EAT, PLAY, LOVE, Part 2: Cake & Compleanni

The first thing I ever cooked for Patrick was a birthday cake. We'd only met a few weeks earlier, in the Trastevere neighborhood of Rome. My friend Elizabeth came to me one day in May '99 and said, "I met your future boyfriend today" (which still makes me chuckle) -- he owned the Lavarapido, where she'd gone to do her laundry because it was one of few places in the city with dryers. Patrick was the owner: an American, she'd said, my age, cute, and very nice. And then one lazy Sunday afternoon at Stardust, the bar that would become our second home in Rome, I showed up for brunch and there he was outside the bar, sitting on a bench against an ivy-covered stone wall. He was wearing a blue t-shirt: I remember because it matched his eyes. (Blue still makes me think of Patrick). He was cute, yes -- but more importantly, he was incredibly sweet, with an infectious, full-body laugh. We instantly hit it off over our capacity for snark and jokey, sarcastic comments made at the expense of our new mutual friend Martin, the American bartender at Stardust who served us our drinks and lots of conversation to go with them. It was all in good fun, and it didn't take us long to assemble the beginnings of what would become our group of expats and colorful Italians that eventually formed our famiglia romana -- our Roman family. 

And so I found myself baking Patrick a birthday cake on June 10th,1999. I'd found a shop down the street from my apartment off the Campo de' Fiori that sold some specialty items from the U.S., including Betty Crocker cake mix and Philadelphia cream cheese. I wanted to make a retro, all-American cake of the kind my mother made for my birthdays in grade school: chocolate cake with cream cheese icing. Martin was having a gathering at his place in honor of Patrick's 27th birthday. But sadly, by the time 9:00 rolled around and I arrived proudly with cake in hand, Patrick had gone home. Seems he'd had a little too much to drink and had to call it a night before the sun went down. I remember being disappointed -- but it was just like Patrick to pull out all the stops, as early as possible, and occasionally burn out before the party got started!

Patrick in June 1999

A few weeks later, I hosted my first real dinner party in Rome (shades of many future nights to come). I'd invited Martin and Elizabeth, my English friend Monica and my Italian friend Federico, and Patrick. This was the summer before I started culinary school, and so while I enjoyed cooking, I was by no means yet a professional. (I hadn't even figured out how to work the oven in my apartment. It gave off a terrible odor every time I turned it on, and I found out the night of my dinner party that I needed to manually light the pilot light...so I'd basically been gassing everything I'd baked!) Anyway, that evening, I served a salad and a pasta, and had made a flourless chocolate cake, from scratch, for dessert. I served it with fresh local strawberries from the nearby hill town of Nemi, and a sprinkling of powdered sugar. Or so I thought. I'd been running low on powdered sugar, so had picked up another pouch of it-- same brand, almost same packaging. After sprinkling a few slices of cake with the sugar I had on hand, I started on the new pouch. 

I served all the cake slices at one time, with a sweep of the wrist and a "buon appetito!" to all of my guests. We tasted the cake -- always a crowd-pleaser -- and everyone noted how delicious it was. But some guests said, "you know, this is interesting, it's really coming alive in my mouth." I thought it was a slightly strange descriptive for the dessert, but shrugged it off. And after a few more bites, Patrick said, "it's kind of like Pop Rocks. Don't get me wrong, it's tasty, but this cake is...frizzante," a word used to describe fizzy water, meaning sparkling or carbonated. At which point a light bulb went on in Martin's head, and he pulled me into the kitchen. "Show me the sugar you sprinkled on this cake," he said, and when I did, his eyebrows raised: "this is bicarbonato: it's baking soda!" We immediately broke out into hysterics, Martin falling against the kitchen door, hand covering his mouth, cackling. I was doubled over, holding my stomach in happy pain. "Why don't you sprinkle some baking soda on it?" became a running joke at my expense in Rome. And, I was 0 for 2 on cakes.

View of Trastevere

Fast-forward to the summer of 2003. It was the hottest summer anyone could remember, when people were literally dropping from the heat all over southern Europe. I was the executive chef of a place called Ristorante Cibus, in the same Trastevere neighborhood where we passed so many of our days and nights in Rome. Patrick and I had become pretty inseparable, and now I was working full-time in our "hood." He used to come visit me at the restaurant, passing through the air conditioned dining room back into the kitchen, where it was always 10 degrees hotter than anywhere else, with 8 burners, 2 ovens, and one huge hot water boiler for pasta -- all of which were constantly going during the 9-10 hours of our prep and dinner service. "Oh wow, it's hot in here!" is what he (and everyone) said upon entering the kitchen, as if it was some revelation to me, standing there melting! Sometimes Patrick would bring me an icy granita to help me cool off. Sometimes he'd show up when we were wrapping things up, after a night where I'd been sweating my butt off and he'd been cooling his off in a chair sipping Jack-and-Cokes next door. For his birthday that year, we decided that our group of friends would celebrate with a dinner at Cibus, and I would prepare a special menu for the group, as well as a very special gourmet birthday cake.

Patrick shared a birthday with our friend Caroline, and both were present to celebrate that summer. The meal itself consisted of what was surely a pasta dish and probably a beef fillet for the main course. I don't remember the details. But I definitely remember that I made a baked chocolate mousse cake with chocolate buttercream and ganache. And that cake? A winner! It was rich and chocolaty and light as air. It seemed the third time was a charm indeed.

This year on June 10th, I did not bake Patrick a birthday cake. I went out and bought the cream cheese and powdered sugar, got the hand mixer from a friend here in Rome, and tried to find chocolate cake mix -- just for old time's sake, and for our friend Caroline, who was back in Rome this year and spent her birthday with us, with our extended famiglia romana. But I couldn't bring myself to actually make the cake. Patrick would have been 39 years old on June 10th this year. Instead, he is forever 38 and 1/2. Patrick was born 3 months and 24 days before I was born, but now I'm older than he is, and I can't get my head around that concept.

This year on June 10th, instead of baking Patrick a birthday cake, we gathered our "Roman family" from near and far, to celebrate Patrick's life. Roman style.

We returned to Trastevere, our neighborhood full of wonderful memories. Stardust no longer exists, and though Patrick's laundromat is still there, sign and all, he sold it when he left Rome in '05 and it's now shuttered. But still, this will always be our neighborhood. So, we found a beautiful apartment around the corner from those spots. And we came together, from Rome, from all over Italy and Europe, from Malta, from the United States. We drank to Patrick's full life, we exchanged stories and memories, we saw videos and photos of those golden years in Rome that Patrick felt were some of the best of his life. We ate at one of our favorite neighborhood trattorias, we toasted to his life, we sang, we cried, but most of all we laughed, remembering Patrick's full-body guffaw and his capacity to laugh about everything, even in the face of tragedy. He was able to see the good in everyone and everything, which is what made Patrick so sweet, so refreshingly optimistic, and so beloved by so many.

At Alle Fratte

Erica, Patrick's older sister, with me

In the whirlwind and haze of that Roman evening, which for me was surreal, I did notice something. Many people wore white, the complete opposite of the traditional black that signifies mourning, and a color that celebrates light and life. But more interesting still: even more people wore blue -- unwittingly, I think, but it was Patrick's color, and it was so fitting. He was the one thing so obviously missing from a birthday party he would have LOVED. But there we were, friends and family, gathered together to eat, drink, and celebrate the life of our lovely Patrick, dressed in colors of light and summer and Patrick's pool-blue eyes. He had, once again, pulled out all the stops and left the party early, way too early. But we celebrated on into the night, and to sunrise, in his honor.

Patrick on his 30th Birthday in Rome (with a cake his Mom made and is presenting to him)

We love you, Patrick, and miss you terribly. Auguri, auguri, auguri, from your Famiglia Romana...

QUICK BITE: Bresaola Salad

It's a perfect flavor combination -- a concept which appears in Italian cuisine so frequently. Think about it: who first conceived of tomato, mozzarella, and basil together? Genius! And so it goes with bresaola, rughetta, e parmigiano. Bresaola is prosciutto's beefy cousin, cut from the lean top round of the cow, and salted and air-dried. It hails from Valtellina in Lombardy's northern alps, but is eaten all over the Italian peninsula. When sliced extra-thin and arranged on a plate, it's topped with peppery arugula tossed in extra-virgin olive oil, and shavings of parmigiano reggiano cheese. Drizzle a bit of a balsamic vinegar reduction on top, and via! You've got an amazingly flavorful light lunch that delights the eye and the palate. And it's much better for you than pizza -- though, admittedly, it makes a great sandwich stuffer nestled inside a piece of warm Roman pizza bianca. 

Perfetto!

EAT, PLAY, LOVE: Patrick, Food, and Rome -- Part 1

In May 2005, I sat down in my living room in Largo Arenula and wrote the following:

I just said goodbye to my best friend in the piazza beneath my house... "So many years, huh? So many years," he'd said. Six years of friendship in a foreign country can seem like a lifetime. And seeing that time together end can seem the end of a life, too. Well, at least the end of an era.

My friend Patrick had just left for the airport, to fly to the U.S., and to leave our adopted city of Rome, for good. I was reeling. Our friendship wasn't over, of course, but our time in Rome together was. We'd experienced so much, jam-packed into those six years, so many amazing memories. And since we were living in Italy, and I'm a chef -- well, many of those memories revolved around food. 

Patrick in front of his Trastevere apartment

It must be explained that left to his own devices, Patrick would have subsisted on a diet of fish sticks and toast, with the occasional PB and J or tuna fish sandwich thrown in for good measure. This is not because he was a difficult eater -- if placed in front of him, he would eat most anything, including healthy greens, salads, vegetables, meats, fish, and the numerous delicious pastas we were fortunate enough to be surrounded by in Rome. But Patrick did not prepare this fare for himself. His tiny kitchen corner in his Trastevere apartment didn't really allow for the preparation of anything beyond the super-simple. So I took it upon myself to feed Patrick when I could, with labor-intensive, sophisticated meals at my dinner parties, and, more frequently, with simple home-cooked meals I'd make for us at my apartment. Patrick would buzz the citofono downstairs between 4 and 4:30 p.m., on average, four days a week. I'd pick up the hand-held receiver to hear his cocktail hour credo: "It's 5 o'clock somewhere!" He'd climb the five long flights of stairs in the name of shared aperitivi (he kept a bottle of Jack Daniels stored in my liquor cabinet for convenience) and if we didn't go out after, he'd often stay for dinner and a movie. "Dumb and Dumber" and "Fargo" were our favorites. Each time he'd stay over for a meal he'd make me imitate the line from Fargo: "Daaaaad? Ya stayin' for supperrrrr?!" in a strong North Dakota accent. He laughed hysterically every time -- even this past December, over the phone, when I indulged his request for me to "Say the line! Say it!"

There was one year in Rome when we watched what was basically the Italian version of American Idol, "Operazione Trionfo" every Wednesday night. Patrick would come over an hour before it came on, for some pre-show libations. I'd make dinner. We'd discuss who we surmised wouldn't make the cut that week. Martin often joined as well. Our friends called us idiots, but they were missing out on cheesy Italian entertainment! One week, Patrick had decided he wanted to cook dinner for me instead of the other way around. His dish of choice? Something he called his Mom's Special Fried Chicken -- that is, chicken drumsticks shaken in a bag with seasoned bread crumbs, then fried in a pan, until, a few minutes before the chicken was done, he dumped a cup of water into the pan. We'd debated about this for months on end: how could "fried chicken" remain fried if you then doused it with water? Wouldn't it just become soggy fried chicken? I never understood what made him wax poetic about this dish. And the irony, as it turned out, was that I had a terrible stomach flu the night he endeavored to recreate this dish at my apartment. I never got to try it. I was on saltines and San Pellegrino.

I always enjoyed pushing Patrick to his culinary limits. Our friend Anna, owner of our second-home bar, Stardust, would order crates of fresh oysters from Normandy around the holidays. One cold December night, Patrick and I were having drinks in the dimly-lit bar after dinner. Anna asked me if I knew how to shuck oysters -- and since I will happily suffer shucking for a taste of pure deliciousness, she told me to step behind the bar and prepare 6 or 8 oysters for us. Patrick got nervous. First because we were discussing ostriche (oh-stree-kay), the Italian word for oyster, which he assumed meant "ostrich." Once we cleared that up, he remained nervous because he'd never tried a raw oyster before. I brought over a plate of them with lemon wedges and some Tabasco sauce for the first-timer. By then, the entire bar had overheard our conversation, and everyone was rallying behind Patrick to slurp the briny bivalve from its shell. The next 20 seconds were hilarious, for the range of expressions that came across his face, and the trouble he had choking the thing down. Once he did, the bar erupted in cheers, as Patrick laughed, sheepishly proclaiming "mai piu'!" (never again!).

I reviewed restaurants for various guidebooks in Rome, and so frequently, I'd take friends along to help me "judge" a meal. Patrick was happy to accompany me on numerous occasions, the most memorable of which was our outing to Checchino, an old, elegant restaurant in the Testaccio neighborhood that's been around since 1887. Checchino is famous for perfecting the Roman cooking of the "quinto quarto" -- basically, it's the cheaper cuts of meat and organs and everything that makes up offal (and to Patrick's palate, AWFUL). We ordered some classic Roman pasta dishes, but I insisted that we also order a few of the more 'adventurous' dishes. Patrick was not a fan of liver, lungs, brain, or anything else that I made him try that afternoon, though we did have a fun time misbehaving in the starched-linen elegance of the restaurant. The topper was a bollito misto, traditional more of northern Italy but served here as a plate of mixed boiled animal parts with a piquant green sauce.

Bollito Misto

Now, I've had great versions of this dish. This was not one of them. The meat pieces were mostly gelatinous and jiggled when Patrick shook the plate. What didn't shake was overcooked and in the grayish-taupe color family. Present in the collection of meat-ish products were brain, tripe, and various sections of a cow's and pig's face. Patrick and I were only able to make a dent in the dish by coercion to eat specific parts: P: "I dare you to eat that gray slice of meat". D: "Only if you eat that jiggly piece of cartilage." P: "No way! Only if you eat that squiggly thing too." D: "Can I dump green sauce on it?" P: "Yeah, okay." D: "Deal." We laughed our way through lunch, and washed everything down with some crisp white wine. And chalked it up to another interesting Italian food experience.

Riding home on the back of Patrick's scooter, zipping along the Tiber River on a sunny afternoon, belly full: it was the height of contentment. It was another perfect moment in Rome, one of countless wonderful memories I have with Patrick.

I miss him every single day.

To Be Continued...

EASY MEAL: Spring Chicken

There are countless ways to cook a chicken. Some preparations are boring and plain, some are complex and interesting, others still are homey and comforting. It's always good to have the last kind in your cooking arsenal: an 'old reliable' that gets the job done every time, whether it's making an easy meal for yourself with limited time and budget, or cooking a tasty and uncomplicated meal for friends or family.

In the name of having a simple, reliable method for cooking a roast chicken -- and sides as well -- I've developed a really simple update on roast chicken with potatoes and a green veggie. Here's the idea:

- For one chicken, mix together a few tablespoons of whole grain mustard with a few tablespoons of good quality olive oil.

  

-Add some chopped fresh herbs. For this version I used chives and a little rosemary, just a tablespoon or two.

- Add the zest and juice of a citrus fruit (here I actually used kaffir lime, which adds a dimension of flavor and complexity to the dish. These limes can be hard to find. Lemon is fine. Something more interesting -- blood orange, meyer lemon, etc. -- is even better).

- Add a shake of salt and pepper, and mix. This becomes your FLAVOR PASTE for the chicken.

- Once the chicken is rinsed and dried thoroughly, spread the flavor paste over the skin of the bird and under the skin, in the pockets between the breasts and the outer skin. Leave a little to spread on later when you turn the bird.

- Clean and dice a couple of potatoes, and toss in a little olive oil and salt.

- Line a sheet pan with parchment paper or foil. Spread the potatoes in a layer on the pan. Place the chicken, breast side down, on top of the potatoes.

- Roast in a preheated oven at 350 degrees for 20 minutes. In the meantime, bring a pot of water to a boil, generously salt the water, and cook your green veg for a couple of minutes until it's just barely tender. Remove from the pot and place immediately in ice water to stop the cooking.

- After 20 minutes, pull the tray out of the oven and turn the chicken over, so it's breast side up. Spread a little more of the flavor paste on the top of the chicken. Toss the potatoes in the pan juices. Add the green veg (here I've used broccoletti) to the pan as well, with a sprinkling of salt. Turn the oven up to 375 and return pan to oven for 20 minutes or so, until the top of the chicken is nicely browned and the potatoes are golden and cooked through.

- Carve and enjoy!

ARTICHOKE: The Prickly Sign of Primavera

Few vegetables say spring like the artichoke. For me, in Rome, it was always the ultimate sign of la primavera, especially where I lived in the Jewish ghetto, which is known for its numerous restaurants specializing in the deep-fried "Jewish style" artichokes in-season. In the U.S., California provides almost 100 percent of the nation’s artichoke crop. Castroville, in Monterey County, calls itself “The Artichoke Center of the World,” and is host to an annual festival held since 1959, which celebrates the perennial thistle. Still, fifty years seems like a drop in the bucket, when we consider the fact that artichokes have been consumed in the Mediterranean region since the sixth century B.C.

From There to Here: A Brief History of the Thistle

Cynara cardunculus, the globe artichoke, is thought to have originated in Northern Africa. Its name comes from the Arabic al-kharshuf or ardi-shoky, meaning “ground-thorny,” which became carciofo (car-CHO-foe) in Italian. A relative of the cardoon, the artichoke was cultivated in Sicily during the Greek occupation, as early as 500 B.C., and eventually made its way to mainland Italy.

It reached Naples in the 9^th century, and was supposedly brought north to Florence in the 1460’s by Filippo Strozzi, a wealthy Florentine banker who’d been exiled to Naples by the Medici family. From here, it traveled further north to Venice and then into southern France, reaching Avignon by about 1532. The artichoke spread throughout Europe to eventually flower in Henry VIII’s gardens in the 1540’s, though it had probably always been a staple in the Southern Mediterranean regions historically touched by Greek, and later Arab, influence: Spain, Portugal, Italy, Greece, and Southern France. It was the French who first introduced the artichoke to 19^th century Louisiana, and therefore to the American table, though Spanish immigrants are the ones credited with bringing the vegetable to California, where it’s flourished ever since.

 

When In Rome…

It’s the Roman artichoke, the carciofo romanesco, the Cynara scolymus: a gorgeous, deep purple-and-green globe. Synonymous with the celebrated Roman Spring, it's perfectly paired with Easter specialties like baby lamb, fava beans, asparagus, and spring peas. Anyone who has ever tried an artichoke in The Eternal City knows that there may be no better place on earth to eat one. It is the single most popular vegetable in Rome, and has become the city's culinary symbol.

  

The two most common local artichoke preparations are alla romana – Roman-style, slow braised in oil and wine with wild Roman mint and pecorino cheese, and alla giudea – Jewish-style, deep-fried twice so the crispy outer petals open up but the heart remains tender within. Unlike botanically similar varieties found elsewhere, the romanesco artichoke is eaten young, before it gets woody. This allows a greater portion of the flower to be edible, though local cooks generally pare down the leaves quite a bit. Romans tend to go straight for the tender heart.

Cooking with Carciofi 

Romans believe artichokes reduce cholesterol, cleanse the liver…and are an aphrodisiac to boot. Whatever their benefits may be, nutritional or otherwise, artichokes are labor-intensive but well worth the work.A trip to any Roman market in the spring months will reveal numerous carciofare, or artichoke trimmers, in quick action with gloved hands, a sharp knife, and a container of water with cut lemons floating in it: the acidulated water keeps the chlorophyll oxidation to a minimum, so the artichokes remain green and beautiful. Look for artichokes that are heavy for their size, with tightly-packed leaves.

CARCIOFI ALLA ROMANA

4 artichokes

2 lemons

2 cloves garlic, minced

4 TBS. Chopped fresh flat leaf parsley

4 TBS. Chopped fresh mint or mentuccia

½ cup Pecorino Romano cheese, grated

1 cup dry white wine

2 TBS. Minced olive oil-packed anchovy fillets (optional)

salt & pepper to taste

extra-virgin olive oil, as needed (about 1-2 cups)

-Fill a large bowl with water and squeeze the juice of one of the lemons into it.

-Trim artichoke stems, cut the top of the artichoke bulb off, and peel the outer leaves of the artichoke.

-Carefully scoop out the choke with a melon baller or paring knife.

-As each artichoke is trimmed, put it into the acidulated water.

-In a small bowl, combine the garlic, parsley, mint, bread crumbs, and anchovies, if using. Season with salt & pepper.

-Pat dry the artichokes, stuff the stuffing mixture into the cavity left by the choke and between the leaves. Close leaves over filling.

- Place artichokes stem-up in a baking dish and add 1 part olive oil to 1 part white wine to 2 parts water, to almost cover artichoke bulb.

- Cover and cook until tender when tested with a toothpick/skewer, about 45 minutes to an hour (either in oven or on the stovetop).

- Can be served warm or eaten at room temperature, kept in the braising liquid. Serve with lemon wedges.

RESTAURANT REVIEW: Riverpark, New York City

 

Celebrity toque and Top Chef King of Snark Tom Colicchio quietly opened RIVERPARK, a restaurant situated on an underused stretch of the East River in Murray Hill, this past autumn. And over the course of these recent cool-into-cold months of Manhattan's fall and winter seasons, Riverpark has gained a foothold in the city's dining scene. 

Admittedly, I've always found office buildings and corporate structures to be strange settings for restaurants (which probably accounts for my propensity to head downtown to eat). The Alexandria Center is no different, except its sterile, shiny newness is in stark contrast to the surrounding old buildings and to the warmth of Riverpark once you...get past the security guards at the Center's front desk, walk down the corridor, and step inside the actual restaurant. It's decorated in handsome tones of copper, limestone, and dark blue, and its position overlooking the East River makes the interior feel modern nautical, and not necessarily very New York-y: the day these photos were shot was a damp, gray afternoon that reminded me of eating on the Thames rather than dining in Manhattan. 

Regardless, the bar is a nice place to have elegant drinks and nibbles or raw bar selections (or a full dinner) after work -- something the nabe has long been lacking. And as for the dining room itself (divided into 2 areas: one cozy interior, and one by the floor-to-ceiling glass windows), these are lovely spots for lunch or dinner, where one can enjoy a reliably good meal, professionally executed, with little fanfare and warm service. Put succinctly: Riverpark is the perfect place to come with someone you like, someone with whom you'd like to enjoy a conversation. Nothing about the place overwhelms or takes the focus off of your company, and you don't have to worry about the food disappointing. Many a spot has become an institution in this town for accomplishing less.

Now, to the food: not overly pricey (particularly for a Colicchio joint), not terribly exciting, but reliably delicious. Chef de Cuisine Sisha Ortuzar exhibits his skill honed in Colicchio's kitchens, along with his facility with market-fresh ingredients and Euro-American food with influence from The Americas (Ortuzar is Chilean). So, we can kick off our meal with a decadent starter of duck liver pate' with grilled toast and a cherry compote, or go the lighter route with a salad of field greens and lightly pickled vegetables -- or find the middle ground with a beef carpaccio with arugula and shaved parmigiano.

For seconds, try the Arctic char (replaced by branzino in the photo) with fingerling potatoes, pickled red onion, capers, and a salsa verde. The pork scaloppine with farro and wilted spinach was also delicious -- though no longer on the menu -- and the lunch item of the fried chicken sandwich with homemade potato chips (available as a bar snack) was a tasty plate of food. The pastas, like the squid ink chitarra, are well-balanced, and other meatier second dishes are accomplished as well.
Desserts tend towards updated classics-with-a-twist, as in the cinnamon panna cotta with rosemary ice cream and caramelized pumpkin seeds. 

The molten chocolate cake is there (with espresso gelato and burnt sesame brittle), and so is the apple crumb with cool cream to pour onto it. Classics, yes -- but with good reason.

Here's the thing: the experimentation, research, and reinvention of the wheel may be happening in this building, but in the pharmaceutical and venture capitalist offices and biotech labs upstairs -- not in the kitchen. On the ground floor at Riverpark, highly-skilled, professional execution of American and European flavors, using top-quality primary ingredients is the name of the game. That it's happening in a fairly underdeveloped slice of Manhattan overlooking a lovely spot on the East River (this should be a great locale come late spring and into summer) is all the more incentive to check out this neighborhood anomaly.

Diner: please pack your wallet and go.

RIVERPARK

450 E 29th St. New York, NY 10016

Reservations 212.729.9790

info@riverparknyc.com

RECIPE: Zuppa di Cavolo Verde con i Ceci e Pomodori

I've always considered March to be an unpleasant month. In the northeastern U.S., and particularly in New York City, it's still pretty much winter. It could rain or sleet, we could get bombarded by a blizzard, or we could wake up to a lovely, short-lived spring morning. But mostly, it's gray and cold. Tonight, it's chilly and rainy and windy, and it's Sunday. It's a perfect evening for a warming, and healthy, bowl of homemade soup. Italian-style, ovviamente.

This soup is something I made with 3 things in mind:

1. I wanted the soup to be a meal-in-a-bowl, and healthy.

2. I wanted to use the organic kale I'd bought at the market, which I purchased also in the interest of healthy eating.

3. I wanted to utilize pantry staples so the soup could be easily reproduced and made on a budget of very little -- and when you don't feel like braving the weather outside.

So, here you have it. Of course, it's even better if you soak and cook your own chickpeas, and if you have fresh tomatoes in season. But since it's March, and I'm a realist, I'll pick my battles and encourage you only to make your own stock. It's easy, it's inexpensive, and it makes your kitchen -- your whole apartment or house, really -- smell like home. 

Zuppa di Cavolo Verde con i Ceci e Pomodori

1 small onion, finely chopped

4 stalks of celery, finely diced

4 carrots, peeled and finely diced

2 TBSP. extra-virgin olive oil

1/4 cup dry white wine

10 cups chicken or vegetable stock (homemade is best)

1 small can (14 oz.) chopped San Marzano tomatoes

1/2 teaspoon dried chili flakes

1 small can (14 oz.) chickpeas, drained from liquid and rinsed under water

1 head of kale (cavolo verde), or Tuscan cavolo nero if available, washed and dried

salt & pepper, to taste

- In a large soup pot, heat the olive oil until warm, and then add the onion, celery, and carrot. Saute on medium-low until onions are translucent, about 5 minutes.

- Add the white wine to the vegetables, and turn the heat up to medium until most of the liquid is cooked off.

- Add the stock and cover until it comes to a boil.

- Add the tomatoes and chili flakes, cover, and cook for approximately 10 minutes.

- Add the chickpeas, lower the heat to medium-low, cover, and continue cooking.

- With a sharp knife, cut the base of the head of kale off, remove any thick veins, and then slice through the leaves, horizontally, cutting the kale into strips about 1/4 inch wide, so the kale leaves become a sort of "confetti."

- Add the kale to the soup (the leaves will wilt). Stir, and continue to cook for another 15 minutes, allowing flavors to blend. Taste for seasoning, and add salt and pepper to taste.

* This soup, like most soups, is best served the day after it's made, allowing the flavors to develop and blend overnight.