Lobster So Big, You Could Put a Saddle On It and Ride It (video)

In my family, everyone loves lobster.

I mean just look at my dad and my husband: who's more ecstatic?


It all started one glorious summer Sunday afternoon many years ago when Jeff and I were dating. We took a ride with my parents to Galilee, in Rhode Island, where local fishermen were selling freshly caught lobsters. My dad (in a typical moment of generosity) offered to buy a couple; he’s had Jeff eating out of the palm of his hand ever since.

Jeff and I recently took a red-eye to Rhode Island for an impromptu visit. Since the New England lobster season starts in April-May, we timed it perfectly.

One afternoon we took a ride to fabulous Newport and discovered a fish market that was selling lobsters. Not just any lobsters. 10, 12, even 14 pound lobsters! My dad picked up a 14-pounder and exclaimed, "this one's so big you could put a saddle on it and ride it.”

Fearing that a 14-pounder's meat might not be tender enough, we asked the fisherman’s advice. This guy couldn't have been cast better if he were in a movie about RI: Red Sox cap-wearing, Right-out-of-the-Soprano's-massive guy with huge hands, which were clearly accustomed to scooping up lobsters.


He also had a wicked sense of humor, and in-between wise cracks, assured us that meat from larger lobsters can be tender. The key is in the cooking. "Whateva youz do, DON'T overcook it. Otherwise, youz'll be back here tomorra complainin that these were no good," he warned us.

Most people agree that the smaller the lobster, the more tender the meat. Yet, the very thought of feasting on an 8 or 12 or 14 pound lobster easily seduced my dad. He settled on two: an 8 3/4 pounder and a 9 1/2 pounder (which is the one he's holding), mostly because of logistics -- we simply didn't have a pot big enough for a 14 pound lobster.

As he went to pay the lobster guy, words were exchanged, and then suddenly, my dad turned and left. We all panicked. Oh, no! Did dad offend the lobster guy? "No lobster for you!"


Thankfully, no. My father explained, the guy told him, “Come back in an hour or so. Something tells me the prices might go down.” An hour later, we returned, and as he said, the prices went down.

My dad left the market holding his lobsters like a proud father of twins coming home from the hospital. I think this was the beginning of a beautiful friendship between Dad and the lobster guy.

There are myriad ways to cook lobster, including boiling, baking, grilling, and poaching in vanilla, which seems to be de rigeur on this season’s Top Chef, doesn't it? We opted for grilled lobster, which was a hit with everybody.

So how do you grill a lobster? As most chefs and grilling experts suggest, we boiled the lobster first. The amount of water and cooking time will vary depending on the size of the lobster you use. Just be sure that you have a BIG POT.


To kill the lobster, hold a butcher knife over its head, about an inch behind its eyes (as shown below) and puncture and slice forward in one motion.


Drop the entire lobster into boiling unsalted water. Most recipes suggest boiling until the shell turns red, about 5 minutes for a 1 ½ pound lobster. We cooked ours about 20-25 minutes because of their large size. Just note that the lobster should not be completely cooked at this point; it willl finish cooking on the grill. After you remove the lobster, let it cool slightly before continuing.

In order to save my mom's kitchen, we took our boiled lobster outdoors, where my dad proceeded to slice them in half, lengthwise, and to crack the shells in order for the meat to get exposed to the grill’s flames. This was no easy task. Check out this short film of a 200-pound-guy-with-a-hammer whaling on a lobsta that just wouldn't crack.


Now, that it is open, you can brush the meat and the inside of the lobster with melted butter.

Place the lobster flesh side down on a pre-heated grill, and cook until the meat forms some grill marks and begins to turn opaque, about 4-6 minutes for a 1 ½ pounder. Ours took about 8-10 minutes.

Baste them with melted butter, as Jeff's mom, Dorothy, is doing, to help seal in the moisture and make the meat succulent.

Flip the lobsters over and cook for the same amount of time that you did on the first side. Be careful to not drip too much butter directly onto the grill or large flames will leap up at you. (Who needs eyebrows anyway?) Thank goodness my husband's a dermatologist. Oh wait, he tells me dermatologists don't do burns; however, if the medication used to treat the seared eyebrows causes some kind of rash, then he could help us.

The lobster is done when the shell turns a deep red, and the meat is opaque. Check the meat at the thickest part of the tail to make sure it's fully cooked. Remove the meat from the shells, and serve with your desired accompaniments.

Everyone at our house savored the smoky flavor of the grilled lobster and enjoyed it with simple melted butter and lemon or with my mom’s famous tartar made from horseradish, ketchup, mayo, lemon juice, and Tabasco.

According to everyone who ate the grilled lobsters (in a state of buttery drenched delirium) that evening, their concerns were allayed; the meat was perfect.

*Print recipe only here.

*For a simple how to grill lobster guide, check out this article from about.com.

*I also just discovered a delicious recipe for Grilled Lobster and Potatoes with Basil Vinaigrette on epicurious.com that was featured the June 2007 issue of Gourmet.

*Finally, thanks to my new friend Mark from New Hampshire who sent me a link to this interesting article from The Boston Globe. It's about "colossal crustaceans" and corroborates my story!

Come'on over. Food Blogga will be hosting Weekend Herb Blogging next week (July 9-15).

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Bring back Sunday dinner

Bring Back Sunday Dinner

Hey, come over here, kid, learn something. You never know, you might have to cook for twenty guys someday. You see, you start out with a little bit of oil. Then you fry some garlic. Then you throw in some tomatoes, tomato paste, you fry it; ya make sure it doesn't stick. You get it to a boil; you shove in all your sausage and your meatballs; heh?... And a little bit o' wine. An' a little bit o' sugar, and that's my trick.
-Clemenza teaching Michael to cook. The Godfather, Part I.

When Jeff and I were dating, we would on occasion deliver papers for his family’s Sunday morning paper route. I distinctly remember his mother’s detailed descriptions of whose paper went where: Mr. Lisi, the front door, Ms. Vitale, the side door, the Di Fusco’s, the front door if the screen was open but the back if it was locked. I also distinctly remember the smell that hit you when you walked up each of the little driveways early in the morning and opened the screen doors. Not coffee, not maple syrup, not bacon and eggs, but gravy.

Many Italian-Americans on the East Coast refer to tomato sauce that is cooked with meat (pork and/or beef) as “gravy.” To make it correctly takes hours, and where we grew up, every Italian-American woman with any pride started the gravy at breakfast to be ready for 2:00 Sunday dinner.

Though every family had variations, the basic premise was the same: braise cuts of pork (sausages or other cuts from the butcher) in garlic and olive oil. Make a sauce from fresh or canned tomatoes. Then make a huge batch of meatballs to be added to the gravy. Last, make the pasta, which was always cavatelli. Cavatelli (pronounced cah-va-ti or cah-va-tel by most Rhode Islanders) was never a mid-week pasta, maybe because it never made as much as other types of pasta, like spaghetti, and because it was more expensive. Add some chicken (on the side), salad, a loaf of crusty Italian bread, and some red wine (just from a screw top gallon or in my parents’ generation, homemade wine), and Sunday dinner was complete.

It was exactly the same every Sunday, (save for a few radical variations like raisins in the meatballs or prunes in the gravy in the 80’s) yet we always looked forward to it. My mother, like her mother before her, managed to make a hearty meal for the whole family without blowing the weekly budget. From the time my hands were big enough to roll the meatballs, it became my contribution. Standing in the kitchen for hours with my mom never seemed like a chore to me; we talked and laughed the entire time I rolled the meatballs, without regard to my cold, wrinkled fingers. There was never a recipe--you just knew how they should look, feel, and smell.

The amazing thing is long before we knew each other, 6 miles away at Jeff’s house, at that very same moment on Sunday mornings, his mother and grandmother would be in their kitchen cooking the gravy and rolling the meatballs. Jeff’s contribution at his house was periodically dunking the bread in the gravy. Who could blame him? Everyone knows that’s the best part.

Sadly, I can’t imagine cooking these Sunday dinners today; it seems old-fashioned. Instead, we quickly cook some tomatoes on the stove top, add some fresh basil, and we're done. Who’s got 6 hours to make the Sunday dinner? Most of us are too busy; today we are a “30-minute-meal” society. But then I think, weren’t our mothers busy too? How did they do it?

I sometimes wonder if I would have preferred to have been born in my parents’ generation; my mother tells me I romanticize this. Yet, there is something comforting about the predictability of a ritual like making the gravy on Sundays. In fact, Jeff and I have lived away from home for about 10 years, and while we love our independence, we still reminisce about Sunday dinners. It’s not just the food we miss, but the people. The way no one would dare eat until my grandmother was situated at the table. The way Jeff’s grandfather would always be the last to finish – usually after the dishes were already cleared. I remember the kitchen windows steaming up from the simmering gravy as I stood next to my mother talking and rolling and stirring. Even though I haven’t made a meatball in close to 20 years, I still remember exactly how to do it.

This past Sunday, I rolled up my sleeves and rolled out some meatballs. Starting early (well, after the gym anyway) Jeff and I made Sunday dinner for two. The sound of the wooden spoon banging on the pot to shake off the gravy, the site of bits of red tomato splattered on the white stove, and the smell of frying meatballs brought us right back. If only we could have everyone over.

Did you (or do you still) have a Sunday dinner tradition?

The lovley Bee from Jugalbandi generously asked me to contribute to her Postcard Series, a collection of posts of cultural snapshots from around the world. Read more postcards here.

Italian-American Gravy
Print recipe only here.

2 Tbsp olive oil, divided
4 sweet Italian sausage links
3 (28-ounce) cans of San Marzano tomatoes
1 large onion
2 whole garlic cloves
3/4 cup red wine
1 tsp crushed red pepper
Salt, to taste
7-8 fresh basil leaves, thinly sliced

Meatballs:
1 pound of ground beef (I used lean)
1 cup breadcrumbs
1/3 cup grated Parmigiano-Reggiano cheese
¼ cup chopped fresh flat-leaf parsley
1 large egg, lightly beaten
Salt and black pepper, to taste
1/8 cup olive oil
1/8 cup canola oil

1 pound of pasta
1/2 cup grated Parmigiano-Reggiano cheese

Gravy:
In a large heavy pot over medium-low heat, warm 1 Tbsp olive oil and add sausages. Cook about 4-5 minutes on each side, or until browned all over; remove from heat.

Pour the San Marzano tomatoes in a large bowl, and crush them with your hands (or use a food mill if you prefer).

Heat the second Tbsp of olive oil in the same deep pot; add garlic cloves and saute for about 2 minutes, or until golden brown. Remove and discard garlic. Pour in the tomatoes (with their juice), red wine, crushed red pepper, and salt. Bring to a boil; reduce to a simmer, for about 35-45 minutes, stirring occasionally.

Meatballs:
Find your mother or daughter or other suitable companion, then...

Place the meat in a large bowl. Add the breadcrumbs, cheese, and parsley. In a small bowl, beat the egg with some salt and pepper; add to the meat mixture. Mix the ingredients with your hands until the consistency is moist and the meat holds together well. If it’s too dry, add some water or another beaten egg. If it's too moist, add more breadcrumbs. Once the consistency is right, using your hands, roll the meatballs into 1 ½ inch balls. It should make about 22-24 meatballs.

Mix the olive and canola oils in a large skillet over medium heat. Fit as many meatballs in the skillet as you can without overcrowding so you have room to turn them. Cook about 2-3 minutes until browned, then turn over and cook another 2-3 minutes, until all sides are evenly browned. Place on a paper towel-lined plate to absorb any excess oil. Repeat as necessary.

The meatballs can also be baked if you prefer not to fry them. To bake them, preheat the oven to 400 degrees F. Place meatballs on a tinfoil-lined baking sheet (for easy clean up) and cook for 20 minutes, or until browned.

Add the cooked meatballs and sausage to the gravy after it has simmered for about an hour. Simmer for an additional 60 minutes (or up to several hours if you want to be authentic). If the gravy becomes too thick, simply add small amounts of water or water mixed with a bit more red wine.

In the meantime, cook pasta in salted water according to the directions until al dente. Once cooked, add the gravy, top with meatballs and sliced sausages, and sprinkle with grated Parmigiano-Reggiano and fresh basil.

"Hey, I can't eat this crap. Bring me some pasta with gravy and meatballs.”
-Paulie Walnuts to Italian waiter after being served a plate of seafood pasta while visiting Italy. The Sopranos.

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“It's Fri—taaa—taa!”

Every Friday after school, my mom and I delivered groceries to my grandmother in her little apartment. (More about her here). We arrived at her front door, arms heavy with Stop n' Shop bags, and would ring the bell with a free elbow. Invariably, I would complain about how long it was taking her. (I swear, it took her 5 minutes to walk the 10 feet from her recliner to the front door). And invariably, we would hear her voice from within, “Aspette! Aspette!” (Wait! Wait!). With my arms completely numb by this point, she would finally let us in and exclaim: “Oooohh, I’m so glad you came! I just made a nice fri—taaa—taa. You’ll have some.” She said it every time as if she didn’t expect us.

Though we ate frittata often at home, I associate it most with Spring and with Nan; Fridays during Lent we would abstain from meat, so she always made a simple vegetable frittata, which was waiting for us when we arrived.

On a typical New England March day (rainy and raw), we couldn’t wait to get inside her toasty warm apartment where the thermostat was always set at 78 degrees. Her cramped apartment exuded comfort: as a girl, I loved the way every nook and cranny was filled with furniture and heirlooms and the way the smell of baked goods and coffee filled the rooms. It was so quiet that I would just sit crouched on her sofa in the few beams of light from the late afternoon sun and listen to the ticking of her grandfather clock. After filling ourselves on frittata, my grandmother (and oftentimes my mother and I!) would fall asleep.

Frittata is really nothing more than eggs with vegetables, cheeses, or meats cooked into it. Yet, made the right way, it is oh-so-satisfying. Of the countless delicious meals my grandmother made, my mother still says her frittatas were the best. They were always simple: potato and onion, sausage and pepper, or spinach and Parmesan. Invariably, we would ask her: “But Nan, what do you do? Nobody makes frittata like you.” To which she would shrug her shoulders, throw her hand in the air, and reply,“What? What do I do? It’s frittata,” then smile to herself. She loved the compliment, and we knew it.

Nan’s Potato, Pepper, and Onion Frittata
Print recipe only here.

1-2 tsp olive oil
1 small potato, diced
1 small onion or shallot
1/2 red bell pepper, thinly sliced
5 eggs (Egg Beaters or whites only are also fine)
A handful of fresh basil, thinly sliced
A handful of fresh parsley, chopped
½ cup grated Parmesan cheese
A few shakes of crushed red pepper
A few dashes of salt

Over medium-low heat, add olive oil to an 8-inch non-stick skillet; and potatoes and sauté until golden brown, about 5-7 min. Add onions; cook another 2-3 minutes. Add red bell pepper strips; cook another 2-3 minutes.

Meanwhile, beat the eggs in a small bowl; add fresh basil, parsley, cheese, salt, and red pepper. Pour the egg mixture into the skillet. With a fork, gently move the egg mixture from side to side as it begins to cook to ensure that it cooks evenly. Do this until the eggs start to solidify and a crust begins to form around the edges. This takes about 5-8 minutes. Give the pan handle a jiggle, and when the eggs appear set, remove the pan from the stovetop and place under the broiler. Broil for 3-4 minutes, until the top begins to puff up and turn a golden brown. Keep a close eye on it so it doesn’t burn. Once nicely browned, let cool for a couple of minutes before slicing. Serve hot or at room temperature. Makes 2 large or 4 small servings.

Leftovers? Try a Frittata Sandwich

Since no one left Nan's house without food (ever), we would often eat frittata for lunch the next day. Mom would put it on toasted Italian bread with a little bit of homemade tomato sauce ("gravy" for the RI readers) and melted mozzarella. It's one of Jeff's favorites.

I am submitting this post to the Ellie of Kitchen Wench who is hosting a lovely once-off event: Nostalgia Tastes Bittersweet. Also, for another springtime frittata recipe, check out Toni's asparagus frittata at Daily Bread Journal.

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I could go for broccoli rabe. I hope I'm not pregnant.

I'm craving broccoli rabe. No, Mom, I’m not pregnant.

Broccoli rabe, also called rapini, is an Italian vegetable that is actually not related to broccoli at all. It's more like a cousin of the turnip, hence its bold, bitter flavor.

My sister-in-law is also craving broccoli rabe, and she is very pregnant. I was a bit surprised to learn this (no, not that she's pregnant; that it's broccoli rabe she's craving). You see, Dee is a born and bred Southern girl: petite, with liquid blue eyes, natural blonde hair, and the ever slightest, sweet Southern twang. When I think of broccoli rabe, I think of cold New England weather, 6- foot tall hungry brothers, and crusty Italian bread. It was often a lunch my mother would serve my father and two brothers.

This coming Saturday is Dee’s baby shower in Atlanta. She and Jason (one of Jeff's brothers) are expecting a little girl in May; she will be the first new baby in Jeff’s family. You can imagine the anticipation.

I assume the broccoli rabe craving is the result of Jason's Italian heritage rubbing off on Dee. He speaks Italian and is an outstanding cook who could take on Molto Mario in an Iron Chef challenge of meats. Jason, however, wouldn’t be caught dead in orange clogs. Or clogs of any color. He’s much more of an Armani kind of guy.

Jason's love of Italian cooking and meats stems both from his mom and from his (and Jeff’s) first jobs at Tom’s Deli on Charles Street. I love to hear them reminisce about making grinders, veal parm, and chicken marsala, and about eating the scraps of sliced prosciutto that were unsuitable for the customers. Apparently, there were a lot of unsuitable scraps.

Ironically both brothers married vegetarians; needless to say, culinary compromise is key in both houses. For instance, though Jeff and I both love broccoli rabe, he has to have his with some good Italian sausage while I like mine simply paired with crispy polenta.

So, Jason and Dee, I have decided to post two recipes featuring broccoli rabe. For us vegetarians, I offer sautéed broccoli rabe on crispy polenta with a rosemary and goat cheese sauce. And for carnivores, a classic, no-frills, Italian sandwich: crunchy Ciabatta bread topped with pan seared Italian sausage, broccoli rabe, and sharp provolone. I hope they will be a marriage made in heaven.

I was also wondering, did any of you crave broccoli rabe when you were pregnant? If not, what did you crave?

Broccoli Rabe (Rapini) on Crispy Polenta with a Rosemary-Goat Cheese Sauce

Print recipe only here.

Polenta:
1 cup yellow polenta
2 cups water
2 cups milk (low fat is ok)
2 tsp butter
2 tsp olive oil
Salt and pepper, to taste
1 Tbsp, plus 1 tsp olive for pan-searing

Combine the water, milk, butter, oil, and salt and pepper in a medium saucepan; bring to a boil. Slowly pour in the polenta and whisk. The polenta will start to bubble and spit pretty quickly. Place a cover on it, askew; reduce to a low simmer, and stir a couple of times, making sure to scrape the pan so the polenta doesn’t stick. Since it will be pan-seared, I shorten the cooking time to 10-15 minutes.

Coat a 9-inch pie plate or other round dish with cooking spray. Pour the cooked polenta in it, and smooth with a knife. Cover with foil, and place in the fridge for at least an hour (or even overnight if you want to plan ahead). Once chilled, it will easily slice into 8 pie slices.

When ready to pan sear the polenta, add 1 Tbsp, plus 1 tsp. olive oil to a non-stick skillet. Add the polenta slices and sear on each side for 4-5 minutes, until golden brown and crispy.

Broccoli rabe:
1 large bunch broccoli rabe (stems removed)
1 Tbsp olive oil
1 minced garlic clove (optional)
A few shakes of crushed red pepper
Sea salt, to taste

Bring a large saucepan of salted water to a boil. Boil broccoli rabe for 1- 1 ½ minutes; drain. Plunge in a bowl of ice water. Shocking the rabe will maintain its vivid green color and stop them from cooking.

In a skillet, add olive oil. Add garlic, and sauté until it turns golden. Add broccoli rabe, crushed red pepper, and salt. Sauté 1-2 minutes more. Remove from heat.

Rosemary-Goat Cheese Sauce:
1/2 cup cream or half n’half
4 oz. soft goat cheese
1 Tbsp. minced fresh rosemary
A few cranks of freshly ground black pepper

2 Tbsp toasted chopped walnuts for garnish

For the goat cheese sauce, combine all ingredients in a small skillet, and heat 2-3 minutes, or until sauce is smooth and creamy.

To toast walnuts, place in a dry skillet over medium heat for about 5 minutes, shaking the handle slightly to toast nuts evenly. Remove when slightly golden and aromatic.

To serve, pour goat cheese sauce on each plate. Top with 2 slices of crispy polenta, 1/4 of the broccoli rabe, and 1/4 of the toasted walnuts. Garnish with some chopped fresh rosemary. Makes 4 servings.

Broccoli Rabe and Sausage Sandwich with Sharp Provolone
Print recipe only here.

1 small bunch broccoli rabe, stems removed
1 small minced garlic clove, optional
2 tsp olive oil
A few shakes of crushed red pepper
Salt, to taste

1 small 8-9 inch loaf crusty Italian bread (I like Ciabatta)
2 tsp olive oil
4 slices sharp Provolone cheese
Some crushed red pepper

2 links Italian sausage
1 tsp olive oil

Bring a large saucepan of salted water to a boil. Boil broccoli rabe for 1-1 ½ minutes; drain. Plunge in a bowl of ice water. Shocking the rabe will maintain its vivid green color and stop them from cooking.

In a skillet, add 2 tsp olive oil and garlic. Sauté until garlic starts to turn golden. Add broccoli rabe, crushed red pepper, and salt. Sauté 1-2 minutes more. Remove from heat.

Slice loaf in half to make 2 sandwiches. Brush the center of the bread with the olive oil. Place under the broiler for 3-4 minutes, or until golden and crunchy.

Slice sausage links in half. Add 1 tsp olive oil to a skillet, and pan sear 5-7 minutes per side, or until they are brown and crispy.

To make the sandwiches, add the provolone cheese to the hot bread. Top with sausage and broccoli rabe. Season with crushed red pepper and salt. Serve right away while the cheese is hot and melty.

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What's in Your Basement?

Peter John is my favorite cousin. He has a knack for saying, in a hilarious manner, what everyone else is thinking. At a family dinner he once joked that in the event of World War III, after the nuclear fall out, he would somehow manage to make it to my dad’s house, because it would be the only place left in Rhode Island that wouldn't run out of food.

It's true. My dad has a large basement whose food contents could rival that of any Super Stop n’ Shop or Costco. I am not sure if this is an Italian thing, or a 1950's bomb shelter thing, or because he grew up in a large family where money was not plentiful but manual labor was. I could write several posts about his canning tomatoes, pickling peppers, and stuffing sausages his whole life. I suspect there is a part of him hard-wired to always have ample amounts of food stored. Trust me, he does.

Although I haven’t been in my parents’ basement since Christmas, I'm certain there are, right now, at least 25 boxes of Barilla pasta, 30 cans of San Marzano tomatoes, 5 cases of bottled water, a dozen boxes of cereal, a half a wheel of Reggiano-Parmigiano cheese, 10 gallons of olive oil, and 20 cans of cannelini beans. Whenever we ask him what he’s going to do with all that food, he invariably responds, “It’s food. It’ll never go to waste. Somebody will eat it.” Somebody always does -- primarily because he gives most of it away.

My dad is a truly generous person, especially when it comes to food. He gives away turkeys at holidays, shares countless bottles of his best wine with friends and family, and delivers crates full of fresh produce, meats, and cheeses to his children. He gets pleasure out of sharing food with others.

Since we’ve moved away, he has sent us scores of care packages. Invariably, there will be a bottle of olive oil because he knows that I love it. From light and fruity to bold and grassy, there isn’t one that I won’t try. I don't remember the last time I actually had to buy a bottle in the store; the shipments always seem to arrive just in time. Which is why I was stunned to realize that I have never made an olive oil cake. I mean really, I should be ashamed to call myself Italian.

Well, this past Sunday I made my first olive oil cake. The recipe is adapted from Sarah Perry’s Holiday Baking: New and Traditional Recipes for Wintertime Holidays. To make it savory, I added fresh lemon, rosemary, black pepper, and Dad's Reggiano-Parmigiano.

It was lovely paired with an arugula and ricotta frittata as well as with a goat cheese, olive, and sun-dried tomato spread. I must say, I can't wait to make it again as it was ultra moist, dense, and delicious. The only missing part was sharing a piece with Dad.



Olive Oil Cake with Rosemary and LemonPrint recipe only here.

Basic cake recipe:1 ¼ c all-purpose flour
¼ tsp baking powder
¼ tsp baking soda
¼ tsp salt
2 eggs, at room temperature
1 c sugar
½ cup fruity extra-virgin olive oil
¾ cup milk

Additions:2-3 Tbsp chopped fresh rosemary
The zest of 2 small lemons
The juice of 1 small lemon
1 cup grated Reggiano-Parmigiano
Several cranks of freshly ground black pepper

Preheat the oven to 350. Line a 10-inch loaf pan or 9-inch round pan with parchment paper.

In a medium bowl, whisk together the flour, baking powder, baking soda, and salt.

In another medium bowl, whisk together the eggs and sugar until well blended, about 1 minute. Whisk in the olive oil and milk.

Whisk the egg mixture into the flour mixture until thoroughly blended. Gently mix in the rosemary, lemon zest, lemon juice, black pepper, and Reggiano-Parmigiano.

Pour the batter into the prepared pan and bake until the cake is firm and a toothpick inserted into the center comes out clean, about 40 minutes. Transfer the pan to a rack to cool for about 20 minutes before removing the cake.

Serve warm or at room temperature.

This tree is outside our bedroom, and every morning by the time we awake, the fragrance perfumes the entire room. This picture was taken from my window early one morning. I used the lemons in the cake.

When the Moon Hits Your Eye, Like A Big Broccolini Pie, That's Amore

When Jeanne from Cook Sister! announced that pies would be the topic for this month’s Waiter, there’s something in my… food blog event, I knew exactly what I was going to make.

Where I grew up, every neighborhood was dotted with family-run bakeries and pizzerias. Just walking along the famed Federal Hill, the wafting aromas of freshly baked wood-fired pizzas and warm yeasty breads could make even the most carb-averse person swoon. And if the smell wasn't enough to entice you, then the sight was: crispy, steaming-hot breads, calzones, and pizzas proudly propped in the store windows beckoning you to come in and have one. And considering how many times I have been lured inside (especially at Buono’s and Crugnale’s Bakeries), I can assure you that they are impossible to resist.

Calzones are true comfort food. They quell your worst hunger and leave you feeling content. Their versatility of fillings ensures that there’s something for everyone to love. And best of all, for me, they do what comfort food should do: remind me of home.

My mom and I have made hundreds of calzones over the years; what’s funny is that we always called calzones filled with eggplant or sausage or meatballs "calzones," but calzones filled with spinach or broccoli were called "pies." Which got me thinking, what’s the difference? Nothing. Turns out a spinach or broccoli pie is just another name for a calzone.

The calzone, originated in Naples, Italy, is often referred to as a “turn-over” or "half-moon" and is made of pizza dough that is filled with cheeses, vegetables, and meats. Though mozzarella cheese is most commonly featured here in the US, many other types of cheese such as fresh ricotta, Provolone, and Parmesan are used as well. Calzones can be deep-fried, but I’ve always had baked. No matter the name, they all share one common trait: they are oh so satisfying.

I’m putting a little California twist on this recipe. Broccolini just debuted at the farmer’s market and is one of my favorite vegetables. As I learned last week, it is not merely young or baby broccoli; rather, it’s a hybrid of broccoli and Chinese kale. Broccolini are delicate, a svelte version of regular broccoli, and they have a beautiful grassy green color. Their flavor is reminiscent of broccoli but is distinctly sweeter, with a pleasing peppery aftertaste. In this recipe, its sweetness contrasts nicely with the rich sun-dried tomatoes, salty olives and cheese, and toasty pinenuts. Of course, you can substitute regular broccoli or the bolder broccoli rabe (rapini).


Broccolini and Sun-Dried Tomato Pie (or Calzone)

Print recipe only here.

2 tsp olive oil, plus 2 tsp for brushing on top of pies
1 pound pizza dough (brought to room temperature)
1/8 cup sun-dried tomatoes, thinly sliced (dry-packed or oil-soaked)
1/8 cup pine nuts, toasted
1 cup broccolini, chopped
¼ cup black olives, such as Cerignola and Kalamata
½ cup grated Parmesan Reggiano cheese
A few shakes of crushed red pepper
A few dashes of salt

Note: If you’re using dry-packed sun-dried tomatoes, then allow them to rest in warm water for 5 minutes before slicing.

To toast the pinenuts, place in a dry skillet over medium heat for about 1 minute or until golden brown. Shake the pan handle gently to ensure even toasting. Remove from heat.

In a large skillet, heat 2 tsp. olive oil; sauté broccolini for about 1-2 minutes until it turns bright green yet remains firm. Add remaining ingredients and gently mix. Heat for 1 minute more, then remove from heat. Taste the filling to adjust seasonings.

To form the pies:
Working on a lightly floured surface, divide the dough in half, and roll into two 8-10-inch ovals. For each piece of dough, put half of the broccolini mixture a bit above the center of the oval. Fold the dough to form a half-moon; seal the edges together by pressing down lightly. Then using your fingertips, fold the edge of the dough up, and pinch around the edge to create a seal. Brush them with the remaining 2 tsp of extra-virgin olive oil.

Baking pies on a baking sheet:
Preheat oven to 375 degrees. Line a baking sheet with parchment paper. Bake on a rack in the lower third of the oven for about 20 minutes or until the bottom is browned. Then bump up the heat to 425, and move the pan to the upper third of the oven; bake an additional 15 minutes or until the top of the pie is golden brown and crispy.

Baking pies on a pizza stone:
Preheat the oven to 475-500 degrees, and heat the stone for at least 30 minutes. Cook pies directly on the heated stone for about 15 minutes or until both the bottoms and tops are golden brown and crispy.

1 pound of dough will make 2 large pies.

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So Easy, a Meteorologist Can Do It

Be a meteorologist in Southern California. It’s the ultimate job. Much like Newman’s coveted postal route in Hawaii, “where the air is so dewy-sweet, you don’t even have to lick the stamps,” (Seinfeld episode #144) the weather here is so constant, you don’t even have to think about it.

The meteorologists in Southern California are beautiful, blonde, and buxom. Some have been known to clutch a white poodle while giving the ten-day forecast. I’m serious, folks.
Contrast this with your typical New England meteorologist: A pasty, overweight guy with bags under his eyes from having stayed up all night tracking the constantly changing weather.

She uses the word "like" nineteen times in her report. He slurs his words from the last glass of Johnny Walker he downed in the green room to calm his nerves. She wears nine inch heels. He predicts nine inches of snow (which turns out to be only freezing rain). She discusses Justin Timberlake. He explains the mathematical algorithm that allows sound waves from the Doppler 5,000 to distinguish rain from snow.

Amazingly, one would think that with virtually the same forecast everyday, she couldn’t possibly get it wrong. Well, she does. All last week she predicted rain on Saturday, sun on Sunday. So being a conscientious food blogger, I planned to take my photographs on Sunday.

Saturday was bright and sunny. Sunday it rained. The pictures you see are from Monday.

A rainy Sunday seemed a perfect time to bake some cookies. One of my favorites is the Italian pignoli (pine nut) cookie. Made with almond paste, they are mildly sweet and have a nutty flavor that lingers pleasantly on your palate. The crispy exterior reveals a chewy interior that gently pulls away as you bite it.
I could explain the chemical properties of the cookie that create this sensation, but maybe you could just picture me with a dog on my lap instead. They are ridiculously easy to make; it took me longer to type the recipe (and photograph the cookies) than it did to bake them. Like typical New Englanders, Jeff and I had them with a nice cup of coffee.

And here are a few other treats I’d love to have with my coffee:
Brilynn’s Fudge with Cherries and Pistachios at Jumbo Empanadas.
Lis's Easy Sticky Toffee Dessert at La Mia Cucina.
Patricia's Choc Banana Bread at Technicolor Kitchen.
Sher's Apple-Blackberry Kuchen at What Did You Eat?
Valentina's Peanut Butter Cookies at Sweet Temptations.


Italian Pignoli (Pine Nut) Cookies
Print recipe only here.

2 ½ cups pine nuts
1 (7-ounce) tube of almond paste
¾ cup sugar
2 egg whites
½ tsp pure vanilla extract
¼ cup all-purpose flour
¼ tsp salt
Powered sugar for garnish, optional
Heat oven to 325 degrees. Take ¼ cup of the pine nuts and pulse in a food processor until coarsely ground. Break the almond paste with your hands; add to the processor; process until just mixed. Add the sugar; process until mixture is crumbly. Add the egg whites and vanilla; process until the dough begins to come together. Add the flour and salt; process until fully blended and smooth.

Pour the remaining pinenuts into a small bowl. Using a teaspoon and slightly moistened hands, take about 1 tsp worth of batter and roll it into a ball. Gently drop the ball in the pine nuts and turn until completely coated. Place the cookies 2 inches apart on parchment-lined baking sheets. Bake for 20 minutes, until lightly browned.

Cool on racks. Dust with powdered sugar before serving, if desired. Cookies should be stored in an airtight container. Makes approximately 30 cookies.


After having tasted a Mexican coffee made with black pepper, Jeff concocted this version one afternoon. The interplay between the spices and the pepper creates an intensely flavorful and aromatic cup of coffee.

Spiced Coffee

Print recipe only here.
4 cups water
2-2 ½ scoops of good coffee (such as Illy)
1 whole clove
A few dashes of ground cinnamon
3-4 cranks of freshly ground black pepper (from a peppermill)

Add the clove, cinnamon, and ground pepper to the coffee grounds, then brew. Serve as desired.



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Waffles, Coffee, and Lentil Soup

At 5' tall, my grandmother was a giant of a woman. She was a dominating figure in my life and my mother's life. We have loved her, and we have feared her. Throughout our lives, her cooking sustained us; and from her little kitchen with four pots, a couple of frying pans, and some wooden spoons, her food was always remarkably delicious.

Nan is 98 years old now and lives in the Alzheimer’s unit at Scalabrini nursing home in Rhode Island. She doesn’t remember much any more. She doesn’t remember me. She usually forgets my mother, who visits her every day. When I saw Nan last month for Christmas, I tried to prompt her. “Nan, remember me? Your granddaughter? Susan?” Nothing.

On the last day that Jeff and I lived in Rhode Island before moving to North Carolina, we slept over Nan's house, with a full U-haul truck parked in the driveway. When we awoke, it was raining as hard as I can ever remember. It was January 1997. My grandmother, a notorious late sleeper, got up at 4:00 am that bitter cold morning and made us breakfast. We woke to the warm, sweet smell of waffles from her vintage waffle iron and to the gurgling sound of her electric coffee percolator. They were the best tasting waffles I had ever had and have had since that day.

I provoked her again: “Remember me Nan? I’m your granddaughter, Susan. I’m married to Jeff" (she loves Jeff). Still nothing. “Remember when you made us waffles?” “Waffles?” she answered. “Yeah, that rainy morning.” Her eyes lit up. “Oooh, yeah,” she said. “I made you waffles.” Tears were welling up in my eyes. “Waffles and coffee, huh?” she added. “Yeah, Nan, waffles and coffee,” I repeated. “I was a good cook, huh?” she asked me. Tears were just flowing now. “Yeah Nan, you were a good cook.”

I made Nan's lentil soup last night because we were missing her, our families, and Rhode Island. Whenever we feel this way, we try to make some type of Italian comfort food that our mothers and grandmothers used to make for us. Somehow, it always transports us, albeit briefly, back home.

I don’t know if this recipe is exactly like Nan’s, but she probably wouldn’t either. That’s because she never used a recipe. Ever. I have inherited that from her; I often don’t measure, and I rarely follow a recipe exactly (which is why you never want to come over my house for souffle).

Nan's Italian Lentil Soup
Makes 4 servings.
Print recipe only here.

1 tablespoon olive oil
1 onion, diced
2 celery stalks, diced
2 carrots, diced
1/2 cup lentils, brown or black*
2 bay leaves
4-5 cups water (depending on your desired soupiness)
1 8-oz can tomato sauce or diced tomatoes with juice
A good shake of red pepper flakes
Salt, to taste
About 2 Tbsp of chopped fresh basil
About 2 Tbsp of chopped fresh parsley
Some good Reggiano-Parmigiano and quality extra virgin olive oil

Heat oil in a large saucepan over medium heat. Add onion; sauté until golden. Add celery and carrots; cook 3-5 minutes, stirring occasionally. Add lentils, bay leaves, and water; bring to a slow rolling boil for 15-20 minutes or until lentils are tender. If the lentils are absorbing too much of the liquid, then simply add more water. Once they are just about done, lower the heat to a simmer, and stir in the tomato sauce, red pepper flakes, and salt.

Remove the pan from the heat. And remove the bay leaves before serving! Add the fresh herbs now so they will retain their bright green color and fresh flavor. Top with lots of good grated cheese, and drizzle some quality extra virgin olive oil on top.

*TIP: I love Trader Joe’s black lentils. They have an earthier flavor and don’t break down as easily as brown lentils. They also create a thicker soup perfect for clinging to a nice piece of crusty Italian bread. Mmm.

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Patriots' Potato Pizza

Like most Italian families, my mom did the cooking, my dad did the eating. There were however certain culinary “events” that my dad performed with gusto such as pickling, canning, and making homemade pasta. For a period in the mid-90’s, he started making pizzas, really good pizzas. One Sunday, most likely during a Patriots game, he came up with the idea for potato pizza. It was a hit then and continues to score touchdowns with everyone who eats it.

By the way, the Patriots beat San Diego today. I have mixed emotions. Growing up in Rhode Island, it was mandatory to root for the Patriots. Plus my Dad would’ve grounded me if I didn’t. Yet, Jeff and I have become Chargers’ fans and would have liked to see them win today. Actually, we’re already over it. This seems to be the way things are here in Southern California; when a professional sports team loses, it’s like, “So, you wanna go to the beach now?” Not so in New England. Take when the Red Sox lost to the Mets in ’86 for example. Jeff's family barely spoke for a week; there were no words for their grief. So, it’s probably a good thing that the Patriots won.

Having gotten completely frustrated with San Diego’s abysmal performance today, Jeff and I took a walk after the game. When we returned home, the answering machine was flashing “1 new message.” We hit play and heard my dad's voice: “What’s the matter Doc, you taking some aspirin for your headache after that great New England win over your unbeatable Chargers?” Did I also mention that New England fans rarely gloat?

Since Dad was on my mind today, I thought I’d make his potato pizza (the next best thing to watching the game with him). I used blue and white potatoes because I think it makes the pizza more visually appealing. Of course, I just realized that blue and white are the Patriots’ colors. Hmmm, maybe I subconsciously wanted them to win after all.


DAD’S POTATO PIZZA

Print this recipe here.

1 pound pizza dough
2 teaspoons olive oil, divided
1 shallot, sliced
¼ cup shredded part-skim milk mozzarella cheese
2 small potatoes of your choice, preferably a firmer variety
¼ cup crumbled gorgonzola or blue cheese
1 teaspoon fresh rosemary, chopped
Salt and pepper, to taste

Wash potatoes and pat dry. Microwave the whole potatoes for 2-3 minutes until soft enough to handle but firm enough to cut so they won’t crumble. Cut into ¼ inch-thick slices.

Heat half the olive oil in a skillet over medium heat; add shallots; cook 4-5 minutes until slightly browned.

Preheat oven (see temps below). Roll out dough on a lightly floured surface. Transfer to a sheet of parchment paper (if using a stone) or to a parchment lined baking sheet. Brush dough lightly with remaining olive oil. Place a thin layer of shredded mozzarella on the dough, then arrange potato slices on top. Season well with salt and pepper. Add crumbled gorgonzola or blue cheese, and lightly press it down with your hands.

For a pizza stone, bake at 500 degree for about 10 minutes, or until both the top and bottom of the crust is brown and the cheese is melted.

For a baking sheet, bake at 450 for about 20 minutes, or until both the top and bottom of the crust is brown and the cheese is melted. Let it cool for a couple of minutes before slicing.

Before serving, sprinkle pizza slices with chopped fresh rosemary and a bit more fresh ground black pepper.

TIP: Boiling the potatoes makes them too moist which leads to a soggy crust. Ugh. Microwaving or baking them are better bets. Also, adding the fresh rosemary after removing the pizza from the oven helps to maintain its color and flavor.

You might also like:
Homemade Barbecue Pizza
Broccoli and Sundried Tomato Calzone
Grilled Lobster
Grilled Lamb Sandwich
Risotto
Sunday Supper - Pasta with Meatballs and Sausage

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Is Reggiano Parmigiano Dangerous?

It’s freezing this morning. Well, actually it’s 48 degrees. But to a Californian, that’s “freezing.” I have lived in Southern California with my husband Jeff for 3 ½ years. We were both born and raised in Providence, Rhode Island. In fact, we recently flew back from there, and on the 6 hr. flight home, I got the idea for this blog.

Growing up Italian in Rhode Island, much of my life has been about food. Even this trip home was about eating. Jeff and I had not been home for Christmas Eve in years. If you’re Italian, then this is a big deal. Such a big deal that we actually had two Christmas Eves—one with Jeff’s family, one with mine. The hilarious stories and fantastic recipes from those two nights alone could fill weeks of this blog.

Even the flight back to California was about food. I am compulsive about a lot of things, as you will learn. Traveling is one of them. Jeff and I managed to fit a week’s worth of clothing in just two carry-on bags. The problem is when you’re Italian, your parents won’t let you leave empty-handed. In our case, this meant a third suitcase full of food also made the flight back.

As we wound our way through Providence’s airport security, in our socks, the TSA guy scanning my luggage, bellowed, “Bag check!” I thought to myself, this can’t be; my ears grew red and hot. Anthony, a big “chooch” (my mother’s word for a not too bright guy—think Baccala from The Sopranos) grabbed my perfectly packed bag, threw it down, and proceeded to ransack it. With beefy hands squeezed into diminutive vinyl gloves, he pulled out what appeared to be a 10 pound aluminum brick. Jeff looked at me and said, “This isn’t good.” Anthony tossed the aluminum object from hand to hand, sniffed it, looked at us, and without missing a beat, said, “Reggiano Parmigiano?” “From my father,” I replied. “Nice,” he said. “Merry Christmas. Hava’ nice trip.” And we were on our way.

This blog will be about my family in RI, my life with my husband in Southern California, and my cooking and recipes. I hope you will love reading it as much as I will love writing it.