I have a hard time with numbers. I was never any good at math, I’m always messing up on dates, and if you tell me your phone number I will forget it in the time it takes to grab a pen. This also probably explains why I’m not a great baker. Baking takes a precision and attention to quantities and weights that I just don’t have.
Moving to Italy didn’t help much. I’m still at a loss when someone tells me it is 22 degrees Celsius. Is that hot or cold? Do I need a sweater or a coat? I’ve finally memorized that 350 degrees Fahrenheit is 180 degrees Celsius, but only because I’ve had to look it up 457,000 times over the last twenty years.
And I have to admit that there are a few other measurements I’ve learned over my years of cooking in Italy that have gone a long way toward curing my habit to overbuy. 100 grams seems to be a pretty steady indicator of portion size: 100 grams of pasta per person; 100 grams of meat. Because nothing is prepackaged when I go to the market in Italy, I always have to specify exactly how much I’d like to have.
I learned this the hard way. When I would finally manage to get to the front of the line at the vegetable stand, I would very clearly ask for some apples. Only to have the fruttivendolo look at me with raised eyebrows. So I would repeat it again, that I’d like some apples, please. Finally she would take pity on me and ask, “Quante mele?” (“How many apples?”) “Oh, four or five!” I’d reply, thinking that by now we’d cleared everything up, but, no. She wanted even more specificity. “Mezzo kilo?” (“Half a kilo?”) Like how was I supposed to know how much the apples weighed? Wasn’t she the one with the scale?
For a while I thought it was just my mother-in-law, who is particularly fixated on numbers. Whenever we chatted on the phone, our main topic of conversation would be, of course, what I was cooking. If I told her that I was having a dinner party and was making, say, a pork roast, her first question would be for how many people. Then she would sort of mumble to herself and say something like “Allora, deve prendere un arrosto di 3.6 kili.” (“So, you have to get a pork roast of 3.6 kilos.”) It was always very specific, and always involved some sort of math equation that was a mystery to me.
When I took the time to listen to everyone else though, not just at the fruit and vegetable stand, but also at the bakery, the butcher’s, and the fish store, I realized that everyone was being very specific about measurements.
Eventually, after years of hearing these formulas over and over, I finally got the hang of it. I could now shop like a pro, figuring out not only how much meat and pasta to buy and prepare, but everything down to the last leaf of lettuce.
Which is why, I learned, Italians don’t usually have leftovers. There is no such thing as a doggie bag when you go to an Italian restaurant. The portions that are so carefully measured out in the kitchen are exactly the portions that can be easily eaten by one person at one meal. When my Italian friends see my hoard of Tupperware, which falls on my head from the cabinet above the sink every time I open it, they have no idea what it is for.
The strange thing is, though, all this attention to precise measurements when shopping for food gets thrown out the window the minute you ask someone for a recipe. My mother-in-law, who is so precise in measuring out the main ingredient of her dish—be it pasta, meat, fruit, or vegetable—is completely vague in recounting recipes. “Ci metta un po di olio … you put a little olive oil in the pan . . .” begins most of the recipes I’ve ever learned from her. But if I ask her exactly how much oil, it’s as if I’m speaking another language. “Didn’t you hear me? A little.” As if that is some sort of standard measurement not to be confused with molto (a lot) or pochissimo (very, very little).
Italian cookbooks even have a technical abbreviation for this tendency to vagueness: QB. It took me the longest time to realize that QB, when added onto an ingredient, meant quanto basta, as much as you need. And really, it makes perfect sense. Because who knows how much oil you may need or want in any given recipe? Or salt, for that matter. Or just about anything else. As with most things Italian, everyone has his or her own opinion, and when it comes to cooking, to each his own.
Italians are very good at making just enough food for the meal at hand. Rarely do they go way overboard with Tupperware containers full of leftovers clogging the fridge after a meal. But on that rare occasion when they do have a bit of pasta left over from a family meal, it often makes its way into this rustic frittata, which is pure heaven.
Although you can certainly make this frittata with pasta that already has a sauce on it, I love it made when the noodles are barely dressed with a bit of olive oil. That way I can add handfuls of Parmigiano and pecorino, for a very cheesy and chewy dish. The trick is making the pasta the star of the show, with just enough eggs to bind it all together.
And while frittatas can be eaten piping hot, I like this one served at room temperature, as do most Italians. Although I have served this up as the main course for a dinner party on Sunday, this dish made from leftover pasta is even better as a leftover itself. A thick slice between two pieces of bread is the perfect beach picnic food or even breakfast the next day.
Makes one 10-inch frittata; serves 4 to 5
3 cups cooked pasta
Extra-virgin olive oil, as needed
6 large eggs
¾ cup grated Parmigiano-Reggiano cheese
½ cup cubed aged sheep’s milk cheese
½ cup chopped fresh flat-leaf parsley
Salt
Freshly ground black pepper
If you don’t have any leftover pasta, cook and drain the pasta and toss it with a tablespoon or so of olive oil.
Crack the eggs into a large mixing bowl, and stir with a fork to break up. Add the cheeses and stir well to mix. Add the pasta and parsley, season with salt and pepper, and stir to combine.
Heat a 10-inch (60-cm) nonstick frying pan with enough olive oil to coat the bottom in a thin layer. Add the egg and pasta mixture, and use a wooden spoon to spread it evenly over the pan.
Cover with a flat lid, and let cook over low heat until set, about 10 minutes. If the top is still runny, hold the pan and lid carefully together and flip it over. Then slide the frittata back into the hot pan to finish cooking the top, which is now the bottom.
You can serve this hot, but it’s even better at room temperature. In any case, let it rest at least 5 minutes before cutting into wedges and serving.
Serves 5
While Italians don’t usually have leftovers, there is a tradition in cucina povera of making one ingredient last over several meals. For instance, coda alla vaccinara is oxtail cooked in tomato sauce. The oxtail will be the main course for one meal, while the rich beef-flavored sauce will be served on top of pasta the next day. The same is true of boiled beef. A big piece of beef would be used to make brodo. Not only would the brodo be used to cook pasta in for one meal, but also the beef could often then be stretched for at least another two meals. The Roman version of bollito helper is called picchiapò. If you think the name picchiapò sounds strange, it does. No one is quite sure how this dish got its name. But it is certainly fun to say “pee-ke-ya-po,” not to mention the dish is good to eat.
I realize that leftover boiled beef isn’t something that a lot of people have to deal with. Although traditional picchiapò calls for boiled beef, I’m thinking that this recipe would work for any kind of leftover meat you may have. Yes, even that turkey you stuck in the freezer last November.
1 pound (½ kilo) leftover boiled beef
1 large white onion
2 celery stalks
Extra-virgin olive oil, as needed
2 cups canned tomatoes
Salt
Freshly ground black pepper
Pull the boiled beef into bite-size pieces. Cut the onion in half, and slice it into thin rings.
Slice the celery on the diagonal into ¼-inch slices.
In a pan large enough to hold everything, warm the oil over medium heat. Reduce the heat to low, add the onion and celery, and cook, stirring, for about 25 minutes. You want them to soften, but not brown. Add the tomatoes. Increase the heat to medium, and cook for another 10 minutes. Stir in the beef, cover, and simmer for 20 minutes. Season with the salt and pepper.
Serve with mashed potatoes, or a loaf of crusty bread to sop up all the juices.
