Under the Tuscan Sun

by Frances Mayes

  Everything Pasta Salad with Baked Tomatoes

  When making soups, ratatouille, or this salad, I steam everything separately. This keeps the flavors distinct and allows me to cook each vegetable to its first point of doneness. I've never seen pasta salad on an Italian menu, but it's a marvelous American import. This goes easily to a picnic in a big plastic container.

  ~Prepare vinaigrette: ¾ cup of olive oil, red wine vinegar to taste (about 3 tablespoons), 3 cloves of crushed garlic, 1 tablespoon of chopped thyme, salt, and pepper. Shake in a jar.

  Fresh vegetables: 8 medium carrots, 5 slender zucchini, 2 big red peppers, 2 hot peppers, about one-half pound of green beans, and one bunch of spring onions. Cut in small pieces, except for hot peppers—mince these. Steam one by one until just done. Cool.

  Chicken: Rub 2 whole breasts with olive oil and place in an oiled pan. Season with thyme, salt, and pepper. Roast at 350°for about 30 minutes. Cool and slice into julienne strips.

  Pasta: Fusilli, the short, spiraled pasta, is best for salad. Cook two 1-pound packages and drain; immediately toss with 2 tablespoons of olive oil. Season and cool.

  Mix everything well in a large container, such as a turkey roasting pan, and chill until an hour before serving. Toss again and divide between two large bowls.

  For the tomatoes: Select one for each person (plus a few more for leftovers). Cut a cone-shaped hollow from the stem end and spoon out seeds. Trim off the bottom. Sprinkle with salt and pepper, then stuff tomato with a mixture of bread crumbs, chopped basil, and toasted pine nuts. Drizzle with olive oil. Bake at 350° for about 15 minutes.

  To serve, place tomato in the center of the plate, surround with pasta salad, garnish with black olives and thyme sprigs and/or basil leaves. Makes 16–20 very pretty servings.

  ~SECONDI~

  Risotto with Red Chard

  Risotto has become soul food to me. Like pasta, pizza, and polenta, it's another dish of infinite variety. In spring, barely cooked asparagus, tiny carrots, and a little lemon make a light risotto. I especially like it with fava beans that have been sautéed with minced shallots in a covered pan, then stirred into the risotto. Other good choices: chopped fennel, barely cooked, with rock shrimp; sautéed fresh mushrooms or dried porcini soaked in tepid water until plumped; grilled radicchio and pancetta. In Italy, you can buy funghi porcini bouillon cubes in grocery stores. They're excellent for risotto when no stock is at hand. Many recipes call for too much butter; if you have a good stock, butter is unnecessary and only a little olive oil is needed to start things off. If any risotto is left the next day, heat a tablespoon of olive oil in a nonstick pan, spread and pat down the risotto, and cook over a medium flame until crisp on the bottom. Flip over with a large spatula and crisp the other side. A fine lunch.

  ~Chop, then sauté, 1 medium onion in 1 tablespoon of oil for about 2 minutes. Add 2 cups of Arborio rice and cook for a couple of minutes. Meanwhile, in another pot, heat 5-½ cups of seasoned stock (chicken, veal, or vegetable) and ½ cup of white wine to a boil and reduce heat to a simmer. Ladle the stock and wine gradually into the rice, stirring each ladle into the rice until it is absorbed before adding more. Keep both the stock mixture and the rice at a simmer. Stir and stir until rice is done. It should be al dente and rather soupy. Add ½ cup of grated parmigiano. Thoroughly wash a bunch of chard, preferably red. Chop in shreds and quickly sauté in a little olive oil and minced garlic. Stir into risotto. Serve and pass a bowl of grated parmigiano. Serves 6.

  Rich Polenta Parmigiana

  This is more of a California polenta than a traditional Italian one. So much butter and cheese! Classic polenta is cooked by the same method—don't stop stirring—with two or even three more cups of water. You then pour the polenta out on a cutting board and let it rest until firm. Often it's served with a ragù or with funghi porcini. I've served this version to Italians and they've loved it. Leftover polenta, either plain or this richer one, is sublime when sautéed until crisp.

  ~Soak 2 cups of polenta in 3 cups of cold water for 10 minutes. In a stock pot, bring 3 cups of water to a boil and stir in the polenta. Let it come to a boil again, then turn down the heat immediately and stir for 15 minutes on a gentle flame that is strong enough to keep slow, big bubbles rising. Add salt and pepper, 8 tablespoons of butter, and 1 cup of grated parmigiano. Add more water if the polenta is too thick. Stir well and pour into a large buttered baking dish. Run in the oven at 300° for about 15 minutes. Serves 6.

  A Sauce of Porcini

  When available, fresh porcini are a treat. They're at their finest simply brushed with olive oil and grilled, a dish that is as substantial as steak, which they're often paired with on the grill. Out of season, the dried ones have many talents. Though they seem expensive, a little bit adds a lot of flavor. Spoon this sauce over polenta or serve as a risotto or pasta sauce.

  ~Soften about 2 ounces of dried porcini in 1-½ cups of warm water. This takes about one half hour. Peel and dice five cloves of garlic and gently sauté in 2 tablespoons of olive oil. Add 1 tablespoon each finely chopped thyme and rosemary, 1 cup of tomato sauce, and salt and pepper. Strain the mushroom water through cheesecloth and add it to the tomato mixture. Chop and add the mushrooms and simmer the sauce until thick and savory, about 20 minutes. 6 servings for polenta, 4 for pasta.

  Chicken with Chickpeas, Garlic, Tomatoes, and Thyme

  One of those recipes that can expand to accommodate any number.

  ~Simmer 2 cups of dried chickpeas in water with 2 cloves of garlic, salt, and pepper until tender but with plenty of bite, about 2 hours. In hot olive oil, quickly brown 6 breasts that have been shaken in a bag of flour. Arrange pieces in a baking dish. Drain chickpeas and scatter over chicken. Add a little olive oil to the same pan and sauté 1 coarsely chopped onion and 3 cloves of minced garlic; add 4 ripe tomatoes, also chopped coarsely, 1 teaspoon of cinnamon, and 2 tablespoons of thyme. Simmer 10minutes. Spread over the chicken. Season with salt, pepper, sprigs of fresh thyme, and ½ cup of black olives. Bake, uncovered, at 350° for about 30 minutes, depending on the size of the chicken breasts. This is attractive in a terra-cotta dish. Serves 6.

  Basil and Lemon Chicken

  A last-minute favorite, this chicken, served with a platter of summer squash and sliced tomatoes, tempers the hottest July night.

  ~In a large bowl, mix ½ cup each of chopped spring onions and basil leaves. Add the juice of 1 lemon, salt and pepper. Mix and rub onto 6 chicken pieces and place in a well-oiled baking pan. Dribble with a little olive oil. Roast, uncovered, at 350° for about 30 minutes, depending on the size of the chicken. Garnish with more basil leaves and lemon slices. Serves 6.

  Turkey Breast with Green and Black Olives

  Turkey is popular here, though the whole bird is rare except at Christmas. In this recipe, the breast is sliced into cutlets, like scaloppine. You can use flattened chicken breasts instead of turkey. If you don't pit the olives, warn your guests. I use the rest of the breast for distinctly un-Tuscan stir-fry with peppers.

  ~In a large pan, sauté 6 turkey cutlets in olive oil until almost done and remove to a platter. Add a little more oil to the pan and sauté 1 finely chopped onion and 2 cloves of crushed garlic. Add 1 cup of vermouth and bring to a boil, then quickly reduce heat to a simmer. Cover for 2 or 3minutes, then add the turkey again, as well as the juice of 1 lemon and 1 cup of mixed green and black olives. Cook for 5 minutes or until the turkey is done. Season with salt and pepper and stir in a handful of chopped parsley. Serves 6.

  ~CONTORNI~

  Fried Zucchini Flowers

  When this is good it's very, very good and when it's limp it's a disaster. I've made it both ways. The mistake was in the oil, which must be hot. Peanut or sunflower are the best oils for these delicate summer flowers.

  ~Choose a fresh bunch of flowers, about a dozen. If they're slightly droopy, don't bother. Don't wash the blossoms; if moist, pat dry. Place a thin strip of mozzarella inside each one, dip in batter. To prepare the batter, beat
2 eggs with ¼ teaspoon of salt and pour in 1 cup of water and 1-¼ cups of flour. Mix well, breaking any lumps with a fork. Make sure the oil is hot (350°) but not smoking. Fry until golden and crispy. Drain quickly on paper towels and serve immediately.

  Baked Peppers with Ricotta and Basil

  Stuffed peppers were my favorite dorm food in college. This ricotta filling is the polar opposite of the “mystery meat” we faced at Randolph-Macon. Fresh ricotta, made from ewe's milk, is a treat. The special baskets for making it imprint the sides of the cheese with a woven pattern. We often buy it at farms around Pienza, which is sheep country and also the source of pecorino.

  ~Singe 3 large yellow peppers quickly over a gas flame or a grill. The peppers should char all over, but don't cook them so long that they turn limp. Cool in a plastic bag, then slide off the burned skin. Cut in half and clean out ribs and seeds. Drizzle with olive oil. In a bowl, mix 2 cups of ricotta, ½ cup of chopped basil, ½ cup of finely sliced green onions, ½ cup minced Italian parsley, salt and pepper. Beat in 2 eggs. Fill peppers and bake at 350° for 30 minutes. Garnish with basil leaves. Serves 6.

  Fried Sage

  Too often sage is associated with that green dust that comes in little jars and makes you sneeze. Fresh sage has an assertive punch that complements meat.

  ~Wash 20 or 30 sprigs of sage, pat with paper towels, and allow to dry completely. Heat 2 inches of sunflower or peanut oil until it is very hot but not smoking. Dip sprigs in batter (see recipe for Fried Zucchini Flowers) and drop them in hot oil (350°) for about 2 minutes or until the leaves are crisp. Drain on paper towels. A splendid garnish for lamb, pork, or any meat.

  Sage Pesto

  I found a pestle of olive wood at the monthly antique market in Arezzo and put it to use with an old stone mortar rescued from a friend who used it as a copious ashtray. These big mortars, she explained, originally were used for grinding coarse salt. Until recently, salt, a heavily taxed and government-controlled monopoly, was sold only in tobacco shops. The cheaper coarse salt was widely used. The large old mortars are handy for pesto; the pestle and rough stone release oils from the herbs and bind the essences of all the ingredients. Extrapolating on the basic basil pesto, I've made a lemon-parsley pesto for fish, an arugula pesto for pasta and crostini, and a mint pesto for shrimp. I've come to prefer the texture of these pestos to the smoother ones I'm used to. Traditional Tuscan white beans with sage and olive oil taste even better with a daub of this sage pesto. I like it on bruschetta. Passed separately in a bowl, it's a good accompaniment for grilled sausages.

  ~Chop a big bunch of sage leaves, 2 cloves of garlic, and 4 tablespoons of pine nuts. Grind together in the mortar (or food processor), slowly adding olive oil to form a thick paste. Transfer to a bowl, mix again, add salt and pepper and a handful of gratedparmigiano. Makes about 1-½ cups.

  ~DOLCI~

  Hazelnut Gelato

  Super rich, this gelato makes me want to give up my citizenship and decamp permanently. Even people who claim not to like ice cream slip into a swoon over this one.

  ~Toast 1-½ cups of hazelnuts in a moderate oven for five minutes. Watch the nuts carefully; they burn easily. Remove, wrap in a dish towel, and rub off the fine brown skin. Chop coarsely. Beat 6 egg yolks and gradually stir in 1-½ cups of sugar, beating until nicely incorporated. Heat 1 quart of half-and-half until almost boiling, then remove from the heat and quickly whisk in the egg and sugar mixture. In a double boiler, cook the mixture gently until it thickens and coats a wooden spoon. Cool in the fridge. Whisk in 2 tablespoons Fra Angelico (hazelnut liqueur) or vanilla, and 2 cups of heavy cream. Add hazelnuts and the juice and zest of one lemon. Pour the mixture into an ice cream maker and process according to manufacturer's instructions. Makes about 2quarts.

  Cherries Steeped in Red Wine

  All through June we buy cherries by the kilo and start eating them in the car on the way home. Almost nothing you can invent improves the taste of the plain cherry. We've planted three cherry trees and have uncovered three more from the ivy and brambles. Two neighboring trees are necessary for fruit production.

  ~Stem and pit 1 pound of cherries. Pour 1 cup of red wine and the zest of a lemon over them and simmer for 15 minutes, stirring occasionally. Cover and let stand for 2 or 3 hours. Serve in bowls with plenty of juice and a big dollop of sweetened whipped cream or mascarpone. Little slices of hazelnut pound cake or cookies also might be served. You can use plums or pears instead of cherries. Serves 4.

  Folded Peach Tart with Mascarpone

  I first learned to make folded pie crusts from a Paula Wolfert cookbook. On a cookie sheet, you spread the crust, pile the filling in the middle, then loosely fold the edges toward the center, forming a rustic tart with a spontaneous look. The peaches here—both the yellow and the white varieties—are so luscious that eating one should be a private act.

  ~Roll out your favorite crust a little larger than you normally do for a pie pan. Slide to a nonstick cookie sheet or baking dish. Slice 4 or 5 peaches. Mix 1 cup of mascarpone, ¼ cup of sugar, and ¼ cup of toasted almond slices. Combine this gently with peaches. Spoon into the center of the crust, and flop the pastry edges over, pressing them down a bit into the fruit mixture. Don't seal over the top—leave a four- or five-inch hole. Bake at 375° for about 20 minutes. Serves 6.

  Pears in Mascarpone Custard

  This is an Italian version of the fruit cobblers I must have first tasted at the age of six months in the South, where they almost always were made of peaches or blackberries.

  ~Peel and slice 6 medium pears (or peaches or apples) and arrange in a buttered baking dish. Sprinkle with 1 teaspoon of sugar. Cream 4 tablespoons of butter and ½ cup of sugar until light. Beat in 1 egg, then 2/3 cup of mascarpone. Stir in 2tablespoons of flour last and mix well. Spoon over the fruit. Bake at 350° until just set, about 20 minutes. Serves 6 generously.

  Cortona,

  Noble City

  ITALIANS ALWAYS HAVE LIVED OVER THE store. The palazzi of some of the grandest families have bricked-in arches at ground level, with remains of waist-high stone counters where someone used to ladle out preserved briny fish from a vat to customers, or carve the stuffed pig, a job now performed in sleek open-sided trucks that ply the weekly markets or sell from roadsides. I run my hand over these worn stone counters when I pass them. From odd windows at ground level, the palazzo's house wine was sold. First floors of some grand houses were warehouses. Today, my bank in Cortona is the bottom of the great Laparelli house, which rests on Etruscan stones. On the top floors, windows open to the night show antique chandeliers, big armfuls of light. Often the residents are leaning out, two, sometimes three to a window, watching one more day pass in the history of this piazza. The main shopping streets, lined with great houses, are everywhere converted on the ground floor to the businesses of hardware, dishes, food, and clothing. For many buildings, probably it always has been so.

  On the facades, I notice how many times previous occupants have changed their minds. The door should be here—no, here—and the arch should be a window, and shouldn't we join this building to the next one or add a continuous new facade across all three medieval houses now that the Renaissance is here? The medieval fish market is a restaurant, the Renaissance private theater is an exhibition space, the stone clothes-washing sinks still just await the flow of water, the women with their baskets.

  But the clock repairer in his four-by-six-foot shop under the eleventh-century stairway of the city offices has been there for all this time, though he may now be changing the battery on the Swatch watch of an exchange student. He used to blow the glass and sift the white sand from the Tyrrhenian at Populonia for his hourglasses. He studied the water clocks drip by drip. I never have seen him stand; his back must be a hoop from slouching over the tiny parts for so many centuries. His face is lost behind the lenses he wears, so thick that his eyes seem to lunge forward. As I stop in front of his shop, he is working by the light that always angles in just so on the infinitesi
mal wheels and gold triangles, the numbers of the hours that sometimes fall off the white face, four and five and nine sprinkled on his table.

  Perhaps my own teaching activities are immortal and I just don't see it because the place doesn't have this backdrop of time; in fact, my building at the university is a prime earthquake hazard, slated to be demolished. We're to move to a new building next fall, one with a flexible structure suited to a foundation that is partly sand dune. A postwar structure, the current Humanities Building already is obsolete: fifty-year turnaround.

  The cobbler, however, seems permanent in his cave-shaped shop, which expands around him only enough for his bench, his shelf of tools, the shoes to be picked up, and one customer to squeeze into. A red boot like one on an angel in the Museo Diocesano, Gucci loafers, a yard of navy pumps, and a worn work shoe that must weigh more than a newborn baby. A small radio from the thirties still brings in the weather from the rest of the peninsula as he polishes my repaired sandal and says it should last for years.

  At the frutta e verdura, it is the same, the same white peaches at the end of July. The figs that are perfect now and overripe by the time I get them to the kitchen. Apricots, a little basket of rising suns, and bunches of field lettuce still wet with dew. The Laparelli girl, who became a saint and now lies uncorrupted in her venerated tomb, stopped here for her grapes before she gave up eating, in order to feel His suffering more clearly. “From my garden this morning,” she heard, as I do when Maria Rita holds up the melon for me to smell the fruit's perfume and her clean hand so often in the earth. When she takes me in the back of her shop to show me how much cooler it is, I step back into the medieval rabbit warren many buildings still are, behind their facades and windows filled with camcorders, silk skirts, and Alessi gadgets. We're under stone stairs, where she has a sink to wash the produce, then, another step down, we're in a narrow stone room with a twist into darkness at the end. “Fresca,” she says, fanning herself, and she shows me her chair among the wooden crates, where she can rest between customers. She doesn't get much rest. People shop here for her cascades of laughter, as well as for the uncompromising quality of her produce. She's open six and a half days a week, plus she cares for a garden. Her husband has been ill this year, so she's shifting crates every day as well. By eight, she's smiling, washing down her stoop, wiping a speck off a pyramid of gargantuan red peppers.