorted us inside the newly renovated apartment his family owned just outside the old town. A house on three floors, he explained - with steep stairs between them - like they used to build at the beginning of the last century. He showed us around, set up the wi-fi and checked on the clean towels, then headed to the kitchen, speaded a map of Polignano on the table, and started drawing points and arrows. "This spot is great for drinks, good Mojitos; this makes the best focaccia, it stays open until late; here you get good seafood, and here good pizza, but small, order antipasti as well; oh, and here they have great cornetti for breakfast, but go early 'cause they run out fast". Then he picked up his stuff and left, promising to come back on the Tuesday at 6 to drive us back to the airport, leaving his contacts for any necessity. As he closed the door, I was invaded by these thoughts of gratitude, of empathy even, toward this young Italian man who was so generous with us, and so open. I love traveling this way, knowing the locals, getting the insider's tips. I love meeting these people.

We couldn't ask for more from our stay - it was everything we wanted and needed. Polignano was as stunning as we remembered it: the weather was sunny, albeit very windy. The food was unbelievably good - oh, the burrata... The apartment was lovely, with a sunny roof terrace for lazy late breakfasts and sunset-kissed glasses of Fiano. We had the quiet time we had been craving, simply wondering around or reading at the beach. J had a nice birthday filled with iodine, food and great wine. We even got to experience those bits and pieces of local folklore that make a stay a whole lot more real: a religious procession, advertised by every shop; ridiculous retail opening hours; old men spending their whole day sitting on the benches in the square, chatting lively, having an opinion about everything; a loud, lightly-trashy fashion show, to which the whole town assisted.

Tuesday came way too fast. Paolo was punctual, and waved at us from down the road. We descended the steep stairs slowly and a tad unwillingly, carry-on in hand. The ride seemed a bit slower, and words were fewer this time. The landscape of olive trees, prickly pear cactus and white houses had become a series of black outlines against the sky on fire - Puglia was giving us its very own farewell with the most breathtaking sunset. J broke the silence at one point, asking Paolo about himself this time.  He was reluctant. "Me? Well, how do I say this. I had a job in an office - it was an import-export company, food mainly. I was very happy about it, you know, 'cause it was in Polignano and I could live with my parents and save a bit of money, and still be independent with my expenses. But then the niece of the owner finished school and she needed a job, so they called me saying that they were going to give her mine, and if I wanted I could have a job in the fields, picking vegetables. I decided to decline. So I lost my job, but I was OK - I saw it as an opportunity. I had dropped my engineering degree for it because I couldn't manage to pass exams and work full time at the same time. When I left, I thought I could go back to school and get my degree. I don't like to depend on my parents, but at least I can help them with these things - renting out the apartment to tourists. We had a permanent tenant until a few months ago, but they bought a house and left, so we thought we could try this way. "

How many stories like Paolo's have I heard before hearing his? Dozens? Hundreds? How many did I read, on international newspapers or Facebook status? Did I really need to hear his to be awaken from my childish, hopeless dream of going back to Italy to set up a life in the next future? The lifestyle we love and cherish so much doesn't even exist anymore, not for young generations anyway. What is left, for a handful of them, of us, is the hope of surviving the tempest, of making it to the end of the tunnel. Italy is a place to go back on holiday to, to enjoy the best of it and forget its unsolvable problems. Where to buy the best local food, drink the best wine, and fight the break of dawn and the next departure. There is so much waste, and so much beauty. It breaks your heart.

Orecchiette with Cime di Rapa

A pugliese classic, made in the cold months, when cime di rapa (turnip tops) grow. You can use both fresh or dry orecchiette here, simply adjust the cooking time accordingly.  

Serves 4

1 bunch cime di rapa (about 400-500gr)

4 tbsp virgin olive oil 

2 cloves garlic 

Pinch of red chili flakes 

3 anchovy fillets in oil 

400g dry orecchiette 

Freshly ground black pepper 

Sea salt

Grated Pecorino cheese

Wash and chop the turnip tops, discarding the thickest part of the stalk. In a large pot of salted boiling water, blanch the leaves for two minutes, drain and set aside. In the same water, boil the orecchiette until they are al dente. Meanwhile, heat olive oil in a large frying pan. Add the crushed garlic, the anchovies and the chilli flakes. Cook over medium-low heat until the anchovies are melted. Add the turnip tops, season with freshly ground pepper and sea salt, and stir fry for a few minutes, until well seasoned and soft. Once the pasta is done, drain and add it to the skillet with the turnip tops. Stir well, letting it cook for one more minute so that the pasta can absorb some of the seasoning. Serve, with a drizzle of good olive oil and a sprinkling of grated Pecorino cheese on top.

Credit: all the landscape photos are scans of film shots taken by my talented husband Jesse. 

Detail: Orecchiette with Cime di Rapa

0 Italian table Talk #8: Salumi, Guanciale and Gricia

All through the ages, January has never been the month of diets and cleanses, at least not in Italy. There were no concerns about being fit or losing weight. Rather, the biggest concern was to keep the family fed, and warm --no one would have thought to deprive their body of energies in such a cold month, and in fact, January was about the exact opposite of dieting.

January was (and to some extent still is) the month of pork. And us ladies at Italian Table Talk couldn't miss such a great occasion to talk about such an important part of the Italian food culture --that is pork and, more in general, the art of curing meat. A tradition and an art which is centuries old and embraces the whole country, differing once again from region to region and gifting us with an extremely wide variety of types and styles of salumi. So, before we proceed any further, let me introduce the themes of today's episode: Emiko digs into the history of one of the most famous Tuscan salumi, lardo di Colonnata; Giulia discovers a(nother) traditional Tuscan salume, buristo, and makes some killer fried eggs with it; and Jasmine creates a fantastic kosher version of the famous Roman pasta dish, amatriciana --which we will talk a bit about later :)



Owning one pig or more was in use amongst peasant families of all regions. As an animal, pig was particularly convenient for the numerous family groups living in the country and working in the fields: it could be fed about anything; it didn't need much care; and it could be eaten and used from nose to tail. It was what we could call a good investment.

Pigs were traditionally slaughtered in the could months of the year, namely from December to mid February, with a peak in January, after Christmas time. The reason was mainly practical: all the operations to kill and handle the fresh meat needed to be done at low temperature. At a time when refrigeration wasn't available, this meant doing it in winter. In addition, the freshly cured meet would benefit from the cold for both drying and preserving.

Not all the cuts were turned into cured meat. In fact, some were eaten straight away --braised, fried, roasted etc. However, curing (and therefore preserving) most parts of the pig meant having enough of a supply of meat (fat, protein and energy) for the whole family for the rest of the year. A little at a time, it goes without saying, and wasting nothing, not even blood, with which a sausage (sanguinaccio) was made.

Most of cured meats in Italy were processed through salting and adding spices. Depending on the cut and quality of the meat (lean to fat meat ratio), different techniques were used. Some parts were ground and put into a casing to make salami or sausages. Others were handled as a whole, like the belly (pancetta), the leg (prosciutto), the gluteus (culatello), the neck (coppa or capocollo), the cheek (guanciale) etc. Throughout the centuries, some areas of Italy became famous for specific types of cured meat because of the particular set of skills in handling specific cuts, or because a particularly successful recipe was created to make salame. Some of these products are still made more or less in the same way they used to, and many of them have also earned the PDO certification.

Although the cured meat I am going to focus on next doesn't belong directly to my food heritage, it is a true gem of Italian norcineria which deserves to be brought to footlight and that I always wanted to share on these pages: guanciale. Typical of Central and Southern Italy, guanciale is made from the cheek of the pig, a cut that is mainly made of fat, with only one or two thin stripes of lean muscle in it. The composition of the fat is different from the fat found in the belly or in the back of the pig, as it is more tough and it has more intense, flavorsome characteristics. To make guanciale, the triangular cut of meat between the cheek and the throat is selected, dry-salted and hanged for up to five days. After that, spices and herbs such as black pepper, chili pepper, garlic and rosemary are rubbed externally. Guanciale is then partially smoked on wood fire and then cured up to two-three months in a cold and humid environment.




Among all the types of guanciale, particularly famous is guanciale di Amatrice, a little town on the border between Lazio and Abruzzo, which owe its fame to a pasta dish typical of Lazio: amatriciana. Amatriciana is a pasta dish born around the end of the 18th century and featuring tomato sauce, guanciale, pecorino and black pepper. It was the dish of the transhumant shepherds moving from the Apennines, specifically from the town of Amatrice, toward the capital (Rome) to sell their products on the local markets. Many of them eventually moved to the city to work in local osterie, being renowned for their cooking skills.

The origin of the dish, however, dates further back in time, with the sole difference that it didn't have tomato in it. First, tomatoes hadn't come from the other side of the ocean yet. Then, when they started to be cultivated, they were available only during summertime, as no preserving technique had been invented until the end of the 1700s. The original version of amatriciana only had guanciale, pecorino from the area, and a lot of black pepper, and it was called amatriciana in bianco or gricia (griscia in local dialect), from Griciano, another village not far from Amatrice.

Gricia is a dish that talks about a culture, a land and a lifestyle. Shepherding required energetic meals while the constant movements called for food that could keep for long periods of time without spoiling: aged cheese, dry pasta and cured meat. It became famous in Rome and in time, it started to be associated with the Eternal City as a "traditional roman dish", prepared the old way in many osterie. The recipe, however, is so simple that it can be easily made at home. Key to success is finding the right ingredients. Once you are set with that, be ready for moments of pure pleasure.

Spaghetti alla Gricia

serves 4

400 gr spaghetti or bucatini

1/2 tbs mild extra virgin olive oil or lard

4 thick slices (about 200 gr total) of guanciale (no pancetta, no bacon, please!)

200 gr grated pecorino romano

plenty of freshly ground black pepper

a handful of coarse sea salt, or to taste

Bring plenty of water to a boil. In the meantime, heat the oil in a large saucepan. Cut the guanciale in strips and add it to the hot oil, fry until crispy and translucent. Remove from the heat. When the water is boiling, add salt and the spaghetti and cook until very al dente (two-three minutes before the suggested cooking time). Drain with a slotted spoon and add to the guanciale, together with a spoonful of hot cooking water. Put the saucepan back on high heat. Saute the pasta a few times, then add the pecorino and incorporate it to the sauce. Grind plenty of black pepper on the pasta, saute once more until combined. Serve immediately with some more grated pecorino and black pepper to taste.

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**Link Love:

Don't forget that to stay posted on Italian Table Talk you can follow the hashtag #ITabletalk on Twitter, plus:

Emiko on Twitter or Pinterest

Giulia on Twitter, Facebook or Pinterest

Jasmine on Twitter, Facebook or Pinterest

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Italian version coming in a few hours! Stay tuned. :)

Detail: Italian table Talk #8: Salumi, Guanciale and Gricia

0 Italian Table Talk Holiday Edition: Bìgoi in Salsa

The 8th of December gives officially way to the Holiday Season in Italy. Home from work and school, most people spend the day decorating their houses and Christmas trees, or gift shopping. The first panettone is cut and shared alongside a glass of bubbly sweet wine. Two weeks and it'll be Christmas: people start to get on their marks with menus, courses and dishes for the biggest meal of the year. 

To be in line with this festive spirit, we created a bit of a Christmas-y Italian Table Talk Edition, in an attempt to chat about and share some Italian holiday traditions and recipes from various regions in Italy. As for many other aspects of the Italian culture, Christmas traditions vary from region to region, and recipes and traditional dishes vary alongside them. Most of these traditions are in fact religiously influenced and linked to the cult of specific saints or the respect of religious rules. From the northern region of Trentino Alto Adige, which is very much influenced by German culture, and where people await St. Nicholas on December 6th rather than Santa Claus (which btw is the same person) on Christmas Night; or Lombardy, where Saint Lucy (again, instead of Santa) brings candy and gifts on December 13th; to the Southern regions, where Christmas Eve dinner is the biggest meal and Epiphany (January 6th) is the crucial moment for gifts and sweet treats; Italy shows once again its complexity, its kaleidoscope of mis-matched cultures that somehow manage to coexist. 

I had no hesitation about the recipe I was going to share this month: very few things feel more festive and Christmas-y to me than bìgoi in salsa. As strange as it might sound, this poor, anchovy- and onion-based pasta dish has become my favorite holiday treat since a few years, reconnecting me with my Venetian roots. A big classic of Veneto cuisine, bìgoi in salsa was once eaten mainly on "giorni di magro" (lean days) such as Ash Wednesday, Good Friday and Christmas Eve; nowadays it is consumed all year around in traditional osterie and local restaurants in Venice, Verona and Vicenza provinces. 

Bìgoi (bìgoli, in Italian; I will use the dialectal name in this post) are thick, fresh spaghetti and are probably the most famous pasta shape from Veneto, a region where pasta per sé (as much as bread) wasn't really a staple as much as polenta and rice. The invention of bìgoi seem to date back to 1600s, when Veneto was dominated by the Serenissima (as the Venetian Republic was called). A pasta maker from Padova invented and patented a machinery to make different types of pasta, including thick bìgoi and thin spaghetti etc., but the preference of people was all for the former, endorsing the success of bìgoi over all the other shapes, and spreading their cult all over the territory of the Venetian domain. 

The original recipe called simply for wheat flour and water. The dough was kneaded and then let rest, finally it was pressed through a particular machinery called "bigolaro", which was maneuvered by hand and whose bronze die was giving way to thick, rough, rustic strings of fresh dough, about 2-3mm thick and 25cm long. The fresh pasta was then hanged on a wire and let dry overnight. One variation of this recipe calls for whole wheat flour and/or buckwheat flour, which resulted in darker bìgoi called "mori" (aka dark). Only in modern, wealthier times, eggs were added to the dough to make it softer and yet more resistant (because of the higher protein content). Before then, eggs were used as "money" to buy other goods that farmer didn't have like salt and sugar, and therefore were saved rather than used in the kitchen. In even more recent times, some pastifici (pasta factories, small or big) started to make and merchandise the dry version of bìgoi, white or dark, made with durum wheat instead of soft wheat. However, the common feature to both fresh and dry bìgoi has always been the roughness, which enables this pasta to hold the sauce without letting it slip everywhere and end up on the bottom of the pan. Traditional sauces are bìgoi co l'arna (with duck sauce), typical of the Vicenza province, bìgoi co la sardela (with sardines), or bìgoi in salsa (in a fish-onion sauce). For the former it is mandatory (!) to use the fresh version, whereas for the last two both fresh versions (white and dark) and the dry one are in use.

My family has always just bought the dry version of bìgoi (loose at first, but then the packaged version was created and it seemed convenient to switch to that) at the local drugstore. They didn't have a bigolaro, therefore they weren't able to make them at home. The sauce was always the same: sardines (or, more recently, anchovies, once more expensive) preserved in salt, which they bought from the ambulant fishmonger or at the weekly market, white onions from the garden (the Chioggia variety) and seed oil. Olive oil was too expensive and too rare in Veneto to be available to a low-middle class household: therefore, only modern versions of the recipe call for olive oil (or even extra-virgin olive oil), resulting in a stronger flavor.  Hard to say which one is the "real, true, original" recipe for bìgoi in salsa: every family has its own, "original" one. It's more or less the same for any Italian regional recipe.  

This is the typical dish my family shares, now like in the past, on Christmas Eve: it is convivial, simple, flavorful dish, filling and satisfying; it is made with basic ingredients that can go a long way nonetheless. It is respectful of tradition and yet very modern. Last year, when J and I got married on December 23rd, we spent Christmas Eve day in Venice, but went back to my parents for dinner. We knew what was awaiting us, and we couldn't ask for anything better.

Before heading to the recipe, here is what you'll find this month on Italian Table Talk: a lovely, seasonal cardoon flan from Giulia; and some sweet treats like mandelbrodt from Jasmine, and Tuscan cavallucci from Emiko.

Bìgoi in Salsa

Here comes the confession: I haven't been able to put my hands on either fresh or dry bìgoi here in London. So, I opted for the least bad-case scenario: thick dry spaghetti alla chitarra (squared). The result? Good, very good. So here is my suggestion: if you find bìgoi, great! If you want to make them yourself, even better (you'll just need a meat grinder attachment to your food processor). But if none of these cases apply and you still want to give this recipe a try, go for the thickest spaghetti you can find (not linguine or tagliatelle: they have to be round or maximum squared, not flat), better if made with a bronze die, which give them a rougher surface, and even better if made with whole-gain flours. It still works fantastically well. A last reminder: if using fresh pasta, adjust cooking time accordingly. 

serves 4

350 gr dry bìgoli (or other thick spaghetti)*

350 gr of white onions, thinly sliced

6 T olive oil (or other vegetable oil of choice)

8 salt-preserved anchovies, washed

salt

Bring a big pot of water to a boil. Add a handful of coarse sea salt. In the meantime, heat the oil in a skillet, add the onions and cook until very very soft, stirring every now and then, about 15 minutes. Add 1/4 cup of water and let evaporate. Add the anchovies and dissolve them in the onion sauce using a wooden spoon. Cook a few more minutes, until the sauce is well combined. Cook the bìgoi in the boiling salty water, drain al dente and add it to the skillet with the sauce. Toss a few times until evenly coated. Taste for salt and add more if needed. Serve immediately.

*To make them fresh you'll need about 200 gr of flour (durum wheat or whole wheat or a mixture) for 150 ml of water and a teaspoon salt, all well-kneaded and shaped into thick spaghetti using a meat grinder. Let it dry for a few hours before cooking.

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**Link Love:

Don't forget that to stay posted on Italian Table Talk you can follow the hashtag #ITabletalk on Twitter, plus:

Emiko on Twitter or Pinterest

Giulia on Twitter, Facebook or Pinterest

Jasmine on Twitter, Facebook or Pinterest

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L'8 dicembre apre ufficialmente le danze natalizie, con tutti o quasi a casa da scuola e lavoro, belli pimpanti e pronti a decorare l'albero, fare incetta di regali e spachettare il primo di molti panettoni. Due settimane a Natale: si discutono menu e spese, portate e abbinamenti per il cenone o il pranzo più importante e abbondante dell'anno. 

Giusto per essere in linea con lo spirito delle feste, io e le ragazze abbiamo pensato di creare un'edizione natalizia di Italian Table Talk, nel tentativo di condividere pezzetti di tradizioni e piatti legati a questo particolare periodo dell'anno, in cui ancora una volta l'Italia non si smentisce nell'ostentare la sua complessità gastronomica. Come per molte altre cose, infatti, le tradizioni natalizie variano non poco da regione a regione, e le ricette variano insieme ad esse. La maggior parte di queste tradizioni sono certo di origine religiosa, ma non manca nemmeno l'elemento folclorico: dal Trentino, dove si attente San Nicola il 6 dicembre e si accendono le candele dell'avvento; alla Lombardia, dove a portare dolci e regali è Santa Lucia, il 13 di dicembre; fino al sud, dove l'accento si posa sulla cena della vigilia piuttosto che sul pranzo di natale, e dove l'Epifania ha un valore ancora molto importante; l'Italia dimostra di essere un guazzabuglio di tipicità, usi e costumi che in qualche modo riescono a coesistere. 

Una volta scelto il tema di ITT di dicembre, il resto è stato in discesa. Non ho avuto alcun dubbio su quale ricetta avrei condiviso: poche cose mi fanno più festa dei bìgoi in salsa. Vi suonerà alquanto strano, ma questo piatto a base di pasta, cipolle e acciughe è entrato nelle mie grazie ormai da qualche anno, aiutandomi a fare pace con le mie radici veneziane.  Bìgoi in salsa è oggi un grande classico della cucina veneta e si trova in moltissime osterie e trattorie tipiche, con minime varianti, da Venezia a Vicenza e perfino a Verona, ma una volta era considerato un piatto dei poveri, da consumare soprattutto nei giorni di magro come il mercoledì delle ceneri, i venerdì di quaresima e la vigilia di natale. 

Bìgoi (bìgoli in Italiano; userò la forma dialettale in questo post) sono degli spaghettoni freschi e spessi e rappresentano probabilmente il formato di pasta più diffuso in Veneto, una regione che di per sè ha sempre avuto come base dell'alimentazione, invece di pasta e pane, polenta e riso. L'invenzione dei bìgoi pare risalire ai primi del 1600, quando il Veneto era quasi tutto sotto il dominio della Serenissima Repubblica di Venezia. Un pastaio Padovano inventò e patentò un macchinario per fare diversi formati di pasta, inclusi bìgoi, che fra tutti conquistarono il pubblico della città e finirono per diffondersi su tutto il territorio veneto. 

La ricetta originale vorrebbe l'utilizzo di sola acqua e farina (e sale). L'impasto veniva messo in forma e poi lasciato riposare, infine passato attraverso il suddetto macchinario, chiamato"bigolaro", che veniva azionato a mano e produceva grossi spaghettoni dalla superficie grezza (data dalla trafila in bronzo) di circa 2-3mm di diametro e 25cm di lunghezza. La pasta così fatta veniva poi appesa ad asciugare per una notte. Una variante di questa ricetta prevedeva l'uso nell'impasto di una parte di farina scura (di grano integrale o grano saraceno), producendo i cosidetti  bìgoi mori. Solo in tempi più recenti è stata creata una ricetta che prevedeva l'aggiunta di uova nell'impasto; in passato le uova erano usate dai contadini come moneta di scambio per comprare zucchero e sale, per cui non ci si sarebbe mai sognati di "sprecarle" per fare la pasta dei bìgoi! In tempi ancora più recenti, pastifici più o meno grandi hanno iniziato a fare e vendere la versione secca dei bìgoi, sia bianchi che mori, utilizzando farina di grano duro invece che grano tenero. Secchi o freschi, il minimo comun denominatore dei bìgoi è la ruvidezza della pasta, che serve a trattenere molto sugo senza farlo scivolare sul fondo della pentola. Alcuni sughi tradizionali sono il ragù di frattaglie di anatra (bìgoi co l'arna), tipici di Vicenza e provincia, il sugo di sarde (bìgoi co la sardela), diffusi anche in Polesine, e i bìgoi in salsa (di acciughe e cipolle). Per il sugo d'anatra si dovrebbe sempre utilizzare bìgoi freschi, mentre per gli altri due vanno bene sia secchi che freschi, ma meglio se mori. 

Nella mia famiglia, non essendoci il bigolaro, si sono visti sempre e solo bìgoi secchi, acquistati dal bottegaio di paese, prima sfusi e poi, in tempi moderni, in pacchetti. Il condimento era sempre lo stesso: sardine sotto sale comprate dai pescivendoli ambulanti o al mercato del venerdì; cipolle dell'orto (quelle bianche di Chioggia); e olio di semi (chè quello d'oliva era troppo caro e troppo raro perchè una famiglia contadina se lo potesse permettere). La versione moderna della ricetta, più sbrigativa, si fa anche con acciughe sotto sale o sott'olio e olio extra vergine d'oliva, più saporito di quello di semi. Difficile comunque dire quale sia la vera, autentica ricetta dei bìgoi in salsa: ognuno la fa un po'  a modo suo ed è convinto che quella sia la ricetta originale. Un po' come per tante altre ricette regionali italiane, insomma. 

Questa che vi riporto è la ricetta che la mia famiglia mette in tavola, oggi come allora, la vigilia di Natale: è di certo un piatto conviviale, saziante e dall'alto grado di soddisfazione. Si fa con tre ingredienti di numero e nonostante ciò e qualcosa di estremamente saporito. Tra tutti i ricordi legati a questo piatto, ne ho uno che mi sta particolarmente a cuore: l'anno scorso, quando J ed io ci siamo sposati il 23 dicembre, abbiamo passato la notte e la viglia gironzolando per una gelida Venezia, in attesa di festeggiare la vigilia a casa dei miei. Sapevamo bene con che piatto saremmo stati accolti, e non potevamo desiderare di meglio. 

Prima di saltare subito alla ricetta, godetevi il resto delle storie e ricette di questo episodio natalizio: il flan di cardi di Giulia; e due ricette dolci, i mandelbrodt di Jasmine, e i cavallucci di Emiko.

Bìgoi in Salsa

Momento verità: non sono riuscita a trovare i bìgoi da nessuna parte qui a Londra! Disperata, ho scelto la strada la meno peggio, optando per degli spaghettoni alla chitarra secchi. Il risultato? Ottimo! Quindi, se trovate i bìgoi, freschi o secchi, fantastico, se li volete fare da voi ancora meglio (vi riporto la ricetta sotto, vi basterà l'aggeggio per fare la carne macinata); ma se non incappate in nessun bigolo e non vi va di farli da voi, andate con dei vermicelli i più grossi possibile, meglio se con trafila al bronzo, meglio ancora se integrali. Ps: Se usate la pasta fresca aggiustaste i tempi di cottura. 

per 4

350 gr di bìgoi mori secchi (o freschi*)

350 gr di cipolle bianche affettate molto sottilmente

6 cucchiai di olio extravergine d'oliva (o altro olio vegetale)

8 acciughe dissalate 

sale

Scaldare l'acqua per la pasta. Preparate la salsa scaldando l'olio in una padella capiente, aggiungendo le cipolle e lasciando appassire a fuoco basso fino a che non sono molto tenere. Aggiungere un po' d'acqua di cottura e fate appassire ulteriormente, in tutto circa 20 minuti. Aggiungere le acciughe e continuare la cottura per altri 5-10 minuti, aggiungendo dell'altra acqua se necessario. La salsa dovrà essere cremosa e densa. Assaggiate e aggiustate di sale. Cuocere la pasta al dente in acqua salata, scolare e saltare nella salsa per un minuto. Servire subito (senza parmigiano!!).  

*Per fare i bìgoi freschi vi serviranno 200 gr di farina 00 (o un mix di 00 e intregrale o grano saraceno), 150 ml d'acqua e un cucchiaino di sale, tutto impastato per bene, steso e sformato a spaghettoni con il tritacarne. Lasciare riposare qualche ora (o una notte) prima di usare la pasta. 

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**Link Love:

Per rimanere sempre aggiornati su Italian Table Talk potete seguire l'hashtag #ITabletalk su Twitter, e i nostri profili personali:

Emiko su Twitter o Pinterest

Giulia su Twitter, Facebook o Pinterest

Jasmine su Twitter, Facebook o Pinterest

E la sottoscritta cliccando sui pulsanti a lato! :)

Detail: Italian Table Talk Holiday Edition: Bìgoi in Salsa

0 Dinner in White Turin: Buffalo Ricotta and Lemon Linguine | Cena in Bianco Torino: Linguine alla Ricotta di Bufala e Limone

I have always been late. Even if I don't start late, I arrive late --or close to it.

But even so, I like joining, sharing, feasting.

Today, I dressed my table in white and joined the flashmob that tonight is going to paint the city of Torino, Italy, in white. A Dinner in White, like the one that have been taking place in Paris for many years and that started to spread around the globe.



I wish I was there, dressed in a white linen dress, a flower in my hair, and some white food in the pic-nic basket to share with others. Alas, I am far --but emotionally close. Like me, many other foodbloggers will join only with a recipe, and their thought. I can feel the closeness.

White is a state of mind. It is the positive, the bright, the light. A dinner in white reminds us that we can, even for one night, put dark thoughts and negative thinking aside, and just enjoy the bright side of ourselves.

I tried to do the same, shutting my mind and simply seizing the moment, relaxing, letting my mind wander. When it came back, my white pasta was gone --but a smile was enlightening my face.

Buffalo Ricotta and Lemon Linguine

serves 2

200 gr of linguine

2 T coarse grain sea salt

1 T olive oil

1 garlic clove, crushed

100 gr of buffalo ricotta

grated zest of an organic, unwaxed lemon

1/2 cup of slivered almonds

Bring a big pot of water to a boil. When boiling, add the salt and pasta, cook until two-three minutes before suggested cooking time.
In the meantime, heat oil in a big skillet, add garlic and let the oil absorb the garlic flavor, about three minutes, then discard the garlic. When the pasta is nearly cooked, pour about 1/2 cup of cooking water into the skillet, then drain the pasta and transfer it to the skillet. Add buffalo ricotta and sauté pasta until the liquid is absorbed and the ricotta has formed a creamy sauce. Add lemon zest and almonds, toss one last time. Serve immediately.

--------------------°°°°°°°°°°--------------------

Sono sempre stata in ritardo. Anche se non comincio, arrivo sempre e comunque in ritardo. 

Eppure, mi è sempre piacuto prendere parte, condividere, esserci. 

Oggi, ho vestito la mia tavola di bianco e mi sono aggiunta alla schiera di persone che, col corpo o con la mente, hanno preso e prenderanno parte alla Cena in Bianco di Torino. Un flashmob meraviglioso sulle orme di quello parigino, lanciato da Maricler e Fabrizio, e a cui hanno già partecipato moltissimi foodbloggers con candide ricette. Il bello però, per chi potrà esserci, deve ancora arrivare. Una cena vera e propria, con un dress code ed un food code in tinta con la serata. Se siete lì, c'è ancora tempo per ricevere istruzioni scrivendo a cenainbiancotorino@gmail.com, e seguendo l'l’hashtag #cenainbiancoTorino.  Avete tutta la mia invidia.

 Se fossi lì, mi vedrei con un vestito di lino bianco, un fiore, e un cestino da pic nic pieno di leccornie da distribuire in giro. Invece sono qui, lontana. Ma vicina con la mente, a Torino e a tutti i foodblogger che hanno preso parte a quest'evento con ricette  e pensieri. 

Bianco è uno stato d'animo, è pensiero positivo, leggerezza, luce. Cenare in bianco è un bel modo per ricordare a noi stessi che almeno per una sera possiamo mettere da parte i pensieri negativi, le preoccupazioni, e abbandonarci al lato illuminato di noi stessi.

Io ci ho provato, ho spento tutto e mi sono goduta il momento, ho lasciato la mia mente libera di andare. Al suo ritorno, il piatto di pasta davanti a me era pulito, ma su di me si è illuminato un sorriso.

Linguine alla ricotta di bufala e limone

per 2

200 gr di linguine

sale grosso

1 cucchiaio di olio evo

1 spicchio d'aglio schiacciato

100 gr di ricotta di bufala

la buccia grattugiata di un limone bio

una manciata di mandorle a scaglie

Cuocete la pasta molto al dente in acqua bollente salata, riservando mezzo mestolo d'acqua di cottura per finire la cottura in padella. 

Nel frattempo, scaldate l'olio in una padella e fate soffriggere lo spicchio d'aglio per qualche minuto, poi toglietelo. Aggiungete l'acqua di cottura e la pasta scolata, quindi la ricotta, e saltate per due minuti, finché la pasta non è cotta al punto giusto e la ricotta ha formato una crema insieme all'acqua di cottura. Aggiungete la buccia di limone e le mandorle, risaltate un'ultima volta e servite. 

Detail: Dinner in White Turin: Buffalo Ricotta and Lemon Linguine | Cena in Bianco Torino: Linguine alla Ricotta di Bufala e Limone

0 Aglio Olio e Peperoncino Revisited.

Since when I was a little kid, springtime has always been synonym with foraging and cooking with wild herbs. For years in this season, our table has been filled with dishes featuring wild garlic, carletti, hop sprouts, mauve leaves, dandelion and nettle. Usually, we would keep things simple and stir fry the herbs quickly before throwing them in a frittata or a savory tart, or directly on a plate as a side for meat or hard boiled eggs. Sometimes, we would do risotto or pasta or even soup --a simple minestrone with legumes and grains and whatever vegetables the season offered. Living in the countryside has deeply shaped my way of conceiving food as seasonal in the first place, and of cooking while following this credo.

In London, the availability of produce from all over the world fascinates and scares me at the same time. It is as if the symbolic value of time and place that food carries was completely deleted and forgotten, so much so that the meltin' pot of people intermingles with the meltin' pot of foods. It feels great to have such a huge amount of ingredients to select and cook with, but in a way it feels confusing, too. Surely enough, the UK isn't the luckiest place as far as growing season and climate goes. Still, I feel appalled by the view of raspberries from Guatemala, as I am pretty sure that with some patience we will be able to see berries from local farms, too, whenever the right season will be. I believe there is always the right season. I believe in the value of waiting.

This is why I love farmers' markets --they help me reconnect food with a place and a time and find a balance between myself and what is around me.  It is a connection I deeply need in order to feel good. It is not about being hispter, hippy or radical chic --it is about balance. Here in Wimbledon, a small farmers' market takes place on Saturdays, and its presence has become reassuring. There, I can find all I need for a few days, from bread to dairy to produce. For now, spring greens, nettle and wild garlic are slowly taking over winter greens. I deeply enjoy seeing the process happening.



Last week, we bought greens and a big bunch of wild garlic. After a walk through the park, we headed home for lunch with a good deal of hunger. Whenever that happens, we know we both crave a plate of pasta --something quick, easy and deeply satisfying. Pasta alio olio e peperoncino popped suddenly in my mind --so simple and so tasty. But we didn't have any garlic at home.

"We should try to make it with the wild garlic. It will be perfect and very spring-y".

Why not.

Spaghetti with Wild Garlic, Olive Oil and Chili

serves 2

200 gr spaghetti (regular, whole wheat or gluten free)

2 tablespoons coarse sea salt

1/4 cup good extra virgin olive oil

2 dried chilies, crushed

a bunch of wild garlic leaves, chopped

pinch of salt

freshly ground pepper, to taste

1/4 cup grated Parmigiano

Fill three-quarters of a large pot with cold water and bring to a boil over medium-high heat. When it boils, add coarse salt and spaghetti (do not break them, push them down slowly with a wooden spoon until they are submerged). Cook the pasta al dente following cooking instructions (count a couple minutes less than what written on the package).
While the water boils and the pasta cooks, make the sauce. Heat oil in a large skillet over medium heat, add chilies and let them fry for a few minutes, then add the garlic leaves and sauté them until tender. Season with salt and pepper.
Drain the spaghetti and add them to the skillet with the rest of the ingredients. Toss everything for a minute over medium-high heat. Remove, season with grated Parmigiano and serve immediately.

----------------------°°°°°°°°°°--------------------

Sin da piccola, la primavera è sempre stato il tempo in cui si andava per i campi e lungo gli argini a raccoglioere le erbe spontanee. Ogni anno in questa stagione, sulla nostra tavola comparivano carletti, bruscandoli (germogli di luppolo), foglie di malva, tarassaco e ortiche. Di solito le si cucinava in modo semplice, saltate in padella, in frittata, in una torta salata, una pasta, un risotto. Facevano primavera. La tradizione italiana è piena di ricette con protagoniste le erbe di cambo --basti pensare all'erbazzone. Sono piatti rustici, di campagna. Essere cresciuta in campagna mi ha aiutato a dare forma al concetto di cibo come elemento stagionale, e a continuare a cucinare seguendo questo credo. 

La disponibilità di ingredienti e cibi da tutto il mondo che ho trovato qui a Londra ha fin da subito scatenato in me reazioni uguali e contrarie di sbalordimento e disagio. Qui, è come se i valori simbolici di tempo e spazio legati al cibo avessero perso completamente di significato, e come se il mix di origini geografiche di persone andasse di pari passo con quello dei cibi. Da un lato, tutta questa disponibilità qui e ora mi eccita e stimola idee e abbinamenti mai provati; dall'altro mi confonde, e non poco. Certo, il Regno Unito non è tra i più fortunati quanto a clima, ma sono convinta che qualcosa cresce. Così, vedere i lamponi dal Guatemala mi fa sorgere spontaneo un bel punto di domanda, dato che sono certa che prima o poi, i lamponi così come mirtilli e ribes qui in UK cresceranno, quando sarà tempo. Perché c'è un tempo giusto per tutte le cose, e io ci credo, come credo nel valore di chi sa aspettare.

Per questo amo i mercati contadini: perchè mi aiutano a ritrovare quella connessione che pare perduta tra cibo e tempo, cibo e luogo, e insieme, mi aiutano a ritrovare un certo equilibrio interiore. Un equilibrio che non credevo essenziale, ma che invece lo è. Non è questione di essere hippy o radicl chic o fanatici, è una questione di stato d'animo, che piaccia oppure no. Qui a Wimbledon ogni sabato c'è il mercato, e la sua presenza sta diventando un punto fisso non poco rassicurante. Al momento, i primi frutti della primavera stanno lentamente prendendo il posto dei prodotti invernali. Un processo lento ma visibile, come il passare delle stagioni. 

La settimana scorsa, di ritorno da una passeggiata, ci siamo fermati a comprare delle verdure e una manciata di foglie di aglio orsino prima di rientrare per pranzo. La passeggiata ci aveva messo appetito, e volevamo qualcosa di veloce e sostanzioso. Qualcosa come una bella pasta aglio olio e peperoncino, la prima cosa che ci è balenata in mente, la prima cosa a cui pensiamo quando siamo affamanti. Ma non c'era l'aglio, avevamo dimenticato di comprarlo. 

"Potremmo provare con l'aglio orsino, così, per farla in versione primaverile." 

Perchè no.

Spaghetti con Aglio Orsino, Olio e Peperoncino

per 2

200 gr di spaghetti (del tipo che volete)

sale grosso qb.

50 ml di olio evo 

2 peperoncini secchi

una manciata di foglie di aglio orsino

sale e pepe q.b.

una manciata di parmigiano grattugiato

Cuocete la pasta al dente in acqua bollente salata. Nel frattempo, scaldate l'olio in una padella, aggiungete i peperoncini schacciati e le foglie d'aglio a pezzetti, saltate per qualche minuto finché non si è insaporito il tutto, salale e pepate a piacere. Quando la pasta è al dente, scolatela a passatela in padella per 30 secondi, aggiungete il parmigiano, date una bella mescolata e servite. 

Detail: Aglio Olio e Peperoncino Revisited.

0 Lasagne radicchio, zucca e stracchino

Tra le tante promesse da marinaio che ho fatto alla ciurma internazionale del master c'era anche quella di insegnare come fare la pasta fatta in casa, nella fattispecie la pasta all'uovo per tagliatelle e lasagne e chi più ne ha eccetera eccetera. Non che sia una grande esperta in materia, e nemmeno che venga dalla patria regionale di questo tipo di impasto, però le basi più o meno mi sono state date, quindi un minimo di sapere me la sentivo anche di trasmetterlo, ecco. Complice una giornata libera e uggiosa, ci siamo armati di grembiule di Harrod's e ci siamo messi all'opera. Rendendoci conto a metà del percorso, che sopravvalutare la multifunzionalità di una bottiglia di Campari non era stata proprio una bella idea... E in mancanza di utensili quale un mattarello o una nonna papera, così, en passant, abbiamo dovuto ripiegare, dopo la dovuta pulitura e disinfettatura, al manico della scopa. :) Ma la lezione l'hanno imparata, ah, eccome!

Alla fine, invece di fare le tagliatelle -- che dopo tutto quel lavoro ma chi ha più pazienza?? -- abbiamo ripiegato sulla più sempice e immediata lasagna. E siccome non avevamo nemmeno voglia di metterci a fare il ragù, e avevamo invece a disposizione un banco del mercato iperfiorente, l'abbiamo interpretata alla vegetariana -- ma sempre del tutto in linea chìon la stagione. Così, per chi come me a Natale ha il problema di mettere d'accordo chi non mangia carne con chi non piace il pesce, beh, avete la soluzione bella che pronta e pure, lasciatemelo dire, buona da morire.

Ingredienti

Per la pasta all'uovo:

- 400 gr di farina 00

- 4 uova

Disporre la farina a fontana, romperci dentro le uova, iniziare a sbatterle con la forchetta, quindi coprire un po' alla volta con la farina iniziando ad incorporarla sempre con l'uso della forchetta. Iniziare ad impastare con le mani fino ad ottenere un impasto liscio e omogeneo, aiutandosi con un po' di farina. Formare una palla, coprire con pellicola e mettere in frigo per 45 minuti circa. 

Per stenderlo, servitevi di un mattarello lungo o della macchienetta per la pasta. Se siete studenti fuori sede come noi, usate l'ingegno :) Dividere comunque l'impasto in pù parti e stenderlo cercando di muoverlo spesso affinché non si incolli al tavolo, senza l'uso di farina. Ottenuto lo spessore di 0.2-0.3 mm (si, insomma, sottile dev'essere), tagliarlo a rettangoli di circa 5x10 cm. Cuocere le lasagne in acqua bollente salata per 5 minuti circa, un po' per volta e mescolando affinché non si attacchino le une alle altre.  Scolare e mettere da parte.

Per la besciamella allo stracchino:

- 60 gr di burro

- 60 gr di farina

- 600 ml di latte

- 400 gr di stracchino

- noce moscata

Fondere il burro in una casseruola, quindi unire la farina a pioggia mescolando con una frusta. Una volta amalgamati perfettamente, unire il latte caldo a fino, continuando a mescolare con la frusta. Cuocere a fuoco medio per circa 10 minuti, fino ad ottenere una consistenza liscia e cremosa ma non troppo densa. Unire quindi lo stracchino, mescolare fino a perfetto incorporamento. Spegnere il fuoco e grattugiare una generosa dose di noce moscata. Mettere da parte e coprire con una pellicola per evitare la formazione della famigerata pellicina.

Per il sugo al radicchio e zucca:

- 400 gr di zucca

- 2 radicchi di Treviso medio-grandi

- 1 scalogno

- olio evo

- sale

- pepe

Soffriggere lo scalogno tritato finemente in una padella con un filo d'olio evo. Tagliare la zucca a dadini, aggiungerla al soffritto, saltare a fiamma vivace per un paio di minuti. Unire il radicchio lavato e tagliato a listarelle. Cuocere per una decina di minuti, mescolando di tanto intanto, salare e pepare.

Assemblagio:

In una pirofila, fare uno strato di besciamella, uno di verdure, uno di pasta e così via. Io ho fatto tre strati di pasta e ho concluso con besciamella e verdure. Ho quindi spolverato con abbondante parmigiano e infornato per 30 minuti in forno caldo a 200° C.

La parte migliore? La crosticina che fa capolino dalla teglia :) Ma anche il resto non era male :))

Detail: Lasagne radicchio, zucca e stracchino