I love ancient history, and I love it to the point where I consider myself an Archeo-chef. Tracking produce, spices, flowers and assigning them a place in the history of a dish is fascinating. It gives such a complete picture of the origin of what we eat and why. I am probably one of the last dinosaurs and I am honestly proud of it. Recurrently, social media celebrates new recipes which are surely delicious, but have no heart or roots. For me, good without a heart is not enough. I think a dish should tell its story and history. It should be connected to a period of your life, it should bring back scents, flavors or memories of that fabulous meal you had when you were just a kid, or the first time you tasted that dessert. How many times do we smell something that propels us back to a precise moment of our past? In that very moment, you find yourself back to that feeling, maybe with the same people that were with us just then. A dish should be evocative. With that being said, I’ve had my big bag of fiascos in the past 40 years. Testing recipes is such a delicate task, and depending on how ancient the recipe is, one always remains with a big question mark stamped on their face. Is this the real consistency, color, flavor? Therefore, I will never stop encouraging all my students in writing down family recipes, and recipes in general; as if we skip one generation, the recipe will be lost or misinterpreted, and therefore cooked improperly.
This is what happened when I was testing a few of my grandma’s recipe for one of my books. I followed her notes “to the T” but the recipe was never what I remembered having tasted when she was still among us. For sure, at some point I felt defeated and asked the divine providence to guide me or better, to send Grandma in my dreams to reveal where I was going wrong. One Sunday morning, while I was strolling around the local flea market in Lucca, ancient tea cups and tea pots attracted my attention. The sign of destiny I was waiting for finally showed up. The porcelain cup I was holding in my hands was exactly like the tea service my grandma had in her cupboard (and now in mine)! Something was slowly resurfacing in my foggy mind. Rosa, my grandma’s sister, and her friend Vela, had the same service. That is weird, I said to myself. I always thought that service was unique and rare. Oh well! While I was x-raying a few silver spoons and forks, looking for some old brand engraved in their handles, a nice service of pink glasses winked at me. Where have I seen these glasses before? In grandma’s cupboard, sure! Always her. The divine providence was really sending me all signs. The fog was finally lifting, and all the pieces were matching. Now I was finally realizing why her recipes were never what I cooked. I was using the wrong measurement! It was not cups and spoons like we use today. It was her cup, her glass and her spoons. Of course! Driving back from Lucca, all I had in my mind was to prove that I had solved the mystery. The key was just in front of me, but I had ignored it for years. It only made sense. A hundred years ago, women in Italy never had to measure anything. They used to judge by feel or taste: a pinch of this, a smidgen of that, a handful of this, a bunch of that. And of course, for liquids it was a cup of this, a glass of that! I remember grandma saying : metti un bicchierino di cognac nelle uova ( add a little glass of cognac in the eggs) A chef today will ask her: how big should the glass be? How much liquid? What did she know? Every time I would ask: Grandma, when is the sauce ready? She would be very clear (in her mind) “It is ready when it is ready!” There was no cooking time, no cooking temperature, and no way to know when things were ready. They were ready when they were ready. She was the queen of her kitchen, and only she would know. “Grandma, how much sugar should I add?” “Add it until it is sweet!” Today we smile at something like this, but back in the good ole days, it was the norm in every house. It was common for women to share recipes using the same method: glass, bowls, cups and spoons, as everyone had the same glassware, silverware and dishware. Isn’t it fascinating?
I can tell you that after that revelation at the market, deciphering Angelina’s recipes had become a piece of cake, only because I am a dinosaur and I hold the past close to my heart. If we do not know where we come from…how can we move forward??