Every Day in Tuscany (31 page)

W
ILLIE QUICKLY REALIZED
that a lot of fun was going on in the kitchen. We gave him his own small but real whisk, wooden spoons, spatulas, a green apron with his name in orange, a set of measuring spoons, and a kitchen scale. Learning to crack and separate eggs resulted in several on the floor. I taught him, as Simca taught me, to break the egg into your palm and let the white run between your fingers.

He whirled the lazy Susan spice rack until the jars flew off. Ed beat whites until he could hold the copper bowl upside down over Willie’s head without them sliding out. A big time, as much for us as for Willie. What fun, weighing chocolate, cutting out parchment paper to fit the pan, setting the timer—such solid accomplishments with rewards to follow. I relearned the novelty of a sifter because he loves the soft mountain of flour snowing into the yellow bowl. True to his early training, he holds out the vanilla bean. “Smell this.” And the cinnamon and nutmeg. “Eddie, come here. Don’t these smell good?” He licks beaters. So do I.

After pancakes, waffles, brownies, cupcakes, and cookies, he learned to make focaccia with Ed. He reveled in kneading and punching down the dough, then pressing his thumb into the surface, dotting it with olives and sun-dried tomatoes. And then eating big squares for a snack, having it sliced for a prosciutto and tomato sandwich for lunch, or lining up thin slices around his plate to eat with soup. He and Ed moved on to pasta, which combined two passions, cooking and machinery. Willie loves the fittings for the hand-cranked pasta maker and the process of turning the handle, feeding out the strands or sheets, then using the ravioli rolling pin.

Often when he comes in the kitchen, he says, “Let’s cook something.” By now he’s chief carrot peeler, lettuce spinner, coffee grinder. Last year, at five, he insisted on making pesto alone. His latest feat is aioli. He can pour slowly and steadily the olive oil into the whirring dry mustard, lemon juice, roasted garlic, oil, and egg until it’s rich yellow-green and thick for his sandwiches.

W
HEN
I
WAS
growing up, we had a cook, Willie Bell. My mother, too, was an excellent cook. I never remember being invited to help. Watching Willie, I think how much I would have liked to be involved, as I think most children would. I do remember being told to stay
out
of the way. Big, military-scale maneuvers were under way. The bridge club was coming, my father had invited forty for lunch in the yard, or a party for a bride was imminent. I watched and, I suppose, learned by osmosis, because when I married at twenty-two, I seemed to already know how to at least get dinner on the table.

In Mother’s kitchen, my spot was on the counter by the fridge.
Don’t kick that cabinet door
. Willie Bell always seemed to be grinding meat with a gadget that screwed tight onto the counter lip. I thought to myself,
I never will touch raw meat
. She made sausage patties, and ground ham for a dish she made with pimientos and olives in a loaf pan.

My mother made frozen fruit salad and Chicken Divan and Black Bottom Pie for her luncheons. My father hunted quail and dove in the fall. An early memory (three?), clear as a photograph, is of him standing in the doorway holding open his brown hunting coat. All the tiny inside pockets were filled with dead birds with drooped heads. At the sink, Willie Bell already worked over a pile of doves, plucking them with a little plonking sound as she jerked at the feathers. Their smooth mauve bodies were thrown in a mound beside me. Later the cream-smothered doves and quail appeared at the table with cheese grits and Willie’s supreme biscuits—crunchy on the outside, soft within. I liked the peppery quail but never would eat dove because of the creepy color of their stripped bodies.

From our Georgia kitchen issued forth lemony pound cake, country captain chicken, corn soufflé, caramel cake, tarragon green beans, deviled crab, pecan pie, vegetable croquettes, guinea hen, Sally Lunn, country hams, grapefruit aspic, chocolate icebox cake, pan-roasted duck (beware of biting buckshot deep in the flesh), date pudding, brown sugar muffins, watermelon rind pickles, fried chicken, Brunswick stew, ladyfinger peas, peach pickles, butterbeans, squash casserole, fruit cobblers, ambrosia, cheese straws, lemon cheesecake, icebox cookies, date bars, jetties, roasted pecans, and peach ice cream. I sat on the churn and Willie Bell cranked the handle.

To my ears, this is a mesmerizing litany, a splendid inheritance. If there’s a fire at my house, I’ll run for the cabinet where I keep the notebook of my mother’s recipes. That scrawled, stained, sometimes baffling collection—no method is included, ever—is far more precious than the diamond she slipped off her finger and gave me when I went off to college. The red cover and some of the pages are burned around the edges from when I set it on the stove and lit the wrong burner. Somehow, this gives it a fragile feel: something snatched and treasured from the consuming fire of the past.

Growing up with such fresh, made-from-scratch food, how did I turn out to be a picky eater? What a brat I must have been. I used to grade the meal, announcing to my mother that she and Willie Bell got an A, B, or C. Why did they laugh instead of sending me to my room? I didn’t like breakfast and, if I was served an egg, I cajoled Willie Bell into eating the white as I sopped the runny yolk onto my toast. As the third girl, I usually was ignored at the table. No one ever said, “Try this,” or, “Clean that plate.” I hid my book in my lap and constantly looked down to read. Most of what I still won’t eat is, I notice, what’s missing from my mother’s recipes. We were inland people. No fish. Fried catfish was served locally but I didn’t like the name
catfish
, or the whiskery look that inspired it. Finny items on a menu still give me the most trouble. I can appreciate flounder and halibut, but they don’t tempt me. Having visited several hatcheries, I won’t eat any farm-raised fish. They swim in poop their whole lives. I’m saved in seafood restaurants by crab, shrimp (wild-caught only), sea bass, sole, and lobster. Although we lived in a rural area where the pig and cow thrived, I never met sweetbreads, veal cheeks, liver, or anything involving nether regions, inner organs, or feet. Willie Bell loved a good gizzard dinner. Needless to say, the word put me off. Later, as an aspiring cook taking Simca’s course in France, I was horrified to see her demonstrate how to amputate a chicken’s feet and cook them in a soup.

Willie sometimes balks, too. He won’t eat the crust of bread. He says he does not like broccoli, though he eats it. When he says, “I don’t like rice,” we answer, “What’s not to like, sir?” He tried clams, and I thought he fought back tears. When he comes to Italy, we establish a 15 New Tastes Prize and through the weeks he enthusiastically lists his new conquests—cheeses, truffle bruschetta, limoncello (a sip), red currants, farro, squid ink risotto, quince preserves,
salume
, pumpkin ravioli, and black figs. For his prize, he gets to pick out a new book. Our reward is his engagement at the table. He has joined the conversation that has been taking place on this hillside for centuries.

A
GLIO
A
RROSTO
Roasted Garlic

Albano is a master grower of garlic. After he pulls up the drying garlic bulbs, he’ll spend a morning braiding, and by noon he’ll present us with three or four white plaits that will last us through the summer and fall. These garlics don’t have the bitter taste that older garlic can get, mainly from the sprout in the center. You can remove the sprout by slicing the clove and lifting out the greeny sprout.

With some chopped nuts mixed in, roasted garlic is an easy
crostino
. Or, spread on bread and serve with any meat that has juices to dip into. And with bruschetta, pop it into your soup bowl.

Look for dense, good-sized heads of garlic.

4 (or more) whole heads of garlic

Olive oil

Salt

Preheat the oven to 450 degrees F.

Gently remove the papery outer skin of the garlic bulb and slice off the very top, exposing the cloves. Place each in a square of aluminum foil, pour some olive oil on it, and close it tight. Place in a small ovenproof dish.

Roast for 30 to 45 minutes, checking with fork tines after the first 30 minutes.

Let the garlic cool until ready to handle. The roasted bulbs are extremely sticky and there are a variety of ways to remove them from their skins. Take a paring knife and lightly dig out the cloves from the top. Or take a piece of waxed paper, put the garlic head on it root side up, and cover with another piece, then using the heel of your hand, your fingers, a small rolling pin, or a meat pounder, squeeze out the garlic. Scrape it off the waxed paper with a knife and into a glass container with a lid. Otherwise, and this seems best to me, you can separate the cloves gently and have your guests or yourself squeeze out the garlic onto a piece of bread, adding salt to taste.

I
MAM
B
AYILDI
: T
HE
P
RIEST
F
AINTED
Stuffed or Filled Eggplant

Ed says that as with
stew
, the word
stuffed
is unfortunate when applied to food. We feel
stuffed
after Thanksgiving dinner’s
stuffed
turkey (let’s hope absent of
stuffed shirts
and other forms of
stuffiness
) and retire to the
overstuffed
sofa. We
stuff
our gym clothes in our gym bag as we leave the gym. We watch the gluttonous
stuff their faces
with hot dogs. We catch a cold and our nose is
stuffed up
. We get our
stuffing
knocked out of us in fifth grade. Some of us have the right
stuff
and some of us have the wrong.
Pieno
and
ripieno
, on the other hand, point to the idea of
fill, filled, full
—you’re
full
to the brim, but that’s a good thing. At least you’re not
stuffed
.

Serves 4 to 6

2 large or 4 medium eggplants

4 tablespoons extra-virgin olive oil

1 large onion, chopped

4 garlic cloves, minced

½ cup parsley, chopped

5 fresh or canned tomatoes, chopped

2 tablespoons tomato paste ½ teaspoon salt

½ teaspoon pepper

¼ cup
parmigiano

Preheat oven to 375 degrees F.

Cut each eggplant in two lengthwise. Being careful not to rip the skin, scoop out the white part, and chop, reserving the shells. Heat the oil in a sauté pan and add the onion, cooking until it softens, about 4 minutes. Add the garlic and continue cooking for another 2 minutes. Then add the eggplant, parsley, tomatoes, tomato paste, salt, and pepper, and cook for 5 to 7 minutes. In the meantime, place the shells on an oiled sheet pan. Fill them with the eggplant mixture, and sprinkle
parmigiano
on top. Bake for about 20 to 25 minutes. If the eggplants are large, you can halve them.