The many facets of Italian regional cooking are to be celebrated January 17, during the 2012 International Day of Italian Cuisines (IDIC).  This year’s official dish is ossobuco, and cooks from all over the world are invited to make this dish and send in their photos.  You can sign-up to participate, or just make it because you feel like it.

Ossobuco, which means “hollow bone”, is a traditional dish from Milan, and is made with veal shanks that are slowly braised in a rich broth.  At the end of cooking, the traditional ossobuco recipe calls for the veal shanks to be topped with a finely minced gremolata of lemon rind, parsley and garlic. 

The marrow of the bone is considered a delicacy and is meant to be scooped out and eaten, in delicious ignorance of its cholesterol content.  The milanesi actually have a long handled spoon just for this purpose, which has the amusing name of esattore - tax collector.  

 Ossobuco is a rich dish that is often served with the equally rich risotto alla milanese, but I like it with simple polenta or mashed potatoes to soak up every bit of flavorful sauce. 

The veal shanks themselves should be tender and juicy, or as poet Billy Collins described “soft as the leg of an angel / who has lived a purely airborne existence”. 

I’m not sure what Billy was drinking when he wrote that, but you can try to reach these lofty heights with the ossobuco recipe at the end of this post.  A good bottle of Barbaresco should do the rest.

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Ossobuco Recipe

This is an adaptation of the official 2012 dish of the IDIC

Prep Time: 10 minutes

Cook Time: 2 hours, 15 minutes

Total Time: 2 hours, 25 minutes

Yield: 4-6

Ingredients

• 4-6 hind veal shanks, 2” (5 cm) thick, 5” (10 cm) wide
• 4 oz. (100 g) celery finely diced
• 4 oz. (100 g) carrot finely diced
• 4 oz. (100 g) onion finely chopped
• 4 oz. (100 g) butter
• 4 TB olive oil
• ½ lb (200 g) peeled plum tomatoes, chopped
• 1 qt (1 liter) veal broth
• 10 oz (300 ml) white wine
• For the Gremolata:
• 3 strips organic lemon rind, chopped fine
• 1 TB flat-leaf parsley, chopped fine
• 1 clove garlic, peeled and minced

Cooking Directions

1. Heat the oil and butter in an ovenproof pan that is just large enough to tightly hold the veal shanks in one layer.
2. Pat the veal shanks dry with a paper towel, and sear them in the butter and oil over medium heat, turning to brown evenly.
3. Reduce the heat on low, remove the veal shanks and set aside.
4. Over a low flame, sauté the carrots, celery and onion in the same pan, scraping the bottom with a large spoon to mix in any brown bits, being careful this "soffritto" doesn’t burn.
5. When the "soffritto" vegetables are soft, add the wine and turn up the heat.
6. Stir occasionally until wine is almost evaporated, then add the tomato and broth and stir to blend.
7. Heat to a boil.
8. Place the browned veal shanks in one layer in the pan, and spoon some of the vegetables over the top-the shanks should be covered with the broth.
9. Cover the pan and place over a very low flame for about 90 minutes (or place in preheated oven at 350° F (180° C) .
10. Remove the cover and cook for another 30 minutes.
11. Finely mince the lemon rind, parsley and garlic together – this is the "gremolata" which will used just before serving.
12. When the veal is done, place the shanks on a warm platter and skim excess fat from pan, and bring to a simmer, adding a bit more broth if it is too dry.
13. Add salt and pepper to taste.
14. Spoon the sauce over the veal, sprinkle with the gremolata mixture and serve with polenta or mashed potatoes.
15. Drink a good bottle of Barbaresco and float away-

I like a man who is serious about sweets.  Giuseppe Trapani, a 4th generation torrone maker in Sicily, fits the bill.

When he welcomed me into the Torronificio Trapani, he’d already been at work since 4.00 am preparing the first batch of his secret family recipe for torrone.  Since torrone is a traditional sweet in Italy at Christmas time, Giuseppe’s Christmas season begins the first of October, when his torronificio goes into high gear, making 2 batches of torrone a day.  That’s about 70 kilos (155 lbs) of torrone, which seemed like an enormous amount to me, but Giuseppe told me that it had already been reserved for customers.

In the spotless kitchen of the Torronificio Trapani, the air is suffused with the fragrance of honey.   Several people sat at a marble table busily wrapping tiny chocolate-covered torroncini, big pans of toasted almonds were being pulled out of the oven, and a machine held a huge mixing bowl where a combination of honey and egg whites was being heated and stirred, becoming a thick white cream.  I’d stepped into torrone heaven.

I’d already done extensive tasting of almond nougat from some very good artisan torrone makers (forget the commercial ones, which are like eating a sickeningly sweet sponge mixed with sawdust and ersatz flavorings) but when I first tasted Torrone Trapani, it was clearly the best, and I was here to get to the sweet heart of the matter.

Giuseppe explains what makes his torrone so good: high quality ingredients and no skimping on the almonds.  (Of course, there is also the secret to his recipe, which he isn’t revealing.) While some large-scale commercial producers of torrone use as little as 10% of almonds in their product,  Torronificio Trapani uses close to 70%.  The almonds are locally grown, not the cheap imported ones, or the California almonds that Giuseppe pronounced to be “woody and tasteless”.  His  almonds come from the highly prized almond varieties grown near Noto, and they are slowly toasted to a rich golden brown. The honey he uses is also local, and is fragrant of orange blossoms, which contributes to the torrone’s unique taste.

Giuseppe was constantly on the move – in fact he never stood still long enough for me to snap his picture – checking the consistency of the batch in the mixer, making sure the almonds are toasted to perfection then added at just the right temperature, and that each chocolate-covered torroncino is cooled properly before wrapping.  I am beginning to see that the real “secret” in the recipe is Giuseppe’s know-how and constant vigilance, as he strives to make every batch of torrone consistently perfect.

Giuseppe’s Aunt Maria is helping out. She has been making torrone for 30 years, though she admits that she no longer likes to eat it.  Don’t worry, I think, I’ll eat your share.  She remembers when all this work was done by hand – heating the honey and egg white mixture over a coal fire in a big copper pot, and stirring the mixture for several hours.  “Difficilissimo,” she says, sounding tired at the mere thought. Then the pots were scrubbed with ashes and lemon juice, and polished until gleaming with a white cotton cloth.  She shakes her head in wonderment. 

In 1986, Giuseppe asked an engineer to design a machine that would mimic his hand movements as he mixed the honey and egg white mixture, and this helped him increase his production with a larger batch that couldn’t be mixed by hand. Then in 1996, he decided to investigate the use of the machine that he now has on the premises, to see if he could replicate his torrone with a device that both mixed and heated. He traveled to Milan to try out the machine, mixing his batches of torrone and adjusting the temperature and paddle of the machine until he was satisfied that he could make the same excellent caliber of torrone. Only then did he buy the machine, which allowed him to double his production.

There is still a lot of hand work involved in Giuseppe’s torrone business.  When Giuseppe pronounces the torrone in the mixer ready, the staff snaps to attention and works like a well-trained relay team.  One fellow piles the warm nougat mixture on a wooden board on a scale. When the needle hits exactly 7 kilos, he passes the board to a table, where 2 people pat the nougat down into an even layer, then pass it to Giuseppe. He inverts the mixture into a shallow rectangular mold that was previously lined with edible wafer paper, then vigorously works a rolling pin over the torrone mixture until it uniformly fills the mold.  He places the mold on a rack and another person covers it with wafer paper, and lets it rest.  This procedure is repeated nine times.

The cooled nougat is then cut – first with a machine that scores the torrone, then finished by hand with a pizza cutter – which releases an intense aroma of toasted almonds.  Mixed with the sweet fragrance of honey, the air becomes almost edible.

Torronificio Trapani’s classic torrone bianco is available with almonds, a combination of almonds and pistachios, with hazelnuts, or as individual almond torroncini, covered in dark or white chocolate.  I stocked up on a variety before stepping out into the disappointingly sugar-free air. 

Before I got to my car, I’d already unwrapped a torroncino.  The dark chocolate coating was paper thin, just barely beginning to melt against my anxious fingers. And inside, oh my.  It was packed with crunchy almonds, toasted to perfection, with just the right amount of creamy filling holding it all together in a sweet embrace.  Torrone heaven.

Torrone Trapani can be found in several pastry shops in the area – Pasticceria Di Pasquale in Ragusa and the wonderful Rosy Bar in the Sacro Cuore district of Modica – as well as the larger DiMeglio supermarkets. 

Or go straight to the source:
Torronificio Trapani -Via del Mercato 66

Giarratana (RG) 

Tel 0932 975014

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Two new fixed price lunch menus are now available at Ragusa’s Il Duomo, the first restaurant in Sicily to be awarded two Michelin stars.  Discerning diners can taste the creations of chef Ciccio Sultano by choosing from a 45 euro menu and a 59 euro menu, both of which offer 3-courses featuring an antipasto, main course and dessert, along with several “mini-courses” that allow the diner to get an excellent sampling of  the restaurant’s cuisine. 

The 59-euro menu is truly all-inclusive, as wines are paired with the meal – all you have to do is sit down and eat…and drink.  There are no other charges, a welcome treat in these economic times.

As with all of Sultano’s cooking, the fixed-price menus adhere to using locally-sourced ingredients, a trait I have always liked about Il Duomo.  Certainly there are advantages to being located in Sicily, where there is an enormous variety of fruits and vegetables, artisan cheeses and superb olive oil, as well as exquisitely fresh fish and traditionally farmed meats, whereas a Michelin restaurant in the Dolomites does not have such a food bounty close at hand. 

Once you’ve gotten hooked on Il Duomo’s fixed price lunches, you might take the plunge and splurge at dinner, with the 150 euro fixed price “Sequilla” menu with wine (that I thoroughly  enjoyed with a group of travelers last spring) or celebrate the holidays with a new 12-course festa menu at 170 euro with wines included.   Once again, there are no other charges.   Except for the taxi, when you can’t manage to stagger back to your hotel on foot.

Il Duomo is located in the center of Ragusa Ibla, right near – you guessed it – the Duomo!  It is closed at lunch on Monday, and all day Sunday. You can make reservations through their website.

View our Trip that Dines at Il Duomo

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During summer in Sicily a traditional beverage is latte di mandorla – almond milk – and visitors wilting in the heat will often be offered a chilled glass of this refreshing drink. Once upon a time, almond milk was commonly made at home in Sicily, but nowadays, most people drink the commercially available stuff bought in the supermarket. Instead of being refreshing, I find it to be cloying sweet. So, I set out to make my own.

I had scored a kilo of beautiful pizzuta almonds from the San Basilio farm during the almond harvest, and so I began quizzing the natives about the best way to make almond milk. Asking for culinary advice is always a dangerous proposition in Sicily, as it inevitably leads to an overload of information, often conflicting. Just when I may have settled on a method, another person will look at me in surprise and explain an incredibly simple way of doing the same thing, that they claim is buonissimo. So, first I needed to sift through all the almond milk info.

Everyone did agree that the almonds had to be shelled, which I had taken for granted. Next, should they be blanched in order to remove the brown skins? The “yes” crowd said the skins would make the almond milk bitter, the “no” crowd claimed the skins added flavor and color. I wondered if the no crowd could simply be lazy? Everyone also agreed that the almonds needed to be finely chopped, though methods differed. A food processor was okay with some (see lazy crowd above), others said the heat generated by the blades would affect the taste, and that the almonds must be finely chopped with a mezzaluna. My friend Giovanni said they should be slowly pounded to a paste with a mortar and pestle, gradually adding water. He claims he learned this when he had to make emulsions while studying to be a pharmacist at the University of Catania. Meanwhile, my trusty neighbor Beatrice said she just tied the unpeeled almonds in a cloth sack and beat the whole thing with a wooden mallet. As the path to almond milk became ever baffling, this at least seemed like a great way to release my frustration.

Everyone soaked the ground almonds in water, except for Beatrice-of–the-Mallet, who just dipped the sack in water periodically, until the water became “milky.” The soakers put the almond mass into a fine cloth and squeezed out the almond milk. Some added sugar, others honey. One left it plain, but admitted to being on a diet. Time to move on I told myself, before I just decide to make almond biscotti.

First, I had to shell the almonds, and these being pizzuta almonds with amazingly thick hard shells, a regular nutcracker was useless. It was time to use ‘The Rock’, a 5 lb. stone that I use for crushing olives, and occasionally, my fingers. At first, I had a tendency to hit too hard and crush the almond to smithereens along with the shell, but soon I got skilled at giving one sharp whack that splits the shell, yet leaves the almond intact. By the time I’m done, I’ve got a sore arm and one bulging bicep.

Next, because I don’t fancy the idea of brown bitter milk, I decided to remove the skins. I poured boiling water over the almonds, and let them sit for 30 minutes, while I rested my arm. Then by squeezing each almond between thumb and index finger, the skins slipped off quite easily. There are always a few recalcitrant ones that hold tight to their skins – I used the zero tolerance approach to these and just ate them.

By the time I am done with this, I am intimately familiar with each and every almond and am beginning to understand why everyone buys almond milk at the supermarket. (You could skip this whole process if you simply buy blanched almonds, but depending upon their age, they may be fairly tasteless, and you won’t become close personal friends with your almonds.)

Now, it was finally time to chop or grind the almonds. I tried the mortar and pestle method, and it took just 30 seconds to flunk out of pharmacy school, as with each move of the pestle, the slippery almonds flew out of the mortar and went skidding across the kitchen floor. By now I was hot and tired, and longed for a glass of cold almond milk to perk me up. Time to skip tradition and revert to modern times with a food processor (you could probably use a blender, but I don’t own one.) I ground the almonds in batches, pulsing and adding a bit of water until the mixture was fairly fine, then dumped the mixture into a bowl. I added some mineral water, and let it soak while I rested in front of the fan.

Finally, I poured the contents of the bowl into a cloth-lined strainer, over another clean bowl. Then with my last bit of strength, I squeezed the cloth of ground almond paste to extract all the liquids. Wow! Out poured almond milk! I refrigerated the almond milk and had a nap. Once it was cold, I slightly sweetened it with sugar – this seemed to enhance the almond flavor – and added a little more mineral water. Sitting in the shade, it made a refreshing silky drink with a surprisingly tangy almond finish. In the end, worth all the effort.  

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Recipe type: Beverage
Author: Anita Iaconangelo
Prep time: 1 Hour
Cook time: No cooking
Total time: 2 hours, including chilling
Serves: 8 three-ounce servings

Nutrition:
Serving size: 3 oz

Ingredients:
4 oz almonds

Cooking Directions:

1. Pour boiling water over the almonds to cover, let sit for 15-30 minutes, then squeeze each almond individually so that it slips out of its brown skin. (You can also just buy blanched almonds and skip the shelling and skinning.)
2. Place almonds in food processor and pulse in order to finely grind, adding a bit of water to make a thick chunky paste.
3. Transfer the almond paste to a bowl, add about 2 cups (16 oz.) of mineral water, and let soak for 30 minutes.
4. Dampen a square piece of fine linen or cotton cloth and place it in a sieve over another clean bowl.
5. Pour the contents of the almond paste bowl into the cloth lined sieve.
6. Let the liquid (which should be milky looking) drain into the clean bowl.
7. Gather the corners of the cloth together, twist them tightly and squeeze the almond paste so that the liquid also goes into the clean bowl – do this until you have squeezed out all liquid humanly possible from the almond paste, and are perspiring heavily.
8. Next, fill a measuring cup with about ½ cup of water, and place the bag of almond paste in it, dip it and up and down, then push it down into the water several times to extract more milky liquid, then add the liquid to the bowl of almond milk and squeeze the bag again – do this 3 times or until the water is no longer very milky, and you are feeling weak.
9. Assuming you have enough strength left, place a funnel in a bottle or pitcher and pour the contents of the almond milk into the funnel.
10. Taste the almond milk!
11. It will be quite bland without any sugar, but should have a nice almondy finish.
12. Sweeten to taste if you like, with either honey or sugar.
13. If it seems okay as is, refrigerate; if too strong, add a bit more water.
14. Shake or stir before pouring into glass, and serve well chilled.
15. Makes about 8 servings of 3 oz each.

In a previous post, I wrote about how to preserve capers in salt. Now here is a recipe for pasta with capers and olives, and other nice things.

This is a quick and easy pasta recipe that uses items commonly found in an Italian pantry. You can vary it by adding tuna, which makes it a meal in itself.

This is an example of a dish you can put together at the last minute, in the fine Italian tradition of making something delicious with just a few ingredients. The key is to use quality ingredients, and don’t skimp on the olive oil.

Just to prove our point, we dropped in on Lidia near lunchtime, and she rustled up this dish of pasta that sent us off on an afternoon nap.

Recipe type: Entree
Author: Anita Iaconangelo
Prep time: 5 mins
Cook time: 10 mins
Total time: 15 mins
Serves: 4-6 People

Ingredients:
1 clove of garlic cut into thin slivers
A small peroncino
4TB extra virgin olive oil
6-8 green olives pitted and sliced
1 heaping tsp of capers, packed in salt & rinsed
1 8oz. can Italian peeled plum tomatoes, crushed (or use fresh tomatoes)
1 TB flat-leaf parsley, roughly chopped
1 lb spaghettini or spaghetti (I use DeCecco)
Fresh basil leaves
Canned tuna (packed in oil)

Cooking Directions:

1. Lightly sauté the garlic in the oil, and, for a piccante kick, add the peperoncino.
2. Add the olives and rinsed capers and cook over medium heat for 2 minutes.
3. (Optional variation: Add the well-drained tuna, breaking it into pieces with a fork.)
4. Add the peeled tomatoes and mash with a fork.
5. Cook the sauce for 10 minutes over medium heat.
6. Sprinkle in the parsley.
7. Cook the spaghetti until it is al dente, then toss with the sauce until it is thoroughly coated. Add a few torn basil leaves to each serving.

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It’s hot. Not just any hot, but Sicilian hot. Which is why we are out at 8.00 am, before the heat forces us to stay locked indoors until sunset. It’s time to pick capers.

Caper plants thrive in stone walls and rocky crevices, and disdain rich earth – in fact the few that I have managed to grow in a pot are decidely puny, while a cliff of limestone sends the capers into a fit of ecstatic growth.

And then there are the flowers. Exquisitely delicate, they last no more than 24 hours, leaving behind a stem with a tiny seed pod that will grow into a caper fruit, called cucunci in Sicily.

But I’ve gotten ahead of myself. The capers are the buds of the flowers before they open. In Sicily, they are traditionally preserved in salt, which is easy to do at home.

Start by picking as many as you want, choosing the tight healthy buds – leave the large ones that are ready to open into flower so at least someone else may admire it in the next 24 hours.

We like to combine a lovely walk with caper picking in the canyon of Misericordia near Ragusa, where sprawling caper plants drape the limestone cliffs, and we are far from any kind of pollution. A 15-minute downhill walk brings us to a narrow trail that hugs the cliffside, and capers grow in profusion As birds sing we rustle through the caper leaves, the scent of wild mint in the air. The tiny buds break off easily in our hands, and we quickly filling a small bag.

Before trekking back to the car, we stop to cool our feet in a clear stream, and Emanuele flicks tadpoles with his toes. The sun is hot on our backs as we continue our walk which has clearly become a trudge, and we realize that we should have started at dawn. At least we had the good sense to park in the shade. A short drive with the A/C blasting and we are back in the kitchen with our caper stash.

Once they have been cured in salt, capers can be used in many recipes, such as this pasta dish. Here is how to preserve capers in salt so they end up looking like this:

Recipe type: Breakfast
Author: Anita Iaconangelo
Prep time: 5 mins 
Cook time: 1 week
Total time: 1 week
Serves: As desired

Ingredients:
Capers
Sea salt

Instructions:

1. Go through the capers carefully, picking off any extra-long stems and stray ants (particularly important if you are vegetarian).
2. Rinse them in a colander, and pat dry on a dish towel.
3. Place the capers in a jar, layering them with fine sea salt.
4. (If you have a lot of capers, it’s better to use 2 small jars than one large one.)
5. Cover the jar with its lid and shake it to make sure the salt is well distributed.
6. Remove the lid and cover the jar with a single layer of a paper napkin or tight netting, and close with an elastic band.
7. Leave it in a place where it will get some airflow, but not in direct sunlight – a breezy countertop is good.
8. Every day, drain off any liquid that forms, and add another spoonful of salt.
9. After about a week, or when the capers stop giving off liquid, transfer to a clean jar/storage container and cover with a lid.
10. The capers can be kept on a shelf for up to one year.

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When Italian relatives call to say that you MUST come and pick something that is ripe, it’s impossible to say no – refusing free food is simply not done. I had already been through this last year, when my sister-in-law Elisa announced that I MUST come and pick sour cherries from her tree.  Being the first time I had done this, I enthusiastically picked kilos of amarene, then much less enthusiastically pitted them, and made lots of sour cherry jam and a crostata.  This meant slaving over a hot stove for hours, and then baking, so that the house didn’t cool off again until September. Frankly, it was not an activity I wished to repeat on a blazing hot summer day.  

After the third urgent phone call from Elisa it seemed that it would now be my fault if the amarene cherries just rotted on the tree – I did not ask who had been picking the cherries for years beforehand – and that barring a fatal disease, I had no choice but to pick.  With the hopes of not being stuck with too many cherries, I invited my neighbor Beatrice to go picking with me, as she had suggested that we make sour cherry syrup.  Other than accidentally spilling half a bucket of cherries in the dirt (which I immediately hid under more dirt), our picking went smoothly. 

Sour cherry syrup makes a delicious cherry soda, and was traditionally served in summer in Italy with a generous squirt of seltzer – nowadays we use sparkling water.  Getting a few cherries in the glass made it more fun, so you had a spoon to go along with it.  Or kiosks in cities like Rome would serve a grattachecca – shaved ice, done right before your eyes from a big block of ice – with the sour cherry syrup poured over it, a sort of old-fashioned snow cone.  I liked the idea of having sour cherry syrup on hand for a refreshing summer drink that is not too sweet.  Plus, I’d get points with the relatives.

So, I ask a neighbor, and another relative, about the best way to make sour cherry syrup, and soon phone lines are buzzing with advice.  Even something as simple as syrup manages to stir up a controversy in Italy. Lidia tells me to mix the pitted amarene cherries with sugar and leave them in the sun for 2 days, then boil for 10 minutes.  That’s the way her mother did it – she was Sicilian, and they seem to have a thing for putting things out in the sun to dry: tomatoes, black olives, figs, underwear. 

My neighbor Beatrice consulted her friend Laura, who she claims is a whiz at anything sweet, and Laura said to simmer the cherries with sugar for 20 minutes, and not a minute longer.  She is Sicilian, and never mentioned the sun. 

Still another neighbor suggested that to avoid the nuisance of pitting the amarene, they should be tied up in cheesecloth bags, pits and all, and simmered in a sugar syrup.  Upon further quizzing I eventually managed to extract an idea of proportions – how many cherries to how much sugar – as I scribbled furiously. 

I decided to try the cherries in the sun method for no other reason than I will definitely run into Lidia at family gatherings, and she is bound to pester me about this – plus it was a scorching hot day, so why not put that sun to good use.

I  also tried Laura’s method of simmering for 20 minutes, and just because I couldn’t stand pitting another cherry, the unpitted sour cherries in cheesecloth method came last. 

At the end of all this research, feeling slightly ill from having drunk an enormous quantity of sour cherry syrup, the Amarene Awards were officially bestowed:

First prize goes to the cherries-in-the-sun method.  Flavor was superb – intense cherry with a tart finish – and the whole cherries tended to stay round and plump. Beautiful red color was slightly brighter.

Coming in a close second was Laura’s simmer-for-20-minutes method.  The flavor seemed nearly identical to the sun method, though the cherries were a bit more broken apart due to the longer cooking time, and a bit less red. 

A distant third was the non-pitting cheesecloth method, which apart from having a less intense cherry flavor, also did not have any whole cherries in the syrup, and fishing the whole tart cherries out of the glass is half the fun of drinking the stuff.  Easy, but not worth repeating.

Below you’ll find my 2 recipes for preparing sour cherry syrup or sciroppo di amarene with whole cherries.  If you can stand to read any more about sour cherries, you might like:

Sour Cherry Jam

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When the season begins for amarene – sour cherries  – there are buckets to be had, and I usually make sour cherry jam, which entails a lot of sweating over a hot stove.  And usually the only thing baking at my house in Sicily in the summer is me, but on an unseasonally cool June day,  I decided to turn the oven on and experiment with making a sour cherry cake. 

I have used a similar recipe using sweet cherries or apricots, but what to do about the very sourness of sour cherries?  I solved this by giving them a sweet syrup “bath” which took the edge off the sour taste, making the cherries just pleasantly tart. 

This is a plain rustic cake that is not too sweet or rich, enhanced by tart little bursts of cherries and the crunch of almonds, and the sweet dusting of confectioner’s sugar was just right – a very nice combination I told myself, as I helped myself to a second slice.

Since the almonds play an important role in this cake, make sure they are top quality- not rancid or strange tasting.   I ate a handful just to make sure.  Though expensive, I adore the  pizzuta almonds from the San Basilio farm in eastern Sicily.  Intensely flavored with a slightly bitter finish, they pair well with cherries. 

More Sour Cherry Recipes:

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Sour Cherry Jam Tart – Crostata di Marmellata di Amarene

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I have had great success making a colomba pasquale – Italian Easter dove cake – in a round pan, which is not the traditional shape but it tastes delicious.  The colomba, or dove, is a symbol of peace, and there are cake molds available in a dove shape. Lacking just such a cake mold, I tried shaping the dove free-form, which looked like a pretty good imitation of a peaceful dove before I put it in the oven. But once it was baked, it ended up looking like a turtle hit by a car. It didn’t bake evenly either, so I’ve gone back to the round pan - it makes a perfect cake and I can be peaceful while it’s baking. 

While not difficult to make, the colomba needs plenty of rising time, so do this when you are planning to spend the good part of a day at home.

Start by mixing warm milk, yeast and some flour with a teaspoon of sugar to make a sponge, and let it rise until doubled, about 30 minutes.

Next mix eggs, lemon and orange zest, vanilla and melted butter, then beat in the sponge. Add more flour to make a soft dough, and turn out on board to knead until smooth. Add sultanas or raisins. (Many colomba recipes call for candied fruit, which not everyone likes, so I eliminate it and add sultanas).

Place the dough in a buttered bowl and leave to rise until doubled, about 1 hour.

Fold the risen dough over itself several times and place in desired cake pan – I used one large springform pan, or you can make 2 smaller cakes or 2 traditional colombe dove shapes.

Cover and let rise until doubled, 60-90 minutes. Do not be impatient – complete rising will reward you with a beautiful light cake.

Now, for the part that makes this cake so good – the crunchy almond glaze. Note: The quality of the almonds is of utmost importance here. I use the excellent pizzuta almonds grown not far from where I live in eastern Sicily. (Pizzuta almonds from the Mastri San Basilio farm can be found in specialty shops around the world, and are top quality.)

In a food processor, grind whole almonds with sugar, then blend in egg white and cornstarch. Carefully spoon the almond glaze over the risen dough, being careful not to press on the dough and deflate it. Scatter whole almonds over the surface of the cake, and sprinkle with confectioners sugar.

Bake in preheated oven until cake tester is clean, covering top of cake with aluminum foil if almond glaze begins to get too dark.

This is a soft, fragrant cake that does not keep for more than 3 days- but surely you will have eaten it all by then! And I see no reason why this cake has to be made only at Easter – it is wonderful with morning coffee or afternoon tea.

For the complete recipe, go to Italian Easter Cake.

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During the Renaissance, the week preceding ash Wednesday (and the beginning of Lent) got the name of grasso – fat, deriving from the festive banquets organized during this period. These banquets were known for rich dishes as well as their abundance of fried sweets (more fat!)  This may be seen as simply gorging before the traditionally low-fat diet of the Lenten period, but it is also true that celebrations involving lots of people made it necessary to prepare desserts that would be quick, cheap and delicious, so frying was a good way to cook lots of sweets for large crowds.  And so the culmination of carnival came to be known as Martedi Grasso, Fat Tuesday.  

Fried sweets that appear in Italian pastry shops and at carnevale festivities include frittelle, little round fritters spiced with anise, and zeppole, made with cooked rice flavored with orange peel, shaped into cylinders, fried and then thoroughly doused with honey adn dusted with cinnamon-a real digestive bomb. Maybe that’s where the tradition of carnevale fireworks comes from?

The most popular sweets found all over Italy for carnevale are chiacchiere, which means chatter or gossip, and every region seems to claim them as their own.  They also change names from region to region. In Tuscany they are called cenci – rags, while in other regions they are known as lattughe - lettuce, both of which roughly describe the sweet’s appearance.  In Liguria they are known as  or bugie - lies, presumably because you never tell the truth about how many you eat.  The recipe for chiacchiere contains a bit of alcohol, which also changes with the region.  In Sicily they use Marsala, while in northern Italy they use grappa.   You can use whatever you have on hand.  A recipe for chiacchiere di carnevale follows below.  

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1 oz (28 grams) butter
2 cups (250 grams) flour
1 pinch baking powder
1 pinch salt
 3 TB (35 grams) sugar
1 large egg + 1 egg yolk
¼ tsp vanilla
1 TB marsala or grappa

Mix together and knead to make a soft dough.  Add a TB of water if necessary.  Let rest covered, for 30 minutes.  Cut into 4 pieces, and work each piece individually through a pasta machine on the widest setting, then folding and putting through again, then resetting the pasta machine to a thinner setting, further reducing the setting until you have a long sheet of thin dough. (The second to the last setting works well for me.) 

Using a serrated cutting wheel, cut the dough into strips about 3 x 5 inches, then make 2 parallel cuts within the center of each piece. Heat a pan of oil (peanut or sunflower) until about 350°F (170-180° C), and drop in a few pieces of dough at a time. Turn with a spatula.  Cook until golden, then drain on paper towels.  Sprinkle with confectioner’s sugar, or if you are really celebrating, drizzle with melted dark chocolate.