Hen and chicks in El Lagartillo, Nicaragua.
Photo: Julia della Croce

Felicitazioni!… Hooray!… Toot-toot-toot!… Honk-honk!… Bing-bong!… Cling-clang!

Photo: Nathan Hoyt

Bravissime, Christopher Hirsheimer and Melissa Hamilton, my friends and photographers, for winning the culinary world’s 2013 cookbook Oscars for Canal House Cooks Everyday in the category of general cooking.

The Canal House, on the Delaware and Raritan Canal, Lambertville, New Jersey.
Photo: Julia della Croce

If my readers don’t already know about Christopher (who, by the way, is a “she,” not a “he”) and Melissa, they might start by reading their new book’s foreward, by Julia Child as dictated to Amanda Hesser “from beyond”:

  I’ve been an enthusiastic admirer of Christopher Hirsheimer and Melissa Hamilton since they were at Saveur magazine in the 1990s; two forthright women on a mission to cook. They were part of a dream-team that created a wonderful magazine that felt both wordly and unique to them. I loved the realism of their photos. I wanted to lick the pages!

….their partnership–women gathering to cook and to share their recipes–reminds me so much of my years with Louisette and Simca. We’d pile into the kitchen and Roo de Loo in Paris, with its coal stove, which I called the “monster,” and work fish through the tamis for quenelles and hand-whisk meringues, taking notes and chatting away. Paul was our photographer and we were cooking to perfect our understanding of French cuisine.

In Christopher and Melissa’s case, Christopher is the photographer and Melissa the illustrator, and there is no particular cuisine they are after. They cook what suits them–ripe tomato sandwiches, pan-fried pork chops to go with bitter greens, ribbons of pasta with fresh peas and scallions, and tart grapefruit marmalade cake. And that is what we should all be doing, and we should be doing it in a place that feels like our own. For them, Canal House is clearly the spot. I hope you will find yours. On y va!

–Canal House Cooks Everyday, Foreward

I can hardly add anything to this tribute spirited from Julia Child except to say that Christopher and Melissa are two of the finest cooks I have ever known, the finer because they don’t gussy up their cooking, or concoct or succumb to food fads, or resort to tricks like molecular gastronomy to seduce you. Their classic yet spirited food has a sophistication that can only come from mastery and a profound understanding of ingredients and the best way to use them; from an open-mindedness about the world of food and a desire to infect you with their  happiness, which, I think, is derived from a delight in how they spend their days cooking and eating in tune with the seasons, procuring food from the local farmers and artisans, and producing their exquisite cookbooks. I always feel happy when I’m at the Canal House, or when I’m flipping through the pages of Christopher and Melissa’s cookbooks. I laughed with recognition when Jim Hamilton, Melissa’s father and proprietor of Hamilton’s Grill Room just downstairs, told me a day doesn’t pass by when he doesn’t hear peals of laughter coming from behind the doors of their studio just across the hall from his own. If you have only their shiny, big new red book, you hardly need any other–except for a few good books on Italian cooking, of course!

You can read about the Canal House and order their books here.

Baked Ham with Golden Bread Crumbs, which has become my all-time favorite ham recipe, at Christopher and Melissa’s book-launching party.

Photo: Hirsheimer & Hamilton (Kyle Books, London and New York)

At Amazon, Barnes and Noble, Indiebound, or your local bookstore.

For information about Italian Home Cooking or any of my other award-winning cookbooks, see my website.

For signed copies, leave a reply or contact julia@juliadellacroce.com

(Italian Home Cooking, $35, includes gift wrap, card, p+h)

A sitting room in Palazzo Lanza Tomasi, Palermo, facing the sea. Photo courtesy of the Duchess of Palma

With so many photos to post there was no room for a recipe. Here, you’ll find a version of the Duchess’s pistachio pesto that I adapted for American kitchens.

Recipes for lunch at A Day Cooking with the Duchess, Palazzo Lanza Tomasi, Palermo Photo: Julia della Croce

(And by the way, if you live anywhere near Westchester County, New York, the Jacob Burns Film Center in Pleasantville will be showing Luchino Visconti’s film adaptation of Il Gattopardo, The Leopard, in this year’s Italian Film Festival on May 19, 20, and 22. Check their website soon for ticket information—and book early—tickets go quickly at this popular independent film theater—designed, incidentally, by my husband, architect Nathan Hoyt.)

From the Luchino Visconti film adaptation of The Leopard, with Burt Lancaster, Alain Delon, and Claudia Cardinale

My host, the Venetian-born Duchess, Nicoletta Polo, lived in New York for awhile with her husband, Gioacchino Lanza Tomasi, the cousin and adopted heir of Prince Giuseppe Tomasi di Lampedusa, author of The Leopard. (To clarify, the leopard is the emblem of Lampedusa’s own ancient family, and the author drew from his great-grandfather’s life in creating the protagonist, Prince Salina, the Leopard of the title). The couple and their young son made their way back to Palermo, arguably the jewel in the crown of all Mediterranean cities. There they rebuilt the magnificent 18th century palazzo by the sea that was Lampedusa’s last home. The character of Tancredi in Lampedusa’s novel was based on his beloved cousin and adopted son, Gioacchino Lanza.

The character of Tancredi, played by Alain Delon in the film, was inspired by the novelist’s affection for his adopted son, Gioacchino Lanza Tomasi.

It’s hard not to imagine yourself in Giuseppe di Lampedusa’s world when you’re in the grand rooms of the palace, an era which Visconti, working with the heir himself during the production of the film, carefully recreated.

The famous scene at Prince Salina’s table, from the film, The Leopard.

While the palazzo is filled with reminders of the book—the Prince’s telescope, paintings of ancestor popes and family saints—all the windows face the terrace garden and the open sea beyond it, a metaphor, perhaps, for this family’s outlook on a vanishing civilization, Sicilian indiscretions, and the travails of modern Italy.

A view out to the sea from the Lanza Tomasi palace garden. Photo: Julia della Croce

A taxi driver who’d brought me to the palazzo had a more local outlook, gossiping that he’d heard that the Duchess made “foreign” dishes in her cooking school—from Naples, and Venice, for example—proof enough that even after Garibaldi disembarked with his Redshirts at Marsala in 1860, the battle  for a unified Italy was never fully won.

The Duchess at market with a student, explaining unfamiliar sea creatures. Photo: Julia della Croce

The recipes on the Duchess’s menu, with their emphasis on pistachios, are typical of the local cooking. When we shopped for the pistachios, we sought out the D.O.P. variety from the medieval town of Bronte at the foot of Mount Etna. The particular type of pistachio tree the area is famous for, springs from the lava rock of storied Mount Etna and nowhere else. Considered to have no equal in flavor anywhere in the world, the pistachios were for sale at a shop near the palazzo.

The pistachio vendor around the corner from Palazzo Lanza Tomasi

For the pesto and the crostini toppings, the olive oil the Duchess used was, needless to say, the sun-struck local variety, fragrant and floral, seemingly concocted by the gods of Etna just for this marriage with the Bronte pistachios. Without them, I couldn’t quite reproduce Nicoletta Polo’s Sicilian pesto in my New York kitchen.

The Sicilians are masters of pesto. At the Capo market in Palermo, a plethora of pestos. Photo: Julia della Croce

Instead, I used whole pistachios bought in my local market. I shelled, peeled, and toasted them lightly; added a few almonds like they do in Bronte, upped the amount of basil and parsley the Duchess used, and eccola! (“so here it is!”)—a very fine pistachio pesto was made.

Fusilli with Sicilian Pistachio Pesto, ©Julia della Croce Photo: Nathan Hoyt

Pistachio Pesto – Pesto di pistacchi 

Makes about 1-1/4 cups
©Julia della Croce, 2013

Use this delicate pesto with fresh ribbon-type egg pasta, home-made potato gnocchi, or with short macaroni cuts such as fusilli, as the Duchess does. The coils of the fusilli trap the pesto nicely for an excellent ratio of sauce and pasta-surface. Mind that when saucing the pasta, you must blend a few tablespoons of the pasta cooking water with the pesto to loosen it up for an even coating. You can also use pistachio pesto as a condiment for grilled fish, stir a teaspoonful into a bowl of vegetable soup, or add a dollop to a batch of pureed potatoes for a big flavor boost.

Note: If the membrane of the pistachios don’t peel off easily after rubbing them with your fingers, blanch them in boiling water for about 1 minute. Drain, shock in cold water, and dry the nuts in a paper towel. Toast them lightly and when they cool, peel off any skins that haven’t come off.

1/2  cup shelled, peeled, unsalted pistachios
3 tablespoons lightly toasted, blanched almonds, or pine nuts, or  a combination
1 cup packed fresh basil leaves
1/2 cup packed fresh flat-leaf Italian parsley leaves
1/2  cup  Sicilian extra-virgin olive oil
1/2 teaspoon sea salt
freshly ground white or black pepper
3 tablespoons freshly grated parmigiano-reggiano cheese

In a food processor, combine the pistachios, almonds (and/or pine nuts), basil, parsley, olive oil, salt, and pepper. Process, pulsing every few seconds, to grind the ingredients to a grainy consistency. Take care not to over-grind to avoid a paste-like result. Use a rubber spatula to transfer the pesto to a small mixing bowl. Fold in the grated cheese. Press plastic wrap directly on the surface of the pesto until you are ready to use it. For best results, use it within several hours of preparing.

Ahead-of-time note: I am not a big fan of freezing pesto of any kind, but if you need to make it in advance, leave out the grated cheese until you are ready to use the pesto. Immediately after making the pesto, keep the surface well-protected with plastic wrap, as described in the recipe. The pesto can be kept in the refrigerator  for up to two days. Freshly grate and blend in the grated cheese just before using.

Thanks to Nicoletta Polo and Gioacchino Lanza Tomasi, and with gratitude to Gemmellaro Pistachio Products, the Bronte Insieme and Naturalmente Italiano websites, Pistachio between History and  Kitchen, by Irene Faro, and  “I Mille Menu” (F.lli Fabbri Editori, 1972).

Rome, Campo dei Fiori, tables outside a winebar. Piazza and Palazzo Farnese in the background, from Roma: Authentic Recipes from In and Around the Eternal City, by Julia della Croce (Chronicle Books) Photo: Paolo Destefanis

At long last, a streak of warm sunlight beams through my kitchen window. The day brings to mind Easters in Rome and the city’s abbacchio, butter-tender baby lamb, and the first artichokes of spring. No one, but no one, makes lamb and artichokes taste better than the Romans, though my mother would disagree. Being from Sardinia (Sardegna) where some of the best artichokes in the world grow under that island’s blazing sun, the thistles are a religion in her house.

Vendor trimming artichokes grown in Sardegna at the Campo dei Fiori market in Rome. From Roma: Authentic Recipes from in and Around the Eternal City, by Julia della Croce (Chronicle Books) Photo: Paolo Destefanis

In a region where there are nearly twice as many sheep as people (some 3,000,000 of them to about 1,675,000 Sards), you know that lamb cookery is a serious affair. But I’ll not attempt to quibble over where it is made best. Indeed it is a dish difficult to reproduce anywhere else. The abbacchio of Rome and Sardinia is not easy to come by, nor are the sun-drenched artichokes of those southerly fields where the choke flourishes. So instead I offer some advice on the best way to approach this authentic recipe, unchanged since its Roman author gave it to me a few years ago, and you will produce a splendid dish that celebrates Spring, symbolically and deliciously.

Ewe and lamb. Photo: Celina della Croce

Let’s begin with the artichoke, as misunderstood as it is off-putting in its prickly armor (one does wonder who the first adventurous eater was who figured out what pleasure lay beneath its hoary choke).

Spring artichokes at the market. Photo: Julia della Croce

I don’t want to say how many times I’ve ordered artichokes in even the most well intentioned restaurants outside of Italy, only to find a pickled specimen on my plate, not a fresh one. A pickle is a pickle, whether cucumber or artichoke. For this recipe, or any other calling for fresh artichokes, look for them in the fresh produce section when they are in season–not put-up in a vinegar bath, pre-grilled and sott’olio (under oil), or otherwise pre-cooked or preserved. If you don’t find them fresh, simply wait until you can.

Spring artichokes, small and tender. Photo: Julia della Croce

As for the lamb cut you’ll need for this dish, go to a butcher and ask for the top round of the leg. This is the meaty, upper part, not as muscular as the lower leg, tender enough to grill. It has terrific flavor and when cooked in a braise or a stew, the meat will nearly melt in your mouth.

Section eight shows the top round of the lamb.

This is a dish for the season, maybe my favorite of all made from lamb, adapted from a recipe given to me by my Swedish-born friend, who has lived in Italy for most of her life. She learned how to cook the lusty dishes of the Roman countryside from her mother-in-law, and passed many of them on to me. The preparation is quite simple.

Artichoke going to flower in Joan Gussow’s Piermont, NY garden. Photo: Susan Freiman, www.NatureWaltzPhotos.com

Know your artichokes:

• Artichokes are technically in the thistle family and native t0 the Mediterranean Basin. They thrive in dry, torrid climates, so shipping them to far-flung places so that people like me with an artichoke habit is, admittedly, not a sustainable practice (though my friend and neighbor, master gardener Joan Gussow, grows them in her riverfront garden in the Hudson Valley, NY).
• There are many different varieties of artichokes, from walnut size to the size of a small grapefruit and ranging in color from deep purple to pale green.
• As with most vegetables, bigger is not better. The older the artichoke, the tougher it will be.
• The edible part, the “heart,” the fleshy base of the flower bud is tender enough to eat before the artichoke begins to flower.
• As with many vegetables, artichokes are best eaten on the same day they are picked, though such freshness isn’t feasible for most of us.
• Look for artichokes with leaves that cling tightly to the body of the thistle and are not slack and pointing out. The color should be clear and bright, not streaked with brown or black. Stems should be rigid and brightly colored, not flabby and black.

Roman Braised Lamb with White WIne and Artichokes, from Italian Home Cooking: 125 Recipes to Comfort Your Soul, by Julia della Croce Photo: Hirsheimer & Hamilton

Roman Braised Lamb with White Wine and Artichokes – Abbacchio brodettato coi carciofi

Serves 4
From Italian Home Cooking: 125 Recipes to Comfort the Soul, by Julia della Croce (Kyle Books, 2010)

The thick, aromatic gravy calls for serving the stew with plenty of sturdy bread, and alongside polenta, or potato puree. Serve a full-bodied red wine at the table.

zest one 1 lemon
juice of 2 lemons
6 fresh medium artichokes, or 10 fresh baby artichokes
2 pounds (trimmed weight) lamb top round
½ cup all-purpose flour
3 tablespoons extra-virgin olive oil
3 large cloves garlic, crushed
1 carrot, shredded on the large holes of a box grater
¾ teaspoon sea salt, or to taste
½ cup dry white wine
1½ cups tasty chicken broth plus more if necessary
three 6-inch sprigs fresh dill, or 3 tablespoons minced fresh fennel fronds
freshly ground black pepper

1. To trim the artichokes: Add about 6 inches of water to a large glass or ceramic bowl (do not use metal), then squeeze the juice of one of the lemons into it. Trim a thin slice from the bottom of the stem of each artichoke. Pare off all the dark green skin on the stem. (The flesh of the stem is tasty.) With one hand, pull off the tough outer leaves until you reach leaves that have tender white areas at their base. Using a serrated knife, cut off the upper dark green part of the inner leaves; leave the light greenish-yellow base. The inner rows of leaves are the tender part you want, so be careful not to cut away too much. (If you are using baby artichokes, keep in mind that they are more tender, thus there will be fewer tough outer leaves to remove.) Cut the artichoke in half lengthwise and, with a small knife, cut out the hairy choke and any other tough inner purple leaves. As each artichoke is finished, immediately put it in the lemon water to prevent it from turning brown. (Once cleaned, the artichokes can remain in the lemon water in the refrigerator for up to 24 hours.) When all of the artichokes have been trimmed, drain them, cut each half in half again, and pat dry. Place each artichoke half, cut side down, on a cutting board, and cut into quarters lengthwise. Cook the sliced artichoke hearts in boiling water to cover for 10 minutes. Drain and set aside.

2. Trim the excess fat from the lamb. Cut the meat into approximate 1½-inch pieces. Pat thoroughly dry with clean kitchen towels.

3. Lay a piece of waxed paper on your work surface, about the size of a standard cutting board. Scatter the zest on the wax paper and roll the meat in it . Spread the meat out on your work surface in a single layer. Sprinkle it lightly with the flour; shake of any excess.

4. In a large, heavy skillet or Dutch oven, warm the olive oil over medium heat and add the lamb pieces. If your pot is not large enough to accommodate the meat with plenty of room for it to sear properly, brown it in batches or in two separate pots. Brown nicely all over, about 12 minutes. Add the garlic, carrot, and salt. Stir in the wine. Cook to evaporate it, about 2 minutes. Cover half-way with stock, reduce heat to low, partially cover and cook, adding more broth a little at a time as needed, until the lamb is tender, about 1¼ hours. Check the pot frequently to prevent the meat from drying out. When the meat is almost done, add the artichoke hearts and cover. Cook over low heat until the artichoke hearts are tender and the flavors of all the ingredients marry, about another 10 to 15 minutes. Stir in the dill or fennel and the pepper after cooking.

Ahead-of-time note: You can make the stew a day or two in advance up to the point where you add the artichokes and the dill or fennel fronds. Let the meat cool, cover, and chill. When ready to finish the stew, reheat it gently and slip in the artichokes and stir in the fresh herb just before serving.

“Gnocchi of a Different Color: Variations on Potato Pasta,” Mark Bittman, New York Times, February 21, 2013 Photo: Sam Kaplan

Continue reading and you’ll find how my own potato gnocchi (gnocchi di patate in Italian—pronounced NEE-AUCK-KEY) have evolved from the traditional recipes in a few ways. Like Mark and Mario and many inventive modern chefs, I might make them of a different color.

Passing different colored potatoes through a ricer for rainbow gnocchi. Photo: Celina della Croce

But I’ve stuck to tradition in one way—I always hollow out the little dough cylinders to ensure that the dumplings are as light as they can be.

Anatomy of a potato gnocco (note the singular for “gnocchi,” the plural)

Before potatoes were introduced into Italian cooking, gnocchi were made of flour and water—let’s say that t’was was a heavy affair.

Woodcut from Maccaronee, by Merlin Cocai, 1521. Revelers eating gnocchi. From Pasta Classica: The Art of Italian Pasta Cooking, by Julia della Croce (Chronicle Books, 1986)

Here’s the first prototype recipe for potato gnocchi, written by the Celestine monk and chef-philosopher to the Bourbon courts of Naples, F. Vincenzo Corrado:

Bake the potatoes in the oven and scoop out the pulp, which should be pounded along with a fourth of its bulk of hard-boiled egg yolks and with as much veal fat and ricotta cheese. Add several beaten eggs to bind the mixture. Season with spices and divide the mixture into small pieces half a finger long and as thick. Dredge the pieces in flour and boil over high heat for a short time. Sprinkle with cheese over the dish and serve with meat sauce. –Treatise on Potatoes, 1801

F. Vincenzo Corrado, the first to write about using potatoes as human food, the first to publish a recipe for potato gnocchi.

Thud!

Mark’s master recipe is another matter, a classic—identical to the streamlined, lighter modern version that you find in Italian culinary bibles like those of Ada Boni, Luigi Carnacina and Luigi Veronelli; in books by Marcella Hazan—and, in all of my own cookbooks. For ethereal and pillowy potato gnocchi, three ingredients are prescribed: starchy-variety potatoes, flour, salt.

Egg in the dough–or not?

In my first book, Pasta Classica, I wrote,

Most Italian recipes for potato gnocchi call for the addition of eggs, [which] makes the dough easier to work with by binding the ingredients, but also makes it necessary to add more flour to absorb the [added] moisture. The more flour, the heavier the dumplings.

The sans-egg approach is culinary wisdom that’s been handed down for generations; it’s how I saw the Italian grandmothers working in the back rooms of family trattorie across Italy turn out gnocchi; and how the best Italian home cooks and professional chefs alike approached the little potato clouds.

Like at Sorelle Picchi (Picchi Sisters) in Parma, a trattoria I love, where you’ll find the women in the kitchen making the gnocchi. Photo: Julia della Croce.

Today, I eat my words, the result of watching beautiful little potato gnocchi break in the cooking water several years ago on the occasion of my daughter’s birthday. Yes, potato gnocchi, probably my 100th batch made over a lifetime, dissolved into one lugubrious mess.

Nothing much has changed since the 1800s in the way of equipment.  A basic: a large, roomy stockpot in which to cook the gnocchi.  This drawing is from Il Cuoco Moderno, by Antonio Barberis, Torino, 1910

Did I skimp on flour in the grip of an obsession to produce the lightest possible gnocchi? No doubt. What of forming and test-cooking one or two (like I tell my students to do) before plowing through the entire ball of dough? Mea culpa. But it was a cruel lesson. Ever since then, I’ve been putting egg in the dough—and liking the results: richer flavor, less floury texture.  And, never again have my gnocchi melted away!

Use the freshest eggs possible, like these little wonders from a local farm. Photo: Susan Freiman, www.NatureWaltzPhotos.com

One more departure from tradition—and another about-face on my own past advice. There are two categories of white potato that all cooks recognize (let’s leave the matter of sweet potato gnocchi for another day). The moist, “waxy” variety like Red Bliss and White Potatoes are suitable for mashing, roasting, and boiling, and for potato salads. The floury type, like Russet or Idaho is what we always told you to use for potato gnocchi. Now I use the Yukon gold variety because it  has such a pleasant, buttery flavor and sunny hue, and I think, a more delicate texture. With the egg worked into the mixture, the dough holds together nicely and the resulting dumplings are less starchy in the mouth.

A departure from tradition: Yukon Gold-type potatoes are now my favorite variety for making potato gnocchi. Photo: Courtesy of the Idaho Potato Commission

Coming Full Circle: Dra-a-a-g Your Gnocchi

Mark’s recipe instructs:

Roll a piece of the dough into a rope about 1/2-inch thick, then cut the rope into 1/2-inch lengths. Score each piece by rolling it along the tines of a fork; as each piece is ready, put it on a baking sheet lined with parchment or wax paper; do not allow the gnocchi to touch one another.

HALT! BACK UP! YOU ARE NOT DONE YET!  It’s how you roll out the 1/2-inch lengths of “rope” that creates hollows in the little cylinders. Those ridges you make with the tines of a fork (or a wooden butter paddle, or along the the holes of a cheese grater) are not just for decoration. The dumplings need to be dragged (strascinati [strah-shee-NAH-tee] in Italian) along those tines/ridges/grater holes, then, flipped with the active thumb to hollow them out. The resulting craters in the dumplings serve to thin out the miniature tootsie-roll shapes, making the gnocchi lighter and forming nooks and crannies that will cup little pools of sauce.

So here you have it, the ins and outs of making the lightest, fluffiest little potato clouds ever.  In bocca al lupo, as the Italians say–good luck.  It’s not very difficult if you follow my advice!

Classic gnocchi di patate, potato gnocchi.

Here’s the recipe for potato gnocchi that has evolved in my kitchen–originally published in my first blog post about a year ago. There’s an instructive video and a terrific heritage sauce recipes for topping the gnocchi. Or, if you prefer, for the simplest of all sauces, try this homey, quick and chunky salsa di pomodoro. Besides using it over gnocchi, it’s suitable for dried or fresh pasta dishes.

P.S. Notice anything odd about the photo below, taken at the Williams-Sonoma studio when those recipe testers were making my very own potato gnocchi recipe while I was 1,000 miles away, puttering around in my own cozy kitchen (I’m afraid that’s how it works sometimes in the cookbook publishing world)?  Yup! THEY didn’t hollow out the gnocchi, either. So, Hungry Reader, now you know why I wrote this post!

Potato Gnocchi with Simple Tomato Sauce, from Williams-Sonoma The Pasta Book: The Ultimate Collection of Recipes, by Julia della Croce (Weldon-Owen, 2010) Photo: Ray Kachatorian

20-Minute Tomato Sauce with Garlic

Reprinted from Italian Home Cooking: 125 Recipes to Comfort Your Soul, by Julia della Croce (Kyle Books, 2010)

Makes approximately 2 cups

2½ cups canned, peeled plum tomatoes in juice
3 tablespoons extra-virgin olive oil
4 large cloves garlic, smashed
2 tablespoons tomato paste
2 or 3 fresh basil leaves
¼ teaspoon salt, or to taste
freshly milled black pepper

1. Drain the tomatoes, reserving their juice. Using your hands or a potato masher, crush the tomatoes well. Set aside.

2. In a cold saucepan over medium-low heat, warm 2 tablespoons of the olive oil and the garlic together, and sauté until the garlic is soft but not colored, 3 to 4 minutes. Add the tomato paste and stir; then add the tomatoes and their strained juice. Simmer over low heat, uncovered, until enough of the liquid evaporates to form a sauce that will coat a spoon, about 25 minutes. Tear the basil into small pieces and stir them into the sauce along with the salt. Simmer for another minute or two. Remove from the heat and stir in the pepper and the remaining 1 tablespoon olive oil.

Variation: Substitute 1 small red, white, or yellow onion, chopped, for the garlic.

Ahead-of-time note: The sauce can be made 4 to 5 days in advance of using and stored tightly covered in the refrigerator, or it can be frozen for up to 3 months. Whether storing it in the refrigerator or freezer, leave out the basil, pepper, and last tablespoon olive oil. Stir them into the sauce after reheating.

Señora Rosenda, master empanadera. Photo: Celina della Croce

The dough is made from flour and lard and the pockets filled with what meat or vegetables are at hand. These were baked, some were fried. Celina loved them. Photo: Celina della Croce

Today, this corner of the world is in the shadows of a different kind of empire, The Republic of Soy, a term coined by opponents of a global conglomerate that sows lucrative GM soy crops around the world. “Growing pools,” or international financial speculators have rushed to buy or  lease land from the campesinos and indigenous populations who can’t afford the lucrative GM monocrop’s production costs, or reject its threat to their way of life. The Republic of Soy’s primary crop is not food but money, made possible by a law passed by President Carlos Menem in 1996 that legalized the commercial cultivation of bioengineered soybeans. Until then, farmers produced food and livestock for consumption, so much of it, that Argentina was considered one of the best-fed countries in the world. Now, genetically modified soybeans carpet half the country’s farmland. No wonder that so much of the produce I found in the Buenos Aires markets wasn’t grown in Argentina (though, according to MoCase-VC, 70%-80% of all the food consumed locally in Argentina is produced by campesinos).

The produce stalls and supermarkets that I shopped in while in Buenos Aires offered a uniformity of fruits and vegetables, mostly imported. These were from Ecuador. Photo: Nathan Hoyt

Celina, who studies Latin America, wanted to see for herself what the expansion of agribusiness had done to small farmers here, as elsewhere in the world.  She wrote, “The family’s lifestyle is a mix of modern-day and early 20th century life. They get up at daybreak and go to bed at sunset to make full use of the daylight. No refrigeration, only a lightbulb and a radio… If they had meat, they hung it from a ceiling beam.” The nearest internet was more than an hour away and more a source of jokes than a tool. “Where did this gringa come from? they asked. ‘The internet! They teased,” as though I’d materialized from thin air.”

A shooting lesson with Señora Rosenda’s son, José, in the mato. Small game and wild fowl are part of the family diet.

Her sponsor was the National Peasant Movement of Santiago del Estero–Farmers’ Way, also known as MoCaSe-VC, an organization that fights for the Señora Rosendas of the world–peasants and indigenous people–to keep and regain their lands and to defend their right to grow and consume their own food. Equally important, it sends city dwellers and foreigners like Celina to live with the campesinos for a transfer of knowledge. Celina was charged with bringing a sack filled with vegetables and provisions for her stay. Señora Rosenda made swift use of the flour, carrots, and potatoes for empanadas and rib-sticking soups. “They are so generous,” Celina wrote, “though they have so little.”

Señora Rosenda drinking yerba mate while making vegetable and chicken soup with Celina’s provisions and a chicken from the farmyard. Photo: Celina della Croce

The stew Señora Rosenda concocted with the gifts from the “gringa.” Celina’s face lights up at the thought of it. Photo: Celina della Croce

There can be no mention of Señora Rosenda’s empanadas without contemplating her world. Recipes are not about ingredients alone. They tell stories. Señora Rosenda grew up on this land, as did her ancestors. Long ago, they carved out a plot large enough to feed themselves and their animals. But for centuries of campesinos who worked the land, formal deeds went unwritten.

Señora Rosenda on her farm in Santiago del Estero. Photo: Celina della Croce

The mato is no longer forsaken territory. The flatlands have become a province of the Republic of Soy, a hungry empire that devours the globe. Considering it up for grabs, the soy barons write themselves deeds to land that the peasants have cultivated for generations. Like the early Europeans who occupied the ancestral lands of the native Americans, the soy barons have overrun the mato, and force out the small farmers by whatever means necessary.  The campesinos say they risk their lives at the hands of paramilitary forces and hired guns who shoot them, drive large trucks into their tents, burn their crops, destroy their machines, kill their animals, and drop poison on their houses from airplanes.

Small goat farming, suited to the arid and rocky landscape of Santiago del Estero and one of the few sources of modest income for the family, is disappearing with the end of peasant farming. Photo: Celina della Croce

Señora Rosenda’s husband, Gualberto, with his flock of goats. A mother and baby get special attention. Photo: Celina della Croce

If agribusiness has its way, Argentina will become a land without farmers. The Republic of Soy, reshaped by herbicides and technology, requires a minimal workforce.  A thousand hectares of soy can be managed by only four people. In ten years, some 200,000 campesinos were driven from their lands and fled to the slums of the cities. Brewster Kneen, who wrote about the end of farming in Argentina in Farmageddon over a decade ago, put it this way: “one does not want to wonder how many of the ubiquitous garbage pickers on the streets of Buenos Aires were once small farmers.” Where there were once vegetables, fruits, lentils, meat, cheese, and milk that people could eat, now there is soy. 97% of it is sold to China, the United States, and Europe, much of it to feed the cattle for our hamburgers–a bitter harvest for the Argentines. The soy barons have destroyed small-scale, sustainable farming communities while the multinational plantation companies have degraded its soil and uprooted 70 per cent of the forests to plant transgenic crops that sicken and pollute.

Señora Rosenda’s cow grazing on the mato as if to say, “What’s happened to us?” Most grazing land has been transformed into soy bean fields. Photo: Celina della Croce

Agents for the barons informed Señora Rosenda’s family that they intended to divide up her land, allowing them to keep a small fraction of the original plot and paying an undervalued price for the rest of the property. But the family needs the whole plot to raise their horses, cattle, goats, sheep, and chickens; grow corn, alfalfa, and vegetables for their own food and the animals’ feed; to have enough firewood for the cold winters on the flatlands. Like other peasant farmers, they are attached to their ancestral land and can live dignified lives through working it. They see the city as dangerous, overwhelming, polluted, and unhealthy. Based on the fate of other campesinos in the mato who had acquiesced to such deals with the soy barons, Señora Rosenda refused. Soon after, some of her animals were found dead, and the family was shot at when they ventured out of their home. They still suffer from air and water pollution from Monsanto’s Roundup herbicides as airplanes pass over their land to fumigate the area.

Making tortillas. Photo: Celina della Croce

Señora Rosenda’s hearth. Photo: Celina della Croce

It is not hard to see that in these parts, Señora Rosenda is like a David to Goliath. With the power of the international campesino movement behind her, she has fought the soy barons and succeeded, so far, in keeping her land, crops, and animals. She lives on her farm with her husband, Gualberto, and one of her grown children, raising goats and chickens for meat and eggs. Her family slaughters the goats and sells most of the meat to a butcher in a tiny town not far away. Like other campesinos in the mato, she was once afraid of leaving her house. Now she has a deed to her ancestral lands, though her Goliath is not slain. The corporate Goliaths have many lives.

“Let us have the candor to acknowledge that what we call “the economy” or “the free market” is less and less distinguishable from warfare. For about half of the last century, we worried about world conquest by international communism. Now with less worry (so far) we are witnessing world conquest by international capitalism. Though its political means are milder (so far) than those of communism, this newly internationalized capitalism may prove even more destructive of human cultures and communities, of freedom, and of nature. Its tendency is just as much toward total dominance and control.”

–Wendell Berry, in ”The Failure of War”

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Here, my own empanadas… originating with my maternal grandmother and namesake, Giulia Esu. While they may sound more Spanish than Italian, these impanadas are a legacy of Alghero, the ancient Spanish-built port on the island of Sardinia, where my mother was born.

Nonna Giulia Esu’s lamb and artichoke impanadas. Photo: Hirsheimer & Hamilton

Nonna Giulia’s “Impanadas” with Lamb and Artichoke Stuffing
Makes about 18 empanadas

Adapted from Italian Home Cooking: 125 Recipes to Comfort Your Soul, by Julia della Croce. Published by Kyle Books (U.S.) and Kyle Cathie (U.K), 2010.

First, double your favorite pie crust recipe that would yield a total of two double crusts if you were making standard 8-inch pies, omitting any sugar. My grandmother used lard for the pastry. My favorite substitutes goose fat, when I can get it, for butter. But usually I use a formula of 3 cups of flour,  a total of 20 tablespoons or 2-1/2 sticks shortening (I prefer a mixture of 1/4- part cold vegetable shortening and 3/4-part unsalted butter), and 8-10 tablespoons ice-cold water. Don’t leave out the salt–1 teaspoon.

For the filling:

1¼ pounds lean ground lamb

2 tablespoons extra-virgin olive oil
1 medium onion, chopped
2 large cloves garlic, minced

1 cup roughly chopped cooked fresh or frozen (not pickled) artichoke hearts
4 ounces stale bread
½ cup meat stock or milk, for soaking bread
4 tablespoons chopped fresh flat-leaf parsley
1/3 cup freshly grated pecorino, Parmigiano-Reggiano, or Grana Padano cheese
2 large egg yolks (reserve egg whites)
¾ teaspoon salt
¼ teaspoon freshly milled black or white pepper
1 tablespoon chopped fresh rosemary, or 1½ teaspoons dried rosemary

1 whole egg beaten with 1 teaspoon water

1. Make the pastry and chill.

2. In a skillet, warm the oil. Add the onion, garlic, and artichokes and sauté over medium heat until the onion is wilted, 3 to 4 minutes. Add the meat and sauté gently until lightly browned on the surface and bright pink inside, about 2 minutes. Transfer the mixture to a medium bowl.

3. Trim the crusts off the bread. Place it in a bowl and pour in enough stock, milk or water to cover. Soak until softened. Squeeze the bread dry and crumble it; discard the liquid.

4.  Add the crumbled bread, parsley, grated cheese, egg yolks, salt, pepper, and rosemary to the meat mixture. Mix well.

5. Preheat an oven to 375ºF. Line 2 baking sheets with parchment paper. On a floured work surface, roll out the dough until just less than ¼-inch thick. Using a 3-inch cookie cutter, stamp out as many rounds as possible from the dough. Transfer to the prepared baking sheets. Gather the scraps together; roll out again and stamp out additional disks. Brush the rounds with the reserved egg whites.

6. Place a generous tablespoon of the filling in the center of each dough disk.  Fold the dough over the filling to create a half-moon shaped empanada, lining up the edges. Use a fork to firmly crimp the edges. Use extra dough to make decorations. Brush the surface with the egg wash. Bake until golden, about 30 minutes. Serve warm.

I’m flattered, I guess!

If you missed that one, read it HERE.

The ultimate in literary food porn: photos of a day spent cooking with the Duchess of Palma in her Sicilian palazzo. Click to find the connection to “Il Gattopardo,” the great novel of the end of European aristocracy. — Julia Moskin