A Thousand Days in Venice

by Marlena de Blasi

  It’s hard to tell tears from rain as I turn toward the boat. I ride Piazzale Roma with only the railway workers for company. Certain that I am in flight from some great sadness, some ending or spurning, they offer me a collective, wordless sympathy. Less than an hour has passed, and I’m already missing Fiorella and my funny little room on the second floor of her pensione. She has packed panini: small thickly buttered breads laid with the thin, crisp veal cutlets she had fried the evening before. I eat one of the sandwiches every hour or so, making them last through the short flight from Venice to Milan and then through two deplanings and reboardings, nearly all the way home. . . .

  It’s not as though we’re never coming back, Fernando assures me. When the last day arrives, we go to down to the sea and watch the sunrise and take our cornetti back to bed, which is a mattress on the floor now that all the furniture is on its way to Tuscany. We ride over the waters and walk as we have always done and stop in at Do Mori, then on to tea in the far corner of Harry’s Bar. We talk about all the things we have to do in San Casciano. We go back home to rest, to bathe one last time in the black-and-white marble bathroom. As we dress we say we’ll have supper not in a place where we always go but at Conte Pescaor, a shack behind Campo San Zulian. We want a feast of Adriatic fish, and the Venetian boy I married thinks it’s the last best seafood restaurant in Venice. On its dusty, screened verandah with its necklace of plastic lights we drink an icy Cartizze with a frittura mixta, a mixed fry of sea fish. We eat baked mussels and sauteed scallops and eel roasted with bay leaves. The waiter uncorks a ’90 Recioto de Capitelli for us, and, because someone nearby is eating roasted razor clams, we do too, and then fried dog fish and just a taste of baked sea bass and fried red snapper. It’s ten minutes before one in the morning when we say buona notte to the sleepy waiters. We walk slowly out into San Marco.

  After midnight the boats run only at ninety-minute intervals. We have time. I sit side-saddle on the back of the pink marble lion in the Piazzetta. “We’re going to change more than she will,” I tell him. “When we return, even if we return next week, nothing will feel as it feels right now. I’ve been here more than a thousand days.” A thousand days. A minute. A flash. Just like life I think. I hear her whisper: Take my hand and grow young with me; don’t rush; be a beginner; weave pearls in your hair; grow potatoes; light the candles; keep the fire; dare to love someone; tell yourself the truth; stay inside the rapture. He helps me down from my saddle. It’s time to go. I don’t want to go. I feel as I did when I was seven or eight on a string of August evenings spent at the carnival with Uncle Charlie. He would always place ten red tickets in my open hand and help me up onto the black horse with the silver spots. And every time the music slowed and sounded crushed and my horse stood still, I’d tear off another ticket as if I was tearing off a piece of my heart and offer it up to the collector man. I’d hold my breath, and finally we’d be off again, round and round and round.

  I always used my ten tickets in a row. Up there on the black horse with the silver spots I was a brave rider, galloping hard and fast, leaping over water and through dark forests, on my way to the house with the golden windows. I knew they’d be waiting for me there. I just knew they’d be there at the door and they’d take me inside and there’d be a fire and candles and warm bread and good soup and we’d eat together and we’d laugh. They would take me upstairs to my very own bed and tuck me tightly between the soft covers; they’d kiss me a million times and sing to me till I fell asleep, all the while saying they’d always loved me, always would. But ten tickets were never enough to reach the house with the golden windows. Ten red tickets. A thousand days. “Time to go,” Uncle Charlie would say, helping me down.

  “Time to go,” says Fernando. I want to cry out to her, but no sound comes. I want to say, I love you, tattered, wicked Princess. I love you. Moody old Byzantine mum in resewn skirts, I love you. Pearly muse rouged in cinnamon, how I love you. My husband, who, a thousand days ago was a stranger, hears my silence. And he tells me, “She loves you, too. Always has. Always will.”

  Food for a Stranger

  Porri Gratinati

  A Gratin of Leeks

  When I served this dish to the stranger in Saint Louis at our very first supper together, he told me right away that he didn’t like leeks. I fibbed and called them scallions, and he left me with a dish so clean I hardly had to wash it. Later, when I sheepishly confessed I’d served him leeks, he waited months to forgive me. But now he searches out leeks in the market, buying armloads of them, so we can try to make enough of this lovely stuff to satisfy us both.

  Truth is, the dish is so simple I’m hard put to write a recipe for it. It can be made with any one or any combination of these members of the lily family: leeks, shallots, onions. You can bake the mixture in individual dishes and serve them, all crusty on top and creamy underneath, as an opener. But my favorite way to eat porri gratinati is to heave a great big spoonful straight from my old, oval gratin dish onto a warm plate and lay just-grilled beef or pork on top so the meat’s juices seep into and flavor the gratin, each component exalting the other.

  About 12 medium-to-large leeks (approximately 3 pounds), green parts trimmed off, white part split, thoroughly rinsed, and sliced thinly into rounds (or 2 pounds of onions or scallions—try a mixture of sweet onions such as Vidalia, Walla Walla, or Texas Sweet with some big, strongly flavored yellow Spanish varieties).

  2 cups mascarpone

  1 teaspoon just-grated nutmeg

  1 teaspoon just-cracked pepper

  1½ teaspoons fine sea salt

  ½ cup grappa or vodka

  ⅔ cup grated Parmesan cheese

  1 tablespoon unsalted butter

  Place the prepped leeks into a large mixing bowl; in a smaller bowl combine all the remaining ingredients except the Parmesan and the butter, and mix well. Scrape the mascarpone mixture into the bowl with the leeks and, using two forks, evenly coat the leeks with the mixture. Spoon the leeks into a buttered oval oven dish 12 to 14 inches long, spreading the mixture evenly, or into six individual buttered oval dishes. Scatter the Parmesan over all, and bake at 400 degrees for 30 minutes or until a deep golden crust forms; 10 minutes less for smaller gratins.

  Yield: 6 Servings

  Tagliatelle con Salsa di Noci Arrostite

  Fresh Pasta with Roasted Walnut Sauce

  Another dish from our first evening together in Saint Louis. With this one, Fernando needed no coaxing. In fact, when he had finished he asked if he might have “un altra goccia di salsa, another drop of sauce.” I set a little dish of it before him, and he proceeded to spread it on crusts of bread, eating the little tidbits between sips of red wine. I tried it that way, too, and ever since, we always make extra sauce, keeping it on hand for other uses. See suggestions below.

  THE PASTA

  Cook a pound of fresh tagliatelle, fettucine, or other “ribbon” pasta in abundant, sea-salted boiling water to the al dente stage, drain, and toss with 1½ cups of the following sauce. If fresh pasta is not available, substitute dried artisinal pasta.

  THE SAUCE (Makes about 2 cups)

  18 ounces shelled walnuts, lightly roasted

  ½ teaspoon ground cinnamon

  several gratings of nutmeg

  sea salt and just-cracked pepper

  ¼ cup olive oil

  ¼ cup heavy cream

  ¼ cup late-harvest white wine such as Vin Santo or Moscato

  In the work bowl of a food processor fitted with a steel blade, pulse the walnuts until they are the texture of very coarse meal (do not grind them too finely—more texture is better than less). Add the cinnamon, nutmeg, salt, and pepper, and pulse two or three more times to combine; with the machine running, pour a mixture of the olive oil, cream, and wine through the feed tube and process only until the paste is emulsified. Taste and correct the sauce for salt and spices.

  Yield: 4 servings, as a main course

  In piú: As divine as this sauce is, tossed with just-c
ooked pasta, it presents other delicious opportunities: Keep some in the refrigerator and place a spoonful over just-roasted chicken or pork; spread it on grilled bread and pass it along with cold white wine for an appetizer; enrich simple vegetable soups with a dollop, or try it as a condiment for steamed asparagus.

  Prugne Addormentate

  Sleeping Plums

  A serendipitous sweet born from the leftovers of a batch of bread dough. I watched a baker up in the Friuli region throw this together as a breakfast cake for his family. The potato bread dough that serves as its base is also delicious baked without fruit. This is a forgiving recipe, even for the cook who does not usually make bread or dessert. Equally wonderful made with other stone fruits (nectarines, peaches, apricots), this sweet has become Fernando’s supper of choice when he’s feeling out of sorts—not when he’s actually sick with flu or a cold but more when he’s had his fill of complicated dishes (or complicated issues!) and wants only nourishment and comfort. This was what he had for supper on the evening after he’d given his notice at the bank. We still use the same battered pan to bake it in, the one that’s traveled with me from Saint Louis to Venice to Tuscany.

  12 ounces potato bread dough, unrisen (see below)

  8–10 plums, halved and stoned

  1 cup dark brown sugar

  3 tablespoons cold, unsalted butter, cut into bits

  ⅔ cup heavy cream mixed with ¼ cup grappa

  Butter a round or square 9-inch cake pan and fit the dough into it; press the plum halves, cut side up, into the dough, sprinkle over the sugar and the butter; pour over the cream-and-grappa mixture and bake the cake at 400 degrees for 20–25 minutes or until the bread is browned, the plums are bursting with their own juices, and the cream and sugar have formed a golden crust.

  Yield: 6 Servings

  Pane di Patate

  Potato Bread

  1 pound of unpeeled baking potatoes

  1½ small cakes fresh yeast (or 3½ teaspoons active dry yeast)

  2 pounds all-purpose flour (about 7 cups) plus a bit extra for the kneading surface

  1 tablespoon fine sea salt

  1 tablespoon extra-virgin olive oil

  Boil the potatoes until tender, in sea-salted water. Drain, reserving 2 cups of the cooking water. Let water and potatoes cool down, then peel and thoroughly mash the potatoes.

  Soften the yeast in a cup of lukewarm potato-cooking water for 20 minutes. In a large bowl, combine the flour, potatoes, and salt. Add the softened yeast and the remaining cup of potato water, stirring to form a dough.

  Turn out the mass onto a lightly floured surface and knead to a soft, satiny, elastic texture—about 8 minutes. If the dough seems too wet, add more flour sparingly, no more than ⅓ cup. Place the dough in a clean, oiled bowl, cover with plastic wrap and a kitchen towel, and let rest and rise until doubled—about an hour. Cut the dough in half and use one piece to make prugne addormentate and bake the other as follows.

  Gently punch down the dough, and shape a round, somewhat flat loaf. Cover with clean kitchen towels and let rise for an hour. Preheat the oven to 400 degrees. Slide the loaf onto a parchment-lined baking sheet and bake 35–40 minutes or until the crust is very brown and the bottom rings hollow when tapped. Be careful to lower the temperature slightly if the loaf is browning too quickly. Cool the loaf on a rack.

  Yield: 2 loaves of bread or enough dough for 2 cakes. You can freeze any portion of the already risen dough; but it must be defrosted thoroughly and allowed to rise again before proceeding with either recipe.

  Fiori di Zucca Fritti

  Fried Squash Blossoms

  To make this simple dish all you have to do is to slip the blossoms into a silky, thin batter and then fry them in oil until they’re golden. This method of preparing the tender, sweet blossoms of zucchini is the only one that respects their delicacy and the only civilized way to consume the little beauties. (Stuffing a squash blossom with ricotta or mozzarella or even an anchovy is akin to stuffing a truffle. Aside from the irreverence, the ornament couldn’t possibly improve upon the blossom in its innocent state.)

  This isn’t a thing you’d cook for a crowd. First, because no one is ever satisfied with just a blossom or two; it’s always half a dozen or more each person is hungry for, and he or she stands near the stove waiting for the next batch to brown and crisp, just like a puppy waiting for a treat. If the queue is too long, it’s no fun for the cook. And second, on any given morning, it’s hard to find a farmer (at least in our market) with more than a couple dozen or so blossoms he’s willing to sell. So although I have made the dish for as many as four or five people, more often I fry the flowers just for Fernando and me. These and a bottle of flinty white chilled down almost to ice make our preferred lunch on a hot July afternoon.

  20 perfect zucchini blossoms

  1½ cups all-purpose flour

  beer

  sea salt to taste

  peanut oil

  First, with a small pair of sharp scissors, snip each petal down to the stem to open the blossom more fully. If the stems are still attached, snip them off. Sprinkle the flowers with a little water and lay them to dry, stem side up, petals spread out like a sunflower. In a shallow, broad bowl, beat together the flour and beer to form a batter that’s slightly thicker than heavy cream. Stir in a little sea salt. Cover the batter and let it rest while the oil heats. Use peanut oil—a minimum depth of three inches in a heavy skillet—because it can reach the highest temperatures without smoking. Heat the oil on medium flame, as heating it too quickly results in cool spots, which result in uneven frying. When all is ready, slide the blossoms, one at a time, into the waiting oil; cook only three or four at a time. As they turn deeply golden, remove them with tongs and let sit a moment on absorbent paper. You might grind a little sea salt over them, or even better, mist them lightly with sea-salted water. When thinking about the wine, you’ll want a simple white that can stand a deep chilling, for it’s the icy idea of wine more than the wine itself that works so well with the just-fried, crunchy flowers.

  Yield: 4 Servings

  Pappa al Pomodoro

  Traditional Tuscan Tomato Porridge

  I was never able to convince the stranger about the merits of the iced yellow tomato soup adorned with a pair of grilled, anise-perfumed prawns that I made for our first supper in the apartment. Dishes like that seemed then and seem still too precious to him. But each time I set down this traditional Tuscan porridge of fresh, ripe tomatoes stewed with yesterday’s bread and wine and olive oil, he sings this childhood folksong: “Viva la pappa col pomodoro, viva la pappa che è un capolavoro.” Freely translated it rings out: “Long live porridge with tomatoes, long live porridge that’s a work of art.” When I sing it to my tomato man in our market, he sings, too, always telling me how he and his brothers yearned for this dish during the long, hungry days of the Second World War.

  ¾ cup extra-virgin olive oil

  4 fat cloves garlic, peeled, crushed, and minced

  1 large yellow onion, peeled and minced

  4 large, very ripe tomatoes, peeled, seeds removed, and chopped (or two l-pound cans of plum tomatoes, lightly crushed with their juices)

  6 cups good beef broth, preferably homemade or 6 cups water (do not use chicken stock)

  1 cup white wine

  fine sea salt and just-cracked pepper

  2½ cups coarse-textured, crustless bread, torn into ½-inch pieces

  1 cup just-grated pecorino cheese (optional)

  ⅓ cup basil leaves, torn (not cut)

  ½ teaspoon good red wine vinegar

  In a large soup pot, warm the olive oil and sauté the garlic and onion until they’re translucent; add the tomatoes, broth or water, wine, salt, and pepper and simmer for 10 minutes. Add the bread and simmer for another 2 minutes. Remove the pot from the stove, and add the pecorino and basil, stirring to combine the elements. Let the porridge rest for at least an hour. Stir in the vinegar and serve at room temperature (or reheat
to tepid or warm), in deep soup plates with a drizzle of good, green olive oil. Refrigeration absolutely destroys the porridge’s pure flavor.

  Yield: 6 servings

  Spiedini di Salsiccia e Quaglie Ripiene con Fichi sui Cuscini

  Skewers of Sausage and Fig-Stuffed Quail Sitting on Pillows

  When I saw the stranger nonchalantly licking his fingers after polishing off a lush little skewer like this one, I knew I’d chipped away at his long-standing indifference to supper.

  If you’re planning to serve this as picnic fare, leave the skewers intact. Allow the skewers to cool slightly; then place them in a heavy brown bag lined with branches of rosemary and leaves of sage; close the bag tightly and place it in a deep bowl to catch the juices that are bound to escape. As the quail and sausage cool, they will take on the perfume of the herbs and become even more delicious, eaten at room temperature, than they are just off the grill. Let each person deal with his or her own skewers while you pass the liver paste (see below), the wine, and napkins.

  12 farm-raised quail, cleaned, rinsed, dried, salted and peppered, and stuffed with several leaves of fresh sage, a few rosemary leaves, and half a fresh black or green fig (reserve the livers for paste)

  12 thin slices of pancetta

  12 2-inch slices of fennel-scented sausage (or other Italian-style, sweet sausage) poached for 5 minutes in simmering water and drained