Retro Recipes and Traditional Fare

ricottapie.jpgThe days before Easter Sunday are hellish for supermarket workers in Italian-American cities such as Chicago, Philadelphia, and Providence. That's because every Italian woman, whether practicing Catholic or not, will be storming her local supermarket to purchase an obscene amount of eggs. (My mom used to buy between 12-15 dozen every year.) Lord help the poor dairy manager who runs out of eggs.

It's a sight to see. A gaggle of women trying to box one another one, in an effort to select the best eggs. It's the older Italian ladies who are most successful; they have honed their skills over the years. After all, they need to stockpile eggs. How else will they make  deviled eggs, braided sweet bread, sausage bread, and a host of pies?

Every Italian Easter table will have one or two savory pies, such as pizza chena (meaning "full pie"), a massive two-crusted pie filled with eggs and various Italian meats and cheeses and pastiera Neopoletana, a time-intensive pie made from ricotta cheese and soaked wheat kernels. The jewels of the Italian Easter table, however, are the sweet pies, namely custard, ricotta, and rice. Custard pie should be dense, creamy, and mile-high. Italian ricotta pie (torta di ricotta), an Italian cheesecake closely associated with Easter, is typically laced with citrus flavors but can also be made with nuts and/or chocolate.

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cherry_almond_puff_021.jpgFebruary is zipping right by. The days are getting longer, the sun is shining, the temps have been mild. I’m enjoying a mid-winter high. In just a couple of weeks, though, March will arrive with gray days, dirty snow, more snow, ice — all things that make the month of March in Minnesota my least favorite time of the year.

I’ve decided to celebrate the sunshine of today with a batch of Cherry Almond Puff. I began the process with an old recipe for Almond Puff that I got years ago from a friend of mine who lives in Bird Island, Minnesota. I haven’t made it in years, but was reminded of it when I was having coffee with someone the other day who told me about this great dessert she had made for a neighborhood get-together. I recognized it as Almond Puff.

Since February is National Cherry Month, I made a filling with dried cherries and almond paste. Yes, I’m still finding ways to use almond paste.

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Smoked salmon is one of those things nobody ever told me about until I was grown up. I mean, I guess I heard about it, but it was food beyond my reach. It never appeared in our kitchen; in small-town Illinois, it seemed exotic.

Other things I didn’t see much of included calves’ liver and oysters but when I tasted them for the first time, I knew it would be the last. I had quite a different reaction to silky, seductive smoked salmon.

I’ve never been able to convince my children of the virtues of smoked salmon: they have thus far refused to taste it. If you have a more open-minded group at your house, try this sandwich—it’s pretty great.

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shrimpgrits.jpg"Uglesich's Restaurant in New Orleans (Uglesich website) serves one of the best shrimp and grits that I ever tasted, although, just about everything there was incredible. This recipe, which follows a method from America’s Test kitchen, is pretty easy to throw together and makes a great quick dinner for two."

Southern Style Shrimp and Grits 

8 ounces shrimp (large size 31-40 per pound), peeled and deveined
1 tablespoon Olive Oil
1 minced garlic clove
pinch of Cayenne pepper
1/4 – 1/2 teaspoon Cajun Seafood seasoning
Salt and pepper
1 tablespoon unsalted butter
1 small onion minced (about 1/2 cup)
1½ cups water
1/2 cup Heavy Cream
1/2 teaspoon hot sauce
1/2 teaspoon Worcestershire sauce
1/2 cup Quick Grits (Quick not instant grits is key)
4 oz extra-sharp shredded cheddar cheese, shredded
1 green onion sliced thin

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stewFrom the LA Times

The first time I met chef Paul Prudhomme, he was peering over the stove in his narrow test kitchen, a converted shotgun house just outside the French Quarter in New Orleans. Chef was heating oil in a large cast-iron skillet, and when he saw me, he invited me over to watch him fix gumbo.

When the oil was smoking hot, he quickly whisked in flour to form a roux — "Cajun napalm," he called it — the bubbling mass darkening to a deep chocolate brown in minutes. He stirred a trinity of vegetables into the roux to stop the cooking — onions, celery and bell peppers — then added the roux to a pot of boiling stock. Chopped andouille sausage and garlic went in as he patiently watched the stew, tasting occasionally, over a slow, quiet hour while it gently simmered away. When the rich aroma was almost too much to bear, Chef added chopped chicken, and soon the gumbo was ready.

I can't say which I savored more: the depth of flavor from a seemingly simple dish or the unhurried quiet, almost sacred, time spent preparing it.

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