Stuffed cabbage soup

 

 

Stuffed cabbage soup is what you make when you bought the ingredients to make stuffed cabbage only to realise you just don't have the time to go through the whole process (after you have been pushing it off for three days in a row) and your ground meat really needs using up. And guess what? It is just as good (or at least we thought so), very comforting, warming and full of flavor, and can be ready in under an hour, so I knew you would appreciate if I shared.

I used potatoes because I had some that were starting to sprout, but adding raw rice (about a cup for the amount below) would probably be more fitting, since stuffed cabbage is often filled with ground meat and rice. Up to you entirely, but make sure you add more liquid if you do this, as rice generally absorbs more than potatoes while cooking.

Also, I used pimenton de la Vera because that is what I had and I love the smoky flavor it adds, but using spicy Hungarian paprika - or any other sort - is more than ok since this soup is loosely based on Eastern European stuffed cabbage recipes.

The amounts below are just a suggestion, I usually eyeball them depending on how liquid or spicy or meaty I want the soup to be.
 

Tortino di polenta e ragù (baked polenta and ragù) or how to present leftovers in fancy disguise

Cooking can sometimes be deceptive.
 

You may spend hours in your kitchen making something (homemade cappelletti is one recipe that comes to mind) that gets eaten up in mere moments without much thought and then sometimes you make something of utmost simplicity that is received with grand applause.

 

In the kitchen, like in real life, sometimes looks count more than substance.

 

 

Like the slutty girl with the too-tight mini dress, the plastic boobs and lacking brilliant conversational skills that manages to turn every head in a one-mile radius, some dishes get all the attention without really deserving it.

 

Don't get me wrong, I'm not saying these girls recipes aren't good, because they are, but they don't involve all the attention and expertise others do.

 

If you have leftover polenta and ragù (or some stew, or come to think of it any other type of leftover, because this girl gets around polenta goes with pretty much anything), it will literally take five minutes to prepare and a half hour tops to bake.

 

So I present to you the tart (no pun intended) of leftovers: the tortino di polenta e ragù, 'tortino' literally translating into 'little tart' in English.
 

 

 



When making polenta you can go two ways*: the real way, which involves lengthy stirring or electric devices you would only consider buying if you owned a ski pad in the Italian Alps, or the use of instant polenta. There is not doubt that the real deal is better, in flavor and texture, as all things made from scratch. But the difference is subtle enough, especially when baking or frying the polenta afterwards, to justify (unlike instant mashed potatoes) using the quick-cooking variety.

Whichever way you decide to make your polenta, you will most likely have some leftovers because polenta just happens to be one of those dishes people tend to make in large quantities. Ragu being another: I usually make it in large batches and tuck some away in my freezer for emergencies.

If you don't have any ragù, a whole list of delicious leftovers you can use come to mind: all kinds of vegetables (broccoli rabe sauteed with olive oil, garlic and anchovies anyone? or mushrooms with parsley and garlic), bits and pieces of leftover cheeses, any sort of fish cooked in sauce (codfish works wonderfully), mozzarella and ham... the list just goes on and on.

 

Ingredients
ragù
polenta
butter
Parmesan cheese, grated
pepper
olive oil (optional)

Polenta

1.1 lbs/500gr polenta

9 cups/2 l water

1 tbsp olive oil

salt

 

To make the polenta (if starting from scratch) the old fashioned way, bring water to a boil, reduce heat and salt the water to taste. Add in a tablespoon of olive oil and then slowly pour in the polenta (to avoid lumps forming), stirring constantly with a wooden spoon or whisk until the polenta has thickened. This takes anywhere up to 45-60 minutes. If the polenta is getting too thick you can loosen it by adding some water as you go along. Mix in any ingredients (cheese, butter etc.) you intend to use and pour it out onto a smooth surface, like a cutting board, or into a bowl and let stand for a few minutes before serving. I usually keep mine a little runny because that is the way I prefer it and it makes it easier to work with leftovers.

If going instant, just read the instructions on the back of the package.

Pour the polenta (or spread leftovers with a spatula) into a greased baking pan. Spread over a layer of ragù or whatever else you are using. Sprinkle with some grated Parmesan cheese and keep layering until you have finished using up the leftovers. Sprinkle with a last dusting of grated Parmesan cheese, add a few flakes of butter and bake in a preheated oven (375°F/180°C) for about 30 minutes, until the top and sides turn golden and crusty and the filling is nicely heated.

Using a deep pastry ring (what they call a coppapasta in Italian), cut out circles from the pan and serve on small individual plates. Dust with Parmesan cheese, pepper and trickle of olive oil and serve.

 

 

*While writing this post I actually discovered there are other ways to make polenta from scratch that are much simpler. There is a 12-minute microwave version and another one involving a great amount of time (more than 3 hours) but very little stirring. Who knew? I intend to try them at some point and let you know.

Paccheri con ragù bianco di coniglio, or pasta with rabbit ragù

 

 

In my American genes it is not even Thanksgiving yet, but I seem to already be doing all things Christmas.

 

I spent last week end helping my kids make decorations to bring to school.

Which would be ok if:

a) the elementary school project didn't involve making three different decorations using the five senses as inspiration. Which makes it a bit more complicated than dumping a bunch of glitter glue, loose ends from last year's Christmas ribbons and some cardboard toilet paper rolls onto a table* and letting your kid "freely express her artistic inclinations" (although I will admit that the huge Christmas tree they decorate in the entrance with the kids' work gets me teary every year and I am proud of the school's amazing Parent Association that funds great projects with the money they make selling one of the three decorations each child makes); 

b) I didn't spend the whole time I am picking glue out of my pre-schooler's hair and wiping glitter off the floor (and chairs, and table and the rest of the house) thinking why the heck they don't make them do their artwork at school since they don't exactly spend their days reciting Homer and solving equations.

 

 

 

 

This week end I will be helping my mother in law make her famous tortellini for Christmas Eve. I cherish family traditions and have noticed that with the passing of time it is getting harder and harder for her to make the enormous quantities of food she has spoiled her family with for so many years. I want to be able to help her, take some of the weight off of her shoulders; and I want to hand this art down to my own children and their families. I know I will be getting a bag to stash away in my freezer for our Christmas celebration with my family this year. But what I and my children will really be getting out of it are precious memories of these Christmases together, memories they will carry with them for the rest of their lives. I know I cherish the moments I spent with my grandmothers, even more so now that they are no longer here with me. 

 

I have been translating Christmas recipes for a website, sorting through hundreds of pictures of the kids for our Christmas cards and scouring the Internet for gifts because I swore to myself last year that I am never getting stuck in that last-minute shopping frenzy again.

 

But the truth is all I want to do is slow down and enjoy some turkey and cranberry sauce and think about all the things I have to be thankful for, because there are many. The first being my friend who is organizing a belated Thanksgiving get-together next week end for all us nostalgic expats.

 

Another one being all those things that make life easier. Like a recipe that can go two ways, depending what you are in the mood for. 

 

(If you were hoping for something a little more soppy, go here (I am also thankful my photography has improved a tad!) and here, to Thanksgivings past).

 

 

 

 

This is the "sliding doors" of recipes: a small twist of fate and you can get two entirely different meals out of it. A primo or a secondo as they would say here, a first course or a main course. I posted about the latter a couple of years ago. This time I took it a step further. 

 

If you follow the recipe until the meat is perfectly braised (in the link, I finish braising it in the oven, but the stove top will do fine. Just use less liquid for cooking) you will end up with a comforting dish of fall-of-the-bone tender rabbit meat to serve with polenta, mashed potatoes, rice or whatever other vehicle you have in mind to mop up every last drop of the sauce. If you read all the way to the end of the recipe, because like us, you cannot get through the week (or day) without a big plate of pasta, you will enjoy a delicate and delicious ragù. 

 

 

*Now I know that my grandmother's weren't just thrifty because of the Great Depression and the WW2... before being grandmas they were mothers of pre-schoolers and schoolers, which literally means hoarding every piece of crap a functioning person would normally throw away, because at some point you are going to need it for a school project.  

 

Zuppa di pasta, ceci e cavolo nero or hearty chickpea stew with Tuscan kale and pasta

 

 

The recipe I am posting about today is my personal mishmash of two very traditional Italian recipes: pasta e ceci, a less-known version of the more internationally renowned pasta e fagioli, and minestra di ceci con cavolo nero, a soup that is often served with large, crusty slices of bread rubbed with garlic.

 

The chickpea, or garbanzo bean, is undeniably the star of the show here. This humble legume has been used by most cultures for millenia, the first discovered remains dating back to the Neolithic period. Thanks to the Greeks, the Etruscans and the Romans chickpeas became an integral part of Italian cooking. I admit I find it comforting to think of all the generations that prepared variations of this stew over the centuries. How many mothers and grandmothers served warm, filling bowls of chickpeas and black kale to their hardworking families, perhaps ladled over stale pieces of bread?

 

 

 

 

But back to our recipe.

 

The first, essential step in making both the abovementioned Italian classics is the same: you must remember to soak the chickpeas for at least 12 hours. If it weren't for that one little step, I would probably make this dish much more often that I actually do.  

 

After this, preparations vary. For pasta e ceci (or fagioli) you would normally prepare a soffritto (a mirepoix of carrots, celery and onion) and add some tomato in one form or another (paste, sauce, crushed). When making the soup, some opt for a soffritto, but in most versions the intent is to keep things very basic, letting the flavor of the legumes shine through. You just sautee the garlic (either whole or minced) in olive oil, add some finely chopped shallot or onion and a sprig of rosemary (if you are so inclined), tomatoes never making an appearance.

 

 

 

 

The pureed chickpeas and starch from the pasta guarantee an end result that is as comforting and creamy as any pasta and ceci should be. The wilted, dark and slightly bitter kale leaves however add some much-needed texture and contrast to a dish that is as delicious, soothing and - let's face it -boring as some of the best nursery suppers can be. A good glug of intensely green, fruity, peppery olive oil, lots of freshly ground black pepper and a hefty sprinkling of grated Parmesan cheese will further convince you (if you are still in the least bit doubtful) that this is food fit for grown ups.

 

 

 

Polpo con patate in umido (octopus and potato stew)



This is the story of Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde... went a famous song in the early Eighties.

 

That is my story these days, the story of my blond-haired, blue-eyed baby who not-so-occasionally morphs into a little monster with tentacles, a spinning head and flying spittle.

 

I get that Terrible Twos sounds much more catching than Terrible Fours, but for me it has always been about the fours. And from what I hear and see around, it is not just me. So to hell with the Terrible Twos, let's get serious and discuss the Frightful Fours.

My daughter had a pretty bad case of them, much worse than my son's, but she had the partial excuse of a baby brother invading her territory at the time.

He, on the other hand, may be a little easier to handle (and I have a feeling this is partly because he is a boy, a more simple gender to deal with in general) but he has no such excuse.

 

Lately the constant "No"s and whining and defiant attitude have been eroding my soul like a slow yet steady trickle of water. I know this phase will pass, I know he is taking his first steps in becoming independent, I know deep, deep down inside he is still my sweet little boy. But let me tell you, he can be a real pain in the a** on the outside these days.

Unfortunately, there is not much you can do except breathe in and breathe out (after you have tried everything from ignoring to reasoning to time outs - because everything just makes it worse) until it passes.

 

So when it takes me 20 minutes to get his shoes on at pre-school because this involves ten minutes of cajoling on my part and crying and screaming on his just to get to him to his locker (the last time it was about me daring to kiss him on his ear when he ran into my arms minutes before), five minutes of him flinging said shoes off every time I get them on his kicking feet and another five of him opening and closing the velcro straps repeatedly because I did it wrong and I am mean... I breathe in and I breathe out.

When he constantly and very publicly refuses to sit near me anywhere, whether on a bus, a plane or in a restaurant, because he wants Daddy and only Daddy - even when it is logistically impossible... I breathe in and I breathe out.

 

Pasta e fagioli

 

 

I spent a lot of my childhood locked in a closet, a trunk, or with a soap bar stuffed in my mouth.

She, on the other hand, always got into trouble, even when it was my fault, because she was older.

 

I spent years following her around and copying her every move.

She spent years figuring out how to get rid of me.

 

I kept her up at night, whispering and making her sing along to songs from musicals. Evita, specifically.

All she wanted to do was sleep.

 

When we were very young we, or rather she, used to play this game where she pretended she was dying and would say goodbye to all her dolls and stuffed animals one by one, in tears. I sat and watched and sobbed, impotent. Finally, she went to her favorite stuffed animal and kissed it goodbye and then gave it to me and said: "my beloved sister, please take care of xyz for me, make sure nothing ever happens to him/her, keep each other company and don't ever forget me". This game made me spiral into a state of desperation and I fell for it every time, even if we played it at least once a week.

 

We fought like there was no tomorrow, I drove her nuts and she could be pretty mean to me. But we were always together, whatever side of the Atlantic Ocean we were living on at the time, no matter what our family nucleus was at any given moment.  Our lives changed pretty often, but we were a certainty for each other, whether we liked it (I) or not (she).

 

 

 

 

 

That is what being sisters means: you are blood sisters and soul sisters, a bond that can never be broken.

 

So sure, we had our differences.

 

She was reserved and kept her feelings deeply buried inside.

I was a chatterbox and wore my feelings out in the open, for the world to see.

 

She was popular and loved to socialize.

I was goofy and painfully shy when it came to my peers.

 

She loved being out there, doing stuff, away from home.

I got really homesick and hated "doing stuff".

 

When we went our separate ways in the summer, I sometimes had to concentrate just to breathe without her. I spent the first part of my vacations away from her crying. One summer we were reunited in London after more than a month apart, me back from the States and she back from a great time at summer school. I was happy, I felt safe again. She hated it, because "seeing you means my summer is really over".

 

But despite our differences, we shared a lot.

 

Bizzare and embarassing memories, for example. Like soaking our wash cloths in hot water and then scrubbing our limbs until they were raw and red, because her seven year old self said it would get rid of germs; or almost falling into a canal on the way home from school when we had just moved to Venice and were experiencing our first acqua alta episode.

 

 

 

 

There was the time in New Delhi that we bought a really cool embroidery set at a street market and were so anxious to try it out, that we cut some fabric from the back of the luxuriously thick curtains of our hotel room while our mother was in the bathroom. She, by the way, just found out about that when we all reunited for my grandmother's memorial service right before Christmas. We had the whole family laughing hysterically with some of those anecdotes, and I'm telling you, it was so good to mix tears of laughter with the tears of grief.

 

 

 

 

And then there was the time we were in a hotel in Salzburg and had such a bad fight that we almost wrecked the hotel room (am I the only one noticing a recurring theme here?). Our mother had gone out to a ball and gave her two teenage daughters some money to get some food and watch a movie in their room. Next thing, the younger sibling was flying across the room and knocking down a lamp and some other decor in the trajectory.

 

 

 

 

If you ask our husbands, they both have stories of their first encounter with the "other sibling" that involves some kind of the physical evidence of fights prior to their arrival. Maybe, and I am neither confirming this piece of information nor denying it, something along the lines of being kicked in the stomach or an arm being twisted and bruised.

 

What can I say? We have had a passionate relationship and have pretty much gotten the fighting out of our systems. Now we laugh together like with nobody else. That initially loud, then totally mute kind laughter that encompasses your whole body and leaves you feeling tired and revived and rejuvinated, all at the same time, when it stops.

 

We are sisters and if I hadn't gotten her, I would've chosen her. She is the reason I wanted another girl, but now that I am blessed with a boy I hope every day that my kids will feel that way about each other when they grow up.

 

 

 

So here is to sisters, and to mine especially, who is about to land here any minute.

 

As the last weeks of cold weather envelop this part of the globe, here is a dish some of us won't be able to enjoy for much longer,  while others on the other side of the globe will just be getting into the mood for. Italian comfort food at its best.

Griessbrei (German semolina pudding) and recipe for pomegranate syrup



You are never ready when a loved one leaves you. Even though you know it is going to happen sooner rather than later because of age or health conditions, even though you think you are  prepared, you really never are.

This past week end my grandmother passed away. We called her Mutti, Mommy in German, because that is what she was for all of us, children, grandchildren and great-grandchildren alike, in one way or another.

Mutti, unlike my Nana, was a maternal, traditional grandmother.

 

...a heap of love...

 

We spent time with her every summer in Austria, where she lived when we were growing up. I remember watching her  darn socks by the kitchen window with a red and white sock mushroom, the flavor of her roast chicken with peas and freshly picked mushrooms and my sister's favorite, her Paprikaschoten, meat-stuffed peppers. I remember how she always soaked envelopes in water to peel off the stamps for my uncle's collection; how she came into our room in the morning, pulling the curtains and opening the windows, so the chilly morning mountain air and the chiming of the village church bells would abruptly wake us. I remember running errands with her: the smell of freshly cut wood curls at the wood carver's who made our Christmas crib; the pungent tang of fresh milk and cow dung at the barn where the farmer filled her milk can. I remember running my fingers along the smooth surface of the tailor's chalk while they chatted. We often walked to the neighboring town on small paths along cornfields and on a few occasions she pulled us into them to give us a scolding or a very rare spanking when we had really misbehaved.

 

Cowboy meatloaf

It has been raining a lot and the air has gotten chillier. It is the kind of weather that makes you think of cups of smokey Lapsang Souchong tea, wrapping up in a warm blanket on the couch to watch a movie and hearty comfort food. It isn't quite autumn yet and the weather is far from cold, but it is these first tiny whispers of fall and winter in the air that suddenly make you crave all those things you gladly tucked away last spring. So when I came across the Pioneer Woman's recipe for meatloaf, the one she cooks for her very own cowboys and cowgirls, I knew it was what I wanted.

Poor meatloaf. So scorned, so mistreated. It is not a beauty to photograph and it certainly is not refined fare, but it is filling, complete, tasty and comforting. It is cheap, it will feed a whole family and still make excellent leftovers to be eaten cold with a light salad or tucked away in a crusty sandwich smothered in dripping sauces and any other thing you care to add. And the other great thing about this recipe is that you will pretty much have all the ingredients you will need right in your kitchen. What more could you possibly want from a meal?