Episode 3: Cucina povere, in which He Brings Together the Food Cultures of an Italian Province and a New England State

Cucina povere is Italian for "cuisine of the poor," and it's going through a bit of a vogue. In Manhattan, there's a restaurant called Peasant, where entrees range from $22 to $39. No, I have never eaten there, and thus pass no judgment on its quality. Certainly, the menu looks delicious. (The word fegato--suckling pig--has been known to trigger involuntary moans.) But cognitive dissonance plays tricks with my digestion.

One of my favorite examples of cucina povere is the Tuscan dish called ribollita: A bean soup cooked up with cavolo nero (aka black kale, lacinato kale, or even Dinosaur kale--it does look like Godzilla skin), one of those hardy vegetables that tastes better after the first frost, and bulked up with chunks of stale bread. (Incidentally, Ribollita is also the name of an Italian restaurant in Portland with similarly improbable prices, though they are only pricey by Maine standards. In NYC, a restaurant with those prices might count as "cheap eats." I'd like to try it when finances allow, though it must be tough for a restaurant to be situated right next door to Duckfat.) Whenever I see cavolo nero in a farmer's market or a CSA box, I think ribollita.

Cucina povere has returned a bit to its etymological meaning for us. We are not poor by any reasonable definition of the term. But the move has resulted in some temporarily tightened cash flow. I need to think a bit more carefully about stretching the family food dollar. Pre-move, the sight of a nice bunch of cavolo nero would lead me immediately to think, "I need to buy some pancetta and some dry cannellini beans and get a nice ciabatta and set some of it aside to get stale."

Now I think, "I've got some Jacob's Cattle beans and some salt pork left behind after those Maine baked beans I made last week, and what's left of the Maine Grains loaf from Standard Baking Co. should be tasty in the soup." This is what cucina povere really means: Making the most of what you have before opening your wallet. I call the result:

Maine Ribollita

Note: This dish is easily adaptable for vegetarian and vegan kitchens. Vegetarians just leave out the salt pork. Vegans can also leave out the parmesan rind. Both are optional elements, and their absence would not detract much from the overall flavor or nutrition of the meal.

Ingredients:

• 2 cups of Jacob's Cattle beans
• 1 head of garlic
• Several sprigs of fresh sage
• olive oil
• 3 slices of salt pork, diced
• 1 onion, chopped
• 2 carrots, coarsely chopped
• 1 bunch of cavolo nero, de-stemmed and coarsely chopped
• 28 oz. can of peeled tomatoes, hand-crushed
• a piece of parmesan rind (optional but much to be desired--I thought I had one but can't seem to find it--never throw out your rinds!)
• salt and pepper to taste
• two slices of stale Maine Grains bread, or any old bread you have lying around, cut into thick cubes

Directions:

1. Soak beans overnight.
2. Drain beans. Put in pot with the whole head of garlic (top chopped off and placed in upside down), some sprigs of sage, and 2 quarts of water. Bring to boil.
3. Simmer beans for an hour, or until tender.
4. Reserve cooking liquid from the beans. Divide beans in half, leaving one half whole and pureeing the other half.
5. Put a small amount of olive oil in another pot over medium heat. Add salt pork and fry until additional fat renders and pork is crisp.

   
   

   Look at that sizzling pork.

6. Add onions and cook, stirring occasionally, for about ten minutes, until soft and translucent.

   

   Yummy.
   

7. Add carrots and kale, stir to coat.
8. Add tomatoes, beans, bean puree and cooking liquid. Stir until smooth and bring to boil.

   
   

   Ready to simmer.

9. Add rind and more sage. Simmer for up to 2 hours, stirring occasionally. (In practice, in our house, this actually means, cook until Little One says, "Daddy, I'm hungry! What's for dinner?")
10. Taste the soup and season with salt and pepper to taste. (I used no salt--the salt from the pork was sufficient. If you find it a bit too salty, thin with a bit more water.) Add the bread, and simmer for another 10-15 minutes.

    

    In Genesis, Esau sells his birthright for a "mess of pottage." If it looked like this, I wouldn't blame him.

Ready to eat.

How did it taste? Delicious.

Now, I know this post may stray a bit from the ambit of this blog. Italian-Americans have been part of the country's social fabric for over a hundred years. Pizza is on every school lunch menu, and the cuisine has secured its place in some of the most prestigious, priciest restaurant kitchens around. In the Portland area, Micucci's is an institution, and "real Italians" can be found at any neighborhood sandwich shop. So is Italian food "ethnic" anymore? Maybe not. To mix some French into the Italian, if Cucina povere is now part of the langue of American cooking, and this meal an example of parole.