18. See (beyond) the obvious
Di scoglio. From the rocky seashore, the reefs. That’s where Ada says il polpo (the octopus) should originate. The better ones have a double row of suckers in the tentacles. And for the recipe, it should weigh 1.5 kilos. That’s 3.3 pounds: one big octopus.
I did some research. With such a creepy appearance, I wasn’t surprised to learn that octopuses (yes it is octopuses, from the Greek root; octopi is incorrect) have been around for about 400 million years. But that they were the first intelligent beings on Earth? They’ve three hearts and 3/5 of their neurons are located in their arms (eight of them, of course). Large eyes, an intelligent brain adept at problem solving, about 10,000 more genes than we humans, and the ability to change color on demand. Wow. They’re also occasionally cannibalistic; females have been known to consume an arm or two of their male paramour if he gets too intimate during copulation. A bit aggressive, sure, but the arms will grow back.
Once seen beyond their alien vibe, it seems nearly criminal that we skin, dismember, and consume these remarkable, (quite possibly superior), brainy beings.
And yet:
Polpo alla Luciana
Nettate bene il polpo, begins Ada. Paul is surprised at the odd choice of the verb, nettare. From the context, clearly it means 'clean.' Nettoyer he knows, would be a French equivalent. We look it up, and as Paul figured, nettare is listed as a rare (archaic, sometimes literary) reference. Pulire is today’s commonly used verb.
*
"Ah!" Paul says. "Wait... You know where nettare is still used in Italian? For a street sweeper: un netturbino. Breaking it down: nettare is to clean, urbano means urban (urbe is Latin for city), and 'ino' is a diminutive, here for someone doing a humble occupation (and not always very well). And so, netturbino. By the way," he says, "the 'ino' ending is used frequently in Italian. Like with il postino. And uomino: a little man, or rather a low-level repair guy."
*
Okay. Back to il polpo:
Clean the octopus well by removing the ink blister, the eyes, and all the skin. [All the skin? How...?] Then proceed to the beating. [Good God ...] With discretion, though! adds Ada. [Ah!] This loosens the fibers. [I bet.]
Wash the octopus and, without drying it, place in a ceramic pot sized so that the octopus occupies two-thirds of the height. Season with pepper, salt, chili flakes, un ciuffo (literally, a tuft, but here, a bunch) of parsley, a couple small pieces of tomato, and plenty of oil.
Close the pot with sheets of carta paglia. (Paglia means straw, but carta paglia is cheap packaging paper, like the kind wrapped around salami in a deli). Secure the paper with twine attached to the handles, and put on the lid.
Place the pot on burning coals dissolved almost to warm ash, and allow the octopus to cook slowly, imperceptibly, for a couple hours. Leave it there—forget about it!—until the moment of serving. Ada insists. Otherwise, she says, you will ruin everything.
THEN, remove the paper. You will see, she writes, that the octopus has become a kind of large, reddish chrysanthemum, very tender, floating in an exquisite delicious broth which the charitable beast has generously provided.
[A chrysanthemum...? Really?]
She continues: Do not do it the injustice of transferring it to another plate. Have it brought to the table as is; it’s a rustic seafood dish which doesn’t want ceremony. [Say we humans. Who knows what the “charitable beast” might have wanted?]
Once at the table, divide it into pieces. Season with a bit of the broth, a little oil, or a few drops of lemon juice.
[Walmart, it must be noted, offers online a 3 to 4 pound fresh octopus for $32.47 plus $11.34 shipping through PantheonFoods.com headquartered in West Allis, Wisconsin.]
AFTERNOONS, my sisters and I would run home from the bus stop, drop our school books, and head into the kitchen. Lunch, eaten about three hours earlier, had been an Oscar Meyer bologna sandwich, a couple Utz potato chips, and half an apple or orange, self-prepared and packed in a brown sack the night before. (Our rural Catholic school in Maryland lacked many things, one of which was a cafeteria.)
We’d swing open the refrigerator door, see the eggs, the milk, the other staples, maybe leftovers from yesterday’s dinner, and bark: “MOM! There’s nothing to eat!” Day after day, the same.
And day after day she’d respond, “What?! There’s plenty to eat.”
Sometimes she’d come into the kitchen and whip something together, but I remember mostly she didn’t, figuring, I suppose, that if the want was great enough, we’d see beyond the obvious and find what was there.
Eventually we did. Eggs didn’t have to mean scrambled or fried. Whisked with milk, a scoop of flour and a sprinkle of baking powder, a pancake could be fashioned. From start to cooked finish, 10 minutes. It was a bit of exploratory science and a lot of why not, but the results were, mostly, edible.
When my children were born, I invested in a small Cuisinart food processor. In Germany and later Italy, we lived in villages surrounded by small farms offering an abundance of flavorful, just-picked vegetables and fruit. Baby food? I was on it. Blanched zucchini blended with broth. Pureed cabbage, spinach, and carrots with a sprinkle of nutmeg or cinnamon. Pears and apples baked and strained. Persimmons blended with yogurt, honey.
Returning to the States, we moved several additional times. Michigan, New Jersey, California. My children grew and so did my kitchen appliances. The Cuisinart became a respectable Kitchen Aid; the compact European refrigerator was exchanged for super-size.
When at fifty I first walked into what is now my home in Laguna Beach, the sales agent apologized for the galley kitchen, a beautiful space with lavish natural light, an exit to the front courtyard, and two pocket doors opening to the adjoining living space. A café table just large enough for two was tucked beneath a large window with a nonstop ocean breeze. She pounded on the wall between the rooms containing the two sliding doors, saying of course the wall could be taken out, it wouldn't require much to expand the kitchen, to modernize the design, to open things up.
I got the feeling this wasn't the first time she'd said this. She turned to me with a satisfied grin expecting a nod in agreement: problem solved! Except, there wasn't a problem.
My prior homes in the States had had an open design, welcome when my two were young and running in and out. I didn’t need or want that now. This kitchen was well-sized; if slightly compact, then only in a good, workable way. The cabinets were solid wood and original to the home; a coat of dove white paint and they'd be around another forty years. In a word I found it authentic, with an irreplaceable charm. A private space to awaken the senses and settle the mind.
I didn't change a thing.
