Try Grilled Watermelon for Your Labor Day Weekend Barbecue

I figure I’ve eaten about 20 pounds of watermelon this summer. Fortunately, it’s 92% water and 0% fat, so my clothes still fit fine.

Even as a kid, I ate a lot of watermelon. Everyone in my family did. I can remember my Dad, his face beet-red from the heat, coming through our back door beaming as he was carrying a colossal watermelon. He always did the same thing: set it down on the kitchen counter and proudly announced its weight -- 19 and 1/2 pounds! 23 pounds! Like his lobsta, the bigger it was, the better he liked it.

My brother Chris was always the one to cut the watermelon (seeing as none of the rest of us had his patience). With skills of a surgeon, he extracted every last seed while keeping the melon’s flesh intact. Come to think of it, I don't remember ever seeing seedless watermelons when I was a kid. Did they exist back then?

I do remember, however, that on a stiflingly humid New England day there was little else that could bring as much pure pleasure as a crisp cold piece of watermelon saturated with sweet juice that dripped down your arms and chin as you slurped your way along.

Indeed, my grandmother, Nan, who avoided the sun and heat at all costs, would stay cool in large part by eating chilled watermelon. And she always said the same thing to me when she wanted some: “Susan, I’m so dry. Would you get me another slice of that watermelon?” Then she’d say to me that I "look dry,” and insist I eat more watermelon. I always did and still do.

Even though it’s just the two of us now, I buy watermelon every week and announce the weight to Jeff when he comes home. 15 pounds! 18 pounds! (I told you I've eaten a lot of it). I only buy seedless now; Chris still lives in Rhode Island, and I still don’t have the patience to remove the seeds.

I've made many watermelon dishes this summer, and this grilled watermelon is one of my favorites. If you're planning a Labor Day Weekend Barbecue, then it's a simple and healthy dessert to make.

Wondering how to grill a watermelon? It couldn't be easier. Simply rub some honey on watermelon slices and place on a hot grill for about 2 minutes per side until marks form and they become caramelized. You could eat it just like that or top it with my tangy honey-lime syrup. It contrasts surprisingly well with the slightly smoky flavor of the grilled watermelon.

Grilled Watermelon Slices with a Honey-Lime Syrup

Print recipe only here.

Several slices watermelon
Some honey for brushing watermelon slices

Juice of 2 limes
the zest of half a lime
3 tablespoons honey
2 teaspoons water
A few dashes of cayenne pepper
A couple of pinches of salt

Preheat grill to high. Cut watermelon into 1-inch thick slices. Brush each side lightly with some honey and place on grill. Grill until just browned, about 2 minutes per side. Place watermelon slices on a plate and drizzle with the honey-lime syrup.

You might also like:
Warm Citrus and Banana Cups
Watermelon and Green Olive Salad
Grilled Lamb Kebabs
Grilled Lamb Sandwiches
Jumbo Grilled Lobsta

You might also like to check out:
Jyothsna's recipe for a refreshing Watermelon Ice Cream.
Christine's recipe for a lovely Melon and Capriole Goat Cheese Salad.

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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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What threat? I made you a Ricotta pie.
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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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What threat? I Made You a Ricotta Pie.

When I think of Easter, I think of pies. Not chocolate bunnies, marshmallow peeps, or colorful Easter eggs, but delicious Italian pies, especially ricotta.

Growing up, my mom always prepared a traditional and labor intensive Easter dinner. In truth, she could have skipped the whole thing and just served her pies. In the week before Easter Sunday, our house became a dairy. The shelves in the second refrigerator in our basement sagged from countless dozens of eggs, pints of cream, pounds of butter, and tubs of ricotta cheese needed for our pie production.

Although it can be made year-round, ricotta pie (torta di ricotta) is an Italian cheesecake that is especially associated with Easter. There are many regional recipes for ricotta pie, some savory and some sweet. Savory versions usually include meats and additional cheeses, while sweet pies are typically flavored with citrus, nuts, and chocolate.

When I called my mom for her recipe last week, I learned that it was Nan's and that it had a storied past. “Nan was the first person in the family to use pineapple instead of citron in her ricotta pie. And boy were her sisters jealous!” I had no idea Nan was a baking maverick.

Rumor has it that Nan thought her sisters' pies were “too dark” because they used that “awful citron.” (Nan was never one to mince words.) In 1945 she dropped her own bomb on Easter Sunday by showing up to dinner with her new-fangled ricotta pie with pineapple. It was as yellow as an Easter chick. There were mumblings in Italian and raised eyebrows among the women. When dessert time came, all the men agreed: Nan's pie was the best--beautiful and sweet. The women conceded victory. Well, that's the way Nan would tell it anyway.

My family has been enjoying this ricotta pie recipe for the past 62 Easters. It really is a treat. We would eat it for breakfast (along with the rice pie and pizza gain) every morning the week after Easter. It apparently can even be used to get your child into college. In an episode of The Soprano’s, Carmela tries to bribe a woman to write a letter of recommendation for Meadow.

Carmela: "Threat, what threatening? I brought you a ricotta pie and high school transcripts so you could write a letter of recommendation for my little daughter to Georgetown."

I still laugh every time I see that scene. If the mob uses pineapple ricotta pie to muscle people, then it must be something special.

This was my first ricotta pie. My mom told me it’s the “easiest Easter dessert to make.” It was, except that my crust needs a little work. It wasn’t as beautiful as Mom’s, but the texture of the pie was like hers: rich, dense, and velvety ricotta that holds its shape perfectly when sliced.

Italian Ricotta Pie with Pineapple
Print recipe only here. (NOTE: The print version of this recipe had errors in it and has been changed. My apologies to those of you who ended up with "too much filling.")

Pie Crust:

For the last few years, my mom has used Nick Malgieri’s crust recipe from his cookbook How to Bake, so that’s what I used. This recipe will make 2 (two) 9-inch crusts. This ricotta pie uses only a bottom crust, so you will have enough dough for a second pie.

3 cups all-purpose flour
½ cup sugar
1 tsp salt
1 tsp baking powder
1 ½ sticks unsalted butter (chilled)
3 large eggs

Filling: This is all Nan. This will make enough filling for 2 (two) 9-inch pies. Simply cut in half for one.

2 pounds ricotta cheese (drained)
2 cups heavy cream
2 cups sugar
2 tablespoons cornstarch
1 tablespoon plus 1 teaspoon pure vanilla extract
6 large eggs
1 (20-ounce) can of crushed pineapple (drained)
1/4 teaspoon ground cinnamon (dusted on top of pie, and slightly swirled)

For the dough, combine the dry ingredients in the work bowl of a food processor fitted with the metal blade. Pulse several times to mix. Add the butter and pulse about 10 times to mix the butter in finely. Add the eggs and pulse repeatedly until the dough forms a ball. Invert the dough to a floured work surface and carefully remove the blade. Wrap it in plastic, and refrigerate it while preparing the filling. You may keep the dough in the refrigerator for up to 2 days before continuing.

If like me, you don’t have a processor, then follow these instructions: Combine the dry ingredients in a bowl, then add chunks of the chilled butter. Using a pastry blender or two forks, chop the butter until it resembles little pebbles. At this point, add the eggs, and stir with a spoon until the dough begins to form. Using your hands and working the dough as little as you can, form a ball, wrap in plastic, and chill for about 20 minutes before rolling out. You may keep the dough in the refrigerator for up to 2 days before continuing.

For the filling, place the ricotta in one strainer and the pineapple in another for at least 1-1/2 hours, or preferably overnight. Discard the liquids. This will create a thicker pie filling and keep the crust crispier. Add the ricotta to a large mixing bowl, and beat it smooth with a rubber spatula. Beat in the heavy cream, sugar, cornstarch, and vanilla. Beat in the eggs, making sure the texture is smooth. Finally, stir in the pineapple.

When you are ready to bake, set a rack in the lower third of the oven and preheat to 425 degrees.

Remove the dough from the refrigerator and gently knead it on a floured surface until it is smooth and malleable. Roll the dough into a 10-inch disk.

Coat the pie plate with cooking spray. Transfer the dough to the prepared plate and press well into the bottom and sides of the plate. Use the back of a knife to remove the excess dough at the rim of the plate. Create a crust by pinching the dough between your thumb and forefinger.

When you are ready to bake the pie, place the pie plate on the oven rack, then pour the filling inside the pie crust. (Mom’s sage advice for not spilling the filling.) Pour right to the top of the pie plate leaving just a bit of room for the filling to puff up. Sprinkle the top of the pie with ground cinnamon. If you have some extra filling left over as I did, you can pour it into a small baking dish or ramekins for a crustless version, and follow the same baking instructions. Or you can simply discard.

Bake the pie at 425 for 15 minutes, then lower the heat to 350 degrees and bake another 25-35 minutes. The filling should be slightly puffed and golden and “set,” meaning it should be firm not jiggly when you gently move the pie plate. Remove from the oven and let cool on a rack. Serve at room temperature or chilled.

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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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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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Q:"What happened to your neck?" A:"Polenta."

My mom loves to tell this story. One day she went to visit her friend Dee. When Dee opened the door, my mom immediately noticed a half-dollar sized, bright red mark on Dee’s neck. Concerned, she asked her, “What happened?” Gingerly touching the area, Dee answered in one word, “Polenta.”

If you’ve ever made polenta, then you understand. When it boils, it takes on an bubbling lava-like behavior. When the bubbles burst they make a mess of your stovetop (and if you’re not careful a mess of you too). Despite these bodily risks, I make polenta all the time. I typically use regular polenta, but the quick-cooking kind is often not bad. Although heretical to some chefs, I do not cook my polenta for one or two hours; rather, I cook it for about 30 minutes. In his cookbook, “Jamie’s Italy,” Jamie Oliver (whom I have a culinary crush on) says he cooks it for 40-45 minutes; I've done that too. Just be sure that the polenta has absorbed the liquid and has become thick. That’s when it’s done.

Polenta is one of the classic Italian "peasant dishes." Growing up, we often ate it with a simple marinara sauce and grated cheese. It's wonderfully versatile though. You can make it soft and creamy or so firm that you can cut it into slices and sautée until crispy. It can made with just water or a mixture of water and milk, like I did here (it comes a bit creamier that way). The fruit salsa is adapted from an original recipe in Cooking Light. I used Satsuma tangerines (pictured on the tree next to my apartment here) because they're in season. After reading a wonderful blog at Smitten Kitchen, I realize that some people really don't like cilantro; if you're one of them, just omit it or substitute with mint.

Fiery Shrimp with Avocado-Pomegranate-Tangerine
Salsa served over Soft Polenta
Print recipe only here.

SALSA:
1 small Hass avocado, diced
1 Satsuma tangerine or other tangerine
¼ cup pomegranate seeds
1 tsp lime juice
1-2 scallions, thinly sliced
1 tsp honey
½ small jalapeno, de-seeded (omit if the heat in the shrimp is enough for you)
½ tsp fresh grated ginger
1-2 Tbsp each of cilantro and basil
Salt, to taste

SHRIMP:
1 Tbsp canola oil
14-16 extra large shrimp, peeled and deveined
½ small jalapeno, with seeds (why else would I call it “fiery”?)
1-2 tsp lime juice
A pinch of lime zest
A pinch of salt

POLENTA:
½ cup yellow polenta
1 cup water
1 cup fat-free milk*
1 tsp butter
Salt and pepper, to taste

To prepare the polenta, simply combine the water, milk, butter, and salt in a medium saucepan and bring to a boil. Slowly pour in the polenta, whisking all the while. The polenta will start to bubble and spit pretty quickly. When it does, place a cover on it leaving a little space for the air to escape; reduce heat to a low simmer, and stir every few minutes, making sure to scrape the pan so the polenta doesn’t stick. After about 10 minutes, add some more water and stir to keep the polenta from becoming too dry. Cook another 15-20 minutes or until the consistency is thick and creamy; Jamie says it should “lollop off the end of a spoon.” Most chefs add butter to it at this point, but for this recipe, I find it too rich. It’s up to you.

To prepare the salsa, simply mix all of the ingredients in a bowl and toss gently to coat.

To prepare the shrimp, mix the cleaned shrimp with the remaining ingredients. Heat the oil in a skillet over medium-high heat. Add the shrimp and sauté for 5-7 minutes, turning to ensure that they brown nicely on both sides.

To serve, plate the polenta; add the shrimp and salsa; garnish with cilantro and basil. This makes 2 servings.

*TWO MORE CENTS: I actually have to use Lactaid milk which works fine. Also, I eat mine with tofu instead of shrimp.

Care of polenta injuries: According to my husband Jeff (who has just 5 months left of his Dermatology residency), if you develop a blister, do not pop it. This increases the risk of infection. If the blister becomes intolerable, however, then use a sterile needle to punch a small hole and let the blister collapse back on the wound. (Four years of medical school and four years of residency to learn that).

Note: Food Blogga is not meant to diagnose or cure any diseases caused by careless cooking. If you are injured by polenta, consider dialing 911 and purchasing cover up make-up.