Our home in Rome, from the early 1960s to the late 1970s, was an elegant, sunny two-storey penthouse at Largo Spinelli 15, in a residential area in the centre of the city where all the streets are named after Italian composers. The top floor was surrounded by a wide terrace, tiled with terracotta and framed by countless flowerpots and plant containers, lovingly tended by my father. From it, the view across the dark green treetops of Villa Borghese stretched to the cupola of the Basilica of St. Peter on the far horizon. I lived there, with my family, until I left home for the thrills of London at the age of 18.
As my primary school on the Via Appia Antica and, subsequently, my secondary school on the Via Cassia were both about 90 minutes away by bus, and none of my friends seemed to live anywhere nearby, I often felt lonely when I got home from school, even if my parents were there. Learning to cook was my way of keeping occupied once homework was done and I was bored of playing with my dolls or reading. I loved books, and was encouraged to read anything and everything by my mother, whose philosophy was that this was the only way to learn to distinguish good literature from bad. I also read a lot of recipe books, of which there was no shortage, and started to learn a great deal about food.
Despite the fact that my mother did not work, we had a lot of staff to help run the household. There was tiny, ancient little Giuseppina, who came twice a week to do all the washing by hand, her huge, gnarled, red hands out of all proportion with her bird-like body. There was Maria the maid who cleaned and ironed; Jack the ex-army chauffeur and handyman; and my favourite – the stout, sensible cook: Italia.
Italia came from the region of Abruzzi that has always been famous for producing great cooks. In Italy, they say that if you have an Abruzzese in your kitchen, your restaurant simply cannot fail. The Abruzzesi are renowned for their ability to season their food perfectly, and are supposed to be naturally instinctive cooks, which are always the very best kind.
Italia’s repertoire of lunch dishes, which she prepared every day of the week except Sunday, was not very wide. She would do the shopping in the market of Via Metauro on her way to work and, if I was not at school, her arrival was one of the most thrilling parts of my day. Within minutes of unpacking her trolley, the kitchen surfaces would be covered in all kinds of fresh produce: great bunches of cardoons; live vongole in the sink, squirting seawater everywhere; or fibrous chunks of meat – ready to be passed through the gleaming meat-grinder clamped securely to the edge of the table – which ended up as delicious little meatballs: Italia’s famous polpette.
Unfortunately, Italia’s working hours meant that she was always gone by the time I returned home after school. But on Saturday mornings and during the holidays, I would spend as much time as I could helping her: learning to make feather-light gnocchi on Thursdays; fish stews on Fridays; and preparing dishes that could be reheated for our family suppers in the evening, once Italia had gone home on the 39 bus to the apartment she shared with her sister America in the San Giovanni district of the city.
I loved to hear Italia talk of the remote village in the Abruzzo where she and her sister were raised; and how they had been taught to make fresh pasta by their mother as soon as they reached puberty. She believed wholeheartedly that it would help them develop a good bust; and that a girl who could make excellent pasta, and had a nice firm bust with a deep cleavage, should have no trouble catching herself a husband.
“Courage!” Italia would cry, as I tried to wield the metre-long rolling pin covered in flour. “It will be worth all your effort if you just keep going!” She would flip over the disc of rolled-out, bright yellow pasta, forcing it to stretch out over and over again under the even pressure of her rolling pin, until it was fine enough “to read your love letters through it”, and as silky as “your lover’s caresses”. I tried hard to emulate her effortless movements but often ended up with huge holes and gaping tears in my own sheet of dough.
I laughed about her sister’s name, until Italia told me that in choosing the girls’ names her parents had honoured both their home country and that which they considered to be the land of golden opportunities, in the hope that this would ensure good fortune and a better life than they would have in their tiny mountain village. “Life was so hard when my sister and I were growing up,” she would sigh. “You are a very lucky girl to have such a wonderful life and so many lovely things, but always remember that your good health is the most important of all.” So saying, she would touch my cheek and smile before pushing me gently towards the table again. “Now, try and roll out the pasta more evenly this time!”
Sometimes, my mother would take me to our local market, the one where Italia shopped every day and where everybody knew her name. In wintertime, the market traders fascinated me: bulky with the old newspapers they wrapped around themselves, worn underneath their clothes to keep out the bitter cold. The traders would yell out their prices and the provenance of their goods in the thickest of local dialects, peppered with coarse innuendoes. “Come on Signora!” they would shout at my mother. “Take home some of my blood oranges. They’ll bring Sicily into your bed. Hot like a lover’s kiss!” Or: “You need to fill your man’s stomach if you know what’s good for you, ladies! Try making your gnocchi with my potatoes: they’ll be so light, he’ll never stop showing you how much he loves you!”
It was such a thrill to be at the market, to see the boxes of fish and the mountains of fresh, seasonal fruit and vegetables everywhere: knobbly tomatoes and gleaming purple aubergines in the summer; heaps of wrinkle-leafed spinach and chard in the winter; shiny black mussels in vast buckets; spiny bunches of artichokes, piled high and enormous; and leafy, thick-skinned Amalfi lemons. “Buono buono, fresco fresco!” the vendors would call. The smells and sounds of the place filled my heart and my head to overflowing. It was the start of a lifelong obsession with markets, and I have never been able to resist them since.
On Sundays in Rome – when we were not in the country on one of my parents’ epic picnics, which involved much outdoor cooking followed by hunks of bread and chocolate – my mother would take over the kitchen. Then our diet changed completely and, instead of the strong, garlic-infused Southern Italian flavours that were Italia’s specialities, my mother would cook English food to please my dad, or classic French dishes to please herself. Fiammetta was a dab hand not only at dishes like gratin dauphinois, quiche Lorraine, and tarte fine aux pommes (apple tart), but also steak and kidney pie. She would make rich, deeply flavoured, perfectly clear consommé: liquid and steaming hot in winter or jellied and cool in summer. She also taught me how to bake as she had learned to do while in the States, and together we churned out endless angel food cakes, chocolate brownies, devil’s food cakes, key lime pies (made with lemons because limes were unavailable in Rome back then) and icebox cookies.
One very sad day when I was about 11, Italia told my parents that she was retiring to her village in the Abruzzi with her sister. I was devastated by the news: Italia had taught me so many things about cooking that I would treasure forever, and I couldn’t imagine what life would be like without her repertoire of dishes marking the days of our week. Like Beppino, her cooking had been a great influence upon me; their style was very different from one another, but I always managed to keep the two separate in my head.
I had always hoped that I would get to see Italia’s village one day and meet the famous America, but this was not to be. She simply stopped coming to our flat, and we heard from her only at Christmas when she sent us her traditional Abruzzese version of a strudel (see page 225), a marvellously sticky, very nutty confection of which she was terribly proud. Over time, it became as much a part of our Christmas as panettone, and the crackers that my father would go to inordinate lengths to supply.
I missed Italia desperately when she left us. I still think of her from time to time, especially when I am making her feather-light Potato Gnocchi (see page 220), which she said had to be as light and small as a cherub’s fart! We would make them together, peeling the boiling-hot potatoes as soon as they were drained to prevent them from absorbing too much moisture, then pushing them through a food mill three times before blending in only as much egg and flour as was needed to get them to hold their shape and retain their lightness. Once she had tested the dough, Italia would race through the cutting and shaping, pressing the little nuggets against the back of a fork or a cheese grater, while I followed her lead more cautiously.
So many of Italia’s dishes are now part of my own repertoire. I doubt either of us suspected for a moment that things would turn out like this: with some of her best-loved recipes in a chapter dedicated to her memory.
Top, the view from our penthouse flat over the Borghese Gardens to the Basilica of St. Peter. Left, me on the terrace.
This is a version of one of Italia’s favourite chicken recipes that we used to have for lunch at least twice a month, in some form or another. It’s delicious and still makes me think of her with huge affection and a longing to taste it the way she made it. She liked to serve it with potatoes, boiled and drizzled with olive oil, then sprinkled with parsley, but I also liked it with mash as here.
Serves 4
Preparation time: 20 minutes
Cooking time: 50 minutes
500g/1lb 2oz ripe tomatoes
80ml/2½fl oz/
cup olive oil
1.25kg/2lb 12oz chicken joints
3 garlic cloves, chopped
2 celery sticks, finely chopped
2 red peppers, halved, deseeded and cut into large cubes
100ml/3½fl oz/generous cup white wine
200g/7oz/scant 1
cups stoned black or green olives
240ml/8fl oz/scant 1 cup chicken stock, hot
1 tbsp roughly chopped basil
sea salt and freshly ground black pepper
mashed potatoes, to serve (optional)
Cut a cross in the bottom of each tomato, using a sharp knife, then put them in a heatproof bowl and cover with boiling water. Leave to stand for 2–3 minutes, then drain. Peel off and discard the skins, then deseed and roughly chop the flesh. Leave to one side.
Heat half the oil in a large sauté pan over a medium-high heat. Add the chicken and cook until browned all over. Remove from the pan and leave to one side.
Pour the remaining oil into the pan, add the garlic, celery and red peppers and fry for about 5 minutes, stirring frequently, then return the chicken to the pan. Add the wine and cook for a further 5 minutes, then stir in the olives and tomatoes.
Pour in about half the chicken stock, season with salt and pepper and cover. Reduce the heat and simmer for 35 minutes, stirring occasionally and adding more stock if necessary, until the chicken is tender and the juices run clear when the thickest part of the meat is pierced with the tip of a sharp knife. Sprinkle the basil over the top and serve hot with mashed potatoes, if liked.
This dish, which Italia often used to serve on Fridays, can also be made using cuttlefish or octopus. Traditionally, very small, young and tender seafood is used, but larger squid, cuttlefish or octopus can simply be cut to size as required. Don’t worry if you need to cook it for a bit longer (adding a little water or fish stock, if necessary); trust me, the squid will become tender in time.
Serves 4–6
Preparation time: 15 minutes
Cooking time: 1 hour
750g/1lb 10oz cleaned and prepared squid or cuttlefish, cut into thick strips
80ml/2½fl oz/ cup olive oil
4½ tsp white wine vinegar
200g/7oz/1¼ cups fresh or frozen peas, thawed if frozen
300ml/10½fl oz/scant 1¼ cups passata
juice of ½ lemon
sea salt and freshly ground black pepper
2 tbsp chopped parsley leaves
lemon wedges and steamed rice, mashed potatoes or soft polenta, to serve
Put the squid, oil and vinegar in a large frying pan over a medium heat and cook for 15 minutes, stirring occasionally, until the liquid has evaporated.
Reduce the heat, add the peas and passata and simmer for a further 40–45 minutes, or until the squid is completely tender. Season with salt and pepper, then stir in the lemon juice.
Sprinkle the parsley over the stew and serve with wedges of lemon, steamed rice, mashed potatoes or soft polenta.
Italia and I would make hundreds of gnocchi, laying them out – perfectly concave and lightly dusted with flour – on a wooden table in long rows. It is hard to make good gnocchi: Italia’s best tip was to test a small amount of the dough before cutting and shaping the remaining gnocchi. You may not need as much egg or flour as specified in this recipe, depending on the type of potatoes and eggs used. Allow 12–14 gnocchi per person for a generous serving.
Serves 4
Preparation time: 1 hour, plus making the sauce
Cooking time: about 35 minutes
1kg/2lb 4oz floury potatoes, such as Maris Piper, unpeeled and left whole
3 eggs, beaten
300g/10½oz/heaped 2 cups plain white flour, sifted
sea salt
1 recipe quantity Italia’s Rich Tomato Sauce (see page 224), hot, and freshly grated Parmesan cheese, to serve
Put the potatoes in a large saucepan, cover with water and bring to the boil. Boil for 15-20 minutes, or until just soft, then drain. Holding the potatoes in a tea towel, peel off the skins and press through a potato ricer into a large bowl, then press through the ricer again. Gradually add the eggs and flour and season with salt, then gently combine into a soft dough with your hands; add as little flour as you can by checking if the dough can hold a gnocchi shape as you work, but avoid over-handling it or the dough will become heavy.
Bring a small saucepan of salted water to the boil. To test that the dough is the correct consistency, roll out a small piece on a lightly floured work surface to form a cylinder about 4–5cm/1½-2in thick, then cut into 3cm/1¼in pieces. Pinch each piece into a small, concave gnocchi shape, pressing it against the back of a fork or a classic Parmesan grater to make grooves on the opposite side. Drop the gnocchi into the boiling water – they should float up to the surface in about 1 minute, hold their shape without breaking and taste light and flavoursome. If they do not, adjust the remaining dough by adding more egg, flour or both, and add a little more salt if needed. Continue testing until the correct texture is achieved.
Roll out the remaining dough into cylinders, then cut into pieces and shape into gnocchi as above. Spread them out on a large, lightly floured board as you work. Bring a large saucepan of salted water to the boil. Working in batches, drop in 8–10 gnocchi at a time and cook until they float to the surface of the water, about 1 minute. Scoop them out with a slotted spoon and keep warm. Continue until all the gnocchi are cooked. Spoon the Rich Tomato Sauce over the gnocchi and serve sprinkled with grated Parmesan.
This is one of Italia’s classic dishes. As a child, cutting out the circles of semolina was one of my favourite kitchen duties. This type of gnocchi is quicker and much easier to make than potato gnocchi.
Serves 4
Preparation time: 20 minutes
Cooking time: about 30 minutes
1l/35fl oz/4 cups milk
250g/9oz/2 cups semolina
2 egg yolks
100g/3½oz Parmesan cheese, freshly grated
100g/3½oz unsalted butter
a pinch of freshly grated nutmeg
100g/3½oz Gorgonzola cheese, rind removed and cubed
sea salt and freshly ground black pepper
Preheat the oven to 220°C/425°F/Gas 7. Pour the milk into a large saucepan and bring to the boil. Sprinkle in the semolina so that it falls like rain into the water, whisking continuously to prevent lumps forming. Continue whisking until the mixture begins to thicken, then use a wooden spoon to stir constantly for a further 10 minutes until the mixture comes away from the sides and bottom of the pan and forms a rounded, soft ball.
Remove from the heat, stir in the egg yolks, half the Parmesan and half the butter, then season with the nutmeg, salt and pepper.
Lightly dampen a work surface with cold water. Tip out the semolina onto the surface and, using a spatula dipped in water, spread out the mixture to about 1cm/½in thick. Stamp out circles using a 5–7.5cm/2–3in pastry cutter or upturned tumbler, wetting the edge of the cutter and your hands with a little cold water.
Grease a shallow, ovenproof dish with a little of the remaining butter, then put a layer of scraps from the cut-out semolina on the bottom of the dish. Cover with a little grated Parmesan, a few dots of butter and half the Gorgonzola, then cover with a layer of slightly overlapping semolina circles. Repeat until all the ingredients have been used.
Melt any remaining butter and trickle it over the top, then bake for 15 minutes, or until golden and bubbling.
This delicious way of serving artichokes is typical of the cooking style of Rome, with plenty of strong, robust flavours such as garlic, lemon and mint. I learned about taming artichokes from Italia, and still enjoy the lengthy preparation of this magnificent vegetable almost as much as I enjoy eating it. Take your time over this as as you don’t want to leave any of the sharp ends on the leaves or even a small amount of the hairy choke. You might be shocked by how much waste is involved, but you must be ruthless.
Serves 4
Preparation time: 1 hour
Cooking time: 45 minutes
juice of 2 lemons
8 globe artichokes, stalks trimmed
10 garlic cloves, thinly sliced into strips
1 large handful of mint leaves
pared rind of 1 unwaxed lemon, finely chopped
6 tbsp dry white wine, plus extra if needed
80ml/2½fl oz/ cup olive oil
sea salt and freshly ground black pepper
Fill a large bowl with cold water and stir in the lemon juice. To prepare the artichokes, carefully remove and discard all the external hard leaves, then trim the internal leaves. Scoop out and discard the hairy choke in the centre of each artichoke using a teaspoon. Put each artichoke in the acidulated water as soon as it is prepared to prevent it discolouring.
Remove the artichokes from the acidulated water and stand them upright in a large saucepan. Put a few slices of garlic inside each one, then tuck the mint leaves and lemon rind among the artichokes. Season with salt and pepper.
Pour in the wine, oil and 250ml/9fl oz/1 cup water, cover and bring to the boil, then reduce the heat and simmer gently for 30 minutes, basting the artichokes occasionally and adding more wine or water if necessary, until they are almost tender all the way through. Turn the artichokes on their sides and cook for a further 15 minutes, or until soft. Serve hot or cold with some juices from the pan spooned over the top.
This sauce can be made with tinned tomatoes or passata instead of fresh tomatoes. You can add chopped fresh herbs, but do this after the sauce has finished cooking, and do not reheat it once the butter or oil has been added. Italia’s tomato sauce goes particularly well with the Potato Gnocchi (see page 220) or can be served with pasta.
Serves 4
Preparation time: 25 minutes
Cooking time: 45–60 minutes
500g/1lb 2oz ripe tomatoes
4 tbsp olive oil
1 onion, finely chopped
1 large celery stick, finely chopped
1 large carrot, peeled and finely chopped
45g/1½ oz unsalted butter or 3 tbsp extra virgin olive oil
sea salt and freshly ground black pepper
Potato Gnocchi (see page 220), or pasta, to serve
Cut a cross in the bottom of each tomato, using a sharp knife, then put them in a heatproof bowl and cover with boiling water. Leave to stand for 2–3 minutes, then drain. Peel off and discard the skins, then deseed and roughly chop the flesh. Leave to one side.
Heat the oil in a heavy-based saucepan over a low heat. Add the onion, celery and carrot and fry very gently for 15–20 minutes, or until the vegetables are soft and the onion is translucent.
Stir in the tomatoes, then cover and simmer for 30–40 minutes, stirring frequently, until the sauce has reduced and thickened.
Season with salt and pepper, then remove from the heat and stir in the butter or extra oil just before you are ready to serve with Potato Gnocchi or pasta.
This is the famous Abruzzese version of a strudel that Italia would always make for Christmas, and then continued to send to us long after she retired as our cook in Rome.
Serves 6–8
Preparation time: 30 minutes, plus 20 minutes resting
Cooking time: 40 minutes
100g/3½oz/heaped ¾ cup sultanas
50g/1¾oz/ cup blanched almonds, roughly chopped
8 shelled walnuts, roughly chopped
3 large apples, peeled, cored and sliced
5 dried figs, chopped
5 prunes, pitted and chopped
2–3 tbsp icing sugar
Pastry:
250g/8oz/2 cups plain white flour, sifted, plus extra for dusting
100g/3½oz/scant ½ cup caster or granulated sugar, plus extra for sprinkling
4 tbsp extra virgin olive oil, plus extra for greasing
a pinch of salt
To make the pastry, put the flour, sugar, oil and salt in a mixing bowl and knead together, adding enough warm water to form a firm dough. Cover with a clean tea towel and leave to rest for 20 minutes.
Meanwhile, put the sultanas in a bowl, cover with warm water and soak for 20 minutes until plump and swollen. Drain and pat dry on kitchen paper.
Preheat the oven to 180°C/350°F/Gas 4. Grease a baking sheet with oil, then dust with flour. Roll out the pastry on a lightly floured work surface as thinly as possible; it should be about 30 × 20cm/12 × 8in. Mix together the sultanas, almonds, walnuts, apples, figs and prunes. Spoon the mixture down the middle of the pastry, then sprinkle with the icing sugar. Carefully roll the pastry up around the filling to form a long cylinder. Wet the edge of the pastry and press to seal.
Sprinkle the top of the strudel with caster or granulated sugar and, using two spatulas to help you, transfer to the prepared baking sheet, placing it seam side down. Bake for 40 minutes, or until crisp and golden brown. Leave to cool slightly before serving warm or cold.
Top, from left, my brother Gerard, Dad, my mother and Aunt Leonora. Above, my mother meeting Queen Elizabeth II.
