The Anna Tasca Lanza Cooking School

So, Sicily.

As much as I loved Palermo, I have to say it paled in comparison to the the five days I spent with the most incredible group of bloggers at the Anna Tasca Lanza Cooking School.

If the name Anna Tasca Lanza rings a bell for you, there's a good reason. In her day, she was the authority on Sicilian food—the Marcella Hazan of the south. Back in the late 80s and early 90s, before any kind of regional awareness had entered the Italian food lexicon in the US, she began writing about traditional Sicilian cooking for the American market. As people woke up to the bold, rustic flavors of the island, her fame spread, and she began regularly collaborating with such food luminaries as James Beard, Julia Child* and Alice Waters, and making frequent appearances on television and radio. She published two books of her own, and among the other numerous Sicilian cookbooks on my shelf, I doubt there is one that doesn't mention her name.

She also opened a cooking school on her family's 19th-century estate, Regaleali. Located about halfway between Palermo and Agrigento in the mountainous Sicilian heartland, Regaleali has been in the Tasca family since 1830, when it was bought by Anna's great-great-great grandfather, Count Lucio Tasca. It's still very much a working farm; wine, olive oil, wheat, almonds, favas and citrus are grown on its 1,200 acres of softly rolling hills, and even today it represents one of the major sources of employment for people in this impoverished corner of the island. Over the years it has evolved, though, first with the establishment by Anna's father of a state-of-the-art winery which now ranks among Sicily's best, and later, when he divided up the estate among his children. His son inherited the 'main house' and winery, and his three daughters were given smaller houses and land around the property; Anna's was a traditional farmhouse set around a cobbled courtyard, called Case Vecchie. 

The estate is home to thousands of olive trees which produce a beautifully mellow, grassy oil the color of the afternoon sun. I think if I had an unlimited supply of oil like that, life would be pretty much complete.

Anna and her husband had one daughter, Fabrizia. In her younger days Fabrizia was, by her own admission, interested in anything that wasn't Sicilian, and as soon as she was old enough moved north, where she established a career as an art historian and had two children of her own. When Anna launched herself into the culinary world, Fabrizia cheered her mother on from afar, at first. In her mid-40s, though, after suddenly finding herself out of a job, Fabrizia realized the not only was she deeply homesick for Sicily, but what she really wanted to do was dedicate her life to keeping traditional Sicilian cuisine alive too.

Cactus (aka prickly) pears grow everywhere in Sicily. They're called fichi d'India (Indian figs), and put into everything from jam to ice cream.

That little house among the trees is where we slept. Imagine waking up to this every morning...

So Fabrizia moved back home and started working with Anna. Although she had previously never felt any particular affinity for cooking ("my affinity was for eating!" she told me), something about this food-centric life just felt right, like it was what she was really meant to be doing all along. It was only natural, then, that when Anna passed away two years ago, Fabrizia took over. She's now an active ambassador for Sicilian cuisine in her own right, spending several months each year traveling, giving lectures and demonstrations, and cooking as a guest chef in well-known restaurants (she has regular gigs at Babbo and Chez Panisse, for instance). The rest of the year she spends at Regaleali, teaching cooking classes and tending to the estate and its endless harvests. And this year at least, entertaining food bloggers.

Fabrizia with her cousin Giuseppe, co-owner of the estate's winery Tasca d'Almerita along with his brother Alberto. Can you see the family resemblance? It's all in the hair.

Due to the estate's comparatively high elevation and clay-rich soil, the conditions are perfect for growing a variety of reds and whites. Although everything they grow is effectively organic, they reject labeling it as such. Guiseppe is actually very concerned about the environmental damage being caused by 'organic' wine production, in particular contamination caused by runoff of copper sulfate, which is used widely as a non-chemical fungicide. At Regaleali, by contrast, they take a biodynamic approach, and are constantly seeking new methods that allow them to grow as sustainably as possible.

Regaleali in spring: flowering almond trees, olive trees, vineyards and endless blue skies.

The thing that struck all of us, I mean apart from the sheer beauty of the place, was how we felt we were welcomed almost like members of the family. If you didn't know they rank among Italy's elite aristocratic families you certainly wouldn't know it by meeting them; everyone we met was refreshingly humble and down-to-earth. Fabrizia, in particular—who, by the way, is also a marchesa (marquess) like her mother—took us under her wing with such warmth and affection that we felt more like long-lost children home for a visit than a crew of camera-toting journalists.

Of course it didn't hurt that we were all in our favorite element, in the kitchen and around the table. The daily program went something like this: wake up, stuff ourselves with sesame-crusted semolina bread, fresh sheep's milk ricotta and about a dozen flavors of Fabrizia's homemade preserves as well as a cake or two that had magically appeared overnight. Set off on a little outing to visit a local producer, accompanied of course by copious tastings. Around noon gather back in the teaching kitchen for a hands-on demonstration of whatever local specialties were on the lunchtime menu, followed by a four-course communal lunch. Digest for a couple of hours. At five gather back in the kitchen for an aperitif, a new lesson and, at the end, another three or four course meal. Stagger to bed swearing we will be much more successful at curtailing our gluttony tomorrow. Wake up, conveniently forget all about the previous night's promises because really, food this good doesn't just fall onto your plate every day, and repeat.

The iconic pasta con le sarde, pasta with fresh sardines and wild fennel. Now I understand why they say you can't make it without that fennel—its flavor is like fennel on steroids. In this part of Sicily it's traditional to top the dish with a mixture of toasted breadcrumbs and sugar. The sweetness is a bit jarring at first bite, but it quickly becomes addictive.

But truly, I don't know what was better: the food, with its gutsy, punchy, sweet and sharp edges and ingredients that tasted like concentrated versions of themselves, or the fact of having nothing better to do all day than hang out with a group of similarly food-obsessed people and, with minimal effort on your part, have a multi-course meal of said food land on your plate three times a day. Believe me, there was true panic in everyone's eyes when someone voiced the fear we were all secretly harboring by the end of the week: "but how can we ever go back to our normal lives after this?"

How, indeed? I'm still trying to figure it out, actually, but at least I have memories, and more importantly, recipes. For things like a lemon-almond pudding called biancomangiare and sweet-sour artichoke caponata.

For fried fresh sardines drizzled with vinegar, and swordfish studded with mint, garlic and rosemary before being gently baked in wine.

For pillows of pasta stuffed with mint-flecked ricotta and drizzled with sage-almond pesto.

And for shatteringly crisp panelle, the secret to which is spreading the mixture as thinly as possible on plates, then letting them cool by an open window.

And for sweet, tender lamb stewed in the estate's own red wine, and ricotta-filled cassata ringed with pistachio marzipan, and an emerald stew of fresh fava beans, and crunchy-creamy candied-orange-crowned cannoli, and little pillows of ricotta gnocchi drizzled in sage-infused butter, and artichokes stuffed with pine nuts and currants, and sweet-sour braised rabbit, and pillow-soft, olive-studded focaccia...

It's a good thing Fabrizia's first book is coming out later this year. Otherwise I'd have to share all these recipes here, because really, they're that good.

Oh but don't worry, of course I'll give you one or two to tide you over in the meantime!

*Speaking of Julia Child, we heard a funny anecdote. Various members of Fabrizia's family were always stopping by, including one of her maternal aunts, who joined us for dinner a couple of times. On one of these nights she told us about how she used to sometimes accompany Anna, her sister, on her ambassadorial trips to the US, and once they were invited to dinner by Julia Child and her husband Paul. "The were lovely people," she told us, "and made us feel right at home." "But how was the food?" I asked her, dying of curiosity. She wrinkled her nose slightly. "Oh, it was nothing special. I remember Julia made us a pumpkin soup. It wasn't bad, but my own recipe is much better."

Springtime in Sicily

Let me offer you a piece of advice.

Should you ever find yourself, on a particularly dark winter day, opening your inbox to find an email inviting you to spend a week in Sicily in early spring, here's a few things you shouldn't do. Don't stop to think about your schedule, or how any number of things might come up in your life between now and then to prevent you from going. Don't start looking at your travel options yet, which on first glance always appear to be more convoluted and/or expensive than they will actually turn out to be. Don't start wondering if your family will ever speak to you again when you announce you're abandoning them to their frigid northern fates while you jet off for a romp in the Mediterranean sun. Don't hesitate even for a minute, just hit the reply button and type the biggest 'YES!' your sense of propriety and font options will allow, and hit send.

There's plenty of time for worrying about the rest later, and no matter what that rest might be, I promise it'll pale in comparison to everything Sicily has in store for you when you get there.

Like almond trees in bloom, and fragrant, purple bushes of wild rosemary.

And citrus trees, their branches buckling under the weight of more blood oranges, mandarins, lemons and citrons than you could consume in a lifetime.

And Palermo, a city you've always wanted to visit, which turns out to be full of chaotic energy and surprising elegance...

...and awe-inspiring baroque, moorish and modern façades that transport you, as you walk down a single city block, through centuries of the island's tumultuous history...

...and vivid, bustling street markets teem with edible treasures the likes of which you've never before seen, from the tiniest artichokes...

...to the biggest cauliflower (called, confusingly, broccolo, and the size of a basketball)...

...and whose streets offer some of finest edible temptations on offer anywhere in the world: gelato in brioche (flavored with pistacchi di Bronte, the Lamborghinis of the pistachio world)...

...arancine (risotto balls stuffed with ragù and fried, and when they're as big as this one—the size of a grapefruit!—offer an entire meal in a convenient package), and the famous seven-layer chocolate and hazelnut cake called setteveli... 

...pane con panelle, thin, crunchy chickpea-flour fritters stuffed into a soft sesame roll...

...and sfincione, Sicily's soft, spongy answer to pizza.

And then there's some of the most varied and beautiful landscapes you've ever seen, emerald green from spring rains and dotted with craggy, snow-covered peaks.

At times you could almost be forgiven for thinking you'd taken a wrong turn, and ended up in the Scottish Highlands, or the Swiss Alps.

But then you round another corner, and there's no mistaking where you are.

And best of all, there's the whole reason you came to Sicily in the first place: to spend one of the most magical weeks of your life in the company of this magnificent woman and these extraordinary, hilarious, dazzlingly talented people, learning, laughing, cooking, and above all EATING.

I'll tell you all about it next time.

p.s. My time in Palermo was frustratingly short, but the suggestions I was armed with thanks to these brilliant ladies (who have, I was happy to discover, impeccable taste) helped me make the most of every second. Next time I go I'll definitely be following more of their advice.

Born-Again Vegetable Boiling

Soft-as-Silk Cauliflower with Crispy Garlic and Anchovy-Caper Mayonnaise

I suspect today's recipe is going to be a hard sell.

It offers no exotic ingredients, unusual spices or trendy cooking methods à la sous vide. It contains no pasta, cheese or chocolate, and hasn't been culled from the pages of the latest celebrity food tome. It's not even very visually appealing, essentially consisting of various shades of beige. And it that weren't bad enough, the things it does feature are firmly entrenched at the top of many people's 'most-detested' lists: anchovies, mayonnaise, cauliflower, and a pot of boiling water as the main cooking medium.

Before you click away in horror, though, I implore you to hear me out. As unpromising as this sounds, these humble components together are responsible for one of the most delicious meals I've eaten in months. Yes, months. We ate it for dinner four nights ago, and again last night. And I'm telling you, I'd make it again tonight if I had the ingredients in the house.

It started, actually, with a Proustian moment. I was sautéing garlic in olive oil a week or so ago when out of nowhere a long-buried memory of a dish I hadn't eaten in seventeen years bubbled to the surface, and suddenly, I could think of nothing else.

The dish in question was a simple cauliflower preparation my host mother Clari used to make during the year I lived in Spain. I've mentioned before that she was a great cook, and she was, though in my youthful ignorance I didn't always appreciate her food as much as I should have. This dish was a case in point.

You see, she tended to prepare vegetables in one of two ways: fried or boiled. The ones that could be easily sliced were floured and fried. Everything else was boiled until it had nearly disintegrated, then dressed with a slick of olive oil in which a clove or two of garlic had been crisped. It doesn't sound very delicious, but it actually was, since she wasn't shy with the amount of salt she used in the boiling water nor the quantity of oil she slipped over the top just before serving.

The most delicious of all was her cauliflower. This she would simmer until it was so soft it almost melted onto your tongue, and like her other boiled fare it was showered with copious amounts of garlic-flecked oil. The coup de grâce for this vegetable, though, was the dish of thick homemade mayonnaise she served alongside, a dollop of which turned a plate of what could have been the drabbest of vegetables into something scandalously decadent.

The problem was that I was scandalized. After all, that this was the 90s and I was a teenager. Fat in all its forms was the dietary devil, and regardless of how good Clari's vegetables tasted, I could not wrap my head around eating them drenched in the stuff. To my mind oil was something that should be used in the smallest quantities necessary to lubricate a pan before sautéing, and mayonnaise (which in my US house was consumed in its 'light' variety only) belonged spread as thinly as possible on one side of a sandwich. I couldn't conceive of either of these being used as a sauce, for heaven's sake, and as a result I ate her vegetables with as much restraint as I could muster (and made up the difference with lots of bread—is it any wonder the scale still inched steadily upwards?). When I finally left Spain, a couple dozen pounds heavier than when I'd arrived, I breathed a sigh of relief and thanked the heavens I'd finally be able to eat my vegetables in low-fat, appropriately virtuous preparations again.

Fast forward seventeen years. Luckily with age comes wisdom, and I've now made friends with fat in most of its forms, as well as come to the realization that perhaps Clari had the right idea all along: vegetables deserve to taste good, even if it means they're a little less virtuous. Still, though, I never once found myself tempted to fill my biggest pot with water and toss in the contents of my crisper drawer. My logic was this: why boil when you can roast, grill, sauté, braise or stew?

Not anymore. Thanks to a chance craving for a long-forgotten plate of cauliflower, I'm officially a born-again vegetable boiler. Well, at least where this dish is concerned, and once you try I can all but guarantee you'll be too. It takes Clari's humble preparation and does it one better, pairing the silky, slurpy cauliflower with a punchy anchovy-caper mayonnaise so good I have to fight the urge to spoon it straight into my mouth while the cauliflower cooks. It's worth resisting the urge, though, because it's in the contrasts that the dish's magic happens: hot and cold, crunchy and soft, bland and sharp, lean and rich. And what I love best is how its sheer deliciousness is completely at odds with the effort involved to make it—particularly if you enjoy it like we do as a one-dish meal with nothing but a loaf of a good crusty bread alongside, from start to finish you'll have clocked up less than half an hour. What sous-vide recipe can you say that about?


Soft-as-Silk Cauliflower with Crispy Garlic and Anchovy-Caper Mayonnaise

If you were so inclined, you could probably cut up to half the mayonnaise with something a little leaner, such as sour cream. Don't try to make it too healthy, though, or you'll miss the contrasts that make this dish so sublime. Oh, and if those anchovies are scaring you off, don't let them: they're not fishy at all in this form, just pure umami. That said, for an anchovy-free option you might try a little miso instead.
Serves: 2 as a main course, or a couple more as a side dish

1 large head cauliflower, separated into bite-sized florets
salt
2-3 tablespoons olive oil
2 fat cloves garlic, thinly sliced

for mayonnaise:
1/2 cup (125ml) mayonnaise
1 tablespoon olive oil
2-3 oil-packed anchovy filets
2 tablespoons capers in brine, drained
squeeze of lemon juice

chopped parsley, for garnish (optional, for a bit of color)

For the mayonnaise, combine all the ingredients in a bowl and blitz with a hand blender until more or less smooth (or use a mini chopper, or even a regular blender). Adjust the lemon to taste. Set aside to let the flavors mingle.

Combine the cauliflower, 2 quarts (liters) water and 2 tablespoons salt in a pot and bring to a boil. Cover, turn down the heat and let bubble away until the cauliflower has lost all trace of firmness and a fork slides into even the largest piece without resistance, but before it's started to disintegrate (although slightly disintegrated is better than too firm in this instance). This will probably take 15-20 minutes.

Meanwhile, heat the olive oil in a small skillet over medium heat and gently fry the garlic, stirring often, until pale gold. Remove from the heat.

When the cauliflower is done, drain well and divide between your plates. Drizzle a little garlic oil (including crispy garlic bits) over each, and top with a dollop of mayonnaise. Serve immediately, mashing the cauliflower into the oil and mayonnaise, and sopping up the juices with your favorite crusty, chewy bread.