Feast of the Seven Fishes Blog | Italian Christmas, Italian Food, Cooking, Recipes and Traditions

History of Pumpkin Tortelli

Over the next couple of days, we're going to publish a couple of posts by our friend Alessandro Cagossi of both Reggio Emilia (Italy) and Morgantown (West Virginia). Today we'll start with the history of the Pumpkin Tortelli and tomorrow we'll post the actual recipe. Enjoy

History of Pumpkin Tortelli 

By Alessandro Cagossi

Tortelli are a part of the gastronomic tradition of filled pasta – traditionally linked to the gastronomy of Northern Italy – and are similar to ravioli. The main feature of this recipe is the combination among the sweet flavor of pumpkin, the rather bitter amaretto cookies, the savory parmesan cheese and the chilly fruit mustard. Their unusual taste may be surprising to someone. 

Pumpkin tortelli are a speciality pasta in a vast area close to the river Po, comprising the provinces of Mantua and Cremona (in Lombardy region), Piacenza, Parma, Reggio, Modena, and Ferrara (in Emilia region), and, in a lesser degree, Verona and Rovigo (Veneto). In Ferrara they are called Cappellacci, from the shape of the straw hats typically worn by country folk. Elsewhere, the name tortelli (or ritortelli, tortelloni) derives from the way the pasta is folded. 

Pumpkin as a stuffing is a relatively recent recipe. Since the 1500s, once pumpkins were imported from the Americas, they were grown everywhere and were cheap, so even the poorest of the poor were always able to enjoy them. In fact, initially the tortelli probably represented a popular reprocessing with less expensive ingredients of noble agnolini, with the goal of getting a cheap but nutritious and savory meal. 

The home of pumpkin tortelli recipe is disputed between Mantua and Ferrara. In fact, their origins hark back to the times of the Este court in Ferrara, famous also for the refinement of its cuisine: the master of banquets Giovan Battista Rossetti had already mentioned it in his recipe book in 1584. But the Gonzaga family, ruling in Mantua in the same epoch, also claimed for the paternity of the recipe.  

 
In any case, as clearly shown by the map, it can be said that today the real perimeter of this culinary tradition (highlighted with orange color) is exactly around the river Po. The area running below the river Po is delimited at south by Mount Apennines that had worked as a sort of geographical barrier which inhibited the cultivation of the pumpkin and the subsequent diffusion of the recipe. For this reason, only in the flat areas of Emilia provinces pumpkin tortelli are diffused. Similarly, looking at the northern bank of the river, the farer you go from it, the diffusion of pumpkin tortelli decreases. In this regard, only in the eastern part of the Cremona province the recipe is known. As said, the recipe is also popular in the small southern cone of Verona province (because it lies between Mantova and Ferrara) and in the strip of Rovigo province which runs parallel to the Po.     

Many variants came during the centuries modifying the traditional recipe, in terms of in shape, folding technique, ingredients and taste. For example, the recipe from Piacenza and Ferrara does not include amaretto, while the one from Cremona adds the fruit mustard. Some in the stuffing add crushed almond, or dried peach nuts. Others add dried grape, shredded mint-flavored candies, or boiled wine in a very original way! Since the 1800s, various sauces to accompany pumpkin tortelli became more popular, using butter, fried onion, garlic and tomato together with lard, bacon and sausage. In Piacenza, tortelli sometimes are served with mushroom sauce.  

Even if ingredients vary among areas, usually familiar recipes are handed down from mothers to daughters, thus meaning that they tend to remain unchanged along generations. It means that pumpkin tortelli are always different from family to family, even if they are next-door neighbors.

The secret of any recipe is to balance these various flavors, properly dosing the amount of each ingredient.
Currently, most people from areas described above reserve pumpkin tortelli for special occasions. December 24, Christmas Eve (“La Vigilia di Natale”) is a day of abstinence from meat, so as a first dish pumpkin dumplings in butter and sage sauce are served.

My Talk At an Italian Holiday Program

There's absolutely no excuse for not posting this in advance of the event - let's just say I'm an idiot and leave it at that.  On Sunday, Dec. 7th, 2008, I had the very great pleasure and honor of being a guest speaker for an Italian Holiday Program sponsored by the Eberly College of Arts and Sciences at West Virginia University and the Committee for the Preservation of Italian-American History and Culture.  The event was very well attended and I was fortunate to have the Italian Youth Choir warm up the crowd. The kids were wonderful, thanks to their tireless director Monica Bonasso and, of course, their own work ethic and innate talent.  Thanks to Michael Oliverio, Gloria Cunningham, Matthew Vester and Tina Levelle for inviting me and for making the event so special.  It's always an honor to be able to speak about Feast of the Seven Fishes, and our Italian heritiage in general, but especially when I can do it here in north-central West Virginia.  I should also mention there were also several presentations on various Italian provincial holiday cooking traditions by their respective natives that was very enlightening (and hunger-pang-inducing).

Bob Tinnell

Pickled ramps?

Several years ago, John Sayles made a great film, called "MATEWAN," about the labor struggles of West Virginia coal miners trying to achieve fair working conditions shortly after World War I.   There's a nice moment in the film when some of the local people, who are descended from the early settlers, introduce some Italian immigrants to "ramps," which one Italian lady promptly labels "garlic."  Well, ramps aren't garlic—they are actually a wild leek—but they can and do offer an interesting taste not dissimilar when properly prepared.  They grow wild in the forests of Appalachia and are usually ready to harvest in mid-April through late May.   From what I understand, they've actually become something of a recognized delicacy in fancy New York restaurants.  Anyway,  what strikes me every time I watch "MATEWAN," during that moment when the ramps are introduced, is how swiftly Italian immigrants seemed to make use of what existed here naturally. I know my great-grandparents dug native plants to augment their larder, although I can't say for sure if ramps were among those plants. However, I do know their son, my grandfather, John Oliverio, loved ramps. In fact, when my mother was young, my grandfather transplanted ramps from the wild to his yard so that he could harvest them more conveniently.

Last night, I took my mother-in-law for a ride in the country to my own personal ramp patch to dig up a few.  I tend never to hit the patch very hard—usually only taking about three dozen plants—which hardly makes a dent in the crop.  We brought the ramps home and washed them, cut away the bulbs from the leaves (which we froze to use in months to come as an additional seasoning for pesto).  Then we prepared a simple pickling solution—equal parts vinegar and sugar which we heated up (but didn't boil).  Then we mixed the ramp bulbs with the solution in a small jar and placed it in the refrigerator (no need to dip in boiling water) in anticipation of enjoying them in a few weeks.  This is my first attempt at pickling ramps (usually we fry them up with eggs and potatoes and peppers ), but given my love for pickled eggplant I thought this might be worth a try, if for no other reason than it gives me the chance to tap into a little bit of the culinary pragmatism of my ancestors.  What's more, of late, I'm getting more and more interested in breaking away from the mass-produced.  I much prefer tramping through the woods, digging up native edible plants than sitting around the house.  And once prepared it seems like nothing tastes better than food you've either grown or procured from the wild.

I don't think I'm alone in this desire to have something more, well, authentic, I guess is the word I'm looking for.  Several folks I know in the area who are of Italian descent are building outdoor ovens in which to bake bread—much like their parents or grandparents did.  I'm hoping to do the same thing.  It might not be convenient, but I know for a fact it will taste better.

Back to ramps.  I know that here in West Virginia there's a ramp festival down in the charming little town of Helvetia—usually around the last weekend in April (I'm too lazy to check at the moment!)—it's nothing fancy but it is good fun, and more importantly the event still maintains an authentic country vibe.

I'll let you know how the pickled ramps taste!

-Bob

Angie Scandale can sing!

Okay, full disclosure, Angie is my cousin.  She's from the part of our family that emigrated to British Columbia in the '60s.  I am blown away at her voice—and you will be, too, I think...

-Bob

My Great-Grandmother's House

The other day I was back in the old neighborhood of Greentown and spent a few moments at my late great-grandmother's house.  To the casual passerby, it looks like a simple, somewhat dilapidated structure, with nothing remarkable about it, save perhaps a covered porch of sorts, created by having a portion of the house jut out over the above-ground basement.

The yard has been shorn of most all of the landmarks of my youth, in an effort to make it easier to care for.  The little metal gate that meets the sidewalk still stands - but the shrub row that flanked each side of it are gone. The pear tree remains and still produces fruit.  There is a large side yard—a full lot, actually—consisting of nothing but grass.  There is no trace of the miraculous garden that once filled the space to bursting with tomato and pepper plants and, of course, garlic.

As a kid it was my job to cut her grass. This was not hard to do, even if I did have to use one of those old push rotary motors (in other words, no engine).  But the yard was so filled with vegetables and flowers that she only had a small triangle of grass—maybe 12-foot per side—that needed cutting.

Right next door to her house was the Catholic Church, now closed. In fact, now closed with a "for sale" sign out front.

So how does all this change make me feel?  Sad? Sure. Nostalgic? Definitely.  But if I wallow in those feelings I think I do my great-grandmother—and all my ancestors—a disservice.  What did they struggle so hard for?  For things to stay exactly the same?  Or for their descendants to push ahead and to prosper?

The day I moved to California to go to film school, I stopped by the house to say good-bye to my great-grandmother.  She was sitting on the porch swing with her daughter, my great-aunt Katie.  I kissed them and said goodbye.  My great-aunt was emotional at my leaving but my great-grandmother took it in stride.  "Well," she said, "you gotta go where the money is.  Look at me.  I leave my mommy and no see her for 60 years.  No see her again.  That's the way it is."

That's the way it is.  That's the way life is.  These days when things get tough I often think about her words in that moment.  Now I know, she loved me dearly but she was painfully pragmatic in the way those of us less accustomed to adversity can only hope to imitate.   Her life presented many challenges and demanded tough choices and she met them head on.  I can't help but look in the mirror and ask: "is any of that toughness in me?"

I looked around the yard for a moment longer and then got back in my car.  It was sad, but not overly so.  I learned a long time ago that it's not places that define your past, but the people who filled them.

-Bob

Next up:  Inside the house.

A quick slice of the history of pizza

After enjoying a huge slice of cheese pizza from Portland's very own "Escape from New York" today during lunch, I began to wonder how it all started. Apparently, pizza has an extraordinarily long history, so I'm gonna give you the abridged version:

It's believed that pizza may have been invented by the Phoenicians, the Greeks or the Romans. So, it's origins are not necessarily Italian.  However, it has been a large part of the Italian diet since the Stone Age, according to some slightly credible sources on the Web. Check out WhatsCookingAmerica.net. Essentially, it began as a loaf of flat focaccia bread that was seasoned and used in place of utensils to soak sauces and gravies (we Italians still love to practice this when Nonna isn't looking!).

Here's the rest of what the site had to say about pizza:

"It is said that the idea of using bread as a plate came from the Greeks who ate flat round bread (plankutos) baked with an assortment of toppings. It was eaten by the working man and his family because it was a thrifty and convenient food."

-Mike

It'll Always be Your Way!

Growing up in my house, there were only a few things to know growing up.  Frankie S was the king of all that is melodic, and polka wasn't that bad.  I know, I know, what?  During my childhood, I should have been listening to Billy Idol, Michael Jackson, Def Leppard, and even to some weird extent New Kids on the Block. 

Believe you me, I did, loved them, well all but... that last one. Ahem. Moving right along.  I was into the pop culture of the time.  They were the biggest and baddest of whatever.  But anytime I went home and heard good ole Frankie Sinatra belt out "My Girl" I knew that there was love and good in the world. 

No other musician to this day, has been able to do that.  Christmas isn't Christmas and AT&T sure isn't the same without good ole Frank Sinatra.

Viva la Italia!
Mario M.