All Threats Will Be Taken Seriously

My dad threatened my brothers and me this year.

His side of the family has been making stuffed calamari on Christmas Eve for as long as any of us can remember. The still-living relatives who know the recipe are four in number: two of his sisters and one brother on the East Coast, and my dad on the West Coast. The still-living relatives who will eat the dish are similarly few in number: one of my sisters-in-law, a few cousins, an old friend of my brother, and I. Even so, my dad's threat to stop making the dish after this year created quite a stir.

Here’s what you have to understand about traditions. They have nothing to do with the finished product. They are really about the stories that get told about them. For example:

(back of hand pressed to forehead) “I worked my fingers to the bone to make this calamari/sauce/appetizer/ravioli for you!” 

          

As the photo clearly indicates, my dad had help this year (and nearly every year I can remember) making the calamari, but it wouldn’t taste the same without his one-sentence guilt trip. And as with all great traditions, this is one that was passed from his parents to him and his siblings, and then to us, and I am certain at least one of my brothers will use it on his children just as soon as they are able to internalize guilt. 

Traditions, though, eventually become forgotten if no evidence of them exists. Stories told and retold help prolong their life, but these are not immortal. My small nieces, nephews, and second cousins simply won't be able to grasp just how fishy the marinara sauce becomes with the squid in it, or how tedious it really is to stuff the calamari, or how whiny the pitch of the voice should become when laying the guilt on nice and thick if they never witness The Stuffing Of The Calamari. All of these, and the conversations they spark (which are nearly identical year after year), are what make Christmas Eve the production it is in my family. 

So when my brother informed me that our father threatened to remove this critical element from the celebration, I devised a 21st century fix: blog about the recipe, and preserve it for the 2.87 people who still want to make it. 

With camera and notepad in hand, I arrived at my brother's house and got to work. Note that cute cupcake aprons are vital to the whole operation. My dad had already done the gross important work of beheading and disemboweling the squid (when imparting guilt, always use words such as 'disemboweling' instead of 'cleaning' for dramatic effect). He had also prepared the stuffing, so all that was left was to stuff the squid,

seal them closed with a toothpick, 

Warn your guests that there are toothpicks in the food BEFORE they eat it.

and cook them in the red sauce that was simmering on the stove.

Except it's never that simple. There's always the running commentary that goes along with any labor-intensive meal preparation. This year, the fatherly lecture was on the size of the calamari: the neck openings were practically microscopic, which made them hard to stuff efficiently, which prompted the obligatory Back In My Day monologue. As in,

"Back in my day, the fishermen would've thrown squid this small right back into the water! Bah! Can you believe it? This is all a result of overfishing, you know. These blasted gigantic fishing operations will just take anything nowadays, won't they? Anything for a profit, I tell you. The whole world is going to hell in a handbasket..."

Yep, plenty of Christmas cheer at our house.

Then there were the lucky few who asked about the origins of the recipe: some of our secret family recipes contain bits of dried fruit, especially raisins, which is a typical North African influence. Our calamari stuffing is no exception, so the inquirers listened attentively at first to the explanation, and before long their eyes glazed over as they were subjected to the Unabridged History Of The Arab Influence On The People Of Southern Italy And The Ancestry Of The DiStasi Family Which Might Be Descended Partly From Albanians.

But in the end, it is these stories of tradition that have such powerful influence over us. Their demise, real or only threatened, can spark reconciliations, my brother eating stuffed calamari for the first time in forty years, or possibly even a sudden interest in migratory patterns of people along the Mediterranean Sea. And of course, there is the next generation of the family that has begun its years-long initiation into the realm of Stuffed Calamari. The tradition may live on after all.

NB: An ongoing debate in our family is on the merits of cooking the calamari in the marinara sauce, as opposed to boiling them and spooning sauce over them. Cooking them in the sauce makes the sauce fishy, which is why the small children pictured above are actually eating pre-fishified sauce that was set aside just for them. The next day, the sauce reeks of fish, making it unappetizing to most of us, while the elders of the family stand around scratching their heads, wondering why no one has eaten the leftover pasta with (fishy) sauce. Cook the squid as you see fit.

Stuffed Calamari

In true Old World style, the amounts are approximate, and each cook adds quantities to his liking. The goal is to achieve a stuffing that is moist but not wet, with a balance of herbs, salt, and sweetness from the fruit and nuts.  

5 pounds fed a crowd of 10 adults, plus extra for me to bring to a friend, plus a few left over for the next day.

5 lbs squid, thawed (if purchased frozen), gutted, and cleaned
3 slices slightly stale wheat bread
1/3 loaf slightly stale sourdough bread (approximately)
1/3 to 1/2 C bread crumbs
handful of raisins (or more, if you like)
handful of pine nuts (or more, if you like)
some parsley, chopped
a little basil, dried
a few cloves of garlic, minced
1/4 C grated parmesan cheese, more or less
2-3 TBSP marinara sauce that the squid will be cooked in
salt and pepper to taste

1. Tear breads into small pieces, and toss in a large mixing bowl. Add bread crumbs and remaining ingredients EXCEPT marinara sauce. Mix well.
2. Add marinara sauce (use a bit more if mixture is very dry). Mix well. 
3. Stuff calamari, leaving enough space at the open end to insert toothpick to close (see photo above). Be careful not to over-stuff squid, as they tend to burst while cooking. 
4. Cooking time depends on quantity of squid in pot, but will generally be between 3-5 minutes after the sauce or water has returned to a boil once squid are added. Squid will turn cream-colored when done. 
5. Drain immediately and serve with marinara sauce, alone or with pasta.

Stuffed

I was a deprived child: My parents made me eat green leafy vegetables, low-sugar cereals, and worst of all, bread made with twigs and berries.

My dear departed grandmother fixed me sandwiches on white bread with iceberg lettuce. My aunt gave me Honey Smacks cereal for breakfast, which had at least a day's worth of sugar per serving. But they both lived on the East Coast, and we only traveled there a few times during my childhood, so my malnourishment, practically, dragged on for years between visits.

     All this depravity made me love Thanksgiving, and not just for the almost-burned marshmallows (read: sugar) on top of the sweet potatoes. See, my mother bought white bread once a year: the week of Thanksgiving. She used it to make the stuffing that was fought over in our house, and she would leave it out overnight, uncovered, to let it get a little stale before tearing it into pieces for the stuffing. There were always fewer pieces of bread on Thanksgiving morning than there were the night before, since I would steal a piece or three and either eat it plain, or make The Quintessential Peanut Butter and Jelly Sandwich. Or both. Except of course we didn't have Quintessential American Peanut Butter in the house, since it is filled with sugar and stabilizers, so I had to make do with Earthy Crunchy All-Natural With Oil That Rises to the Top and Stains Your Shirt When You Stir It Peanut Butter.

Pumpkins are appearing everywhere, November issues of magazines are out with their plethora of ideas for Thanksgiving, and I made a pumpkin pie the other day, so I was inspired to do a little trial run this month in preparation for next month. Plus, I had some chestnuts waiting to be used and happened to come across a recipe for stuffing that included chestnuts, so clearly the stuffing stars were aligned. The recipe was actually for cornbread stuffing, but all I had was blue cornmeal, which creates a grayish batter (and bread). And truth be told, it was probably past its prime, so I decided to use white bread instead. I purchased the loaf in the late afternoon, and naturally was hungry as I drove around town running a few more errands, so the loaf was noticeably smaller by the time I got home. However, I have learned through careful study over the years just how many pieces I can inhale while still leaving enough for the stuffing, so all was not lost.

My mother's stuffing was a slightly odd mix of influences, yet worked somehow: onions and celery (but no carrots, so not a true mirepoix), sauteed mushrooms, lots of butter and broth, parsley, and water chestnuts. Yes, water chestnuts. They added a bit of crunch, but not a jolt, which my mother deemed necessary to balance the mush that the white bread turned into. I've recreated her stuffing before, and liked it, but I wanted to try something a little different. But not as different as, say, persimmon stuffing, which I've also tried before and didn't like. At all.

The recipe I was halfheartedly following called for mirepoix, plus apples and chestnuts, along with a little parsley and the butter and broth I was used to. The chestnuts were a pain to prepare, since the inner skins didn't come off easily, and they were a bit chalky in the cooked stuffing, so I either didn't pre-cook them well enough or they had been sitting in the produce section for too long. Next time I will try jarred chestnuts, since their flavor is lovely. I really liked the apple bits, and the carrots gave color and texture to the stuffing, so those may make an appearance next month as well. And of course, my beloved white bread anchored the whole thing so nicely, just as I knew it would.

The cardinal rule of stuffing seems to be Add Whatever Floats Your Boat, be it water chestnuts or corn bread or sausage or mushrooms. Or persimmons. Which I love, but not in stuffing. While I don't know the exact evolution of stuffing, I would guess that on the first Thanksgiving or two, there were some ingredients that needed to get used up, and so creating an absorbent edible layer inside the bird that caught all those fatty yet flavorful juices was just perfect. Just like my mom's stuffing. And mine. And yours.

Technically, this is dressing, not stuffing, but I just can't bring myself to put it inside a raw bird. Salmonella and I are not friends.

A trial run just isn't a trial run without cranberry sauce. Or marshmallows.

NB: Fortunately I have about 5 pieces of white bread left over, which are waiting in the freezer for the perfect occasion to be eaten.  Such as after I eat the green leafy vegetables in my fridge. Or a bowl of low-sugar granola. Or a sandwich with Twig-and-Berry Bread. With natural peanut butter, of course.

Family Feud

A Brief History of Italy
Northerners says risotto is made by dumping all the liquid into the pot at once and letting it cook without any fuss. Southerners says risotto is made by adding the liquid little by little and stirring every now and then.

A Brief History of My Family
My dad, being of southern Italian descent, taught us the slow, arduous method for making risotto. This is sometimes referred to as The Real Way.

Enter Adele
My dad's Significant Other is a Northerner. She is also an excellent cook. Her risotto comes out just fine. This makes enthusiasts of The Real Way uncomfortable.

I used The Real Way tonight to make a simple mushroom risotto. I realized, though, that I couldn't use the northern method until I figured out precisely how much liquid I needed, since adding too much would ruin the dish. I've never paid close attention to the amount, since I just kept adding some until the rice wouldn't absorb any more. So it turns out The Real Way is The Imprecise Way. Or The Lazy Way.

I usually use cremini mushrooms for this dish, though a number of varieties would work. Creminis are relatively inexpensive and easy to find, and add a bit more depth than button mushrooms. I used scallions in place of onions, partly because I had them in the fridge, and partly because I wanted a little extra texture and color in the dish. I used to make this dish with leeks, so I figured scallions were a reasonable substitute, but use whatever onion-esque option you have.

I also decided to throw in a little white wine this time, and it turned out to be one of the best risottos I've made. I used a very inexpensive Sauvignon Blanc I opened for another dish, and it was perfect. The flavor boost was especially helpful now that I don't use any parmesan, though of course wine adds a different note than salty cheese.

As I stood at the stove stirring the risotto, micro-managing the burner output, and adding Just Enough liquid, the thought creeped into my head that Real Way Risotto is a little high-maintenance. It can't be left alone for longer than a minute or two, because if it sticks to the bottom it's over. It can't get over-zealous liquid additions because if too much is added near the end it becomes soggy. Faintly, I could hear my dad's voice from my childhood in my head, high-pitched for dramatic effect: "I slaved all day over a hot stove, working my fingers to the bone to make this for you!"

And suddenly, I remembered the flavor of risotto we used to eat all the time: Real Way Risotto Infused With Guilt.

White Wine-Mushroom Risotto

The entire process should take about 30 minutes.

3/4 C arborio rice

1 3/4 C broth (vegetable or chicken)

1/4 C dry white wine

2 TBSP butter, divided

1 1/2 C sliced cremini mushrooms 

2 scallions, thinly sliced

2 TBSP chopped parsley

salt and pepper, to taste

grated parmesan (optional)

1. Saute mushrooms: heat 1 TBSP butter in a pan over medium heat. Add sliced mushrooms. Cook until dark brown and mushrooms have released liquid. Leave just a little liquid in the pan. Sprinkle with a pinch or two of salt and pepper, and a little chopped parsley. Stir to combine. Remove from heat and set aside.

2. Heat remaining butter in a medium sauce pan over medium-low heat. Add scallions and cook 1 minute. Add rice and stir well to coat grains with butter. 

3. When grains are translucent, add approximately 1 cup of broth. Stir to incorporate, making sure no grains of rice stick to the bottom of the pan. Allow rice to simmer for several minutes, stirring occasionally, scraping bottom of pan.

4. When nearly all liquid has been absorbed (do NOT allow rice to dry out completely), add another 1/2 cup of broth. Repeat process as in step 3. 

5. When nearly all liquid has been absorbed, add wine. Proceed as before. 

6. When wine has absorbed, add remaining broth a little at a time. You may have a few tablespoonfuls left over. Cook until rice is al dente. Add mushrooms and a little more fresh parsley. Adjust salt and pepper to taste. Garnish with parmesan, if desired.

A Mexican Christmas?

Forgive me the gray-on-gray blog design, but it has been raining for days, and more rain is predicted. I might as well still live in Chicago.

In my family, a Christmas tradition was to make at least 2 varieties of cookies each year, to be nibbled secretly until dessert time on Christmas Eve.  My mother would store the tins of cookies in what we called The Back Hall, which was unheated (and likely unenclosed at some point in the house's history); having to brave 50-degree "weather" to get to the cookies was no deterrent for me.  I don't think it was much of a deterrent for anyone else in the family either, since some years we came dangerously close to having no cookies on Christmas.

By far my favorite cookie was one we called a pecan sandy (sandie?). My mother obtained the recipe from a work colleague perhaps 30 years ago, and the directions called for the cookies to be rolled by hand into finger shapes, baked, dusted in powdered sugar, and dipped at one end into melted chocolate. I alternated between believing it was best to eat the chocolate end first, and thinking it was better to save the chocolate end for a most satisfying finish.  As an adult, I solved this dilemma once by dipping BOTH ends into chocolate. 

Naked

Fingers and rounds, as homage to the cookies' Mexican roots.

 For the last few years, many of my cookbooks have been in storage, first in Utah and now in Christy's garage.  I thought this would be the end of pecan sandies, but I remembered an observation of mine one year.  A guest brought us a tin of what she called Mexican wedding cookies. They were round ball-shaped cookies dusted in powdered sugar, and were green. After one bite I exclaimed, "These taste just like pecan sandies!" Many years and the Internet later, I had no trouble finding a replacement recipe for my beloved pecan sandies, which are someone's Americanized version of Mexican wedding cookies. 

Dipped

I'm not sure which colleague my mother got the recipe from, since several were involved in some kind of recipe swap.  I suspect, though, the one named Sandy. Who was Filipina, not Mexican.

Caution: the baked cookies are fragile, and should be dusted and dunked with care.

Pecan Mexican Sandie Wedding Cookies
adapted from foodnetwork.com, and Sandy
1 C (2 sticks) butter, at room temperature
1/2 C confectioners' sugar, plus more for dusting
1 tsp vanilla extract
1 3/4 C all-purpose flour
1 C pecans, finely chopped


1. Preheat oven to 350 degrees.
2. Cream butter and sugar until light. Add vanilla and beat well. Add flour to butter mixture and mix well.  You may need to add up to 1 tablespoon of water to the mixture. Mix in pecan bits. 
3. Shape dough into a ball and wrap in waxed or parchment paper.  Refrigerate for 1 hour.
4. Shape dough into fingers or balls and arrange on baking sheet. 
5. Bake for 14-17 minutes, or until cookies are golden and edges are brown.
6. When cooled, roll carefully in more confectioners' sugar, and dip one end into melted chocolate (I prefer bittersweet here, but semi-sweet will work too).

 

Sausage and Peppers

My dad used to talk of opening a sausage and pepper stand.  He'd make his fortune that way, selling only one thing, cooked and flavored to perfection.  No fancy packaging necessary, no exotic ingredients needed.  Just really good food.


My parents always made sausage and peppers to be eaten in a roll: they left the sausages whole, and added layers of sauteed onions and green bell peppers.  My critique of this presentation was that the sausages would slide across the roll and splurt out one end or another, usually to land in my lap by way of the front of my shirt.

Several grease stains and many years later, I had dinner at my cousin's house before going to a show, and she told me over the phone she'd make me a little sausage and peppers.  She served it to me in a bowl, with clear evidence of TOMATOES in the dish, and no roll in sight.  I felt sorry for her, not knowing how to make sausage and peppers and all.

As I ate the bite-sized pieces out of the bowl, I secretly enjoyed the flavors and textures, with the tomato adding a pleasant acidic balance to the dish.  I think we ate a little sourdough bread with the meal, using it to dip up the juices at the bottom of the bowl.  By the end of the night, my shirt was still stain-free.  I've been hooked on her method ever since. 

I discovered cute, funky-shaped sweet peppers at the farmer's markets in Los Angeles, and prefer to make sausage and peppers with them, though I'm probably being my usual food snob self there.  My favorites are the purple and pale yellow ones I find sometimes; this weekend I bought a small green, an even smaller yellow, and a long reddish-yellow one, along with a few varieties of heirloom tomatoes from the same farmer.  I bought a couple of sweet Italian sausages at-- where else?-- Berkeley Bowl, and served this with a seeded Semifreddi's baguette.  I don't use any cheese these days, but note that this dish, be it in a bowl or on a roll, is delicious with a very light sprinkling of grated Pecorino-Romano or Parmegiano.

Sorry, Dad.

Sausage & Peppers
Serves 2

adapted from Several Members of the DiStasi Family

2 sweet Italian sausages, sliced into bite-sized pieces

1 cup bell peppers, cut into thumb-sized strips

1/2 cup tomato, cut into chunks

1/2 medium onion, sliced

1 clove garlic

salt, pepper, and maybe a little oregano

1. Saute onion and garlic in a little olive or canola oil over medium heat for 2-3 minutes.  Add sliced peppers and saute another 3-4 minutes, until shiny and beginning to soften. I add my salt, pepper, and oregano here but "real" cooks add it at the end.

2. Add sausage pieces. Continue to saute until sausage is nearly done, about 8-10 minutes.  Peppers and onions should become soft but not mushy.

3. Add tomatoes and cook another 2 minutes, or until tomato pieces have softened and released some liquid but haven't disintegrated.  Sausage should be fully cooked by now.

4. Serve in bowls with warmed baguette, and sprinkle with grated cheese, if desired.