Broccoli Soup

Posted on May 14, 2010 by Peter Bocchieri

Bugs In The Broccoli Soup

I would drive my mother crazy when she made this soup. I never wanted to eat it. I was never a picky eater, but when my mother made this soup she would pour all of us a bowl, and I would pick up my spoon and start to dip it into the soup and shout, “there are bugs in my soup!”  “You’re crazy”, my mother would reply. “I washed the broccoli very well, those aren’t bugs, it’s just the little bits of broccoli”. I would answer, “then why do they have legs!?? Look, see!”.

My father would just keep on eating his soup while my mother was reasoning with me. But eventually my brother and sister would find the same critters.

I don’t know if we just use better insecticides today, or my eye sight has just gotten worse, but as an adult the bugs in the broccoli soup have disappeared. But I’m telling you, as a child, I would always spot the little buggers. My mother would go through amazing lengths to wash and re-wash the broccoli to avoid this revolt at dinner time.  She would soak them in salted water, soak them in the sink for hours, even show me she was washing them. And when she served the soup, I’d find the bugs. Eventually, my father would eat everyone’s soup.

Today, I love this soup. I love broccoli. I’m glad someone took care of this problem because there are no more bugs in the broccoli soup.

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Broccoli Soup

  • 2 pounds broccoli, stems peeled and cut into small pieces, tops cut into florets.
  • 3 tablespoons olive oil
  • 3 anchovy fillets, chopped
  • 2 tablespoons freshly chopped Italian parsley
  • 2 chicken bouillon cubes
  • 2 cloves garlic, minced
  • 1/4 teaspoon dried marjoram
  • 1/4 teaspoon dried thyme
  • 1/4 pound broken spaghetti
  • Salt and freshly ground pepper
  • Grated Romano cheese

Do not be afraid of the anchovy in this dish. It takes on a whole new flavor when combined with these ingredients. I assure you, without it, this dish is not the same.

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Bring 8 cups of water to a boil in a large pot. Add the broccoli and cook until tender, about 6 minutes. While the broccoli is cooking, in a small fry pan, add the olive oil and anchovies over medium heat, stirring constantly until the anchovies almost melt. Add the garlic and cook for a few minutes.

Now add the anchovy and garlic oil to the pot of broccoli along with the parsley, bouillon cubes,  marjoram, and thyme. Gently combine and bring to a boil.  Break the spaghetti into about 2 inch pieces right into the soup.

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Stir in the pasta and cook over medium heat at low boil until the pasta is done. Season to taste with salt and pepper. Serve with  plenty of grated cheese.

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Pasta all’Amatriciana

Posted on May 11, 2010 by Peter Bocchieri

The Visit

When my parents would drive up from Brooklyn to visit me at home in Rockland County it was always an event. Their  one hour trip would start at 5am because my mother did not want to hit traffic driving up through Manhattan. Because my parents were up there in years, they both needed to have a bathroom available to them at a moments notice, so being stuck in traffic was never an option.

They would hit the Rockland County border by about 5:45am and would make the Pearl River Hilton their first stop.  They were only another 5 minutes from my house, but they were being considerate and did not want to roust me out of bed at such an un-godly hour on a Saturday morning, so they thought they would take care of their “needs” and waste a little time at this posh hotel en route.  After a while, with all their visits, the desk clerk got to know them well. And I’m sure my mother complained about something during their short stay there.

It was a peaceful summer morning and the cool breeze that came in through my open bedroom window made me sink deeper into my pillow and enjoy hearing the morning birds singing their songs. As I glanced over to the clock on my night table I saw it was 6:45 so I put my head back down on the pillow and anticipated a few hours more of sleep. The sun began to warm a corner of my room and all was well with the world.

And then I heard the sound of plastic bags, and a distant cry of   “Sal, don’t forget that bag in the back. Be quiet, it’s early, you’ll wake Peeta”.

I  wasn’t sure if I was dreaming, hearing the birds chirping in between the  car doors slamming and the orders my mother shouted at my father to be quiet. The sound of the rustling plastic bags grew louder and I realized I wasn’t dreaming, my parents had arrived, and the sound of the bags grew even louder as they were carried up my steps and landed at my front door. “Watch that one Sal!, it has glass in it, be carefull, you’ll break it. Try and be quiet!” They might as well have been bulls in a china shop.

Whenever they came up for a visit my father had to attach a roof rack to his car to carry all the essentials they were bringing  to me in order for me to stay alive until their next visit. I wasn’t living in the wilds of Alaska mind you, Pearl River is suburban New York!  Essentials like bed spreads. My mother had a thing about bed spreads. I never used them. I liked to keep my comforter as my bed cover. But my mother brought a new bed spread with her every time she came over to visit, and would remake my bed with the new bed spread. It would last for only a day. After they left and I went to bed that evening, the bed spread would wind up in a closet down the basement with the 12 other bed spreads she brought up with her. And every time she came to visit and opened up the new bed spread package she would say, “Where is the bed spread I bought you?? You have to have a bed spread on your bed. It looks so nice”.

WHO’ GOING TO SEE IT??!!?  I alone sleep in my bed, and I couldn’t care less how it looks. I don’t need a 20 minute ritual of folding up bed spreads and stacking up bed pillows before I turn in for the evening! But I would let her put it on. I grew tired of arguing. And besides, it was never an argument. I would be talking to a brick wall that never heard a word I said.

My parents had their own key to my house. It was a privilege I gave them at a weak moment when I first moved into my house. I heard the keys jingle in the lock and pull out again and jingle again until my father finally pulled out the right key that fit the lock.  “Quiet Sal, you’re making too much noise”. The door swung open and banged against the door stop with a loud thud that rattled the pictures over my bed . The sound of the plastic bags and boxes sliding against my hardwood floor grew louder as they entered. “Don’t spill the sauce Sal, be careful , I think I have the artichokes in that bag. That goes in the kitchen. Be quiet or you’ll wake Peeta!”

As I entered the room, still groggy from sleep, my father said “YOU’RE UP?  Go back to bed, it’s early”. This coming from a man who would bang a broom stick from the basement under my room to get me out of bed when I lived at home. “Go back to bed”, my mother repeated. We can unload the car”.

Without saying a word I gave each of them a kiss and turned towards the kitchen, finding my way to the coffee pot. “Dad, you want coffee?” I asked.  “Yea, if you’re making it”, my father replied. “I just had a cup so don’t make it just for me.”  “I’m making it anyway Dad, just want to know if you want a cup”. I never asked my mother if she wanted coffee because she only drank decaf. And I never kept decaf in the house. She would bring up her own mixture of instant Sanka and Postum that she kept stored in a plastic bag with a dozen packets of Sweet’n Low held together by a rubber band, probably taken from the Pearl River Hilton. Whatever she didn’t use she would store in my kitchen cabinet. I had bags filled with Sweet’n Low packets and jars of Sanka and Postum left over from previous trips.

By the time I prepared the coffee and looked back at the kitchen table, the table was gone. It disappeared under the piles of plastic bags and boxes my father and mother unloaded from their car. Bags were all over the floor and my father was still bringing more in.

“Here Sal”, my mother continued, sounding like a long-shore man unloading  containers from a tanker ship. “Put this in the refrigerator before it goes bad”.  I looked at my mother and in a defeated tone I asked, “Why do you bring all this stuff up with you?” What IS all this stuff?? ” My mother replied, “Just some things you need.  I got you a new spaghetti strainer, get rid of that old one it’s no good. I bought these beautiful curtains for your room. They’re perfect for summer. Look at the nice colors. They will really brighten up your room.”   Summer curtains? I never knew that curtains were seasonal.

Before the coffee finished brewing I decided to see what was under all those plastic bags. I picked one up and untied the knot at the top of the bag, only to open it and find another plastic bag within it. I untied the second plastic bag and found a third bag, this time with a hand scribbled note in crayon attached with a straight pin identifying the contents of the hidden bag. The note said, “For Peter”.

My mother has a plaque in her honor hanging on the walls of Greenpeace headquarters because she never threw out a plastic bag in her life. She would always just reuse them. “Don’t throw those bags out”, my mother shouted, “I’ll take them home.”  It had nothing to do with protecting the environment…are you kidding? My mother was simply frugal.

I looked at the contents of the package I just unwrapped and saw it was a frozen solid beef roast. I looked at the label and it was dated ‘July 09’. Now today was June 16, and I thought for a minute, this roast beef has a  long expiration date, until I realized that it was dated ‘July 09’ from last year!!!!  “Mom! This roast beef is almost a year old!!” I said.   “That’s ok”, she said, ” it’s still good. I had it wrapped good in the freezer”.  It wasn’t like it was wrapped properly for long freezer storage, and even if it were, after about six months the quality of the meat is at least compromised. My mother had it wrapped in the fruit and vegetable bags you zip off the rolls at the supermarket. Not the best for freezer wrap. This hunk of beef had more freezer burns on it than a dead seal in the arctic. I didn’t have the heart to throw it out in front of her. I’ll wait till she’s not looking.

By now my father was asleep on the sofa in front of the TV, exhausted from the pre-dawn  trip and moving all those bags. As I continued to go through the bags my mother picked up a bottle of bleach she brought with her and headed for the bathroom. She was on a mission to clean my house. You don’t say a word, you just let her do her thing. I only cleaned my bathroom two days ago, but that didn’t matter. She had to clean my bathroom. “Are you sleeping???  Sal, wake up and put those curtains up for your son”, my mother shouted as she ran into the bathroom with a scrub brush and bleach.

I took my cup of coffee, and poured a cup for my father and carried it over to him. He looked like he needed a cup.  I grabbed my morning paper and went out to the patio and closed the door behind me as the morning birds continued their song and I took my first quiet sip. I’m sure by now my mother was making my bed and putting her new bedspread on it as my father replaced my “winter” curtains with my new “summer” curtains.

Outside it was a beautiful summer morning, all quiet and tranquil. And just on the other side of that door there was a flurry of activity going on and my entire home was being rearranged, re-decorated and cleaned.  It would take me days sometimes to find things after my parents left, that only my mother would know where they were. But I wasn’t thinking of that.  No, not right now. The coffee was nice and hot and the breeze on my face felt wonderful.  All was well with the world.

Pasta all’Amatriciana

  • 3 tablespoons olive oil
  • 2 ounces pancetta, cut into small cubes
  • 1 medium onion, cut into thin strips
  • 1 garlic clove, finely chopped
  • one 28 ounce can Italian peeled tomatoes
  • crushed red pepper to taste
  • salt to taste
  • 1 pound bucatini pasta
  • 1/2 cup grated Pecorino Romano

In a skillet large enough to hold the cooked pasta, add the oil, pancetta, and onion. Cook, stirring, over medium heat until the pancetta and onion are golden, about 12 minutes. Add the garlic the last 5 minutes.

Push the onions and pancetta off to one side and add the can of tomatoes and crushed red pepper.  With a potato masher, crush the tomatoes into small chunks.  If you don’t have a potato masher just crush tomatoes with your hands into the pan. Stir well. Add salt to taste. Bring to a simmer and cook until thickened, about 20 minutes. Stir occasionally.

Bring 5 quarts of water to a boil and add a tablespoon of salt. Cook the pasta till it’s al dente.

Save about 1 cup of the pasta water. Drain the pasta and add to the pan with the sauce. Toss on high heat until the pasta is coated for about a minute. Add some of the pasta water if it’s too dry. Remove from the heat and add the Pecorino Romano cheese and toss some more.

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Calabrese Pizza

Posted on May 10, 2010 by Peter Bocchieri

Grandma’s Care Package

Ok, so my children are half Calabrese. So I thought it was fitting that I add this recipe to my blog. Their grandmother Isabella is a wonderful cook and every time my son Joseph comes home from grandma’s house he is carrying a full weeks worth of dinner with him. Zuccinni fritters, rice balls, chicken cutlets, mpanada, stuffed peppers, eggplant rollatini, homemade cookies…and that’s just a small sample. Maybe she thinks I don’t feed him enough?

When he walks in the house I hear the plastic bags making noises and he usually makes two trips from the car.  Every thing he takes out of the bags are packed in aluminum dishes with plastic lids. For any one who didn’t know any better it looks like he just bumped off the neighborhood Italian restaurant, or just ordered take out for the New York Giants and all the coaches, including the administrative staff. As I walk in the room he stakes claim to what’s his and what’s available for “public” consumption. I tell him, “Joseph, there is enough food here to feed everyone on our block, and you’re rationing it”?

For the most part I obey his wishes, or as least only slightly pick at what he is hoarding so he doesn’t notice it missing. But I have a rule in my house. If anything stays for more than 4 days in my refrigerator, I own it. He doesn’t like that rule, and I know the worst thing in the world is to come home thinking you are going to dig into the veal Parmigiano and it’s gone. Tough. Those are my rules. Same rules go for ice cream. Actually, I bypass the four-day rule and if he goes out and brings back a pint of Ben and Jerry’s, he better buy two. Other wise, the next time he looks, it might be missing.

I guess that’s why growing up in a house with a brother and sister that had as good an appetite as me, we never had any left overs. If you liked what you were eating you better eat till it’s gone, because if you don’t, the first person to get to it later will polish it off. So we always cleaned our plates.

You think that things change when you get older. But they don’t. One year I went on a cruise with my sister Annette and brother-in-law Artie. Cruises are known for food, and plenty of it. Didn’t matter. My sister was sitting next to me at the dining table and all I did was sit back for a second or two and take a breath. The fork in her hand came up from under the table and started to stab what was left on my plate. I looked at my sister with wide open eyes and said “Annette! I’m not done with that!”. And as she stuffed the last of my lobster tail in her mouth she said “MppHHf, I thought you were!” The next night I put Artie between us.

I actually look forward to when my son Joseph comes home from grandma Isabella’s house. It usually cuts down on my cooking  for the next week and a half. And Joseph does not know how to compete with me for those left overs. I have had training all my life.

  • 1 envelope active dry yeast
  • 1 cup warm water
  • 2 1/2 cups all-purpose flour
  • 3 tablespoons olive oil
  • 1/2 teaspoon of salt
  • 1  1/2 cup ricotta cheese
  • 2/3 cup cubed pancetta
  • 3 large hard-boiled eggs, thinly sliced
  • 2 tablespoons freshly chopped Italian parsley
  • Pinch hot pepper flakes
  • 1 egg yolk, lightly beaten

Put the yeast and water in a bowl and set aside for 5 minutes. Put the flour in a bowl and make a well in the center. Combine the yeast, olive oil, and salt in the well. Draw the flour into the wet ingredients and knead the mixture into a dough on a lightly floured work surface. Let dough rest in a clean bowl, covered with a dish towel, for 2 hours.

Preheat the oven to 350 degrees.

Divide the dough in half. Flatten each piece with your hands into a 16-inch circle and place 1 of them on a lightly greased baking sheet.

Spread the ricotta over the dough, leaving 1 inch of the dough uncovered around the edges.

Sprinkle the top with the pancetta and arrange the egg over  it.

Sprinkle with the parsley and hot pepper flakes and drizzle lightly with olive oil. Cover the pizza with the second circle of dough and seal the edges of the dough by pressing them together. Brush the top with the beaten egg yolk.

Bake for 40 minutes or until golden. Serve hot.

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New Year’s Eve Punch

Posted on May 8, 2010 by Peter Bocchieri

Friends

I had a lot of friends growing up. On my block alone there were no less than 20 kids, all around the same age. And during the summer months we never left the streets to go inside until the  street lights came on.

My next door neighbor Junior was my cradle buddy. We were born about 4 months and two days apart. So I had a playmate right across my driveway. From the time we could walk,  and even before that, Junior and I were always together. We were at each other’s first birthday, we shared a pool in the back yard. We even got in trouble together. One day we decided to play “mailman”, so we went around to all the houses on our side of the block and collected the mail out of everyone’s mail box. And then we delivered them.  I guess you could say it was mail roulette.  I don’t think we were old enough to read the names and numbers on the letters. Did that matter? It did to our parents when they found out we mixed up the blocks mail delivery. They were not happy. Juniors brother-in-law Nicky was a police detective. Our own mother’s turned us in. Nicky sat us down and put the fear of God into us. We never did that again. But we used to love to ring  the door bells of the old grouches  that lived on the block, then run away. Especially the ones that didn’t give us candy on Halloween.

I met Mike Rizzo when I was 13 years old. He moved to my neighborhood from Park Slope Brooklyn, back when Park Slope was not as nice as it is today. You can say that he and his family moved “uptown” when they came to 77  Street. I remember that day as if it were yesterday. All us kids were playing “slap ball” on the corner in front of the garages. Slap ball was like baseball, with two teams, except you didn’t have a bat or a glove or a baseball. We played with a pink ball, either a Spaldeen, or God forbid, a Pensy Pinky. We would draw bases on the street with chalk.  The guy from the other team would pitch you the ball, if he was any good he would put “stuff” on the ball,  and the “batter up” would slap it with his hands and run the bases. It’s amazing the number of games you can play with a pink ball. Box Baseball, Stick Ball (ok, so you needed a broom stick. That was easy enough to come by), Stoop Ball, Punch Ball, Hit the stick, Hand Ball. So you could imagine the lengths we would go through if the ball went down the sewer or bounced on a roof. You fished it out of the sewer and climbed what ever roof you had to in order to get it back. Other wise all play would stop!

I was on deck when Mike came walking up the block coming home from school. He was finishing up his year in his old neighborhood so he would take the half hour train ride to get home. As he walked by he glanced over at the “gang” of kids playing ball but hesitated to slow down. Someone shouted out “that’s the kid that moved into Georgie’s house on the corner”. That caught Mike’s attention and he stopped. Mike and I were friends ever since.

When I met Mike Rizzo I was an avid listener of Herb Albert and the Tijuana Brass and Montovani.  Hey! I used to play tenor saxophone in band class in Junior High. He introduced me to Cream, Jimmy Hendricks, The Doors, Black Sabbath. Mike brought that edge to our friendship. And I brought him into our family. We were like brothers. And Mike always had my back. When he showed me the pair of brass knuckles he made in metal shop class I knew he came from good stock.

We did everything together. We had our first drink together, or first cigarette, met our first girl friends together. Even our parents became good friends and we would take trips together to Baker’s Camp in Orange county, Washington DC, The Amish country, even Mount Airy Lodge. Mike was in my wedding party, was there when my first son was born, who we named Michael. I was even Godfather to his son. And when his job took him away for months at a time we would always get together when he got back, like he never left.

When Mike and I were in high school we would cut class from time to time. Both his parents worked and his sister Susan was in school so his house made the perfect hide out.

I would leave my house in the morning and my mother would hand me my brown paper bag lunch, complete with oil stains. I would walk in the direction of my school, New Utrecht High School, which was only two blocks away. This was before cel phones. I would slip into the candy store on the corner and call Mike from the pay phone.  “Hey Mike, It’s Pete. Wanna cut class today? ” The answer would always be yes. I would walk up to the Avenue he lived on and then cut across to his house, to avoid being seen by anyone, especially my mother.  Mike would be waiting by his front door and as soon as I got up to his steps he would open the door and let me in. Safe. No one saw us.

There was a period that Mike and I cut more classes than we probably should have, and it caught up to us.

We were sitting in his living room, watching TV and sharing my lunch. Mike had a wrought iron fence that surrounded his property. And when the gate to that fence was opened it made a very distinct squeak. If that wasn’t enough to tell you someone was at the gate, Mike’s dog Patches would sound the alarm that someone was coming.

The gate squeaked!

Mike got up from the sofa and looked through the blinds to see who was there. “PETE, IT’S YOUR MOTHER!” Mike said. Michael was always busting my chops and for sure I knew that is what he was doing now. “Sure Mike, right”, I said. “NO, REALLY, IT’S YOUR MOTHER!” Mike repeated. I still didn’t believe him. There is no possible way my mother would know where we were. Let alone we were not in school. We had been doing this for years!

Never, ever, underestimate the things your mother knows.

The door bell started ringing and Michael really had a panicked look in his eyes. “I’M TELLING YOU, IT’S YOUR MOTHER!!!!”

Ok, so if I look and it’s the mail man or some bible salesman the jokes on me. I reluctantly turned around and looked out the window and caught a glimpse of the last person on earth I wanted to see. My mother! I jumped up and shouted in the lowest voice I could muster up, “holy crap! What are we going to do?” The logical thing to do was sit quiet and lay low. It’s not like we had cars parked outside the house. She didn’t have a key. Just wait till she went away. We were not being logical. Mike said, “go hide and I’ll answer the door and tell her I’m home sick.” So I ran into the bathroom and shut the door. Mike answered the door, the brave soul that he was, and confronted my mother. “What are you doing home?”, my mother asked. “I’m not feeling well Rose, I stayed home from school today”. “Where’s Peter?”  Michael responded in the best sick voice he could, “I don’t know Rose”.

When you are in a panic you never totally think any thing through. In my haste to get out of sight I totally forgot to ditch my coat and books that were clearly in view on the kitchen table. As my mother pushed her way into the house she saw them. “I see Peter’s coat there Michael. PEETA! Where are you!”

Busted!

“I’m in the bathroom mom. I’m not feeling very well”. I was telling the truth. At least my mother had the decency to not wait for me to come out of the bathroom and drag me by my hair back to the house. “Get home right now”, she said. And as she passed Michael heading towards the front door she said, “wait till I talk to your mother Michael!!” And then she left.

There weren’t many words that passed between me and Mike as I gathered my coat and books. We were both shell-shocked by the incident. Mike said, “I’ll see you later.”

There are good reasons why parents get involved in their children and what they do. My mom became good friends with my guidance counselor at school. And when I didn’t show up for class in over a week, my guidance counselor called my mother to see how I was feeling.   You can imagine my mother’s surprise when she got that call. But how did she know that I would be over Michael’s house?……..never underestimate the things your mother knows.

___________________________

Michael Rizzo

When I lost Mike, a part of me died with him. Mike was injured in a work related accident while on the job for the Pennsylvania Railroad. I remember I was down the Jersey Shore with my children that weekend. When I got home Sunday night it was around 10 o’clock. Mike called. He just got out of the hospital from being treated after a transformer exploded in front of him, covering him with toxic chemicals. He was staying at his parents summer-house in the Poconos.  His parents left that evening  to drive back to Brooklyn because after he was released from the hospital  the doctors said that Michael would be fine.  Mike was going to follow the next morning, so he was up there alone.

 I heard a yearning in his voice, a sense of urgency.  He sounded winded and was coughing. It was  a while since we got together and with all the mishap that entered his world he needed the comfort and reassurance from a good friend, his best friend, his brother, that everything was going to be alright and get back to normal.  We made plans to see each other the following weekend.  Mike died in his sleep that night. I was the last person he talked to that evening.  It was as if he knew we would never speak again.

I got a call from my mother the next morning with the terrible news. That was almost 15 years ago. I still miss him.

 

New Year’s Eve Punch

My mother would make this punch every New Year’s Eve, as far back as I could remember. I’m including this recipe in my blog because one New Year’s Eve, Mike Rizzo and I spiked this punch a bit more than my mother would have. Needless to say, my Uncle Benny was the first to comment how especially good the punch tasted that year.  As soon as my mother tasted the punch she knew what Mike and I were up to. She gave us a dirty look and continued to drink the punch. That was a great New Year’s Eve!

2  large cans of frozen pink lemonade concentrate

2- 1 litre  bottles of ginger ale

2-3 dashes of Angostura Bitters

1/2 cup whisky, or more to taste

Maraschino Cherry for garnish

Block of ice to cool the punch

Mixed the cans of pink lemonade concentrate with water according to directions in a large punch bowl. Add the ginger ale, Angostura bitters and whisky. Stir gently. Add cherry and block ice.

Salute!

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Sicilian Pizza – Sfincione

Posted on May 7, 2010 by Peter Bocchieri

ABEETZ

I may not be a wine expert, but I know a thing or two about a thing or two. And that’s Pizza. You might even call me a pizza snob. You have Starbuck snobs why not pizza snobs?

I cringe at what passes for pizza in some places. Hands down, Brooklyn, New York, and New Jersey pizza are on my top three list, in that order. Chicago pizza? I’ll buy it. It has a place of its own. But Brooklyn pizza rules.  Alright, I might be a little prejudice, but I like what I like.

The large chains that are out there? They are not even worth a mention. And you know who they are!

The two top joints in my book are L&B’s Spumoni Gardens for their close to grandma’s Sicilian squares, and Lenny’s on 86th Street, both in Brooklyn.

L&B’s  places slices , not shredded, mozzarella cheese on top of the dough before putting on the sauce. And it’s not drowning in cheese, it’s just enough. Everything has to be in balance. After the cheese they put on their delicious sweet sauce with just the right amount of oregano and herbs and then a heavy dusting of Pecorino Romano cheese followed by a drizzle of extra virgin olive oil. Simplicity at it’s best! What comes out of the oven is pizza magic.

What’s pizza magic? I was working in Paramus, NJ at a part-time job and after work, on a Friday night at around 10pm, I asked my co-workers if they wanted to go for a slice of pizza. We all got in my car and I  drove to L&B’s Spumoni Gardens in Brooklyn. They thought I was crazy. At least twice a year, and I haven’t worked there in over four years, I get a call from my ex-coworkers to take them down to L&B’s Spumoni Gardens. THAT’S pizza magic.

Outside tables at L&B’s

But here’s the kicker….since I was a child I have gone to L&B’s for pizza and their home-made spumoni, still served in the little white paper cups. It wasn’t till I took my co-workers down there that I even tried the food they serve in their restaurant, which is connected to the pizzeria. We dined al fresco. And before the square pie arrived we had platters of fried calamari that were light and delicate and tender, with a side of tomato sauce like my mother’s, and a sprinkling of Pecorino Romano cheese. We also ordered an antipasto platter that had Soppressata, Cappicola, Prosciutto, Mozzarella, Provelone, Ricotta Salata & Marinated Vegetables over Romaine Lettuce.  In addition to that we had a fresh seafood salad with Shrimp, Calamari, Scallops, Mussels, Scungilli, Lemon, Garlic, Olive Oil, Pimientos, Olives & Lettuce. To die for! I watched as the waiters brought huge plates of pasta and sumptuous veal dishes to the other tables. Where have they been all my life?? L&B’s quickly became my favorite Italian restaurant as well.

After all that the Sicilian pie came, this is what we made the pilgrimage for. I enjoyed watching my friends faces as they took their first bite into those saucy squares. They all had the same reaction. OMG! I never tasted anything so good.

We ended the meal with a family style platter of Italian cheese cake, spumoni, chocolate ice cream bomb, chocolate covered strawberries, gelato, tiramisu,  and mounds of whipped cream. I had to be lifted from my chair. I think I was the only one awake for the ride home, and that’s because I was driving.

All that food, including a carafe of red wine and coffee, we wound up paying about $20 a head. It just aint right!

Here is the link to L&B’s Spumoni Garden’s web site:

http://www.spumonigardens.com/

This recipe for Sfincione is true Sicilian pizza, they way they make it in Sicily, and the way my grandmother has always made it. I said L&B’s was great pizza, but not made the same as my grandmother’s pizza. Don’t be afraid of the anchovies in the recipe. When done right, it is not an over powering taste. It never should be. The anchovies lend a subtle background and taste of the sea to this pizza. If you never ate or don’t like anchovies, please give it a try. It makes all the difference in the flavor of this true Sicilian pie.

 

Basic Pizza Dough

  • 5 g dry yeast
  • 220 g warm water
  • 300 g of bread flour
  • 9 g salt

Put the yeast and water into a small bowl and stir.

Add the flour and salt and mix well until all combined. Cover and let rest 10 minutes.

On a lightly floured board, knead the dough, folding it over and over until it is smooth and silky. Add a little flour as needed until the dough is no longer sticky. This is a wet dough so don’t overdue it on the added flour. Knead for 10 minutes. Lightly oil a bowl and place the dough in the bowl, turn dough over to coat the other side and cover it with plastic wrap.  Let stand in a warm place until doubles in size, about 2 hours. I find the oven is a great place to proof your dough. Turn on the oven light and that will keep the oven at the perfect temperature.

Sicilian Pizza

Sfincione (Sicilian Pizza)

  • 1 recipe basic pizza dough
  • 3/4 cup olive oil
  • 2 large yellow onions, thinly sliced and separated into rings
  • 8 peeled tomatoes, canned, finely chopped
  • Salt and black pepper
  • 1 teaspoon sugar
  • 1 pound caciocavallo or mozzarella cheese, cut into thin slices
  • 1/4 cup Pecorino Romano Cheese
  • 3 anchovies, finely chopped
  • 1 teaspoon dried oregano
  • plain bread crumbs

 

Heat the olive oil in a large frying pan and stir in the onions and anchovies. Cook over low heat for about 20 minutes, stirring often, until onions are soft.

Add the tomatoes, salt and pepper to taste, and the sugar. Cook for 3 minutes, stirring often. Remove the mixture from the heat and set aside to cool.

When the dough has doubled in size, punch it down. Shape or roll the dough into a rough 12 x 16 inch rectangle. Add two tablespoons olive oil to a 12×16 baking pan with 1 inch sides and fit the dough into the pan.

Place the cheese slices on top.

Then cover with the sauce to within a little less than an inch of the sides. Sprinkle with the oregano, Romano cheese and a light covering of bread crumbs. Let the sfincione rise for 30 minutes. Preheat oven to 400 degrees for 15 minutes. Cook the sfincione for 20 to 25 minutes or until the edges of the dough are golden brown and the top sizzling.

Sicilian Pizza Cooking Italian Comfort Food

Let the sfincione rest for 10 minutes, then cut into squares and enjoy. This is Sicilian Pizza!

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Sicilian Hunter Style Chicken

Posted on May 4, 2010 by Peter Bocchieri

Guinea Red

I went to the liquor store the other day to buy some wine. I was looking for wine to cook with. The selections throughout the isles were endless. I’m not a wine expert but I know what I like.  Something smooth, not too sweet and not too dry, preferably red. Then I saw my old standby, CR Cellars Fortissimo wine. It’s a hearty red table wine that is the closest  you can get to home-made wine.  And you can get a 4L jug for under $20.

I served Fortissimo to my cousins one summer and they loved it. I didn’t have the heart to tell them that is was a $19 gallon of wine. When I did they had to know the name.  I hear it’s hard to get in some parts of the country but I always see it for sale at my local liquor store.

My grandfather had his favorite wine. He used to buy Gallo, and sometimes Carlo Rossi.  He would come home with a case of four gallons and store it in the closet in his hallway. He would fill his carafe and keep it within reach in the kitchen.

This dish is flavored with red wine. Usually when you cook chicken with wine it’s white. But this is a very hardy dish and you need the red wine to compete with the other flavors that are going on. I guarantee these flavors will burst in your mouth.

This is a true Sicilian Hunter style chicken, a cacciatore if you will. It’s a one dish meal, with meat, potatoes and vegetables. This dish is best served at room temperature so all the flavors mellow. The chicken absorbs the tang of the vinegar and the brine of the capers and olives. Have plenty of fresh Italian bread on hand for this one.

 

  One 3  1/2 pound chicken, cut into 8 pieces

  • Salt and freshly ground pepper
  • olive oil
  • 1/2 cup dry red wine
  • 2 medium potatoes, peeled and cubed
  • 2 small eggplant, cubed
  • 2 red bell peppers, cored, seeded, and cut into thin strips
  • 2 medium carrots, peeled and thinly sliced
  • 1/2 cup pitted green olives, Sicilian, quartered
  • 2 tablespoons chopped celery
  • 2 tablespoons capers
  • 2 tablespoons freshly chopped mint
  • 6 garlic cloves, minced
  • 2 tablespoons tomato paste
  • 1/2 cup red wine vinegar
  • Hot pepper flakes

Prep the potatoes, eggplant, carrots and peppers. Place the chopped garlic, mint, olives, capers and celery in another bowl and put aside.

Wash and pat the chicken dry and season with salt and pepper.

In a large frying pan, heat 3 tablespoons of olive oil. Add the chicken and sauté until golden brown on each side, about 5 minutes per side. Add the wine. Turn the chicken pieces. Simmer, partially covered for 25 minutes, turning once halfway through the cooking time.

Meanwhile, sauté the potatoes, eggplants, red peppers, and carrots, in separate pans with 1/2 cup of olive oil in each, until tender, stirring often. Season each with salt. The potatoes should be golden brown. Fry the eggplant in batches so they turn a golden brown. As each vegetable is done place in a large bowl until you are ready to combine everything.

Put the vegetables in a large pan with the olives, celery, capers, mint, and garlic. Stir in the tomato paste and vinegar. Season to taste with salt, pepper, and hot pepper flakes. Saute for 2 minutes.  Add the chicken. Combine well. Simmer over low heat for 15 minutes, occasionally stirring gently.

Transfer to serving dish. Bring to room temperature before serving.

 

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Eggplant With Mint Recipe

Posted on May 1, 2010 by Peter Bocchieri

 

Keep Your Hands Off Of My Eggplant!

My mother Rose would make this eggplant dish in the summer, when mint was growing plentiful in the garden. She didn’t grill the eggplant. Usually she would fry the slices till golden or bake them in the oven with some oil on the bottom of the baking pan and drizzle some oil over the top. I don’t think the eggplant comes out as good baked. I prefer frying them or grilling. You can either grill them on a cast iron grill, outdoor barbecue or a range top grill.

This dish is not complicated and uses simple ingredients. But after it’s done, and you let it sit for a while, you can’t get enough of it. My brother Richard would hoard this all for himself when my mother made it.

I dedicate this dish to my brother Richard, who could never get enough of eggplant, no matter how it was prepared.  Richard has eggplant in his blood, he is one with the eggplant.  The eggplant Force is strong within him, and if given a choice between a winning lottery ticket and eggplant Parmigiano, he would pick the eggplant.

One day my brother was sitting at my grandmother’s kitchen table enjoying his eggplant and my sister walked by and asked him for some. My brother refused  to give her any and leaned over the dish guarding it with his arms. My sister pleaded with him to give her a taste but my brother became more adamant and told her to get lost.  So my sister did what any other sibling would do when faced with that situation…she sneaked up from behind and when my brother’s guard was down she smashed down on the eggplant with her hands, squashing it between her fingers, throwing it all over the table.

My brother convulsed with rage, my grandmother was frozen in shock at the thought of all that wasted food, and my sister ran from my brother’s fury. Served him right. My sister ran for cover in the bathroom and slammed the door on my brother’s face, which enraged him even more.  And in the back ground you could hear my grandmother pleading for them to stop and mumbling, “bicata,che vergogna, ” ( what a shame).

My brother had many doors slammed in his face by my sister and my cousin Concetta who would take pride in getting my brother pissed off. Concetta would pick at my brother’s head, picking at the short hairs of his crew cut. He would chase her around the house and one day in our basement Concetta slammed a door on my brother with glass panes and my brother went right through it, shattering the glass. That ended the chase. My brother lived another day to enjoy his eggplant.

  • 2 medium eggplant
  • 1/2 cup olive oil
  • 3 cloves garlic, chopped
  • 2 tablespoons red wine vinegar
  • 1 tablespoon sugar
  • 1 teaspoon dried oregano
  • 1 tablespoon freshly chopped mint
  • hot pepper flakes

 

Wash eggplants. Cut off  the stem and bottom end. Cut eggplants into 1/3 inch thick slices, lengthwise.

 

Sprinkle each slice liberally with kosher salt and layer in a colander. Place a plate on top of the eggplant and put a heavy weight, cast iron pan or pot filled with water, on top of the plate to press the eggplant in the colander. Let sit for at least an hour.

Rinse and pat dry the eggplant.  Brush each slice on both sides with olive oil.

Grill the slices until golden on both sides. Transfer to a large serving dish. Or you can fry the eggplant. You can skip the step of brushing the eggplant with oil if you fry them. Place the fried eggplant on paper towels to absorb the oil. Transfer to a large serving dish.

In a medium frying pan, cook the garlic in the oil for 1 minute over medium flame. Add the vinegar and sugar and cook for 2 minutes.

Spoon this mixture over the eggplant slices. sprinkle the top with the oregano, mint and hot pepper flakes.

Have plenty of Italian bread on hand to eat and “mop” up this dish with! It makes a great appetizer and goes well stuffed inside a hero sandwich with your favorite cold cuts.

Mangia! Richard, Mangia!

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Pane Ciapata – Fried Eggs and Bread

Posted on May 1, 2010 by Peter Bocchieri

Italy – The Trip Of A Lifetime

Breakfast was never a big meal with Italians. Usually it consists of a cup of coffee and a simple biscuit.  When I was 14 and traveled to Italy with my brother, who was 21 at the time, we had to get used to the fact that bacon and eggs were not on any menu. And the menus were not written in English.

My mother packed for us as if we were liberating Italy once again. We had bags of chocolate, cartons of cigarettes, shirts and blue jeans. Only thing missing was K-rations and nylon stockings. It was quite some time since the war, but she thought that if we ran out of money we could barter our way through Italy. My mother had every angle covered. Till this day I can’t believe she let my brother Richard and I make that trip. It was a testament to my brother’s maturity that my mother allowed us.

We each had one suitcase and a good pair of shoes. We landed in Milan with no reservations at any hotels and had a copy of  the travel guide “Italy on $15 a day”. We pretty much stuck to it by staying at Pensiones, they were family run boarding houses, usually with a shared bath down the hall.  When we wanted to take a bath or a shower we had to tell the family that ran the pensione ahead of time so they could light the water heater for hot water. We didn’t care. We were young and ready for adventure.

Between both our suitcases, half of one was full of the “rations”. It was a lot to carry and my brother decided to unload some of it. We offered a cab driver a carton of cigarettes for payment. I think something was lost in the translation, because he took the cigarettes and still asked for his fare. I told my brother not to tip him!  It would have been cheaper if we just paid the guy in Lira.

I was on my guard the entire time.  On day I was thirsty and asked a bar keep for a glass of water. He gave it to me out of a bottle and charged me 50 Lira. I was appalled! You have to pay for water here???!!! I told my brother that this guy was trying to scam me. I told the bar tender, in sign language, “open the faucet and give me whatever comes out”. He looked at me as if I was crazy, but I wasn’t going to pay for WATER…. back in 1968 you can get water anywhere in America for free. Isn’t it wonderful how we have progressed. Now we are just like Italy.

The Port of Riposto

We spent a month in Italy, arriving in Milan during a city-wide strike of some kind, and made our way south on a Euro Pass, stopping at Venice, Florence, Rome, Naples and eventually meeting up with my Aunt Angie (my grandmother’s sister) and Uncle Benny in Sicily. We stayed at a sea-side resort on the Ionian coast in the town of Riposto, where my Uncle Benny was born. Riposto was just south of Taormina and in our back yard to the west was the active volcano Mt Etna.  I can’t even begin to describe to you the scenic beauty that was all around us. The resort was run by a local family and they served some of the most delicious meals I had while in Sicily.

One morning I just couldn’t take another biscuit for breakfast  and I asked my Aunt if she could order me some fried eggs. The resort owners were amused and granted my wish. The eggs I had there were not like the ones we got back at home. These were free range chickens and the yolk was much darker than I was used to and had a much stronger taste. But I didn’t let that stop me. They served it with their home-made peasant bread that they baked every morning in their brick ovens and it tasted wonderful. Only thing missing was the bacon.

Back home my mother would make me this simple egg sandwich she called Pane Ciapata. Ciapata is a dialect word for “mixed up or together”.

You will need slices of Italian bread, 2 0r 3 large eggs, and olive oil.

Heat a large non stick frying pan and add 3 tablespoons of olive oil.

When the oil is hot crack the eggs into the pan

Take the slices of Italian bread and press each slice on top of the eggs, until all the eggs are covered by the bread. Press them down firmly with your hands or a spatula so the egg is absorbed into the bread.

After about 3-4 minutes flip the egg and bread and toast the other side until browned.

Sprinkle some salt and pepper on the egg and you’re good to go.

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Escarole and Broiled Lamb Chops

Posted on April 29, 2010 by Peter Bocchieri

Grandma’s Medicine

This personally is my ultimate comfort food. Whenever I was sick as a child my Grandmother would bring me a bowl of escarole and plate of broiled lamb chops from my grandfather’s butcher shop. She would make the escarole in a garlic and oil broth that I would dunk my bread in. And just before she served it she would drizzle some of  her “Italian Oil” over it.  The lamb chops were simply broiled with some salt. It didn’t get better than that.

I would be in bed with a fever and my mother would come in the room and say, “Grandpa is bringing home some lamb chops for you”. My mother could see my eyes perk up. She knew what would make me feel better.  I’m sure that the escarole water  had plenty of vitamins. It was like an elixir, only it tasted a lot better. It was also great for the digestion, and we all know how regular you should be when you’re not feeling well. My Grandmother knew.

I have had escarole prepared in different ways. Cooked down with a little water and then sautéed with garlic and olive oil, sautéed with potatoes, red kidney beans, plum tomatoes , garlic and oil. I love them all. But this “escarole soup” that my Grandmother made for me holds a special place in my memory. It was a feel good meal and when I  would make it today it reminds me of her.

2 heads of escarole

2 cloves of garlic, thinly sliced

3 tablespoons of olive oil

2 teaspoon salt, add more to taste

2 quarts of water

Cut the end off the escarole and cut the remaining head in 1/3. Soak the escarole in the sink in cold water to wash. Drain and repeat. Escarole has a lot of sand on it so be sure you agitate it in the sink and wash it well. Place the escarole in a strainer.

Heat olive oil in a large sauce pot. Add garlic and cook 1-2 minutes, do not brown. Place the escarole in the pot and add the 2 quarts of water and 2 teaspoon of salt. Turn the heat high and cover. When the water starts to boil, lower the heat to medium and cook for 6 minutes.

Broil the lamb chops about 6 minutes each side for medium well. Sprinkle some salt on each side as it cooks.

Just before you serve the escarole, drizzle with some extra virgin olive oil. The lamb chops are good with a little lemon on the side.

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Roasted Sausages, Peppers, Onions, and Potatoes

Posted on April 27, 2010 by Peter Bocchieri

The Jersey Shore

When I see a dish of sausage and peppers I immediately think of Italian feasts like the San Genaro Festival in Little Italy. Or summer nights on the board walk down the shore at Point Pleasant or Seaside Heights.

Being a Brooklyn boy we usually went to Manhattan Beach, Coney Island, Reis Park, or Jones Beach on Long Island. My connection to the Jersey Shore was through my Aunt Phyllis and Uncle Sal who lived in Paterson, New Jersey. They had a summer-house in Brick Township on Sandy Point Drive. I spent many  summers down the Jersey shore with my family at my aunt and uncles  summer-house.

The house was a modest ranch in a seaside community surrounded by lagoons with boats tied to the docks and a private beach right on the Metedeconk River. The beach had calm waters that we could play in safely with my cousins Patti and Johnny as our parents sat not far in their beach chairs discussing the days events. On some occasions we would venture over the Mantoloking Bridge, to the ocean side ,where my Godfather Joe would be staying at his house right on the ocean.

It was down the shore where I learned how to crab. We had a crab net that was about 3 feet high by about 7 feet long. The top of the net had floats attached and the bottom had weights and on each end was a pole about the size of a broom stick. It would take two people to work the net. We would walk out on the sand bar and when we got deep enough we would spread the net out, one person on each end holding the poles. We would face the beach and begin walking towards it, scraping the poles against the sand bottom. The weights at the bottom would keep the net down as we scraped the sea floor gathering up whatever was below.

By the time we got to the beach, just before we hit dry land, you could start to see the dozens of crabs scurrying ahead of the net. At that point we quickened our pace to scoop them up before they escaped from either side. We caught dozens, enough to fill bushels. It was after that realization I started to go into those waters with shoes on.

And the meal we made  in the evening with all those blue claw crabs was something to behold. Linguini with crab sauce never tasted better.  On other days my father would take me fishing under the Mantoloking bridge where we would rent row boats. Back in the day as soon as you dropped your line in the water you were hooking blow fish. One after the other. They were good eating, like chicken legs. Floured and fried and topped with fried onions and vinegar.

And it was at my aunt’s house where I had my first experience with an outdoor shower. There was nothing better than returning from a day at the beach and sticking your head under that shower as the cool fresh water cleaned off the sand. You almost didn’t want to dry off.

One year we had three families stay at my aunt’s house. My Aunt Rose and Uncle Aldo came with their four children, Gail, Gary, Glen and Greg. I was there with my family and my Aunt Phyllis and Uncle Sal were there with their two children, Patti and Johnny. Oh, I almost forgot Carmen. That was my Uncle Sal’s brother. He actually owned the house. In all we were fifteen people staying in a three bedroom ranch with one and a half bath. Nobody cared, we were down the Shore. Poor Carmen couldn’t even sleep in his own house that week. The poor guy had to go across the street to his neighbor Charlie  to find an empty bed.

People were sleeping every where. Two to a bed, sofas,  a branda (that was a portable fold up bed), coffee tables, kitchen tables. Where ever there was an empty spot you placed your blanket and pillow.  And breakfast in the morning was an assembly line. Pounds of bacon frying up. Dozens of eggs. We had to eat in shifts. The children were first of course. You spent the entire day at the beach, walk back to the house for lunch, which was also in shifts, then back to the beach.

Once everyone got showered and cleaned we were off to the boardwalk at Point Pleasant. Even though we had a good meal at the house there was always room for hot dogs, sausage and pepper sandwiches and of course, ice cream. You had to end the day at the shore with ice cream…Kohr’s frozen custard….the orange twist was my favorite!

So, now that I got you in the mood for a great sausage and pepper sandwich, here is how to make it.

This is an easy dish to prepare. The secret ingredient my grandmother used in order to give the potatoes and vegetables an added flavor was a hint of wine vinegar. The quality of the sausages also make a difference. I’m lucky enough to have a Shop Rite in my neighborhood that has store made Italian sausages. Their butcher must be Italian because they are delicious. They also have the sausages made with cheese and parsley, my favorite. Regular sweet or hot work just as well.  If you can get a hold of good Italian sausages from your butcher or pork store your ahead of the game. I would stay away from the national brands, because they just don’t cut it.

Roasted Italian Sausage, Peppers, Onions and Potatoes

sausage potatoes peppers onions

  • 3 medium potatoes, peel on and cut into 1-inch chunks
  • 2 red bell peppers, cored, seeded and cut into 1-inch pieces
  • 1 green bell pepper, cored, seeded and cut into 1-inch pieces
  • 2 large onions, cut into 1 inch chunks
  • 1/4 cup  olive oil
  • 1 tablespoon red wine vinegar
  • Salt & pepper to taste (a little under 1 tablespoon salt and 1/4 teaspoon black pepper)
  • 1-2 pounds Italian-style pork sausages (if you can get with cheese and parsley, all the better)

Preheat the oven to 450 degrees

Spread the vegetables in a shallow roasting pan. Drizzle with the oil, vinegar and sprinkle with a generous helping of salt and pepper. Stir well. Make sure vegetables are in a single layer so they will all brown.

Roast the vegetables, stirring once or twice, for 40 minutes.

Pierce each sausage, if using links, in two or three places with a fork. Place the sausages on top of the vegetables. Bake for 20 minutes, then turn and bake another 15 minutes on other side, or until sausages are cooked through. Stir up the vegetable each time you turn the sausage and add a little water if too dry.

Serve hot with plenty of Italian bread.

Posted in Pork | Tagged , , , | 9 Comments