Italian-American

Someone said something to me a couple of weeks ago. I imagine the man with whom I had the conversation has long since forgotten about it. It wasn’t that easy for me. Something has been nagging at me. The words have been resurfacing again and again and each time they look slightly different as I try to make them more clear in my mind. For most people I know, a few simple words are easily forgotten. I have a history of festering on things, over-thinking and analyzing life’s tiny, seemingly insignificant details. That is the reason why, for two weeks, I’ve been brewing over this brief, to the point statement, said directly to me: “You’re not Italian-American. You’re just American.”

I’ve had many wonderful things to say about Morgan County since moving here in August. It is a beautiful place, and there are pockets full of posy to be found throughout the fabric of its land and people. But what kind of fabric is it? I grew up in a place that most resembles a quilt. Cleveland, Ohio and its surrounding suburbs are an excellent representation of America’s “melting pot,” image. The city is very much so made up of many colorful pieces from different backgrounds, different reams of fabric, different textile mills, sewn together by commonly sharing the ground, the air and the buildings of Northeastern Ohio. When I was learning about America’s “melting pot,” in grade school, it was easy for me to understand because I was wholly immersed in the simmering stew. While Morgan County is not without culture, it is overwhelmingly without diversity. With the exception of a few patches sewn on over the years, Morgan County is more like a blanket made of one solid piece of contiguous fabric. Its population is a people for whom their stories begin here. Morgan County is a place of origin, a two hundred year old family farm, years of tradition built right here within the county lines. This is a tightly knit culture of similar thread. It is less easy for air to flow between its fibers, and can often times be more smothering than it is breathable. This is something I tried to keep in mind while dealing with a twenty-year old man who was telling me how I could and could not identify myself.

He didn’t understand why I (among other “groups” of people) had to label myself differently, why I couldn’t just be an American. What I couldn’t seem to get him to understand is the separation between my cultural background and my nationality. I have traveled to Europe and Asia, to many cities and countries where they speak many different languages. Never once while I was chatting with other travelers hiking our way up Mount Vesuvius, or while enjoying the laughter of new friends over a plate of spring rolls in balmy, monsoon soaked Chiang Mai, did I ever introduce myself as “Italian-American.” While abroad and at home, if anyone asked me about my nationality, I’d tell them what I’ve always told them, “I’m an American.”

When it comes to my culture, however, the story is entirely different…almost. My ancestors never set foot on American soil until the late 19th century. My mother is a first generation American. The beauty of this place we know as the United States of America is the notion that people were at one time free to come and go, to take and leave. While many immigrants find themselves assimilating into what we all generally accept as “American,” culture, many hold tightly to their dearly beloved cultural and ancestral traditions as well. It doesn’t stop there. What we generally accept as “American” culture is not based in thousands of years of social and ethnic tradition, not even in hundreds of years. It has the global uniqueness of being a very recently developed culture, a one-pot recipe created from its 234 years of settlers, who systematically destroyed the culture that was already present on this land.

Someone joked to me one time that all McConneslville has to offer are beauty salons and pizza places. Isn’t it funny how a person who wants to define what is and isn’t purebred American also frequents a string of businesses based on a food product which is at its core…wait for it…”Italian American”? Our immigrants come and go, and take and leave. An Italian brought a thin, crispy crusted, coal baked pie topped with fresh tomatoes and gooey mozzarella recipe to New York City once, and now pizza is fully a piece of American culture. In turn, two Americans monopolized on a modified version of Germany’s tenderized, ground meat patties and began selling hamburgers at the very first McDonalds Restaurant. Those golden arches can now be found in Naples, the birthplace of pizza. If the man I was speaking with can gobble down pizza, burgers and beer (another genuine import), then I can call myself an Italian-American. In fact, there are so many words that could be placed before or after the common denominator in all of this—American—that help define pieces of my culture. Italian, Slovenian, woman, Christian, Midwestern, white…

While this man thought I was trying to separate myself from him, from what he considers his culture, he had no idea just how similar we really are. Calling myself Italian-American isn’t about separation, but rather assimilation, comparison, commonality. Just as Italian immigrants in the early twentieth century found comfort in their common label, I am finding comfort in my new home rooted deep in the rural, impoverished foothills of an old mountain range. My maternal Grandmother’s family is originally from Molise, a small province on the Eastern side of Italy. If the leg that fits into the boot shaped country were wearing an ankle bracelet, Molise would be one of its beads. It isn’t in deep Southern Italy, but is too far South to be Northern Italy. It is mountainous, cold in the winter and hot in the summer. What really struck me this week, and brought this entire internal argument full circle for me was a passage from Micol Negrin’s regional Italian cookbook, Rustico. She says of Molise,

“Constructing a meal along the lines of starter, first course, second course, and dessert is a luxury most Italians—and certainly most Molisani—couldn’t afford until after World War II. Italy’s historically impoverished regions—Molise, Calabria, Basilicata, Sicily and Sardinia—put little emphasis on the frills, focusing instead on dishes that best delivered nourishing sustenance at little cost.”

My great-Grandparents came from Italy’s Appalachia. They were poor, rural, living in isolated mountains, and historically so. The recipes that follow in the chapter of Rustico devoted to Molise include Beans, Cabbage, and Potato Soup with Garlic-Pancetta-Chili Oil, Grilled Rabbit and Sausage Skewers, and Sweet Chestnut Fritters. I have on more than one occasion met Morgan County natives who catch and enjoy rabbit as a main course, who grow their own chestnuts, and who have referred to themselves as “hillbillies” for enjoying boiled cabbage and potatoes for lunch. This is the stock from which I come, and now I find myself living in a place that perhaps wouldn’t seem so foreign to my foremothers and fathers. I am embracing the beauty of this place, and slowly but surely imparting a bit of my culture, knowing that I will leave in June with a pocketful of theirs. I take peace in knowing that even though this man doesn’t want me to call myself Italian American, it doesn’t matter. It doesn’t matter because the best part about being able to call myself an Italian American is the American part, where I can be who I want to be, and no one can take my simmering pot of tomato sauce, my set of bocce balls, my ravioli cutters, my Chianti, or the voice which is expressed solely with my hands. No one can take my heritage, Italian and American.

To commemorate the feelings of completion, of fulfillment I’ve been feeling upon discovering the cultural traits I share with my fellow Appalachians, of course I had to cook something. Micol Negrin says, “The highlight of any Molisano meal is the first course, which more often than not mates pasta with beans, broccoli raab, bits of fried Pancetta, and chili…the most typical pastas are…cavatelli.” Just yesterday I bought a large, leafy bunch of rainbow chard at the River City Farmers Market in Marietta. Before I even read this passage, I’d decided to make a ragu of sorts, with the chard, great northern beans, fire-roasted diced tomatoes and lots of fresh garlic. This would sit happily atop a pile of homemade cavatelli, of course. While this dish is enthusiastically representative of my Molisani roots, only modified to fit my healthful eating habits, it is also made entirely with ingredients from not more than forty miles of McConneslville. I think that makes it enthusiastically representative of my time here. It is enthusiastically Italian-American.

Queen Honeybea’s
Whole-Wheat Cavatelli with Chard and Tomato Ragu
Serves 4

First, make the cavatelli:
2 cups of white whole wheat flour
1 cup of organic, unbleached all-purpose flour
A hefty pinch of salt
2 local, free-range eggs
12 ounces of 2% Greek yogurt

1. In a large bowl, toss together both types of flour and the salt. Make a well in the center and crack the eggs into it. Add the Greek yogurt, and with your fingertips, break the egg yolks and mash together the yogurt and eggs. Slowly begin rotating your fingers within the well, patiently pulling the flour mixture into the egg mixture. Continue this until you have created a moderately stiff dough that is not sticky. Add flour if necessary. Wrap in plastic and allow to rest for 30 minutes.
2. Unwrap the dough and place on a lightly floured pastry cloth or work surface. With a sharp knife, cut the dough into fourths. Then cut each fourth into fourths. You should have sixteen small pieces of dough. Wrap up the pieces you aren’t working with. Roll each sixteenth of dough into a long strip that is about ¼ inch in diameter. Cut into 1 inch pieces.
3. With the back of a rounded kitchen knife, a pastry blade, or a clean putty knife, pull each piece of dough across the work surface, starting with a large amount under the blade, and ending with a thin, curled round of dough. (See the photos below) You want to make sure you press the dough very thin in order to achieve the proper texture once they’ve been cooked.
4. Repeat this procedure with all of the dough. This will make enough for a main dish portion for four people.
5. Place the cavatelli on a lightly floured sheet pan, cover with plastic wrap, and refrigerate until ready to use.










For the ragu:
2 TBS. extra virgin olive oil
8 stalks of rainbow swiss chard, stems and leaves
3 large cloves of garlic, thinly sliced
1 15 oz can organic, fire-roasted diced tomatoes (no salt added)
1 15 oz can great northern beans, drained
½ can of water
Large pinch of dried basil
Large pinch of dried oregano
Pinch of salt
Dash of black pepper
Pinch of red chili flakes (optional)
Parmesan cheese for serving

1. In a large skillet, heat the olive oil over medium-high heat. Separate the leaves from the stalks of the chard. Slice the leaves into ¼ inch slices, set aside. Dice the stalks into ¼ inch pieces. Add the stalk pieces to the hot oil and sauté, stirring often, for two or three minutes, until the pieces begin to soften. Add the garlic and stir constantly for fifteen seconds. Add the reserved chard leaves, and sauté, stirring, for one to two minutes until the greens begin to wilt.
2. Add the tomatoes with their liquid, beans, water, basil, oregano, salt, pepper and chili flakes. Bring to a soft boil, then reduce the heat to medium-low and simmer until the liquid has reduced to 1/3, about fifteen minutes. In the meantime, cook the cavatelli.
3. To cook the cavatelli, bring a large pot of salted water with 1 TBS. of olive oil to a boil. Drop in the fresh cavatelli and boil two to four minutes, until all the cavatelli are floating and when taste tested they seem to be done. Drain.
4. Top the hot cavatelli with a ladle full of chard ragu. Sprinkle with grated parmesan cheese, a drizzle of olive oil, or additional chili flakes.


Beautiful rainbow chard stalks.


Simmering ragu.


The finished entree, served with a slice of my first ever truly successful loaf of whole grain bread.

*Recipe variation: If you have no quarrel with white flour, and no qualm with ricotta cheese, you can make the cavatelli with 3 cups of all-purpose flour and 12 oz. of whole milk ricotta for a more traditional pasta.

Love from the Soil

Fall is slowly fading here in Southeast Ohio. Everyday someone buys the very last pie pumpkin off of a dusty wooden shelf at a local orchard. Each night more and more potato sacks appear, draped over delicate perennials like a small herd of winter scarecrows dotting the yards, gardens and picket fences of this rural metropolis. I have reaped and enjoyed the gifts fall has offered to me this season. My exploits have included pumpkin pie, roasted butternut squash and cauliflower, potato & turnip soup, and spicy apple muffins. As the days get shorter, and the survival rate of outdoor vegetables hanging on by a vine or a stem gets lower and lower along with the temperature, there is one of autumn’s delightful treasures which I will miss dearly until next August. I will spend the winter, spring and summer heartbroken and pining for sweet potatoes.

For me, sweet potatoes are like young love from the soil. They are the breathtaking gasp of being kissed for the first time. They are the delicate, nervous brush of one hand on another while sitting side by side in a dark movie theater. They are consuming thoughts and sleepless nights of wild and running imagination. The first moment I begin to fall for sweet potatoes year in and year out is when I smell them. Heaped into a basket, coated with dirt like ancient artifacts unearthed from tombs, they smell like I imagine the core of the Earth to smell. They are maternal and rustic, filling my nostrils with pungency and the stinging smell of broken ground. For my love to blossom and grow they must also be warm, freshly pulled from dry, sandy soil, retaining the virile heat that penetrates even the depths of the underworld where sweet potatoes lie, below the fauna and flora. A fresh sweet potato on a fall day is love at first sight, first kiss and thinking about the unthinkable.

A sweet potato’s possibilities are endless. One of my favorite ways to enjoy them is to simply roast them, tossed with olive oil, salt, pepper and rosemary. In fact, I often find myself in conflict debating whether or not to tamper with their naturally pleasing flavor by preparing or using them any other way. This season I took on a new challenge after being inspired by my close proximity to the American South (in fact, Southeast Ohio often resembles the American South and may in fact be the stitching on the seam of the Bible Belt). Baking with sweet potatoes was a new concept to me this season. Certainly I’d heard of sweet potato pie, but that’s really more custard than it is bakery. I decided to throw myself into the endeavors of using sweet potatoes in baked goods as I’d use bananas, pumpkin or applesauce. The results were successful, and took my teenage love of sweet potatoes to a whole new level. Within the stretchy nooks and crannies of a biscuit mixed with homey banana and cinnamon, the sweet potato became familial. I felt the comfort found in my thoughts and company of loved ones folded into the lumpy batter of sweet potato muffins, baked with the soft notes of ground rosemary. Finally, the new, subtle closeness of my relationship with my one and only sibling, my sister, could at best be expressed to me through tender, spongy bites of sweet potato cupcakes enamored with antique cardamom and topped with a dollop of fluffy caramel frosting.

Last night I used my very last sweet potato of the season to make a tray of crispy oven fries, mixed with matchsticks of local Yukon Gold potatoes and tossed in salt, pepper, cinnamon, chipotle chili powder and granulated garlic. They were exquisite, and I had to stop myself from eating the entire tray with my meal. While I’ve been seeing the signs, receiving the passive messages, and getting the hint as the nights become frosty and the days turn to simply hours of sunlight, it is still sad for me to believe my seasonal affair with sweet potatoes has come to an end. I can, at least, take comfort in knowing that next August, after taking a long, lonely winter for myself, I’ll be able to fall in love all over again.


Sweet potato muffins, waiting to hit the oven, topped with dried tart cherries.


Queen Honeybea's Sweet Potato Cupcakes with Fluffy Caramel Frosting.


Pinwheel smears of sweet and salty frosting, dotted with dried tart cherries.


A homemade gift box containing a Sweet Potato Cupcake for a dear friend.

Send love, send sweet potatoes, and next fall, remember to buy local.

Pinwheels of Pumpkin

At first, it was an unusual request. After all, Americans typically don’t stray from their well established food standards. For birthdays that usually means a 9 inch round, two layer cake of some favorite flavor, covered from top to bottom with fluffy, sugary frosting with the words “Happy Birthday so and so…” piped across the peaks and valleys of hand smeared butter cream. This is usually accompanied by waxy pink and yellow candles, and a frosty scoop of ice cream. Cake and ice cream, that’s how we do birthdays. So when I asked my co-worker Andy what kind of cake he’d like me to make for his birthday, the response was surprising. He said, “Pumpkin roll.”

I’d never made a pumpkin roll before, in fact, I wasn’t even really sure how pumpkin rolls came about. I always imagined some sort of fairy-like magical wand being waved over a pumpkin sheet cake and some cream cheese and after a little poof of sparkling dust, it would transform into a delightful pinwheel of pumpkin sponge cake twirled with smooth, white filling. Pumpkin rolls were intimidating. Naturally, the original source of a pumpkin roll for me had always been a holiday craft show, a Christmas bazaar, or a church bake sale. I didn’t inquire about their ancestry, their humble beginnings, or their maturation process into Thanksgiving’s version of a Buche de Noel. Until now, that is.

I knew Andy was going to be a slight challenge. He told me early on, when I was talking endlessly about my love of all things pastry, that he didn’t really care for sweets. He passed on my boss’s chocolate sheet cake, and when pressed for his favorite baked treat in order to commemorate the day of his birth, he responded honestly, truthfully, and as I’d learn, from his heart. Andy’s favorite dessert has always been pumpkin roll. His mother used to make it for him. After she passed, his sisters would make it for him on occasion. It was nostalgic for him. What better way to celebrate a birthday, really, than to enjoy the delicately spiced crumb of earthy pumpkin cake that reminded him of so many birthdays before?

I’ve heard at least once a week for the past four weeks of how much Andy has been looking forward to the pumpkin roll I’d promised him. As I found myself bent in half at the waist, one eye closed, squinting tightly as I slid my frosting spatula gently over the pale orange batter, making sure it was perfectly level in the well buttered jelly roll pan, I was reminded once again of how much food is tied to memory, to our hearts, to joy, to comfort, and to feeling. Food is our great constant. We all need it, and in our common need, we’ve constructed an infinite number of cultures and traditions based around it. Someone, somewhere, took a little round gourd and some farm cheese and turned it into a curly pastry that delights our eyes, noses, fingers and tongues. It reminds Andy of his mother, and today it’ll be celebrating the fact that we’ve all had the great fortune of having our friend Andy with us another year.

Happy Birthday Andy. Enjoy.




Queen Honeybea’s
Perfect Pumpkin Roll

1 cup, plus 2 TBS. organic, unbleached all purpose flour
¾ tsp. baking powder
¾ tsp. baking soda
1 tsp. ground cinnamon
½ tsp. freshly grated nutmeg
½ tsp. ground ginger
½ tsp. salt
5 organic, local, free range eggs
1 cup organic, unrefined sugar
1 tsp. pure vanilla extract
1 cup organic, pureed pumpkin (canned or made fresh from local pie pumpkins)

1. Pre-heat the oven to 375 degrees. Butter a 12 x 18 inch jelly roll pan. Line with parchment paper and butter again. Set aside.
2. Sift together in a medium size bowl the flour, baking powder, baking soda, ground cinnamon, nutmeg, ginger and salt.
3. In the bowl of an electric mixer, combine the eggs and sugar. Beat on high speed until the mixture is pale, pale yellow, thickened, and swirls like a velvety ribbon into the bowl when you remove the beaters. On low speed, beat in the vanilla and pumpkin puree.
4. By hand, fold the flour mixture into the egg mixture until all ingredients are incorporated.
5. Pour into prepared jelly roll pan, using a straight edge spatula to spread the batter out evenly.
6. Bake for 15 minutes at 375 degrees, or until the edges are slightly brown and a toothpick inserted in the center of the cake comes out clean.
7. Remove from the oven and cool on a wire rack for five minutes. In the meantime, prepare a clean kitchen towel dusted generously with powdered sugar on a cooling rack large enough to hold the cake. After five minutes, with one rapid motion, invert the pumpkin sheet cake onto the sugared towel. Peel off the parchment paper and allow to cool 5 more minutes. Dust the top of the cake liberally with powdered sugar, then gently roll up along with the towel, from the 18 inch side. Let the rolled up cake and towel set on the wire rack until cool.


Cream Cheese Filling
12 ounces organic cream cheese, softened
4 TBS. salted, organic butter, softened
1 tsp. vanilla
½ tsp. almond extract
1 ½ cups powdered sugar, sifted
Pinch of salt

1. In the bowl of an electric mixer fitted with the paddle attachment, cream together the cream cheese and butter until well blended and soft. Add the vanilla and almond extract and beat until incorporated.
2. Gently beat in the powdered sugar and salt until smooth and creamy.

To assemble:

1. Carefully unroll the cooled cake, taking care not to rip or tear the sponge.
2. Gently spread the prepared filling onto the inside roll of the cake, distributing it evenly over the whole surface.
3. Carefully, using the towel as a guide, re-roll the cake around the cream cheese filling until tight and the end seam is along the bottom of the roll.
4. Cut the cake into two pieces and wrap each piece tightly in plastic wrap. Chill for at least two hours.
5. Just before serving, combine 1 TBS. powdered sugar, ¼ tsp. cinnamon and ¼ tsp. freshly ground nutmeg in a sifter. Sift over the top of the pumpkin roll for a snow like garnish. Enjoy.

For other crazy people who celebrate their pets' birthdays.

Just a quick post with a recipe and some photos. I feel as though I haven't been posting enough recipes lately, so I'm going to try and supplement each week with at least one recipe.

This week my little kitty turned three. There was no cake, no ice cream and no clown involved. She is a particular little bugger, and her birthday could only be celebrated with the few things she really, truly enjoys. It was surreal to me at first when I became a "cat person," that cats don't engulf every speck of any food-like substance to be found around the house. My family always had beagles, which required keeping all foods above counter level, under lock and key, and often in the presence of strict supervision. I have a plethora of stories stemming from the wonderful dogs we've had throughout the years. Our first dog scaled the six-inch wide ledge of a staircase leading to our basement to tear into and consume an entire bag of chocolate chips. We still don't know how she did it. My nephew, Henry the beagle, pushed the lazy susan open once and pulled out a bottle of cooking oil. He dragged it out of the kitchen, into the carpeted living room and chewed it open. To this day, my Mother keeps a throw rug over that oil stain. Needless to say, my family has many entertaining stories about food and our animals and their relationships with one another.

Rosie was a little strange, to say the least, as I realized that she didn't want to eat everything in sight. In fact, she eats very little outside of her alloted 2/3 cup of dry cat food per day. There are a couple of things she really enjoys, though, so what better way to celebrate her birthday than to serve up a plate full of her favorites. This included a salmon patty for her love of canned seafood (tuna nad salmon), a hunk of torn up multi-grain bread (she loves carbs, like Mom), and some crushed up Heinen's brand Organic Animal Cookies (she loses her shit when she hears that bag opening). Just for kicks, I threw in some lettuce, because she loves to devour any and all things green, like flower leaves and spinach, and a few bits of potato thinking she'd like to try it. It was a success, and as suspected, her first point of attack was to lick the Greek Yogurt off the top of her salmon patty (because she's a dairy kind of a girl). I left the plate out for her to much on all night, and can only hope that she knows how much I love her and how grateful I am for what she does to keep me sane. Happy Birthday Rosie.


Queen Honeybea's
Rosie’s Birthday Salmon PattiesServes 4

2 six ounce cans of sustainable, all natural wild Alaskan salmon (boneless and skinless)
¼ cup whole-wheat bread crumbs
2 TBS. ale & spice honey mustard (or your favorite kind of mustard)
1 egg, lightly beaten
½ tsp. salt
¼ tsp. ground black pepper
1 tsp. parsley flakes
1 tsp. dried dill
Extra-virgin olive oil for the pan
4 thin slices of local sharp cheddar cheese (Athens Own Wisconsin Cheddar is what I use)

1. In a medium size bowl, empty the cans of salmon and using a fork, flake into very small pieces. Add the whole-wheat bread crumbs, mustard, egg, salt, pepper, parsley and dill, and mix until well combined. Using your hands, form 4 well packed patties.
2. Heat about a tablespoon of olive oil over medium to moderate heat in a large skillet. Swirl the oil around the pan to coat. Brown the salmon patties well, on both sides. Turn the heat off, and put a slice of cheese on each patty, cover. In a few minutes, the cheese will be melted and bubbling and the patties are ready to serve.

I served mine with a dollop of ale & spice mustard, a baked local Yukon Gold potato, and a green salad made with local lettuce, local tomatoes, local carrots, goat cheese from Hiram, Ohio and a grainy-mustard balsamic vinaigrette, and a slice of homemade buckwheat bread.