So many thoughts fill my head as I say my final goodbyes to family and friends during my recent visit home for my father’s 91st birthday: thoughts of war and the indelible memory it left in my father’s mind; thoughts of playing soccer in the streets with my nephews; of visiting markets and their colourful characters; thoughts of train rides and their unmistakable smells of everyday life; and thoughts of food, of course. Family and food, and how intrinsically connected they are.
We sort of lived by the dinner table, as we tasted the famous Pecorino di Pienza or an incredibly flavourful 36-month-old prosciutto. My mother’s cherry and meringue semifreddo was to die for, and we enjoyed the classic pisarei e fasò (from my hometown of Piacenza) immensely.
And we enjoyed all of that, thanks to the art and skills of the magical architect of our many evenings at the dinner table: my mother, Maria Pia — Mapi for short.
My mother has been an inspiration in my life since the very beginning, unknowingly at first, as I would walk into the kitchen while she cooked, with one goal on my mind. Raw or cooked, ready or not, I would stick it in my mouth before she could stop me. I had no idea back then that one day I would use these memories (more than a recipe) to cook and make a career out of it. Mapi has the ability to create something special from seemingly nothing, and to watch her cook is magic at work in the kitchen.
Lunch at my house is at 1 p.m. every day. Rain or shine, we sit around the table at 1 p.m. sharp. At 12:45, my father, who looks forward to lunch as one of the main events of his day, will ceremonially ask, “Mapi, what are we having for lunch?”
Her answer is usually a simple, “I don’t know.”
How could she not know? I give her five minutes or so before I tiptoe to the kitchen door. I am not really spying on her; I am just curious and hopeful to catch some of her magic. I see her opening a can of cannellini beans, washing them under cold water, then shaking them energetically a couple of times. Her movements are smooth; she has no hesitation or doubts—I can tell she has a plan as she silently converses with the ingredients. She sautés the beans lightly with a bit of garlic, a pinch of salt and a dusting of chili flakes. Olive oil, of course. The whole process takes five minutes at most. Then she takes a head of escarole she has resting on a towel, a few drops of water still decorating it. She cuts it freely, her cutting board moving a bit worryingly underneath her hands. She simply adds the lettuce to a pot (escarole is similar to Romaine in structure. Slightly bitter, it becomes wonderfully sweet when cooked), covers it with water, a pinch of salt, and on the stove it goes. That’s it.
Five minutes go by, the water has slightly reduced, the flavours have intensified, and so she adds the escarole to the beans and cooks the two together for maybe five more minutes.
I look at the clock.
It’s 1:03 p.m., and she yells, “E’ pronto”—it’s ready.
I am smiling throughout the whole process.
Simple flavours skilfully highlighted and allowed to shine. Never covered or intrusive, they just work beautifully, as the taste test has proven unmistakably, over and over. And as I remember all of this, it kind of takes me back to my mother’s kitchen and to its smells. And this too is the magic of food.
And in honour of her kind and quiet presence, here is a recipe I learned from Mapi herself—a recipe you may have enjoyed many times during a visit to the restaurant … our beloved Caprese cake! That’s right—happy holidays, folks!
125 g dark chocolate
125 g butter
125 g sugar
125 g almond flour
3 eggs
Pinch of salt
Splash of vanilla
Turn your oven on at 325 F.
Line a 10-inch cake pan with parchment and butter the sides.
Separate the eggs.
Melt the chocolate in a double boiler with the vanilla and the salt.
Add the butter (cubed) to the chocolate and allow it to melt.
Take it off the heat, allow it to cool slightly, and whisk in the yolks one at a time.
Fold in the dry ingredients (sugar and almond flour).
Whisk the whites to stiff peaks and (gently) fold them in.
Bake for 35 to 45 minutes until you notice light cracking on the top of the cake. Allow to cool. Dress this simple chocolate cake up or down as the occasion requires: with a dusting of icing sugar and tea for a mid-afternoon delight, or hibiscus syrup and chai ice cream for those fancy evenings coming up.