Roscioli bakery, all decked up for Christmas and ready to make some deliveries. Photo by author.
It's almost Christmas and here in Italy that means one thing: time to stock up on panettone, pan d'oro, torrone, and all the other ubiquitous holiday sweets. And it isn't hard: everywhere you turn, from supermarkets to bakeries to pastry shops, stacks and stacks of these traditional Christmas desserts are just waiting to be snapped up by hungry, sweet-toothed shoppers. Some are becoming so famous that you can find them not just in Italy but around the world.
Here's a guide to Italian Christmas treats.
Panettone
A baker at Roscioli taking freshly-baked panettoni out of the oven to cool. Photo by author.
The most famous of the bunch, panettone (which translates roughly to "little big bread") originally comes from Milan. It has a dry cakey consistency and is dotted (unfortunately) with raisins and other bits of candied fruit. Despite being the most commonly found and supposedly popular Italian Christmas treat, I've never actually met someone who likes it (although the mini-version is undeniably adorable). These days, you can find versions without raisins, or better yet, with chocolate chips instead, and this is a vast improvement.
Pan d'oro ("bread of gold") is only slightly less popular than its raisin-filled friend. This star-shaped cake originally from Verona is a bit lighter, somewhere between the texture of a plain muffin and angel's food cake. Luckily, it has no raisins or other dried fruits lurking inside. The best part about eating pan d'oro is adding a liberal dusting of powdered sugar. You toss the entire cake into the big plastic bag it comes in, dump in the included packet of powdered sugar, and shake vigorously. My suocero (father-in-law) performs this task with particular gusto.
Of the "big three," torrone is definitely my favorite. It is not a cake, but a candy, and it hails from the northern city of Cremona, where it was supposedly named after the famous medieval tower of that city (torrone means "big tower.") It's a long, rectangular candy bar made of egg whites, honey, sugar, and various kinds of nuts. Depending on the variety, it can be rock-hard or chewy and sticky. My personal favorites are the ones made with almonds and pistachios, and coated with chocolate. This chocolate coating is not strictly traditional, but the way I see it, when was the last time a dessert suffered from being coated in chocolate? Never, amirite?? They also sell torroni made entirely of chocolate and nuts, but as much as I enjoyed eating them, you can't really call them torroni.
Now, if torrone and panettone got together late one night after closing time in the bakery window and reproduced, the result would be panforte, although in this case I don't think that coupling was wise. This "strong bread" from Siena is the closest thing to a true fruitcake that you can find in Italy, and the best part about it is that it's relatively small. Because, honestly, does anyone actually like fruitcake? Chewy, nutty panforte's only saving grace is that it is spicy (it used be called panpepato, "peppered bread").
Now we're getting to the good stuff. Ricciarelli, named after the famous opera singer Katia Ricciarelli (not really), are little lozenge-shaped cookies that date back to 14th-century Siena. Like all the best Italian cookies, their main ingredient is almond paste and they are covered with powdered sugar. They are simple, delicate, and delicious, and like a good Italian transplant, I happily had several this morning for breakfast.
From the southern regions of Puglia and Basilicata come cartellate. These seriously sinful sweets are made from cooked wine, cinnamon, honey, and sugar, and deep-fried to a golden brown. I have never tried these southern Christmas treats, but after reading about them (and how to make them) on Ciao Chow Linda's blog, I'm tempted to brave the mad two-shopping-days-left city just to try and find some!
This wouldn't be an Italian dessert round-up without a nod from Sicily, island that, quite frankly, I wouldn't be surprised to discover was made entirely of sugar. Their signature Christmas treat is buccellato, a ring-shaped cake made of pasta frolla (a light and exquisite pastry dough) and filled with dried figs, orange peel, and chocolate chips. A second version is filled instead with almond paste and dried pumpkin.
And last, but certainly not least, the unbeatable Christmas treat from Naples. My suocera (mother-in-law) is from Naples, and she makes struffoli every year, so I'll be consuming it in large quantities starting tomorrow. Struffoli are basically tiny balls of sweet dough, deep-fried and coated in honey, and then covered with colored sprinkles and bits of candied fruit. All I can say is, it's incredibly addicting and I can't wait for tomorrow.
And with that, dearest bloglings, I leave you with your mouths watering while I rush out to do my Christmas shopping (procrastinate much?). Which of these treats is your favorite, and did I leave anything out?
For those of you from the other side of the pond, the first day of May is European Labor Day and just about everyone has the day off. Like every holiday in Italy, May Day has its own traditions and customs, and in Rome it is most widely celebrated by heading out of town for a scampagnata, a country outing. This generally involves either an actual picnic on some lush hillside, preferably with a vineyard in view, or an interminable lunch in some large country osteria where every table is reserved for the entire lunch shift because table turn-over doesn't exist for these kinds of meals.
If it's not possible to make it all the way out to the country, or for those who dread the traffic, a picnic in one of Rome's many sprawling public parks is an acceptable substitute. And of course, no Italian holiday would be complete without the tradition of some specific, local, in-season ingredients. And May Day in the vicinity of Rome dictates pecorino cheese, raw fava beans, and for the non-vegetarians, some prosciutto. (And a bottle of Frascati wine, it goes without saying.)
Another May Day tradition in the city is the free mega-concert in Piazza San Giovanni in Laterano. Every year, between 800,000 and a million people fill the square to hear dozens of different performers, some very well known and most Italian. I cannot tell you what it's like as my agoraphobia would never permit me to attend, not even if I was paid to do so. To be honest, just the thought of being in that crowd makes me almost hyperventilate. But hopefully you don't share my crowd-anxiety, and if you'd like to attend, the music kicks off at 3pm and lasts until midnight.
Concertone di Primo maggio, 2011, Pza San Giovanni in Laterano [source]
I know you're all wondering, with baited breath no doubt, how your faithful correspondent chose to celebrate this made up important holiday. I'm sorry to disappoint those of you who may imagine that I have some kind of glamorous life, what with living in Rome and all, but I cannot lie to you, dear readers. My May Day has been pretty boring, although productive. I realized this morning that I have literally practically no clothes. And most importantly, I do not own a pair of jeans. Or I didn't until this morning.
I'll let you in on a little secret. I hate shopping. I mean, I really really hate it. It makes me want to throw up just thinking about it. And I especially hate it when there is something specific that I need to buy, because I will almost surely not find it. I should, perhaps, clarify this a little: I hate shopping in Italy. Shopping in the United States, if overwhelming and over-stimulating, is a wonderful, marvelous thing. But shopping in Italy--at least in 2013--is hell on Earth. Why, you ask, darling readers? Because mid-level Italian designers have decided that it's not 2013, but actually 1991. So the shops are full of baggy T-shirts, off-the-shoulder, shapeless, sweater-dresses, M C Hammer pants, and jeans that are intended to be rolled up tightly at the ankle, like we did in 8th grade. All in the attractive colors of brown, beige, and camel. Every shop looks the same and it isn't pretty. It's a wonder I found any decent jeans at all.
My second exciting May Day event was the dreaded cambio di stagione (change of season). This is when you swap out all your winter clothes for your summer clothes and hope there isn't a late spring cold-spell. (This isn't necessary where I come from, by the way. In Seattle, the temperature is more or less the same all year round.) But it is a must in Rome, where not only does the weather jump from 45 to 85 degrees Fahrenheit sometimes in the space of a few weeks, but also where almost no one has more than a puny little wardrobe (roomy, built in closets are unknown in these parts). Thank God for the soppalco (crawl space).
Jealous, right? I'll bet. But just think, if I hadn't opted for a boring May Day, I wouldn't have had the time to write this post, and that's what really matters, amirite? Um, hello? Anyone still reading?
I do want to mention my absolute best May Day ever. It was in 2010, coincidentally just after I began this blog. Here is the post I wrote about that day: Perfezione e Vergogna (before I realized using Italian titles for my posts was not the best idea if I actually wanted people to read them--silly me). It was a wonderful day that included a bike ride in Villa Pamphilj and the requisite endless lunch in the countryside with a big group of friends.
But those two highly enjoyable outings are not what made that day so special, nor are they the reasons I will remember it forever. No, that is because of something that happened early, early in the morning. Let me set the scene: I was engaged to be married. We I had decided that the wedding would take place in San Pietro in Montorio, just up the street from where I lived at the time on Via Garibaldi. The church is perched on the slope of the Gianicolo Hill, is the sight of Bramante's exquisite Tempietto, and has a view of Rome that makes you me want to weep with ecstasy.
The only problem is, just about everyone in Rome wants to get married there. I had talked to the priest months earlier and he had explained that you cannot book a date at that church any more than one year in advance, to avoid "abusi" as he put it. What did that mean for us me? I meant that we I would have to basically stake out the church on the first day of whichever month we hoped to get married in, one year in advance. And hope to get there in time to get a good date.
We had originally planned to get married some time in early June, but I wasn't sure how early we I would have to get to the church on the morning of the first of June to line up. How many other couples would have the same idea? June is probably the most popular month to get married... would I have to wait all night? (I had a vision of Claudio and I with our chess set sitting on the steps of the church on a balmy June night, waiting to pick our wedding date with all of Rome spread at our feet. Pretty romantic, right?)
But still, I was worried. I'd only have this one chance. What if 30 couples got there before us and grabbed all the weekend dates? I decided to do a dry run the month before. I figured I would show up at the church on the morning of the first of May around 6am (they let people in at 7) and see how many couples were waiting and ask them what time they got there. Well, I can tell you it wasn't easy dragging myself out of bed before six on a holiday, but luckily I lived very close to the church. I was rewarded with an incredible sight. I have seen the view of Rome from the Gianicolo probably hundreds of times (although I never tire of it), but never had I seen it at dawn. The city had a golden-rosy glow with just tinge of periwinkle. As beautiful as Rome is at sunset, I think it might be even more glorious at sunrise.
When I arrived at the church, the parking lot was full of cars. A few people were sitting around. Fourteen couples were already there, most had arrived the night before and slept in their cars. One couple had showed up at 2pm the day before. It did not bode well. June will be even worse, I imagined. Then I noticed that someone had a list. It was actually a calendar with the available days and times for weddings shown; as soon as a couple arrived, they blocked off their preferred date and waited until 7am to confirm it with the priest. I gave it a glance, just out of curiosity. All the 4pm weekend slots were already taken of course, except one: Sunday, 29 May. I thought quickly. Early June, late May, did it really make such a difference?
I jotted our names down, just in case, and made a quick call to a very sleepy fidanzatino (not yet maritino). "What? You booked what? When? All right... whatever...." Yes, it would have been nice if he had been as ecstatic as I was, but the important thing was he agreed on the date. I felt rather pathetic being the only lone bride there while everyone else was with their betrothed (except there was one groom whose fiancée was out of town and he had brought a male friend with him to keep him company; before he explained this I was thinking, "Did they change the rules?"). An hour-long wait and a quick meeting with the priest and that was it: we had a date for the wedding, in a church with one of the most amazing settings in the city. And that quiet, serendipitous morning is what May Day will always be for me.
I can't close this (very rambling) post without at least one nugget of history. Long before May Day was called by the pedestrian name of Primo maggio, it used to be called Calendimaggio. This term comes from the ancient Roman calendar, in which the first of the month was called the Kalends. As is the case with most Italian words in my vocabulary, the first time I ever heard the word Calendimaggio was in an opera. One of my favorites in fact, Puccini's Gianni Schicchi. Rinuccio and Lauretta desperately want to get married on Calendimaggio, only their families detest each other. Here's a video of the entire one-act opera, skip to 25:55 for the moment in which the thwarted couple despairs that they won't be able to marry on Calendimaggio.
I first saw this opera as a teenager I decided then and there that I too must wed on Calendimaggio. In fact, this was the original date I had hoped for, but am very happy someone talked me out of it, as John Paul II was beatified that day in 2011 and Rome was bursting to the gills with pilgrims, not to mention the traffic nightmares the Primo maggio concert inevitably causes.
In the Renaissance, Calendimaggio was not only a celebration of the arrival of spring (like May Day around the world), but it was also a day when tradition dictated that young men leave flowers at the doors of their sweethearts and maybe even serenade them. One of the few Italian cities that maintains the tradition ofCalendimaggio is Assisi, where a three-day festival takes place during the first week of May every year, with processions, concerts, theater performances, competitions and lots of local townsfolk dressed in gorgeous Renaissance costumes. It starts tomorrow!
Learning a new Italian word is always fun, but learning one that even the Maritino himself does not know is exciting indeed. The fact that this occurred just in time for Thanksgiving made me particularly grateful.
So, without further ado, I give you...
La batata.
And before you think I just have a bad cold and can't pronounce my Ps at the moment, I am not talking about a patata (potato) but something much, much yummier.
The sweet potato. What Thanksgiving dinner would be complete without it? Since I humbly volunteer every year to provide the sweet potatoes for my autumnal expat-family feast (i.e. I tell everyone else they'd better not even think about making them, that they are my specialty), it may seem odd that by my 8th Roman Thanksgiving meal, I still hadn't come across this term. (Apparently, like parannanza, it is not a word that gets thrown around right and left.)
I generally wander into my local fruit stand a few days before Thanksgiving mumbling something about patate dolci and il giorno del ringraziamento. Living in Trastevere has its benefits, and one is that the green grocers and specialty stores stock Thanksgiving products this time of year, as if by magic.
But this year, with an exceptionally busy week (we don't get days off for Thanksgiving over here, unfortunately), I was short on time to do my shopping and stopped by the organic store across the street from my aparment, just on the off chance they might have some last-minute sweet potatoes.
Not only did they have the most strangely shaped (and, as it turns out, delicious) sweet potatoes I have ever respectively seen and eaten, I also noted their charming little name on the sign beside them. Batate. When, just a short time later as I was roasting them up, the Maritino asked me what that heavenly smell was (or at least, that is how I choose to recall the moment), I informed him proudly:
Sto preparando le batate!! Patate?? No, batate!! Che cosa sono le batate??!!
(I don't really think this dialogue requires a translation, do you?)
He didn't want to admit at first that I knew a word that he didn't. In fact, he playfully insisted that there was no such thing. I had to drag out the giant Devoti Italian-Italian dictionary, but eventually he gave in. I mean, you can't argue with Devoti. Since in the paragraph-long description, it states that batate are also known as patate dolci (literally sweet potatoes) or patate americane (American potatoes), somehow this has become my new nickname.
When I first started this blog, I thought it would be fun to have a photo-day (I randomly picked Tuesday) where I could post some of my personal favorite photos I have taken during my 7+ years in Rome. Problem is, I never carry my camera around with me. But the other day, when I was on my way to the Trastevere Chocolate Festival (hence I had my camera in my purse) I had to stop as I passed my favorite salumeria, when I saw something hanging the window that caught my attention.
Now anyone who has spent any decent amount of time in Italy has seen these hanging around:
Coglioni is a vulgar word for testicles, and a mulo is, of course, a mule. Ass's bollocks. Mmm, appetizing.
Knowing the Italian (and particularly Roman) habit for eating any and every part of the animal (someday I'll explain what pajata is) and their lack of qualms about consuming equines (yes, they eat horse here, there is even babyfood made of horse!) I wouldn't have been surprised if the label was literal, although they do seem a little big. Luckily I read fine print: puro suino, pure swine. Ah, that makes it much better, doesn't it?
(For those interested: coglioni di mulo is the popular name of a type of mortadella salami typcial of the town of Campotosto, near Aquila.)
Thankfully I knew that, otherwise I would have been seriously disturbed when I saw this hanging in the doorway of the same shop:
Yes, ladies and gentlemen, according to the label, those are grandpa's balls.
Really? That's the name you came up with. You couldn't have called them, I don't know, salami pinecones? Well, all I can say is, what a relief to thow they are gluten and lactose free!
PS These photos were taken at the historic Antica Caciara salumeria in Trastevere, which I wrote about (among other things) in one of my all-time personal favorite blogposts, when I thought I was leaving Trastevere forever. Thank goodness it has not yet come to that!
In my country of birth, the sandwich has been elevated to an art form. You can find the most inventive combinations under the sun between two pieces of bread, and that bread is likely to be sourdough, pumpernickel or something equally tasty.
In my adoptive country, however, I cannot say the same is true. Despite the catchy name, panini are often rather pathetic. Usually served on a ciabatta (literally: slipper, as in, the thing you wear around the house on each foot), a flat, oblong roll that is crunchy to the point of being annoying, panini are usually composed of two, maximum three (if you’re lucky) ingredients, that can range from tomatoes to mozzarella to prosciutto. Wow, decisions, decisions!
