Artichokes - Roman Style

Roman Artichokes or Carfiofi alla Romana. I was going to post this one month ago - but then "life" happened as it often does.

Straight forward and easy (yes, cleaning the artichokes takes a little time. Put on music and go to your zen place) but once that is done, it's smooth sailing.

Traditionally, the recipe calls for about one tablespoon of fresh Italian parsley and three tablespoons of fresh mint. My early spring garden had Italian parsley, oregano and a touch of mint so that's what I used.

Ingredients - serves 3-6
3 artichokes - halved, trimmed
4 tablespoons fresh chopped herbs (Italian parsley, mint, oregano, basil)
2 cloves garlic, minced
1 tablespoon olive oil
1/2 cup white wine
3/4 cup boiling water

Preparation
Trim artichokes and remove choke. "How to instructions" can be found here and here. Plunge each one into lemon water as you continue trimming.
Combine minced herbs, garlic and olive oil. Put herb mixture into the cavity of the halved artichoke.
Fit them all snuggly into a deep pan so that they don't fall over. Pour the white wine and boiling water over them and simmer for about an hour until tender.

Hunger is a great motivator. I often wonder when someone pulled up their first artichoke and declared, "A thistle! Let's eat it!" I think that's what I love about the "cucina povera." The frugal, peasant recipes of Italy will always call to me. It's a bond with past generations.

And that's about the amount of cooking I have managed in the last two months because...

... in April I was at Utah Valley University in Orem, Utah working on my play Almost, Mary (about Mary Anning, the first female paleontologist).

And then I was in Evanston, IL with the Purple Crayon Players for my play Bound by Stardust - my quirky Otto Schmidt/North Pole/physics play.

And then I was fortunate enough to be in Independence, Kansas at the William Inge Festival of New Plays with my one-act A Paper Forest (about climate change).That's William Inge's home above - I am a great fan of that playwright - he wrote so eloquently about small town America.

And because we needed more excitement - Matthew successfully defended his PhD in plant pathology in May. Ironically, his degree will confer on May 31 - the same day that Kirsten's AuD will confer. (They're a little competitive.) So ladies and gentleman - may I introduce Dr. Haas and Dr. Haas!

AND...thirty years ago today, I began an adventure ...

The adventure continues today. The "kids" took us out for a celebratory dinner (Italian) and tonight - we will do Chinese take-out. How's that for a journey of an Italian cook? And because we weren't busy enough this spring, we will be hosting a farewell barbecue for my eldest who moves to Germany on May 30th. (It's getting real.) Happy Spring, all.

Alphonse and Duchess

There are eighteen grandchildren with a memory of Santa coming by every Christmas Eve.

They would sit on his knee and and tell him what they wanted for Christmas and be rewarded with a bag containing an orange and a box of Cracker Jacks. Simple things. Building blocks of love. As the grandchildren grew older, they would learn which was Santa's bad knee and avoid it.

My father-in-law had some tough times.  He grew up in St. Paul during its infamous gangster era and had a vivid recollection of Van Meter - part of the "Second Dillinger Gang" being shot to death in his neighborhood. The press snapped photos of children looking down on the body until neighbors finally brought out blanket and covered the man.

At about age 10, work was scarce. He lost his father at a young age and his mother was scraping by. Word came to her that there was work to be had in St. Paul for one of the older children. So she told my father-in-law to hop a train (yes, hop a train - no ticket) and go to Bemidji (up north about five  hours) to bring home his brother who was working at a lumber camp. He did so.

With all of those tough times, he was an optimist. He worked two jobs, put dinner on the table for a family of 11 and never complained. If my husband would make a remark about a challenge in his job he would always reply, "Isn't it great? You're working!"

I am grateful that both my mother-in-law and father-in-law were such great storytellers. I have precious glimmers into the world they grew up in. He always called his children (and children-in-laws) on their birthdays and sang "Happy Birthday" to them. We have the recording on our answering machine from this past August. But the Santa legacy is one for the ages. And if Santa is your legacy, you carved out a beautiful life for yourself.

He called his wife "Duchess" and she called him "Alphonse." He promised her he would wait until after she passed and join her soon after. And he was as good as his word. Nine weeks after Duchess left us, Alphonse soon followed. It was one week before what would have been their 63rd wedding anniversary. I don't think he wanted to celebrate it without her. And the date of Alphonse's birthday? Christmas Eve of course.

"Alphonse" loved brats, bacon and beef. And he ate his fill well into his nineties. This one's for you, Alphonse!

Steak with Mustard Butter  (from David Lebovitz's My Paris Kitchen which I highly recommend you put on a "wish list.")

2 8-ounce ribeye steaks (or your favorite steak - I've done this with sirloin NY strips)
1/2 teaspoon hickory-smoked salt, sea salt or kosher salt
1/4-1/2 teaspoon chipotle chili powder
1 teaspoon cilantro or flat-leaf parsely
Vegetable oil or clarified butterFreshly-ground pepper

Mustard Butter
2 tablespoon unsalted butter at room temperature
2 teaspoons dry mustard
1 generous Dijon mustard

Butter + steak? Overkill? No! Very, very French! And deliciously simple.

Prep
1. Pat the steaks dry and rub them with the salt, chipotle powder and cilantro. Refrigerate uncovered for 1-8 hours.

2. In a small bowl mash the butter with the dry butter and Dijon mustard. Shape into two small balls and chill on a plastic-lined plate.

3. Heat a little oil or clarified butter in a grill pan or cast-iron skillet and cook the steaks over high heat (searing on each side) until done to your liking. (Rare: 5-7 minutes each side for a guide.)

4. Put steaks on plates. Top with the knob of mustard-butter and freshly-ground peppers.

5. Watch the butter ooze into and around the steaks.

Missing both of them and thankful they have been a large part of my life. Very thankful. Happy Thanksgiving.

Country Cook

When I met my mother-in-law, Paul had kindly touted me as a super-cook. (Obsessive - yes, nowhere near "super" worthy.)

"I'm a country cook," she had said. "Nothing fancy." Nothing fancy meant getting 3 meals a day on the table for a family of 11. The meat, the starch, the vegetable.... the bread. My head spins and swims thinking about it.

Doris grew up on a farm in Cambria, Wisconsin. Homework was done by the light of kerosene lamps.  When electricity finally did come, it went to the barn first to help with the milking of the cows.

(Grandma and Grandpa Haas at their grandson's wedding in 2010). 

During the winter, the family went to church via horse and sleigh. It sounds romantic but it was chilly and horsehair blankets were piled over the kids to keep them warm.  Doris (mother-in-law) would tell me about the woman who lived next door to the church. She was the godmother of many, many children born in the winter because it was guaranteed that she could make it to the baptism. (Always thought there was a play in that.)

There were no screens on their farmhouse. And windows were bolted shut in the summer to keep out the mosquitoes. So think - hot. And then very cold during the winter. They would heat up bricks on the stove and wrap them in blankets and place them at the foot of their beds for warmth. (Very different than the way her husband Roger grew up in St. Paul - when St. Paul was the land of gangsters - a whole other blog story! And very different from my parents upbringing in New York City. All around the same time frame. We are a vast country!)

Doris went to school in a one-room schoolhouse. And one thing she knew - she wanted out of Cambria. She wanted the city - where nobody cared about your business. And so she found herself in nursing school in Chicago - working the emergency room. That was an eye-opener!

There are smiles when she recalled her courtship with Roger. They hadn't been dating that long when she asked him, "Is this going anywhere because I don't like to waste my time." She soon had a ring on her finger and it worked - over 60 years of marriage. Yes, we recently lost her. But her legacy of stories, cooking and good humor continues with her children, her 18 grandchildren and her 8 great-grandchildren (with one on the way!). We miss her and we find her unexpectedly - through memory, through cooking, through family.

She'd like this recipe. You will, too.

It is "country cooking" at its best. An apple cake - loaded with apples, just sweet enough for smiles and just fluffy enough to deceive you into think there are no calories associated with it. The caramel sauce is thin and drizzly and dresses this French-country-cooking-apple-cake into something more elegant. I first saw this on Bon Appetit and noted it. I later saw it on Ciao Chow Linda's blog and bookmarked it! Linda's salted caramel sauce is a bit thicker than mine so do check it out. And do make this before apple season is over!

I have evolved into a fair country cook. I think it is inherent in all Italians - used to peasant, somewhat poor cooking and looking to use what's available. And what's available in October in Minnesota - are apples. Glorious apples. If you like Honeycrisp and Sweet Tango - you can thank Minnesota for them. They were developed at the University of Minnesota Twin Cities and all Minnesotans sing its praises and head to the orchards.

The apples are first sautéed in butter (did I mention it was French and they do that a lot) and the richness of that step keeps the cake moist and the apples just a wee bit caramelized - and who minds that?

BRETON APPLE CAKE
12 tablespoons unsalted butter, melted, divided (plus a little more for the pan)
1-1/4 cups flour (plus a little more for the pan)
4 firm tart apples (they recommend Pink Lady - I used Sweet Tango and Honeycrisp), cored, peeled, cut into 1/2 inch slices
1 cup plus 2 tablespoons granulated sugar, divided
1 teaspoon baking powder
1/4 teaspoon kosher salt
1 teaspoon lemon zest

3 large eggs
(they also recommend creme fraiche for serving - I was good with the salted caramel sauce)

SALTED CARAMEL SAUCE
1/2 cup sugar
1/2 cup heavy cream
3 tablespoons unsalted butter
1/4 teaspoon kosher salt

PREPARATION

SALTED CARAMEL SAUCE

• Bring sugar and ¼ cup water to a boil in a small saucepan over medium-high heat, stirring to dissolve sugar. Boil, swirling pan occasionally and brushing down sides with a wet pastry brush, until mixture turns a deep amber color, 8–10 minutes. Remove from heat and slowly add cream (mixture will bubble vigorously). Return to medium heat and cook, stirring occasionally, until smooth, about 2 minutes. Remove from heat and mix in butter and salt. Pour caramel sauce into a small heatproof jar or bowl; let cool. (Can be made ahead. Cover and chill.)
  
  
  CAKE
  • Place rack in middle of oven and preheat to 350°. Butter and flour an 8 inch cake pan.
  • Heat 2 Tbsp. melted butter in a large skillet over medium heat. Add apples, sprinkle with 2 Tbsp. sugar, and cook until apples are golden brown, 10–12 minutes. Arrange half of the apples in the bottom of prepared cake pan so most of it is covered.
  • Whisk baking powder, salt, lemon zest, 1¼ cups flour, and remaining 1 cup sugar in a large bowl. Whisk in eggs and remaining 10 Tbsp. melted butter until smooth.
  • Pour half of batter over apples in cake pan, top with remaining apples, then pour remaining batter over. Bake cake until top is golden and a tester inserted into the center comes out clean, 40–50 minutes. Transfer pan to a wire rack and let cake cool slightly; turn out onto rack and let cool.
    
    
    Can be made ahead - cover tightly in clear wrap. But I think it's really grand the same day. Rewarm the caramel sauce if made ahead and serve. And by all means - if the spirit moves you - dollop on the creme fraiche.

The crust did not fall off. My husband cut into it and then I made him put his fork down so I could snap one last photo (this went fast). That happens a lot around here!

I have been thinking of the evolution of my blog. Seven years ago I started it to connect with the foods of my childhood and the foods of my family that came before me. Today, I am looking at simpler fare. A little razz-a-ma-tazz thrown in once in a while because - it's theatre! I'm not sure where it's going or if I'm on the right track - but blogs need to change don't they? They're personal. And as the seasons and day-to-day-living changes, I am realizing that our blogs reflect that. Do you ever look back at your early postings and think - how different everything was?

The Spirit

She never thought she was beautiful.

She was stunning.

And very beautiful.

"The end of an era. My grandma joined my grandpa in heaven yesterday and in honor of her we all raised glasses before dinner. I am very lucky to have had her in my life for the last 23 years and proud to be the grandchild of such a classy lady." - Kirsten's Facebook post.

My mother was made up of pearls and sapphires and roses and daisies and pinks and reds. Laced with the crushed red pepper of Grandma's Basilicata. She was a true Italian Steel Magnolia. Delicate and fierce, lion and lamb, she showed uncommon strength during adversity. And a sweetness and gentleness of spirit during graceful times. Her middle name is Grace.

Opera sustained and comforted her. She got lost in the music and it brought her back to her youth - a time when her father listened to opera daily. She was initially named "Aida" but the hospital had a hard time understanding my Grandfather's pronunciation and somehow there was involvement with my Aunt Rose and suddenly Aida became Edythe.

Bones. They flavored the sauce ("they're the best part!"). And she gave me her bones. 

And laughter. And generosity of spirit. And of course love.

We were blindsided. Her sisters lived well into her 90's and we took it for granted that she would also. We had a ways to go. 

"Is she going to be all right?" I asked my sister when I learned she was in the hospital.

"I think so," she replied.

Two days later a diagnosis and then the following week she was home with hospice.

The night she came home, the furry tornado that is Murray-Guido Shostakovich entered our lives. He likes to sit in sinks. My mother had talked of getting a cat for two years. It was the perfect time. A "rescue-kitten," he will have the most pampered life with my sister. She is a born care-giver who lovingly cared for my mother the last few years. 

Murray is a cyclone. The day after my mother left us, Murray (aka "Murrala") decided he could fly and lept off the 2nd floor platform. He couldn't fly. My sister now has a vet. And Murray is fine. And we're affixing plexiglass  across the stair railings.

I'm including all these family photos. Because that was my mother. La Famiglia is why she got up in the morning. La Famiglia is what kept her up at night trying to ease our way into the world.

In the week she was home, I learned so much about her. About her spirit. Reflections, dreams, day dreams, early morning conversations with my sister centered around the journey of the spirit - her spirit and ours. As my mother slowly passed into another world, she was still teaching me. I learned so much that week. I just wish there was an easier way to learn.

On July 5th, the hospice nurse told us to be prepared for her leave-taking that weekend. My birthday was on the 12th. I understood if she couldn't stay. I told her so. On the 12th, I ran home for miscellaneous work with my Fringe production.

I had a purr with Pip.

Marveled at the volunteer flowers on the patio.

And returned to my mother. My sister was 100% certain I could do this because she wouldn't leave me on my birthday. Even though the nurses were stunned that she was holding on five days later. My sister was right. She didn't leave.

Paul, Matthew and Kirsten gathered at my mother's for my "old" birthday (it's a decade thing - even my mother told me to stop telling people my age because it was aging her!) It was a simple dinner:

• arugula salad with candied walnuts, blueberries and goat cheese
• Spaghetti with garlic, oil, Parmesan and Italian parsley
• Tiramisu courtesy of my sister

The comfort food my of my childhood. I wanted the aromas to go to my mother.  There was laughter at the table. A lot of it. The hearing is the last sense to go. We gave my mother an earful! And she was at my birthday party. Her last parting gift to me. 

On July 13th - on her mother's birthday - my mother left. Diane and I were on either side of her and wished her godspeed and told her how happy we were that she could be with my father and her original family. And of course, how much we loved her.

Cook up some pasta tonight. Blend some olive oil and butter. Add a touch of garlic and saute briefly. Throw your pasta into the garlicky oil. Sprinkle with Italian parsley and a heavy dose of some good Parmesan. I guarantee - instant comfort. Instant love. Each time a Gresio left me, I celebrated them with pasta and wine. It nourishes the spirit.

I learned a lot about the generosity of the spirit. The generosity of others. Courtesy of my mother's friends, Diane and I could host a dinner party for forty at any given time. The fridge was that packed. With sweetness.

Amazingly, this was not a week of weeping and wailing. There was a lot of laughter tinged with a touch of dark humor. A lot of ruminations on the sense of the spirit. And I have to tell you - two weeks ago I found out my mother's age. I never knew. And guess what? It's not on her obituary and I'm not telling you! She was ageless.

The Lost Ravioli Recipes of Hoboken by Laura Schenone

With Thanksgiving next week, the holiday wish-list may be starting. If you are a lover of food, a lover of old recipes, a lover of the connections food makes with family and friends, The Lost Ravioli Recipes of Hoboken: a Search for Food and Family by Laura Schenone is a treasure waiting for you. Laura Schenone embarks on a journey to discover the authentic recipe of her great-grandmother's ravioli recipe. For generations, the family has added cream cheese. Cream cheese? Is it possible? Is that Italian? What was it in the old country?

Schenone writes,

`

"A little square of ravioli is like a secret. You look at the outside and see the neatly crimped dough, puffed up in the center with a lovely pillow of something mysterious inside. It is an envelope with a message. Before you bite into it, all is unknown. And much still is possible."
`
That lyrical sentence of longing is akin to opening the pages of The Lost Ravioli Recipes of Hoboken. The beauty of the book is that long after the the ravioli is consumed and the book is read, the feast stays with you. And as you will doubtless have another meal of ravioli, you will also reread this book.
`
Schenone's journey to discover the truth of her family's recipe brings her to family members who have been distanced from her. She travels to Italy more than once and learns about making ravioli in the way Italians have made it for hundreds of year. (Only to be disconcerted when she finds that many Italians admire and prefer using a pasta machine rather than rolling out the dough on a board with a rolling pin!) In Italy, she is warmly welcomed into the homes and restaurants of the guardians of old Italian tradition. Strangers who generously pass their knowledge to her.
`
The twists and turns of Schenone's quest for her family's definitive recipe is a search for self as well as a search for new understanding of her family. She is sometimes Don Quixote tilting at windmills - looking for her inner being - trying to figure out the contentious nature of her own family as she nourishes the family she created. Schenone quietly muses why she is possessed to find the source of a ravioli recipe when the life she has made for herself is its own source of joy.
`
Schenone's pilgrimage takes her to mountains of chestnut trees that provided nourishment for hundreds of years, through meals of gnocchi and pesto. And as she tasted and learned, she questioned. Was this what her great grandparents ate? Was this the vista they saw? In her mind, she time-travelled to her grandparents time. Searching for the connections to her. To her core. To her sensibilities. But of course, sensibilities have greatly changed since her great-grandparents left Italy. A point she brings up often in the book. There is the nitty-gritty realism of life today speckled with the lure of tradition, of the fairy dust from the past.
`
Schenone's meeting with Giovanni Rebora who is well known for his knowledge and work in Italian food history brings insight and passion.
`
"We modern people make so much time to do so many stupid things," booms Rebora. "People don't have time to read a book. They don't have time to cook. I don't understand how they don't have thirty minutes a day to care about what they eat." And Rebora later surprises with,
`
"We don't worry so much about saving traditions. Traditions change all the time. We want to save the culture of food here."

You will read the book actively. With smiles, with nods, a few shakes of the head and in my case with some touches of envy. Why did I not embark on such a journey? And the answer is - of course, I have. With my blog, with my research, with my mother, with my cooking. Listening to the stories of my mother sitting in my grandmother's lap as Grandma Gresio shaped the dough.
`
"Can you feel when it is right - do you feel that?" asked Grandma Gresio.
`
Sadly my mother told me, "I never could."
`
It was a skill that I would not learn from my family. I took for granted the meals served by my aunts and grandmother. I thought they would always be there. You can understand why I sometimes relentless pester my mother. Whose clarity of recollection is always a pleasure.

My parents married at 19. For the first few months they lived in the basement of my grandmother's home. My father worked full time and was in college - a feat that had never been done in his own family. He came home tired one day with a can of Chef-boy-ar-dee ravioli. My grandmother walked into the kitchen, grew wide-eyed, grew taller and threw out the makeshift food.
`
"I will show you real ravioli," exclaimed this tiny but quite formidable woman.
`
She gathered flour and eggs, went down to her board and quickly made some cheese ravioli (of course the ingredients were always at hand), boiled it up and served it with a little butter and cheese.
`
My father never ate ravioli from a can again.

The Lost Ravioli Recipes of Hoboken ends with almost 30 pages of ravioli recipes which do not disappoint.
`
For a sneak peak of what this book has to offer, watch Ms. Schenone make ravioli here. Do seek out the book. It nourishes both body and soul. It's a trip many of us are taking in our kitchens every day.

Love

There are a lot of photos of six of us celebrating. The 7th person was always holding the camera.


My father loved a lot of things. Swimming, basketball....

He was a chemist. With two daughters allergic to science.

The Christmas tree had to have tinsel. And only he could put it on properly.

He certainly loved to eat. And Christmas wasn't Christmas without a cannoli.

He danced. At weddings and in our home. After a celebration, we'd roll up the rug and put on some rock 'n roll.

As a boy, his Uncle Billy taught him to fish at a point in Brooklyn, NYC. Over the years, fishing was relaxation. And if dinner was caught, so much the better.

He was beautiful.

When he was younger, his father left. Took the car, the savings and just left. My father, his sister Ruth and brother Richard braved the world together. It was the three of them against the world as my grandmother struggled to care and provide for her children.

Their love and affection for each other carried them through life.

This June would have been their 59th anniversary.

"You will carry him in your hearts always and find him in unexpected ways," wrote my close friend. "Those who love deeply, grieve deeply," wrote a wonderful blogger.

There are so many photos of my parents dancing... I know how wonderful that is. It's a gift,

The biggest hug in the world on my sister's wedding day.

The biggest smile in the world on mine.

Matthew wanted this photo. For his smile. His grandson.

Kirsten wanted this one. His granddaughter.

Not everyone knew his great capacity for silliness. But my sister did!

In the great northwoods for my parent's 50th. We didn't fish but we had an al fresco lunch on Lake Superior.

At 2:30 a.m. Palm Sunday, my sister woke up. She went downstairs to check on Dad. She felt the room fill up. She saw Grandma Daisy and Aunt Ruth. She held his hand. From my father's early days he was a caregiver. Way before Grandpa Rudy up and left them, he assumed care of my Uncle Richard. He continued to be a caregiver his entire life. My sister told him how much he was loved. And that everyone he loved would be fine and it was all right to leave. And while holding his hand, he died peacefully. At home. As was promised.

We celebrated everything. Every birthday, anniversary, graduation and the fact that it was Sunday and we were all free for dinner.

We gathered at their Woodbury home. To cry, to nosh, to grieve, to tell stories. Later as my daughter was home alone prepping for a job interview, our yellow lab howled. Our cat meowed. She could not quiet them. She listened. She looked outside. She could not see what set them off. And then she wondered if Grandpa was checking on his granddaughter one last time. Ever the caregiver, checking to see if she was all right. Flights of fancy? Does it matter?

`
My father was a private man. I will respect the privacy and never write of what is intensely personal to him. But I will always write of his love.

And he loved. And was loved.