Kitty’s vanilla ice cream scented with citrus
Like several other significant people in my Roman life, I met Kitty Travers in a pub in Trastevere called Big Star. These days it has a sign, but back then it didn’t, just a faded star above the door if you looked very closely. Kitty was standing on the steps wearing a tartan mini skirt, drinking a beer and smoking a Marlboro red, and although clearly English she fitted in nicely with the crowd of trasteverini.
I liked her immediately, and liked her even more after having established, through a fog of guilty pleasure, that we were both from London (where we had friends in common) and that she, a pastry chef, was working with a friend of mine in Rome. We also talked about gelato, a shared preoccupation, which she was still learning to make. Several years, many visits, and a few kids later, we are still good friends and she is back in London making the most brilliant ice cream at La Grotta Ices in Spa Terminus in south London, and serving it out of her converted three-wheeled Ape van.
I don’t make ice cream in my Roman kitchen because I don’t have a machine, or the space for one. However, when I go back to England I churn happily in my mum’s machine, and it’s often one of Kitty’s recipes. That’s why it seemed fitting to include one here, a classic, delicious, and essential one: proper vanilla that can be drowned with coffee, placed next to poached or baked fruit, or eaten in a cone just so.
The mere mention of the word custard used to make my heart sink. This recipe and my desire to make proper vanilla gelato with a custard base changed that. The secrets are a gentle heat and constant stirring. Overnight resting is also key. The addition of lemon peel and coffee beans is inspired, the citrus cutting through the richness of the cream and eggs, and the beans (which you then remove) adding a just perceptible touch of pleasing bitterness.
makes 1 quart
1 vanilla pod
1½ cups organic whole milk
1 cup heavy cream
a pinch of sea salt
½ cup sugar
3 large egg yolks
1 organic lemon
5 fresh coffee beans (a nice addition but not essential, so use only if you have them)
Split the vanilla pod in half lengthwise with a sharp knife and scrape out the seeds. Heat the milk, cream, salt, and vanilla pod and seeds together in a heavy-bottomed pan (stainless steel is ideal) until it is barely simmering.
Whisk the sugar and egg yolks together until combined. Pour the hot milk over the yolks in a steady stream, whisking constantly, then return everything to the pan. Cook over low heat, stirring constantly with a heatproof spatula, until the temperature reaches 180°F. Peel the outer zest (leaving the white part behind) from the lemon with a sharp vegetable peeler and add it to the hot custard along with the coffee beans, if you have them. Cover the pan tightly with plastic wrap and let it sit in a sinkful of iced water until cool. Make sure the water comes up to the level of the custard inside the pan, otherwise it will take far too long to cool.
Refrigerate the mixture for at least 8 hours, preferably overnight, then strain it to remove the vanilla pod, coffee beans, and citrus zest and blend with an immersion blender for 30 seconds to emulsify it. Churn it in an ice cream machine according to the manufacturer’s instructions, or until it has increased in volume by about 20 percent and looks dry. Scrape the ice cream out into a clean, freezerproof container, cover with wax paper and a lid, then label it and place it in the freezer to harden until ready to serve.
Pine nut, rosemary, and sea salt caramel brittle
When I asked Kitty for her vanilla ice cream recipe she also sent me a recipe for pine nut and rosemary brittle. Not only was it delicious, she wrote, but also seemed fitting for a Roman cookbook of sorts, what with the pine nuts and the rosemary. My heart sank when I saw the word “caramel,” but then my curiosity got the better of me because it sounded good, and what’s more, reminded me of the salted nut brittle that Leonardo at trattoria Cesare serves with coffee, which I have been meaning to make ever since it nearly took my crown out. I decided I would try it.
I have adapted Kitty’s rather precise and technical recipe into something that works in my thermometer-less kitchen: an informal caramel. Once you’ve added the nuts to the caramel, work fast and don’t worry if it looks like a mess—it should. The combination of almonds, resinous pine nuts, the cool sap-green flavor of the rosemary, and the salt and sugar is dangerously nice. Bring the craggy whole to the table, then impress or terrify your guests by smashing it into manageable pieces with the nearest heavy object to serve with ice cream or coffee.
makes about 12 small pieces
½ cup sugar
a sprig of fresh summer rosemary
½ cup chopped almonds
a large pinch of sea salt
⅓ cup pine nuts
¼ teaspoon baking powder
1½ tablespoons unsalted butter
Heat a heavy-bottomed pan (stainless steel is ideal) over medium-low heat for 1 minute, then add the sugar and leave it, not touching it at all but keeping an eye on it. Shake the pan occasionally once the sugar starts to turn liquid.
While the sugar is melting, pick the rosemary leaves and chop them roughly. Put them in a bowl with the chopped almonds, salt, pine nuts, and baking powder and stir well to combine, making sure there are no lumps of baking powder. As soon as the sugar has turned a dark caramel color, add the butter carefully, stirring with a whisk or heatproof spatula, then add the almond mixture and mix to combine. Turn off the heat. Turn the hot brittle mixture quickly and evenly onto a nonstick silicone baking mat or large piece of oiled parchment paper placed on a heatproof surface, and use a spoon dipped in hot water (I use my hands dipped in cold water) to spread it out if needed as it starts to cool. Leave to cool completely.
Once cooled, break it into large pieces and store between layers of wax paper in an airtight container.
Lemons
Even a tiny wedge of lemon garnishing a drink was enough to make my grandpa shudder and suck his breath through his teeth. Vincenzo’s grandfather, on the other hand, ate a lemon a day, skin, pith, flesh, and all. To be fair, there was a continent of difference between the leather-skinned, shockingly sharp ones my grandpa would have encountered in a northern English pub in 1980, and the muted, fragrant, almost sweet lemons Vincenzo’s grandfather grew on his farm in Sicily. That said, I still like the unjust comparison between the two: John Roddy grimacing at the sight of a small yellow triangle in a pub near Sheffield and Orazio D’Aleo eating the whole fruit in a field in southern Sicily. Apart from the citrus and language differences, we think our Lancastrian and Sicilian grandfathers would have got on well, in an awkward, silent way.
Lemons are important in our flat. Vincenzo doesn’t quite eat them whole, but almost. He squeezes them in and on the obvious—fish, salad, vegetables, tea—and the less obvious: strawberries, watermelon, bread, potatoes, espresso. He also washes the dishes with the squeezed-out halves. Although less exuberant with my squeezing, and still trying to get in the washing-up habit, I am devoted to Italian lemons, their pale, unwaxed skins and oily spritz, gentle pith that’s as thick as a thumb, and flesh that tastes clean and citric.
Perennial, beautiful, and essential, I pretty much always have a bowl of lemons on the table to lift, cut, sharpen, encourage, and brighten. They are squeezed with blood oranges to make juice the color of a desert sunrise, spritzed on greens or fat-fringed pork chops, and into my eyes when I’m doing things too quickly, twisted into dressings for salads and vegetables, and then, once a week, grated into a cake batter.
Ciambellone di ricotta e limone
Ricotta and lemon bundt cake
This is the only cake I make with any sort of regularity, usually once a week, more often than not on Sunday night so that the impact of Monday morning is softened by cake. It’s based on the yogurt-pot cake my friend Ruth taught me, for which you use a carton of plain yogurt, then use the carton to measure out the rest of the ingredients. But I decided to double quantities, substitute ricotta for yogurt, and add lemon zest, which meant the proportions of oil and sugar changed; in short, a set of scales seemed wise. It’s still a cake for the baking-inhibited, though, the kind you can rustle up quickly with minimal mess. The ricotta gives it a creamy depth and means it stays moist, the olive oil provides the necessary fat, and the lemon zest gives it a little warm whiplash and a dose of mood-lifting citrus. It’s simple and extremely good—as Vincenzo says, an everyday cake—and accommodating too, as comfortable on a breakfast table as it is wrapped in a paper napkin and stuffed into a pocket for a morning snack; as good beside a cup of tea at four o’clock as it is with a glass of sweet wine after dinner, or a shot of brandy at nine o’clock.
makes 12–16 slices
1 cup (200 ml) extra-virgin olive oil, plus extra for greasing
2 cups (250 g) all-purpose flour, plus extra for dusting
2 teaspoons baking powder (I use a packet of lievito, an Italian raising agent of seemingly magical powers)
a pinch of salt
¾ cup (150 g) sugar
1 cup (250 g) ricotta
4 large eggs
grated zest of 2 organic lemons
Preheat the oven to 350°F and grease and flour a ring or bundt pan approximately 9 inches in diameter, or a standard 9 × 5 × 3-inch loaf pan.
In a large bowl, mix together the flour, baking powder, salt, and sugar. In another bowl, whisk together the ricotta and olive oil, then add the eggs one by one, beating between each addition, until smooth. Add the ricotta mixture to the flour mixture and whisk until you have a thick batter. Add the lemon zest, stir again, then pour the batter into the prepared pan, making sure it does not come more than two-thirds of the way up the sides.
Bake for 30–40 minutes if you are using a bundt pan (40–50 for a loaf pan), or until the cake is golden and fully set. I check it with a strand of spaghetti, but you can use a knife or skewer: insert it into the middle of the cake and it should come out clean. Allow the cake to cool before turning it out of the tin and onto a plate.
Confettura di ciliegie
Cherry jam
This is a satisfyingly simple jam, which I always make in small quantities. The purple-tinged froth that rises as the cherries simmer reminds me of my auntie May’s purple rinse, and the addition of lemon zest gives the jam a sharp lemon edge reminiscent of sour cherries. I love this, but you may not, in which case omit the lemon zest and be frugal with the lemon juice.
makes 3–4 (8-ounce) jars
3¼ pounds cherries, washed, with stems and stones removed
1 organic lemon
4 cups superfine sugar
Put the washed, stoned, and stemmed cherries in a large, heavy-bottomed pan suitable for making jam. Pare away 5 thick strips of lemon zest with as little pith as possible attached. Add them to the pan, cover the fruit with the sugar, stir, and leave to sit in a cool place for 3 hours.
Squeeze the juice from the lemon over the cherries. Stir, place the pan over medium heat, and bring to a boil, stirring occasionally and skimming away any purple froth. Reduce the heat to a gentle simmer and leave the deep purple jam to bubble and burp quietly for just over an hour. The jam is ready when it is thick, clings to the back of the spoon, and is of an even consistency and decidedly sticky. I also do the saucer test to see if the jam has set. That is: put a saucer in the freezer for a few minutes, then put a spoonful of jam on the cold saucer, wait a minute, then run your finger through the jam. If it wrinkles, remains divided in two parts, and doesn’t run back into a single puddle, it’s ready.
Ladle the jam into warm sterilized jars while still hot. Screw on the lids immediately, then leave the jars to cool upside down, which creates a seal. The jam will keep in a cool, dark place for up to a year, but as I make such small quantities I tend to keep it in the fridge.
Crostata di visciole o ciliegie
Cherry jam tart
This is another recipe in which my two food worlds collide: the simple, not-too-sweet pie crust jam tarts of my English childhood and the crisscrossed sour cherry crostate so beloved of the Romans.
When I was eight years old, drinking a Snowball in a Champagne saucer topped with a cocktail cherry was the height of sophistication. My granny ran a pub on Dunham Street in Oldham called the Gardeners’ Arms, a traditional free house serving Robinson’s ale, bitter, and stout. I knew full well that my cocktail had barely a whiff of alcohol—just enough Advocaat to tinge the lemonade pale egg-yolk yellow—and that I’d be whisked off to bed as soon as the pub got busy. But that didn’t bridle my joy at sitting up at the bar, Snowball in one hand and cheese-and-onion crisp in the other, listening to jukebox tunes I didn’t quite understand.
Although I’m still partial to a cocktail cherry or three, these days I prefer my cherries still warm from the tree at my friends’ house, straight from the brown paper bag on the way home from the market, or chilled until they’re so cold and taut they burst between your teeth. Once I’ve had my fill of cherries hand to mouth, I poach a few, soak a few in alcohol, and make some jam, which is even better if I have a few visciole too. Visciole are sour cherries and Romans adore them, whether preserved in deep red syrup, steeped in red wine for an inky liqueur, or most commonly simmered into a jam which is then baked into biscuits or crostata. You can make this tart with any jam, but cherry is particularly nice, and sour cherry jam nicer still. One especially Roman variation includes a thick layer of ricotta, which bakes into a soft, baked-cheesecake-like lid. It’s my favorite tart.
serves 8–12
2⅓ cups (300 g) all-purpose flour
11 tablespoons (150 g) cold unsalted butter, plus extra for greasing
½ cup (100 g) superfine sugar
a pinch of salt
grated zest of 1 small organic lemon
3 eggs
2 cups (500 g) cherry or sour cherry jam
for a cherry and ricotta tart:
2 cups (500 g) fresh ricotta (you may not need all of it)
5 tablespoons (60 g) sugar
1¼ cups (350 g) cherry or sour cherry jam
1½ cups whipped cream
Sift the flour into a large bowl. Cut the butter into small dice and add it to the bowl. Working quickly with cold hands, rub the butter into the flour until it resembles fine bread crumbs. Add the sugar, salt, and lemon zest and toss everything together. In a small bowl, lightly beat 2 eggs with a fork, then add them to the other ingredients. Use your hands to bring everything together to a smooth, consistent dough. Wrap the dough in plastic wrap and leave it in the fridge to rest for 1 hour.
Preheat the oven to 350°F and grease a 9½-inch tart pan. On a lightly floured work surface, roll two-thirds of the pastry dough into a round a little larger than the pan. Lift the pastry into the pan using the rolling pin and press it gently into the corners. Trim off any excess around the edge. Prick the pastry base with a fork. Spread out the jam on top of the pastry. Roll out the remaining pastry and cut it into strips, then use these to crisscross the tart. Beat the remaining egg in a small bowl, then brush the crisscrossed strips with the egg. Place the tart pan on a baking sheet and bake for 45–50 minutes. Serve warm or at room temperature, alone or with a spoonful of whipped cream.
To make the cherry and ricotta tart, make the pastry and line the tart pan as described above. Mix together the ricotta, sugar, and eggs until smooth. Spread the cherry jam onto the pastry, then cover with the ricotta mixture. Cover with the crisscrossed strips of pastry as above. Place the tart pan on a baking sheet and bake for 45–50 minutes.