Rice & Grains

Corn, polenta, came to Italy from the New World, and yet, along with pasta and rice, it is one of the beloved starch dishes of Italy. Polenta was for the northeastern regions of Italy what potatoes were for Ireland. Corn grew in abundance there and fed many people and still does, so much so that the people of the Friuli-Venezia Giulia region are known as polentoni, polenta eaters. I come from the region, and I grew up eating polenta and still do eat it often. As a child I had just cooked or leftover polenta for breakfast with milk and sugar or with caffe latte, or pan-fried with some sugar and cinnamon sprinkled on top, as well as in endless ways accompanying vegetables, meats, fish, and cheeses. It is rather simple to cook—all you need is cornmeal, water, salt, olive oil, and a few bay leaves. When done, you can enjoy the polenta piping hot or let it cool and take shape, then cut and fry it, or grill and bake it, topped with anything you choose. In this chapter you’ll find it with leeks, with bacon lardoons, with Montasio cheese, or with just an egg yolk nestled in a piping-hot mound of polenta. Beyond the flavor of polenta, I look for the mouth feel, and that depends on the grind. Instant polenta will give you a smooth puddinglike texture, the medium grind a bit more texture, and the coarse will have almost a raspy feel in your mouth. There is also white polenta, milled from white corn, which is used much in the Veneto. And the polenta taragna, which has buckwheat milled along with the yellow corn, has much texture and flavor. The one important caution in cooking polenta is to get it smooth. Start it in cold water and whisk well while it cooks; it may take a bit longer but ensures lump-free polenta. Even though polenta might look done, make sure you cook it the recommended time; its digestibility and flavor increase with longer cooking time.

Cook rice just before serving to get the consistency of soup you like: 1/4 cup of rice per quart of base for a lighter minestra, and up to 1/2 cup of rice for a hefty and hearty minestra.

You can make a cup or a gallon of delicious soup by cooking rice in the soup base: multiply or divide this formula as needed. If you like the lighter consistency, use 1/4 cup of uncooked rice per quart of base; for a denser soup, use 1/3 cup. Don’t start cooking the rice more than 15 minutes before serving, though, since the grains continue to expand and absorb broth even off the heat. Serve immediately after the rice is cooked.

Polenta, after it has set, is baked and served as an accompaniment to many dishes in the Veneto and other northern regions of Italy. Here’s a basic procedure to follow, starting with freshly cooked soft polenta in any amount—as prepared in the recipe on page 109.

Here’s another of my delicious discoveries at Le Lampare, in Trani. Farro is again paired with seafood, the simply cooked grain tossed and dressed, like pasta, with a lively sauce of cured tuna, tomatoes, and capers. We can’t match the tuna used at Le Lampare—theirs was expertly house-cured from the flavorful and expensive ventresca (belly flap) of the fish—but with this recipe you can make a version that is truly delicious in its own right, using good-quality Italian canned tuna (packed in olive oil, of course). It is a great summer dish, as a main course or an appetizer.

As much as Puglia is about the land, it is also flanked by water: the Adriatic on one side and the Ionian Sea on the gulf side. Hence, one finds a big tradition of seafood as one travels down to the tip of the heel. In the quaint seaside city of Trani, along the Adriatic shoreline, is a delightful restaurant called Le Lampare. There I was introduced to farro con legumi e cozze, a beautiful stew of ceci and cannellini beans cooked with farro, one of my favorite grains, tossed before serving with savory mussels and their juices.

Cornmeal cookies are a favorite all over northern Italy: the Veneto has its zaletti, in Friuli we have gialetti. In Piemonte, you will find crumiri, piped into distinctive crescent-moon shapes. They are deliciously crumbly and just sweet enough.

Radicchio trevisano will yield the best risotto with the most authentic Italian flavor, but this recipe will be very good with radicchio grown in the United States, either the small round heads, or heads with long wide leaves. Endive, a distant cousin of the radicchio, will also make a good risotto.

Everyone makes this classic soup a little differently, according to preference. I like my risi e bisi rather brothy, but others make theirs quite dense. This is controlled by the intensity of the boil, whether the pot is kept open or covered, and cooking time, all of which determine the rate of evaporation. (I cook my soup covered, at a slow boil.) Either long-or short-grain rice can be used here. Traditionally, the soup was made with short-grain Carnaroli or Arborio rice, and I still think this gives the most authentic flavor and texture. It cooks faster too, but if you need to cook the soup longer or reheat it, the rice tends to dissolve. Long-grain rice, on the other hand, stays more intact in a long-cooking or reheated soup. But as it does not release starch like short-grain rices, the soup will be thinner.

Risotto with spinach is delightful, but it is only one of the many risottos made in springtime in Friuli. At the end of winter, the cuisine in Friuli is driven by the wild herbs that people pick or buy from the foragers who come to the markets. These flavorful, healthful greens are cooked in risottos, soups, pasta fillings, and frittatas. This recipe shows the basic technique that is used in Friuli to make risotto with common, delicious plants such as nettles (ortiche), wild asparagus (asparagina), and the popular herb sclopit (Silene vulgaris—maiden’s tears). So, if you happen to come by some of these greens, cook them in place of spinach.

This is a poor man’s simple recipe, a warm filler for cold winter days in Friuli. I use spinach, but any available green vegetable would have been used, and would be good. Cornmeal lovers will appreciate this; it has all the comforts of porridge, filled with the flavors of Friuli.

This simple soup can be made anytime, but it is best with locally grown asparagus (if you can possibly get it) with the sweetness of springtime. It’s also important to cook this soup sufficiently to develop the full flavor and silkiness from the base of leek and potatoes.

This is probably one of the most well-known Mexican desserts, even though it is believed to have Middle Eastern/Persian origins and is found throughout the world in many variations, such as coconut, almond, and orange. The heavy cream gives it a rich mouthfeel and reminds me of the raw milk found in Mexico. This dish is adapted from an old recipe I found in a cookbook without any date or author.

The name gorditas is used in an endearing manner to describe many small but “fatty” (referring to the thickness) foods. Everyone loves gorditas, and there are many different kinds. I tried these in Nuevo Leon and love them because they are fried, which makes them (or me) double gordita. I also like them because of the salty cheese and piloncillo that make them go wonderfully with a hot chocolate (page 25) or champurrado (page 22).

These cookies from Tamaulipas get their crunchy texture from the lard and the corn flour. They are rarely glazed, but you may choose to brush a beaten egg white and dust with sugar before baking them, as I like to do.

You can find all sorts of corn flour (masa harina) in Mexico, and their colors can seem almost fake. The best place to find them is the food mills, and they are commonly found near markets. Whenever I can, I like to make this dish with pink or blue corn because it enhances the color in a natural way and it somehow seems more fun.