Think On It

This photo has nothing to do with dinner. It is where I was on Tuesday, watching a thunderstorm move in. I was hanging off the top of Spoleto in southern Umbria.

Jessica who seeks dessert in Switzerland and her significant other, Jonathan, came to visit. Jonathan was a chef at a very great restaurant until he decided to have a life outside the kitchen. These were guests who obviously care about food, and we even set the dates based on their being here on a market day.

We trolled through the market for what looked good. Jonathan wanted to try porchetta so he bought some of that. At the vegetable stalls he liked green beans, immature red onions and some half-cured olives, so we threw them in the bag as well. We lounged around a café and looked at people, talked to a very nice Belgian family who live near Cortona and critiqued the passing fashion.

We drove on to the Coop supermarket where we could get sheep’s ricotta and try some cured meats and cheeses. We picked up a whipped lean cheese called ricciolo of something. Does anyone know what it is a curl of? It was piped into a tiny basket and was irresistible. Bread from Altamura, sì. Strawberries sniffed out by Jessica, some pasta I recommend that isn’t available most places and that they could take home.

We lazed around the afternoon, and then began to prepare last night’s dinner.

While Jessica cleaned and macerated the strawberries, Jonathan and I went out to pick nettles and mint. When we brought them in I washed them and steamed them with a spoonful of oil to remove their sting, and then minced them with my knife. Jonathan used considerable arm power to grate a really old Parmigiano Reggiano and I stirred the nettles and the Parmigiano into the ricotta we’d bought, then grated some nutmeg over it as well. Jonathan, meanwhile, made a composite butter with garlic and lemon and chilled it.

All of us had a hand in mixing up the pasta. I’ve almost nothing to teach Jonathan, believe me, but I think the damp skin image took and he absolutely agreed with me that that’s what it feels like. We rolled out sheets at thickness #6, the next finest setting, and laid them on clean towels on the dining room table. All three of us used a biscuit cutter to cut circles of pasta, then Jessica and I formed half-moon shapes with a dab of the filling, sealing them well.

Jonathan blanched the clean green beans and drained them. He cleaned and sliced the red spring onions into thin slices and then used my Indian Kari to heat the composite butter and sauté the onions impressively patiently while we built tiny ravioli. When he deemed them done, he added finely minced mint and the beans and tossed them about to coat them.

A pot of simmering salted water awaited the ravioli. Having become an Italian termagant about eating pasta smoking hot, I asked the table to be set and ready to eat within a minute, and then carefully slid the ravioli into the water. They bobbed up, done, almost instantly. I put a knot of butter into each of three pasta bowls and then used a slotted shallow ladle to remove them to the plates. A little more Parmigiano—not much—and they were ready. I thought they were lovely. Perfectly al dente shapes with a belly of green and cheesy vegetable, what could be nicer?

We served the porchetta with the green beans, and I am testifying here that those green beans were wonderful. The mint was undetectable, but surely contributed to the overall deeply sweet and satisfying whole. Crisp but cooked and the original and natural sweetness of the bean had been coddled at every step and reached its zenith. Bravo, bravo, ancora per favore!

Dessert was Jessica’s strawberries macerated with a little sugar and balsamic vinegar with the ricciolo cheese and some slim slices of baked lemon ricotta from Sicily. Again, brava Jessica! You don’t have to search for dessert any more, I think you’ve found it. In truth, Jessica bakes, so our light dessert didn’t come close to testing her, but t’was good anyway.

One or the other was flashing photos all evening, so there are photos, I just don’t have them. When they return to Switzerland, they may let us have some of them—but I get editing privilege.

Ravioli all’ortica

Pick just the young tops of stinging nettles; about a colander full
100 g sheep’s ricotta (about 3.5 ounces)
35 g Parmigiano Reggiano freshly grated (about 1 ounce)
A few gratings of nutmeg

Wash, drain and pack the nettles into a pot with a cover over a spoonful of olive oil, sprinkle about ¼ teaspoon of salt over them and slam the lid on, put them on a low flame and cook until they wilt back but are still brilliantly green. Remove them to a chopping board and mince them with a sharp knife. Put the ricotta into a bowl, add the nettles and the Parmigiano, grate the nutmeg over it then use a fork to mix it all to a firm and creamy mass.

Measure 200 g (about 7 ounces) of plain soft wheat flour onto the work counter, make a dent in the middle and break two eggs into it. Using your hands, work the egg into the flour, scraping the dough off your hands bit by bit as the egg gradually moistens the flour and becomes a dough. For this small amount, it won’t take very long, just a few minutes. I hear people say that sometimes they have to add a drop of water, but it hasn’t yet happened to me. I suppose it matters how fluid the eggs are, and mine are very fresh.

Set up the pasta roller—you did buy one when I told you to last winter, right?— and with the roller set at #1, feed the dough through, then fold in two, re-feed it, and continue to do this until the pasta has become smooth and flexible. When it reaches that point, cut the dough in half and begin to put each half through ever increasing numbers. At about number 4, cut each piece into two again. You should end up with four equal, long strips about 4.5 inches wide. Continue to thin the pasta to #6. It will feel like damp skin.

Use a sharp cutter to cut circles or squares about 3” X3”. Have a little bowl of cold water nearby. Put a small ball of the filling onto the center, wet the edges with water and carefully fold the pasta over and pressing with your fingers, seal them completely, making sure to leave no air inside that can expand and burst the ravioli. The biggest mistake beginners make is trying to put too much filling in them. As they are finished, lay them on a dinner plate.

Bring a large pot of water to a simmer and toss in some coarse salt. Put a generous knot of butter into the bottom of three pasta plates—which are called soup plates in the USA. Gently slide the ravioli into the water and have a slotted spatula or spoon at the ready. When they rise to the top, they are done. It is a matter of seconds, really. Remove them so that the water stays behind and lay them on top of the butter. Serve freshly grated Parmigiano as an option, and pass a pepper grinder, too. Any leftover pasta was cut, dried overnight, packed in paper and off to Switzerland this morning.

I have described the green beans (fagiolini) dish, but I don’t know how much of what went into them. Maybe Jonathan will tell us later, but I’m not waiting. I’m going to try to copy his mysterious ways and even if they are half as good as Jonathan’s, they’ll be worth eating.

I don’t know what you’ll do about porchetta if you don’t live in Italy. Too bad, poor you.

1 comment June 15th, 2007