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The pignata, seemingly straight out of Geppetto’s workshop in Pinocchio, is a ceramic pot that comes in various sizes. It has an adorable tubby body with two stout handles attached lopsidedly to the jug. Facing away from the fire, they never get hot even after hours in the red-hot embers… very clever. Many people have fireplaces around here and the pignata continues to be used in the Sannio to this day.

While bread-making with friends who live on an isolated farm, I chanced upon a pignata in action. So what bread and pizza have to do with the pignata?

Everything, in a way. Making and baking bread in a wood-burning oven takes half the night and half a day and the concerted effort of the whole household, leaving no time for cooking.

After preparing the mother of yeast the night before, early the next morning the women mix and knead the dough. (oh, and by the way; they make enough so that parents, grandparents and in-laws will have bread for the entire week. And while they’re at it, they’ll make pizza, pizza-pane and a few crostate too… a mountain of dough to be kneaded!) This is heavy-duty work that takes almost two hours and strains nearly every muscle in the back, neck and arms.

After pummeling the daylights out of the dough, it is put to rest, covered in clean sheets and old blankets and left to rise (is this an oxymoron?). Now the men can start the fire in the oven, a procedure that verges on the realm of alchemy… but that is another story.

Then comes the spezzatura, or division of the dough; then a second rising, calibration of the furnace temperature, elimination of the embers and finally, the frenzied ritual of filling the oven. By the time everyone catches their breath it’s way past lunchtime.

Herein lies the beauty of the pignata. Throughout the whole morning, with little more than a stirring and a topping up of liquid, the little pot has sat staunchly in the fire all on its own, bubbling quietly, delicately cooking its contents of beans, celery, garlic and guanciale (pork jowl… like bacon, only better) with absolutely no fuss.

Ladled onto hot bruschetta, with a drizzle of olio piccante, this is a meal fit for food afficionados!

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If there is one thing that gets my knickers in a twist, it’s those things that still have me stymied after 50 years in Italy.  So let’s like to try to solve the broccoli/broccoletti dilemma once and for all, shall we?

First up are broccoletti aka cime di rapa, rapini and broccoli di rape (broccoli raab or rabe in english).  This vegetable is actually the top tender leaves and buds of a wild yellow flower that is picked before it blossoms.  I am told they are a member of the Chicory Family.  In Naples they are called friarielli - not to be confused with friggiarelli, which are those scrumptious little green peppers that are stir-fried in garlic and oil.

Then an American couple told me that broccoletti in America (aka broccolini) are a different plant altogether; a cross between broccoli and Gai Lan or Asian Broccoli.  Oh Lord!

Chaos sets in when it comes to the broccoli enigma because as a little girl in America, I remember broccoli as a vegetable that looked like a tiny green tree.

But when I came to Rome and was sent to the market to buy some, the vendor handed me a fascinating, alien-green cauliflower (cavolfiore) with fractal spires that looked like something that had been revisited by Max Escher.  He called it broccolo.

Now broccolo, or cavolo, is actually a cabbage, which is part of the Brassicaceae Family.  Other members include: cavolo cappuccio (used to make sauerkraut), cavolo nero, cavolo cinese, broccolo cinese, cavolo portoghese, cavolo rosso, cavoletti di Bruxelles (Bruxelles sprouts) and even CAVOLO BROCCOLO!

MA CHE CAVOLO! (in english, what the…!) or as the Romans say, “SONO CAVOLI VOSTRI” or ‘it’s your problem’.

And so be it!

I recently spent five glorious days revisiting Puglia and one of the places I enjoyed most was Alberobello.  That is the beauty of travelling in Italy: once is never enough!

This was my third visit to the UNESCO world heritage site, and I could focus less on the quaint and irresistible charm of the round tiled roofs set on the square-based structures, and more on their history.

The town is ensconsed in thick groves of olive and almond trees that thrive on the dry, bouldered soil of Puglia.  In fact the soil is so rocky that new stones come to light every time the soil is tilled, thus creating an endless supply of light-weight stones that can be used as rooftiles.

The history of these unusual dwellings dates back to the second half of the 15th century when the territory was ruled by the Aquaviva family, who had introduced some forty families into the region to clear the terrain.  Over time, the land was populated by these farmers who learned to cultivate the rough land, rendering it extremely fruitful.

However, during the same period, the Kingdom of Naples had enacted legislation requiring all new towns to pay a heavy tax.  In response, the feudal lords ordered their tenants to build ‘dry’ dwellings without the use of mortar, so that they could easily be pulled down in the case of royal inspection, cunningly avoiding taxation!

In 1797 a group of brave citizens petitioned the Bourbon King Ferdinando IV who, by royal decree, in May of the same year set the village free.

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As I was walking along Sant’Agata’s sunny ‘panoramica’ and basking in the delicious warmth of the longer days,  I marveled at the explosion of greens, yellows, whites and pinks coursing through the countryside that, until a week ago, had seemed dead to the world.

I rounded the homeward bend, and while keeping an eye on my dog, who was furiously pouncing on the grass in the hopes of arousing a lizard, I was blown away by a vision of grace and beauty that embellishes so many Italian villas, walls, balconies, pergolas, terraces, banisters and rails and that more than anything embodies the promise of Spring: the wisterias in bloom.

Introduced into Europe in 1816 and Italy in1840, the plant originally comes from the Orient where it is known as the ‘blue vine’.  There are many varieties of wisteria ranging from white to yellow and even red, but the one commonly seen in Italy sports abundant flowers in a mixture of lilac and lavender.  The plant can reach a height of 40 meters and if well-supported, can grow to a length of 80 meters!

The Italian name, glicine, comes from the same Greek word which means ‘sweet plant’. (Introduced into America in the 1700’s the ‘wisteria’ was named after the German anthropologist Kaspar Wistar)

Like all the best things in life, the wisteria’s bloom is over much too soon, but fortunately it flourishes again in June and July and its lush, green leaves provide welcome relief from the unforgiving August sun.

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Without a doubt, grain is the characteristic ingredient of this recipe.  If you have the time and feel up to the challenge, here’s how you cook the grain from scratch: soak 250 gr of dried grain in cold water for three days, changing it regularly.  Rinse it well and fill a pot with enough water to cover the grain by about four inches.  Bring the water to a boil and add the grain, cover and cook for one hour.  Add enough water to cover the grain the again and cook on a low flame for another 3 to 4 hours.  During this time check to make sure that the grain is covered and if necessary add boiling water to cover. When tender, drain the grain and then reweigh the correct amount for the recipe.
If you’re like 95% of the pastiera-makers on the planet, buy the pre-cooked grain in jars.
Note that Stella does not use the “Secret Agent of Spring”, but prefers fresh orange and lemon zest. Cinnamon is optional. She also avoids using candied fruits, but incorporates the local tradition of the Sannio,  using Strega and Rum.

(recipe for 2 pies)

Short pastry or pasta frolla used to line the pie pan (to be made the evening before)
On a pastry board or in a mixer blend:
500 gr low-gluten flour
250 gr sugar
250 gr cold butter
3 eggs
one packet of vanilla powder

Lightly knead ingredients together into an elastic dough and wrap in plastic and place in refrigerator overnight.

Pastiera pie filling:
500 gr fresh ricotta (preferably mixture of cow and sheep)
275 gr cooked grain
200 gr milk
1/2 tablespoon butter
5  eggs
250 gr sugar
½ tablespoon lemon zest
½ tablespoon orange zest
25 gr Strega
25 gr. Rum
2    9” x 1 1/2 “ or  23 x 4 cm round baking tins

Pour the cooked grain into a pot, add the butter and lemon zest and cover with milk.  Bring to a slow boil over a low flame, stirring until the mixture becomes a dense cream. Cool.

Beat together the ricotta, sugar, eggs, orange zest, rum and Strega and add to the cooled cream mixture.

Roll the short pastry into a fine crust and line the pie tins.  Make sure you have enough extra dough to make the strips that will criss-cross on top.

Add the pastiera mixture to about 1 cm below the edge of the pie crust

Cut 6 strips of dough approximately 1.5 wide and 23cm long. Starting from the middle of the pie, place the first strip across the center and the other two equidistantly between it and the rim of the baking tin.  Then turn the pan and place the other three strips at a diagonal to form a diamond pattern in diamond.

Bake at 200° C for one hour.