Delices de France

I am freshly fluffed and feeling fine.

We made an excursion to the open market in Nice today.  The smells were exquisite: artisan cheeses, provencal sausages, crisp white wines, multitudinous flowers conjuring the famous perfumes of Grasse just up the hill….and Socca.

Socca is a simple staple of Southern French fare.  It is ubiquitous in all the open markets in this area.  And, I always get a wedge.  I assume this is because nothing about it is bad for the figure of a small dog.

I watched carefully today as an old man concocted the batter.  Pezzo di torta, as we like to say: piece of cake.

Following is my translation.  I estimate it would serve 4 humans…or 1 dog:

The man put 1 1/2 cup chick pea (garbanzo) flour in a medium-sized blue bowl.  He added 1/3 cup of a lovely pale green olive oil and 2 cups of water and then stirred the whole slurry with a whisk.  He bent down to let me see the mix: a soft, smooth, lump-free batter that smelled like a rich bean cake.

He then poured a tablespoon of olive oil in a large, round pan, about 13-14 inches wide, like something one would use for Paella (ah, that trip to Spain last summer!). The Socca was only about 1/2 thick, or so.

He popped the whole thing into a very hot oven (I estimate, by the tinges on my whiskers when he opened the door, that the temp was 500 degrees).  He let this bake for what seemed to be 20 or 25 minutes.  Anyway, when it was set in the middle and browned at the edges, he took it out, drizzled it with more olive oil (about a tablespoon, I think, and sprinkled coarse salt and fresh pepper on top.

It was then cut into wedges and each was served on a piece of parchment paper: warm, salty heaven. I guess you could add herbs, or spices to the batter.  There are probably endless possibilities.

Personally, I think it would be a great light summer meal, with a tossed green salad and a glass or two of Provencal Rose wine.  

Alas, no one asked me.

I eat it alone, treasure on the street… a la cobblestones.  Still, heaven.

Chow.

Mozzarella in May

There’s nothing like mozzarella cheese, especially when it comes in spring.  Fresh on the heels of calving, mozzarella in May is glorious. 

The Italian buffalo is a huge, red-eyed beast which lumbers across the grassy hillsides and wallows in the cool mud-streams along the valleys.  True mozzarella comes from Italy’s Campania region.  Naples is it’s center.  The mozzarella dairy, or caseificio, La Fenice, near Presenzano, is one of our favorite haunts for fresh cheese.

We drive about an hour south of Rome and in we walk.  The smell of buffalo hangs like overripe raw meat in the yard outsidebut inside the dairy is immaculate.  The centerpiece is a large, shallow vat with a hundred white balls of mozzarella bobbing like tennis balls in the milky water.  The finished product, room-temperature and gooey heaven.

A man in the back room is beginning a new batch.  I watch as buffalo milk is brought in and curdled.  The whey is separated and the curd is ground in a mill, then molded and placed in hot water, stirred and kneaded like bread until it is smooth and shiny.  Then, small pieces are pulled away and formed into balls and brined for a short time.  Mozzarella made in the morning is ready by dinner time.  Warm, soft, rich and fresh.

Sure, it’s good with tomatoes and basil and a drizzle of balsamic; tossed with pasta and tomato sauce; on any thin crust pizza.

But there is nothing like true, fresh, still-warm mozzarella, hand held by the one you love, melting on your tongue and into your memory as spring fades into summer.

Chow.

Easter Bunnies

I know why rabbits are a ubiquitous sign of spring; and it’s not just the Easter Bunny.  Rabbit traps are set in Chianti like clockwork come spring.  The man who runs our farm in the country stacks them high in the flat bed of his Ape, and off we go, down a white gravel road, deep into the wood to set them.

Two days later we return.  Only one trap holds a prize, but it is just enough for a proper Sunday dinner.

The local Italian rabbit is fat and tender and toothsome, especially when the farm cook , Grazia, prepares them.  This is the way:

Heat the oven to 350.  Whisk together one bottle of Chianti, 1/4 cup of red-wine vinegar, and 1 tablespoon of sugar.

Cut a 3 lb. rabbit into pieces…toss the fur to any small dog who might be nearby.  Season it (the rabbit, not the dog) with salt and pepper, then dredge each piece in flour.

In 1/4 cup of olive oil, fry the rabbit, turning once, until browned…about 6 delicious smelling minutes.

Transfer the rabbit  into a deep baking dish.  Add a hand-full of crushed garlic cloves (about 16-20) to the skillet until golden: another 3-4 delicious smelling minutes.  Pour the wine mixture into the skillet and scrape up the browned bits.  Pour the sauce over the rabbit in the baking dish.  Scatter the top with a handful of sage leaves(about 15) and 5 or 6 rosemary sprigs. 

Cover with foil and braise in the oven until tender…another 45 delicious smelling minutes.  Then, uncover and raise the over temperature to 450, basting rabbit until the sauce is thickened….yes, another 25 minutes of splendorous scent. 

A little salt and pepper; a bottle of Chianti Classico, crusty bread and green salad   Ecco, you have the perfect spring-time Sunday dinner.

Chow.

Lost in the Sauce

There is a difference between pasta served in Italy, and pasta served nearly anywhere else.  Outside Italy, most pasta swims in whatever version of classic salsa or sugo, pseudo-Italians pretend to pass off as originale.

But the key to authentic Italian food is simplicity.  Kitchen sink versions of pasta sauce fly nowhere in Italy.

Italians do not lose their pasta in the sauce.

Less is always more (unless you’re talking about amore).

Grazia was in the cucina again today.  Primavera in the kitchen: spring has sprung and heaven waits.

Penne with Rapini and Sausage, serves four humans, plus one small dog:

Trim, rinse and chop coarsely one bunch of rapini (bitter broccoli rabe), about 2+ cups.  Blanch in salted boiling water 2-3 minutes.  Drain and rinse under cold water to stop cooking.  Pat dry with paper towels.

Uncase the meat from 2 large Italian sausages.  Break up the sausage into 2 tablespoons olive oil and brown.  Drain.

Cook 1 pound penne in salted, boiling water, according to directions.  Meanwhile saute drained and dried rapini in 2 cloves thinly sliced garlic and 4 tablespoons olive oil until hot.  Add browned sausage.  Drain penne and toss with rapini and sausage.  Serve with grated Parmesan cheese.

Happy spring.

Chow.

Tomato Confit

The Count works part-time at something (I don’t know what) in Cairo.  He smells of dust and tombs every time he comes back.  And he always bring something home with him, every time.

This time is was a box of tomatoes.  TOMATOES?!

Each was individually wrapped like something very special…similar to the pears that come each Christmas.  Just looking at them, it was hard for a small dog to understand why one would haul a box of tomatoes all the way from Egypt.  Then the wrappers came off…

The smell of fully ripe pomodori filled the entire cucina.  Heaven.  Just like late summer all over again.  Visions of pushing my snout into overripe tomatoes laying idle in the garden rushed into my little brain.  It dawned on me: the closest place to find ripe tomatoes in winter: Cairo.

Grazia quickly made off to the counter with every on.  She washed them and cut them in quarters.  She took all the seeds out and the inner chambers were sliced away to appear in some later-on sauce.

She lay them all inside down on a cookie sheet, drizzled them with olive oil and salted them carefully, then pushed them in a slow oven for 3 hours. 

The result? Tomato Confit, to toss with penne nd garlic; to serve with a roasted chicken, to place atop a fine slice of bread with a little goat cheese; all are joyously delicious.  Perfect for a little taste of summer on a cold winter day.

Chow!

Ciao! Pomodori

The last tomatoes of a late summer are ripe.  Today, Grazia and I are off to the outdoor market to buy a boxful.

This afternoon we will make pureed tomatoes to enhance Sugo di Pomodori that sees us all through the winter.

It’s easy.  And there’s nothing like fresh (though frozen) tomato sauce to bring back the flavor of summer as one sits in the snow, mid-winter.  I highly recommend it, not only as a way to spend a glorious fall day, but sure relief to the short days of January when most people reach for canned tomatoes when they think of saucing pasta.

Wash the tomatoes (try to find the ripest ones you can…they may be blemished, split or even overripe, but let the dog eat the ones that are rotten or moldy…)

Cut them in 2-3 inch pieces, put them in a pot by themselves, cover it and turn the heat on to medium.  Cook them abut 10 minutes, or until they boil and a delicious steam rises out of the opened pot…

Push the tomatoes through a foodmill and cool the puree.  Discard the liquid.  Pour the remainder into ice cube trays and and freeze it.  Then place the cubes in ziplock bags and freeze.  Use as needed in any recipe that calls for canned tomatoes…and throw an occasional cold cube the way of your family dog.

Chow!

To Market

Grazia is in the kitchen again.  Today it’s hot and muggy and the flame on the stove is gone.  Today dinner will be cold.

 

She and I go to the morning market before the heat begins to rise.  Campo di Fiori is crowded with tourists and Romans, alike.  The vegetable stands overflow with summer produce.

 

Verdant basil, tiny ruby tomatoes, sweet onions, baby green beans: the meal will be simple and sumptuous, the aim of most Italian cuisine. A loaf of fine country bread and a large jar of olive oil soaked Mediterranean tuna.

 

Did I mention I love tomatoes?  I pull the sweet cherry variety off the bushy plants that sit in clay pots around our terrazzo…just the low fruit.  I’m allowed that without being chided.  But the tomatoes on the terrazzo are still green so, today, we buy Campo di Fiori fare. 

 

Here is what Grazia does with her market bounty:

 

Toss together the tomatoes, a handful of torn basil, thinly sliced onions and blanched, chilled green beans.  Add the drained tuna.  Toss again. 

 

While Grazia brushes slices of fresh bread with olive oil, grills them on one side, then rubs them with a clove of garlic, I search the floor below the tossing for bits of anything that might have escaped the bowl….

 

The salad is chilled until dinner time.  The toasts are put to one side in each bowl.

 

Balsamic vinegar and freshly grated parmesan is added over each serving at the last minute.  And the empty bowls are mine….

 

Chow.

 

 

 

 

 

 

Meatballs

Want inspiration?  Think of the meatball. 

 

Object of poems, songs and humor for years, just say the word and thoughts of Italy are invoked.

 Yet, meatballs were invented by Americans.

Who else would squeeze meat into the shape of an burly sphere and pair it with long strips of delicate pasta.  I am not against the occasional croquette, mind you, just the hapless pairing of foods.

Italy is nothing if not nuance.  Right down to it’s food.  Every pasta has a raison d’etre, so to speak.  And each is lovingly and carefully paired.Every one is shaped to receive and compliment the sauce: Thin spaghetti is best for any sauce made up of oil…the thicker the pasta, the richer the sauce it can take. 

Meat sauces should be reserved for heartier pastas like rigatoni or conchiglie, whose little shell shapes trap the sauce in bite-size morsels of heaven. 

Cream sauces do well with farfalle and fusilli, whose broader surface areas provide perfect the perfect canvas.

Grazia is in the kitchen now whipping up tonight’s dinner, Fettuccine Grazia…who could go wrong?

For the Contessa and the Count, with a little left for the dog dish…:

1/3 cup heavy cream, 1 tablespoon, salt (truffle salt if you’re feeling frisky), 1/2 lb Fettuccine (Italian made, of course), 1/3 cup freshly grated Parmesan cheese, a pinch of cayenne pepper, a pinch of nutmeg. 

In a deep pan, simmer 1/4 cup of the cream and butter together for just a minute until thickened a little.  Boil 3 quarts of water with a handful of salt.  Cook fettuccine until al dente, drain and add to the pan with the cream mixture.

Heat over low flame and toss to coat the pasta well.  Add the rest of the cream, the cheese, pepper and nutmeg and serve!

 My bowl first.

 

Chow.

The Daily Dog

First of all, there will be no daily entries.  I know this is The Daily Dog.  I am a the dog who named it so, purely as self-inspiration:  putting the pressure on, so to speak, in an effort to share my observations in a timely fashion.  But, I am still a dog. 

There are certain highly observable things we, as dogs, do daily.  None of them involve writing.

Translating pure thought to the keyboard takes time.  First, I have to be clear of mind in knowing what I want to say.  This is an inherent problem directly linked to the canine penchant toward distraction. 

A squirrel here, a squirrel there—you know the rest. 

Then, it takes a great expenditure of effort to turn thought to word to blog; a free computer; a few naps; a bit of exercise to patrol one’s territory, a couple of square meals and a treat. 

So bear with me…I’m always thinking.

Chow!