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| Aurecch k'at |
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| Gravaiul' |
If you live in New York, I know what you're thinking. That these ravioli came out of a Star box, frozen, bought in some deli-case on Staten Island, in Queens or the Bronx. Nope. They are the real made-by-hand-starting-at-5-in-the-morning deal with ricotta so fresh it was probably still warm when mixed with an egg, a bit of salt and tiny flecks of the secret Calitrani ingredient that never made it into any recipes in my mother's kitchen though tons of it could be found invading every corner of our Stewart Manor backyard.
Mint.
And let me tell you, they are totally divine.
Now I can't say that I was there in the moments these plump pillows of delectable dairyness were made, even though I live just down the street, but I was there the moment they were delicately lowered into the rolling water and watched with a child's eager anticipation as they slowly floated to the top. Bobbing and swaying, they were gently turned with the wooden spatula to the right. An art in itself, as you try not, dare not break even one.
And the sauce? If you look closely there are two different plates of ravioli shot, and yes both of them were mine, and yes I went for seconds - they were both placed in front of me on a Sunday; albeit a few weeks apart. One week some were made, on a whim, into half moon shapes, and the others left as the lovely round pillows as the week before, nearly half their size; they were in the end smothered with very different red sauces.
Il sugo as they call it here - vanquishing forever those annoying Italian-American arguments of 'is it GRAVY? or SAUCE?' (I mean really) of the first plate above had a distinct anisette flavor from the seeds of wild fennel rolled into the cotechino, and little else. With one forkful I was transported to the moon. The second plate below was standard issue ragu, a sauce a bit heavier in flavor given the braciole, vitello and pork.
Filomena made a few other shapes of pasta that morning to toss in just for kicks. I guess she had nothing else better to do at 5am. They are Cats Ears or Aurecch k' at and Scialatiel. Or as we used to call them, and my favorite when I was a little girl - fusilli. To eat like this on any given Sunday? I am one lucky girl.
More about the mint; I have enjoyed it on grilled eggplant and dressed in a tender green bean salad both at relative's tables in Calitri, but in ricotta ravioli only in Filomena's kitchen. Another reason to think there is no Italian cuisine; only individual Italian cooks.
