 
|
|||||||||||||||||||||||||||||
              
|
Thursday, June 22, 2000 By Marlene Parrish, Post-Gazette Staff Writer
paper called "The Gentrification of Polenta" was read a few weeks ago. Is that a grabber of a title, or what? '
The session was part of the Italian-Americans in Western Pennsylvania History Conference at the Sen. John Heinz Pittsburgh Regional History Center. Frances Malpezzi and William Clements of Arkansas State University were the presenters.
"For many Italians, polenta is the symbol of poverty," Malpezzi began. "It has been called 'the meat of the poor.' "
Since the early 1700s, polenta and beans had nourished peasants and laborers. Not simply a food, polenta consoled the family, soothed it, filled it up. For many Italians, it took post-World War II affluence to finally banish polenta as the mainstay of the diet. Even so, the Italians of the north still are often called polentoni, or "polenta eaters."
As the presentation went on, my thoughts drifted, and my own polenta memories rushed back.
A few years ago my husband and I were staying overnight at Victorian Gardens, a B&B near Mendocino on the northern California coast. Our host, Dr. Luciano Zamboni, a retired pathologist from UCLA, made us a supper of artichokes cut fresh from his garden and game birds. And huge plates of polenta. I'll never forget the sights and smells of that kitchen.
Zamboni lifted a heavy old copper pot with a bail handle from the back of the big iron stove over to the sink. He poured in about a quart of water and added a spoon of salt. When the water came to the boil, the doctor swirled the water into a vortex, using a long wooden stick as thick as a broom handle, a piece of driftwood from the beach, worn perfectly smooth. With his right hand stirring, his left hand grabbed a fistful of yellow cornmeal. He allowed the cornmeal to fall through his fingers in a glittering stream into the boiling kettle. He stirred the thickening mass for a full 45 minutes, the mixture erupting and sputtering like volcanic lava. When he was done, the stick stood straight up in the pot.
While he stirred, he told us this story.
"My family lived in Rome during the war. Mussolini had called for all Italian families to turn in their copper pots for the war effort. They were to be melted down to be made into shell casings. My mother tearfully but dutifully gathered her cooking pots to be carted to the center of town. But she couldn't part with her polenta pot, so she kept it and hid it. I was a boy of about 10 during the war, but I remember this day. Years later after the war, my mother passed away and I found the pot. I brought it with me to America. This, you see, is my mother's polenta pot."
When polenta is served according to tradition, a wooden bread board is set on the table. A first portion of the hot molten polenta is slowly ladled out into the middle of the board. After a minute or so, the mush sets up and tightens a bit, and more polenta is ladled on making a mound. When it is ready to serve, someone cuts a length of string and holds it taut in both hands. The string cuts down through the center of the mound, slides underneath and is raised to complete the cut from below. The pieces are then transferred to plates.
Unlike Zamboni, many first-generation Italians associated polenta with the poverty of the country they left behind when they immigrated to America. According to Malpezzi and Clements, the new immigrants couldn't bring themselves to cook it. Just couldn't. Eventually, they died.
But when second- and third-generation Italians grew up, they had no memories of their parents' poverty and they certainly weren't ashamed of their roots. They had Italian pride. They saw in polenta a link to the past. To them and to many Italian-Americans today, making polenta in the old-fashioned way is a symbol of nationality. The whole ritual of cooking polenta is a way to idealize and romanticize their Italian roots. Malpezzi noted that by doing so, they re-create an experience that gives power to the family.
The following variations may be heresy to some, but they make mighty good eating for the rest of us. As to amounts, just use good judgment.
-- Marlene Parrish
Gentrification
When polenta is prepared outside the context of the family -- you can buy polenta at Wal-Mart, for Pete's sake -- that's when you know how far tradition has strayed.
This mundane but revered dish has evolved and then some. Polenta has transcended its ethnic character and gone as mainstream as pizza and pasta.
Polenta is the New Age darling of vegetarians who tout its flavor, as well as its fiber. It is the bland canvas of innovative chefs who turn it into garnishes and the base for sophisticated sauces.
Trust me, nobody's Nonna ever added sun-dried tomatoes and basil oil to it, or used the golden mush as a topping for pizza.
When you buy pre-fab wannabe polenta products, get ready for a flavorless shadow of the real thing. The sausage-like tube of polenta sold in the cold case of the supermarket is loaded with water, and slices spit and spatter while cooking. Then there are the designer versions such as Green Chili and Cilantro Polenta with Black Bean Sauce that overwhelm any corn flavor there might have been in the original.
Perhaps the worst transgression of all is -- are you ready for this? -- Cup-O-Polenta. The cardboard container with the peel-off lid allows you to "just add hot water and stir." Cup o' Mush is about all you get.
Zamboni is furious over the gentrification of traditional foods. "What they've done with polenta is a crime," he said when we spoke on the telephone recently. "The pseudo Italian-Americans do the damage. Look, for instance, what they've done to pesto. Pesto is served only with two dishes, pasta and minestrone. It is never made from cilantro or mint or sun-dried tomatoes, the way you see it done in the restaurants. All of it is a crime."
Zamboni and his wife, Pauline, will be featured in the November 2000 issue of Sunset Magazine. They will present an Italian-American Thanksgiving menu at their coastal B&B home. Unfortunately, no polenta will be served.
A pot of polenta
When some Italian families now take the time to make a traditional polenta, they do so on festive occasions, such as Sundays or celebration dinners.
Fine. But that doesn't work for the rest of us who want to enjoy the dish with a little less clock time and no emotional involvement.
For us, there are a couple of easier ways to cook polenta: in a double boiler or baked in the oven. I almost hate to admit it, but really good polenta can be made in the microwave oven and it's all pros and no cons -- not much watching, not much stirring, very fast and the result is just as rich and soothing as in the traditional way of cooking.
Most people use water, but all or part chicken broth makes delicious polenta. A wooden spoon is a must. And decent cornmeal is essential. Don't bother with industrially processed cornmeal or with the ones imported from Italy because most of it is too old and stale to make a good polenta. Try to find freshly stone-ground meal from a mill. A coarse grind makes the most authentic polenta.
Know that polenta is forgiving. When it cooks, the bits of ground corn soften as they absorb the hot liquid and swell. Once the raw, starchy flavor is gone, within about 15 minutes, the polenta is ready to eat, but the additional cooking makes the corn granules softer and the mixture thicker. Purists -- you can tell them by their muscles -- will hang in there stirring for another half hour for the total 45 minutes of cooking.
It helps to use a whisk during the initial adding of the cornmeal to keep lumps from forming and the mixture moving in the pan. As the polenta thickens, switch to a wooden spoon with a rather flat, not rounded, bottom. The amount of liquid used determines how soft or stiff the polenta will be. Use more liquid for creamy (3 cups for each 1 cup polenta), less for firm (about 2 cups for each 1 cup polenta).
What about instant polenta, ready in five minutes? If you tolerate instant oatmeal, grits or rice, give it a shot. But know that the flavor might be reminiscent of cardboard and the texture, well, that's why they call it mush.
And no matter how you cook it, polenta thickens as it cools.
Related Recipes:
|
||||||||||||||||||||||||||||
Sprinkle soft, hot polenta with crumbed gorgonzola cheese and toasted walnuts.
