Almost Italian

Stuffed Shells

March 5th, 2010

As children visiting our grandparents at the beach, we’d collect the empty grey shells of channeled whelks, scungilli. Long after the last grains of sand had fallen from our sneakers, we’d hold the whelks to our ears to “hear the waves” of Long Island Sound and dream of our next trip to the beach. As that trip might not be until the following summer, we treasured our only connection to those sunny days without school. Perhaps this association with real shells explains our particular fondness for stuffed conchiglione, giant pasta shells that resembled nothing on our beaches, except perhaps little boats—of cheese, meat, or tuna stuffing.

We knew that Almost Italian dot com would eventually get around to Stuffed Shells and admit we procrastinated because we’d hoped that, by now, we’d have learned more about their “old country” origins. But, we have only a few hunches. As one of our history professors used to say, “the sources are silent.”

What we do know is that throughout the provinces of southern Italy, one will find pasta shells cradling mixtures of sheep cheeses, bitter greens, and even potatoes.

Along with tufoli, manicotti, and lumache (thick shell-shapes that look a little like French escargot), conchiglione are the only dry pasta shapes that, once par-boiled, become a large enough receptacle for stuffing. And here we may have a clue to their invention. The cowrie-shell shape with its ridged exterior would be awkward to form by hand, and this is one reason we suspect large pasta shells to be a mid-20th century innovation. Indeed, conchiglione appear only as machine-made forms.

Usually sold as “Jumbo Shells,” conchiglione, (the Italian suffix—one denotes that they’re bigger than mere conchiglie,) are thick-walled—tough enough to stand up to boiling, handling during the stuffing process, and then baking. We think the shape was developed as a convenience.

By the 1950’s fewer women in both Italy and the Americas remained home to roll out the soft egg doughs for ravioli and other stuffed pastas that are best quickly boiled. A dry pasta form that could withstand less delicate (dare we say, more haphazard or rushed?) handling would have been a boon to the busy homemaker who might also hold down a full-time job in a factory or office. Casseroles and baked pastas, which could be kept warm and served to individual family members as they came home at staggered times, suited the less leisurely weekday suppers of America’s post-War suburbia. (We find no references in pre-World War II cookbooks—in Italian or English—to stuffed shells.)

The ever-changing foodways of America’s many immigrant populations sometimes enjoy surprising intersections. Twenty years ago, I was struck by the resourcefulness of a young Polish immigrant with a grad student husband and two toddlers. She was not a seasoned cook, but her heart and hospitality were what counted when she invited us for a dinner of pierogi—Polish pasta half-moons commonly stuffed with fried onions, mild white cheese, potatoes, cabbage, and/or ground meat. Rather than making her own dough, our hostess had simply spooned ricotta and fried onions into—you guessed it—jumbo pasta shells (which she’d previously boiled far beyond any semblance of al dente). Fast-forwarding to the Internet era—you’ll now find scores of “pierogi” recipes that fill pasta shells with everything from mashed potatoes and shredded cheddar to Mexican taco-seasoned beef to curried tuna fish salad.

While these are not treatments we would recommend, and indeed, your nonna would reach for her bottle of herbal digestivo if you so much as whispered these variations to her—we discuss them because, for better or worse, they are part of the story of what has happened to Italian food outside Italy.

And though we have good reason to fear that somewhere out there lurk Buffalo Chicken-stuffed Shells Fra Diavolo, we trust they are consigned to an appropriate circle of the netherworld.

NOTE: Despite the fact that most baked pasta dishes are not assembled at the last minute and are thus well-suited to entertaining, timing is still important. The texture of the dish will be vastly superior if you parboil, stuff, and bake the shells as close to serving as possible—rather than doing the shells ahead and reheating them.

Remember those uncomplicated childhood days at the beach. Keep your shells simple, and enjoy them warm from the oven, not microwaved hours later. Turn off the TV, sit down at the table, and make Nonna proud.

Stuffed Shells

Ingredients:

1 10 oz. Package chopped, frozen spinach, thawed
2 oz. Prosciutto, finely diced (1/4- inch)
Freshly ground black pepper
1/2 Tsp. peperoncino (red chili flakes)
1 Large egg
1 1/2 Cups whole milk ricotta
1 oz. Parmigiano (freshly grated, this yields nearly 2 Cups)
Freshly grated nutmeg

2 – 2 1/2 Cups My Grandmother’s Marinara Sauce
Additional Parmigiano
4 Tbsp. Flat-leaf Italian parsley, finely chopped

20 Conchiglione, jumbo pasta shells (about 8-9 oz)
Salt

Preparation:

The Filling:

Unwrap the thawed spinach, and place it to drain in a strainer set over a bowl.

Meanwhile, heat a small sauté pan over medium heat, then add the prosciutto. Sauté until it has crisped slightly, rendering some of its fat. Add the peperoncino and a few grinds of black pepper black pepper and sauté for another minute. Remove pan from heat and reserve.

Break the egg into a large bowl, and beat thoroughly. Add the ricotta and Parmigiano, stirring gently to blend with the egg.

Using your hands, squeeze as much liquid as possible from the spinach, chop roughly and add to the ricotta mixture.

Grate approximately 1/4 teaspoon of nutmeg into the filling, (Freshly grated nutmeg makes a real difference!) Add the reserved prosciutto. Stir thoroughly to combine. Cover the bowl and refrigerate for at least an hour. (You may do this step up to one day ahead of stuffing the shells.)

Precooking the shells: (Radical technique—but it works and lessens the chance you will damage or overcook your shells.)

Bring 2 quarts of water to a boil in a heavy, lidded saucepan. When water reaches a full, rolling boil, add 1 1/2 tsp. salt; stir to dissolve. Gently sink the shells a few at a time into the pot so that all are completely submerged.

TURN OFF THE BURNER, place the lid on the pot and set the timer for 4 minutes.

After 4 minutes, with a wooden spoon or rubber spatula, gently stir the shells. Replace the lid and set the timer for 2 minutes.

After 2 minutes, the shells will be UNDERCOOKED, not al dente. You want them just pliable enough to stuff. With a slotted spoon, remove the shells from the water and place them in a strainer.

Preheat oven to 375 F.

Ladle enough marinara sauce (about a half-cup), into the bottom of an oven-proof dish.

With a dessert or iced-tea spoon, take a shell and fill it with about 2 tablespoons of the ricotta-spinach mixture. Set the shells, filling-side facing up, into the baking dish as you stuff them.

Arrange shells side by side so they touch each other and stay in place. When you have stuffed all the shells, carefully spoon additional marinara over the shells, leaving some of the filling exposed (see photo).

In the middle of the oven, bake the shells, uncovered, for 20-25 minutes.

For each serving, use a large spoon to gently remove 3 or 4 shells and a little sauce into a shallow bowl. Dust with a little more Parmigiano and chopped parsley.

Serves 4 – 6 as a very rich pasta course.

Note: We’d be grateful if you’d take a moment to have a look at our most recent post at Sarasota Soundings. We’re seeking comments on the state and future of publishing cookbooks and we’d love your input. Thanks in advance.

Posted by Holly Chase Filed in Pasta