Costolette di maiale ai funghi

You could probably devote a small cookbook just to Italian veal chop recipes, but with the price of veal being what it is, I usually do what many Italians do and turn to pork. The taste of pork is different, of course, but most veal recipes translate quite well into oinkier versions. I was reminded of one of my favorites the other day reading fellow blogger Paula of bell'alimento: who recently featured a lovely recipes for pork chops in mushroom cream sauce. Well, as any regular reader of this blog will know, I am practically addicted to mushroom cream sauce. I love it on ox tongue, with egg pasta, gnocchi or canederli and, indeed, it goes particularly well with pork chops.

In any event, here's my version of the dish:

Ingredients (for 4 people)

4 thin-cut rib pork chops (bone in)
250g (1/2 lb.) of fresh mushrooms (oyster mushrooms are particularly nice), roughly chopped
1-2 shallots, finely chopped
250ml (1 cup) cream, or as much as you need to make ample sauce
Olive oil
Butter
Flour
A handful of fresh parsley, finely chopped
Salt and pepper

Directions

Dry your chops  well with paper towles, dust them with flour and brown them in olive oil over  a moderate flame until nice and golden brown on both sides. Remove them from the skillet and set aside til later.

Add the mushrooms to the skillet and sauté them in the remaining oil. Season the mushrooms with a bit of salt and pepper as soon as you've added them to encourage the mushrooms to exude their liquid. Depending of the type of mushroom you are using, they may exude quite a bit of liquid. Let all of that liquid evaporate, then continue sautéing until the mushrooms start to brown nicely.

Add a dab of butter and the chopped shallot to the mushrooms. Allow the shallot to sauté lightly, literally for just 30 seconds or so.

Now for my little 'trick': add a ladleful of homemade broth to the mushrooms, and let that evaporate completely as well. This gives an extra layer of savory flavor to the dish, and is especially nice if you're using the kind of mild cultivated  mushrooms you are likely to find in most supermarkets. If, on the other hand, you are using wild chanterelles or cèpes (porcini) you can skip this step if you like to maintain that pure mushroom flavor.

Now add your cream and let it reduce down over fairly high heat until you see that the fat has separated out as pictured below:

At this point, you can leave the dish if you want until you are ready. A few minutes before you want to serve the dish, turn back on the heat to a moderate flame and add the chops back into the skillet on top of the cream sauce,along with any juices that may have accumulated—those juices have a lot of flavor, so don't throw them out. You will want to loosen the sauce with a bit of milk or water; then turn the chops in the sauce until they are well coated.

Continue cooking for a few minutes, just long enough to warm the chops through and thicken the sauce yet again, this time to a consistency just thick enough to coat the back of a spoon, adding a bit of finely chopped parsley as they cook. Serve immediately, topped with some more finely chopped parsley.

NOTES: This recipe is a bit modified from the traditional one that calls for braising the chops in the sauce. Most modern pork, as we all know, is raised lean, and rib/loin chops are simply too lean for braising. So I just brown them nicely and put them back in the pan just long enough to warm through and absorb a bit of the flavor of the sauce. In this way, the pork is nice and flavorful but does not dry out, as they would if you tried to braise them.

For this recipe, you need thin-cut chops that will cook in the short period of time called for. And, in any event, thin cut chops are more typically Italian, as they allow for a nice balance of flavors between the meat and its condiment.

As for the mushrooms, just about any variety will do, even those cultivate button mushrooms that can be a bit boring. Of course, wild mushrooms will give the dish all the more character. This time, I used a mixture of oyster mushrooms and the ones that Italians call chiodini, meaning 'little nails' or pioppini. I think the name in English is black polar mushrooms. Their scientific name is Lyophyllum shimeji, and I believe that they are Japanese in origin. You can also used dried mushroom, which will give the dish a more intense mushroom flavor or, using an old trick I learned from Marcella Hazan, mix some dried porcini and their liquid with cultivate mushrooms to mimic the flavor of the real deal.

The original recipe that inspired this dish was a veal chop recipes that I found long ago in Giuliano Bugialli's Foods of Italy. The original, if I remember correctly, called for browining the veal chops in butter rather than oil and using, of course, fresh porcini mushrooms. The dish comes from Emilia-Romagna, which may be obvious from the generous use of butter and cream. Unfortunately, I seem to have misplaced that book somewhere, but this recipe—for reasons you may well imagine—stuck in mind...

Canederli

Canederli is the Italian name given to the bread dumplings so popular in Austria and other parts of central Europe, known in German as Semmelknödl or just knödel. During my years in Vienna it was one of my favorite things to eat, so when I re-discovered them in Italy, on a visit to an old friend from Paris who had wound up living in Bolzano, a city in the German-speaking region of Alto Adige (aka Südtirol) in northwestern Italy, I was delighted. Not only did they bring back fond memories—they were probably the best I had ever eaten! (No offense to my Austrian friends...)

In any event, you don't need to travel to Austria or northwestern Italy to enjoy these dumplings. They are quite easy to make at home. The technique is a bit like making potato dumpling or gnocchi, but actually easier. These bread dumplings are much less prone to becoming stodgy as gnocchi can be if not made right. And it's a great way to use old bread, a nice change when you're not in the mood for a bread soup like ribollita or pappa al pomodoro.

Ingredients (for 4-6 servings)

300g (3/4 lb.) stale bread, cut into cubes
100g (1/4 lb.) speck or other cured pork product (see Notes), finely minced (optional)
2 eggs
A glass of milk
1 medium onion, finely minced
2 Tbs. flour (or more)
Parsley, finely minced
Salt and pepper

Directions

Toss together in a large bowl the bread and speck (if using), then add the eggs and milk and parsley. Mix together. Let the mixture rest for a good 20 minutes or so. The bread should be rather moist at this point, but not soaking wet. If you find the mixture a bit dry, then add more milk.

Mix in the flour, along with the onion and parsley. (NB: For added flavor, you can sauté the onions in a bit of butter before adding them to the mix.) Season well with salt and pepper.



Now form the resulting 'dough' into balls about the size of golf balls.

By the way, if the mixture does not hold together, or if you notice that it is exceedingly wet, then add more flour, a bit at a time, until you find that the mixture has reached a nice dough-like consistency that will hold together well.

Now bring a pot of well-salted water (or, for a richer taste, broth) to a gentle simmer. Add the canederli, one at a time, with a slotted spoon—or just use your hands like I usually do...  If you are not experienced with making these dumplings, just form one ball to begin with, and try simmering it. If it falls apart, then you know you need to add some more flour to your mixture. Then try again with another. If all goes well, then add all the rest.

Simmer the canederli for about 15 minutes. They should have come to the surface of your simmering liquid, much as gnocchi do.

NOTES: There are various ways to serve canederli. The simplest is the way I had them at that wonderful meal in Bolzano: in a rich, homemade broth—a kind of Italo-Austrian matzo ball soup. My personal favorite way to enjoy canederli is to accompany them with a creamy mushroom sauce as pictured above, the same kind of sauce that goes so well with potato gnocchi. Also very good, and very popular in Vienna, is to serve them with beef goulash, which I hope to blog on some time quite soon.

Unlike pasta or gnocchi, however, you do not generally pour the sauce over or mix it with these dumplings, but rather lay down a 'bed' of your sauce and lay the dumplings on top. They are big enough that you will need to cut them into bite-sized pieces with a knife and fork, using your fork to fare la scarpetta as they say in Italian: dip each piece of dumpling in the sauce.

You can also make one big dumpling of the bread mixture, by forming a loaf and wrapping it in cheesecloth before simmering it. Of course, this big dumpling will take a bit longer, say 20-30 minutes, to cook. You serve it sliced like a meatloaf.

Speck is a smoked pork product that is common to Austria and this part of the Italy. It is quite delicious but can be hard to find. Feel free to substitute prosciutto or even slab bacon if you like, or omit the meat altogether, as I often do anyway.

By the way, Alto Adige, or Südtirol, is one of the most beautiful areas of Italy. It has an Alpine landscape reminiscent of nearby western Austria. In fact, it was once a part of Austria, ceded to Italy after Austria's defeat in the First World War. (It was nearby that my grandfather fought and won his posthumous medal and picked up his taste for polenta—which is why we ate that northern dish in our southern Italian family.)

In any event, the region today still retains much of its Austrian heritage, notwithstanding the best efforts of Mussolini, who 'shipped' in many Italians, especially from southern Italy, to colonize and, to his mind, 'civilize' the place. There is, in fact, a triumphal arch built by Mussolini in downtown Bolzano, the capital of the area, to celebrate the Italianization of the area. It is still the object of the occasional sabotage attempt, or so I was told when I visited, although the region was granted considerable autonomy after the Second World War. And when I was there in the late 90s the place seemed as tranquil as any I've ever been to. Besides beautiful scenery and great food, they make wonderful wines, including the popular pinot grigio, but also some excellent Chardonnays, Riesling, Sylvaner, Gewurztraminer, and Kerner. It's well worth a visit.

Beautiful Alto Adige-Südtirol

Zuppa di porri

'Tis the season for soups! When the temperatures dive, there is simply nothing that takes the chill off like soup. The wonderful thing about soups is their enormous variety: they can be thick and stick-to-the-ribs, whole meals in themselves, or they can be light, even austere, just enough to whet the palate as the start of a formal meal or as a light supper.

Here is a lovely example of a medium-bodied soup, none too heavy but very satisfying at the same time. It's particularly nice during the holiday season, when you may feel like something warming but not too filling, a nice respite between those humongous holiday meals. The starring role is played by the leek, an often overlooked member of the onion family. Or, at least, I tend to overlook it, which is too bad because it has an incomparably savory yet mellow taste that makes any dish that contains it truly special.

Ingredients (for 4-6 servings)

5 leeks
100g (4 Tbs.) butter, or a combination of equal parts butter and olive oil, or just olive oil
20g (2 Tbs.) flour
Salt and pepper to taste
1 liter (4 cups) broth
4-6 slices of good-quality crusty bread
Grated parmesan or gruyère cheese

Directions

Rinse the leeks if necessary (see below) and trim off the root end and green tops. Cut the stalks into thin slices.

Sauté the leek slices in the butter, butter and oil mixture or the oil over gentle heat until they are well reduced and quite tender, without browning, about 15-20 minutes. Season the leeks with salt and pepper just after you add them to the skillet.

Sprinkle the flour and mix it in well, letting it sauté as well for a minute or two. Then add the broth, mix it well to fully incorporate the flour into the liquid, and let simmer, semi-covered, for another 15-20 minutes.

Meanwhile, toast your slices of bread and place each slice in the bottom of a soup bowl for each diner. Sprinkle the slices with some grated cheese. When the soup is done simmering, ladle over a nice serving into the soup bowls. Sprinkle over some more cheese and top with a nice grinding of black pepper and—if you like—a drizzle of best quality olive oil.

You can serve this soup immediately, but it is best after a few minutes' rest, which allows the soup to soak into the bread.

NOTES: These days leeks are often sold pre-washed, and can be used without fuss. But if you see that your leeks are gritty, make sure to wash them well before using. You will need to split them down the middle to make sure you remove all the grit. And, by the way, don't throw away the green tops—they are a great addition when making homemade broth, either instead of or in addition to the onion.

Speaking of which, for a simple soup like this one, where success or failure will depend on the quality of the ingredients, the broth should really be homemade. (See this post for the master recipe.) You can make your broth with beef (the usual choice) or chicken or a mixture of the two—the so-called brodo classico—and, this time of year, you can also use a turkey carcass if you happen to have one around the house…If you want to go vegetarian, then vegetable broth will, of course, do the job.

The choice of sautéing medium will subtly influence the dish. The traditional recipe calls for all butter, which gives the recipe a pleasant sweetness. But, personally, I prefer to use olive oil or a mixture of butter and olive oil, which provides a more 'rustic' taste. Some recipes add potato to the soup, which gives it more body. You can pass the soup through a food mill for a smoother texture. And instead of the toasted bread, you can fry up some croutons in olive oil, which again makes the soup a bit richer.

If you want to get fancy, you can gratinée this soup in terracotta soup bowls as you would a French onion soup, placing the bread on top of the soup, then sprinkling over all the cheese (use gruyere for this variation), drizzle with some olive oil (or melted butter) and run the soup under the broiler or in a very hot oven for a few minutes, until the top is nicely browned.

Quick Note: Crema di cannellini

Here's a quick and easy weeknight supper for you: a purée of cannellini beans, seasoned with garlic and rosemary, and thinned out with water or broth to create a soup. Nothing could be simpler or more satisfying. And if you are using canned beans—which you can, why not?—the soup can be done in five minutes. There is no cream in this soup, by the way, the Italian word crema does not mean cream, as in the dairy product, but simply refers to any smooth, creamy textured purée.

Ingredients

Olive oil
1-2 garlic cloves (or more if you like), whole but lightly crushed
A sprig of fresh rosemary
Boiled or canned cannellini beans
Broth or water (or the cooking liquid if using boiled beans)
Salt and pepper
A handful of parsley, finely chopped

NB: No exact measurements for this one; use as much or as little of each ingredient as you need or feel like using. This recipe is pretty much ad lib.   

Directions

Begin by lightly sautéing your garlic and rosemary in abundant olive oil over moderately low heat. Once the garlic takes on some color, remove both the garlic and the olive oil from the pan. Then pass your cannellini beans through a food mill into the seasoned oil. Allow the beans to insaporire for a few minutes, then add enough water, broth or cooking liquid to thin out the bean purée to the consistency of a soup. Simmer the mixture for a few minutes to let the flavors meld. About a minute before its' done, stir in the chopped parsley. Drizzle with raw, best-quality olive oil just before serving.

NOTES: This basic recipe is incredible flexible and versatile. Usually, it can be served with some crusty bread on the side, or top of a piece of toasted bread laid at the bottom of the plate, or topped with croutons fried in olive oil, and—as picture above—with boiled rice mixed in. Or some soup pasta instead of the rice.

The same method lends itself to just about any other bean or legume: borlotti, lentils, fagioli all'occhio (black eyed peas), chickpeas… you name it. For a more 'refined' taste, you substitute a soffritto of onion, or onion, carrot and celery, for the garlic, in which case don't remove them from the pan as you would the garlic. For a bit more substance, you can also fry some cubed pancetta in the seasoned oil. Or top your crema with some sautéed shrimp or scallops, which makes for an elegant presentation fit for company.

Boiling dried beans takes some time but is very easy. If you have the time, soak the beans in water to cover them amply, either overnight or save yourself some time by bringing them to a boil and let them soak in the hot water for an hour. Pre-soaking is not strictly necessary, but it does save time and helps the beans to retain their taste and texture—although that's not too important if you're going to use them in a purée, of course. Then simmer them in water to cover generously, along with a drizzle of olive oil and a sprig of fresh sage (if you have some on hand) until tender. Season with salt a few minutes before the beans are done. The simmering liquid has lots of flavor and can be used to thin out the crema.

If using canned beans, on the other hand, make sure to rinse them off and drain in a colander. The canning liquid has stuff you don't want to ingest and, besides, it gives a funny 'canned' taste to the dish. When using canned beans, it is best to use broth to give the crema some extra flavor.

Crema di cannellini, when it is kept quite thick, makes for a nice topping for crostini.

Verza e salsiccia

Not sure about you, but the weather here has crossed the line from pleasantly crisp to downright cold at night. That's as good an excuse as any for some good, stick to the ribs eating. It may sound eastern European, but Italians, too, like their cabbage, especially in colder weather, and like to combine it with pork. The typical Italian cabbage is verza, the kind with fairly loose, crinkly, finely threaded leaves known in English (at least in the US) as "savoy" cabbage, which develops a delicate, sweet taste when cooked. Like other types of cabbage, it marries perfectly with sausage. The dish is not the prettiest thing to look at, but it tastes wonderful, and it warms the body and soul on a cold night.

Ingredients (for 4-6 servings)

4-6 (or more) mild Italian sausages
Olive oil
1 medium onion, thinly sliced
1 head of Savoy cabbage, finely shredded
1 apple, peeled, cored and diced (optional)
Fennel seeds (optional)
Salt and pepper
Broth or water

Directions

Prick the sausages and sauté them over medium heat in a bit of olive oil until lightly browned in a sauté pan or braiser. Remove them from the pan and set aside.

Add the sliced onion and let the onion sauté for a few minutes, lowering the heat if need be to prevent it from browning. (A few drops of water will help things along.) Then add your shredded cabbage and mix it well with the onion. Season well with salt and pepper. Continue cooking, stirring often, until the cabbage has reduced down quite a bit. (You can cover it between stirs, which allows it to steam in its own liquid, which quickens the process.)

When the cabbage has reduced in volume by about half, you can add some diced apple if you like, which gives the dish a slight sweetness. Stir again to mix the apple evenly into the cabbage. You can also add a few fennel seeds, which adds another layer of flavor.

Then add the sausages back into the pan, nestling them into the cabbage at even intervals, and pour in enough broth (or water) to almost cover the cabbage. Lower the heat, then cover the pan, and let the dish simmer for a good 45 minutes to an hour, until the cabbage is literally melting and the sausages are quite soft, too. If there is a lot of liquid left in the pan, raise the heat to high and boil it (almost completely) off. Adjust for seasoning and serve immediately on a warmed platter or straight from the pan.

NOTES: You can use just about any sausage for this dish, although personally I would not choose a spicy variety. The thin, rope-like luganega sausage would be a great (and very typical) choice if you can find it. Otherwise, I usually just use the kind labeled as 'sweet' or 'mild' Italian sausage in stores. You can, of course, use 'regular' cabbage, which would give a different but also very nice result. You could even use red cabbage if you like—not a typical Italian vegetable but tasty nonetheless. The flavorings can also vary—caraway seeds are nice eastern European touch, for example. And if you like, some recipes calls for a dash of white wine vinegar at the very end, which 'brightens' the dish and gives it a sweet-and-sour taste. (Others use vinegar in substitution for the water/broth). A number of recipes call for adding some cubed pancetta to the onion soffritto at the beginning, but I usually don't as I find that the sausage provides enough 'porkiness' on its own. And you can use lard instead of olive oil, if you really want to 'pig out'.

This dish is sometimes served as a hearty soup, by adding much more broth and cutting the sausages into little pieces. The dish can also be used as a condimento for pasta or risotto (again, cutting up the sausage into bite-sized pieces).

Chicons au gratin

There's something about chilly weather that demands a nice gratin—that piping-hot, cheesy, gooey goodness is just the thing to warm your body and soul on a mid-Autumn evening. And here is one that is sure to satisfy: another Belgian classic, chicons au gratin, also known in France as endives au gratin. It consists of Belgian endives, braised in butter, wrapped in ham slices and covered with a rich mornay sauce before getting browned in the oven. (I get hungry all over again thinking about it!)

Ingredients (for 4 servings)

4 medium-sized Belgian endives
30g (2-3 tablespoons) butter (plus a bit more to butter the baking pan)
Salt and pepper
500ml (2 cups) of béchamel sauce (see recipe here)
200g gruyère (or other good, meltable Swiss cheese), shredded
4 slices of best-quality cooked ham 

Directions

Begin by removing any discolored leaves from the endive and trimming the root end. Place the endives in a sauté pan with the butter and a glassful of water. Season with salt and pepper.

Allow the endives to simmer, covered, until they are quite soft, about 20-30 minutes. If you like, you can let them go longer, allowing them to turn a nice golden brown. Either way, drain the endives, root ends up, so that any excess water will drain off. (You may be tempted to skip this step, but don't—otherwise, you may wind up with soggy vegetables and a runny sauce!)

While your endives are braising, make your béchamel sauce in the usual way, and when it is done, add the gruyère, holding back about a third, however, for later. For extra flavor,  you can add some of any cooking liquid left over from the braising or draining of the endives. (This sort of béchamel with cheese is called a sauce mornay.)

When your endives are well drained, take them one by one, and place them on one of the ham slices, then roll the slice around the endive, covering it completely.

Butter a baking dish just large enough to contain your endives. Arrange them neatly in the dish, then pour over the mornay sauce. Cover the dish with the remaining cheese. Dot the top with some additional bits of butter.

Bake the dish in a hot oven (200C/400F) for about 30 minutes, or until the top is nicely browned and the sauce is bubbling hot. Let the dish cool off for a few minutes before serving.

NOTES: The success of this simple dish will rely heavily on the quality of its ingredients. Besides the endives themselves, which should be fresh, of course, and ideally free of any green leaves, you want to use the best quality ham and cheese you can afford. If you use packaged ham slices and supermarket 'Swiss cheese', you will wind up with something tasty enough but pretty pedestrian. Use real, good ham and true gruyère and you will have something very special indeed.

You can save some time by simply parboiling or, better yet, steaming the endives in lieu of braising. Many if  not most recipes call for it, in fact, and it takes only about 10-15 minutes. But I find that braising in butter makes a subtle but significant difference in taste and texture. And, not to nag, but  let me repeat: draining the endives any excess liquid is perhaps the single most important 'trick' to success, so don't forget!

This dish can be served on its own as a hefty starter. As a main course, it is often accompanied by potatoes, being Belgian, some pommes frites would be an obvious choice, although I find they go very nicely with either mashed or even just plain steamed potatoes which are delicious dipped in that mornay sauce....

Tortelli di zucca

One of the nicest parts of this, my favorite season, is the arrival of wonderful Fall produce: mushrooms, endive, chestnuts, cabbage, radicchio… but for me no other vegetable is as typical of the season as hard squashes. They are sometimes called 'winter squashes' but they start appearing in the early Autumn and are a fixture of our October table.

Italy does not have the variety of winter squashes that we have here in North America—squashes are a New World plant, after all—but Italy may have the most delicious of them all, the wonderful zucca barucca. As I've mentioned before, the zucca looks for all the world like your average pumpkin, but its flesh is much less stringy and has a much more intense, sweet flavor than any pumpkin I've had on this side of the pond. Most stateside recipes call for butternut squash as a substitute, but that, too, lacks the intensity of zucca. For risotto, I usually find that baby sweet potatoes have a remarkably similar taste to zucca, even if their texture is a bit grainier. And today I tried another gambit—those smaller 'pie' pumpkins—for making one of the most popular stuffed pastas, tortelli di zucca, or 'pumpkin ravioli'.

You make tortelli di zucca just like ravioli (although they can vary in shape—see below) but the stuffing changes the whole character of the dish. Here is how you make the stuffing:

Ingredients (for 4 servings):

One 'pie' pumpkin or butternut squash, about 500g (or 1 lb.) 

50-100g (2-4 oz.) amaretti cookies, finely crumbled 

50-100g (2-4 oz.) grated parmesan cheese 

50-100g (2-4 oz.)  mostarda (pears and apples only) 

Nutmeg, salt and pepper, q.b. 

Breadcrumbs (if needed)

Directions:

Cut open your pie pumpkin, cut it into large wedges and clean out the seeds and fibers with a spoon. Roast your pumpkin wedges in a moderate oven (180C, 350F) for about 45 minutes, or until the flesh is quite tender when pricked with a fork. (It's fine if the pumpkin browns a bit around the edges but you do not want a lot of caramelization.) Let the pumpkin cool, turning it over to allow any excess liquid to drain out. (If the pumpkin pieces seem watery still, you can wrap them in cheesecloth and squeeze them dry.) Scrape out the cooked flesh, leaving the skin behind, into a food processor.

Now add the amaretti, parmesan and mostarda, and process them until you have a perfectly smooth, stiff paste. You will note that the measurements are left pretty loose, and you will find that kind of variety among the many recipes for this dish. If you don't have real Italian zucca on hand, I would tend to go for more rather than less to make up for the blander taste of the vegetable. Do make sure each of these three main flavoring ingredients are added in balanced amounts. The thing that makes this filling unique is its harmonious combination of contrasting flavors: the sweet-bitterness of the amaretti, the savoriness of the cheese and spiciness of the mostarda, which marry so well with the natural sweetness of the squash. Season the mixture generously with freshly grated nutmeg, fresh ground pepper and salt.

Taste and adjust for seasoning. If the stuffing mixture is a bit soft or wet, mix in some breadcrumbs, a bit at a time, until the stuffing is stiff and rather dry.

*                *                 *

Now it's time to make your egg pasta, in the usual manner. (See this post on making fresh pasta.) Roll the pasta out rather thinly (setting 6—or even thinner if you want—on a pasta roller) since you will be folding the pasta into a double thickness, into long, rather slender sheets.  

Place heaping teaspoonfuls of the stuffing about 5 cm (2 in.) apart along the length of your pasta sheet, just off center down the middle of the sheet.


Fold the longer half of the sheet over the stuffing, pressing down with your fingers all around the stuffing to seal the top and bottom layers of pasta together. With a serrated pasta cutter (if you have one, otherwise it's fine to simply use a knife) cut out your tortelli along the three unfolded sides:

For the final touch, you can ensure a tight seal while making your tortelli ever so pretty by pressing down the edges with the prongs of a fork like so:

 
You should cook your tortelli for a good 5-7 minutes, depending on the thickeness of the dough. They take a bit longer than fresh pasta usually does, because of the double thickness of the pasta and the filling. While the tortelli are cooking, gently melt lots of butter in a small saucepan, adding a sprig of fresh sage if you like to steep along with the butter. (I have read that the sage is not original to the dish, but I like it.) Serve immediately, topped with the melted butter and—if you like—more grated parmesan on top.

 
NOTES: This dish comes from the region of Emilia-Romagna, and more specifically from  the city of Mantova, often called "Mantua" in English. For this reason, they are also sometimes called tortelli mantovani. But similar versions are made in the near-by towns of Parma, Reggio-Emilia, Piacenza and Cremona. In Ferrara they also make this stuffing but without the amaretti cookies. Speaking of which, it can be hard to find amaretti, which are a kind of almond macaroon—not the ubiquitous almond biscotti. If you can't find amaretti, then substitute an equal amount by weight of unflavored breadcrumbs, with a few drops of almond extract if you like.

And then there is the mostarda. Don't let the name fool you: it is not mustard at all, but a chutney-like relish typical of the cuisine of Emilia-Romagna. It is perhaps best known as an accompaniment to bollito misto, but it makes its appearance here as a flavoring. Mostarda has a unique flavor, both sweet and spicy. It is basically fruits that are candied in sugar syrup spiced with (hence the name) mustard seeds. There are various types of mostarda made in the region, but the most famous, by far, is mostarda di Cremona. If you're feeling ambitious, you can actually make it at home. (Here's the recipe.) You can also buy it in many of the finer Italian specialty shops—if they don't have it, give them a proper scolding for having neglected one of the most typical products in Italian cookery. Or you can buy it online. Mostarda di cremona contains a variety of fruits—pears, quinces, cherries, apricots, peaches, figs, but for this dish you really want another mostarda—the one from Mantova, which is made with pears or apples only. So if not making your own mostarda, just pick out the pears from the jar and use them.

Now if you can't find mostarda and don't feel up to making it yourself, you can omit it, as  you will find in most recipes for 'pumpkin ravioli'. But I would urge you to try to find it—it lends a very special, unusual taste to the dish.

You can also dress your tortelli di zucca, if you like, with a more elaborate sauce. Personally I don't think that the pumpkin stuffing goes particularly well with tomato-based sauces, but some wild mushrooms sautéed in butter with pancetta, for example, would be delightful.

The term 'tortelli' is one of the most confusing in the lexicon of pasta shapes. It can be another word for ravioli, but can also be rounded, or rounded and twisted as for a larger version of tortellini. And you will sometimes find tortelli di zucca in these shapes as well. And in Ferrara, they make cappellacci di zucca, made with a very similar stuffing (without the amaretti, as mentioned above). The pasta is cut into squares but then the two corners are joined to form a little 'hat' (hence the name, which comes from cappello, Italian for hat, since the shape was said to resemble the straw hats that local peasants used to wear.

The pie pumpkins, by the way, worked very well for this dish. True, they did not have the intensity of zucca, but their texture was perfect and, with all the added flavorings, the stuffing was perfectly delicious.  And if you have some leftover stuffing but don't feel like making another batch of pasta, you can use the stuffing to make a fine version of risotto alla zucca. 

By the way, don't throw away those pumpkin seeds! They are wonderful roasted in a slow oven with just a few drops of oil or melted butter until lightly brown (about 30-45 minutes) and seasoned with some sea salt. Or, for something a bit fancier, try out these two wonderful recipes by my fellow foodie, "Cookin' Canuck".

Catfish «en meurette»

The term «en meurette» refers to a dish that has been braised in a particularly delicious red wine sauce from the Burgundy region of France. Probably the best known of these dishes is oeufs en meurette, made from poached eggs. But even tastier, in my opinion, is fish made this way. The firm-fleshed monkfish (lotte in French) lends itself to braising and is wonderful en meurette. Carp and other firm-fleshed river fish are typical, so in the US a natural choice would be the humble catfish. It may be suprising to pair catfish with a 'classy' French sauce but I assure you, gentle reader, that the pairing results in some fine eating.

Begin by pouring a bottle of red wine into a saucepan and adding a sliced carrot, a sliced onion, a crushed garlic clove, a chopped shallot and some fresh herbs—some parsley, a spring of thyme and a bay leaf—then season with a pinch of salt and some whole peppercorns. Simmer briskly until the wine is reduced by half. Strain the reduction through a sieve into another saucepan, then thin out the sauce with some good stock. Bring back to a simmer and then thicken the sauce with some beurre manié, about two tablespoons of flour and butter rubbed together to make a paste. You can add some more if you feel the sauce is too thin, but remember that the sauce will reduce further during the next step and you only want to give the sauce to be nice and silky, not at all stodgy.

While your wine is reducing, make the garnish for the fish by sautéing in butter or oil a goodly chunk of slab bacon or pancetta, cut into lardons, until well browned but not crisp. Set aside and, in the same skillet, sauté some button mushrooms that you have cut into quarters until they, too, are nicely softened and browned.

Now assemble your dish: butter a braiser just large enough to hold all the ingredients and lay out your catfish fillets—one large fillet is enough for two people—cut into serving pieces. Then arrange the mushrooms and lardons on top and around the fish pieces. Pour over your red wine sauce, enough to just cover them. Then bring the dish to a simmer and let it cook gently until the fish is done, about 10-15 minutes depending on the size of the pieces (and the fish—monkfish should braise for much longer). If you like, just before serving you can sprinkle the fish with some chopped parsley or, even better, a persillade—parsley and garlic finely chopped together.

NOTES: As usual, I've been vague about the measurements, and they really don't matter all that much. You can really use as much or as little garnish as you like—many recipes omit the garnish altogether, but I find that it makes the dish more interesting and tasty. The same goes for the sauce itself, but most recipes for 4-6 people will, as indicated above, call for an entire bottle of red wine.

The choice of wine will, of course, strongly influence the character of the dish. This being a dish from Burgundy, the logical choice would be a red from that region, but last night I used a Spanish tempranillo with lovely results. Some recipes (including those given in the Larousse Gastronomique) also call for adding a splash of Burgundy marc.

Not all recipes have you make the wine reduction separately as indicated in this recipe—you can also add the wine and aromatics to the main ingredient and let it reduce as they simmer together, thickening the dish at the very end. With this method, the aromatics are left in the dish. But I find that making the sauce separately gives you more control over the result and, since I like to use a bacon and mushroom garnish, I like to take out the aromatics after they've given up their flavor into the dish.

As mentioned at the start, you can use the same red wine sauce to nap poached eggs or, for a more rustic effect, poach eggs directly in the sauce. Other ingredients can be made en meurette, including mild meats like calf's brains, chicken, rabbit or veal, in which case you usually lightly brown the meat before simmering it with the sauce and any garnish you might like.

Dishes en meurette are often served with fried croutons. I find that they also go well with steamed baby potatoes or buttered noodles.

Cappelle di funghi alla griglia

Grilling need not come to an end just because the summer is over, especially if the weather is still fine, as it is this weekend where we live. Beautiful cloudless skies and mild temperatures are perfect for grilling—even better, if you ask me, than the sultry days of August and early September. And many seasonable vegetables are wonderful grilled, none more so than mushrooms. Grilled mushroom caps are a special early autumn treat. Their meaty texture and smoky flavor resembles nothing so much as a nice, juicy steak. And they're just as simple to make.

Just make a quick marinade from abundant olive oil seasoned with a finely minced garlic clove, finely chopped parsley, salt, pepper and a pinch of oregano or—if you have some—that special herb called nepitella which goes perfectly with mushrooms. Take some large mushroom caps and brush them generously with the seasoned oil, top and bottom. Then grill them over a hot fire, about 3 minutes per side, and serve on a bed of greens or—for that special Fall feeling—some radicchio leaves dressed with oil, salt and pepper. Drizzle some olive oil over the top, season generously with salt and pepper and sprinkle them with some finely chopped parsley. Ecco fatto!

NOTES: The finest mushrooms for grilling, and the most typical in Italy, are fresh porcini. But if you can't find them or just don't want to pay through the nose, then other firm-fleshed mushrooms like portobellos will do. Large whole caps really do make for great eating, but smaller mushrooms also grill up fine—just reduce the grilling time according to size. Some people like to slice the mushrooms before grilling, in which case make sure you use a fine grate or grilling basket so they don't fall on to the coals.

Mushrooms absorb a lot of condiment, so do be generous with the marinade and make sure to dress them well before serving. In fact, I like to have some extra olive oil, salt and pepper on the table so your dinner companions can add more seasoning to the mushrooms if they want.

Radicchio really marries well with mushrooms, but you can also serve your grilled mushrooms, like a fine tagliata di manzo, with arugula, or just on their own. They make for a nice antipasto or a vegetarian (vegan, if fact) second course. They can also serve as a topping for an actual steak if you feel like meat.

Coniglio alla ligure

Rabbit is another one of those foods that many people seem to feel squeamish about. Perhaps because the live animal is so cute and furry, the thought of eating them strikes people, particularly North Americans, as strange or even disgusting. That's too bad, because rabbit is actually one of the most delicious of meats, much like chicken but a bit firmer fleshed and more flavorful than most chicken you will find these days.

Rabbit can be used to make just about any chicken dish (and vice versa) but there are any number of recipes specifically for rabbit (and its wild cousin the hare) in Italian cookery. We have already featured coniglio alla cacciatora, or hunter's rabbit, the original Tuscan dish that morphed into 'Chicken Cacciatore' when it crossed the Atlantic, and here is an equally tasty spezzatino from Liguria, the region of Italy that encompasses the 'Italian Riviera':

Make a soffritto of onion and a bit of garlic, gently sautéed in olive oil. Add your rabbit, cut it up into serving pieces. (See this post for instructions.) Allow the rabbit pieces to brown lightly in the soffritto and absorb the flavors of the onion and garlic. Season well with salt and pepper. Then pour in a good splash of red wine, and turn the pieces around so they are all covered well. Add a bay leaf, a sprig of fresh rosemary and a sprig of fresh marjoram (or thyme) and cover the dish, turning down and regulating the heat so that the dish simmers gently. Allow the rabbit to braise in the wine for 45 minutes to an hour, turning from time to time and adding some water or broth as needed to keep things moist but not soupy, making sure that there is enough liquid at the end to make a nice sauce. About halfway through, add a handful of black olives and another handful of pinoli nuts. Serve immediately, napping the rabbit pieces with the exquisite sauce. I find that this dish goes particularly well with steamed or mashed potatoes.

NOTES: You may surprised at the rather long simmering process. The rabbit will often be 'done' in as little as 20-30 minutes, but if you cook it longer, you will find that the meat will be much tastier, having fully absorbed the flavorings, and more tender. The typical olives are small, blacks ones called olive taggiasche in Italian, grown along the Ligurian Riviera and used to make the fine, light Ligurian olive oil. They are very similar to the niçoise olives, which can used as a substitute, as can any similar black olive like the Gaeta variety. The wine should ideally also be Ligurian but any medium to light bodied red will do fine. If your rabbit comes with liver and kidneys, as they often do, you can cut them up and add them about halfway through the cooking process, along with the olives and pinoli nuts. Some recipes add celery to the soffritto.

And if you cannot bring yourself to eat rabbit, a cut-up whole chicken can be prepared in just the same way and is almost as delicious.

 The dish is also called coniglio alla sanremese, after San Remo, of course, site of the famous music festival, on the coast very close to the French border. Started in 1951, it is still an annual ritual that is almost mandatory TV viewing in Italy. Perhaps the closest thing in the US would be the Superbowl, except it appeals equally to both women and men. The festival launched the careers of several famous Italian singers, including Andrea Bocelli, Laura Pausini and Eros Ramazzoti, but it is meant as a composition for composers, not singers, and features original songs. The festival has attracted the participation of some well known non-Italian singers, including Stevie Wonder, José Feliciano, Roberto Carlos, Dionne Warwick, Petula Clark and Connie Francis.

Funghi trifolati

This is one of the easiest and most versatile vegetable dishes in the Italian repertoire: funghi trifolati, or 'truffled' mushooms, so called because the thinly sliced and sautéed mushrooms are said to resemble that other, more highly prized tuber. I use two methods to make funghi trifolati, and both are equally easy:

Using the traditional recipe (pictured above), you thinly slice your mushrooms, then sauté them over a lively flame in olive oil and a clove of garlic. (If you want a little heat, you can add a peperoncino or some red pepper flakes.) Sprinkle the mushroom slices with a pinch of salt right away—this will cause the mushroom to exude its juices. In just a few minutes, the juices will evaporate and you will begin to hear the mushrooms start to sizzle and lightly brown. Once that happens, add some finely chopped parsley and, if you like, freshly ground pepper, and serve. 

I also like to use a more 'refined' variation: you sauté the mushroom slices in a mixture of olive oil and butter (omitting the garlic) and when you get to the sizzling stage, add finely chopped shallot and parsley. Sauté a minute or two further to cook the shallot and serve. 

NOTES: In Italy, the typical mushroom for this dish would be porcini. But I find these methods work with every kind of mushroom I've tried. Even the rather wan 'button' mushrooms seems to develop some lovely flavor when made this way. If using garlic, you can add it slightly crushed, chopped or still in its jacket, depending on the result you are looking for: chopping will give you the most assertive garlic flavor (but be careful to avoid burning the garlic); leaving the jacket, of course, produces the most subtle effect (just remember to remove the garlic before serving); personally, I like the 'middle way' of using a peeled and slightly crushed garlic clove (which, by the way, I don't remove unless company is coming).

Some recipes call for covering the pan and braising the mushrooms in some liquid (eg, white wine) for 15 minutes or more after an initial sauté over gentle rather than lively heat, but I prefer the methods mentioned here. The mushrooms are perfectly tender after an initial sauté over high heat, and indeed tend to become mushy if you let them cook too long. 

Funghi trifolati, in either version, makes for a great Fall or Winter contorno with just about any meat dish. It can also be added to stews, fricasées and sautés. (It's particularly nice with sautéed chicken.) 

 

With a little additional oil or butter, funghi trifolati make a wonderful sauce for pasta or gnocchi or even polenta, just by itself (see this post on strozzapreti ai funghi and the photo of linguine ai funghi above) or in combination with tomatoes (see this post on penne ai funghi) or, particularly in the 'refined' version, with the addition of broth and/or cream that you then reduce down to a nice saucy consistency (see this post on gnocchi ai funghi). The latter mushroom cream sauce is wonderful with meat also, as in this post on gratinéed ox tongue. 

It's really up to you—this dish is a starting point for all sorts of creativity in the kitchen.

Zuppa di orzo

Italian cuisine is known for pasta and risotto and polenta and, to a lesser extent, for farro. But did you know that Italians also enjoy barley? Here is a simple, basic barley soup that is both healthy, appetizing and, if made in a pressure cooker, can be prepared in under 30 minutes.

Begin by sautéing a soffritto of onion, carrot, celery and, if you like, a little pancetta in olive oil, taking care not to let them brown. When the vegetables have softened, add your barley (50g /2 oz. per person is a good portion as a first course). Allow the barley to insaporire as you would for a risotto, then add water or broth to cover generously, at least 1 liter (4 cups) of liquid per 100g (4 oz.) of barley. (NB: Barley absorbs a lot of liquid as it cooks.) Simmer covered for 45 minutes or until tender, stirring from time to time and adding water or broth as needed. The result should be a very thick soup, almost a porridge, but not entirely dry. Serve immediately, topped with un filo d'olio. Have some grated cheese on the side for those who like it.

If using a pressure cooker, bring up to pressure, lower the heat to a minimum and cook for 15 minutes, then release the pressure. When you open the cooker, check for liquid: if it has been entirely absorbed, add more water or broth and let simmer for a few minutes more. If there is too much liquid (less likely, given barley's aborptive qualities) then just let is simmer until you have reached the proper consistency.

NOTES: This is the very basic 'mother' recipe for barley soup. There are lots of variations you can try, including the use of fresh herbs of your choice in the soffritto—parsley, rosemary and sage are particularly nice. Some recipes call for the addition of other vegetables, perhaps most commonly potato or pumpkin but also with leafy winter vegetables like kale or cabbage. Beans of all kinds—cannellini, borlotti, ceci, lentils, even peas—are also a very common addition, and turn this primo into a perfectly rounded piatto unico.

Beef broth, of course, is probably the best choice for making this soup, but it is perfectly lovely with vegetable broth or even just water. Chicken broth, on the other hand, while a possible choice, in my opinion does not really pair very well with barley. Some recipes call for soaking barley for a few hours before cooking to soften it. I find this step entirely unnecessary, at least with the barley that is sold commercially here in the US.

For this particular soup, instead of pancetta, I used a ham bone that I had left over (believe it or not!) from Christmas dinner. It gave a wonderful porky flavor to the soup. If using a ham bone, fish it out of the soup before serving and scrape off any meat. But the meat up into small pieces and add it to the soup.

Besides this stick-to-the-ribs winter soup, orzo also appears on Italian tables in the warmer months as a salad. It's quite a versatile grains!

Orzo, by the way, is also the name of a popular soup pasta, so be careful if Googling for recipes.

 

Coniglio alla cacciatora

Rabbit is a wonderful meat, leaner but yet tastier than most chicken you'll find in these days of industrial agriculture. Many people (at least in the US) have an aversion to eating rabbit, but it is quite popular in Italy, Spain, France and elsewhere in Europe. And why not? Those furry creatures make great eating. 

One of my favorite ways of making rabbit is alla cacciatora, or 'hunter's style'. The term, one of the most widely used in Italian cuisine (and is often associated with Tuscany) encompasses many variations. The original meaning referred to a way of making game, of course. Dishes made alla cacciatora are generally some sort of spezzatino, which is to say, unboned meat cut into smallish pieces that are subjected to dry heat and then moist heat cooking. Vinegar is often used either as part of a marinade or as a braising liquid, as its acidity helps to 'cut' the strong flavor of the game meat. These days, dishes alla cacciatora are, more often than not, made in rosso—with tomato, either puréed or in concentrate, but tomato being a relatively recent addition to Italian cuisine (a fact that astonishes many) the original recipe, lost in the mists of time, surely did not include it. This version does not include vinegar but the smoother taste of red wine, and it contains just a little bit of tomato concentrate. 

You start by cutting up your rabbit. It is done very much like you cut up a chicken, as the bone structure of a rabbit is quite similar. Like a chicken, you start by separating thighs and legs (two sets rather than one) from the carcass. But you will quickly notice a few differences. First of all, rabbit bones, though quite thin, are much harder than chicken bones, so you'll need to strong knife or cleaver to cut through them. And the body of the rabbit is quite a bit longer; it has a mid-section called the 'saddle' rather than a breast, running along its backbone than needs to be cut into sections. For a detailed description of how to cut up a rabbit, see this useful article.

Begin cooking by sautéing a soffritto of finely chopped garlic, rosemary and sage in olive oil, over gentle heat in a large sauté or braising pan or casserole, preferably of terracotta or enameled cast iron. When the soffritto is just lightly golden, raise the heat to medium high, add the rabbit pieces and turn them so that they are even coated with the aromatics. Sauté the rabbit until it, too, is lightly golden on all sides. Then season with salt, black pepper and red pepper flakes. Pour over some red wine and allow the wine to evaporate completely.

Add about 2 tablespoons of best-quality tomato paste in about a cup of water, along with a bay leaf, to the pan. Mix well, lower the heat again to a very gentle simmer, cover the pan and let the rabbit braise for about 20-30 minutes. Add a bit more water if the pot dried out. When the dish is done, the rabbit should be quite tender and the sauce, being quite reduced, should coat the rabbit pieces. Serve hot. 

NOTES: Like most spezzatini, this dish can be made ahead and, in fact, tastes even better when it is. 

As mentioned above, there are many different methods that go by the name alla cacciatora. Perhaps the most common involves chicken and begins with a classic soffritto italiano—made of onion, carrot and celery like a French mirepoix—rather than garlic and herbs and then simmered in tomato sauce. (Here's a typical version demonstrated in a video. Pancetta is sometimes added to the soffritto for extra depth of flavor, a good idea with today's bland chickens. It can be excellent eating if you don't drown the dish in tomato, as if all too often the case. Artusi's version calls for a soffritto of onion only, sautéed in lard and simmered in red wine and just a half cup of tomato. There is a wonderful baby lamb dish made with a paste made out of garlic, rosemary and anchovies diluted with a bit of vinegar. 

Rabbit is a great meat. Besides making it alla cacciatora, it is also lovely simply roasted or grilled with garlic and herbs, boned and stuffed, as part of a bollito misto, or in any number of spezzatini. In fact, just about any chicken recipe can be used for rabbit. Rabbit can be hard to find, but if you have access to an Italian butcher, ask for it. I have also seen rabbit in some Asian supermarkets here in the States.

This recipe is an adaption of the recipe for pollo alla cacciatora in The Fine Art of Italian Cooking by G. Bugialli.

Pere al vino rosso

Dessert is our house is normally a piece of fruit, perhaps with some cheese, and, in winter, some mixed nuts in their shells. This is why you will not find very many desserts featured on this blog. But there is at least one prepared dessert that makes its way on to our table in the colder months: pere al vino rosso, or pears poached in mulled red wine. The dish is extremely easy to make, but the result is rather beautiful—and elegant enough for an 'important' dinner.

You peel your pears—one per serving—leaving on the stem if the pear has one. Then place them snugly in a saucepan with just enough room to hold the pears in a single layer. Pour on about half a bottle of red wine (or more, depending on the size of the pan and how many pears you have). Ideally, the wine should cover the pears, but if not, you always turn the pears as they cook. Then add sugar—quite a bit of sugar, as you want to create a syrup: about 100g (one cup) or more for 4 pears. Add, too, a stick of cinnamon and some cloves, and if you like, some lemon or orange zest.

Allow the pears to simmer for about 20 minutes, turning them if need be so that they cook and color evenly, until they are quite tender but not falling apart. (You can use a paring knife to check if they are done.) Remove the pears onto a shallow serving bowl or plate, and continue to simmer the wine until has reduced into a syrupy consistency, then strain and pour over the pears. Allow the pears and their sauce to cool before serving.

NOTES: This is a great solution for pears that may not be particularly flavorful by themselves. Use pears that are just ripe or slightly underripe. Very ripe pears will turn to mush. The choice of wine is yours, but personally I enjoy a full-bodied wine for this purpose. Of course, I would not break out your most expensive vintage. In fact, this is a good way to use some already opened bottle that is no longer quite fit to drink.

Some people like to accompany these pears with a bit of whipped cream or some dried fruits, but personally I think that they are perfect served alone, just as they are.

Mezzelune al brasato

Here's a wonderful way to 'recycle' leftover brasato or other pot roast—as a filling for stuffed pasta:

Prepare the filling by finely chopping the leftover roast in a food processor together with an egg or two, lots of grated parmesan cheese and, if you like, a few spoonfuls of the leftover sugo (gravy) from the roast. Season, if need be, with salt and pepper to taste. (A bit of nutmeg is also nice.) Make sure the mixture is quite smooth and not too dry. If it is a bit too stiff, add another egg.

Meanwhile, you can make fresh pasta dough and cut it into rounds about 5 cm (3 in) in diameter—or do what I did tonight, and use some 'Hong Kong style dumpling wrappers', ready-made round disks of 'pasta' (see  Notes below). Brush them lightly with some water to help them stick together and then place a heaping teaspoon of the filling in the center of each disk, (see photo above).

Fold the pasta disk over and then seal the round edge by pressing down firmly with your fingers, starting at the center and working your way to each end with both hands. (This helps avoid the filling oozing out.)  (See photo at left.) Proceed until you have used up your ingredients.

You can cook your mezzelune right away, or let them dry a bit before using. If, however, they are to wait for more than a half hour or so, cover them with a towel to prevent them from drying out too much.

Bring abundant well salted water to a soft boil, then add your mezzelune (being careful not to mangle them!) to the boiling water. Adjust the heat so that they boil gently. Do not allow the water to come to rolling boil or they may break apart. Cook for only 2-4 minutes, depending on how long they have been waiting around.

When the mezzelune are done, scoop them out of the water with a large slotted spoon. You can dress them in a number of ways. Here are three possibilities:

Al burro e salvia: Perhaps the most common (and, to my mind, the best) way is to melt a good amount of butter (say 50g/2 oz per serving) in a skillet with some sage, allowing the sage to 'simmer' in the butter but not allowing the butter to color at all. Then add your mezzelune to the skillet, along with a bit of the pasta water and a bit of grated parmesan cheese. Toss together over medium heat very quickly and serve with additional parmesan on top.

Al sugo d'arrosto: If you have any gravy left over from the brasato, you can re-heat a bit of it in a skillet and toss the mezzelune in it. Serve with some grated parmesan on the side for those who want some.

Al sugo di pomodoro: You can also dress the mezzelune with a very simple sugo di pomodoro, known in the English-speaking world as a 'marinara sauce'.

These mezzelune are also very nice served in brodo, in homemade broth.

 Mezzeluna al sugo d'arrosto

NOTES: Those round Hong Kong style dumpling wrappers were quite a discovery! I found them at H Mart, a Korean-owned Asian supermarket with branches all over the US and South Korea. (Besides these useful wrappers, they have excellent meats, fish and produce at very reasonable prices.) Another well known 'short cut' for making stuffed pasta is to use wonton wrappers, but I generally find these to be just a bit too fine for Italian pasta dishes; they tend to get overwhelmed by the stuffing and/or sauce (though I have used eggroll wrappers to make cannelloni with very satisfactory results). These dumpling wrappers, on the other hand, while still a bit too 'translucent' when cooked, are a nice golden yellow and a bit thicker, and have a rather firmer texture—in short, they look and react to cooking much more like real fresh egg pasta. (The looks are, however, partially deceiving: their yellow color actually comes from using Yellow Dyes #3 and 5...)

In Piemonte, where this dish originates, the usual pasta to be stuffed with this brasato filling is actually agnolotti (aka ravioli) a kind of square pasta. But since I had round pasta on hand, I used made them into another common stuffed pasta shape, the mezzaluna, or 'half moon', made by folding the pasta disk in half as described above. You can also make round ravioli by placing one disk on top of another—with the filling in between them, of course.

Crema di zucca

Who doesn't love winter squash soup? It is savory yet sweet, warming yet light. It makes a wonderful first course, to be followed by a roast, or a light supper after too many hearty holiday meals...

My version of this soup is extremely easy. You take the winter squash of your choice, cut  into wedges and seeded, and roast the wedges on a baking sheet in a hot oven for about 30-45 minutes, until perfectly tender. (You can check them the same way you check potatoes: by sticking a paring knife into the flesh; if you can remove the knife and the squash stays put, then it is done.) Don't worry if the edges are a bit browned—that adds flavor and character. Remove from the oven and allow to cool off a bit.

Meanwhile, in a saucepan, make a soffritto by sautéing a finely chopped onion in butter (or butter and a bit of oil) until translucent and quite tender. (Adding a pinch or salt and a spoonful of water helps things along and prevents browning.) Scoop out the squash flesh with a spoon and add to the soffritto. Allow the squash to simmer gently for several minutes to absorb the flavors of the butter and onions, stirring often. The squash should become even softer and basically 'melt' in the pan into a kind of mush. Then add broth to cover and simmer for about 10 minutes or so.

Pass the squash and broth through a food mill, using the finest mesh disk, into a mixing bowl. Leave behind any fibers and bits of skin. You should have a perfectly smooth and even purée. Add that back into the saucepan and bring to a gentle simmer. Add heavy cream (or milk if you're counting calories or cholesterol), enough to thin out the purée into a beautiful, velvety consistency. Simmer for a minute or two more, so that the cream 'melds' with the squash purée, and serve.

You can top your crema with croutons, some finely chopped herbs, grated parmesan cheese and/or a drizzle of olive oil.

NOTES: This method will work with just about any winter squash including, of course, butternut squash. For this dish, I used a winter squash I found at a local Asian market labeled as 'calabaza', which is Spanish for squash but obviously was some rather specific varietal that I had not come across before. It made for lovely eating, I must say.

While the initial roasting of the squash is not absolutely necessary, I find that it concentrates and accents the flavor of the squash. Winter squashes, as I have mentioned before, can be a bit bland and often need a little 'help'.

There are lots of variations you can try here, mostly involving various herbs and spices that one can add to the soup. One variation I especially like is to add a spoonful or so of curry powder to the soffritto. It lends savoriness and just the vaguest hint of spiciness to the dish. Some recipes call for a potato, which is surely meant to smooth out the texture, but I find this unnecessary. Instead of onion, you can substitute leek or shallot.

By the way, the word crema in Italian means a soup of pureed vegetable. It refers to the texture of the soup and not to the presence of cream. (The word for cream in Italian is panna.) In fact, many creme are made without any cream at all, just broth; this one can, too, and can be 'veganized' simply by using vegetable broth. But I find that cream just naturally goes with winter squashes—it adds to their sweetness and lightens their color and smooths out their texture—so I can never resist adding it.

Côtes d’agneau Champvallon

This dish brings me back to my Paris days, when I took a couple of years off from the law to teach English.  Hearty but easy on the pocketbook, it was just the ticket for a temporary bohemian. These days my pocket are a bit deeper, but I still enjoy it from time to time, when in the mood for something filling and savory. 

You fry some lamb chops (one per person) in olive oil in a skillet until golden brown on each side, and season well with salt and pepper. Remove the chops from the skillet and place in a gratin dish which you will have rubbed well with a garlic clove.

In the same skillet, sauté some finely chopped or thinly sliced onion until translucent, then add peeled and thinly sliced waxy potatoes (one or two per chop should do, depending on the size and your appetite). When the potato slices are just beginning to brown, add to the gratin dish and arrange the slices around and over the lamb chops.

Deglaze the skillet with a bit of white wine and pour over the lamb and potatoes. Add enough broth or water to come up, say, halfway up the potatoes. Nestle a sprig or two of fresh thyme and a couple of bay leaves among the lamb and potatoes. Bring the broth to a simmer on top of the stove (if your gratin dish is flameproof) and then place in a hot oven (200C, 400F) and bake for about 45 minutes or so, until the broth has nearly evaporated and the potatoes are tender and have nicely browned on top.

NOTES: For this dish, I like to use shoulder lamb chops, which are very economical and stand up well to the long cooking. For the potatoes, you want firm, waxy, yellow-fleshed ones like Yukon gold, not too large or too small. And for the broth, the light taste of chicken is best but a light beef broth would do as well.

The cooking times varies considerably among recipes. Some call for a much longer cooking period (an hour to an hour and a half) at a somewhat lower temperature (180C, 350F), most of which tell you to cover the dish with aluminum foil to avoid the broth evaporating too quickly and the potatoes from over-browning. For these recipes, I'd add a bit more broth as well. These recipes generally have you add the potatoes raw into the gratin dish, as the extra cooking time is more than sufficient to cook them without the initial browning.

But I like to save time, which you can accomplish by two 'tricks' mentioned in the above recipe: sautéing the potatoes before adding them to the gratin pan and bringing the broth in the gratin dish to a simmer on top of the stove before putting it in the oven. Just make sure you have a gratin dish that will not crack when exposed to heat in this way—like the ones made of enameled cast iron, stainless steel or copper.

The dish makes a lovely piatto unico. Last night we followed it with a green salad, a  delicious creamy cheese named Chaource and nice ripe pear. All washed down, of course, with a few glasses of red wine.

According to the Larousse Gastronomique, this classic dish dates from the reign of Louis XIV. It was supposedly invented by one of his mistresses, who supplanted the Maquise de Maintenon for a time in his affections by indulging the gluttony of the king. But why the name? Perhaps this dish was named after the archbishop of Paris during Louis XIV's time, François de Harlay de Champvallon? It seems like the most logical explanation but, if so, it is rather ironic, since the good prelate witnessed Louis' secret marriage to the marquise. Or did the mistress herself carry the name? Not impossible—it is said that the archbishop's life was filled with scandal. Champvallon is also the name of a town (pop. under 500) in the region of Bourgogne, but why this tiny town should have given its name to this way of making lamb chops, I have no idea. Perhaps some gentle reader could enlighten us...