A Thousand Days in Venice (27 page)

Truth is, the dish is so simple I'm hard put to write a recipe for it. It can be made with any one or any combination of these members of the lily family: leeks, shallots, onions. You can bake the mixture in individual dishes and serve them, all crusty on top and creamy underneath, as an opener. But my favorite way to eat
porri gratinati
is to heave a great big spoonful straight from my old, oval gratin dish onto a warm plate and lay just-grilled beef or pork on top so the meat's juices seep into and flavor the gratin, each component exalting the other.

About 12 medium-to-large leeks (approximately 3 pounds), green parts trimmed off, white part split, thoroughly rinsed, and sliced thinly into rounds (or 2 pounds of onions or scallions—try a mixture of sweet onions such as Vidalia, Walla Walla, or Texas Sweet with some big, strongly flavored yellow Spanish varieties)
.

2 cups mascarpone

1 teaspoon just-grated nutmeg

1 teaspoon just-cracked pepper

1½ teaspoons fine sea salt

½ cup grappa or vodka

⅔ cup grated Parmesan cheese

1 tablespoon unsalted butter

Place the prepped leeks into a large mixing bowl; in a smaller bowl combine all the remaining ingredients except the Parmesan and the butter, and mix well. Scrape the mascarpone mixture into the bowl with the leeks and, using two forks, evenly coat the leeks with the mixture. Spoon the leeks into a buttered oval oven dish 12 to 14 inches long, spreading the mixture evenly, or into six individual buttered oval dishes. Scatter the Parmesan over all, and bake at 400 degrees for 30 minutes or until a deep golden crust forms; 10 minutes less for smaller gratins.

Yield:
6 Servings

Another dish from our first evening together in Saint Louis. With this one, Fernando needed no coaxing. In fact, when he had finished he asked if he might have
“un altra goccia di salsa
, another drop of sauce.” I set a little dish of it before him, and he proceeded to spread it on crusts of bread, eating the little tidbits between sips of red wine. I tried it that way, too, and ever since, we always make extra sauce, keeping it on hand for other uses. See suggestions below.

THE PASTA

Cook a pound of fresh tagliatelle, fettucine, or other “ribbon” pasta in abundant, sea-salted boiling water to the al dente stage, drain, and toss with 1½ cups of the following sauce. If fresh pasta is not available, substitute dried artisinal pasta.

THE SAUCE
(Makes about 2 cups)

18 ounces shelled walnuts, lightly roasted

½ teaspoon ground cinnamon

several gratings of nutmeg

sea salt and just-cracked pepper

¼ cup olive oil

¼ cup heavy cream

¼ cup late-harvest white wine such as Vin Santo or Moscato

In the work bowl of a food processor fitted with a steel blade, pulse the walnuts until they are the texture of very coarse meal (do not grind them too finely—more texture is better than less). Add the cinnamon, nutmeg, salt, and pepper, and pulse two or three more times to combine; with the machine running, pour a mixture of the olive oil, cream, and wine through the feed tube and process only until the paste is emulsified. Taste and correct the sauce for salt and spices.

Yield:
4 servings, as a main course

In piú:
As divine as this sauce is, tossed with just-cooked pasta, it presents other delicious opportunities: Keep some in the refrigerator and place a spoonful over just-roasted chicken or pork; spread it on grilled bread and pass it along with cold white wine for an appetizer; enrich simple vegetable soups with a dollop, or try it as a condiment for steamed asparagus.

A serendipitous sweet born from the leftovers of a batch of bread dough. I watched a baker up in the Friuli region throw this together as a breakfast cake for his family. The potato bread dough that serves as its base is also delicious baked without fruit. This is a forgiving
recipe, even for the cook who does not usually make bread or dessert. Equally wonderful made with other stone fruits (nectarines, peaches, apricots), this sweet has become Fernando's supper of choice when he's feeling out of sorts—not when he's actually sick with flu or a cold but more when he's had his fill of complicated dishes (or complicated issues!) and wants only nourishment and comfort. This was what he had for supper on the evening after he'd given his notice at the bank. We still use the same battered pan to bake it in, the one that's traveled with me from Saint Louis to Venice to Tuscany.

12 ounces potato bread dough, unrisen (see below)

8–10 plums, halved and stoned

1 cup dark brown sugar

3 tablespoons cold, unsalted butter, cut into bits

⅔ cup heavy cream mixed with ¼ cup grappa

Butter a round or square 9-inch cake pan and fit the dough into it; press the plum halves, cut side up, into the dough, sprinkle over the sugar and the butter; pour over the cream-and-grappa mixture and bake the cake at 400 degrees for 20–25 minutes or until the bread is browned, the plums are bursting with their own juices, and the cream and sugar have formed a golden crust.

Yield:
6 Servings

1 pound of unpeeled baking potatoes

1½ small cakes fresh yeast (or 3½ teaspoons active dry yeast)

2 pounds all-purpose flour (about 7 cups) plus a bit extra for the kneading surface

1 tablespoon fine sea salt

1 tablespoon extra-virgin olive oil

Boil the potatoes until tender, in sea-salted water. Drain, reserving 2 cups of the cooking water. Let water and potatoes cool down, then peel and thoroughly mash the potatoes.

Soften the yeast in a cup of lukewarm potato-cooking water for 20 minutes. In a large bowl, combine the flour, potatoes, and salt. Add the softened yeast and the remaining cup of potato water, stirring to form a dough.

Turn out the mass onto a lightly floured surface and knead to a soft, satiny, elastic texture—about 8 minutes. If the dough seems too wet, add more flour sparingly, no more than ⅓ cup. Place the dough in a clean, oiled bowl, cover with plastic wrap and a kitchen towel, and let rest and rise until doubled—about an hour. Cut the dough in half and use one piece to make
prugne addormentate
and bake the other as follows.

Gently punch down the dough, and shape a round, somewhat flat loaf. Cover with clean kitchen towels and let rise for an hour. Preheat the oven
to 400 degrees. Slide the loaf onto a parchment-lined baking sheet and bake 35–40 minutes or until the crust is very brown and the bottom rings hollow when tapped. Be careful to lower the temperature slightly if the loaf is browning too quickly. Cool the loaf on a rack.

Yield:
2 loaves of bread or enough dough for 2 cakes. You can freeze any portion of the already risen dough; but it must be defrosted thoroughly and allowed to rise again before proceeding with either recipe.

To make this simple dish all you have to do is to slip the blossoms into a silky, thin batter and then fry them in oil until they're golden. This method of preparing the tender, sweet blossoms of zucchini is the only one that respects their delicacy and the only civilized way to consume the little beauties. (Stuffing a squash blossom with ricotta or mozzarella or even an anchovy is akin to stuffing a truffle. Aside from the irreverence, the ornament couldn't possibly improve upon the blossom in its innocent state.)

This isn't a thing you'd cook for a crowd. First, because no one is ever satisfied with just a blossom or two; it's always half a dozen or more each person is hungry for, and he or she stands near the stove waiting for the next batch to brown and crisp, just like a puppy waiting for a treat. If the queue
is too long, it's no fun for the cook. And second, on any given morning, it's hard to find a farmer (at least in our market) with more than a couple dozen or so blossoms he's willing to sell. So although I have made the dish for as many as four or five people, more often I fry the flowers just for Fernando and me. These and a bottle of flinty white chilled down almost to ice make our preferred lunch on a hot July afternoon.

20 perfect zucchini blossoms

1½ cups all-purpose flour

beer

sea salt to taste

peanut oil

First, with a small pair of sharp scissors, snip each petal down to the stem to open the blossom more fully. If the stems are still attached, snip them off. Sprinkle the flowers with a little water and lay them to dry, stem side up, petals spread out like a sunflower. In a shallow, broad bowl, beat together the flour and beer to form a batter that's slightly thicker than heavy cream. Stir in a little sea salt. Cover the batter and let it rest while the oil heats. Use peanut oil—a minimum depth of three inches in a heavy skillet—because it can reach the highest temperatures without smoking. Heat the oil on medium flame, as heating it too quickly results in cool spots, which result in uneven frying. When all is ready, slide the blossoms, one at a time, into the waiting oil; cook only three or four at a time. As they turn deeply golden, remove them with tongs and let sit a moment on absorbent paper. You might grind a little sea salt over them, or even better, mist them lightly with sea-salted water. When thinking about the
wine, you'll want a simple white that can stand a deep chilling, for it's the icy idea of wine more than the wine itself that works so well with the just-fried, crunchy flowers.