Italians are fiercely proud of their regional foods, and like their forebears, Americans of Italian descent have also persisted in maintaining local traditions. The association of scacciata with Middletown, Connecticut, seems profound, even as what are now the fourth generation of Sicilian-Americans have grown and “emigrated” from the small industrial city on the Connecticut River.

Copyright © 2012, Skip Lombardi

The longing for this particular snack is such that we’ve found Middletown scacciata recipes among decades-old Florida newspaper clippings and one contemporary California fusion menu. Bloggers and members of the Middletown diaspora share their memories, recipes, and analyses of scacciata on Facebook. Yet judging from the comments of all but a very few, la vera scacciata Miliddesa remains within the city limits of Middletown.

Middletown scacciata is savory and distinct from other Italian flatbreads (some of which have similar spellings, including the better-known Tuscan schiacciata, a flatbread studded with purple grapes.) Middletown’s two most common fillings are broccoli or potatoes, either of which may be augmented with spinach and Italian sausage. Christmas and Easter were the times when most home cooks would prepare scacciata for family gatherings.

Over three-quarters of Middletown’s Italians can trace their families back to a single town in eastern Sicily. Melilli, famous for its church and festival of San Sebastiano, is within 15 miles of the city of Siracusa. Eastern Sicily also boasts its own scacciata recipes, but today we are celebrating a recipe that evolved here, one that reigns supreme in the memories of Middletown’s Miliddese community.

Copyright © 2012, Skip Lombardi

NOTE: See http://almostitalian.com/cudduruni/ for guidance on the peculiarities of Sicilian spelling and pronunciation!

Scacciata Miliddesa
(Middletown’s Melilli-style Scacciata )

When Middletown still had local pizza parlors like Lastrina’s and Marino’s, many home cooks would simply buy dough and proceed to make their own fillings.

Copyright © 2012, Skip Lombardi

However, in the age of the chain pizzeria, you’ll do better to make your own dough from scratch. And if you double the recipe, you can freeze half to have on hand for the next time you find yourself craving scacciata, which will probably be fairly soon.

Our dough recipe is based on Sally Schneider’s dough for pizza.

For the dough: (makes about 1 pound, enough to a 2-crust scacciata):

1 cup (or a bit more) warm water (110° F.)
1/8 teaspoon sugar
1 envelope (1/4 ounce) dry yeast
3 cups unbleached all-purpose flour (plus a little more, for dusting)
2 1/2 teaspoons salt
1 teaspoon olive oil

We use a microwave oven to warm the water in a glass bowl or cup. (Be sure it is not TOO hot.) Dissolve the sugar and yeast into the warm water. Set it aside while you measure the flour and salt into a large bowl. (We use an 8-quart bowl, because it is large enough for the mixing, kneading, and the eventual rising. This minimizes clean-up chores.)

When the yeast mixture has begun to foam, gradually stir all of it into the flour. Drizzle in the oil. When all the liquid has been absorbed, you will have a ragged, sticky lump of dough.

Dust your hands with flour and right inside the bowl (or on a floured counter or board, if you prefer), knead the dough for about 5 minutes, until it is smooth, slightly elastic, and no longer sticks to your work surface. You may add a few drops of warm water if all the flour has not been absorbed. (Weather and the humidity of your own home will determine how the dough comes together.)

Place a large plastic shopping bag over the bowl to make a tent. It will trap moisture and warmth. Set the covered bowl aside in a warm spot for at least 1 hour, or until the dough has doubled in volume. When the dough has doubled, punch it down and, with a spatula, pat it into a rough mound. Cover the bowl and let the dough rise again for 40 – 60 minutes.

When you are ready to make your scacciata, punch down the dough a second time. Divide it into two halves and keep them covered while you preheat the oven and finish your filling.

Copyright © 2012, Skip Lombardi

For the filling:

While fresh broccoli and/or broccoli di rape are what cooks used in the 1950’s, we find that frozen, chopped broccoli actually has a better texture and saves a lot of prep trimming and waste. Freezing tenderizes the flavorful stems so the broccoli needs less pre-cooking. (Our grandparents were nothing if not frugal, and we know they’d have chosen the frozen product, which, in most markets, is also less costly.)

Ingredients:

Olive oil
4 – 6 garlic cloves, thinly sliced
6 anchovy filets
1/2 teaspoon peperoncino, crushed red pepper flakes
1 medium onion, thinly sliced
2 tablespoons capers, well drained
2 pounds frozen, chopped broccoli (1 large or 2 small bags)
Salt & freshly ground black pepper

Preparation:

Thaw the broccoli pieces in a colander for at least 1 hour. (If you’ve forgotten, do it as soon as you remember. Luckily, the heat from the pan will also thaw them, but then you’ll need to sauté them longer to evaporate the excess liquid.)

Heat a large sauté pan over medium heat, then add enough oil to coat the bottom. Add the garlic, anchovies, and peperoncino. Cook until the garlic is fragrant and the anchovies have begun to dissolve.

Lower the heat slightly and add the sliced onions. Sauté for 5 – 7 minutes until they are thoroughly wilted.

Add the capers.

Add the broccoli pieces and sauté for at least 10 minutes, until they have softened. If they were not thawed and drained first, you may need to cook them a little longer. You want them to be tender, but still bright green and with almost no excess liquid.

Turn off the heat.

Season the mixture with salt and pepper and reserve it off the burner while you roll out the dough.

Preheat the oven to 425° F.

Line a sheet pan at least 15 x 11 x 1 inches with cooking parchment. Set it aside.

Lightly flour a board or pastry cloth and roll out half the dough into a rectangle a little larger than the bottom of the baking pan. Gently fit the dough into the parchment-lined pan.

Spoon all the filling onto the dough, leaving at least 3/4 inch empty on all four sides.

Roll out the second half of dough and lay it atop the filling.

Gently pinch and crimp together the two layers of dough to seal the scacciata.

With a sharp fork or tip of a knife, prick the top layer of dough all over to create 20-30 evenly-spaced vents. (These will let steam escape and keep the dough from becoming soggy.)

(Optional step: Mix 1 tablespoon of water with 1 tablespoon of olive oil. With a pastry-brush, lightly “paint” the mixture over the top and edges of the scacciata.)

Bake the scacciata in the middle of the oven for 20 minutes. It should be a light golden color. Check to see that it is not browning too much. Depending on your oven you may need to bake it a little longer. Turn the pan around and bake for an additional 5-10 minutes.

Remove from the oven. Lifting the edges of the parchment paper, remove the scacciata from the pan and let it cool on a trivet or baking rack. Allow it to cool to room temperature before you sample.

Copyright © 2012, Holly Chase

Serves 8 – 12.

Though Eggs in Purgatory can be a delicious way to use up leftover Sunday Gravy, most versions of the dish are meatless—just eggs poached in a quickly-made tomato sauce. Accompanied by no more than thick slices of bread, the dish has long been a frugal favorite, especially as a Lenten lunch or dinner. There is scarcely a simpler main dish among Italian-American recipes.

Copyright © 2011, Skip Lombardi

But why the name? Uova in Purgatorio (Uove in Purgatorio would be the correct Italian plural) sounds as if it might be a milder, less spicy version of anything labeled alla diavolo. Wasn’t Purgatory (according to those who led our Sunday school and Catechism classes) that murky place for sinners mid-way between l’inferno and il paradiso…? As children, we imagined Purgatory to be something like the damp, cobwebbed root-cellars beneath our grandparents’ New England homes. A little creepy, but not too terrible, Purgatory was not a place for souls on the way down, but rather, for those on the way up.

Indeed, in his mystical poem, La Divina Commedia, the Florentine poet Dante Alighieri ascends through the layers of Hell to find himself in a place of purification. Arriving at the Mountain of Purgatory at sunrise on Easter morning, the poet sees a beautiful landscape flooded in light, one that promises eventual redemption.

So, the great Dante wrote of sunrise in Purgatory. Then, what better way for Italians to honor one of their own than through food? Could the name of the dish have started as a visual pun? Eggs between Heaven and Hell, in Purgatorio? Had you been fortunate enough to study Dante in the original language or to read Longfellow’s translation of The Divine Comedy, you could have given your eggs-in-red-sauce a dusting of 14th-century poetry along with a little Parmigiano.

Is it conceivable that this staple of cucina casalinga was inspired by Dante’s “cheeks of beautiful Aurora [Dawn]… changing into orange?” After all, even non-Italians ask for eggs to be served “sunny-side up.”

Despite our finding a Halifax, Nova Scotia, diner that serves “… wasabi Caesar with a snow-pea garnish” and “Eggs Dante… 2 eggs poached in a spicy tomato sauce, served on hash browns with melted Prince Edward Island mozzarella,” we think it’s a stretch to suppose Uova in Purgatorio was named to honor the great Tuscan poet.

Undaunted, we have followed as many false leads as you’ll find in Dan Brown’s Angels & Demons, but we think we have figured it out:

Upon leaving Italy, the poorest immigrants had subsisted (out of necessity, not choice) on a diet that was virtually vegetarian. In fact, the southern peasantry were described as mangiafoglie, leaf-eaters. Vegetarianism has a long history in Italy, and abstention from animal products took its name from the Greek mathematician and ascetic, Pythagoras (ca. 570 to ca. 490 BCE), who spent the latter part of his life in the Greek settlements of southern Italy. Believing in reincarnation, Pythagoras and his followers consumed nothing considered to have a soul. Until the middle of the 19^th century, a Pythagorean diet, uno vitto pitagorico, was widely understood in Europe and the Americas to be synonymous with vegetarianism.

Two Italians, both true culinary philosophers, wrote of the wholesome virtues of the Pythagorean table.* In 1743, Florentine physician Antonio Cocchi delivered his address advocating the broad Pythagorean admonitions against consuming birds, quadrupeds, fish, milk, honey, and eggs.

Vincenzo Corrado, 1736 – 1836

A generation later, the chef Vincenzo Corrado drew on Cocchi’s work but was more liberal in his interpretation, eschewing the near-vegan Pythagorean model and writing recipes that would appeal to his upper-class clientele. While extolling the health benefits of a plant-based diet, Corrado was also interested in refined preparations. Unlike Cocchi, promoting Pythagoras’ diet of largely raw foods, Corrado, whose banquets were legendary, had the skills and creative curiosity of a professional cook. So looking back to 1781, when Corrado published Del Cibo Pitagoric0… we can see that even if red meat and poultry are still out, anchovies, lobster, eggs, butter, cream, and even grasso di vitello (veal suet) are in. Delicate and sophisticated combinations like tomatoes stuffed with lobster and pistachios were clearly intended for Corrado’s aristocratic Neapolitan patrons. (To what extent the chef followed the modified Pythagorean model we can only guess, but he lived to be 100 years old.)

There is another significant difference between the Pythagorean fare of Cocchi and Corrado: the Tuscan Cocchi does not mention the tomato. Less than 40 years later, many of Neapolitan Corrado’s recipes include pomidoro [sic], which had become far better known in the south, among all social classes.

Returning to our mysteriously named dish, let’s look at the words “pitagorico” and “purgatorio” and recall the linguistic phenomenon known as metathesis, the switching and reversal of letters within words. (See our comments on the spelling of Eggplant Rollatini. Metathesis is hardly confined to Italian, and is very common among the languages and dialects around the entire Mediterranean.)

Once again, we must remember that Italian immigrants to America tended to speak only their regional languages and did not share a comprehension of standard Italian. Furthermore, a large percentage of them were illiterate. For many, acquisition of both English and a hybrid, Americanized Italian occurred simultaneously. Letters were substituted, mangled, and dropped altogether. Since most immigrant Italians would not have been acquainted with the term “pitagorico,” the likelihood that a multi-syllabic word of hazy meaning might evolve into something more identifiable was great.

Did anyone consciously name—or rename—the dish? Probably not. Chances are that someone who did understand the meaning, perhaps an educated cleric, spoke of the meatless dish as being “pitagorico.” Even after they had become upwardly mobile meat-eaters in the New World, Catholic Italian immigrants were nonetheless in the limbo of assimilation; for them, Eggs in Purgatory would have seemed to be an aptly named dish.

Although Eggs in Purgatory sounds positively penitential, the dish imposes no hardship on the cook or diners and need not be confined to Lent. Atop a bed of pasta, it’s a satisfying main course. Corrado would be pleased.

Eggs in Purgatory (Uova in Purgatorio)

Ingredients:

At least 3 cups of My Grandmother’s Marinara
4-6 Large eggs
3 Tbs. Italian flat-leaf parsley, coarsely chopped, OR
6 Large leaves of basil, snipped
Extra virgin olive oil
Freshly grated Parmesan

1 Lb. long pasta (linguine is our preference)

Preparation:

Bring a pot of water to boil for the pasta.

Heat the sauce in a large sauté pan. When it begins to simmer, carefully break the eggs into the sauce, keeping the yolks whole. You may place a lid on the pan or regulate the heat so the the sauce does not sputter. Poach the eggs until they are done to your taste (we like ours to be a bit runny so the hot yolk blends with the sauce).

When the eggs are beginning to set, salt the water for the pasta and cook the pasta to the al dente stage. The eggs should finish poaching by the time the pasta is done.

Spoon a little marinara into the bottom of each of four shallow bowls. Drain the pasta and divide it among the bowls. Spoon another 1/4 cup of sauce atop each pasta “nest.” With a spatula or large spoon, gently lift the eggs and place each in the middle of a pasta nest. Spoon a little more sauce around the eggs and over the pasta (you may have some sauce remaining).

Drizzle a teaspoon or two of olive oil over each dish and sprinkle on the herbs. Finish each dish with about a tablespoon of freshly grated Parmesan.

Serves four as a main dish.

Before we share another adventure in culinary archeology, we want to give you a sense of our personal turf. One of us really is Italian-American; the other is not, but lived in an Italian-American community. Growing up in the Northeast during the 1950′s and 1960′s, neither of us recalls any of “our” Italians, most of whom had roots in the Mezzogiorno, ever making a casserole of bread, eggs, and cheese.

Copyright © 2011, Skip Lombardi

Nonetheless, for more than half a century, hundreds of recipes with names like “Italian Bread Casserole” and “Italian Brunch Bake” have appeared in newspaper food columns, women’s magazines, and many a spiral-bound community cookbook. Countless variations have been clipped or copied in longhand on the backs of envelopes and recipe cards. The more stylishly named Strata is a cousin to them all.

We know we are setting ourselves up to hear protests that someone’s grandmother brought their family strata recipe from Bari or Sorrento to New Jersey… Was it scribbled on the back of a baptismal certificate or hidden inside a shoe? Was it part of Zia Tomasina’s dowry? Would anyone who divulged the ingredients risk a Calabrian curse?

Colorful stuff, but we’re confident that strata, like stromboli, was invented here in America. As to origin, even the names of both concoctions may share a common origin. Just as Roberto Rossellini’s scandal-scented film Stromboli gave its name to a glorified American calzone, Italian cinema may also have named a simple cheese and custard casserole. In 1956, Federico Fellini’s stark and cynically realistic La Strada, staring Anthony Quinn, won the first Oscar ever awarded for Best Foreign Language Film. Of course, the title of the film, spelled with a “d,” means “the street,” while strata, is the Latin (not Italian!) plural of stratum, meaning “layer.” Obviously, a dish of multiple savory layers could legitimately be called strata, but we suspect that gilding a casserole with the title of a critically acclaimed foreign movie was just too tempting. The small matter of spelling would have been insignificant to second- and third-generation Italian-Americans, who were collectively assimilating and losing their command of the Italian language.*

Copyright © 2011, Skip Lombardi

Stromboli, made with ordinary pizza or bread dough, has been enjoyed since the 1950′s at informal, deli-type restaurants, places where one could also order an Italian Combo, and pizzerie, whose torrid ovens produce the best stromboli. In contrast, strata has been something you were urged to make at home, especially if you wanted to serve an impressive, delicious, and very easy dish. Puffed and golden, strata is rich with the taste of cheese, yet light in texture. While it might be called “Soufflé for Dummies, ” strata has given at least two generations of American homemakers the chance to garner compliments as they steadfastly refused to share their “Old World Italian” recipes and let anyone know just how simple strata is to prepare.

During and after World War II, packaged food firms and the print media in which they advertised targeted the increasing numbers of women joining the American workforce. Recipe developers obligingly devised dishes that could be“made ahead.” (Remember all those Jello salads and “icebox” cakes?)

Strata belongs to the class of exotic and “Continental” dishes that the multi-tasking homemaker would find in Junior League cookbooks or The Elegant But Easy Cookbook by Marian Burros & Lois Levine (1962). For a buffet dish or brunch casserole (with a catchy and pronounceable name), the truly operative words were “easy” and “do-ahead.” But there was a less attractive subtext: all too frequently, the recipes of the era relied on a jar or can of prepared food. The “ gourmet secret” of many a successful hostess was a can of condensed cream of mushroom soup.

Italian-American (Giada and Rachel) or not (Emeril, Ina, Paula and Martha), celebrity cooking personalities have continued to wave the strata banner.

In 1985, at the height of Age of Indulgence, The Silver Palate brought us Basil Breakfast Strata with no canned cream-of-anything. Their recipe did call for lots of cheese, basil pesto, arugula, white wine, and their signature ingredient– real cream.

Copyright © 2011, Skip Lombardi

But a good strata doesn’t need that all that; eggs, milk, and the starch from the bread (not the fillers found in canned soup) are all that are needed to bind the casserole. Happily, these days many of us can buy a far better loaf than we could in the 1960’s. The quality of this dish depends on the bread itself, so please try to use some with real body, without sweetener/preservatives like high-fructose corn syrup. It’s okay to toss in that single stale hot-dog roll, but make sure that most of the bread in the recipe is something you’d enjoy eating on its own.

Although our strata can be made a day ahead, it need not be. Most of the older recipes call for pouring the egg-and-milk mixture over the layers and letting the dish sit in the fridge. But if you want to enjoy your strata within a couple of hours, our recipe facilitates that.

Copyright © 2011, Skip Lombardi

As any archaeologist will confirm, strata are the layers to be examined in an excavation site. We hope you’ll find the nuanced flavors and layers of Strata americana worth exploring.

* For additional commentary on Italian-American spelling, please see our post on Eggplant Rollatini.

Strata

Ingredients:

Preparation:

Tear all the bread into 1” chunks.

In a large bowl, whisk together the milk, eggs, mustard, oil, garlic, chopped parsley, and seasonings. Add the bread chunks and stir a few times so they absorb the liquid evenly.

Remove the spinach from the box and thaw at room temperature (or in the microwave). Save any juice with the spinach. Dice the ham and combine it with the spinach. Set the mixture aside.

Lightly oil the inside of an ovenproof baking dish. (We like a deep vessel, which allows for more layers.)

If you are going to bake your strata as soon as you assemble it, preheat your oven to 375 F before you begin to fill your casserole.

Place all the remaining ingredients within reach and begin to layer your strata:

Spoon a layer of soaked bread into the bottom of the baking dish.

Cut or tear a slice of provolone into 8 or more pieces and distribute them as one layer atop the bread.

Spoon about one-third of the spinach-ham mixture over the provolone.

Sprinkle a tablespoon of the Parmesan atop the spinach.

Dust that layer with about a tablespoon of fine breadcrumbs, if you are using them.

Repeat the layering until you have used all the ingredients. Finish with a layer of soaked bread topped with provolone and breadcrumbs. Reserve at least one tablespoon of Parmesan for the final stage of baking.

If you are not going to bake your strata now, cover the dish with foil or its own lid and refrigerate for up to one day. Otherwise, it is now ready to bake. Bake the covered casserole in the preheated oven for at least 30 minutes. (Cooking time will depend on the depth of your baking dish and whether you have reduced or increased the quantities in this recipe. Our strata, in a 4-quart casserole, needed 50 minutes.)

When you can see the casserole beginning to brown and bubble, remove it from the oven and test it as you would a cake. Pierce the center of the dish with a clean, sharp knife, and withdraw it. If the knife comes out clean, your strata is nearly done. Turn off the oven. Dust the top of the casserole with the remaining Parmesan and put the uncovered dish back in the oven for about 5 minutes.

Remove the strata from the oven and allow it to cool for 5-10 minutes. (This is one “soufflé” that won’t fall!) If you have an extra pair of helping hands, you can try to turn the strata out as one golden mound on a serving plate; you can then cut that in wedges. Otherwise, simply spoon the strata from the baking dish or cut out servings with a knife and a pie-slice. Garnish each portion with a little chopped parsley.

Serves four to six, as a light meal. Leftovers are delicious chilled or at room temperature.

The idea of self-purification through deprivation, followed by celebratory consumption, is ancient. A variety of similar practices evolved under the influence of Judaism, Christianity, and Islam; all “people of the Book” have traditionally observed a period of fasting followed by feasting.

Copyright © 2010, Skip Lombardi

Nowhere are the traditions associated with food more richly varied than in Italy. At the center of the Mediterranean, the peninsula was home to its own pagan rites and those of early Greek colonizers. Roman domination throughout Mare Nostrum meant that ideas, techniques, and ingredients—from the shores around the Empire and beyond—all came back to Rome. Italy in the medieval period saw much Muslim influence—the introduction of sugar cane, rice, citrus, and Asian spices; the widespread use of water-wheels for irrigation; the refinements of alcoholic distillation; and the rediscovery and translation of Greek botanical treatises. Nonetheless, the culture of Catholicism, especially the culinary expressions associated with the Church calendar, remained dominant throughout mainland Italy and coexisted with Islam in Sicily. Later Italian influence extended far beyond the peninsula, for the Age of Discovery sent Genoese merchants and fisherman to the heathen New World. Those mariners brought back the codfish that became the iconic food of Lent throughout Europe.

Today, no matter what their creed, Italians tend to be far more secular than they were before the grand social upheavals and political unification in the mid-19th century. Moreover, Italy, since the end of World War II, has been enriched by non-Catholic immigrants from Eastern Europe, the Mideast, and Africa.

Secularism has grown, too, among Italian immigrants. With three and four generations grown since families left Italy, most Italian-Americans—baby-boomers and their offspring—don’t know a novena from nuova cucina. As fewer parents enroll their children in catechism classes, there is less understanding of the introspective forces Lent is supposed to encourage. Giving up meat, butter, or Pepsi for 40 days can seem quaintly anachronistic.

Copyright © 2010, Skip Lombardi

So why are the English and Italian search-engines white-hot this week with queries for Easter Pie, Torta Pasqualina, Pizza di Pasqua, Torta Ripiena, Pizza Chiena, Pizza “Gain”, virtually the same dish despite a score of spellings?

Easter, whether it signals spiritual rebirth or simply the end of winter (and time to start those tomato seedlings on the window sill), has its roots in the early agricultural and pastoral practices of Europe and the Near East. After surviving a winter, both humans and their livestock could look forward to a greatly expanded choice of food. Spring meant wild herbs, fresh pasturage, laying hens, new lambs, kids, and calves; lactating sheep, goats, and cows. A sudden abundance of eggs and milk before the age of refrigeration meant that consumption was mandated lest the food go to waste. Preparations like pizza rustica stand in recognition of the calendar, of its gifts and privations.

How many of the desperately poor Italians of the 19^th century would have had the opportunity to taste this dish is hard to say. What we can say is that the pie, whether or not the immigrants had had the good fortune to partake of it, made an impression on them. And that is why we are including it. Although our pie really is Italian, one you might find in a Calabrian, Campanian, or Sicilian home this weekend, it is so much a part of American-Italian culinary legend and so perfectly exemplifies the idea of abbondanza American-style, that it deserves a place on AlmostItalian.com.

The tradition is: In the final days of Lent, the home is cleaned and the preparation for Easter begins. In a multi-generational Italian-American household, Nonna devotes her full attention to the important Easter feast. In our experience, Nonna makes pizza rustica after Good Friday, probably on Saturday afternoon—to allow the filling to become firm and the flavors to meld.

On Easter morning, Italian-American Catholics attend a celebratory Mass. (Catholics abstain from any food prior to taking Communion, but this Sunday also marks the end of the 40 days of Lent.) After Mass, families return home to break their fast with pizza rustica. While Florentines and Romans make Pizza Ripiena or Pizza Piena, full pie, in Napoletano dialect, it’s Pizza Chiena, or even the Anglicized Pizza Gain. So, whether your family calls it Torta Pasqualina, Easter Pie, Tortone di Pasqua, it’s a delicious beginning to a day of feasting.

Copyright © 2010, Skip Lombardi

Anyone who has eaten a typically dense pizza rustica would agree that it would be extremely rich, even without the added meats. Using salume, always luxury foods, allowed a cook to stretch a little meat to delight many. Historically, some Mediterranean Christians, have forsworn all meat during the 40 days of Lent. For the most abstemious, it would take only a little flavorful sopressata or prosciutto to impart the taste of celebration.

The cycle of “putting food by” obliged. After the slaughter of fall-fattened livestock, cured meats would be prepared in late October or early November and would reach maturity at the end of winter, just in time to be combined with fresh cheeses and eggs.

The world of pizza rustica artisans seems divided regarding the type of dough used to encase the filling. Some pie-makers prefer a short pastry crust while others favor bread dough. The division does not seem to run along any particular geographical fault-lines. In the week leading up to Easter, pastry shop windows on Hanover Street in Boston’s North End are piled high with pizza gain—made with flaky pastry crust. Yesterday, we saw a similar Easter pie on offer at a Sarasota, Florida, bakery whose owners hail from Providence, Rhode Island. My Sicilian family in Connecticut used bread dough. A sturdy, yeast-risen bread dough will support a heavier filling. So if you want to display or transport your pie, that’s a safer choice than a flaky pastry crust.

These pies can travel. And if you make a pizza rustica to take to your host, you’re sure to be invited back.

As the Italians say: Natale con i tuoi, la Pasqua con chi vuoi. Spend Christmas with your family, but at Easter, you’re free to choose your own company.

—Buona Pasqua

Pizza Rustica

Ingredients:

For the filling:

3 Large eggs
2 Lb. Whole-milk ricotta (Do not substitute low-fat!)
8 Oz. Whole-milk mozzarella, cut into 3/8-inch dice
1 Cup freshly grated Parmigiano-Reggiano, pecorino or a combination of the two***

3 Oz. Sopressata, cut into 3/8-inch dice
3 Oz. Prosciutto, cut into 3/8-inch dice
3 Oz. Pepperoni salami, peeled and cut into 3/8-inch dice ***

1 Cup Flat-leaf Italian parsley, finely chopped
1/4-1/2 tsp. Freshly ground nutmeg
1 1/2 tsp. Freshly ground black pepper
4 Hard-cooked eggs, shelled and left whole

Plus: 1 small egg lightly beaten, as a wash.

For the Dough:

Approximately 2 Lb. Pizza dough*

* If possible, make your own with unbleached flour. We kneaded in a tablespoon of fresh rosemary and a teaspoon of fennel seeds.

Preparation:

For the filling:

Into a large bowl, break the three raw eggs and beat thoroughly with the back of a fork or a wire whisk. Add the ricotta and stir to incorporate thoroughly with the eggs. Add the mozzarella and Parmigiano. Stir to incorporate.

Grind the pepper and nutmeg. Add the spices, cubed meats, and parsley to the bowl. Stir again to incorporate. Refrigerate the filling until you’re ready to assemble the pie.

For the Pie:

Preheat the oven to 375 F.

Place approximately 2/3 of the dough on a well-floured surface. Stretch and roll it into a circle approximately 18 inches in diameter, and approximately 1/4 inches thick. Gently center the dough over a 10-inch spring-form pan and ease it into the pan, pressing the dough gently against the sides. Leave the excess dough hanging over the outside rim; you’ll trim it later.

Spoon enough of the filling to cover the bottom of the pan by approximately 1 inch.

Lay the hard-cooked eggs on their sides at four points of the circle (12, 3, 6, and 9 on the face of a clock). Gently spoon the remaining filling over the eggs.

Roll out the remaining dough into a circle approximately 12 inches in diameter and 1/4 inch thick. Place atop the pan, and, removing excess dough as you go, roll or crimp the dough together all around.

Cut four 1-inch steam vents in the top of the pie. Next, with a pastry brush, lightly coat the entire top surface with the beaten egg. (You won’t use all the egg-wash, so you can save that for your other holiday baking.)

Place the pan on a baking sheet in the middle of the oven. Bake for 50 — 60 minutes. After 30 minutes, if the top is browning too much, cover top loosely with foil, shiny side up, to keep it from burning.

Gently insert a wooden skewer or knife blade into one of the vents. (Be careful not to pierce the bottom crust.) If the blade or tester comes out clean, remove the pie from the oven. Otherwise, cook, shielded by the foil, for an additional 10 – 20 minutes.

Release the sides of the spring-form pan and lift off the ring. Allow the pie to cool completely before serving. Try to slice it so that each wedge has a piece of egg white and yolk visible. Serve at room temperature.

Pizza Rustica will keep for 2 days at room temperature. (Cover with a cake pan lid or loose foil).

Serves twelve.

You can view additional photos of our preparation of Pizza Rustica on this Picasa Web Album

Among the many great attributes of the Italian Combo is its name. When you’re hungry, you really don’t want to quibble about the semantics of grinders vs. subs vs. heroes vs. hoagies, etc. This means that regardless of whether or not you’ve had the good fortune to have lived or eaten in the Little Italys of Boston, Providence, Lower Manhattan, or Philadelphia, you need only one unambiguous word that will get you a great sandwich anywhere in the Almost Italian Universe.

Photo: Copyright © 2005, Skip Lombardi

We happen to love Italian Combos.

Nonetheless, because we also love words, we must digress… we find it strange that our own community in southeastern Connecticut, eight miles from Groton, home to one of the world’s largest submarine bases, call these sandwiches, ‘grinders.’ Honestly, if there’s any place on earth where they should be called ‘subs,’ it’s here at what cynical inhabitants call Ground Zero. Yet, we’ve no evidence to suggest the submarine sandwich was first crafted anywhere near Groton or its sibling city across the river, New London. And this, despite the fact that many local grocers, bakeries, and large supermarket chains sell ‘torpedo rolls.’

Our region is prone to giving up stretches of public roads for adoption—you know, a Realtor, a waste-management firm, or the Sons of Italy “adopt” a mile or two of asphalt, put up a placard proclaiming the adoption, and then keep the median strip looking nice. Meanwhile, our state legislature likes to honor significant departed citizens by dedicating bridges or roadside rest areas to people they think we might otherwise forget. We cite these examples to bolster our contention that if there were any claims that the submarine sandwich had something to do with this area, we’d see a sign on Interstate-95 pointing to, say, Carmine’s Grinder Grotto, Home of the Original Submarine Sandwich. And the sign would be at least as big as the billboard that directs lost tourists to the U.S.S. Nautilus Museum.

But we’ll set aside our other hunches, findings, and generally unsatisfied quest for the sandwich’s birthplace for another column. You’re hungry; you have a half-dozen hungry friends coming over for your annual Superbowl party. (Ok, we know—they’re coming to eat and watch the commercials, not to actually watch the game…)

The big question is— A) are you going to buy your sandwiches from a deli counter, or B) are you going to make them yourself?

Lest you automatically assume that buying your Italian Combos from the deli is the path of least resistance, let us fill you in.

There are certain rituals and protocols that must be observed in order to walk away from a deli with one of these prizes. Foremost among them, is the choice of add-ons.

The basic Italian Combo—known elsewhere in Connecticut as the Italian Cold-Cut Grinder—comes equipped with provolone cheese, Genoa salami, mortadella, boiled ham, sliced tomatoes, and shredded iceberg lettuce. Tonier grinder shops, places that might actually use proper Italian and call themselves salumerie may include more sophisticated cured meats—prosciutto or capocola, adding subtle enhancements to the basic sandwich.

No less important than meat are the add-ons. Think of this as the difference between a Crown Vic and a Mercury Grand Marquis—same chassis; it’s all about the options.

You might suppose it would be a simple matter to take the pizzeria posture and order “one with everything.” You must avoid this urge, as the error will reveal you to be a vulnerable neophyte. The people you’ll be facing over the deli counter are seasoned professionals. They’ve been trained by other seasoned professionals to deal with orders just like yours. If you know your options, when you choose to recite the names of those magic ingredients, the guys behind the counter will know you are worthy of admission to their fraternity.

“Pickles? Oil? Vinegar? Olive oil-and-Vinegar? Mayo?” they ask. And they’re only getting started! ‘Everything’ it turns out varies from shop to shop. “Oregano? Olives? Parmesan?” And you thought Starbucks’ options were hard to sort out? You may wish you’d ordered the meatball grinder with red-sauce after all; then, the most they could have asked would have been, “Large or small?”

But, coraggio! You now face the issue of ‘hots.’ With an attitude of smug challenge, the deli maestro throws out this choice. His attitude has little to do with whether or not you want hot peppers on your sandwich, it’s more in the sense of “Can you take it? Are you up to this work of art that I am about to hand you?”

But somehow you’ve survived the hazing to this point. You and your server have decided on onions and hot peppers. No thank you on the olives, and no sprinkling of oregano, but maybe a few grinds of black pepper. Hold the Parmesan…and definitely, no pickles. Again, thank you very much.

Now, you believe you’ve made it. Not quite…

You have to answer only one more question before you can actually eat. Poised, with his hand on a roll of butcher paper, your sandwich maker will ask, “For here or to go?”

But—because we’re cooks, we think that Option B is more fun and allows you to have fresh sandwiches as you need them, throughout the afternoon and evening. (It will also save you money to make them yourself.) And even if you are an innocent, no one will know, as you can assemble your Italian Combos without having to answer a single question.

Have all your condiments, shredded lettuce, sliced tomatoes, peppers, onions, sliced cheese and cold cuts ready before you on a broad work surface. Sharpen a large knife for slicing the loaves lengthwise and then for cutting the grinder into into fist-sized sandwiches. Get to work (all 15 minutes of it) and psyche yourself for compliments, because no matter which team you’re rooting for, the Italian Combo is a winner.

Italian Combo
Adapted from those made at Universal Market of Noank, Connecticut

Ingredients:

4 12-inch submarine rolls, split lengthwise, but not all the way through
Olive oil
1/2 Lb. Genoa salami, sliced
1/2 Lb. Mortadella, sliced
1/2 Lb. Boiled ham, sliced
1/3 Lb. Provolone, sliced
2 – 4 Large tomatoes, thinly sliced
1/2 Head iceberg lettuce, shredded
1 Medium onion, finely diced
Sliced, pickled hot cherry peppers, to taste

Other options:
Dried basil (apply with the olive oil)
Dried oregano (apply with the olive oil)
Roasted peppers (substitute for the cherry peppers)
Peperoncini (substitute for or combine with the cherry peppers)

And if you must:
Dill pickles, diced (substitute for or combine with the onions)

Preparation:

Spread the submarine rolls open (like a book) and drizzle each side with olive oil.

Layer the Genoa, mortadella, ham, and provolone cheese equally on each roll. Distribute the tomato slices equally among the four rolls, then top with shredded lettuce and onions.

Carefully close the rolls and cut each one horizontally into two or four pieces.

Serves four to six.

And if you’re feeling a little more adventuresome and feel—as we do—that the food is more important than the game, here are a few other suggestions for your super Sunday feast.

Mufuletta
Antipasto platter
Cherry Pepper Shooters
Stimperata ( because you need vitamins)

For you or any of your pot-luck guests who would rather follow a recipe than figure out the point spread and odds on the Superbowl contenders:

Cudduruni
Lasagne
Clams Casino
Stromboli
Stuffed mushrooms

And of course—Tuscan Chicken Wings—as hyperbolically fabled as the Superbowl itself.

long with Spiedies and Spezzi, the Muffuletta sandwich is an Italian-American creation so closely identified with a particular area that it has remained virtually unadopted—and unadapted—outside its birthplace.

Photograph Copyright © 2009, Skip Lombardi

Muffuletta is still confined to the city limits of New Orleans. Of course, recipes have long appeared in books, magazines, and online, but exiled and transplanted New Orleaneans admonish that muffuletta should savored at the source.

Popular food writing credits New Orleans grocer Salvatore Lupo for his 1906 invention of the muffuletta. Dispensing a variety of household necessities in what was, at that time, a largely residential neighborhood, Signor Lupo’s Central Grocery on Decatur Street served the French Quarter as a sort of proto-7-Eleven. Less an old residential neighborhood, and more a tourist destination now, the French Quarter was actually known as Little Italy, or even Little Palermo, in the early 20th century, when New Orleans was a major port of entry for Italian immigrants. Whether you call the Quarter Italian or French, this is still the area in which to seek this legendary sandwich.

There was an open-air market on Decatur Street, and around noon, the market’s truck farmers and vegetable vendors would buy loaves of bread from a baker’s pushcart, (sources cite one named LoGiudice), then proceed to Signor Lupo’s salumeria to buy cold cuts, cheese, and olive salad, all of which they would take back to the market for their lunch.

The savvy Signor Lupo realized the promise of convenient packaging and cleverly consolidated all the ingredients: he made sandwiches. Taking a small, round loaf called a muffoletta, he halved it horizontally, hollowed it slightly, and filled it with an assortment of thinly sliced meats, provolone cheese, pickled vegetables, and smashed, pitted olives. The sandwiches became so popular that Signor Lupo contracted with the baker to supply him with enough muffoletta loaves to service his sandwich clientele at Central Grocery.

Accounts of the market folks’ behavior were brought to life for me by my Sicilian grandfather. I have vivid memories of him coming home to eat lunch in the 1950′s. Even though he was always in a starched white shirt and tie, his custom was to tear off a large piece of an Italian loaf to accompany a few slices of Genoa salami or capocola, a chunk of hard cheese, and some olives or pickled hot peppers. I’m not sure if it ever occurred to him to put all the components into a sandwich.

Returning to the Crescent City specialty—the New Orleans loaf has clear antecedents in Sicily, where small muffoletti continue to be savored, whether they are split to enclose rich, oil-preserved tuna and hard-boiled eggs or spicy sausages with sautéed greens. The word itself seems to represent the cultural mélange that is Sicily’s heritage. Muffa is a Teutonic word for a round mold; thus, a muffoletto or muffaletta would be a small mold, with the vowels varying from village to village. And there may even be a dual etymology: the speech of Sicily is peppered with Arabic from the island’s centuries of Islamic civilization. So, reference to the Arabic mufalla‘, meaning ‘split apart,’ also seems quite conceivable.*

While the Central Grocery muffuletta sandwich reigned supreme, it was not without imitators. Also on Decatur Street, Progress Grocery was selling muffuletta by 1924. Today, the sandwich is made by dozens of shops throughout the city.

Like the jazz brunch at Brennan’s, Hurricane cocktails at Pat O’Brien’s, Dixieland at Lulu White’s Mahogany Hall, muffuletta sandwiches from Central Grocery continue to nourish those who love the Big Easy.

Ingredients:

For the Olive Salad:

1 Cup each, green and black olives, pitted and coarsely chopped
3/4 Cup Giardiniera (Italian-style vinegar-pickled vegetables), coarsely chopped
2 Tbs. capers, well-drained and coarsely chopped
1 Clove garlic, peeled and finely chopped
Crushed red pepper flakes, to taste
4 Tbs. Flat-leaf Italian parsley, coarsely chopped
2 Tbs. Extra-Virgin olive oil

Meats & Cheese:
(all ingredients thinly sliced)

1/4 Lb. Genoa salami
1/4 Lb. Mortadella
1/4 Lb. Capocola salami
1/4 Lb. Boiled ham
1/4 Lb. Provolone cheese

9″- 12″ Round, Italian-style loaf of white bread

Preparation:

Make the salad at least one hour before assembling the sandwich (to let the flavors blend together):

Combine all ingredients for the olive salad and allow the salad to stand at room temperature for approximately an hour.

Split the bread in half horizontally. Gently pull out approximately 1/4 of the center of the white portion of each half. Reserve for breadcrumbs or another purpose.

This is the traditional assembly:

Lay both halves cut-side up. On the bottom half of the loaf*, layer the Genoa, mortadella, capocola, boiled ham, and provolone. On the top half, spoon as much of the olive salad as will fit into the crater.

Carefully put the halves together on a large plate. Place a 10″ dinner plate atop the sandwich and weight it down with something like a 28 oz. can of tomatoes or a couple of bags of dry cannellini beans.

Allow the weighted sandwich to sit at room temperature for approximately 1 hour.

To Serve:

With a large sharp knife, cut the muffuletta in quarters and serve with additional giardiniera and pickled hot peppers.

Serves two — four.

There is a veritable panoply of regional specialties that have found their way into the collective cuisine of Italian-Americans. Many dishes have achieved this status even though the preparations are still not to be found beyond their original home towns. While we’ve already written about the Spezzi of Westerly, Rhode Island, other notable examples are the Toasted Ravioli of St. Louis, Muffuletta sandwiches of New Orleans, and Chicken Vesuvio in Chicago.

Then there are the Spiedies of Broome County. (And, yes, we too think it sounds like a book title…)

I first learned about spiedies (pronounced SPEE-dees) in 1965. Early that September and for my entire first term at college, my roommate—a trumpet player from Binghamton, New York—marked the days until Thanksgiving vacation, when he planned to make his way home for a spiedie fix. While in graduate school, I encountered a similar reverence when a classmate from Endicott, New York, enlisted my help in making spiedies-in-exile. Despite our earnest efforts—making a marinade from scratch and attentive grilling—my friend judged the result to be not-as-good-as-back-home. My interest in the Mystery of Spiedies has persisted ever since.

As with many American cult foods, spiedies have been discussed extensively online. The Internet abounds with factoids on their origin. Unlike Buffalo Chicken Wings—whose origins can be traced to a particular date, time, and place—the genesis of spiedies is murkier.

Spiedies—New World incarnations of Agnello allo Spiedo, spit-roasted lamb, or Spiedini d’Agnello, lamb skewers, as they were known back in Abruzzo—appeared in Broome County, New York. There is conflicting heresay and sworn testimony that Augustine “Augie” Iacovelli served the first spiedie at his restaurant, Augie’s, in Endicott, N.Y. in 1939. Meanwhile, disregarding the Iacovellian date, Peter Sharak, of Russian-Ukrainian background, is also given credit for serving the county’s first spiedie in 1947 at his own restaurant, Sharkey’s Bar & Grill, in Binghamton. To this day, Sharkey’s advertises itself as “home of the spiedie,” while being well-known for pirohi (pierogies) stuffed dumplings, the comfort food of Slavs.

As recipes go, the basic spiedies preparation is simplicity itself: cubes of meat (the original recipe used lamb) are marinated in lemon juice, white wine, olive oil, garlic, and herbs. The meat is then grilled over hot coals. And in 1939 when Mr. Iacovelli made his spiedies, those herbs—oregano, rosemary, mint, and thyme—would have been harvested from his garden the previous autumn and dried over the winter. As any second or third- generation Italian-American will tell you: “it’s what all the old-timers did…”

Sheep farming was once widespread in upstate New York; the flocks provided wool to the region’s mills. And they also supplied meat to immigrant populations with a taste for mutton and lamb, large numbers of Irish, Italians, and eastern Europeans.

But escalating lamb prices and accommodation of local tastes (there are now significant communities of Asian-Americans in the region) have driven Broome County’s cooks to adopt beef, pork, and—increasingly—chicken for their contemporary versions of the immortal spiedie.

The presentation is without frills. The server holds a piece of Italian bread or a sub roll, in one hand* as he places the skewer of grilled meat across the bread. He folds the bread around the meat and then grasps the package firmly but gently as he slides out the skewer. Clearly, there is nothing arcane here, and one would assume the technique—and the recipe—would work well enough anywhere.

Certainly, one would have expected the treatment to have had legs, especially with a neighbor like IBM. Originally located in Endicott, IBM sent employees all over the country, early road warriors who had certainly been exposed to Broome County’s local delicacy at one of the area’s myriad spiedie emporia. But somehow, although we now have computers in every corner of the nation, no one ever seemed to introduce spiedie production to new territories.

I was once invited to dinner by some fellow geeks in Burlington, Massachusetts. They were expatriate “Broomers” who had just received a “care package” from home that consisted of several bottles of Lupo’s Original Endicott-Style Spiedie Marinade. Spiedies were on the menu that night. My hosts had marinated chunks of skinless, boneless chicken breast and then cooked them on a gas grill. They felt their spiedies fell short of the mark, even with an additional dose of marinade at serving time. While I secretly thought their disappointment might have had something to do with the excess salt and high fructose corn syrup in the commercial marinade, my hosts decreed that “you just can’t make good spiedies outside of Broome County.”

Thus, the Mystery of Spiedies continues. We don’t know why they haven’t travelled beyond the boundaries of Broome County when everything one needs to make them is available throughout North America.

There must be more to the story than this, so we ask you, our readers, to write in with your thoughts about why something so simple has achieved such mystique.

Ingredients:

Juice of 1 lemon
Grated rind of 1 lemon
4 Tbs. Olive oil
2 Tbs. Red wine vinegar
1/2 Cup white wine
4 Tbs. Flat-leaf Italian parsley, finely chopped
4 Tbs. Fresh mint,* finely chopped
4 Cloves garlic, peeled and finely chopped

2 Lb. Boneless pork shoulder cut into 1 1/2 inch cubes
Salt & freshly-ground black pepper

Preparation:

Combine all the ingredients in a large, non-reactive bowl. Add the meat and stir well to coat each piece.

Marinate for 2 – 4 hours at room temperature, or overnight in the refrigerator.

Using metal skewers, place 6 – 8 chunks of meat on each skewer.

Start a fire in a charcoal grill. When the coals have developed a uniform grey ash, and you can’t hold your open palm over the fire for a count of five, the fire is ready.

Using tongs, place the skewers of meat on the fire and grill, basting occasionally with the marinade. Grill approximately 2 – 3 minutes per side.

Season liberally with salt and freshly-ground black pepper

To Serve:

For a casual lunch or snack, serve in sub rolls.

For a sit-down dinner, enjoy the grilled meat atop polenta accompanied by a seasonal salad.

The arrival of asparagus at our weekend market is among the first portents of spring, one that always reminds me of my grandfather.

He was always happy to share his recollections of foraging. In particular, he loved to talk about hunting wild asparagus with his brothers (my great uncles) in the hills around their boyhood home in Melilli, Sicily.

Copyright © 2009, Skip Lombardi

Cultivated for millennia, asparagus is native to the Mediterranean and western Asia. Images of both wild and cultivated varieties abound in media ranging from Roman mosaics to Arab manuscripts to Renaissance paintings. Medical, agricultural, and cookery books are full of notes on the virtues and cultivation of the green shoots. A vast array of recipes attest to the widespread, if seasonal, availability of asparagus to both the rich (who enjoyed the produce from their private gardens) as well as to the poor (more likely to have foraged it). Since asparagus seeds are readily dispersed by birds, the plant, which has a high salt-tolerance, took hold in marshy and sandy areas inhospitable to many other species.

In short, asparagus has long been among the prized verdure of the Italian peninsula. It came to North America with the early settlers and was already well established here when the first boatloads of Italian immigrants arrived.

Throughout the Northeastern states, previous waves of British and northern Europeans had labored to dig their asparagus trenches. Meanwhile, the local avian population had played its role in spreading seeds into the wild.

Because asparagus, like virtually all green vegetables (before efficient freezing technologies were available), was a strictly seasonal treat, it was viewed as a delicacy. Italians here tended to prepare asparagus just as they had back home. They enjoyed it boiled, then dressed with oil and vinegar (or lemon juice). They would stir into a risotto or bake it with—or without—eggs (and perhaps a dusting of Parmesan).

Italians revered asparagus for its distinctive flavor and treated it simply. Don Corleone might have said, “They treated it with honor. They showed it respect.”

Though ‘sparaggi is the generic Sicilian word for “asparagus,” when my grandfather, Iannu LaBella, used it, we knew he meant this dish: Scrambled Eggs with Asparagus.

Copyright © 2009, Skip Lombardi

‘Sparaggi is not quite an omlette, and certainly not as a dense as a fritatta. This version seems to be favored by those who emigrated from southeastern Sicily, from the vicinity of Catania and Siracusa. Whatever the origin, it is simplicity itself and certainly cucina casalinga, home cooking.

My grandfather would make his ‘sparaggi on Sunday evenings, especially if we’d eaten either a very large or unusually late Sunday dinner. Around nine o’clock, ‘sparaggi would fill the bill when he needed “just a little something to take the edge off.”

With a depth of flavor and elegance belied by the simple ingredients, my grandfather’s ‘sparaggi is no hash-house scramble, however casalinga it may be.

Ingredients:

Olive oil
1/2 Lb. Asparagus, cut diagonally into 1” lengths & steamed until al dente
4 Large eggs, beaten until frothy
1/4 Cup flat-leaf Italian parsley, finely chopped
Salt & freshly-ground black pepper
Freshly grated Parmesan
2 Tbs. Flat-leaf Italian parsley, finely chopped or left as sprigs

Preparation:

Heat a sauté pan over medium-high heat, then add enough olive oil to glaze the bottom. Add the asparagus and season with salt and pepper. Stir and shake the pan until the asparagus is heated through. Add the eggs and parsley and scramble the mixture in the pan until the eggs are barely set. There will be some carry-over cooking when you remove the pan from the heat.

Divide equally between two warmed plates. Sprinkle with a little Parmesan and garnish with parsley. Serve immediately.

Serves two.

Our friends assume that we just like to eat and blog about food. True enough, but that’s not the whole picture: we indulge our passion for food on many levels, both sensory and intellectual.

That two food writers will pay attention to the aroma, taste, texture, and appearance of food is only to be expected. But—particularly on this blog—there is also the broad realm of nostalgia: our recollections of what Italians in America grew, baked, sold…what they called certain dishes…how they made them… what happened in my grandparents’ kitchen—or downtown at the Garibaldi Society…

Copyright © 2009, Skip Lombardi

And then there is the tickle that makes us ask questions and search for clues to a name or a technique so as to better understand how a dish evolved and became part of Italian food culture here in America. To put it another way, we like the back-story.

Sometimes, though, a dish like cudduruni (coo-doo-ROO-nee) is so simple that it’s just accepted as part of the repertoire. We’d assumed that sheet-pans of bread dough baked with a topping of crushed tomatoes, olive oil, and perhaps a dusting of grated cheese had to be mama’s home version of pizza—no more, no less. That is until we tried to spell the word I remembered from my childhood; I had never seen the written name. All I could recall was how it had sounded in the Sicilian dialect of Middletown, Connecticut, as spoken by immigrants from Melilli (near Catania).

Cookbooks were no help… and even Google yielded little until we played around with the sounds… Gu—daruni, ghuddar—uni, cu—dar—oni….. closer now…Cudduruni. But what did it mean? Was this another Arabic word, like giugiulena, a snack left over from the Middle Ages?

We followed the word’s etymology from ancient Greek. (Greeks had colonized Sicily over 2,500 years ago, and their language permeated the tongues spoken around the Mediterranean.) Still, all we had to go on was the hint that the Greek kollyra, a small roll of dough, had morphed into cudduruni. But how?

Fasten your seat belts:

The Greek ‘K’ became the Latin (and modern Italian) ‘C.’ A hard ‘C’ in Sicilian is frequently pronounced as a ‘G,’ so that’s why we had had no idea how to spell it in the first place!

Meanwhile, the Italian ending—one, meaning “a large version of…,” gave us the Sicilian uni. (Think, “minestrone.”)

So you could say, cudduruni is super-sized cuddura. And a cuddura (also written as coddura or cuddhura) is any one of a wide variey of Sicilian breads baked to celebrate the end of Lent.

And when we found a recipe and series of bizarre Italian instructions for a coiled calzone titled Cudduruni Miliddisa (coupled with photos of the festival of San Sebastiano—Sebastian being the patron saint of both Mellili and Middletown), we knew that we had it:

We remembered a quirk of Sicilian dialect—the substitution of double ‘D’ for the common Italian, Latin, and Greek double ‘L.’ So, kollyra to cuddura to cudduruni!

Still with us? Read on, for here is a dish whose whole vastly exceeds the sum of its parts. Unassuming in its simplicity, cudduruni appeases the appetite until the serving of a more substantial meal. It’s a favorite at Christmas and Easter. But in our opinion, it’s too good and too easy to save for holidays.

Cudduruni, sharing some of the characteristics of deep-dish pizza and focaccia, is unlike anything else in Sicilian-American cooking.

Copyright © 2009, Skip Lombardi

Among the qualities that distinguish it are:

• •  Cudduruni is always baked in a pan, even if it goes into a wood-fired oven.
• •  The cheese topping is Parmigiano or Romano rather than mozzarella. (If cheese were ever incorporated in the original Sicilian version, it would have been the sheep’s milk pecorino of the Italian South.)
• •  The sauce is no more than canned, crushed tomatoes in a heavy purée. (Some families used strattu, the sun-dried tomato conserve many Sicilians and southern Italian-Americans made at home.)

Nearly every Little Italy bakery in New England used to make some version of cudduruni. Traditionally available only on Saturday morning, the treat was typically just a slab of dough spread with the requisite olive oil, tomato purée, and Parmigiano. (The Palmieri Bakery in Providence, Rhode Island, still offers their cheeseless version.) A few establishments added sliced garlic or dried oregano to the topping, while a handful went all out in their expression of abbondanza by tossing on ground beef, sausage, or anchovies before the pan went into the oven.

When I lived in the North End of Boston, I particularly enjoyed the version on offer at Mozzicato’s on upper Salem Street, although Bova’s on the corner of Salem and Prince produced a consistently fine product, too. Even Mike’s and Modern Pastry—bakeries best-known for their dolci—made cudduruni on Saturdays. My weekend typically began with the ritual purchase of a half-dozen slices, and I never arrived home with more than three.

Growing up in Middletown, Connecticut, during the 1960′s, I was fortunate enough to have several cudduruni suppliers. Marino’s on Ferry Street and Lastrina’s on Union Street were veritable temples of pizza, but it was nice to have a slice or two of cudduruni while waiting for a pie. And Public Market on Main Street was always a reliable source on a Saturday morning.

My grandmother made cudduruni—among a host of other snacks—for our family’s open house each Christmas Eve. Beginning in late afternoon, various aunts, uncles, cousins, and friends would stop by for some holiday cheer; cudduruni was always part of the spread.

When Nonna made hers, she poured a slick of olive oil across the bottom of a sheet pan, placed the dough in the pan, and stretched it out to reach the sides. My recipe here is a little more conservative with the oil. By using parchment paper, I have an easier clean-up and still get that delicious, baked-with-olive-oil flavor.

Ingredients:

1 Lb. Pizza dough at room temperature
2 Tbs. Olive oil
1 1/2 Cups crushed tomatoes in heavy purée
1 tsp. Crushed red pepper flakes (Pepperoncini)
1/2 Cup freshly grated Parmigiano or Romano

Preparation:

Use a baking dish or heavy sheet pan at least 9 x 14 inches. Cut a sheet of parchment paper large enough cover the bottom and sides of the pan. (It’s okay if the paper sticks up a little above the sides.) Fit the paper into the pan and set it aside.

Preheat the oven to 375 F.

If you’re using parchment, lightly flour the dough, then strech and roll it out to approximately the size of your pan. Place the rolled-out dough into the pan and stretch it to meet the sides.

If you’re not using parchment, lightly coat the bottom of a sheet pan with olive oil. Place the dough in the center of the sheet pan, then press and stretch to flatten the dough to fill the pan.

Coat the top of the dough with olive oil. Then, using a large spoon or ladle, spread the crushed tomatoes over the oiled dough.

Sprinkle the red pepper flakes and grated cheese evenly over the tomatoes.

Bake for approximately 40 minutes in the middle of the preheated oven.

Serves 1 or more.

Copyright © 2009, Skip Lombardi

Although it may be hard to resist eating this hot out of the oven, most Sicilians serve cudduruni at room temperature.

It would be completely understandable were you to assume that loaves stuffed with a variety salume and cheeses—the much-loved Stromboli—would be the plural form of an old Italian favorite. But if you’d looked at a map, you might have realized that Stromboli is singular, the name of tiny island north of Sicily and west of the toe of the Italian peninsula. Best known for its rather active volcano, the isle lies in the Tyrrhenian Sea. But unless you’re a fan of 1940′s black & white films, you would probably not associate it with a wildly popular Swedish movie star and a Philadelphia suburb accessible from Exit 9B, just off Interstate 95.

We love connecting the dots, so here’s the rest of the story:

Copyright © 2009, Skip Lombardi

In 1948 neo-realist director Roberto Rossellini cast Ingrid Bergman in his stark drama, Stromboli, about survivors of World War II trying to make a life on the isolated island. (Obligingly, the volcano erupted during the shoot. ) Although the film, released in the U.S. in 1950, received only mixed reviews, it caught the attention of people who might never have had any interest in Italian cinéma verité. The Hollywood tabloids and newsreels made sure that movie fans around the world learned that everyone’s favorite nun was having a love affair with her director. (In 1945, Ms. Bergman had starred opposite Bing Crosby in The Bells of St Mary’s).

The real volcano on Stromboli, as well as a mediocre film, were eclipsed by the pyrotechnics of what was then the scandalous Bergman-Rossellini affair. (Remember, those were witch-hunting years in Hollywood, and the lovers found that their phones rang less and less as American producers backed away from anyone whose private life might attract the attention of the House Un-American Activities Committee.)

Copyright © 2009, Skip Lombardi

Meanwhile, in a small town south of Philadelphia, another drama—one with far greater consequences for Italian-American gastronomic history—was about to unfold. Or perhaps we should say enfold. Sometime in 1950 (according to many self-corroborating sources), Nazzereno Romano, owner of Romano’s Italian Restaurant & Pizzeria in Essington, Pennsylvania, rolled up some cheese and cold-cuts in his pizza dough. He baked the loaf and then sliced it to expose the attractive, flavor-packed spiral within. ‘Nat’ Romano is reported to have asked his customers what he should call his creation. We can imagine that a copy of The National Enquirer might have been at hand because the sources claim that someone blurted out “Stromboli!” and the name stuck like mozzarella on a hot pan.

Salame Stromboli

Ingredients:

1 Lb. Pizza dough *
Flour for dusting the dough
1/4 Lb. Genoa salami, thinly sliced (9 slices)
1/4 Lb. Provolone, thinly sliced
1/4 Lb. Pepperoni, thinly sliced (9 slices) **
1/4 Lb. Whole milk mozzarella, shredded
Olive oil

Preparation:

Let the pizza dough rest and come to room temperature for 1 hour.

Preheat the oven to 375 F.

Cover a sheet pan with aluminum foil or parchment and set aside.

Divide the dough into two portions. On a lightly floured surface, roll and stretch each portion into a rectangle approximately 10 by 14 inches.

With one of the 10-inch sides facing you, place the slices of Genoa across the dough, starting at the end nearest to you, leaving approximately 1 inch at each side exposed (for sealing the dough when it’s rolled). You should cover about 2/3 of the rectangle of dough with the 9 slices by slightly overlapping them. Leave 1/3 of the dough (farthest away from you) unlayered.

Next, place the slices of provolone over the Genoa, finishing with the slices of pepperoni atop the provolone.

Again, starting at the end nearest to you and working away from yourself toward the middle, sprinkle the shredded mozzarella onto the Genoa/provolone/pepperoni, extending the mozzarella to cover approximately 3/4 of the rectangle.

With both hands, carefully roll the dough, jelly-roll style, starting with the end closest to you. Place the stromboli, seam-side down, on the sheet pan. Gently pinch and tuck in the ends of the roll to seal in the stuffing. Cut three shallow slits in the top of each of the stromboli as steam-vents. Lightly brush the top of the roll with olive oil.

Repeat with the second portion of dough. You can bake both rolls in the same pan if you leave at least 4 inches between them.

Bake the stromboli for approximately 30 minutes, or until they are golden brown. Allow to cool for at least 15 minutes before slicing.

Each roll will serve four as part of a Super Bowl spread.

Spinach & Cheese Stromboli

Ingredients:

1 Lb. Pizza dough
2 Tbs. Olive oil
4 Cloves garlic, finely chopped
1 Lb. Frozen spinach, thawed and drained
Salt & freshly ground black pepper
1 Cup Whole milk mozzarella, shredded
1/4 Cup freshly grated Parmesan
1/4 tsp. freshly grated nutmeg
4 Tbs. Flat-leaf Italian parsley, finely chopped

Preparation:

Let the pizza dough rest and come to room temperature for 1 hour.

Preheat the oven to 375 F.

Cover a sheet pan with aluminum foil or parchment and set aside.

Heat a large, non-reactive pot, over medium heat, then add the oil. Add the garlic and sauté for 1 minute, then add the spinach. Season with salt and pepper, and toss with kitchen tongs, to coat the spinach with the oil. Continue tossing and stirring until the spinach has wilted. Remove from the heat and allow the spinach to cool to room temperature. When the spinach has cooled, pour into a bowl, then mix in the cheeses, nutmeg, and parsley.

Divide the dough into two portions. On a lightly floured surface, roll each portion into a rectangle of approximately 10 by 14 inches.

With one of the 10-inch sides facing you, place half the spinach/cheese mixture at the end nearest to you, leaving approximately 1/2 inch at the sides exposed (for sealing the dough). Spread the mixture out so that it covers approximately 2/3 of the stromboli. Roll the dough, jelly-roll style, starting with the end closest to you. Repeat with the second portion of dough.

With both hands, carefully roll the dough, jelly-roll style, starting with the end closest to you. Place the stromboli, seam-side down, on the sheet pan. Gently pinch and tuck in the ends of the roll to seal in the stuffing. Cut three shallow slits in the top of each of the stromboli as steam-vents. Lightly brush the top of the roll with olive oil.

Each stromboli can be used to placate four vegetarians, if indeed, you have invited any to your Super Bowl gathering.

And for those who would like to stick to the Almost Italian theme, we’re providing links to other game-day favorites from our earlier posts. If my grandfather and great-uncles had known they could enjoy these treats AND get to watch TV, they might have left Sicily a generation earlier!

Stimparata

Antipasto Platter

Cherry Pepper Shooters

Sausage and Peppers

Tuscan Chicken Wings

And finally, we invite Almost Italian Super Bowl fans seeking something more substantial than snacks to browse our Table of Contents.