Ricotta

I’ve mentioned ricotta in each of the first four parts of the book, which means that along with extra-virgin olive oil, salt, and flour, it’s one of the most significant and sociable ingredients in the book. This seems fitting, since it’s one of my favorite things, a quintessential Roman ingredient that’s at home in most kitchens, and last but not least a standard-bearer for my imagined fifth quarter: ingredients made out of things that would be otherwise discarded, in this case the leftover whey from cheese making.

Before we move on to ricotta’s sweeter role, it seems important to reiterate a couple of things here rather than referring to a distant appendix of ingredients. Ricotta can be made from sheep’s or cow’s milk. It can also be made from goat or buffalo milk. In all four cases, the technique is the same: the leftover whey from whichever cheese was being made is reheated, or re-cooked (ri-cotta) with more whole milk, rennet is added, and then the curds are packed into conical baskets so that the excess liquid can seep away. The most beloved ricotta in Rome is ricotta di pecora (sheep’s-milk ricotta), which is protected by a DOP status. Authentic ricotta di pecora is wonderful stuff, porcelain white and bearing the imprints of the basket. It has a clean, fresh flavor, a sheepish nature, and creamy texture. It is these qualities that make it an indispensable part of many antipasti, pasta, savory, and sweet dishes. Good cow’s-milk ricotta, although without the distinctive sheepyness, is every bit as delicious and useful as ricotta di pecora. What isn’t as good is the tubs of long-life, fine-textured soft cheese that masquerade as ricotta in Italy and elsewhere, which is often the only thing you can find. If this is the case you might like to consider making your own curd cheese, which, although not ricotta, is remarkably similar: sweet, gently curdy, and perfect for four of the recipes here.

Rather-like-ricotta curd cheese

This was my first foray into cheese making (although it isn’t strictly cheese, so this is actually rather-like-ricotta curd cheese made by rather-like-cheesemaking means). Making curd cheese also meant that at long last I had a reason to turn the kitchen stool upside down on the table and drain something into a bowl, as I’d seen my mum do years ago. Obviously, the better the milk, the better the final product, and if you can find unpasteurized milk, better still. You can buy rennet from the health food store, although if you wish to do this in Italy, I suggest you look up the word in Italian first, since trying to explain and/or mime the word “rennet” is no easy task.

makes about 1 pound

2 quarts fresh whole milk (unpasteurized if you can find it)

a pinch of salt

4 teaspoons rennet

Bring a large saucepan of water to a boil to sterilize the pan. Throw away the water (or use it to do the washing up), then put the milk in the pan and add the salt. Over medium-low heat, bring the milk to blood temperature, using a thermometer if that reassures you, then remove the pan from the heat.

Add the rennet to the milk, stir well, then leave to sit for 15 minutes, or until the milk separates into curds at the top and whey at the bottom.

Use a slotted spoon to lift the curds from the pan into a colander lined with a double layer of cheesecloth. Tie up the corners of the cheesecloth and hang it over a bowl or the sink to drip for 2 hours. Once drained, unwrap the cheese, put it in a bowl, and keep it in the fridge until you are ready to use it. It will keep in the fridge, covered, for 2 days.

A story about cookies

I was too confused and cross to appreciate anything. It was six o’clock on Monday and I was late and lost, fooled again by the exaggerated curves of the Tevere River, staggering with an oversized child in an undersized sling down yet another cobbled street. The man at the bus stop shook his head and made a gesture which confirmed that I was, as suspected, a long way from where I wanted to be. No directions were forthcoming. Mad-dog Englishwoman tourist, his eyes seemed to snigger. “I’ve lived here for nearly nine years!” I wanted to tell him, but every word of Italian eluded me.

Relief at finding myself on via del Corso was short lived. In front of me was the bus stop from which I’d caught the first of two ill-advised buses an hour earlier. The sun beat down and Luca pounded his hot little hands on my chest. We walked some more, wading against a tide of shoppers and tourists. “You want the 116,” said a kind woman at another bus stop. “I know, I’ve lived here for nine years, I take buses every day,” I wanted to say, but “Grazie” was all I could manage.

The 116, a dwarf bus, bumped along via del Babuino. Women with expensive shoes and immaculate toenails teetered on, so I tucked my shabby ones under the seat. We stopped just after the piazza di Spagna and there it was, Europe’s broadest staircase and another mass of bodies, shopping bags, and blinking cameras. “Get off here,” said the kind woman, “but walk up the other staircase just behind.” This we did, and at last I appreciated something: in these cool, quiet, stone steps we had our own private staircase, just yards away from the busiest one in Europe. Not as marvelous, of course—but at that moment, nearly.

Almost nine years ago, on a similar evening, the view from the Pincio at the top had made my heart swell and skin flush. It had also made me cry. That happened again now, partly from relief that we were no longer lost and I was no longer furious. But mostly it was down to the sublime view across Rome: a hazy patchwork of terra-cotta, brown, and gold, gleaming cupolas, uneven tiles, fading palazzi, hidden roof gardens, and the distant plateau of Janiculum with its shadowed umbrella pines. “Mamma, mummy, mamma, look, look!” Luca insisted, tugging at my shirt, his eyes full of wonder. “Look mamma, dog!” A large dog, leg cocked, was relieving itself against the curb. At this we turned and walked briskly, our Tupperware box of ciambelline al vino keeping time, across Villa Borghese to the picnic party we had started out for so many hours ago. Fortunately, ciambelline are hardy cookies that will happily withstand hours of hot sun, inept traveling, and a brisk jolt across the park. They are also rather particular, as only a cookie made with olive oil and fennel seeds can be, and delicious, as only a cookie intended to be dipped in wine can be.