Pasta power
WHEN our kids were just 6 and 8, we spent about four months in Italy, travelling the back roads to outoftheway farms known as Agritourismo. I was writing my Savour Italy at the time and, thanks to a contract with a big European publisher, I had this wonderful opportunity for a sabbatical of sorts, where I could learn about the traditional ways of the Italian country kitchen.
Our arrival at the Agritourismo Le Magnolie (www.lemagnolie.com) in Abruzzo coincided with the Sirocco, a searing hot wind flecked with tiny biting shards of sand, that blows in all the way from the Sahara. It was impossible to sleep. Olga, our hostess came to the rescue with towels soaked in icy water and a pail filled with ice to cool the towels down again when we needed.
‘‘Tomorrow,’’ she said, ‘‘come to the kitchen early, we will make pasta.’’
In the morning we arrived downstairs to find the kitchen humming with activity. Barrowfuls of huge zucchinis were being transformed into preserves for winter. Olga shooed everyone out of the way and cleared a bench. On to it went a mound of flour and a big pinch of salt. She got the children to make a well and crack in the eggs, and then set
to mixing, getting them to rescue any egg leaks that streamed out the sides with flour. In just a few minutes, she was holding a golden silken ball of dough. The pasta machine came out and the children were instructed to feed strips of dough into it, back and forth as Olga turned the handle. The long fine ribbons of pasta were laid out on the bench. Out came a big bowl of pumpkin puree from the fridge. The children’s noses scrunched up in distaste, they hated pumpkin. What was this woman thinking?
Olga mixed the pumpkin with some ricotta, added a handful of pine nuts and a good grating of parmesan, a little nutmeg, some parsley, salt, pepper, and an egg. The mixture was piped on to the pasta ribbons, covered with more dough, and pressed and cut into squares. Just like that, a mountain of fresh ravioli. As the little pasta
parcels cooked, Olga heated up butter, sage leaves, lemon zest and oil. Once the butter had turned a nut brown colour, she took it off the heat and added lots of lemon juice.
The cooked ravioli was drained and dumped into the sage butter. She filled a plate for each of us and we all sat down together. I could see the kids weren’t at all keen to try. Rose up until this point had only ever eaten pasta bianca. Olga sweettalked and cajoled, until finally, they each had a tiny taste. Their faces, previously sullen, both lit up.
‘‘Mama,’’ Sean said, with a sigh of pleasure, ‘‘these are like baby pillows, they’re so light and puffy.’’
He and his sister gobbled down their plates. Olga beamed. She knew. Pasta always makes people happy.
Next time you need a comfort fix, whip up one of these simple pasta dishes.