Spinach Ricotta Ravioli with Butter and Sage (Ravioli di Ricotta e Spinaci)

I admit it. I’m a Chef Boyardee baby.

Growing up on suburban Long Island, I just assumed that ravioli came from a can. There were exactly two varieties, which in the 1970s was considered an embarrassment of riches – meat ravioli and cheese ravioli, each covered in a clingy red sauce. The main kitchen tools required for preparation were a sturdy pot, a cover and a can opener.

My palate, my kitchen skills and my culinary wisdom have grown incrementally in the years since.

If only I knew then, what I know now. In 2006, I stood next to a no-nonsense Italian grandmother in Bologna and rolled pasta by hand. In the historic food markets, shop windows were abundant with rows of plump golden pillows of pasta. In Florence, under the tutelage of Chef Roberto, I fed translucent sheets of dough through a pasta machine, prepared egg tagliatelle, cut ravioli by hand, and dressed the dish in melted butter and aromatic sage. Those weeks inspired an “awakening of the senses,” as a culinary icon once said.

Chef Roberto made me promise that I wouldn’t just relegate the pasta-making experience to my European culinary adventure. “You must do this at home,” he urged.

I made good on the promise. I bought an Atlas Pasta Machine and I’ve served up many a platter of tagliatelle. But, I must confess I’ve been a bit of a ravioli procrastinator. No more. It is a frigid February weekend – too cold to go out – so there’s plenty of time to ramble around the kitchen. Ravioli is a time-intensive exercise. The afternoon experiment clocks in at roughly four-and-a-half hours. The spinach must be washed and cooked, and mountains of leafy greens are eventually reduced to about four cups of puree. My kneading hand is a little rusty, but I work the semolina flour and eggs into pliable, shiny dough. Carefully, I spoon the filling onto sheets of pasta and tuck them in.

While the ravioli is resting on the counter, I do a little page-turning through my new favorite reference book, The Oxford Companion to Italian Food by Gillian Riley. There I learn that stuffed pasta, as it is generally referred, is made in distinctive, traditional shapes, depending on the region in Italy, and that stuffed pasta was considered a gastronomic luxury of the upper-class in the Middle Ages and Renaissance periods, but eventually became a popular food of the middle-class. Mixtures of fresh spinach, ricotta and herbs are traditional fillings for stuffed pasta in Parma and Modena.

The sun has gone down as I melt butter and slip the pasta pockets into simmering water. The results are pleasing, but the delicate simplicity of the meal does not adequately reflect the labor of the effort. Homemade ravioli is a physical and mental investment. It is hard work, but there is intense satisfaction in preparing a hand-crafted meal. And, the best part is there’s a healthy supply of ravioli now tucked away in the freezer for future quick-cook dinners.

It was time to give my can opener a rest, anyway.

©2008 T.W. Barritt All Rights Reserved

Food with Personality

From astrological signs to dating services to corporate team building exercises, we love to label personalities and deduce the psychological “type” of those around us.

We favor an endless supply of “tags” to classify character – cheerful, aloof, moody, mercurial, passive, and aggressive. Some years ago, I took the classic Myers-Briggs Type Indicator test, which neatly packaged me as ISFJ – which, translated from psychobabble, means Introversion, Sensing, Feeling and Judging.

Bogus? Maybe. To be honest, I had to look my “type” up after almost five years, but I know many people who can recite it just as easily as their SAT scores or Social Security number. There just seems to be some great degree of comfort in being able to classify, define, label and wrap things up in a neat little box.

Not so with food. Between color, texture and flavor, food offers an endless array of unpredictable combinations that consistently go against “type.” Yet, at the celebration feast this weekend, welcoming my brother and sister-in-law home from a year abroad, a fascinating collection of eclectic personalities emerged, not only around the table, but on the dinner plates.

Bell Pepper and Farro Salad

This combination of ancient wheat and a trio of multicolored bell peppers is a contradiction of a highly-traditional grain and bold, extroverted spontaneity. The black olives denote a mysterious, sensual undertone.


Tagliatelle with Mushrooms

A quick toss of fresh pasta made from scratch, sautéed onions and a mélange of wild mushrooms, epitomizes hands-on creativity and earthy, idealistic values. The sauce is adaptable and flexible to all kinds of situations.

Roast Pork with Orange

Slow-roasted boned loin of pork, basted with a rich mix of butter, orange juice, orange zest, chili powder and oregano is steady, painstakingly dependable and practical, yet imaginative with slightly exotic inclinations.

Chestnut Cake

Highly original, and non-conformist, this torte of chestnut flour, pine nuts, rosemary and olive oil eschews the tired, boring routine of sweet desserts, and its deep, nutty flavor is far from frivolous.

The meal was finished off with an effervescent Bartenura wine made from the Moscato grape, a sparkling and exuberant “life-of-the-party.”

Of course, I wouldn’t want to typecast anyone …

(Recipes from The Silver Spoon, The Bible of Authentic Italian Cooking.)

©2007 T.W. Barritt All Rights Reserved

Pasta Therapy

How does one shed the residual effects of a tedious and fairly annoying work week? Immersion in a weekend cooking project could be the solution. That level of control that I completely failed to exert over errant employees during the week might be far more constructively and successfully applied in the kitchen. A touch of pasta therapy is in order. The tagliatelle will bend to my will, assuming it is cooked al dente. As with most transformations, though, Pasta Therapy requires a twelve-step program:

Step 1: Invite brother and sister-in-law for dinner. Ask them to bring salad and beverages.

Step 2: Spend day in sweats, rambling around the kitchen. Refuse to look presentable until at least 3 p.m.

Step 3: Mix two batches of fresh pasta dough with semolina – each with 200 grams of flour, 2 eggs and pinch of salt. Knead vigorously and let rest in the refrigerator for 30 minutes.

Step 4: Set up pasta machine and crank briskly until frustrations dissipate. Produce twelve paper-thin sheets of pasta and let dry for 10 to 15 minutes.

Step 5: Feed pasta sheets through roller, cutting each into precisely-shaped tagliatelle noodles. Toss all misshaped or mangled noodles.

Step 6: Page through Silver Spoon cookbook, dubbed “the Bible” of authentic Italian cuisine. Select simple recipes that taste like they took hours to prepare.

Step 7: Use funky serving spoons purchased at Museum of Modern Art Design Store for creative presentation of appetizers. Design mouthwatering one-bite appetizers of Tomato, Basil, Mozzarella Salad and Gorgonzola Goat Cheese Crostini with Chives.

Step 8: Prepare Ricotta and Raisin Tart for dessert. Try to contain excitement when you discover that most of the ingredients for the simple, but elegant dish are already in the pantry. Bake in new square tart pan and get inventive with powdered sugar topping.

Step 9: Prepare pasta sauce. Allow two cans of petite-cut tomatoes and 8 tablespoons of fragrant extra virgin olive oil to simmer for 30 minutes until tomatoes are infused with rich flavor of olive oil. Reflect on outstanding flavor and amount of chopping time saved by using canned tomatoes.

Step 10: Program stereo and welcome guests. Enjoy conversation over cocktails and highly artistic appetizers.

Step 11: Cook pasta and note fact that fresh pasta is done far more quickly than any project I attempted this week. Toss pasta with sauce and garnish with grated ricotta. Eat and drink with zeal for four hours.

Step 12: Take moment to appreciate overall healing effects of Pasta Therapy. Go to bed, and leave dishes until Sunday morning.

© 2007 T.W. Barritt All Rights Reserved

Pasta Presto:

The best recipes are simple and uncomplicated with just a few, fresh ingredients. Despite an adventurous soul, and a tendency towards culinary experimentation, it’s always reassuring to return to old favorites. This is one of the first pasta dishes I ever made, in the Roman-style, and I first discovered a version of this recipe in a whimsically-illustrated book that was a gift from my parents. Just to prove to myself that I’ve “come a long way, baby” I made the pasta from scratch, but the sauce remains an effortless classic, that assembles in minutes, and is easy enough to make a weekend dinner a truly special occasion:


Tagliatelle alla Romana

10 to 12 ounces of Tagliatelle or Fettuccine Pasta
One half pint heavy cream
½ cup unsalted butter at room temperature
6 to 8 tablespoons grated Parmigiano Reggiano cheese
9 ounces frozen peas, (microwave for 5 minutes to heat through)
6 ounces thinly sliced prosciutto cut into strips
Kosher salt and fresh ground pepper

Cook the pasta in salted, boiling water. Meanwhile, heat the cream in a small saucepan. When cooked, drain the pasta. Return to the pot and melt the butter and cheese with the hot pasta. Add the hot cream, prosciutto and peas. Season with salt and pepper, toss and serve.

Makes 4 Servings

This dish is fresh, creamy and bursting with bright colors. Don’t forget to uncork the Chianti!

© 2007 T.W. Barritt All Rights Reserved

Perfecting Pasta

I’d returned from Italy with grand ambitions. I had successfully created fresh pasta from scratch in Florence and now I’d make it at home. After four styles of pasta, I was now an experienced pasta chef. Immediately, I purchased a gleaming Atlas 150 pasta machine, manually operated with a shiny chrome crank. I insisted on a hand operated machine. All that physical energy would certainly assure a most authentic taste. Yet immediately, my pasta plans began to perforate. Adapting the recipe to the home kitchen and the quirks of U.S. ingredients proved challenging.

Perhaps initially I was too ambitious, too “faux Gourmet.” I decided I would start by making pumpkin flavored pasta, but the orange puree made the dough too wet to handle. I ended up with a sticky ball of dough floating in the water, more like a pumpkin dumpling than trim and tender egg tagliatelle.

Maybe it was the flour? At Apicius, The Culinary Institute of Florence, we’d used semolina flour, but I’d scoured my local stores and could find none. So I settled for unbleached all purpose flour and decided to start again by going back to basics.

I followed the formula to the letter – one egg for every one hundred grams of flour. No more, no less. I kneaded the dough and chilled it for thirty minutes. I even got the hang of the Atlas 150 after several failed attempts, and nearly breaking my toe when the crank fell to the floor. But when I’d finally cut those lovely tagliatelle noodles in the final pass through the machine, they clumped together like a bad hair day.

On paper, pasta is such a simple recipe. Why wasn’t it working? There had to be a solution. So I put on my Julia Child thinking cap and mulled things over. I remembered reading how Julia pursued culinary success by trial and error. She made batch after batch of rich French food and took copious notes on the successes and failures. Like Julia, I’d have to practice to perfect my pasta. First, I haunted the gourmet stores in New York City and finally found selmolina flour at Dean and Deluca. I mixed the two eggs carefully into the sandy grain and gently prodded the concoction into soft yellow, pliable dough. I passed the dough through the rollers of the machine until I had thin sheets. But, when I jumped to the final cutting, again the tagliatelle strands stuck together.

Surrounded by cookbooks with directions on fresh pasta, I tried to understand where I was stumbling. Then, a brief notation in “Essentials of Classic Italian Cooking” by Marcella Hazan jumped off the page. In my zeal and enthusiasm to get to the meal, I had missed an interim step. I’d neglected to let the long, wide sheets of pasta dry for 10 minutes or more before cutting them into noodles. What a difference 10 minutes makes! My pasta cut perfectly, without sticking, and each strand dried singularly straight and narrow!

From there, it was minutes to a steaming bowl of perfect tagliatelle with tomato basil sauce, shavings of Parmigiano Reggiano and a ruby glass of Chianti Classico.

The moral of the story? Don’t let hunger blind you to proper technique.

© 2006 T.W. Barritt All Rights Reserved

Renaissance Pasta Chef

It is dark inside Santa Trinita as Florence begins another day. Only small votive candles illuminate the small chapels and frescos that grace the walls of the 11th century abbey. Outside, I can hear the buzz of motorbikes as the morning paces accelerates. But, inside Santa Trinita, I am blessed with a few moments of quiet reflection.

Later, I return to Apicius, the Culinary Institute of Florence for a class on the art of pasta making. Chef Roberto is back as my instructor and we get right down to the business of a bevy of pastas, Tagliatelle, Gnochhi di Patate, and Ravioli di Ricotta e Spinaci.

Once again, Roberto moves like a soccer player through the kitchen, as he sprinkles the lesson with food history anecdotes. I learn that pasta originated in the region of Emilia-Romagna and the traditional tomato meat sauce that now has many variations was created in Bologna and is the Sauce Bolognese.

The preparation of the sauce prompts a brief chopping competition. The base of any Italian sauce is carrot, onion, celery and olive oil. I prepare what looks to be a reasonably fine dice of the vegetables. Roberto then chops his vegetables twice as fine. I am appropriately humbled, but he explains that the vegetable base is now the same size and consistency as the ground pork and beef used in the sauce and it will cook more evenly.

We start the sauce to simmer and Roberto adds a sprig of rosemary. We measure out durum wheat flour – which has a sandy texture – into a bowl, add two eggs and begin to assemble the first pasta dough. Roberto tells me the rule of thumb for pasta is 1 egg for every 100 grams of flour. That’s all it takes – the rest is in the handling of the dough. We take turns kneading the dough gently, so as not to overwork it, and I am told to mix with only one hand. Soon, the dough is golden yellow and springy to the touch.

After the dough takes a brief rest in the refrigerator, we set up a pasta roller with a hand crank which clamps to the side of the marble counter. He teaches me how to roll the pasta sheet through the machine, draping the long end over the back of my left hand as I feed it through the rollers to get the desired thinness. It’s a bit like handling the old rolls of music for player pianos. Once the pasta is paper thin, I feed it into the blades and gather long, lovely stands of tagliatelle out the other end.

The stove burners are temperamental and Roberto is annoyed as nothing is heating properly. Still he manages to boil gold potatoes for the gnocchi, and then puts them in a low heat oven to extract as much moisture as possible. He explains that moisture will require more flour, and that would make the gnocchi tougher.

In between preparing bright green pesto sauce, he quickly demonstrates techniques for making little “ear shaped” pasta from a dough that consists only of flour and water. Using two fingers of his left hand to apply even pressure against a knife, he sweeps the knife over a tab of pasta dough and curls the circular shape over his thumb to get the distinctive ear shape. We roll out even thinner sheets of pasta for ravioli and space out dollops of ricotta and spinach along the sheet, blanketing the filling with a second pasta sheet to create the little pillows. Gnocchi dough is rolled into long ropes and cut into small, even rectangles.

Roberto is clearly passionate about pasta. The exercise seems to invigorate him. “I hope you’re going to make this at home, and not just forget about it after this class,” he says.

In the final assembly, he teaches me a trick to assure perfectly cooked pasta that takes on the flavor of the sauce. Rather than simply dumping hot sauce onto cooked pasta, he cooks the pasta partially, and then adds it to the simmering sauce with a bit of the pasta water. As the water boils off, the sauce thickens, and the pasta continues to cook. He assures me it will be perfectly done.

The table is set and the wine is poured. The ravioli is dressed in a delicate butter and sage sauce, the gnocchi infused with emerald green pesto, and the tagliatelle folded into sharp, meaty Bolognese sauce. The pasta, as promised, is perfectly cooked and the texture is firm but tender. The gnocchi is as light as a cloud. “You made this,” Roberto reminds me.

As I prepare to leave, Roberto again makes an appeal that I continue to practice my pasta. “Don’t let me down!” he orders.

Not to worry, Roberto. Pasta is at the top of my list.

In the afternoon, I seek out another classic – Michelangelo’s David at the Galleria dell’Accademia. No matter how many times you have seen a photo, it is no preparation for the real thing. The statue of the biblical hero stands 17 feet tall and is awe inspiring. A masterpiece, indeed.

© 2006 T.W. Barritt All Rights Reserved

Bologna Culinary Journal

Tuesday, September 5, 2006: This is a story about pasta on the table. Thin pasta, thick pasta, gnocchi and lasagna noodles. It is the story of a skill that was once passed from one generation to another, but someday might be forgotten.

I watch as a tiny, compact woman with steel-gray hair, kind eyes and formidable hands rhythmically cracks eggs into a well of flour in the center of a wooden board. She plunges her hands into the pool and carefully and methodically she works the bright orange yolks and flour into a sticky paste and then a firm, pillow-like dough.

Our instructor explains that this woman of Bologna practices what could be a dying art. More and more Italian families now eat fresh pasta made by machine. The craft of pasta by hand is too time-intensive for most. The woman tells us in Italian that her daughter doesn’t make pasta, but sometimes, her son and grandchildren will attempt it. She has been perfecting her craft for more than two decades and learned it from her own grandmother.

The first batch of dough is now soft and pliable, the color of golden sunflowers. She sprinkles just a touch of flour on the board – always the right amount – to soak up any excess moisture. The wooden board absorbs the rest. She takes a long rolling pin – the length of a yardstick – in hand. It is beveled smooth by years of use. She possesses the skills of an athlete, a musician and a surgeon, rolling with speed and precision, keeping perfect tempo, carefully assessing the dough, shifting it, applying varying pressure to the rolling pin until the pasta is the desired thinness. I am given the chance to try my hand at rolling. She gives my work a friendly nod of approval, but fingers conditioned by years at a keyboard can not possibly produce the same quality results. Eventually, the plump pillow of dough is transformed into a long thin sheet, the texture of smooth leather, but the weight of a fine fabric – extremely light and almost translucent.

She makes a second batch, this time adding spinach, massaging the green leaves and eggs into the flour. The bottle-green sheets of pasta are sliced into large rectangles for lasagna. Finally, she manipulates potatoes that have been pressed through a ricer, eggs and flour into gnocchi. She rolls the dough into long strands of rope and cuts off small rectangles. She teaches us how to get that distinctive gnocchi shape by pushing the individual rectangles down the tines of a fork.

The final presentation of the gnocchi is perfumed with sage, and is all the more satisfying for the history and artistry it imparts. And now, she has passed on the tradition of hand made pasta to me, a mere visitor in her homeland.

© 2006 T.W. Barritt All Rights Reserved


Bologna Culinary Journal – Monday, September 4, 2006: I rise just before 7 a.m. and prepare for the day. It doesn’t take long, since my choices of attire are still limited. It is a short walk down the street to the Piazza Maggiore, an enormous open square lined by churches and palazzos and guarded by Neptune’s Fountain. At 8 a.m. Bologna is still a sleepy Northern town, with just a few pedestrians and pigeons in the piazza.

I return to the lobby of the Hotel Roma where I meet our host and instructor Mary Beth Clark, a charming and gracious woman who is the founder of the International Cooking School of Italian Food and Wine. She will be our gastronomic guide through the week. I am joined by a selection of fellow Americans hailing from Washington DC, Charlotte, NC and Los Angeles, CA.

Mary Beth leads us across the Piazza, and through a narrow passage and we begin exploring the food markets of Bologna. We stop first at a cheese shop. Bowls of creamy white cheeses, some soft and some with curds, and large golden disks of Parmigiano-Reggiano are clustered in glass cases. Slabs of pink prosciutto, which must be cured for at least 300 days, are strung together and hung from the ceiling. We visit fruit stands where the aroma smells like a heavenly orchard and watch butchers at work swiftly dissecting whole chickens. We even pause to inspect the wares of a purveyor of horse meat. Around every corner there is something for the eyes to savor, as we watch the artisanal craftsman of Bologna’s food market begin a new day.

Our next stop is an historic palazzo just minutes away from the market where we will work for the next several hours. Mary Beth leads class in the professional kitchen and we are joined by an Italian chef, an assistant and a valet who attends to our every need. Throughout the day we learn about typical ingredients, scents and flavors of the Italian kitchen. Intoxicating aromas of seafood, fresh rosemary, red wine, olive oil and chocolate and hazelnut fill the air. The yolks of the perfect brown eggs are deep orange, likely due to hens fed a diet of corn and sunflower seeds.

The staff carefully demonstrates the culinary techniques of Italy and we all take a hand in the process. While most of the instructors speak little or no English, by watching and observing their handling of the food, I begin to understand them. I am discovering there is, in fact, an international language of food, and it is one of passion, instinct and mutual reverence.

By mid-afternoon, we sit down to an extravagant luncheon at the palazzo around a beautifully set table decorated by our valet with luscious ripe summer fruits – peaches, plumbs, strawberries and red currants. There are four courses with perfect wine pairings. The food is sumptuous, the wine flows freely and we enjoy learning more about each other over an exceptional meal.

One last biscotti accompanied by a lovely sparkling rose wine, and it is time to conclude. After a brief stop at the hotel, where I learn my luggage has been delivered, I spend the remainder of the day with camera in hand exploring the medieval city of Bologna, which by late afternoon has become a bustling metropolis jammed with people and motor bikes. Warm sunshine bathes the piazzas. I walk to the nearby Bascilica di Saint Stefano, which was built during the period XII – XVII. The ancient stone holy place was formed from four Romanesque churches and has a stately, two-level cloister where I spend some quiet time reflecting on the events and aromas of the day.

Darkness falls, and I take a seat at one of the cafes on Piazza Maggiore and order a glass of vino rossa (the two words I actually know how to say in Italian). I sip my wine and watch as tourists eating gelato, students, lovers, beggars, adventurers and philosophers wander by enjoying the warm summer night. A bulging three-quarter moon peaks into the piazza, illuminating the fortress-like exterior of Basilica di San Petronio, much as it has done for centuries.

© 2006 T.W. Barritt All Rights Reserved


Bologna at Last – Sunday, September 3, 2006: That’s what the poster on the wall proclaims as I exit the shuttle bus and entered the airport terminal to claim my luggage – which hasn’t arrived with me. But, this journey is about food, and not travel disasters, so enough on that story.

There is an enormous, glowing half moon in the sky as my taxi driver speeds me to the Hotel Roma in the historic district of Bologna. We quickly cut through some routine residential areas, and enter the narrow streets of the ancient city. It is very late on a Sunday evening, but there are people about, some on motorbikes. There is stone, and brick, and a large tower up on the hill that I need to learn more about.

My fellow class mates at the International Cooking School of Italian Food and Wine have long since gone to dinner, but my host has arranged for the hotel to provide a cold buffet for me. Once settled in the room with my meager belongings, I feast on salty prosciutto, fresh mozzarella, bread, green salad and white wine. After the drama of my journey, it tastes superb and feels very welcoming.

Tomorrow morning, we meet for a tour of Bologna’s food market and our first cooking class of traditional Italian and nuova cuisine.

© 2006 T.W. Barritt All Rights Reserved