Italy: Pasta and Partisans

 Italy: Pasta and Partisans

Italy, with its sun-drenched vineyards, ancient ruins, and Renaissance masterpieces, has long been romanticized. Its picture perfect food and beautiful scenery have been the subject of many a dream vacation. Yet beneath this postcard-perfect facade lies a history scarred by exploitation, where the riches of the land fattened elites while peasants and workers scraped by.

From the moment of its unification in 1861, Italy was a nation divided, with the promise of liberty ringing hollow for the masses. The new government, dominated by northern elites, failed to address the deeply entrenched social and economic inequalities that defined the nation. This created the "southern question," a stark divide between the industrialized north and a rural, agrarian south still bound by near-feudal systems of land ownership. To this day, Italy’s culture and cuisine remains deeply regionalized.

The late 19th and early 20th centuries were a time of intense turmoil. In the south, landless peasants toiled on vast estates known as latifondi, their lives governed by powerful landowners. This extreme poverty fueled waves of mass emigration and spontaneous uprisings, with many turning to brigandage as a form of social protest against the state and its local representatives. In the industrialized north, a new urban working class emerged, facing brutal factory conditions, low wages, and long hours. The economic chaos and social upheaval following World War I intensified these tensions, culminating in the Biennio Rosso—the "Red Biennium" of 1919–1920. During these two years, Italy teetered on the brink of revolution as millions of workers, inspired by the Russian Revolution, engaged in mass strikes and factory occupations, nearly toppling the capitalist system.

This revolutionary fervor was ultimately crushed, paving the way for the rise of fascism under Benito Mussolini. His regime brutally suppressed all political dissent and working-class organization. However, resistance endured, culminating in the armed struggle of the partisan movement during World War II, where communists, socialists, and other anti-fascists fought to liberate Italy from Nazi-fascist control.

After World War II, Italy encountered an economic boom, but one that was not always universally realized. Italy’s working class continued to stand up, especially in the Hot Autumn of the late 60s.

Against this backdrop of relentless class warfare, food was never just to feed, it told a story of survival and resistance. Many of Italy’s most beloved regional dishes are rooted in cucina povera, or "poor man's cooking," born of necessity and made from humble, affordable staples like bread, rice, preserved meats, and foraged greens. These foods were a testament to the resilience of a people living under duress. Its cuisine is also deeply regional, with foods evolving differently from region to region.

The stories of dishes like schiacciata con prosciutto crudo, which fueled Florence’s rioters, risotto alla Milanese, which celebrated Milan's liberation, and arancini, which sustained Sicily's massacred miners, are inseparable from these struggles. These foods were more than just recipes; they were portable nourishment for strikes, occupations, and escapes; they were shared during clandestine meetings, and they became symbols of communal solidarity. We will trace how these foods intertwined with working-class defiance, from 19th-century brigandage to postwar land grabs, and will be exploring one dish to represent each of Italy’s 20 unique regions. This past week was Ferragosto, the Italian summer holiday, when families all over Italy journey to other parts of the country to celebrate the long weekend. That is why we’ve timed our own culinary exploration of Italy for the same timeframe. The narrative of Italy is written not only in its art and architecture but also in its olive oil and uprisings. So, let's savor and honor both.

Sardinia – Pane Carasau: The Guerilla’s Grain

For millennia, the people of Sardinia, an isolated Mediterranean island with a rugged interior of mountains and plateaus, have relied on pane carasau, a thin, crisp flatbread known as "carta da musica" or “music paper” for its parchment-like delicacy and the crackling sound it makes when broken. Tracing its roots back to the Bronze Age Nuragic culture that made the island its home, this bread was perfected by shepherds in the island's heartland. Made from durum wheat semolina, water, salt, and yeast, it undergoes a unique double-baking process: first puffed in a hot oven to separate into layers, then split and toasted again to dry it out, resulting in a lightweight, shelf-stable staple that could last months without spoiling. This durability made it indispensable for shepherds who roamed the remote highlands with their flocks, far from villages, carrying stacks of the bread as their primary source of food amid harsh winds and sparse resources.

Yet, this ancient tradition of communal grazing and self-sufficiency faced existential threats in the early 19th century, as external rulers imposed reforms that shattered the island's social fabric. Under the Kingdom of Sardinia ruled by the House of Savoy from Piedmont, the 1820 Editto delle Chiudende (Enclosures Act) marked a turning point, transforming collective lands into private property to boost agricultural productivity and integrate Sardinia into a modern, capitalist economy.

Enacted on October 6, 1820, by King Victor Emmanuel I, the Editto delle Chiudende authorized landowners to fence off vast swaths of common pastures, previously shared for grazing sheep, goats, and cattle, converting them into enclosed fields for crops or exclusive use. Inspired by Britain's Enclosure Acts, this legislation aimed to "civilize" Sardinia's "backward" economy, ending feudal remnants and promoting individual ownership. However, it disproportionately benefited wealthy elites, absentee landlords, and speculators from the mainland, who swiftly claimed thousands of hectares through legal loopholes, bribes, and force. Peasants and shepherds, comprising over 80% of the population, were devastated: communal lands, vital for their survival, were fragmented or seized, leading to widespread dispossession, debt, and famine. In the Barbagia region, a wild, granite-strewn heartland around Nuoro, including villages like Orgosolo, Oliena, and Fonni, the impact was acute. Here, the terrain's inaccessibility had preserved ancient customs, but now shepherds found their migratory paths blocked by barbed fences, their flocks starved, and their livelihoods erased. Abuses proliferated: fraudulent enclosures ignored customary rights, courts favored the powerful, and evictions turned violent, with armed guards clashing against desperate herders. By the 1830s, protests erupted into riots, as communities tore down fences and reclaimed pastures, only to face harsh reprisals from Piedmontese troops dispatched to enforce the law.

This sparked a guerrilla resistance that defined mid-19th-century Sardinia, morphing pastoral folk into outlaws and bandits who embodied a defiant quest for justice. In Barbagia, where narrow gorges, dense forests of cork oak and holm, and volcanic peaks provided natural fortresses, displaced shepherds organized into bands, often family-based groups fueled by vendettas and a code of honor known as "balentia." These guerrillas, labeled "banditi" by authorities but seen as Robin Hood-like figures by locals, waged asymmetric warfare: ambushing tax collectors, raiding enclosed estates, rustling livestock from usurpers, and redistributing goods to impoverished villages. Figures like Giovanni Tolu, a legendary bandit from the 1840s-50s who evaded capture for years while targeting symbols of oppression, exemplified this struggle; operating from hidden mountain caves, they struck at night and vanished into the maquis, their intimate knowledge of the landscape thwarting larger military forces. The government's response was brutal: in the 1840s and 1850s, expeditions under generals like Alfonso La Marmora swept through Barbagia, imposing martial law, burning villages suspected of harboring rebels, and executing suspects in public squares to instill terror. Mass arrests and deportations to mainland prisons followed, with over 1,000 bandits killed or captured between 1820 and 1860, exacerbating cycles of vengeance. Paramilitary vigilantes, empowered by the state, lynched alleged sympathizers, while the guerrillas retaliated with kidnappings and assassinations, turning the region into a low-intensity war zone. Amid this chaos, pane carasau became the guerrilla's lifeline. Lightweight and imperishable, stacks of the bread were cached in remote grottoes or carried in saddlebags during raids, providing quick food without the need for fire or resupply, allowing bands to endure weeks in hiding. Shepherds-turned-fighters baked it in communal ovens before fleeing to the hills, sharing broken shards over strategy sessions, its crisp texture a reminder of the pastoral heritage they defended. In villages, women prepared vast quantities, smuggling them to rebels as acts of quiet rebellion, symbolizing opposition to an edict that sought to enclose not just land, but their very way of life. By the 1860s, as Italy unified and suppression intensified, the resistance waned, but not before claiming thousands of lives and embedding banditry in Sardinian folklore as a protest against colonial exploitation. Echoes persist today in cultural festivals and murals in Orgosolo, honoring those who fought for communal rights.

Pane Carasau is crisp, yet also chewy. Almost a pasta-like consistency, and perfect for sauces. Make sure you cook it twice!

Pane Carasau (Sardinia)

Crisp Sardinian flatbread.

Ingredients:

• 500g durum wheat flour

• 300ml water

• 10g salt

• 5g fresh yeast

Steps:

1. Dissolve yeast in water. Mix with flour and salt. Knead 10 minutes.

2. Let rise 1 hour.

3. Roll into thin sheets, cut into rounds, bake at 220°C for 5-7 minutes.

4. Separate puffed layers, bake again 2-3 minutes until crisp. Store airtight.

Aosta Valley – Polenta Concia: Mountain Mush

The mountains have long fed the people of the Aosta Valley not through their abundance, but through the people’s endurance. In this small, semi-autonomous region tucked into the Alpine peaks between France and Switzerland, the most lightly populated region in Italy, the earth yields little, the winters are long, and survival has always meant thrift and ingenuity. Out of these conditions came polenta concia, a simple dish of cornmeal, butter, and local cheese, transformed into a sustaining, rib-sticking meal that could keep a farmer upright through the bitter cold of high altitude.

Polenta itself was a latecomer to Italy, arriving in the north after corn was brought from the Americas in the 16th century. Before then, Aostan peasants subsisted on porridges made from chestnut flour, barley, or millet. Corn proved hardier and more filling, and soon polenta became the defining food of the Alpine poor. But in the Aosta Valley, where dairy herding has always been a lifeline, polenta was enriched with wheels of pungent, nutty fontina cheese melted deep into its folds. The result, polenta concia, or “seasoned polenta”, was heavy, chock full of calories, and sustaining, a dish that could fill stomachs when everything else ran scarce. In the long winters, when snow sealed off villages from trade and markets, polenta concia was not a luxury, but a necessity.

By the 19th century, the Aosta Valley’s spartan diet of endurance had become a metaphor for its politics. The region had long practiced a form of communal self-governance rooted in mountain pragmatism: pastures, forests, and grazing huts, known as mayens, were shared collectively, and rights to timber, grazing, and irrigation were managed by consensus. Barter prevailed over coin, and survival was bound to reciprocity. But this system came under assault as the House of Savoy, the ruling dynasty of the Kingdom of Sardinia, which would later spearhead the unification of Italy, tightened its grip. The Savoyards, eager to modernize and centralize, ordered sweeping cadastral surveys that divided the land into taxable plots. What had once been common pastures were suddenly parceled and recorded as private property. Shared huts were shuttered, communal rights abolished, and rents demanded in cash. The Aostans, who had lived by barter and mutual aid, were forced into a cash economy for which they had neither the tools nor the desire. To them, this was not modernization, but theft; the seizure of a way of life honed over centuries of mountain survival.

The House of Savoy, with its capital in Turin, saw the Aosta Valley as a relic, a stubborn pocket of feudal tradition standing in the way of a unified, modern nation. The Valdôtains, with their distinct Franco-Provençal dialect and communal customs, were a problem to be solved, their autonomy a weakness to be eliminated. To the wealthy elites in Turin, the surveys and land enclosures were simply an exercise in efficiency and good governance. They saw unused land and idle resources, and aimed to unlock the valley's economic potential. To the Aostans, whose lives were tethered to the rhythm of the seasons and the collective needs of their community, this "progress" was a direct assault on their identity.

The resistance was not an armed rebellion but a more quiet, tenacious defiance. Petitions, written in both French and Italian, flooded in from hamlets like Gressoney, Cogne, and Saint-Vincent, demanding the repeal of land enclosures. Market days became more than simple times to trade; they were political rallies, with delegates exchanging grievances over steaming bowls of polenta concia ladled from communal pots. Each shared meal became a reaffirmation of solidarity against a state intent on erasing their customs. In kitchens and communal ovens across the valley, the dish evolved from subsistence food into something greater: a ritual of opposition.

The heavy, molten mixture of cornmeal, butter, and fontina mirrored the villagers themselves, unyielding, dense, impossible to dissolve into the new laws. Eating it together was not just nourishment, but a declaration: We will govern ourselves, as we always have. To the rulers in Turin, polenta was just peasant food. To the people of Aosta, polenta concia was their statement.

In the long, snowbound winters, the communal ovens became the heart of every village. Here, women and men would gather to cook, the heat radiating from the stone walls a welcome respite from the biting cold. They would bring their sacks of cornmeal, their pungent blocks of fontina, and their knowledge of a hundred small traditions. As they stirred the great copper cauldrons, the rhythmic scraping of wooden spoons against the metal sides became a low, comforting hum. The smell of melted cheese and cooked corn filled the air, mingling with the scent of woodsmoke and old stone. While the dish cooked, stories would be shared; tales of resistance, of legal battles lost and won, of small victories against the encroaching bureaucracy.

The struggle was a slow burn, a war of attrition waged with bureaucracy and stubbornness rather than swords. The Savoyard state had superior resources, but the Aostan peasants had centuries of survivalist knowledge and an unshakeable sense of community. They hid timber, moved grazing boundaries at night, and found ways to share resources just as they always had, ignoring the new lines on the maps. In the shadow of Mont Blanc and the Matterhorn, the mountains themselves seemed to stand with them, a natural fortress against outside control.

This tension reached a fever pitch in the mid-19th century, as the House of Savoy began to consolidate power and look toward a unified Italian state. While the rest of the peninsula was swept up in the romantic ideals of the Risorgimento, The Unification of Italy, the Valdôtains were wary. They were not against the idea of a larger Italian identity, but they knew too well the cost of eroded autonomy for the Valley. Where Savoy’s bureaucrats saw progress, the Aostans saw dispossession. The communal ovens, warm, smoky places where villagers cooked great vats of polenta concia, became both literal and symbolic hearths of independence.

The conflict wasn’t a single, explosive event, but a long-drawn-out struggle for cultural preservation. Over the decades, the Aostans won some concessions and lost others. Their communal rights were never fully restored, but their unique identity was never fully erased either. The region was eventually granted a special autonomous status within the Italian state, a recognition of its distinct history and culture. Today, the Aosta Valley stands as a testament to the power of a quiet, persistent resistance.

Polenta concia seems like a simple dish, but its flavor is rich and the dish itself is hearty and filling. 

Polenta Concia (Valle d’Aosta)

Creamy polenta with fontina cheese.

Ingredients:

• 200g cornmeal

• 1L water

• 200g fontina cheese, cubed

• 50g butter

• Salt to taste

Steps:

1. Boil salted water, whisk in cornmeal.

2. Cook over low heat, stirring 30-40 minutes until thick.

3. Stir in butter and fontina until melted. Serve hot.

Emilia-Romagna – Pasta alla Bolognese: Ragù of the People

Nestled between the Apennine Mountains and the Adriatic Sea, Emilia-Romagna has long been considered the culinary heart of Italy. Many dishes immediately thought of internationally as “Italian” stem from here. Its fertile plains, carved by the Po River, have supported centuries of agriculture, producing wheat, dairy, and vineyards that built a culture of abundance. The region takes its name from two distinct roots: the Via Aemilia, the ancient Roman road that linked Rimini to Piacenza, and Romagna, once under Byzantine control. These layers of Roman, medieval, and papal history shaped Emilia-Romagna into a land of proud self-governance, economic innovation, and cultural richness. Its cities; Bologna, Parma, Modena, Ferrara stand as centers of learning and political experimentation. Alongside this intellectual heritage came food traditions that became iconic: Parmigiano-Reggiano, balsamic vinegar, Prosciutto di Parma, mortadella, and, of course, ragù alla bolognese.

The dish that the world calls “spaghetti bolognese” is, in truth, far from what is eaten in Bologna. The authentic preparation is tagliatelle al ragù, a broad, flat ribbon pasta designed to cradle the meaty sauce. The earliest references to ragù date to the late 18th century, when French culinary influence seeped into aristocratic kitchens of northern Italy. The first recipe was recorded by Pellegrino Artusi in 1891, calling for veal, pancetta, onion, carrot, celery, and tomato, simmered for hours. Originally, ragù was not the food of peasants; meat was costly and slow-cooked stews belonged to the tables of the well-off. But as the 19th century wore on, ragù transformed. Bologna’s workers’ cooperatives, born out of political struggle and mutual aid, claimed it as their own. By pooling resources, they brought once-elite dishes to communal tables, where flavor became inseparable from solidarity.

This connection between ragù and the cooperative movement cannot be understood without the turbulence of late 19th and early 20th century Emilia-Romagna. Following Italian unification in 1861, the promises of national progress rarely reached the working poor. Bologna, with its thriving artisan and labor base, became a crucible of left-wing politics. Strikes and protests swept the city as workers demanded better wages and conditions. Into this context, the first cooperative societies emerged; self-managed associations designed to buy food in bulk and sell it at fair prices, bypassing exploitative middlemen. By the 1880s, Bologna boasted some of Italy’s most successful consumer cooperatives, laying the groundwork for a powerful movement that blended food, politics, and social reform.

The ragù became a symbol within this struggle. Once the food of the bourgeois, it was now simmered in the vast communal kitchens of the case del popolo; the “houses of the people.” These centers were more than canteens; they were the heart of working-class life, hosting political meetings, lectures, concerts, and education programs. The scent of slow-cooked meat and soffritto drifting from their kitchens became inseparable from the rhetoric of solidarity and resistance. Meals of pasta al ragù were not merely nourishment; they were political rituals, binding workers together under the banner of self-help.

In the late 19th century, these kitchens played a quiet but vital role in the rise of the Italian Socialist Party. As agricultural workers in Emilia’s countryside staged strikes for land reform, and factory workers in Bologna organized against grueling hours, the cooperatives sustained them. Ragù simmered in enormous pots, ladled over tagliatelle for men and women exhausted from demonstrations and marches. Food was fuel for class struggle, and ragù, once a luxury, became redefined as “the people’s sauce.”

By the early 20th century, Bologna had earned the nickname la rossa, the red one, both for its red rooftops and for its socialist politics. Strikes escalated in the 1900s, demanding not only wages but dignity. The case del popolo multiplied, offering education for children, literacy for adults, and subsidized meals. Workers and their families ate ragù together, and the communal meal would ensure that hunger, once used as a tool of oppression to keep the working class desperate, could be resisted through solidarity. 

The turning point came after World War I. Italy’s “Biennio Rosso” (Two Red Years) of 1919–1920 saw Emilia-Romagna at the center of revolutionary fervor. Peasants occupied land, workers seized factories, and Bologna’s co-ops expanded rapidly. Ragù was cooked in giant cauldrons to feed the striking masses. These scenes terrified Italy’s elites, who saw in Bologna a model of socialist autonomy that threatened the very foundations of capitalist society. In the press of the day, descriptions of marches often included mention of the communal meals that followed them. Ragù was no longer just food; it was a banner of class unity.

But the same sauce that symbolized solidarity soon became entangled in violence. With the rise of fascism in the 1920s, the cooperatives were among the first targets of Mussolini’s Blackshirts. Case del popolo were burned, their kitchens destroyed, their communal pots overturned. Fascist squads understood the power of food in cementing collective identity, and destroying these spaces was a way of crushing the movement’s heart. Survivors recalled ragù simmering on the stove while squads stormed in, scattering workers who only hours earlier had shared a meal.

Even as fascism sought to erase the cooperative spirit, ragù remained. Families who once ate it in communal halls began to prepare it at home, continuing the tradition in private while public spaces were suppressed. In kitchens across Emilia-Romagna, the scent of ragù became a reminder of what had been lost and a quiet promise of what could return. When fascism finally fell, and the cooperatives revived after World War II, ragù reemerged in the open. Once again, it filled the kitchens of case del popolo, this time feeding celebrations of liberation.

The history of ragù alla bolognese is therefore inseparable from the history of solidarity in Emilia-Romagna. From elite tables to communal kitchens, from socialist organizing to fascist repression, it has carried meanings far beyond its flavor. 

The longer you let it simmer, the better. The sauce is best with a depth of flavor. Remember, to be sparse on the tomatoes. True bolognese does not have that much. 

Pasta alla Bolognese (Emilia-Romagna)

Tagliatelle with rich meat ragù.

Ingredients:

• 400g tagliatelle

• 200g ground beef

• 100g ground pork

• 1 onion, finely chopped

• 1 carrot, finely chopped

• 1 celery stalk, finely chopped

• 100ml white wine

• 1 sprig rosemary

• 1 sprig thyme

• 200ml milk

• 400g canned tomatoes

• 2 tbsp olive oil

• Salt and pepper to taste

• Pinch of nutmeg

Steps:

1. Sauté onion, carrot, and celery in oil until soft.

2. Add beef and pork, cook until browned.

3. Add wine, reduce. Add tomatoes, rosemary, thyme. Simmer 1 hour.

4. Stir in milk, nutmeg simmer 30 minutes. Season.

5. Cook tagliatelle al dente, toss with sauce, serve.

Molise – Fusilli alla Molisana: Twists of the Brigand

Molise is Italy’s youngest and least-known region, carved out of Abruzzo in 1963 and tucked into the rugged mountains between the Apennines and the Adriatic. Its landscape is steep, rocky, and unforgiving, with hilltop villages clinging to ridges and valleys that still feel untouched by time. Agriculture and shepherding have long been the backbone of Molise’s economy, with flocks of sheep moving along ancient routes and fields of grain sustaining families for generations. Isolation has been both a burden and a shield; leaving Molise on the margins of power, but preserving a distinct identity defined by tradition and a fierce sense of self-reliance.

Fusilli alla Molisana embodies this character. Unlike factory-made spirals, Molise’s fusilli were once made by hand, each strand wrapped carefully around a knitting needle or thin stick, then slid off to create its distinctive twist. This shape was more than aesthetic, it clung to the hearty ragù made from lamb or mixed meats, a slow-cooked sauce born of rural abundance and necessity. A meal like this was food for families who lived hard lives, but it was also a quiet celebration of living local; flour milled from nearby fields, meat from one’s own flock, herbs gathered from the mountainsides.

But in the decades after the unification of Italy in 1861, Molise’s rugged mountains and isolated valleys took on a darker meaning. This was the era of brigantaggio, the brigand wars that swept across southern Italy. What the new Italian state described as banditry was, in reality, a form of rural rebellion. In the hills of Molise, pasta and ragù were eaten in households that quietly sheltered brigands; men and women driven by hunger, taxes, and political betrayal into open resistance. Meals like fusilli alla Molisana, shared in modest kitchens, became not just food, but a subtle expression of solidarity.

The unification of Italy in 1861 promised a new national future, but for the peasants of Molise and the broader Mezzogiorno, Southern Italy, it felt like a foreign conquest. Instead of liberation, they were met with crushing new taxes, military conscription, and laws that stripped communal rights to forests and pastures. For families who already lived at the edge of survival, these measures deepened misery. Into this climate of anger and despair, brigand bands emerged, roaming the hills of Molise with rifles, pistols, and stolen horses.

These brigands were not simple criminals. Many were veterans of the Bourbon armies, suddenly unemployed and branded traitors. Others were peasants who had lost their land to wealthy landowners or been pushed into poverty by the new state’s burdens. Some were women, camp followers, lovers, or fighters themselves, who endured the same dangers. In Molise, the boundaries between brigand and peasant were ever-shifting: a shepherd one day, a rebel the next.

To the authorities in Turin and Rome, brigands were thieves and murderers, enemies of progress who needed to be eradicated. But to many in Molise, they were seen as defenders, romantic outlaws who dared to resist the distant state. Families fed them, hid them in barns, and passed along messages. In the evenings, a bowl of fusilli alla Molisana, steaming with lamb ragù, might be set down before a weary brigand who had evaded a patrol.

The new Italian army, determined to crush resistance, responded with overwhelming force. Tens of thousands of troops were deployed to the south in what was effectively a civil war. Villages suspected of aiding brigands were burned, men executed, women and children terrorized. Molise, with its maze of valleys and forests, became one of the strongholds of this bitter struggle.

The war was not only fought with rifles, but with hunger. Soldiers raided food stores, confiscated animals, and punished peasants by leaving them destitute. In this climate, the simple act of making pasta became an act of resistance. The twisting of dough around a needle was a reminder that despite oppression, families would feed themselves with what their land provided.

Brigand leaders like Carmine Crocco and others passed through Molise, inspiring both fear and admiration. Stories tell of brigands who entered villages demanding food but paying in protection, leaving behind tales of generosity mixed with violence. Around family tables, peasants spoke cautiously, but the act of serving fusilli to a brigand blurred the line between necessity and resistance.

For the government, this struggle was framed as a war against crime. For Molise, it was a battle for dignity and their way of life. The brigand wars revealed a deep rift between the new Italian state and its southern subjects, a rift that would define Italian politics for generations. Molise, poor and overlooked, bore scars of suspicion: too rebellious, too backward, too defiant.

As years dragged on, brigandage was slowly extinguished through sheer military brutality. Executions, deportations, and imprisonment broke the movement, but the resentment remained. In village kitchens, recipes survived as silent witnesses. Fusilli alla Molisana, once shared with neighbors and sometimes brigands, became a dish of remembrance; of solidarity in hard times, of rebellion that flickered and was crushed.

The symbolism of the pasta’s twist endured. Each hand-shaped spiral was a reminder of individuality, of resistance against being flattened into uniformity by a distant state. Just as no two fusilli were identical, no peasant family in Molise could be made to conform fully to the expectations of the new Italy.

The thing I find best about fusilli is how wonderfully the sauce sticks to the pasta. I used store-bought and did not make the pasta by hand. But, it is still delicious. 

Fusilli alla Molisana

(with Store-Bought Pasta & Lamb Ragù)

Serves: 4

Prep Time: 10 min

Cook Time: 1 hr 30 min

Ingredients:

• 3 tbsp extra virgin olive oil

• 1 small onion, finely chopped

• 1 small carrot, finely chopped

• 1 celery stalk, finely chopped

• 500 g (1.1 lb) lamb shoulder, cut into small cubes (or a mix of lamb and pork for depth)

• 150 ml (⅔ cup) red wine

• 500 g (18 oz) tomato passata

• 200 ml (¾ cup) water or light lamb/chicken broth

• Salt & freshly ground black pepper

• A few fresh basil leaves (optional)
  To Serve:

• 400 g (14 oz) store-bought fusilli

• Freshly grated Pecorino di Molise or Pecorino Romano

Method:

1. Sauté Vegetables: Heat olive oil in a large saucepan over medium heat. Add onion, carrot, and celery; cook until soft.

2. Brown Meat: Add lamb, season, and sear until golden on all sides.

3. Deglaze: Add wine, scrape the bottom, and reduce by half.

4. Simmer: Stir in passata and broth. Cover and cook gently for 1–1½ hours, until lamb is tender and sauce thick. Adjust seasoning.

5. Cook Pasta: Boil fusilli in salted water until al dente. Drain, reserving a little pasta water.

6. Combine & Serve: Toss pasta with ragù, add a splash of pasta water if needed, and serve with Pecorino and basil.

Umbria - Torta al Testo: Flatbread and Flames

Umbria, often called the cuore verde d’Italia, the “green heart of Italy”, is a landlocked region surrounded by Tuscany, Marche, and Lazio. Unlike its better-known neighbor Tuscany, Umbria has long cultivated a quieter, more introspective identity. Its landscape is one of rolling olive groves, vineyards, and forests that cloak the foothills of the Apennines, punctuated by medieval hill towns like Assisi, Perugia, and Spoleto. Historically, the region has been a crossroads. The Etruscans once held sway here, leaving traces in Perugia’s walls and tombs. The Romans followed, exploiting Umbria’s central location to bind their empire together by road and river. Despite its centrality, Umbria has always seemed somewhat apart; rural, reserved, self-sufficient, and proud of its traditions.

One of the simplest and most enduring of those traditions is torta al testo, an unleavened flatbread whose name derives from the testo, a round stone or cast-iron disk heated directly over a fire. The dish has deep roots: Roman legionaries are thought to have baked similar breads on heated shields or stones, carrying flour and water in their packs for a quick bite. In Umbria’s countryside, peasants adapted this into an everyday staple. Flour, salt, water, and a touch of yeast were cheap and available, and farmers could carry dough into the fields, pressing it onto the testo over an open flame. Eaten plain or stuffed with cured meats, cheese, or wild greens, it was humble, filling, and, above all, portable. Over centuries, torta al testo came to symbolize resourcefulness, the bread of laborers, shepherds, and sharecroppers alike.

This connection between bread and the working classes took on a sharper edge in the late 19th century. Following Italian unification in 1861, the new taxes and policies struck rural Italy hard, and in Umbria, tenant farmers and sharecroppers (mezzadri) remained trapped in cycles of poverty under powerful landlords. By the 1880s, discontent simmered into organized protest. In the Perugia countryside, peasants staged land occupations, refusing to abandon the soil they worked unless given fairer terms. These scioperi alla rovescia, reversed strikes, were unusual for their peaceful nature: instead of halting labor, peasants occupied estates and continued farming, a living claim to their right to the land.

It was in these fields, under the olive trees and by hastily built fires, that torta al testo sustained protest. Farmers brought sacks of flour, salt, and water, cooking the bread together in makeshift camps. The act of baking and breaking bread communally was as symbolic as it was practical. Every round of torta al testo pulled from the fire was nourishment for the body, but also a statement: we belong here, we feed ourselves here, and we will endure together. The landlords might own the deeds, but the peasants owned the bread that rose from the fields.

The protests intensified between 1884 and 1890, as radical movements spread from northern Italy into Umbria. Socialist organizers arrived in Perugia, rallying tenant farmers to demand shorter leases, lower rents, and recognition of their cooperatives. Local authorities, pressured by landowners, denounced the gatherings as subversive. At sit-ins, Carabinieri (Italy’s domestic police) patrols often broke up assemblies, confiscating banners and arresting leaders. But the protesters returned again and again, driven by hunger as much as hope. Contemporary accounts describe bonfires glowing in the fields outside Perugia, smoke mingling with the smell of flatbread as families clustered around to share their modest meals, planning the next day’s resistance.

The movement reached a climax in 1894, when the Italian state declared martial law in several provinces to suppress peasant unrest. In Umbria, troops stormed occupied lands, dispersing protesters with force. Leaders were jailed or exiled, but the spirit of the movement survived in cooperative societies that would later help transform Italy’s agricultural system. For many, torta al testo became bound to memory not only as food, but as symbol; a bread fire-baked and communal, representing survival amid hardship.

In the words of one Umbrian farmer recorded in a socialist pamphlet of the time: “They may seize our land, but they cannot take from us the bread we bake with our hands.” The bread became shorthand for the protest itself. The image of villagers crouched over a crackling testo, eating together before a day of confrontation, lingers in the romantic consciousness even now.

I LOVE Torta al Testo. Its such a great bread for sandwiches. I stuffed mine with salami and provolone and capicola, along with arugula. 

Torta al Testo (Umbria)

Umbrian flatbread cooked on a hot stone.

Ingredients:

• 500g flour

• 300ml water

• 10g salt

• 7g fresh yeast

• 2 tbsp olive oil

Steps:

1. Dissolve yeast in water. Mix with flour, salt, and oil. Knead 10 minutes.

2. Let rise 1 hour.

3. Divide into 2, roll into 1cm-thick rounds.

4. Cook on a hot griddle or cast-iron pan 5-7 minutes per side. Serve with cured meats or cheese.

Abruzzo – Arrosticini: Skewers of Survival

Abruzzo, perched between the Adriatic Sea and the rugged spine of the Apennines, is often called the “green lung of Europe” thanks to its vast national parks, dense forests, and preserved wilderness. Unlike the polished hills of neighboring Tuscany, Abruzzo’s mountains dominate its identity. The Gran Sasso d’Italia, looming at nearly 3,000 meters, cuts across the horizon, a constant reminder of the hardships and resilience demanded by the land. For centuries, life here was shaped by the transumanza, the seasonal migration of shepherds leading their flocks to and from the high mountain pastures. This ancient ritual instilled in Abruzzesi a culture of resiliance, frugality, and fierce independence, rooted in the cycles of the earth and the demands of survival.

The dish most closely tied to this pastoral existence is arrosticini. Unlike the elaborate preparations of Italy’s celebrated regional cuisines, arrosticini are quite simple: small cubes of mutton or lamb threaded tightly on wooden skewers, grilled quickly over embers, and eaten hot with little more than a sprinkle of salt and sometimes rosemary. They were born from necessity. Shepherds, carrying knives and firewood but little else, salvaged the scraps of meat clinging to bones, cuts no one else wanted. Threaded onto sticks, they could be cooked and eaten in minutes, a warm meal for men who lived outdoors and had little luxury. Their simplicity; meat, fire, and salt embodied the shepherd’s austere lifestyle.

Yet arrosticini’s humble origins also placed them at the center of one of the most turbulent periods in Abruzzo’s history. By the late 19th century, the pastoral economy was collapsing. Railroads, once heralded as progress, shattered the age-old transhumance routes by fencing off once-common lands. Wealthy landowners privatized pastures, while new state policies undermined the communal rights shepherds had relied upon for centuries. Families who had survived for generations by moving with their flocks suddenly found themselves dispossessed. With few other trades, many were driven into poverty, hunger, and desperation.

It was in this crucible that Abruzzo became a hotbed of unrest. Displaced peasants and shepherds, stripped of land and dignity, turned to brigantaggio, banditry. Like in other regions, these briganti, derided as criminals by the state, were often celebrated as folk heroes by their communities. They lived in the highlands, raiding estates, attacking convoys, and striking back against the new order that had excluded them. The mountains, already etched into their bones from centuries of shepherding, now served as strongholds of rebellion. And among their few reliable meals were the same skewers once eaten by the herders: arrosticini, easily prepared over stolen firewood, their smoke blending with the scent of gunpowder and pine.

The government viewed Abruzzo’s unrest as a threat to the fragile stability of post-unification Italy. In the 1860s and 1870s, waves of military campaigns were launched to stamp out brigantaggio across southern and central Italy. Villages suspected of harboring briganti were burned, mass arrests were carried out, and entire communities punished. In Abruzzo, the Sulmona area became a particular flashpoint, its rugged valleys filled with fugitives and fighters. Skewers of lamb roasting over hidden mountain fires became, in their own way, part of this underground existence; a shepherd’s dish transformed into the food of resistance.

The violence of this period was brutal. Families were torn apart as sons fled to the hills, daughters were left to fend for themselves, and parents were forced to feed both soldiers and rebels alike. Oral traditions speak of villagers smuggling meat and bread up into the mountains, threading lamb onto skewers to be grilled quickly before the scent could give away hiding places. In these stories, arrosticini became more than a meal; they were a lifeline, eaten hurriedly before skirmishes or in silence around clandestine fires.

By the late 19th century, brigantaggio had been largely crushed, but the scars remained. With pastoralism no longer viable and banditry punished with merciless severity, thousands of Abruzzesi had little choice but to emigrate. Waves of families left for Rome, Naples, and especially overseas to the Americas. With them traveled memories: of mountains that could not be reclaimed, of a way of life lost, and of skewers of lamb that spoke to survival. For Italian immigrants in New York or Buenos Aires, roasting meat on sticks evoked both home and hardship.

The arrosticini, once scraps of sheep meat meant to stave off hunger, gradually became reimagined. In the 20th century, as Abruzzo’s identity solidified in the Italian imagination as “wild” and “authentic,” arrosticini were revived as a marker of rustic tradition. They left the clandestine fires of shepherds and briganti and entered the menus of trattorie, where they are now celebrated as one of Abruzzo’s most iconic dishes. 

I did not have an open grill, but I still was able to cook it in an oven, the pieces of lamb still juicy and succulent

Arrosticini (Abruzzo)

Grilled lamb skewers from Abruzzo.

Ingredients:

• 500g lamb shoulder, cut into 1cm cubes

• Wooden skewers, soaked

• Salt to taste

• Olive oil for brushing

• Rosemary sprigs (optional)

Steps:

1. Thread lamb cubes tightly onto skewers (6-8 pieces each).

2. Brush with olive oil, season with salt.

3. Grill over high heat for 2-3 minutes per side until browned.

4. Optionally, grill with rosemary for aroma. Serve hot.

Marche – Olive all’Ascolana: Small Bites of Resistance

The Marche region of central Italy stretches between the Apennine Mountains and the Adriatic Sea, a landscape of rolling hills, terraced vineyards, medieval hill towns, and a coastline of sandy beaches broken by dramatic cliffs. Often overlooked in favor of its more famous neighbors Tuscany and Umbria, Marche has long been defined by clashes: rural and mercantile, mountainous and coastal, poor in resources yet rich in culture. Its position as a crossroads of trade and conflict has left it layered with Roman roads, Lombard fortresses, and Renaissance art. The region’s rich agriculture, olives, wheat, vines, sustains both its economy and its cuisine, which remains humble yet ingenious, reflecting centuries of survival under shifting political and social orders.

Olive all’Ascolana, the dish most closely associated with Marche, originated in the city of Ascoli Piceno in the late 19th century. Known for its large Ascolana Tenera olives, the city had long been a culinary center where noble kitchens employed skilled cooks. These cooks were often tasked with preparing elaborate banquets for aristocrats and guild members, which produced substantial meat leftovers. Rather than waste, resourceful women minced the assorted cuts, binding them with egg, cheese, and herbs, then stuffed the mixture into pitted olives. Coated in breadcrumbs and fried, the result was a luxurious bite born of frugality. What began as a creative way to stretch resources soon escaped the aristocratic kitchen, spreading to taverns, family tables, and eventually becoming a symbol of Marche’s identity.

But the trajectory of Olive all’Ascolana cannot be separated from the turbulent decades following the Unification of Italy in 1861, when the collapse of old aristocratic systems and the rise of a fragile new nation reshaped Marche. The disappearance of noble households and their great kitchens forced many cooks, especially women, into precarious circumstances. They adapted by turning culinary skill into cottage industry, selling stuffed olives and other specialties in markets and homes, building a new economy from fragments of the old. It was a period when food became more than satiation; it became survival, and Olive all’Ascolana emerged as both a craft and a livelihood.

The broader social currents of this time, however, were violent and destabilizing. While Northern Italy began to industrialize, much of central and southern Italy, including Marche. was left behind. Poverty deepened, agricultural workers grew restless, and rural areas became hotbeds of resistance. As in other regions we discussed, the Brigand Wars, that sprawling conflict between peasant insurgents, ex-soldiers, and rural poor against the newly unified Italian state, came to Marche.

In Marche, the rugged Apennines provided cover for bands of brigands who resisted taxation, military conscription, and the dismantling of local rights. For many peasants, “brigandage” was less crime than survival, a desperate response to hunger and land dispossession. In villages across the region, the olive groves and wheat fields were both battleground and sustenance.

Peasant households, especially women, bore the brunt of this upheaval. With men conscripted, imprisoned, or fighting as brigands, women were forced to maintain both family and community economies. Foods reflected this. The practice of reusing scraps of meat to stuff olives into compact, portable bites echoed the improvisational survival strategies of rural kitchens. Just as brigands scavenged and adapted to survive in the mountains, so too did families adapt their diets, turning scarcity into invention. Olive all’Ascolana thus became not merely a regional specialty but a culinary metaphor for endurance under pressure.

The state’s response to brigandage was brutal. Soldiers were dispatched to Marche and other central regions to crush resistance. Villages suspected of aiding brigands faced mass arrests, confiscations, and executions. Entire communities were stigmatized as lawless, their cultural practices, including food traditions. dismissed as backward. Yet, even in this atmosphere of repression, the stuffed olive persisted, finding its way into marketplaces and public festivals. The dish’s survival during these years symbolized a refusal to let poverty and violence erase local identity.

If you like olives, you’ll love these. There’s not much else to say.

Olive all’Ascolana (Marche)

Stuffed, fried olives from Ascoli Piceno.

Ingredients:

• 500g large green olives, pitted

• 100g ground beef

• 50g ground pork

• 50g Parmigiano-Reggiano, grated

• 1 egg

• 50g breadcrumbs

• 1 tbsp parsley, chopped

• Flour, eggs, breadcrumbs for coating

• Oil for frying

Steps:

1. Cook beef and pork until browned. Cool, mix with Parmigiano, egg, parsley, breadcrumbs.

2. Stuff olives with mixture.

3. Dredge in flour, dip in eggs, coat with breadcrumbs.

4. Fry at 170°C for 2-3 minutes until golden. Drain and serve.

Friuli-Venezia Giulia – Jota Triestina: Soup of Unity

Friuli-Venezia Giulia is Italy’s northeastern frontier, a region where the jagged ridges of the Julian Alps descend into fertile plains that sweep to the rocky Adriatic coast. Its borderland position, touching Austria, Slovenia, and the sea, has long made it a crossroads of peoples. Friulian farmers tended vineyards on the plains, Slovenes and Croats crossed through the Karst plateau, and German merchants from the Habsburg realms filtered south into Trieste and Gorizia. Here, cultures did not merely meet, they intertwined, producing a land of diverse identity. Italian is spoken, yes, but so too Friulian (a Romance language distinct from Italian), German, and Slovene. This layering is the result of centuries of shifting empires, none more dominant than the Austro-Hungarian Habsburgs, who controlled the region until the devastation of World War I.

The dish that best symbolizes this borderland identity is jota, a hearty bean and sauerkraut soup that likely takes its name from the Slovene word for soup. It is humble in origin: mountain villagers needed food that was inexpensive, filling, and durable. Beans, sauerkraut, and potatoes formed its backbone, while pork scraps like pancetta enriched it when available. Each ingredient speaks to a cultural inheritance: the Slavic tradition of fermenting cabbage, the Italian embrace of beans, and the Germanic reliance on pork. What emerged was an edible reflection of coexistence.

By the 19th century, jota had moved from village hearths into the bustling industrial centers of the empire’s seaside frontier. Trieste, one of the great ports of Europe, swelled with dockworkers, railwaymen, miners, and factory hands. In these multicultural workplaces, canteens ladled out steaming bowls of jota, a dish as practical as it was symbolic. Workers of Italian, Slovene, Croat, Friulian, and German background shared benches, breaking bread with the same ladleful of soup. Out of necessity, they forged solidarity. 

But this solidarity would soon be tested. In the last decades of the 19th century, as Trieste and Gorizia industrialized under Habsburg rule, the empire became a paradoxical place: prosperous yet fragile, diverse yet divided. Nationalist movements surged across Central Europe, and the borderlands of Friuli-Venezia Giulia became a land where allegiances clashed. The workers who ate together in canteens were the same men drawn into strikes, protests, and sometimes violent confrontations, torn between class solidarity and national identity. And it was in the storm of 1904 that jota’s symbolism deepened.

In 1904, Trieste was paralyzed by a general strike, the first of its kind in the Austro-Hungarian Empire. It began in the shipyards, where Italian and Slovene dockworkers demanded better wages and safer conditions. The strike spread rapidly to the rail yards, mines, and factories, enveloping Gorizia and the Karst hinterlands. At its height, more than 30,000 workers; Italians, Slovenes, Friulians, Croats walked out in solidarity. For days, Trieste stood still. The Habsburg authorities, unnerved by this unprecedented display of labor unity, dispatched troops to suppress the movement. Clashes broke out in the streets. Workers threw stones; soldiers fired live rounds. Blood pooled where cobblestones had been pried loose.

Yet in the midst of this upheaval, the canteens and mess halls remained crucial meeting places. Workers gathered not only to plan strikes but also to eat. Jota was cheap, filling, and communal; it could feed many with little. At night, after marching or picketing, strikers huddled over steaming bowls, ladling from shared pots. In these moments, the soup became more than food; it was an emblem of collective struggle. When Italian and Slovene workers argued over politics, the simple act of passing bread and soup back and forth grounded them in shared humanity.

The strike failed, wages rose only marginally, and the military crackdown left scars. But it marked a turning point. The memory of cross-ethnic unity lingered, haunting the Habsburg rulers and inspiring future labor movements. And jota lingered too: a dish that had sustained workers through hardship, remembered in kitchens long after the strike ended. In the interwar years, after Trieste was annexed to Italy and nationalism once again pitted neighbor against neighbor, old men recalled the strike and spoke of the days when soup and struggle united them more than flags divided them.

The symbolic weight of jota carried forward into World War I, when the Isonzo Front carved trenches through the hills of Friuli and Gorizia. Soldiers; Italian, Austro-Hungarian, Slovene, and Croat dug in on either side of the same rivers, sometimes eating a version of the same soup in opposing camps. The memory of that shared dish underscored the tragedy of neighbors turned enemies.

I must say, this soup quickly became one of my favorite. I used sauerkraut that had been fermenting since my “German” post. 

Jota Triestina (Friuli-Venezia Giulia)

Bean and sauerkraut soup.

Ingredients:

• 200g dried borlotti beans, soaked overnight

• 200g sauerkraut

• 2 potatoes, diced

• 100g pancetta, diced

• 1 onion, chopped

• 1L chicken or vegetable stock

• 2 tbsp olive oil

• Salt and pepper to taste

Steps:

1. Cook beans until tender, about 1 hour. Drain.

2. Sauté pancetta and onion in oil until golden.

3. Add potatoes, sauerkraut, beans, and stock. Simmer 30 minutes.

4. Season and serve with crusty bread.

Sicily – Arancini: Rice Balls of Massacre and Migration

Sicily, the largest island in the Mediterranean, has always been a land defined by contrasts. Its geography ranges from fertile plains to jagged coasts, from the smoking summit of Mount Etna to sun-drenched olive groves and lemon orchards. Strategically located at the center of the sea, Sicily became a crossroads of civilizations. Greeks, Romans, Byzantines, Arabs, Normans, and Spaniards each left their mark; on its architecture, its languages, and especially its food. Yet for all of its beauty and cultural richness, Sicily’s history has often been marred by exploitation, poverty, and social struggle. Even after Italian unification in the 19th century, the island remained apart, treated as a periphery, a colony of the mainland, where peasants labored on vast estates owned by absentee landlords and the dream of justice remained elusive.

The origins of arancini, Sicily’s iconic fried rice balls, reflect this same blending of cultures and survival in the face of hardship. Brought to Sicily under Arab rule in the 10th century, saffron-scented rice was first shaped into portable, spiced balls. Centuries later, under the court of Frederick II, breadcrumbs were added as a crust, transforming them into golden spheres that could be carried into the fields or on hunts. Their name; arancini, or “little oranges”, evokes the island’s citrus groves, but their heartiness made them a food of survival as much as celebration. By the 19th century, they were street food for the working poor, as filling and sustaining as they were delicious.

It was in this era, however, that Sicily was shaken by one of its bloodiest labor struggles: the uprising of the Fasci Siciliani between 1891 and 1894. What began as a movement for justice, peasants and miners banding together to demand fair wages, lower taxes, and access to land, was met by the full fury of the Italian state. The violence that followed left a scar on Sicily and pushed countless families into exile. And in this moment of massacre and migration, the arancini became more than a snack, it became a meal that traveled with Sicilians as they fled violence and sailed toward uncertain new lives abroad.

The Fasci Siciliani emerged in a Sicily caught between hope and despair. Unification had promised progress, but the reality was crushing poverty. Land remained concentrated in the hands of a few, while peasants toiled under archaic contracts that left them perpetually indebted. The sulfur miners, laboring in some of Europe’s harshest and most dangerous conditions, fared little better. Socialist and democratic ideas spread across the island, mixing with the long-simmering anger of the dispossessed. By 1891, leagues, fasci, sprang up across Sicily, uniting workers in collective associations. Their demands were radical for the time: redistribution of land, abolition of exploitative contracts, fairer taxation, and respect for workers’ rights.

At first, their movement was met with enthusiasm. Meetings were held in village squares, with fiery speeches delivered in dialect, and with the scent of frying oil and rice often wafting from nearby stalls. Arancini, cheap and filling, fueled these gatherings, something warm to eat before marching in protest, something to share after a long day of debate. The dish became part of the backdrop of collective struggle. But as the fasci gained strength, landlords and politicians grew alarmed. By late 1893, the island was in upheaval, with strikes spreading, rents withheld, and land occupied.

The government in Rome, fearing revolution, decided to act. On Christmas Day of 1893, the first blood was spilled in the mining town of Lercara Friddi. Soldiers opened fire on an unarmed crowd demanding relief from hunger and injustice, killing between seven and eleven people. Witnesses described families fleeing the square, clutching what food they had prepared for the day’s demonstration, including paper-wrapped arancini, dropped in panic as the bullets fell. The massacre shocked the island, but it would not be the last.

Just weeks later, on January 20, 1894, tragedy struck again in Caltavuturo. There, peasants had occupied communal land they believed rightfully theirs. As dawn broke, soldiers encircled the encampment. When the peasants refused to disperse, the troops opened fire. Thirteen were killed, dozens wounded. Survivors spoke of cooking simple meals by campfire, rice, bread, vegetables, before the assault began. Some carried arancini in their pockets, food for a day’s labor, only to fall with them still uneaten. The humble rice ball, once a symbol of nourishment, now became bound up with the memory of loss.

The repression escalated. By the end of January, Prime Minister Francesco Crispi declared a state of siege. Over 40,000 troops were dispatched to Sicily, an occupation force larger than some colonial campaigns. Villages were raided, homes ransacked, and thousands arrested. Leaders of the fasci were imprisoned, tried, and sentenced to long terms of hard labor. The dream of reform was drowned in blood. But as families mourned, hunger still gnawed. And so arancini, cheap to make, easy to carry, continued to be prepared, a small comfort amid terror.

The massacres had another consequence: they fueled a mass exodus. In the decade that followed, hundreds of thousands of Sicilians left the island, many sailing to the United States, Argentina, and Brazil. For these migrants, arancini became a taste of home that could be recreated abroad with whatever rice, cheese, and meat they could find. In Italian-American enclaves, the rice ball traveled alongside its people, adapting but never disappearing. 

I’ve long loved arancini, and getting the chance to make it myself was wonderful

Arancini (Sicily)

Sicilian fried rice balls with ragù or cheese.

Ingredients:

• 500g Arborio rice

• 1L chicken stock

• 50g butter

• 100g Parmigiano-Reggiano, grated

• 200g mozzarella, cubed

• 100g ragù (meat sauce)

• 2 eggs

• 200g breadcrumbs

• Flour for dredging

• Oil for frying

• Salt to taste

Steps:

1. Cook rice in stock until absorbed. Stir in butter and Parmigiano. Cool.

2. Flatten a handful of rice, add mozzarella or ragù in center, form into a ball.

3. Dredge in flour, dip in beaten eggs, coat with breadcrumbs.

4. Fry at 170°C for 3-4 minutes until golden. Drain and serve.

Calabria – ’Nduja: Poverty, Peppers, and a People’s Journey

Calabria, forming the "toe" of Italy’s boot, is a hard land. Towering mountains plunge into crystalline waters, while rugged interior valleys have long isolated its people. The Sila and Aspromonte ranges dominate much of the region, shaping a culture defined by hardship. Over centuries, Calabria endured conquest after conquest: from the ancient Greeks who founded colonies like Locri and Sybaris, to the Romans, Byzantines, Arabs, Normans, and the Spanish Bourbons. Each wave left its mark on the culture and cuisine, but isolation kept Calabria poor and agrarian, its villages bound to the beats of olive groves, vineyards, and subsistence farming. Even after Italian unification in 1861, Calabria remained one of the most impoverished corners of Europe, its people burdened by high taxes, feudal land inequality, and a lack of infrastructure.

In this climate of scarcity, resourcefulness became survival. ’Nduja was born as a peasant food, a fiery spreadable sausage made from pork scraps and fat that wealthier landowners discarded. Into this, Calabrians blended their prized chili peppers, introduced from the Americas in the 16th century but embraced in Calabria with particular passion. These peppers, dried and powdered, gave the sausage its heat while also preserving it, allowing families to stretch meager resources through the year. ’Nduja was not a luxury but a necessity, an invention of poverty that turned waste into food. For many households, it was a rare source of protein, smeared on bread or stirred into pasta, a spicy reminder of both deprivation and ingenuity.

By the late 19th century, hardship escalated into crisis. After unification, the new Italian state imposed crushing taxes, conscription, and policies favoring northern industrialists. As in other regions, Calabria’s fragile agrarian economy collapsed under the weight of these reforms. Famines struck repeatedly in the 1870s and 1880s. The promise of Italian unity gave way to despair, and emigration became the only escape. Between 1876 and 1915, more than four million Italians left their homeland; Calabria alone lost a quarter of its population. Entire families abandoned mountain villages, boarding ships in Naples or Reggio, bound for Buenos Aires, São Paulo, or New York. What they carried with them was minimal, some clothes, religious icons, and food for the voyage. Among those foods was ’nduja, the fiery paste that could withstand the journey and comfort them with the flavor of home.

The roots of the Great Emigration lay in a stark inequality of landholding. While large estates (latifundia) dominated fertile coastal plains, poor farmers in the mountains eked out subsistence on thin soil. Natural disasters, earthquakes, floods, droughts, were frequent, but it was human policy that turned hardship into catastrophe. The new Italian government taxed salt, grinding mills, and even basic foodstuffs. For mountain peasants, life became untenable. ’Nduja, cheap to produce from scraps, spread further as more families were pushed into destitution. It became both sustenance and a bitter symbol of what was left to them.

Even as Italy entered the modern age, Calabria remained shackled to feudal traditions. Tenant farmers were bound to landlords who controlled not only land but also the justice system and politics. Wages were meager, debts endless, and opportunities nonexistent. These oppressive structures echoed in the flavors of ’nduja, smoky, bitter, fiery, a reflection of lives lived under pressure, survival wrung from scraps.

Word spread that across the Atlantic, work could be found in factories, mines, and railroads. Letters from earlier emigrants painted pictures of wages that dwarfed anything possible in Calabria. At ports like Naples, thousands queued for passage, clutching bundles of bread, cheese, dried fruit, and, sometimes, a jar of ’nduja. It was portable, nourishing, and tasted of home, a talisman of their identity in the uncertainty ahead.

The voyages were brutal; crowded steerage compartments, disease, and poor sanitation. Families survived on what food they brought, and it was in this era of migration that ’nduja played its role. Spread on stale bread or stirred into thin broths, it kept people alive on crossings that lasted weeks. For children and the elderly especially, it was a comfort amid hunger and seasickness, a fiery reminder of the kitchens they left behind.

In the immigrant neighborhoods of New York, Philadelphia, Buenos Aires, and São Paulo, Calabrians clustered together. Tenements and boardinghouses smelled of garlic and peppers, kitchens recreating fragments of Calabria in foreign lands. ’Nduja, though not always easy to reproduce abroad, became a marker of identity. When pork scraps were scarce, families adapted, sometimes blending soppressata with oil and chili paste, preserving the memory if not the exact recipe. In this way, the dish became a link between the old world and the new, carried in memory as much as in flavor.

The Calabrian emigrants were not passive laborers; they became active in labor movements across the Americas. In Pennsylvania coal mines, Argentine dockyards, and Brazilian coffee plantations, Calabrians joined strikes, protests, and anarchist circles. Their food sustained them in this struggle, fiery ’nduja a metaphor for their spirit, spread across bread as they debated, planned, and dreamed of dignity. The taste of Calabria fueled their resistance in the face of exploitation abroad.

Though many never returned, letters home often spoke of longing. Descriptions of city streets, endless work, and loneliness were paired with requests for packages of food. Families in Calabria would send dried pasta, cheeses, and jars of preserved ’nduja, each parcel a lifeline across the ocean. The sausage became both sustenance and symbol, standing for a homeland left behind but never forgotten.

Meanwhile, Calabria itself bore the scars of depopulation. Whole villages were emptied, fields abandoned, traditions fading. Yet, in kitchens that remained, ’nduja continued to be made. For those who stayed behind, it was survival. Though it has become a fashionable symbol of fine dining today, it remains a dish rooted in poverty.

I “cheated” and mixed sopresatta with chili pepper paste and olive oil. Still delicious though.

’Nduja (Calabria)

1. Spicy, spreadable Calabrian sausage.
   
   

Note on Soppressata Substitution: Soppressata (firm, dry-cured sausage) can substitute but lacks ’Nduja’s spreadable texture. Blend 100g spicy soppressata with 2 tbsp olive oil and 1-2 tsp Calabrian chili paste for a closer texture and heat. Use as a spread or in recipes below.

Ingredients:

• 1kg pork shoulder, minced

• 200g pork fat, minced

• 50g Calabrian chili powder

• 20g salt

• 5g black pepper

• 5g fennel seeds

• Sausage casings (optional)

Steps:

1. Mix pork, fat, chili powder, salt, pepper, and fennel seeds.

2. Stuff into casings or store as a spread.

3. Cure in a cool, dry place for 2-3 weeks (if cased) or refrigerate and use within a week.

4. Serve spread on bread, in pasta, or on pizza. For soppressata substitute, blend as noted above.

Spicy Soppressata Spread (Inspired by ’Nduja – Calabria)
A Calabrian-style spicy pork spread using soppressata.

’Nduja is a fiery, spreadable Calabrian sausage known for its deep heat and rich texture. When ’Nduja is unavailable, spicy soppressata offers a workable substitute. Though firmer and drier, blending it with olive oil and Calabrian chili paste transforms it into a spreadable version with a similar punch.

Soppressata-Based Spread Substitute:

• 100g spicy soppressata, chopped
  
  

• 2 tbsp olive oil
  
  

• 1–2 tsp Calabrian chili paste
  
  

Blend all ingredients in a food processor until smooth. Adjust chili paste for desired heat. Store in a sealed container in the fridge for up to a week.

Puglia – Orecchiette con Cime di Rapa: Ears of the Land

Puglia, often called the "heel of Italy's boot," is a region with a rich history shaped by its geography. Situated along the Adriatic and Ionian seas, it has a diverse landscape, from the flat Tavoliere plain in the north to the sun-drenched Salento peninsula in the south. This fertile land, kissed by a Mediterranean climate, has been a breadbasket for centuries, producing much of Italy's grain, olives, and wine. Puglia's history is woven with Greek, Roman, Byzantine, and Norman influences, all leaving their mark on its architecture, culture, and cuisine. Yet, beneath its idyllic surface lay a history of deep-seated social and economic inequality, particularly regarding land ownership. Large estates, or latifundia, dominated the agricultural landscape, leaving many tenant farmers in a state of perpetual poverty and dependency on powerful landowners.

Orecchiette, meaning "little ears" in Italian, are a type of pasta with a fascinating and practical origin story. Believed to have originated in the Bari region of Puglia, this pasta's unique shape wasn't just for aesthetics. The depression in the center and the rough surface were perfect for scooping up and holding onto thick, hearty sauces, particularly those made with vegetables from the region. The pasta's hand-made nature made it a staple in peasant households, requiring only flour, water, and the skill of a woman's hands. It was a dish of necessity and sustenance, often paired with the readily available cime di rapa (broccoli rabe), a bitter green that thrived in the Puglian climate.

The early 20th century in Puglia was a period of intense social unrest. The latifundia system left many farmers, known as braccianti (day laborers), without land of their own. They were forced to work for landowners under exploitative sharecropping agreements that kept them in a cycle of debt and poverty. This simmering discontent finally boiled over in the post-WWI era, fueled by socialist and communist ideologies sweeping across Italy.

The city of Foggia, the heart of the Tavoliere plain, became the epicenter of this agrarian struggle. The land there, some of the most fertile in Italy, was tightly controlled by a small number of aristocratic families and wealthy landowners. They lived lives of immense luxury while the braccianti who worked their fields barely had enough to eat. The landowners' gabellotti (estate managers) were often brutal, enforcing a feudal-like system where the workers had no rights and no hope of social mobility. The returning soldiers from the Great War, many of whom had fought for a "new Italy," were particularly radicalized, unwilling to return to the abject poverty and exploitation they had left behind.

In 1919 and the early 1920s, thousands of tenant farmers, spurred by organized socialist leagues, began a series of bold land occupations. They marched onto the fields, planting red flags and symbolically seizing the land they had worked for generations. These occupations were a direct challenge to the power of the landowners and the state. The landowners, in turn, formed their own armed groups, often aligned with the emerging Fascist movement, to intimidate and violently repress the protesters. The air in Foggia and the surrounding countryside was thick with tension, a silent war being waged between the haves and the have-nots.

During these tense periods, makeshift camps were set up on the occupied lands. The women of these communities played a crucial role, not just by supporting the cause but by using their skills to feed the protesters. They would gather together, their hands a blur of motion, shaping orecchiette pasta from simple flour and water. This humble dish, paired with the wild greens and vegetables they foraged, became a symbol of their unity and resilience. The orecchiette con cime di rapa wasn't just food; it fed the soul of the movement, a testament to the community's strength in the face of immense hardship. The taste of the bitter greens and the smooth texture of the pasta was a tangible reminder of the land they were fighting for, a direct product of the earth they were determined to reclaim.

The Fascist regime, under Benito Mussolini, came to power in 1922 and, with the support of the landowners, brutally suppressed the agrarian movements. The squadristi (Fascist paramilitary squads) were sent to the countryside to break up the protests, often using extreme violence. Socialist and communist organizers were beaten, arrested, or killed. The red flags were torn down and replaced with the Fascist insignia. The landowners' power was re-established, and the braccianti were forced back into their subordinate roles. The dream of land ownership seemed to die with the movement.

Yet, the legacy of the land seizures lived on, a memory whispered from generation to generation. The act of shaping the orecchiette, an intimate and communal process, became a quiet act of defiance. The women continued to make the pasta, their hands carrying the muscle memory of the protests. Even under the Fascist regime, which sought to control all aspects of life, this simple, homemade dish remained a symbol of a community’s enduring spirit. It represented not just a meal, but a history of struggle, of a brief, glorious moment when the poor rose up to demand what was rightfully theirs.

The end of World War II and the fall of the Fascist regime brought new hope. The post-war Italian Republic enacted significant agrarian reforms, including the "Land Reform" laws of the late 1940s and 1950s. These laws led to the expropriation of large, uncultivated estates and their redistribution to landless peasants. The struggle that began in the fields of Foggia finally bore fruit, and the braccianti were at last given their own plots of land to farm. The simple orecchiette con cime di rapa, a dish born of necessity and protest, became a staple in the homes of families who, for the first time in centuries, could truly call the land their own.

As an American, my first instinct is to smother in sauce. Resist this. The subtle notes of spice and oil and cheese are more than enough.

Orecchiette con Cime di Rapa (Puglia)

Pasta with broccoli rabe and anchovies.

Ingredients:

• 400g orecchiette

• 500g broccoli rabe, trimmed

• 4 anchovy fillets

• 2 garlic cloves, sliced

• 50ml olive oil

• 50g Pecorino Romano, grated

• Chili flakes to taste

• Salt to taste

Steps:

1. Blanch broccoli rabe in boiling salted water for 2 minutes, drain.

2. Cook orecchiette in same water until al dente.

3. Heat oil, sauté garlic and anchovies until dissolved.

4. Add broccoli rabe and chili flakes, cook 5 minutes.

5. Toss pasta with sauce, sprinkle with Pecorino, serve.

Trentino-Alto Adige – Canederli: Dumplings of Dissent

The region of Trentino-Alto Adige, nestled in the heart of the Alps, is a land of stunning natural beauty and a complex, interwoven history. Its landscape of jagged peaks, verdant valleys, and crystalline lakes is as multifaceted as its cultural identity. A bilingual region where both Italian and German are spoken, Trentino-Alto Adige has long been the crossroads of Germanic and Latin cultures, a place where tradition and modernity coexist in a delicate balance. This dual identity is a legacy of centuries of rule under the Austro-Hungarian Empire, a period that profoundly shaped the region's people, language, and, of course, its cuisine.

Amidst this rich cultural tapestry, a humble dish emerged as a symbol of unity and survival: canederli. These hearty bread dumplings, studded with speck, a cured, smoked ham, are a quintessential comfort food of the region. Their origins can be traced back to the 13th century, with an early depiction found in a fresco at Hocheppan Castle in Alto Adige. The fresco shows a woman eating what are unmistakably canederli, a testament to the dish's long-standing presence in the Alpine diet. Born of necessity, canederli were a clever way to use up stale bread, a staple of every household, transforming it into a nourishing and filling meal. Mixed with milk, eggs, flour, and the local speck, they became a cornerstone of peasant cuisine, providing warmth and filling bellies during long, cold winters. 

The true significance of canederli, however, would be forged in the pressure cooker of post-World War I Europe. Following the collapse of the Austro-Hungarian Empire, the region of Trentino-Alto Adige was annexed by Italy in 1919. This geopolitical shift was not a simple transition; it was a seismic event that shook the foundations of the local community. The immediate aftermath was a period of intense social and political upheaval known as the Biennio Rosso (The Two Red Years), a time of widespread worker unrest and protest across Italy. In Trento, the newly incorporated provincial capital, this turmoil took on a unique character. Austrian rule had provided a certain level of stability and social welfare, and its sudden dissolution, coupled with the economic instability of the war's end, led to a surge of discontent among the working class.

Workers, organized into newly formed councils, demanded better wages, improved working conditions, and a voice in their own governance. Factories and workshops were occupied, and the city was in a constant state of tension. This was a time of immense uncertainty, as people grappled with a new national identity, a new government, and a faltering economy. Amidst this chaos, the humble canederli became an unexpected symbol of solidarity and resilience. As factory canteens struggled to provide for the protesting workers, the traditional recipe for canederli was revitalized. Using readily available, inexpensive ingredients, the dumplings provided a cheap, filling, and familiar meal. They were served in communal canteens, fueling the protests and, more importantly, fostering a sense of community and shared purpose. In those meals, workers found not only physical nourishment but also a link to their shared past, a taste of the homeland they had known before the war. The canederli served as a bridge between the old and the new, a reminder of the traditions that endured even as the political landscape shifted dramatically.

The post-war period was one of transition, a time when a new Italian identity was slowly being forged in a region that had been, for centuries, part of the German-speaking world. In the shared act of eating canederli, the people of Trento found common ground. It was a dish that transcended language barriers and political divisions, a simple, delicious reminder of their shared history and culture. The canederli were more than just food; they were a single, shared tradition to unite a community in times of great change.

After years of post-war unrest and a fragile, uneasy peace, the fascist regime of Benito Mussolini consolidated power across Italy. For the people of Trentino-Alto Adige, this meant a brutal campaign of forced Italianization. German names were forbidden, public use of the German language was severely restricted, and German-speaking teachers were replaced with Italians. The very identity of the people was under attack, and their rich cultural heritage was systematically dismantled. In the face of this oppression, food became an act of quiet, defiant resistance. The recipes passed down through generations, the spätzle, the strudel, and especially the canederli, became symbols of an identity that the regime sought to erase. Making and eating these dishes in the privacy of their homes was a way for families to hold onto their heritage, a silent protest against the cultural genocide being perpetrated by the state.

Following World War II, the region was again a flashpoint. As the victorious Allies redrew the map of Europe, there was a strong push for a return to Austrian sovereignty or, at the very least, significant autonomy. Italy, however, was determined to hold onto the strategically important region. This struggle for self-determination would define the next two decades and would come to be known as the “South Tyrol Question.” It was a period of simmering tension, political maneuvering, and, eventually, a campaign of violence. The Comitato per la Liberazione del Sudtirolo (Committee for the Liberation of South Tyrol) and later the Befreiungsausschuss Südtirol (BAS), a group of German-speaking separatists, began a series of bombing campaigns. Their first major target, in what became known as the “Night of Fire” in 1961, was a series of electrical pylons and other infrastructure, intended to draw international attention to their cause.

While the extremists resorted to violence, the vast majority of the population sought a peaceful resolution. They protested, organized politically, and held onto their culture. In villages and towns, the Gasthäuser (inns) remained a central part of community life, serving as gathering places where people could speak their language, sing their songs, and, of course, eat their traditional food. In these inns, platters of canederli were served, steaming and fragrant, a visible and delicious sign of their enduring culture. They were eaten not just as a meal, but as a statement. With each bite of the hearty dumplings, the people reaffirmed their connection to their land and their traditions. It was a shared experience, a ritual that bound them together in the face of division and uncertainty.

The Canederli became a symbol of a deeper, more fundamental struggle; the struggle for cultural survival. The ingredients themselves tell a story: the speck, a product of the Alpine swine, cured with local herbs and smoked over pine, is uniquely Tyrolean. The stale bread, a reminder of a frugal, self-sufficient way of life. The milk, eggs, and flour, all products of the mountainous terrain. The very act of transforming these simple, local ingredients into a complex and satisfying dish was a rejection of the outside forces that sought to impose their will. It was an act of creation in the face of destruction, a culinary declaration of independence.

The violence of the BAS campaign and the Italian state's brutal response. including torture and extrajudicial killings, escalated tensions further. But even amidst this conflict, the canederli remained a constant. Italian soldiers and local German-speaking residents often found themselves in the same canteens and restaurants. While language barriers and political animosity created a chasm between them, the shared experience of eating a plate of canederli could, at times, create a fleeting moment of commonality. It was a dish that transcended the uniform, a familiar comfort food that both sides could recognize and appreciate, a tiny bridge in a sea of hostility.

Ultimately, a negotiated solution was reached in the late 1960s and early 1970s. Italy granted the region a high degree of autonomy, allowing for the protection of the German language and cultural heritage. Today, Trentino-Alto Adige is a model of peaceful coexistence and self-governance. But the journey was long and fraught with peril. The canederli, those simple, humble dumplings, had been there through it all. From the social upheaval of the Biennio Rosso to the cultural oppression of fascism, and from the post-war fight for autonomy to the violence of the separatists, the dish was a constant. It was a physical representation of the people’s history, their struggle, and their ultimate resilience. The canederli didn't just nourish the body; they fed the spirit of a people determined to survive and thrive. They are a delicious and tangible link to a turbulent past, a reminder that even in the face of great adversity, culture endures.

How can you go wrong with bread and broth?

Canederli (Trentino-Alto Adige)

Tyrolean bread dumplings in broth.

Ingredients:

• 200g stale bread, cubed

• 100ml milk

• 2 eggs

• 100g speck or pancetta, diced

• 1 small onion, chopped

• 2 tbsp parsley, chopped

• 50g flour

• 1L beef or chicken broth

• Salt and pepper to taste

Steps:

1. Soak bread in milk for 30 minutes, mash into a paste.

2. Sauté onion and speck, cool, mix with bread, eggs, parsley, flour, salt, and pepper.

3. Form into golf-ball-sized dumplings.

4. Simmer in broth 15 minutes until firm. Serve in broth or with butter.

Tuscany – Schiacciata con Prosciutto Crudo: Flatbread of Florentine Fire

The region of Tuscany is known worldwide for its breathtaking landscapes, artistic masterpieces, and rich culinary traditions. Nestled in central Italy, it's a land of rolling hills, cypress trees, and historic cities like Florence, Siena, and Pisa. But beyond the idyllic scenery lies a history of intense political and social upheaval. Florence, in particular, was the epicenter of the Italian Renaissance, a period of unparalleled creativity and intellectual growth. Yet, centuries later, this same city would become a sea of class struggle and revolutionary fervor. For generations, Tuscan bakers have kneaded schiacciata, a simple, olive oil-drizzled flatbread, often topped with salty prosciutto crudo for a quick, hearty bite. The very word schiacciata means "squashed" or "flattened," a nod to the baker's hand pressing indentations into the dough. This humble flatbread, a precursor to modern forms of focaccia, was the ultimate working-class food. Baked in communal wood-fired ovens, it was a practical solution for families who couldn't afford a full loaf, as its smaller, flatter form required less time and fuel to cook. In Florence, street vendors hawked it to laborers, its durability making it ideal for long days or hurried escapes. This unassuming staple became a symbol of endurance during the Biennio Rosso, the "two red years" of 1919–1920, when Italy teetered on revolution's edge.

Post-World War I chaos; skyrocketing inflation, soaring unemployment, and the demobilized soldiers' rage, ignited mass strikes and factory occupations across the north. The war had promised land and a new social order, but delivered only economic despair. In the industrial heartlands of Florence, the promise of revolution hung in the air, thick and palpable. Workers, their quiet desperation turning into a righteous fury, saw the Russian Revolution as a beacon, a living blueprint for a new society.

The "Bocci-bocci" riots erupted amid this fervor, named for the rhythmic chants or perhaps the clattering of improvised weapons. Metalworkers and textile laborers, many of them veterans who had returned to find no work, were the vanguard. They seized factories, forming self-managed councils that functioned as de facto governments. These weren't just protests; they were experiments in worker autonomy, with soviet-like structures challenging capitalist hierarchies. The factory floors, once sites of endless toil, became communal spaces where decisions were made by assembly, where the tools of production were no longer owned by a distant, indifferent boss. They seized the means of production, transforming factories into organs of proletarian power.

Among the barricades and the occupied factories, schiacciata provided quick energy. It was a food of pure utility, its simplicity a virtue. Baked in communal ovens or even in the kitchens of sympathetic workers, it was shared among comrades; a concrete, edible expression of solidarity. One can imagine a weary metalworker, his hands still smeared with grease, tearing off a piece of the warm, salty flatbread and sharing it with a fellow laborer, the prosciutto a fleeting taste of luxury in a time of scarcity. It embodied the resourcefulness of a class fighting for "bread and land," literally sustaining bodies in a revolutionary moment that would shape Tuscany's proletarian identity for decades to come.

The spirit of the Biennio Rosso was a direct challenge to the old order. In the countryside, landless peasants, many of them veterans, seized estates, demanding the land they believed was their due. In the cities, the factory councils sought not passive reform but total control. They wanted to dismantle the very system that had exploited them for generations. These workers built networks of solidarity, mirroring the bread's simple, collective preparation. The struggle was not abstract; it was rooted in the tangible, in the act of sharing a meal, of working together to produce something for the good of all.

But the old guard would not yield easily. Street clashes with police and early fascist squads, still a nascent but brutal force, turned violent. The fascists, backed by industrialists and landowners who feared the workers' power, acted as a counter-revolutionary militia. They beat and intimidated labor leaders, burned down union halls, and disrupted strikes with brutal force. These clashes were often fought over literal ground: the streets of Florence, the plazas of Siena, the factory gates. And in every clash, the scent of fresh-baked schiacciata, a scent of defiance, would have been in the air, a reminder of what they were fighting for.

The promise of the Biennio Rosso was crushed by 1920. The state, weary of the unrest and pressured by the wealthy elite, moved to regain control. The factory occupations were broken, the strikes dispersed, and the revolutionary fervor was subdued. The failure of the socialist parties to unite and seize the moment, combined with the growing strength of the fascist squads, sealed the movement's fate. This repression, coupled with the disillusionment of the workers, paved the way for Benito Mussolini's rise to power.

The rise of fascism was the final blow. Mussolini's regime, built on a foundation of nationalism and a brutal crackdown on dissent, sought to erase the memory of the Biennio Rosso. Yet, the spirit of that time lingered. It became a subterranean force, feeding the anti-fascist resistance that would eventually rise to challenge Mussolini's rule. The simple act of a family baking schiacciata in their home, of a vendor selling it on a street corner, carried within it the echoes of that revolutionary moment. It was a defiant whisper, a quiet act of remembrance for a time when the people of Florence had risen up to demand what they believed was theirs.

I’ve long made Florentine-style sandwiches. This was the first time I made the bread to go with it.

Tuscany – Schiacciata con Prosciutto Crudo

(Makes 2 medium rounds or 4 sandwiches)

Ingredients – Schiacciata (Tuscan Flatbread):

• 500g (3½ cups) all-purpose or bread flour

• 300ml (1¼ cups) warm water

• 1 packet (7g) active dry yeast

• 1 tsp sugar

• 1½ tsp salt

• 2 tbsp olive oil (plus more for brushing)

• Coarse salt and rosemary (optional topping)

Filling Ingredients (per sandwich):

• 3–4 slices Prosciutto crudo (Tuscany’s Prosciutto Toscano or Parma)

• Slices of Pecorino Toscano or fresh mozzarella (optional)

• A handful of arugula or baby greens

• Olive oil for drizzling

• Roasted Pepper-Garlic Spread (Recipe Below)

Instructions:

1. Make the Schiacciata Bread: Dissolve yeast and sugar in warm water. Let sit 5–10 minutes until foamy.

2. In a large bowl, mix flour and salt. Add yeast mixture and olive oil.

3. Knead 8–10 minutes until smooth and elastic. Cover and let rise 1–2 hours until doubled.

4. Divide dough in half. Roll or stretch into rough ovals (~½ inch thick).

5. Place on oiled parchment. Dimple with fingers, drizzle with olive oil, sprinkle coarse salt (and rosemary if using).

6. Let rest 30 mins while oven preheats to 220°C (425°F).

7. Bake for 18–22 minutes until golden and crisp on the bottom.

8. Assemble the Sandwich: Split the cooled schiacciata horizontally like focaccia.

9. Drizzle inner sides with olive oil.

10. Layer with prosciutto, cheese (if using), arugula, and Roasted Red Pepper and Garlic Spread (Below). Press gently and serve at room temperature or slightly warmed.

Roasted Red Pepper and Garlic Spread

Yields: about 1½ cups

Prep time: 10 minutes

Cook time: 30–40 minutes

Ingredients:

• 3–4 large red bell peppers

• 4–6 cloves garlic, peeled

• 2 tbsp extra virgin olive oil

• 1 tbsp red wine vinegar

• ½ tsp smoked paprika

• Salt and black pepper to taste

Instructions:

1. Roast the Peppers and Garlic: Preheat your oven to 200°C (400°F). Arrange the whole red peppers and the peeled garlic cloves on a baking sheet. Drizzle with 1 tablespoon of olive oil. Roast for 25–35 minutes, turning halfway, until the peppers are softened and their skins are blistered and charred in spots. The garlic should be golden and fragrant.

2. Steam the Peppers: Transfer the hot peppers to a bowl and cover tightly with plastic wrap for 10–15 minutes. This step allows the peppers to steam, making the skin easier to peel.

3. Peel and Seed: Once the peppers are cool enough to handle, peel off the charred skin. Remove the stems and seeds. The roasted garlic should be soft enough to squeeze from the cloves.

4. Blend the Spread: In a food processor or blender, combine the peeled, seeded peppers, roasted garlic, the remaining 1 tablespoon of olive oil, red wine vinegar, and smoked paprika. Blend until the mixture is smooth.

5. Season and Serve: Season the spread with salt and black pepper to taste. You can use it immediately or store it in an airtight container in the refrigerator for up to 5 days.

Liguria – Focaccia Genovese: Bread of Dockside Defiance

Nestled between the Ligurian Sea and the towering Alps and Apennine mountains, Liguria is a crescent-shaped region in northwestern Italy. Its rugged coastline, often called the Italian Riviera, is dotted with vibrant, cliffside villages and bustling port cities like Genoa, its capital. For centuries, Liguria’s geography has shaped its identity. The sea fostered a long tradition of maritime trade and seafaring, making Genoese sailors and merchants famous across the Mediterranean. The steep, terraced hillsides, meanwhile, forced a distinct agricultural approach, with a focus on olives, grapes, and herbs like basil, which are foundational to the region's cuisine.

The word focaccia comes from the Latin term panis focacius, meaning "hearth bread." This ancient flatbread, cooked on the hearth of a fire, has been a staple in Liguria for millennia. Over time, it evolved into the iconic focaccia genovese, a humble yet exquisite dish. Unlike many Italian breads, it's known for its generous use of extra virgin olive oil, which gives it a distinctively rich flavor and a shiny, almost-fried crust. The trademark dimples, pressed into the dough with fingertips, serve a practical purpose: they prevent the bread from puffing up too much and create little pockets for the olive oil and coarse sea salt to settle, ensuring every bite is flavorful. This bread was a simple food, easily carried by sailors and dockworkers, and a foundational part of the daily diet.

The narrative of focaccia genovese takes a dramatic turn during a turbulent period in Italian history known as the Biennio Rosso, or "Two Red Years," from 1919 to 1920. Following World War I, Italy was gripped by a deep economic crisis, with soaring unemployment and inflation. This period saw a massive wave of social and political unrest. Workers and peasants, inspired by the Russian Revolution, organized strikes and protests on an unprecedented scale.

In the industrial heartlands of northern Italy, particularly in cities like Genoa, this unrest reached a boiling point. The dockworkers and shipyard laborers, facing poor wages and unsafe conditions, decided to take matters into their own hands. They didn’t just strike; they occupied their workplaces. Armed with makeshift barricades and a fierce determination, they seized control of factories and shipyards, establishing worker-run councils to manage production themselves. This was not merely a strike for better pay; it was a radical act of defiance aimed at proving that workers could run industries without owners or managers.

In the midst of this intense struggle, food became a symbol of solidarity and resilience. Union halls became centers for organizing, and kitchens became a central part of the resistance. Focaccia genovese, with its simple ingredients and easy portability, became the bread of the occupation. Baked by sympathetic families and supporters, it was brought to the dockworkers standing guard, providing sustenance and a taste of home. Each dimpled, olive-oiled slice was more than just a meal; it was a physical embodiment of the community’s support for their struggle. The bread shared between workers on the docks was a silent but powerful statement of shared purpose and collective action, forever linking this simple dish to one of the most revolutionary moments in Italian labor history.

The sun-drenched docks of Genoa, usually a chaotic ballet of ships and cargo, fell silent in the summer of 1920. The only sounds were the low murmurs of men huddling in groups, the rhythmic clang of tools being put away for good, and the fierce, defiant shouts echoing from within the occupied shipyards. This was the heart of the Biennio Rosso, a period when the working class of Italy rose up against the post-war economic turmoil. Genoa, a city defined by its sea and its laborers, became a focal point of this struggle. The dockworkers, the camalli, had been pushed to their limit. For years, they had labored under dangerous conditions for wages that barely fed their families, their lives a constant precarious balance on the precipice of poverty. Now, inspired by a burgeoning socialist and anarchist movement and the distant echoes of revolution in Russia, they decided they had had enough.

The occupation was not a sudden, explosive event, but a slow, determined build-up of defiance. The workers of the San Giorgio shipyard, the massive steel hulks of half-finished ships looming behind them, were the first to move. They locked the gates, hoisted red flags, and established a consiglio di fabbrica, a factory council, to manage their new reality. Soon, the idea spread like wildfire. The dockworkers, the longshoremen, the stevedores, all joined in, seizing control of the bustling port that was the lifeblood of the city. The city’s elite, the signori and the industrialists, watched from their villas on the hills with a mixture of disbelief and panic as their source of wealth was taken from them, piece by painstaking piece.

Within the occupied docks, a new form of society began to take shape. The workers, many of whom had never held a position of leadership, organized production, assigned roles, and established a system of shared resources. Food, in this environment of siege and solidarity, became a critical component of their resistance. The usual rations, the meager fare provided by the companies, had stopped. The workers now relied on the support of their community, and it was in this context that focaccia genovese became the fuel of the revolution.

The kitchens of the caruggi, the narrow, winding alleys of Genoa's old town, went into overdrive. The women of the neighborhood, the wives and mothers of the striking workers, were the unsung heroes of the occupation. They baked batches of focaccia, its dimpled surface glistening with the region's prized olive oil, a staple that was both a sign of local bounty and a source of easy calories. The recipe was simple, the ingredients accessible, flour, water, yeast, salt, and plenty of olive oil. But in their hands, the focaccia became more than just bread. It was a conduit for their care, a tangible expression of their support for the men on the docks.

At dawn, children and old men would carry baskets of the freshly baked focaccia to the barricaded port gates. The air, thick with the scent of salty sea and industrial grime, would briefly be perfumed with the rich, yeasty aroma of the bread. A worker standing guard would reach out, his hand calloused and stained with grease, and take a slice. He wouldn’t just be accepting food; he would be accepting the solidarity of his family, his neighbors, his entire community. The act of sharing the focaccia, breaking off a piece to pass to a fellow worker, was a silent ritual of shared purpose.

The dimples, once a simple baking technique, took on a deeper meaning. The pockets of oil and salt nestled within the bread were a reminder of the simple, unadorned life they were fighting for, a life with dignity and a fair wage. The coarse sea salt sprinkled on top was a taste of the very sea they were masters of, yet were being denied a living from. The oil, so precious and central to the Ligurian identity, was a symbol of the wealth they created but did not own. Each bite was a silent vow of defiance, a promise not to give in.

The Biennio Rosso in Genoa was a fleeting moment, a revolutionary dream that was ultimately crushed. The industrialists, backed by the rising tide of fascism, used the threat of the worker councils to justify a brutal crackdown. The factory occupations were eventually broken up by force, and the nascent worker movement was brutally repressed. The red flags came down, and the rhythm of the port returned to its familiar cadence of commerce, but something had changed. The memory of the occupation, and the focaccia that sustained it, became a powerful part of the city's identity.

The Genovese version of focaccia, flat and crispy, is the version I had growing up. It was great to make it.

Focaccia Genovese (Liguria)

Ligurian olive oil flatbread with a glossy crust.

Ingredients:

• 500g bread flour (or 00 flour)

• 350ml lukewarm water

• 10g salt

• 7g fresh yeast (or 3g dry yeast)

• 60ml extra virgin olive oil (plus extra for drizzling)

• Coarse sea salt

• Optional: Fresh rosemary or sliced onions

Steps:

1. Dissolve yeast in water. Mix with flour, salt, and 30ml olive oil. Knead 8-10 minutes.

2. Let rise 1-2 hours until doubled.

3. Spread dough in a greased 30x40cm tray, dimple with fingers.

4. Mix 30ml oil with 30ml water, pour over dough. Sprinkle with sea salt and optional rosemary.

5. Let rise 30-45 minutes. Bake at 220°C for 20-25 minutes until golden. Drizzle with oil.

Lazio – Saltimbocca: The Dish That Jumps Into History

Lazio, the heartland of Italy, is a region steeped in history, defined by the monumental legacy of ancient Rome. Stretching from the Tyrrhenian Sea to the Apennine Mountains, its landscape is a tapestry of rolling hills, volcanic lakes, and fertile plains. While its capital, Rome, dominates global imagination, the region's culinary identity is a reflection of both its imperial past and its agrarian soul. Dishes are often simple yet robust, relying on fresh, local ingredients like pecorino cheese, artichokes, and guanciale. This rustic tradition, born from necessity and a deep connection to the land, provides the backdrop for a dish that would, for a time, become a symbol of both sustenance and resistance: saltimbocca

The history of saltimbocca is as debated as it is simple. The name itself, literally "jumps in the mouth," speaks to its rapid preparation and irresistible flavor. The dish consists of thin slices of veal, draped with a slice of prosciutto and a single sage leaf, all pan-fried in butter. While its precise origins are a matter of culinary folklore, some food historians trace it back to Brescia, in northern Italy, before it was adopted and popularized in Rome in the late 19th and early 20th centuries. The dish's appeal lay in its efficiency: it required minimal cooking time and was a clever way to elevate less-desirable cuts of meat. In the bustling, often chaotic environment of Rome, it became a staple of trattorias, serving as a quick, fortifying meal for a city in flux. This culinary context would collide with a pivotal moment in modern Italian history: the August general strike of 1922.

As Benito Mussolini's fascist movement, the Partito Nazionale Fascista, gained power, its blackshirt militias, or squadristi, intensified their campaign of violence against political opponents, particularly socialists and communists. In response, a broad coalition of socialist and labor organizations called for a general strike from August 1-3, 1922. In Rome, the strike was a powerful demonstration of solidarity, with transport workers, factory laborers, and militants halting the city's infrastructure to protest fascist brutality. The streets of the capital became a battleground, as strikers clashed with squadristi attempting to break the protests.

The Italian Fascist Party, founded in 1921, was the political expression of a new, radical right-wing ideology. While it borrowed some rhetoric from the left, like a focus on national community and promises of social reform, its core tenets were staunchly anti-socialist and anti-democratic. It was born from a nationalist reaction against the perceived failures of liberal democracy and the rising influence of socialism and communism after World War I. Mussolini's vision was a totalitarian state where the nation, personified by the leader, was supreme and individual rights were subordinate to the collective will. This ideology violently rejected the class struggle advocated by the left, instead promoting a corporatist model where labor and capital were forced into a subservient, state-controlled partnership. This made the fascists the natural enemies of the socialists and communists who led the 1922 strike. The strike was a last-ditch effort to assert the power of organized labor and civil society against a movement bent on their total annihilation.

Central to this struggle was the Arditi del Popolo (People's Daring Ones), a militant anti-fascist group formed in 1921. Composed of former soldiers, anarchists, and socialists, the Arditi acted as the armed wing of the resistance. In Rome, they fought street-by-street against the blackshirts, protecting striking workers and socialist-owned businesses. This was not a unified, state-sanctioned army, but a patchwork of determined individuals fighting for a cause they believed in. They were often on the move, in hiding, or in direct confrontation, and their meals had to reflect this reality. The Arditi and the striking workers moved with a sense of urgency, often without a fixed place to eat. Their kitchens were often makeshift setups, either in the back of a sympathetic trattoria or a quickly-organized space on the street.

The connection between this tumultuous event and saltimbocca is more than a simple coincidence; it's a symbolic reflection of the era. The dish’s ingredients were accessible and easy to source, and its preparation was swift, requiring little in the way of a kitchen or time. For the striking workers and the Arditi militants, a meal of saltimbocca offered a crucial source of energy and protein in a compact, no-fuss package. It was a modest but nourishing meal for men and women on the front lines of a political struggle, a dish that could be prepared and consumed quickly before rejoining the fray. The veal, a common offcut, was made palatable and even delicious by the strong flavors of prosciutto and sage, an act of making something out of nothing, much like the resistance itself was trying to build a defense against a rising tide of repression with limited resources.

The Arditi del Popolo would meet in the back of trattorias in Rome’s working-class neighborhoods, the smell of sage and butter filling the air as they ate quickly before heading out to fight the fascists in the streets. These were not elaborate meals, but rather a simple dish made quickly to keep them fortified. They knew that their meals, much like their efforts, needed to be effective and efficient. There was no time for complicated sauces or slow-cooked stews; the threat of fascist violence was always just around the corner.

These quick meals were a way to fuel a movement in a city under siege. While the fascists had state backing and resources, the anti-fascists had a network of solidarity, with local businesses and residents providing shelter and food. Saltimbocca became a symbol of this grassroots support, a dish prepared by a community for its defenders. It was a small but vital part of the logistical network that sustained the resistance in its darkest hours.

Ultimately, the August strike was a failure. The fascists, with the complicity of the state, crushed the protests with overwhelming force. This victory emboldened Mussolini and paved the way for his "March on Rome" just two months later, an event that would bring him to power and usher in two decades of fascist rule. Yet, the defiance shown in those three days, particularly in Rome, laid the groundwork for a longer, more enduring struggle.

The spirit of the Arditi del Popolo would live on in the later anti-fascist partisan movements, demonstrating that even in the face of defeat, a will to resist had been forged. It was a brutal defeat, but a defeat that left a defiant legacy. A legacy that echoes through Italian history to this very day, and even though the country was brutally repressed, they never forgot the struggle.

This dish is delicious and one can easily see why it “Jumps in the mouth”

Saltimbocca (Lazio)

Roman veal cutlets with prosciutto and sage.

Ingredients:

• 4 veal cutlets (100g each), pounded thin

• 4 slices prosciutto

• 8 fresh sage leaves

• 50g flour

• 50g butter

• 100ml white wine

• Salt and pepper to taste

• Toothpicks

Steps:

1. Place 2 sage leaves on each cutlet, wrap with prosciutto, secure with toothpick.

2. Dust with flour, shaking off excess.

3. Melt butter in a skillet, cook cutlets 2 minutes per side.

4. Add wine, simmer 2-3 minutes. Season, remove toothpicks, serve with sauce.

Lombardy – Risotto alla Milanese: Golden Grains of Liberation

Lombardy, a northern Italian region bordering Switzerland, has long been a crossroads of history, culture, and commerce. Its name derives from the Lombards, a Germanic tribe that established a kingdom in the area after the fall of the Roman Empire. The region's geography is diverse, ranging from the Alpine peaks in the north to the fertile plains of the Po River valley. This latter area, with its extensive network of rivers and canals, has made Lombardy a dominant agricultural center, particularly for rice cultivation. The region's capital, Milan, evolved from a Roman settlement into a medieval duchy, a center of Renaissance art and learning, and later, a global fashion and finance hub. Throughout its history, Lombardy has been a battleground for empires and a cradle for innovation and industry, with its people often at the forefront of political and social change. 

Risotto alla Milanese is a culinary emblem of Lombardy's capital, Milan, but its origins are shrouded in legend. The most popular tale dates back to 1574, during the construction of the Milan Cathedral. According to the story, a young apprentice to the Flemish master glassmaker, Valerius of Flanders, was known for his habit of adding saffron to pigments to create a more vibrant yellow. As a playful jab, his master's daughter's wedding guests joked that he would add saffron to the rice at the wedding feast. He took them up on the challenge, and the resulting saffron-infused risotto was a stunning success. While the story is charming, the dish’s true history likely reflects the blend of regional ingredients and culinary innovation. Saffron, a valuable spice, was accessible through trade routes, while rice, cultivated in the Lombard plains since the 15th century, provided a humble and hearty base. The dish, with its distinctive golden hue, became a symbol of prosperity and celebration, gracing the tables of both the wealthy and, in more modest forms, the working class. The saffron, once a luxury item, and the rice, a staple crop of the working people, were fused into a new creation that captured the vibrancy and ambition of Milan. This unique combination made the dish a symbolic representation of the city's industriousness, a trait that would prove crucial during one of its darkest hours. The narrative of Risotto alla Milanese takes on a deeper, more poignant meaning during the final, tumultuous days of World War II. Milan, as Italy's industrial heartland, was a key target for Allied bombings and a stronghold for the Fascist regime. However, beneath the surface, a powerful resistance movement was brewing. The Comitato di Liberazione Nazionale Alta Italia (CLNAI), a coalition of anti-fascist parties, organized clandestine networks within factories and neighborhoods. These partisans, a mix of communists, socialists, and Catholics, were the unsung heroes of the liberation. On April 25, 1945, with Allied forces closing in, the CLNAI declared a general insurrection, urging all citizens to rise against the German and Fascist forces occupying the city. This day, now celebrated as Liberation Day, marked the beginning of the end for the Axis powers in Italy. The ensuing days were a chaotic mix of street fighting and jubilant celebration. As the Fascist regime crumbled, Mussolini and his mistress, Clara Petacci, attempted to flee to Switzerland. They were captured by partisans near Lake Como and executed on April 28. Their bodies were later transported to Milan and hung upside down in Piazzale Loreto, a public square that had been the site of a brutal fascist reprisal the year before. The scene was a stark and brutal act of cathartic vengeance for a nation scarred by two decades of dictatorship.

The story of the Italian Resistance in Milan is a tapestry woven with threads of daily struggle and clandestine defiance. For years, the city's factories, humming with production for the war effort, became hubs of anti-fascist activity. Workers, a silent majority against the regime, communicated in whispers and coded gestures. They passed along leaflets, hid escaped prisoners of war, and sabotaged machinery, all under the watchful eyes of fascist informers. These men and women, many of them members of the clandestine Communist Party, built a network of solidarity in the city's industrial suburbs, in places like Sesto San Giovanni, a working-class stronghold known as the "Stalingrad of Italy." Here, amidst the din of lathes and looms, plans were laid for the day of reckoning.

Amidst this atmosphere of oppression, food was more than just sustenance; it was a tool for survival. Rationing was severe, and basic ingredients were hard to come by. But the partisans were resourceful. They cultivated small plots of land on the outskirts of the city, and many families kept sacks of rice, a staple that was often easier to acquire than pasta or bread flour. The rice, grown in the fertile plains of the Po Valley, was the food of the people, the produce of their land. It was the foundation of a simple, nourishing meal that could feed many with a single pot. It was a communal food for a communal struggle.

As the insurrection of April 25th began, Milanese streets transformed into battlefields. Partisans, armed with smuggled rifles and Molotov cocktails, fought German and Fascist forces street by street. They seized key government buildings and radio stations, declaring the city liberated. The fighting was fierce, a testament to the pent-up rage of a populace tired of war and dictatorship. The roar of gunfire was punctuated by the cheers of jubilant citizens who came out of their homes to celebrate their newfound freedom. The city's factories, once symbols of Fascist power, were now held by the workers themselves. The air was thick with the scent of gunpowder and the shouts of victory.

In the midst of this euphoria, the partisan groups, exhausted from fighting, began to gather. They were hungry, but their hunger was for more than just food. They yearned for a taste of freedom. With food supplies still limited, the most accessible ingredient was rice. And for many of them, a small packet of saffron, a cherished family heirloom or a gift from a sympathetic trader, was what they had left. The vibrant yellow spice, a symbol of luxury, was now a symbol of something far more profound. It was a taste of victory.

As news of Mussolini's capture and execution spread, the city erupted in a collective catharsis. People gathered in piazzas, singing songs of liberation like “Bella Ciao” and sharing whatever food they had. In many working-class neighborhoods, giant pots were set up in the streets. Women stirred the simmering rice, and as the saffron was added, the golden hue of the risotto seemed to radiate with hope. It was a meal of the people, for the people, made with the produce of their land. It was a victory meal that tasted of defiance and solidarity. The golden grains, once a symbol of wealth, now shone as a beacon of hope and liberation.

The shared meal of risotto alla Milanese was more than just a feast; it was a ritual of solidarity. As partisans, factory workers, and ordinary citizens sat together, sharing a bowl of saffron-infused rice, they were toasting to a new Italy, born from the ruins of war. The creamy, golden risotto, with its subtle flavor and comforting warmth, was a testament to the resilience of the Milanese people, a quiet celebration of a triumph won through blood, sweat, and collective courage. It was the taste of a nation finally liberated, a moment to savor after years of suffering.

The act of making and sharing the risotto was a powerful metaphor for the liberation itself. Just as the simple grains of rice were transformed by the rich broth and luxurious saffron, so too were the working people of Milan transformed by their struggle. The individual grains came together to form a cohesive, unified whole, just as the diverse anti-fascist groups had united to fight for a common cause. The golden color of the saffron-infused rice, once a sign of luxury, now symbolized the dawn of a new, democratic era. The aroma of the saffron, fragrant and unforgettable, became a scent of remembrance, a reminder of the sacrifice and triumph of those days.

The brutal hanging of Mussolini's body in Piazzale Loreto, a site where fascists had previously executed 15 anti-fascist partisans, symbolized the violent end of a repressive era. But the shared pots of risotto across the city offered a different, more hopeful symbol. While the fascist regime was toppled with brutal force, the liberation was celebrated with a communal meal, a silent, joyful act of defiance that affirmed the humanity and solidarity that the dictatorship had tried to erase. The risotto became an enduring symbol of a people who, in their darkest hour, found the strength to rise, fight, and celebrate their freedom.

First time making risotto. Its notoriously difficult to get right. I think I did an ok job.

Risotto alla Milanese (Lombardy)

Saffron-infused creamy risotto from Milan.

Ingredients:

• 300g Arborio or Carnaroli rice

• 1 small onion, finely chopped

• 50g butter

• 100ml white wine

• 1L hot chicken or vegetable stock

• 0.2g saffron threads

• 50g Parmigiano-Reggiano, grated

• Salt to taste

Steps:

1. Soak saffron in 2 tbsp hot stock for 10 minutes.

2. Melt half the butter in a pan, sauté onion until translucent.

3. Add rice, stir for 2 minutes. Pour in wine and cook until evaporated.

4. Add stock one ladle at a time, stirring until absorbed. Add saffron after 10 minutes.

5. Cook until rice is creamy and al dente (about 18 minutes). Stir in remaining butter and Parmigiano. Season and serve.

Basilicata – Pasta con Peperoni Cruschi: Peppers of Displacement

Basilicata, a region in Southern Italy, is characterized by rugged mountains, ancient villages, and a short, beautiful coastline on the Ionian and Tyrrhenian seas. Often overlooked in favor of its more famous neighbors, Puglia and Calabria, Basilicata boasts a rich history dating back to the Paleolithic era. Its unique geography, with the Apennine Mountains forming a natural spine, has historically made it a crossroads of cultures, from the ancient Greeks and Romans to the Byzantines and Normans. The region's challenging terrain and a history of poverty and isolation have shaped a resilient and deeply rooted culture. The city of Matera, with its Sassi (ancient cave dwellings), is a prime example of this history, a testament to human perseverance and adaptation.

The dish Pasta con Peperoni Cruschi is a perfect reflection of Basilicata's culinary identity: simple, resourceful, and full of flavor. The key ingredient, peperoni cruschi (crispy peppers), is made from a specific variety of sweet pepper grown in the region, known for its thin skin and low water content. This makes it ideal for drying in the sun, a traditional preservation method that allowed families to store vegetables for the long winter months. The peppers are then briefly fried in hot olive oil, causing them to puff up and become incredibly light and crunchy, hence the name "cruschi" (crunchy). The dish's simplicity, pasta, peppers, garlic, and breadcrumbs, speaks to a time when ingredients were limited and every component had to be used to its fullest potential.

The story of pasta con peperoni cruschi is inextricably linked to a pivotal, yet painful, historical event: the forced relocation of Matera's residents from the Sassi in the 1950s. For centuries, families lived in these ancient cave dwellings, often in extreme poverty and unsanitary conditions. By the mid-20th century, the Sassi had become a symbol of Italy's "shame" and a public health crisis. In 1952, a law was passed to expropriate the Sassi and relocate over 15,000 residents to modern, newly constructed public housing neighborhoods on the outskirts of Matera. This move was intended to improve living conditions but tore apart a deeply interconnected community. Families were displaced from homes their ancestors had occupied for generations, severing social ties and traditional ways of life.

For centuries, the people of Matera had built a life around the Sassi, an intricate web of community carved directly from the limestone. Life was communal, with families sharing courtyards, water sources, and the burdens of daily life. The Sassi were not just homes; they were a living landscape of shared history and mutual support. But with the rise of modern Italy and the push for national unity and progress, the Sassi were cast as a backward and embarrassing relic. Carlo Levi’s 1945 book Christ Stopped at Eboli exposed the dire poverty of Southern Italy, bringing international attention to the squalor of Matera, and painting a vivid picture of a world far removed from the economic boom of the north. The government, keen to project an image of a new, modern Italy, saw the Sassi as a stain to be removed, not a community to be uplifted.

The forced relocation was swift and brutal. Families were given notices and little time to gather their belongings. Truckloads of furniture and personal effects were carted out of the Sassi, leaving behind the empty, echoing caves that had once been filled with generations of life. The new housing projects, while equipped with modern amenities like running water and electricity, were sterile and uniform. The labyrinthine, organic feel of the Sassi was replaced by a rigid grid of concrete blocks, and the communal courtyards were swapped for private balconies. The old ways of life, built on face-to-face interaction and shared space, withered. Neighbors who had known each other their entire lives found themselves isolated, their social bonds frayed by distance and the unfamiliarity of their new surroundings. The sense of displacement was profound; they had not just moved houses, they had been uprooted from their entire way of life.

The displacement was not just physical, but psychological. The older generations, in particular, struggled to adapt. The Sassi had been their world, a place where their memories were etched into every stone and passageway. The preparation of food, a daily ritual, was also part of this world. The sun-drying of peperoni cruschi on strings outside their homes was a common sight in the Sassi, a communal activity that marked the changing seasons. In the new neighborhoods, this practice became a solitary act, disconnected from the shared rhythms of the community. The simple act of frying the peppers, however, became a defiant ritual, a small but potent act of resistance against the forced erasure of their past. The sizzling sound of the peppers in the hot oil was the sound of memory, a link to the homes they had been forced to leave.

This simple dish became a vehicle for cultural memory, a way for families to pass down their story to the younger generations who had no memory of life in the Sassi. It was a taste of what was lost but not forgotten, a culinary echo of a world that had been systematically dismantled. The texture of the crispy peppers, the savory warmth of the garlic and olive oil, and the comfort of the pasta offered a tangible connection to the past. The dish provided a sense of continuity in a world defined by rupture. It wasn't just food; it was a narrative of resilience, a story told through flavor and texture.

The government's actions, while well-intentioned on the surface, were a form of cultural destruction. They aimed to "civilize" a population by destroying the very fabric of their society. In the eyes of Rome, the people of Matera were a problem to be solved, not a community with a rich history and a profound sense of place. The relocation served as a stark lesson in the power dynamics between the prosperous north and the marginalized south, a reminder of how progress is often defined and imposed by those in power, at great cost to those who are "helped." The Sassi were eventually recognized as a UNESCO World Heritage site, and Matera became a celebrated tourist destination, a testament to the very history that the government once sought to erase.

Again, reject the urge to smother in sauce. Let the sparse ingredients work their magic. 

Pasta con Peperoni Cruschi (Basilicata)

Pasta with dried sweet peppers.

Ingredients:

• 400g spaghetti

• 50g dried peperoni cruschi

• 100ml olive oil

• 2 garlic cloves, sliced

• 50g breadcrumbs

• Salt to taste

Steps:

1. Fry peperoni cruschi in hot oil for seconds until crisp. Remove, crumble.

2. Toast breadcrumbs in same oil, remove.

3. Sauté garlic in remaining oil.

4. Cook spaghetti al dente, toss with garlic oil.

5. Top with crumbled peppers and breadcrumbs.

Campania – Neapolitan Margherita Pizza: Dough of Defiance

Campania, a region in southern Italy, is steeped in history and natural beauty. Its name, derived from the Latin Campania felix or 'fertile countryside,' hints at its rich volcanic soil, which has made it a breadbasket for millennia. The region has dramatic coastline, with the iconic Bay of Naples at its heart, overlooked by the imposing Mount Vesuvius. Its capital, Naples, is a vibrant, chaotic city, a melting pot of ancient Greek and Roman influences, medieval kingdoms, and modern-day life. From the ruins of Pompeii to the sun-drenched Amalfi Coast, Campania's past and present are intertwined. Its cuisine, known for its use of fresh, simple ingredients, reflects this rich heritage. The fertile land yields plump San Marzano tomatoes, pungent garlic, and fragrant basil, while the nearby sea provides an abundance of fresh seafood. The lemons of the Amalfi Coast are used for the drink limoncello. Its in this setting that one of the world's most beloved dishes was born.

The Margherita pizza is more than just a culinary creation; it's a patriotic symbol. The dish's origins are often traced back to 1889, when Queen Margherita of Savoy visited Naples. A local pizzaiolo (pizza maker), Raffaele Esposito, created a pizza in her honor, topping it with ingredients that mirrored the colors of the Italian flag: red from tomatoes, white from mozzarella, and green from basil. This simple, elegant combination was an instant hit, and the Margherita pizza became a national sensation, a testament to Italy's unification and pride. However, the pizza was already a staple in Naples long before the queen's visit. It was a common, affordable street food, a quick and satisfying meal for the working class. Its simple ingredients and quick preparation made it a perfect food for those on the move.

The year is 1969. The economic boom of post-war Italy had bypassed many in the south, including the workers of Battipaglia, a town in the Campania region. Tensions had been simmering for months as a local sugar factory, SNAM, and a tobacco company, ETI, announced mass layoffs, part of a broader rationalization plan for the struggling southern economy. The government's promise of new jobs never materialized, leaving thousands of families facing destitution. On April 9, the simmering anger boiled over into a full-scale riot. Workers, joined by students and farmers, blocked the main highway and the railway line, paralyzing traffic and demanding government intervention.

The uprising was brutal. The Celere, Italy's riot police, were deployed in force, clashing with protestors in the streets. The battle for control of Battipaglia was intense and unrelenting. Tear gas canisters rained down on the crowds, met with a barrage of stones and makeshift barricades. Gunfire from both sides echoed through the narrow streets. The fighting continued for hours, a desperate and violent struggle for dignity and survival. Two people were killed: Teresa Ricciardi, a young factory worker, and Carmine D'Alessio, a high school student, both shot by police. Over 100 were injured. This wasn't just a protest against layoffs; it was a desperate cry against economic neglect, social injustice, and the profound sense that the south was being left behind. The Mezzogiorno was in revolt, and Battipaglia was its heart.

Amidst the chaos and hunger, the simple act of eating became an unexpected symbol of resistance. As the protests raged, the pizzaioli of Battipaglia and nearby towns opened their doors and their hearts. They refused to charge the protestors for food, handing out slices of their simple, cheap pizza to the exhausted and hungry masses. The aroma of baking dough and bubbling tomato sauce mingled with the acrid smell of tear gas. It was a stark contrast; the brutality of the state met with the simple generosity of a community.

The protestors, their faces streaked with soot and tears, gathered around the makeshift food stations. A piece of pizza, warm and comforting, was more than just sustenance. It was a tangible act of solidarity. It was the taste of home, of shared struggle, and of unyielding humanity. The dough, kneaded and worked, mirrored the resilience of the people. The simple ingredients; tomatoes, mozzarella, and basil, reflected their pride in their land and their heritage, a heritage the state seemed to be ignoring.

In the face of police repression and corporate greed, pizza became the "Dough of Defiance." It was a taste of home, a brief moment of comfort and shared humanity in the midst of a violent and desperate struggle. The vendors, with their flour-dusted hands, were not just feeding the protestors; they were nurturing a revolution. This simple, communal act of sharing food cemented the bond between the working class and the students, transforming a street food into a symbol of unity. It was a silent rebellion, a refusal to let hunger and despair win.

The Battipaglia uprising, a mere three days of violence, shook the Italian government. It exposed the deep-seated social and economic divisions that plagued the country and forced a national conversation about the fate of Souther Italy, the Mezzogiorno. The government was eventually forced to introduce a new law on southern industrial development, and the layoffs were postponed, but the scars of the uprising remained. The image of the pizzaiolo handing out free slices became a powerful symbol, a reminder that even in the darkest of times, human connection and solidarity can prevail. The simple pie, once a symbol of patriotic unity for a queen, became a symbol of defiance for the people.

I am not going to lie. I am not great at making the circular shape required for pizza. Managed this time though. 

Neapolitan Margherita Pizza (Campania)

Classic pizza with a soft, chewy crust.

Ingredients:

• Dough: 500g 00 flour, 325ml water, 10g salt, 3g fresh yeast, or store bought

• 200g San Marzano tomatoes, crushed

• 200g fresh mozzarella, torn

• Fresh basil leaves

• 2 tbsp olive oil

• Salt to taste

Steps:

1. Mix flour, water, salt, and yeast. Knead 10 minutes, let rise 8-12 hours.

2. Preheat oven to 250°C with a pizza stone.

3. Divide dough into 2, stretch into 12-inch rounds.

4. Spread tomatoes, add mozzarella, basil, oil, and salt.

5. Bake 10-12 minutes until crust is golden.

Piedmont – Vitello Tonnato: Cold Cuts of Factory Fury

Piedmont, or Piemonte, sits at the "foot of the mountains," its name a testament to the Alps that frame its northern and western horizons. This region in northwestern Italy is a land of diverse landscapes: from the rugged, snow-capped peaks to the fertile plains of the Po River, Italy’s longest. Its capital, Turin, a city born from Roman military camps and later molded by the Savoy dynasty, would become the heart of Italy's industrial revolution, home to FIAT (Fabbrica Italiana Automobili Torino) and a nexus of modern manufacturing. Historically, Piedmont was the engine of the Kingdom of Sardinia and the crucible of Italian unification in the 19th century, with Turin serving as the first capital of a unified Italy. This history of engineering and political maneuvering laid the groundwork for the region’s complex social tapestry.

The story of vitello tonnato is a tale of class and regional exchange. This cold dish of thinly sliced veal, cloaked in a creamy, mayonnaise-like sauce of tuna, anchovies, and capers, has been a Piedmontese staple for centuries. In its earliest forms, the dish was a preserve of the aristocracy, a culinary symbol of status. The veal, sourced from the lush pastures of the Po Valley, was a local luxury, while the tuna and anchovies hailed from the distant Ligurian coast, a vital trading partner to which Piedmont had historical access via the Apennine passes. Its cold, durable nature made it a perfect choice for lavish, multi-course banquets where food needed to be prepared in advance. Yet, this very practicality; its ability to be made ahead of time and served at room temperature, would later give it an entirely different and unexpected life.

That life began in the crucible of the Hot Autumn of 1969. This period was a torrent of social and political upheaval that swept across Italy. The country, still riding the high of its post-war economic miracle, or miracolo economico, was a powder keg of unresolved social tensions. Workers, particularly those in the industrial north, felt they had been left behind. They had fueled the economic boom but saw little improvement in their wages or working conditions. Turin, the industrial heartland and home of FIAT, was the epicenter of this seismic unrest.

The FIAT Mirafiori plant was a sprawling, metal-and-concrete behemoth, a city within a city where tens of thousands of workers toiled. Many of them were migrants from the impoverished, agrarian south of Italy, known as terroni by their northern counterparts. They had come north seeking work and a better life, only to find themselves in a system that offered long hours, repetitive labor, and poor pay. In the fall of 1969, their simmering resentment boiled over. They didn't wait for union leaders to call a strike. They walked out, spontaneously, taking part in “wildcat strikes."

These strikes were a rejection of both the corporations and the traditional union structures that they felt had failed them. The workers, often called "militants," began an occupation of the factory, refusing to let production continue. They barricaded gates, held rallies, and organized sit-ins. The rhythm of the factory, once a symphony of machinery and human labor, was replaced by the chants of protest and the quiet resolve of the occupation. It was during this period of protracted resistance that the logistical challenge of feeding thousands of striking workers became paramount.

Home kitchens across Turin became temporary commissaries. Women; mothers, wives, and sisters of the striking workers, worked tirelessly to prepare food that could sustain the protest. The meals needed to be simple, hearty, and, crucially, easily transportable to the picket lines and occupied factory floors. The food had to be able to sit for hours without spoiling and be satisfying enough to fuel a person engaged in a physical and mental battle.

And so, vitello tonnato found its unexpected purpose. It was a dish that could be prepared in the coolness of the morning, wrapped in foil or packed in metal tins, and carried to the factory gates. The veal provided essential protein, while the rich, flavorful sauce, a combination of tuna, anchovies, and capers, provided a substantial boost of calories and flavor. It was a complete meal in a single slice, a cold cut that didn't require reheating, perfect for sharing among a group huddled around a fire barrel or sitting on a concrete floor.

The symbolism of the dish was not lost on those who ate it. Vitello tonnato, once a symbol of the borghesia, the very class that owned the factories and exploited their labor, was now a source of sustenance for the working class. It was an inversion of the old order, a dish that had descended from the dining rooms of the elite to the factory floor of the militant. The taste of tuna and veal, once a flavor of celebration for the wealthy, became the flavor of solidarity and defiance for the striking workers. It was a small but significant act of appropriation, a quiet revolution on a plate.

The Hot Autumn eventually led to significant changes in labor laws and union rights. The wildcat strikes forced both management and unions to listen to the demands of the workers. Production at Mirafiori and other plants did not return to normal until concessions were made. The legacy of this period is a more robust system of worker protections in Italy, a testament to the power of collective action. The vitello tonnato that sustained the strikers is a tangible link to this moment, a humble dish that symbolizes a profound shift in power. It is a reminder that even the most exclusive culinary traditions can be transformed and redefined by the hands of those who fight for a better life.

When I made it, I will admit it wasn’t pretty. But, it was delicious.

Vitello Tonnato (Piedmont)

Sliced veal with tuna-flavored sauce.

Ingredients:

• 500g veal loin

• 1 onion, 1 carrot, 1 celery stalk

• 200ml white wine

• 100g canned tuna in oil

• 3 anchovy fillets

• 2 tbsp capers

• 200ml veal cooking broth

• 100ml olive oil

• 1 tbsp lemon juice

• Salt to taste

Steps:

1. Simmer veal with onion, carrot, celery, and wine for 1 hour. Cool in broth.

2. Blend tuna, anchovies, capers, lemon juice, and broth, adding oil until creamy.

3. Thinly slice veal, arrange on a platter.

4. Spread sauce over veal, garnish with capers. Chill before serving.

Veneto – Baccalà Mantecato: Fish of Fire

The Veneto region, located in northeastern Italy, is a land steeped in history and beauty. Its geography spans from the jagged peaks of the Dolomites to the flat, fertile plains surrounding the Po River and the marshy lagoons of the Adriatic Sea. This diverse landscape has historically shaped its economic and cultural identity. Venice, the region's capital, rose to prominence as a powerful maritime republic, controlling vast trade routes and becoming a hub of commerce and culture. The mainland, however, has a history rooted in agriculture and industry. The region's cuisine, including its use of preserved fish, reflects this maritime heritage and the need for durable, inexpensive foodstuffs that could withstand long journeys and periods of scarcity. The dish baccalà mantecato perfectly encapsulates this history, representing both the resourcefulness of Venetian sailors and the practicality of the mainlanders.

Baccalà mantecato is a creamy spread made from salt cod, a preserved fish. Its origins trace back to the 15th century when Venetian merchant Pietro Querini shipwrecked on the Norwegian island of Røst. To survive, he and his crew learned to dry stockfish, a type of unsalted cod. Upon his return, Querini brought this preserved fish back to Venice, where it quickly became a staple due to its long shelf life and affordability. Over time, Venetians developed a way to prepare it by soaking the dried fish for days, then boiling and whipping it with olive oil to create a rich, creamy spread. The name "mantecato" comes from the Spanish verb mantecar, meaning to "beat with a whisk," which describes the vigorous process of turning the boiled fish into a smooth, emulsified cream.

The story of baccalà mantecato takes a radical turn in the late 1970s during the "Notti dei Fuochi" (Nights of Fire) in Mestre and Venice. This period was marked by profound economic turmoil, including high unemployment, factory closures, and rising social inequality. A series of sabotage actions from 1977 to 1979 were orchestrated by far-left political groups, specifically those associated with Autonomia Operaia. Unlike traditional labor unions, these autonomists, a diverse coalition of factory workers, students, and feminists, operated outside established political structures. Their goal was to protest against the dehumanizing effects of capitalism and the precarity of life in industrial hubs like Porto Marghera, a major petrochemical center near Venice. The "Nights of Fire" were a series of targeted arsons on symbols of capital, such as industrial equipment, company vehicles, and offices. Think like “Project Mayhem” from Fight Club. The autonomists also staged wildcat strikes and occupied buildings to protest high housing costs and unstable jobs. Amidst this clandestine activity, baccalà mantecato became more than just a meal. It was a dish of solidarity, shared in communal kitchens during secret meetings. Its affordability and long shelf life made it a practical choice for those living on the fringes and evading police surveillance. The process of preserving the cod, which requires time and patience, mirrored the movement's endurance and resilience in the face of state repression. Groups like Potere Operaio ("Worker Power") advocated for self-organization and autonomy from traditional political parties, and sharing a simple, hearty meal like baccalà mantecato reinforced this communal spirit. Though the movement was ultimately suppressed, leading to mass arrests and the politically charged "7 Aprile" trials, the "Nights of Fire" highlighted the deep-seated frustrations of Italy's working class. In this context, baccalà mantecato became a symbol of communal resistance, a humble dish connecting Veneto's history of economic hardship and maritime resilience to a radical, yet temporary, moment of shared struggle.

The late 1970s in Italy were not a time of simple protest; they were years of profound political and social breakdown, known as the "Years of Lead." In Veneto, this period took on a uniquely desperate hue. Mestre, the industrial heartland on the mainland, was a place of jarring contrasts; the picturesque canals of Venice were only a short bus ride away, but here, the air was thick with the smell of chemicals from the massive Porto Marghera industrial complex. It was a landscape of smokestacks, sprawling factories, and working-class housing, a world away from the tourists' Venice. As Italy faced a global economic crisis, Porto Marghera, once a source of stable jobs, became a symbol of industrial decline. Companies laid off thousands of workers, and the promise of a secure future evaporated into the polluted air.

The “Nights of Fire” were a raw expression of the rage that simmered beneath this surface. It wasn’t a revolution with a clear, unified leadership; it was an eruption of anger from a decentralized network of autonomists. For them, traditional political parties and unions were part of the problem, collaborating with the state and capital. They believed the only way to fight back was through direct, autonomous action. Their targets were not random. They burned company cars, sabotaged production lines, and set fire to offices; each act a symbolic blow against the capitalist machine they felt was destroying their lives. These acts of defiance were born in the clandestine kitchens of Mestre and the hidden corners of Venice, places where baccalà mantecato was often the centerpiece.

The meetings were always small gatherings in cramped apartments, the scent of olive oil and garlic from the simmering baccalà filling the air. This was a dish of necessity, its ingredients cheap and easy to procure without arousing suspicion. A few pieces of dried salt cod, some oil, and garlic could feed a dozen people, and its preparation was a communal ritual. As the fish was boiled and whipped into a creamy spread, the autonomists discussed their plans; where to strike next, how to avoid the police, how to build a new society from the ashes of the old. The physical act of beating the fish, turning a hard, unyielding object into something smooth and nourishing, mirrored their hope: to transform a rigid, oppressive system into a more fluid, equitable one.

The police, meanwhile, were closing in. The Italian state, terrified of this new, unpredictable form of militancy, responded with an iron fist. Operation "7 Aprile," launched in 1979, was a massive crackdown on the autonomist movement. Thousands of activists, intellectuals, and organizers were arrested on charges of "insurrectionary conspiracy." The state sought to dismantle the movement not just by jailing its leaders but by demonizing its entire ideology, portraying them as a new kind of terrorist threat. In the face of this, the communal kitchens and shared meals became even more critical. A shared plate of baccalà mantecato wasn't just food; it was a pact of silence, a quiet testament to shared purpose. The taste of the salty fish and the pungent garlic was the taste of defiance, of a secret world of resistance that existed just beneath the surface of everyday life.

The political climate was brutal. The autonomists were caught between the increasingly repressive state and the condemnation of the established Left, which viewed their radical tactics as a dangerous departure from traditional class struggle. Their movement was one of fragmented, temporary alliances, and in this context, the simple act of sharing a meal provided a rare sense of cohesion. They were a loose collection of people; students from the University of Padua, young factory workers from Porto Marghera, feminists demanding control over their own bodies, who found common ground in their shared anger and their commitment to autonomy. In the dim light of an apartment kitchen, a spoonful of baccalà mantecato on a piece of stale bread was a reminder that they were not alone.

The legacy of the “Nights of Fire” is a complex one. The movement was ultimately crushed, but it exposed the deep flaws within Italy’s postwar economic "miracle." It showed that even in a place as historically wealthy and culturally rich as Veneto, the promises of capitalism had failed many. The state's response was a chilling prelude to the surveillance and control tactics that would come to define the late 20th century. While the fires have long since been extinguished, the memory of that period; the desperation, the rebellion, and the brief, radical sense of community, lingers.

Baccalà mantecato, in this light, is more than a regional specialty; it is a historical document. It carries the weight of Venice’s maritime glory and the hardscrabble reality of its industrial heartland. It speaks of the ingenuity of sailors and the resilience of a working class pushed to its limits. When you make this dish, you are not just preparing a meal; you are re-enacting a ritual of resistance. You are connecting with the hands that painstakingly rehydrated the fish and then whipped it into submission, just as they hoped to do with the system that oppressed them.

I like seafood, but even if you don’t, this is a must try dish. 

Baccalà Mantecato (Veneto)

Venetian whipped salt cod spread.

Ingredients:

• 400g salt cod (soaked 24-48 hours, water changed every 6 hours)

• 1 garlic clove

• 150ml extra virgin olive oil

• 50ml milk

• 1 tbsp lemon juice

• Salt and white pepper to taste

• Parsley, chopped, for garnish

• Crostini for serving

Steps:

1. Boil cod for 15-20 minutes until tender. Drain, remove skin and bones.

2. Blend cod with garlic until smooth.

3. Slowly add olive oil, then milk, blending until creamy.

4. Add lemon juice, salt, and pepper. Serve on crostini, garnished with parsley.