Hedonia

Better than the real thing

Having been mostly vegetarian for some 15 years, I am well versed in the ways of substitution. Non-meat eaters often have to go to great lengths to satisfy their protein cravings. Many meat substitute products are frighteningly bad (vegetarian bacon? No thank you ...), but sometimes, these products actually excel: To this day DPaul and I still purchase veggie dogs (Yves brand are a particular favorite), and I am here to tell you that vanilla Tofutti Cuties truly are better than the real thing.

Giving up meat was one thing, but most recipes that eschew natural fats or sugars leave me utterly cold. It's not that I don't appreciate the desire to reduce calories and cholesterol (having, as I do, hereditary hypercholesteremia), but all too often these sacrifices are made at too high a price.

But once in a while, a recipe comes along that changes the way I think about low-whatever foods. It is, after all, possible to rethink a recipe totally, deconstruct it and rethink its elements, and return a newly engineered product that surpasses its predecessor. And thanks to America's Test Kitchen, chicken parmesan has been born again.

Coppa-wrapped persimmon

Prosciutto and melon is one of the greatest hits in Italian appetizers, and with good reason. In two simple ingredients you get a masterful array of sensual contrasts: Earthy and fruity, salty and sweet, tough and tender. We've gone on to wrap plenty of other fruits in prosciutto; figs are a winning choice, for example. But when we wrapped crisp fuyu persimmons in prosciutto, the combination was less than stellar. The meat overpowered the delicately cinnamony sweetness of the fruit. I just love the sweet coppa at Lucca, so I thought I'd give that a whirl. What an improvement! The coppa has a fine crust of spices around the edges that played very nicely with the persimmons.

In his zeal preparing the salad for the party, DPaul diced up all the persimmons I had set out, intending a few of them to be cut into wedges for the appie. He recovered it by intertwining the coppa with dice of persimmons on a skewer. It's not just a clever save; it worked out to be an improvement on presentation and eatability. Then again, I'll eat almost anything at the end of a pick.

Ditalini mania

Remember how I lamented the inability to find ditalini? Well, I shall not want for them any longer. Upon hearing of my plight, my beloved great aunt Anne in Schenectady shipped off a care package containing seven boxes of the little guys. She also sent along some wisdom, advising various ditalini preparations:

• plain with butter
• in soup
• in salad
• can be cooked with peas and chick peas
• can also be used with greens and beans

All true, but I see a whole lot of pasta e fagioli in our future.

Ribollita: Tuscan bread soup

In March of 1998, DPaul and I traveled to Italy for the first time, embarking on the typical American's Grand Tour of the country through Rome, Siena, Florence and Venice. En route from Rome to Siena, my family ran us through a few of the charming hill towns that pepper the Tuscan countryside: Pienza, Montepulciano and San Quirico d'Orcia. Spring was just awakening, and I remember so clearly driving through fields of almost blindingly bright green grass. I was smitten.

When we returned the next year, it was in October, an entirely different experience. We spent a week in Umbria, basing ourselves in Assisi and taking day trips to surrounding towns. Through the chill autumn air thick with the smoke of burning grapevines, we crossed back over into Tuscany one day to visit Cortona, the quintessential hill town made famous by Frances Mayes in Under the Tuscan Sun. Ignoring the slavish American tourists clutching their copies of the book alternately as their guidebook and bible, we ascended the narrow streets of the town to go see the mummified body of Santa Margherita. As we huffed past a doe-eyed girl clutching a puppy who looked up at us and said ciao, we asked a local gentleman how to find the church. His response was, "sù, sempre sù." Up. Keep going up. And so up we went, finally reaching the pinnacle of town so we could breathlessly admire Santa Margherita in her wizened glory. 

Thanks to Ms. Mayes, Tuscany became the penultimate romantic destination for Americans well into this decade, and marketers latched on to this phenomenon. Suddenly, "Tuscan" was appended to anything Italian (or Italian-American) to make it appear more refined and highfalutin, and to raise the profit margin by a few percentage points. 

In point of fact, most Tuscan food is far from fancy; it's downright rustic. Grilled meats, brothy soups and, famously, beans feature prominently. Case in point is the deliciously simple ribollita. While this is now a staple in restaurants in Tuscany and beyond, its roots are clearly in the home -- or the farmhouse.

Classic ribollita is actually not one dish, but three. It starts out as a minestra, a simple vegetable soup with greens and white beans (which, incidentally, is very easy to make in the pressure cooker). The next day, leftovers of of the minestra are extended with pieces of stale bread to make minestra di pane. On the third day, the soup is reheated (ribollita means "reboiled"). As is typical with most soups, the flavors meld and improve with time. No matter which phase of its life you are consuming, be sure to serve it with a drizzle of very good, fresh, fruity olive oil.

But ribollita's life needn't end there. Around the time we first sojourned to Italy, a new restaurant called Delfina opened around the corner from our (now former) apartment. Chef Craig Stoll's debut menu offered a new twist: Pan-fried ribollita. I can't claim to have exactly reproduced Chef Stoll's creation, but my approximation is adequate.

The great tomato canning of 2008

Yes, kittens, it's that time again. Time when the bounty of summer comes tumbling down all around us, when we must work like hell to preserve produce at its peak of perfection lest it slip through our fingers for yet another year.

We've not done as much canning this year as we have in years past. In 2006 in particular we frenetically canned everything that wasn't nailed down. But based on last year's successful tomato canning venture, we knew we had to do it again.

Last year, working with our friends Nick and Russ, we processed and canned 80 pounds of luscious heirloom tomatoes, netting six gallons of bright marinara sauce. This year, we upped the ante and went for 100 pounds. Gluttons for punishment, we are.

While we once again worked with ripe, organic heirlooms (luckily more ripe than our friends' quarry), Nick this year opted for a variety that was largely based on beefsteak. This not only resulted in a richer color, but a sauce with more body as well.

Chicken scallopine

Emeril has his Essence™. Paul Prudhomme has his Magic™. My mother, too, has her own special seasoning. It's called Saltpeppergarlicsaltoregano™.

It's always the same four ingredients -- salt, pepper, garlic salt, oregano -- recited in the same run-on order, in more or less the same proportions, measured in the palm of the hand, and it works for everything. Sauce? Brown the meat, cook the garlic, add tomatoes and saltpeppergarlicsaltoregano. Salad dressing? Olive oil, red wine vinegar and saltpeppergarlicsaltoregano.

But here's the thing: Each of these things ends up tasting distinct and different. Perhaps there's a little Magic in my mother's seasoning after all.

A greater mystery, perhaps, is understanding why and how the dish called scallopine in my family in no way resembles scallopine as it is served in Italy or anywhere else on the globe. Traditional scallopine is a thin cutlet of meat, usually veal but sometimes chicken, dredged in flour, pan-fried and served with peperonata or some kind of sauce like piccata. In my family, it's cubes of meat, browned and then stewed in tomato puree with sautéed peppers and peas (and, of course, saltpeppergarlicsaltoregano).

What I do know is that it is good, and absolutely must be eaten with a piece or two of good, crusty Italian bread. I have yet to find a bread out here that resembles what was generically referred to as Italian bread in my hometown of Schenectady. It always had a flaky, crisp crust and a light, fluffy crumb. Out here on the west coast, there's a propensity for hardier, more rustic breads. A ciabatta or pugliese will do, but the fluffier the crumb, the better for sopping up all that good stew.