Chestnut

A Family Custom: Roasted Chestnuts to Finish the Feast: I love to prepare hot roasted chestnuts for the family after a big autumn meal, as a special treat of the season. While everyone’s talking and drinking coffee at the table, the chestnuts “roast” in a big skillet right on the stovetop. When they’re done—it takes bout 20 minutes—I pile the chestnuts on a big platter and serve them with grappa we make at our Bastianich vineyard in Friuli.

The way I roast turkey, I never stuff it. Instead, for holidays and special occasions when a turkey needs a special dressing, I make a gnoccho grande, a large loaf-shaped dumpling of bread crumbs, eggs, seasonings, and festive tidbits of dried fruits and nuts, wrapped in cheesecloth and poached in broth. Since I usually cook a big pot of turkey broth the day before I roast the turkey (to have plenty for the roasting pan), I’ll poach the gnoccho grande while it’s bubbling away. The next time you make turkey broth, try this wonderful big dumpling. It’s a great accompaniment to any poultry or meat dish, not just turkey, and a fine soup garnish, or cook it in the broth from Whole Poached Chicken (page 328).

Winter squash and chestnuts are a wonderful combination with this base, adding nutty and sweet flavors and hearty texture. Any firm winter squash is suitable. Use fresh chestnuts or packaged peeled chestnuts (sold frozen or freeze-dried). If using fresh chestnuts, see my peeling method below.

Castagne al vino are a delightful reminder from Maremma that the simple pleasures of rustic life are truly irreplaceable. Roast some chestnuts, and while they are still hot, wrap them in a wine-soaked cloth . . . wait a few minutes . . . then peel and enjoy them with a glass of wine. The question is: red or white wine? The maremmani enjoy, as I do, red wine, a good Morellino. But white wine is also delicious.

The much-maligned mélange gets its name from the undeserved yet pervasive bad reps held by each of the three principal ingredients in this delectable side: turnips, Brussels sprouts, and chestnuts. But I guarantee you’ll find that baby turnips are sweet and juicy and bear no resemblance to the bitter root vegetable you think you know. Gently sautéing wedges of fresh Brussels sprouts renders them crisp-tender and nutty, while browning chestnuts in a cast-iron pan makes removing their skins a snap, giving you unfettered access to the earthiness inside. Pork jowls, as the name implies, are pig cheeks. When cured, jowls become guanciale; braised, they offer amazing versatility and can then be sautéed, grilled, or added to soups. Like pork belly, jowls have tons of flavor and are very rich. I find that braising helps tame them a bit and makes the cut a little less intense. You’ll probably need to special order this cut from your butcher, but it’s worth it. You’ll need to start this recipe one day ahead.

I created this recipe after tasting Italian chestnut honey. It has a haunting, slightly bitter flavor that might not be for everyone. But for me it was a revelation, not unlike the first time I tasted arugula or an artichoke. Up to that point, honey was honey. But this honey smelled as earthy as a barnyard—I went running through my restaurant having people taste and smell it. In this dressing, I pair it with the rich, nutty flavor of brown butter, which mellows the honey’s sharp edges. Because of the brown butter, this dressing works best with a warm salad. Try it with diced roasted butternut squash; thick slices of grilled onion alongside roasted chicken; or a lightly wilted spinach salad with bacon, apples, and chopped hazelnuts.

When Vietnamese cooks stuff fowl for roasting, the dressing is often made with sticky rice. These preparations, which bridge Vietnamese and French culinary traditions, commonly include lotus seeds, too. My family prefers the flavor of chestnuts, however, which we simmer in chicken stock, butter, and cilantro. The presence of shiitake mushrooms and Cognac in this recipe illustrates yet another marriage of East and West. This dressing is good with roast turkey, chicken, game hens, and goose. While you may stuff the birds, I find baking the dressing separately is easier, plus the grains on the bottom form a tasty crust. Shelling and peeling chestnuts is time-consuming, but this recipe doesn’t require many of them. For guidance on buying and peeling the nuts, see the accompanying Note.

This is a festive entrée for a holiday dinner. The aromatic vegetable stock is made right in the baking dish as the fennel cooks, and then turned into a rich sauce. The trick to carving out the fennel bulbs is to leave the sturdy outer layers intact, no less than 1/2 inch thick, or the bulbs can fall apart. If you like, you can mince half of the fennel scraps and add them to the filling. If you can’t find chestnuts, substitute toasted walnuts. Serve with a light, fluffy grain like rice or quinoa.

These open-faced dumplings are a requisite part of the Cantonese dim sum repertoire. In contrast to their dainty size and frilly edge, shāomai (siu mai in Cantonese) are packed with a pork filling that’s typically punctuated by earthy mushrooms and crunchy water chestnuts. The dumplings here are made from thin wonton skins that have been cut into circles. Don’t confuse them with the Jiangnan version from the area between Shanghai and Nanjing, which is made from hot-water dough wrappers and filled with a sticky rice mixture. Both go by the name shāomai, which literally means “cook and sell,” reflecting their perennial popularity. Feel free to add chopped raw shrimp to the filling (cut back on the vegetables) for variety. Any of the wonton fillings can be used, too; but do remember to double the pork and shrimp filling on page 41 or quadruple the shrimp filling on page 70, adding a beaten egg white in each case to insure a smoother texture. The shape of siu mai enables them to hold a lot more filling than other dumplings of the same size.

In her most recent book, Lidia Cooks from the Heart of Italy, the great Italian cook Lidia Bastianich introduces us to various risottos that don’t require the patient long cooking and stirring as you pour hot liquid into the rice little by little. In this simpler version,you simply stir the rice into hot chicken broth along with the embellishment ingredients, and when it all comes to a boil, slap on the lid, and cook at a brisk simmer for about 17 minutes. And it’s done—a whole delicious and satisfying dinner.

There are chestnut roasting devices—long-handled iron skillets or perforated baskets that allow the flames direct contact with the nuts—but they are not necessary; any way you can get the chestnuts in a hot fire and close to the flames works well. Chestnuts are high in moisture—more like a fruit than a nut—and fairly perishable. Look for nuts that are dark brown, shiny, and heavy and store them in the refrigerator.

The origin of this dessert is Tarte Vaudoise, a traditional European pastry. I’ve replaced the original heavy cream with crème fraîche and added different nut textures. It may look simple on the plate, but it’s complex in flavor.

I’m not going to tell you that this is a traditional dish from Umbria; it’s not. But it is a traditional dish in my family. And family is what tradition is all about, isn’t it?

During World War II , Claudine Moos’s family hid in Lyon, which was the center of the Free Zone and considered to be a slightly safer city for the Jews. One day, her father, a socialist and Resistance fighter, was distributing leaflets against the Germans at the railroad station. The French police, helped by the German SS officer Klaus Barbie, caught him and others, and they were dispatched on the last train to Auschwitz. As they were escorted away, they sang the “Marseillaise,” the French national anthem, at the top of their lungs. Claudine, who was five years old at the time, has memories of their singing voices fading off into the distance. She was raised by her mother, who had also lost her father at a young age. Despite a difficult life, having lost her father and her husband, Claudine’s mother’s last words were “Life is good.” Even in a good life, food could be a challenge. “During and after the war, food was rationed,” Claudine told me in her kitchen in Annecy. “We got ration cards for the milk and eggs. Of course there was no chocolate. I remember my mother coming home with the first tablet of chocolate she could get after the war. How excited we all were!” Regardless of the shortages during the war, chestnuts still fell from trees throughout France in autumn. This rich uncooked cake would have been made from the chestnuts that were collected on the street. The recipe comes from a handwritten cookbook that Claudine’s grandmother gave her when she got married in 1960. The original recipes were measured in interesting ways, calling for a “glass of mustard” and a “nut of butter.” Peeling chestnuts used to be a laborious task. Her grandmother would collect or buy them whole, score them a quarter of the way down, boil them to loosen the skin, and then peel them. For Claudine, it is so much easier these days to make this cake, because she can buy frozen or jarred chestnuts, already peeled. Best made a day in advance, this rich cake should be served in small portions, topped with dollops of whipped cream.