How to make La Cotognata

It is that time of year when many are seized by a manic desire to start squirrelling away for the winter months. The contadini around us do it without thinking about it whereas I find myself becoming obsessed by whatever latest preserve needs to be set in store. Right now I am surrounded by the most fragrant and delicious of all fruit, the quince. The fruit is so complex and well structured with perfume, flavour and pectin that it is almost impossible to go wrong when you combine it with sugar, in lesser or greater proportions. In Italy they traditionally make La Cotognata, an exquisite but very simple fruit paste that combines excellently with Pecorino or for that matter any kind of cheese (but more of that later).The less sugar you add the fruitier and more paste like it becomes. Add more sugar, up to a 1:1 ratio of fruit paste to sugar and you have a slab that you can slice easily.

Recipe
Take ripe unbruised fruit and sit them in the oven (220c) until they turn a golden colour and you start to see liquid oozing out of them and caramelizing a wonderful shade of garnet.

Remove from the oven, peel and decore. Pass the pulp through a mouli. Weigh the pulp and combine with the proportion of sugar to suit your taste. I would suggest between 500 to 800 grams of sugar for each kilo of fruit paste.

Place this mixture in a pan (non stick) over a medium heat and stir constantly until it starts to turn a dark maroon colour. When it begins to come away from the base of the pan in a mass, it is ready to be poured or dumped onto grease proof paper and left to set in whatever shape you like.
Cotognata combines excellently with bayleaves and can be eaten on its own or served with the cheese that compliments the kind of cotognata you have made. The fruitier type( i.e 50% sugar or less) goes well with fresher cheeses. For anything more seasoned you can up the sugar content! Buon appetito.

The First Attempt

The first mozzarelle! Whilst this cheesemaker may not yet be blessed, at least after this first attempt I think perhaps I am not damned. I used unpasteurized cows' milk and a rennet supplied by a Sig. Blumenthal which was the last bottle supplied by a pharmacist who had obtained it on request for a Sardinian who was making mozzarelle. Not having an accurate thermometer, the temperature of the milk was approximately 38 -40 c when I added the rennet. I followed a more traditional recipe for making mozzarella which avoids zapping the curds in the microwave and instead uses the hot water method which involves immersing and then working the melted curds in water that is just uncomfortably hot. If it is not scorching your hands then it is not melting the mozzarella. The flavour was very fresh and clean and the texture fairly even. However I did notice that in some spots the consistency of the mozzarella was a little rubbery. This may be owing to not cooking the curd consistently; many recipes insist on the importance of cutting the curds into uniform cubes and I think now I understand why. All I have to do now is track down some buffalo; I hear there are some near Mogliano!

Slow Food?

Slow Food?

Hmmmm…I’m not convinced of the expression around here, because around here it’s more like fast food. Why fast? -Because around here it’s right there in the garden and on the trees and in the fields. We have our own speedy service sans the plastic containers! Lettuce, cabbage, fennel, chard, squash and leeks. Or how about apples, grapes, walnuts, or even a last stray fig? Those are the daily specials today- orders to be served immediately. Just pick or pull and shake off the dirt!

Good food is so reliable here that even when returning jetlagged from our summer holiday and flight from Boston –no strength to stop for groceries- we still managed to cobble together a feast. There were cucumbers, tomatoes and basil for a salad. We made bruschetta with Dominic’s sour dough bread (we had some in the freezer) brushed with garlic and our neighbours’ olive oil (we buy it in 50 litre quantities). Melon and figs for our dolce -we did feel like contadini royalty! Though 7 years ago I didn’t quite get it, now I truly understand what the locals mean by NOT buying anything at the supermarket. Just a few packs of pasta, as a farmer’s wife today really only makes tagliatelle or lasagna (vincisgrassi in these parts) from scratch for a Sunday lunch.

We store food for the winter, like little squirrels with acorns. Tomatoes are already in jars, potatoes stored in drawers of an old dresser in the attic. Olives marinating in garlic and peperoncino. Crates of apples. This year I tried to make enough plum and fig jam to last us till spring (one really could stoop to a couple spoonfuls after lunch when no one is looking). We ration it slightly ( like, no, don’t consume the jam in spoonfuls, somebody's looking), and we have a couple other inspired preserves. Dominic is making membrillo this week, the Spanish quince paste, which eaten with pecorino cheese, and perhaps a sip of pecorino wine (ever tried this white wine from Le Marche? It’s cold magic potion!) And because Dominic has a very British side (not to mention the mother-in-law visiting) we are required to keep a supply of proper marmalade. This we address in the New Year by raiding the local nurseries for arancie amare. They’re left on the trees otherwise.

It’s quick to rustle up a soulful, delicious meal with the cupboards full of these divine offerings.
The slow part? Well, that's in the eating itself.
Another glass of wine? Another fig?...

The Blessed

I suppose it was only a matter of time before we discovered right on our doorstep a secret, bountiful and very cheap supply of raw milk. The farm itself is hidden in the depths of what is called a calanche or eroded valley. No signs, no heritage trails, no slow food widgets just a hidden house (the cows, like us, appreciate peace and quiet) and next to it a large barn with some cows kept, as the local vet tells me, in incredibly hygienic conditions and constantly filling two large rotating vats of milk that are emptied every day when the local milk truck comes. Arrive after the truck, no milk, before and as much heavenly white stuff as you can drink at 50 cents a litre. Of course the next question when you find such an abundant source of milk is, how do I make cheese for, as we are told, blessed are the cheesemakers and I hope to join the elect, soon.

Country Neighbours

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When I set out for a walk, even if I say I'll be right back, my husband knows I may be gone awhile. This is not because I am a rambler or keen naturalist, but because I'm sociable. Our neighbours are contadini, who work outside most of the day. Ploughing, planting, harvesting, chopping, repairing, feeding animals, preparing food to store, or just hanging up the wash. These are the bones of survival- your food, your heat, your comfort and cleanliness. It is continous, relentless hard work, but they are always happy for a short distraction and a little company. So when I stroll up, and they are outside in the midst of chores, they always shout a friendly 'Caterina!' and stop what they are doing to say hello.
Achille's family are our closest neighbours. They are three generations, Achille and Vittoria, who are the dad and mom in their 70s, plus their two grown sons and their children. Achille and Vittoria grew up in our valley and tell stories of life here decades ago. They describe the peasants living in our house (about 20 people lived on the one habitable floor- now we have two and a half floors and there are 4 of us). They tell us about the feasts in the big storeroom at the top, to celebrate weddings and baptisms, or how the women gathered in what is now the hallway between our daughters' rooms, praying with rosary beads during the forty days of Lent
They tell tales of the Second World War, like when the Germans shot at our very house, because there were maybe partigiani hiding (there are still the damaged bricks near the old front door). Vittoria, who grew up in the now empty house at the bottom of our road, remembers when her father returned home from prison camp. She remembers her mother, who thought he was dead, rushing to him. Because her mother was just pregnant when he left, that was the first time Vittoria saw her dad and her dad saw her. 'Send a letter if it's a girl, a telegram if it's a boy.’ Vittoria chuckles every time she tells the story; she sees a lot of humour in things.
They like that we are here, and I like that. They say we bought un gran capitale. Our house hadn't been lived in for thirty years, so even after four years our presence is a novelty. We bump into people who have houses round the rim of the valley looking down on our house. They say, 'Oh yes, you live in the house with all the lights, we love seeing the lights. Tutto Illuminato! It keeps us company!'