Our cooking utensils become part of our lives in an almost superstitious way. Heres what defines our Rome-based columnists kitchen, in which a fair bit of Italian food is cooked …
I have a horrible feeling my little curved knife ended up in the bin. Technically a chestnut knife, bought from the man who sets up his stall on the edge of Romes Testaccio market from time to time, I scored many nuts with it. However, over the years this short knife with a wooden handle and sickle-like blade proved itself to be ridiculously useful; for peeling apples, zesting lemons, hewing off bits of parmesan that were on the right side of scraggy, scraping mussels, prising open sardine tins that had lost their rings, and trimming artichokes like a Roman. I think it was probably hidden among the great pile of artichoke debris that was scooped up and shoved in the bin. I feel disproportionately sad about my 3 knife and, despite my suspicions, keep hoping that, like the lost bottle opener, it will turn up, dusty but intact, under the fridge.
The lost knife was the most used and loved member of my kitchen bits and pieces, things that have grafted themselves on to my cooking life in an essential, almost superstitious way. Most of the things in this group are, like the chestnut knife, not necessarily used for the purpose for which they were intended: a really heavy bowl in which I make mayonnaise; a jam jar with a checked lid that is just right for dressing; the double coat hanger I use to dry pasta; an old iron bought at Porta Portese market that I use when something calls a for heavy weight; the strand of spaghetti that sits in with the wooden spoons to test cakes for doneness (the strand is changed from time to time!).
I am just as interested in other peoples bits and pieces. My friend and teacher Carla has her grandmothers wood-and-metal dough scraper, which she uses in both likely and unlikely ways. My mum has a pair of short and I think awkward tongs that came free with something many years ago, used like extensions of her hands in the kitchen. Alice has her ancient pasta cutter that snips fluted strips for her jam tarts. My Sicilian teacher, Fabrizia Lanza, has a wooden roller she bought in a hardware shop in the US it was meant for wallpaper borders, but is just the thing for rolling the marzipan strips for a Sicilian dessert called cassata. My Neapolitan teacher Daniella has a cherry stoner that doubles as an olive pitter.
When I first came to Italy 11 years ago with nothing I had the chance to start again in terms of kitchen equipment. I took my lead from cooks I liked, and those whose food I wanted to eat, most of which was prepared in pretty ordinary kitchens, on straightforward stoves, with basic equipment. This was what appealed to me, since its more inclusive and uncomplicated, practical and resourceful rather like Italian food itself. Also I simply dont have the space for lots of things. Over the years I have accumulated a set of kitchen equipment that serves me well.
This is not an inventory though, nor is it a definitive list of essentials, it is not even complete list: I have not gone into details about knives, bowls, my lack of baking equipment, or my rubber spatulas (of which I have many). It is simply some thoughts about some of the things that are particularly useful in a kitchen where a fair bit of Italian food is cooked.
For drinking
First things first, coffee. Living in Italy has converted me to the moka pot. I have a two-cup, three-cup and six-cup sitting like unpacked Russian dolls next to the stove. Not everyone likes coffee made in a moka, but I do; with the correct coffee grind, it has an enormous full flavour and intensity. It is a simple device, top and bottom screw together to enclose ground coffee in a compartment between the two. It is quite straightforward, but needs a bit of patient attention at the beginning; the right amount of water and small mountain of coffee, the low but steady flame underneath but then you are rewarded with a pleasing gurgle, and rich scent as the coffee erupts from below.
I am also really fond of my stout Duralex glasses (which my four-year-old calls Durex glasses) for water and wine, wobbly puddings and chopped fruit. They bounce too, but only once, so if you dont catch them, they smash into glass pebbles which skittle everywhere.
For the stovetop
Getting a large, taller-than-wide 6-litre lightweight pan was revelation to me. I call it the pasta pan, as that is what gets cooked in it most of the time. I do stick to the litre of water for every 100g of pasta rule of thumb, otherwise the pasta becomes claustrophobic and doesnt cook properly. Cooking 400g of pasta at a time means that the 4-litre mark is written in calcium on the inside of the pan. The weight is important, meaning it is manageable even when full of boiling water.
A wide saut or frying pan with a long handle can happily accommodate both pasta and sauce, its weight and long handle making that nifty flip of the pasta relatively easy.
Italians cook meat on the stovetop, slowly braised or pot-roasted. For this I use a deep copper saut pan, almost worth more than everything else put together. It is my favourite object in the kitchen, not least because it was a present from my family for my 40th. It is an absolute joy to use, cooking things evenly and beautifully.
Essential to me is a heavy casserole, which I call my peperonata pan, for the vast amounts of stewed pepper I make in it. I also use it for stewing fruit, beans and lentils, soup and more soup.
For fresh pasta
All my teachers are quite insistent that pasta (and pastry and dough) should be kneaded and rolled on a wooden surface, which imparts a desirable texture. This wooden surface is called a spianatoia, and can be any large stable surface of neutral wood, most commonly a simple board (at least 40cm x 80 cm) with a raised lip that hangs over the edge of the table to keep the board steady during the forceful kneading. If you are rolling your own pasta, you will need a mattarello, a long tapered rolling pin (and a Bolognese nonna to show you how). I have neither a mattarello nor a Bolognese nonna. I use a once dismissed, but now beloved, Imperia pasta roller.
For draining
Get a good-sized colander with feet so it can be plonked in the sink ready to receive pasta or vegetables. If you are cooking ravioli or gnocchi, a spider strainer or big slotted spoon is useful for lifting the more delicate pieces that would be crushed by a too quick drain from the pan. Some people dont drain any pasta, but use the slotted spoon for short shapes, and lift long shapes out with long tongs. I have a wooden pair that are heavily singed.
For scooping
As you probably know, pasta cooking water, cloudy with starch that has seeped from the pasta as it cooks, is fundamental an ingredient, really in pasta dishes like carbonara where a good glug of it helps to emulsify the cheese and egg into a sauce. Even when it is not fundamental, you will often notice that recipes tell you to add a little pasta cooking water to loosen or lengthen the sauce. I was forever sloshing the lot down the sink until I kept a jug by the stove to remind myself to scoop some out of the pan.
For smoothing
I am not sure I have ever been in an Italian kitchen without a food mill or mouli, which is my favourite kitchen tool. It is a simple, old fashioned device that consists of a bowl, with a removable perforated plate and crank with a curved metal paddle that forces food through the holes: a sort of souped-up sieve, really. It purees tomatoes, pulses, fruit, fish and other ingredients, separating the skin and tough bits: the wanted from the unwanted. But it doesnt completely obliterate the texture of the pulp as a food processor or immersion blender might, it leaves it lively and individual, which is so desirable for Italian soups and sauces. It is, needless to say, a bit of a pain to clean. So there it is, things commonly used in an Italian kitchen. Im sure you will be able add your own, indeed I am keen to know what you consider important for cooking Italian food.
- Rachel Roddy is a food blogger based in Rome and the author of Five Quarters: Recipes and Notes from a Kitchen in Rome (Saltyard, 2015) and winner of the 2015 Andr Simon food book award
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