RICOTTA TURNOVERS

(Cassateddi di Ricotta)

Makes 3 dozen

PASTRY

425 g/15 oz flour (see note)

125 g/4 oz lard

225 ml/8 fl oz white wine

25 g/1 oz sugar

25 g/1 oz unsweetened cocoa

FILLING

675 g/1 lb ricotta, well drained (see note)

175 g/6 oz sugar

75 g/3 oz plain chocolate pieces or grated rind of 1 lemon

Vegetable oil for frying

125 g/4 oz caster sugar, or granulated sugar ground fine

1 teaspoon ground cinnamon

Sift together the flour, sugar, and cocoa onto a marble or wooden surface. Make a well and add the wine slowly, using just as much as it takes to make a fairly compact dough. Cut the lard into small pieces and knead it piece by piece into the dough. Knead for at least 15 minutes, working the dough out into a long strip and then folding it back on itself so as to incorporate as much air as possible, until the dough is very smooth and elastic, and shiny but not greasy to the touch. Put the dough into a bowl, cover with a towel or a lid, and let it stand for at least 1 hour.

Sieve the ricotta. Beat in the sugar, and stir in the chocolate pieces or, if you prefer something less sweet, the lemon rind.

Roll out the dough to a very thin sheet, and cut out 7.5 cm/3 inch circles. On each circle place a scant tablespoon of ricotta. Fold the circles over into half-moons and, moistening the edges with a little water, seal them carefully.

Fry the turnovers in abundant and very hot (about 190C/375F) vegetable oil (at least 7.5 cm/3 inches deep) until they are delicately browned. Drain on paper towels and serve while still warm, sprinkled with ground cinnamon and granulated sugar that has been ground to a fine texture in a mortar.

Guastella’s descriptions of the Carnival of his childhood were published toward the end of the nineteenth century, when folk traditions and popular eating habits suddenly became of literary and scientific interest. Little detail is available from earlier periods to enable us to date the steps by which pasta and other celebratory foods travelled from the Land of Cuccagna to daily life. From the end of the eighteenth century, however, foreign visitors to Sicily bear witness to the fact that pasta was widely accessible, even in small towns and villages, to those whose pockets were well lined.

In the letters written home by young Englishmen who extended their Grand Tour to Sicily, “All we could find was a dish of macaroni” is a frequent lament (despite the fact that macaroni were all the rage in London’s coffee-houses, and had become synonymous with anything elegant, which explains Yankee Doodle’s odd behaviour). One such meal is described in detail:

We halted to dine at the village of Scaletta, at the same cottage where I was so much entertained on my journey to Riposto, and I had no sooner reached the door, than I was warmly greeted by little Antonino, who came running to welcome me on the strength of our late acquaintance. Inside the house, the hens, chickens, and turkeys appeared more numerous than ever; and the dogs and slim tabbies beset me the moment I entered. When seated, the good woman turned out a rotolo of maccaroni into a large dish, which I expected was intended for me; but to my surprise and astonishment, the whole family surrounded it instantly, and began to demolish it with wooden forks, cramming as much into their mouths at first as possible, and then dextrously pushing in the depending filaments with their fingers. This is the true Sicilian mode of eating maccaroni, though certainly not the most polite. After the family meal was over, there was a second dinner prepared for me, which my hostess served on a trencher, and, without any ceremony, or even consulting my taste on the subject, she poured over it some tomata, or red pepper sauce, fried in oil, and then scattered the salt over my plate with her fingers.

George French Angas, A Ramble through Malta and Sicily in the Autumn of 1841

Mr. French Angas’s confusion about the sauce is quite understandable, since the use of tomatoes was still quite a novelty when he was travelling. Tomatoes had been imported to Europe by the Spanish in the sixteenth century, but European cooks were slow to discover the versatility of this strangely acid fruit from the New World. Thus spaghetti with tomato sauce is a young variation on a very old theme. One scholarly book claims that it was not common fare in Naples before 1830, and this can probably be applied to Sicily as well. In any case, it was in the early nineteenth century that the tomato claimed its place in Sicilian cooking, becoming a genial addition to some old classics, such as caponata, and giving birth to some new ones, such as pasta con le melanzane.

Tomato plants are set out in March in Sicily, and harvesting begins in July. The first ones to ripen are the sweetest and the best for making sauce, especially those known, around Alcamo at least, as siccaniu—that is, grown dry, on unirrigated land. My amazement is renewed each year at these plants, which if it has been a particularly dry spring receive at best a few ladlefuls of water in June, yet produce intensely flavoured tomatoes dripping copious amounts of juice.

Many Sicilian pasta dishes are therefore summer fare, requiring the heady flavours of sun-ripened tomatoes and fresh basil. I have made many a last minute summer lunch with “carter’s pasta.”