Finnan Haddie!

The above title is a new one for me. This smoked haddock from Scotland had always been known as "Finney Haddock" to me. This was no doubt down to Nonna and her interpretation of English words. There are lots of dishes that Nonna gave us the English words for which turned out to be incorrect. But there could, I suppose, always be a chance that it is known as Finney Haddock here in Yorkshire.

She called sweets "spice", tarts were "torte" and tomatoes were either the Italian "Pomodoro" or "Tomat", "Tomatie" - anything but the correct word.

This dish, to Nonna, was always called "Pesce con Pomodoro" - Then she called it "Finney Haddock" to English people.

I love fish when they are swimming in the sea or in a river. I love their diversity and how graceful they are. I'm not keen on them when they are on a dinner plate, though! So I very rarely eat this meal, but my wife loves it!

1 piece of smoked haddock (not the sort with the horrible food colouring on)

Half a green pepper (Pimento) seeded and thinly sliced.

1 tin of chopped tomatoes

Juice of half a lemon.

Two teaspoons of sugar.

Half a clove of garlic, crushed.

Two fresh Basil leaves.

Put a splash of virgin olive oil into a heavy-based frying pan.

Add garlic and pepper, and sauté  them for two or three minutes.

Add tin of tomatoes juice of half a lemon and sugar, then stir.

Cook on low heat for two more minutes, then add the haddock.

Coat the haddock in the sauce then add a few drops of water to thin the sauce out a little. Cover with a plate or lid and cook on a low heat for 15 to 20 minutes.

Rip the basil into pieces and put it in the pan.

When the fish is falling apart, turn out on to a plate and serve. This can be eaten with polenta or new potatoes and green beans. But, as with most of our meals when I was young, we just ate it with our hands and warm bread. 

Buon Appetito! 

Gnocchi

This week I visited a grammar school in Halifax West Yorkshire. There I met a lovely teacher who was so warm and welcoming, and really connected with her students.

Later, while talking to her in the staff room, I discovered that she was not only Italian, but came from a village not far from where Nonna was born.

This lady, unlike Nonna, had lost her accent but not her identity of where she came from. The reason she came to Britain was the reason lots of people migrate, poverty.

We both spoke about how simple real Italian food is, and how it's the love and the people who make it special.

To prove this, try the recipe below for gnocchi: you can't get anything more simple, and tasty.

Make mash from boiled potatoes that are soft but firm.

Take about 250g of mashed potato and add 9oz of plain flour and one egg and mix together.

Knead the mixture and then roll into a ball.

Cut the the ball into four and roll out each portion into long thin sausages. Then cut into small cubes.

Drop the gnocchi into a pan of boiling water and cook until the gnocchi rises to the top (about 3mins).

Sauce.

Gently heat two oz of butter in a pan and add chopped fresh sage to your taste. Let it cook on a low heat for about five minutes then pour over the gnocchi.

Buon Appetito!

Calzone

When I was a child, living in a small textile town in northern England, most people didn't go away for their holidays. The mills closed for two weeks and the local council put on events labelled, 'Holidays at Home'. Which was, in effect, just going to the local park.

Some people, such as my wife and her family, would hire a caravan on the east coast but most people had, at best, a day trip to the seaside. This was usually in the form of the 'Club Trip'.

The 'Club Trip' was organised by the committee at the local working men's clubs. The men would pay a fee over a period of time and then, when there was enough money in the pot, coaches were hired and the neighbourhood went to the seaside. I was more fortunate than most kids, as I had family in other countries that we would go and visit, but as a child I saw this as a chore. The club trip was a thing of dreams for me. You even received a small envelope with five shillings (25p) in it. That was big money to me, back then.

The strange thing was that, when we got to the seaside, the parents all departed to the nearest club and let the kids run free in a strange town, somewhere they had never been before, which had the added bonus of having an ocean next to it.

The sea is a strange thing; it is beautiful and serene, but to a small child it could be as dangerous as Jimmy Savile with a bag of sweets and a box of puppies! But everyone seemed to get home safely, maybe we are just over-cautious now with our children, by comparison.

The only other way a child could break free of the shackles of their environment when I was a child was the 'School Trip'. I only ever went on two, one when I was ten and another when I was fifteen. It's the first one which this blog is about.

We all set off to Fountains Abbey. I don't know why - it wasn't a field trip, and we were left to roam about at our own free will (it seems to be a theme throughout my childhood). We had all been informed to bring a packed lunch, and we were more excited about this than the actual trip. I had asked Nonna to make me a ham sandwich. I suppose in my heart I knew this wasn't going to happen, but I lived in hope. The next morning, armed with a small metal tin that Nonna had given me strict instructions to bring back home with me, I set off on the trip. My friend had asked his mother to make him a beef sandwich, which he, too, was excited about. Back then crisps were a luxury, as were chocolate bars: no one had them.

All our packed lunches had been taken from us to prevent us eating them on the way there, so when we finally received them at lunch time, there was high anticipation which soon turned to despair, as each child opened their bags to see what their parents had prepared for them. I opened my tin, hoping to feast on a succulent ham sandwich but I was confronted with a large calzone. Nonna had struck again.

My friend walked over to me with a look of disappointment on his face and enquired what I had for lunch, I showed him the contents of the tin and his eyes lit up. “Do you want to swap?” he asked eagerly. “Yes,” I said, hoping to eat his no doubt delicious beef sandwich. We swapped, and he ran away with my calzone and Nonna's tin to eat my dinner, I couldn't understand why he didn't sit with me to eat. I opened up his food bag to find not beef, but jam sandwiches! What sort of parent gives their kids JAM sandwiches? Surely that's a reason to phone social services? I went looking for him but I had no need to bother, as he came walking back to me, giving me back the tin saying, “Swap back! That's the worst Cornish pasty I have ever eaten!”

It's hard to believe now, but most children back then had never encountered a pizza, never mind a calzone, But I, for one, was glad that I had a Nonna who wouldn't dream of feeding me jam sandwiches.

Calzone

You can fill a calzone with whatever you wish. I tend to fill them with peppers and pepperoni but this is the sort of calzone Nonna used to make.

Make pizza bread dough as in my previous blog.

1 tomato, peeled and seeded, and chopped into chunks

Ricotta cheese

Tomato purée

Fresh oregano

1 beaten egg.

Roll the dough into a circle of about 8 or 9 inches.

Wet the edges with the beaten egg.

Smear half the circle with tomato purée.

Add the chopped tomato.

Dot with ricotta.

Sprinkle lightly with a pinch of oregano.

Fold it over and pinch the side like a Cornish pasty.

Make a hole in the top to let out steam and put on a piece of baking paper on a baking tray.

Brush with the rest of the egg and put it in hot oven, gas mark 6, for twenty minutes.

Buon Appetito!