Updated March 20, 2014
In a recent conversation I had with my dear friend, Josiane, she mentioned hosting a beautiful young opera singer in her home from the country of Iran. This young woman told her that today–this day–March 20, 2014–is not only the first day of Spring, but also celebrated in Persia as Spring fest-Iranian style for their Persian New Year. “It is always celebrated on the first day of Spring. The Persian New Year, or Now-ruz, has been celebrated for over 3,000 years and is highlighted with the preparation of ancient and traditional family foods.”
Traditional family foods? Traditional family foods? At those words my eyelids popped open and my thoughts took flight. I poured myself another cup of coffee and began to investigate–especially when I heard mention of colored eggs and gifts given to family members. But when I discovered the ‘traditional picnic celebrated by all families on the last day of the festivities’, I was reminded of the once pagan springtime celebration I was introduced to in a remote area high in the hinterlands of Abruzzo, Italy. The ancient celebration is now known as Pasqua, or Easter. Was the Persian New Year a precursor to this ancient rite? What came first? The chicken or the Easter egg?
One March a few years back, after flying all night into Florence, a culinary-instructor friend of mine picked me up at the airport and we prepared to drive south out of Florence and down through the center of Italy. It would have been nice to spend some leisurely hours investigating all those beautiful regions—Tuscany, the Chianti region, parts of Umbria—but, we were on a mission. And, that mission was mine: to arrive the next day—on Good Friday—into a miniscule village in the heart of Abruzzo, known as Introdacqua.
We wove our way down through the rugged hills for mile after endless mile, until we reached a crossroads of sorts – where we could either head west toward the magical city of Rome or turn east and drive directly through the rugged snow-filled Apennine Mountains. We turned east, as not all roads do lead to Rome, and quickly bypassed L’Aquila, Barisciano, Capestrano, and hung a right toward Popoli. By now we had entered a wonderland of mountain ranges and had also entered a cavernous valley, known by the ancients as the Valle Peligna. At this point, we would have loved to sashay through the lovely city of Sulmona (birthplace of Ovid), but we were only a stone’s throw from our destination and the sun was about to set. Why the rush? Well, I had been promised an opportunity to witness a most unusual ancient rite—part pagan ritual from over three millennia past and part medieval ‘passion play’—and those services were about to begin.
Quickly checking into the hotel, La Trôta—the only hotel open in the village—we quickly changed clothes in our upstairs chambers. (It was clear that we were the first tourists of the season, as the heat had yet to be turned on and our breath met us coming and going as we rushed about the room.) Before leaving the hotel, we attempted to get directions to the village festivities, but all involved were stumped. Our friend and host, Lucia, also a culinary instructor, had not made her arrival known, as of yet. We knew very little Italian, and English was a foreign language of which our hotel hosts were not familiar. But not to fear – Introdacqua (which means ‘between waters’) was a very small village and we were fortunate enough to arrive at our destination just as the procession of somber participants began to stream past.
I believe the parade was led by the town band, for their funereal dirges could be heard echoing through the canyons of the 10th century town buildings. They were followed by elaborately robed mace and lamp bearers, who lit the way for the children, who, in turn, were said to carry instruments representing the pain suffered by Christ at his crucifixion. A small choir, in mournful and plaintive song, continued the cortege in a slow gait—a struscio—a shuffle of sorts, which represented the sorrow the world felt after the death of The Lord.
In the center of this corteggio, was a group of laymen who somberly carried two cloth-covered plinths, or catafalques: one bearing a statue representing the tortured body of Jesus Christ and the second, the Madonna, covered in black mourning clothes. Somewhere in their midst, a solemn priestly and prayerful voice rose above them.
Bringing up the rear were streams of silent, but tearful villagers—all women, all dressed in black—who sobbed quietly into handkerchiefs as they made their way through the narrow cobblestone streets, up and down the hills, through the town and back down into Santa Addolarota. It was here that each penitent filed before the illuminated statue of the Dead Christ, before flowing back out of the church and into a piazza. Immediately, and before we could adjust to the change in atmosphere, the reverence for the Dead was broken with an explosive array of fireworks which bloomed into the darkened sky, then cascaded down onto the awaiting crowd of expectant and jubilant-faced children and adults.
We had skittered behind the crowd through the streets, had avoided using our cameras due to the reverential tone of the procession, then were hovering outside the church as cautionary observers when the fireworks began. Again, we looked around for our friend, Lucia. It was due to Lucia’s encouragement that we had made this trip in the first place. And, it was because of my interest in local traditions and foods that she suggested we join her here. You see, her ancestors hailed from this locale, so she knew many of the local people and had participated in a number of their local traditions which included this four-day festival. But, so far, she was still a no-show.
I was becoming a little nervous, as I had insisted we make this Mad-Hatters’ dash across Italy due to my unquenchable interest in traditional folklore, but my traveling companion, who has little interest in history, was only there for the food. So my hopes of having some explanation of the procession and its connection to the Christian and the pagan was still wanting and it looked like it would have to wait another day. Even though I could pick up on some of the light and jubilant expressions of people around me, I was literally in the dark. And reading Italian lips? It wasn’t happening.
We waited to see what was next on the list of festivities and I was praying that we would be introduced to some feste food, as food and festivals, I thought, go hand in hand. But as we began looking for a café or trattoria, we noticed that most people were carrying their transformed selves away from the piazza and home for a late and private repast. All stores were closed and no restaurants were open. We hurried quickly back to the car, as freezing temperatures were beginning to set in, and we hoped for the best at our heat-deprived hotel. It was there we found a roaring fire was filling the restaurant with warmth from the open pizza oven, and we were welcomed into the dining room for a most delicious dinner. Among the delightful courses we were served that evening was a pasta course, called Maccheroni alla Chitarra con Ragù d’Agnello e Peperoni. After I asked for a somewhat English translation about the pasta, my culinary frend perked up as she was familiar with the term ‘alla Chitarra.’
“Ah, ‘Guitar Pasta!” she exclaimed cheerfully for one of the first times that day. “This pasta is one of this region’s most celebrated pasta courses!” Aha! I thought to myself with a slight smile. This is her forte!
“This pasta,” she continued, “is made by using an instrument which resembles a guitar-like assemblage; a wooden frame with parallel strings.” Her arms flapped back and forth as she happily illustrated to me how squares of pasta dough were pressed through the strings of the ‘guitar’ with a rolling pin to form the thin strands of pasta. The waiters stood by smiling infectiously. The pasta was delectable and I found that night that the exuberance over food—in any language—can ease all qualms or fears I might hold about the unknown. That, along with the kindness of strangers. (Recipe follows, as will the next installments.)
Maccheroni all Chitarra con
Ragù d’Agnello e Peperoni
(Guitar Pasta in Lamb and Sweet Pepper Ragù)
This pasta is one of the region’s most celebrated pasta courses, and the pasta is made by using an instrument which resembles a guitar-like assemblage,
a wooden frame with parallel strings, which is used to cut the strands of pasta.
Lamb and Sweet Pepper Sauce:
1 lb. trimmed boneless lamb shoulder, in 1/8” chunks
2 T plus ½ teas. salt
¼ teas. freshly ground black pepper
½ C. extra-virgin olive oil
4 garlic cloves, chopped
3 bay leaves
1 C dry white wine (why not Trebbiano, from the region?)
4 plum tomatoes, peeled, seeded and diced (Dip in boiling water for a few seconds to
remove the skin.)
2 red bell peppers, cut into long, thin strips
2 yellow bell peppers, cut into long, thin strips
(Can be made three days ahead and refrigerated; reheat as you boil the maccheroni.)
In a medium bowl, toss the lamb with ½ teas. salt and pepper; cover and refrigerate for 2 to 24 hours. Next, heat olive oil in a 4-quart sauté pan over a medium to high flame. Add the garlic, bay leaves, and cook for 1 minute. Add the lamb and cook until browned all over, stirring often, about 10 minutes. Lower the heat and deglaze the pan with wine. When it evaporates after about 10 minutes, add the tomatoes and red and yellow peppers. Cover and simmer for 2 hours, stirring once in a while and adding a little water/wine if needed. Discard the bay leaves.
Meanwhile make the pasta dough and let it rest according to directions. Cut the dough into 4 pieces. Working with 1 piece at a time, keeping the others covered with a towel, roll out each piece on a lightly floured counter into a nearly transparent rectangle. Cut into rectangles of the same size as the stringed part of your ‘guitar’. Lay 1 rectangle over the strings and press down with the rolling pin to cut. These are your maccheroni all chitarra. Toss with flour, spread on a single layer on a floured tray, and again
Pasta Dough:
2 2/3 C. unbleached all-purpose flour, plus extra for counter
¼ teas. fine sea salt
4 extra-large eggs, at room temperature
Place the flour on a counter and add salt; combine with fork. Make a well in the center of the flour and begin to add the eggs one at a time into the well. Using a fork, draw the flour little by little into the eggs.
When almost all of the flour has been incorporated into the eggs, begin kneading the dough by hand; knead until it is smooth and firm – about five minutes, adding a little water if the dough is too dry.
Shape the dough into a ball, dust with flour, wrap in plastic and let rest at room temperature for 30 minutes. Then prepare to roll out. (Can be prepared 12 hours ahead of time, and then spread out on a floured tray and refrigerated, covered with a towel.)
Bring 6 quarts of water to a boil. Add the maccheroni and the remaining 2 tablespoons of salt and cook, al dente, or about 3 minutes. Drain, reserving ½ C. of the pasta cooking water. Toss the maccheroni with the ragù and the reserved cooking water in a bowl. Serve hot, passing plenty of Pecorino cheese at the table.
(Taken from Micol Negrin’s book, Rustico-Regional Italian Country Cooking. I met her at an IACP conference in Montreal later that same year as my trip to Abruzzo, Italy.)
