My father is a consistent man. He is a retired farmer who worked hard all his life. He likes things which always satisfy. Like McDonald’s. And Carhartts. And curvy women. More specifically, chesty women.
I don’t think it is mere coincidence that he shares a birthday with Dolly Parton. He and I would go through the Victoria’s Secret catalog while I was in my teens, and I pretty much picked out his favorites every time. It is not like he is a lech, more like a dirty old man who appreciates a fine female form. I have to ignore all feminist judgment in loving him.
One of his favorite actresses is Sophia Loren. He argues that she gets better with age. If you ever watch that scene in Grumpier Old Men where she strolls into a bar vibrating va-va-va-voom in a red dress, you will immediately understand. The woman will never stop smoldering. And she likes to live life well. Eat well. I doubt she’d go on a crazy diet fad. She would probably eat less pasta. To be Italian is to enjoy, not restrict.
I watched the movie Arabesque last night. She costarred with Gregory Peck, a good combination of chemistry: her sensual manipulation vs. his straight-laced honesty. Though the movie is dated and somewhat cheesy, you really must watch it for her, beautifully costumed by Dior.
When I moved home, I was putting my books away and came across a vintage cookbook by her. I love a retro cookbook. When you add an additional quirk element, like a celebrity, I start salivating. I don’t really care much about food celebrity cookbooks. They know what they are doing. Anyone else fascinates me.
She concocted the book while laid up with pregnancy in a Geneva hotel. She was advised by doctors to avoid fatigue and entirely focused on having her baby. But she needed something non-strenuous to occupy her time. She compiled all her notes and recipes, and the result is In the Kitchen with Love.
With any vintage cookbook, you need to suspend disbelief. I am used to that anyway since I am an avid operaphile. Many of the recipes are very 70’s. Salmon mousse. Celery boats. And she has a predilection for anchovies I cannot embrace (anchovy butter?!?!?!). It must be an Italian thing.
I picked an appealing recipe by the name of Neapolitan Fritters. She writes, “Whenever I start getting homesick in some foreign country I make myself a good dish of napoletanine, or Neapolitan fritters. It’s a comforting dish and much less complicated than it sounds.” Jackpot.
To cook this recipe, I decided to add another quirky element. Shoes. Italian shoes. Retro Ferragamos, to be exact. Or at least I think they are. I picked them up at the Salvation Army for $2.00. They are two sizes too big. I will keep them forever. The relationship a woman has with her shoes is sacred. Maybe I’ve been brainwashed by too many Sex and the City episodes. They are in the front, in the middle.
Loren doesn’t really abide by strict cookbook guidelines. She doesn’t even give an oven temperature. So it is to cook by instinct and feel, also very Italian. I am going to reorder her recipe for simplicity’s sake.
You start with a tomato sauce of 2 crushed garlic cloves cooked in olive oil, with 2-2 ½ cups of chopped fresh or canned tomatoes added thereafter. Add basil and salt to taste. To make the batter, beat 6 eggs with 3 tablespoons of milk and a paste of 2 Tbs of flour with 3 Tbs of milk. You fry the fritters a tablespoonful at a time, only I ended up with as much as three at time in the pan. Here is a pretty montage.
After they are fried, lay them on a paper towel on a plate to drain off the oil.
Cut off strips from a large fresh mozzarella ball and roll the fritters around them. (Mom helped out again, bless her soul.)
Tuck the fritters into a casserole dish. I used a pie plate.
Ladle the tomato sauce on top and add grated parmesan. I had to use asiago instead, of course. Since Loren does not indicate a temperature, 350 degrees was guesstimated and it was put in the oven for 20 minutes, adding 5 minutes at the end.
The finished product. It was gobbled up right away. No leftovers. Thank you, Sophia.
