Butternut manigutt (manicotti)…

By now, most of my readers know I am from New Jersey. I grew up in Elizabeth for the first nine years of my life; then we moved to Iselin. It felt far away, far away from the Italian section of Elizabeth.

It wasn’t until I moved to Vermont that I realized that people outside of downstate NY & NJ didn’t understand the Italian American lingo. You didn’t have to be Italian to know the lingo; people just did.

It felt so weird to me when I had to pronounce Italian food “properly” if I wanted people to understand what the fuck I was saying.

I still tawk the way I tawk at home, but I have learned to speak broadcast news when need be. Here is what I’m talking about:

Written by Peter Genovese from NJ Advance Media

Rule Number One for Speaking Jersey Italian: Drop the vowel at the end of each word. Most of the time, anyway. This is like that “i before e except after c” rule you learned in fifth grade. It holds true except when it doesn’t. So, “cavadeel” instead of cavatelli, cappacol or gabbagool instead of cappacola,  “manicot” or “manigott”  instead of manicotti.

Pasta fagiole is “pasta fazool,” right? Not so fast. Several chefs pronounced every last syllable – “fa-gee-o-li.” Others pronounced every letter in “cavatelli,” not the widely accepted “cavadeel.”

Rule Number Two for Speaking Jersey Italian:  Get the “easy” words right, then proceed to the tougher ones. “Gnocchi” looks uncomplicated, but to speak it like a true Italian, you must roll the “gno” – “gnawww-ki.”  It is certainly not “knock-ki.” Same with “ravioli.” Give the “ioli” a little operatic flourish, prolonging the three syllables a bit, but not so much that people start thinking you learned Italian by reading cans of Chef Boyardee.

Rule Number Three for Speaking Jersey Italian: Impress your Italian friends with the proper pronounciation of words they thought they had been pronouncing right all along. One good example: bruschetta. It’s “broos-ketta-a,” says Filippo Russo, the chef/owner of da Filippo in Somerville. “That’s all over Italy.”

Rule Number Four for Speaking Jersey Italian: It’s “sauce.” Unless the chef insists it’s “gravy.” Which is correct?

Here is how I understand the difference between the two. Marinara sauce contains no meats. The sauce is made and cooked quickly, in under an hour, and is bright red.

I call “gravy” Sunday sauce. It’s a 50/50 split, as people call it. Sunday sauce is always eaten on, you guessed it, on a Sunday as a family Sunday dinner.

Sunday Sauce is usually made on a Friday or Saturday since the prep time is lengthy and the sauce cooks on a slow simmer all day. This type of sauce always tastes better when prepared a day or two ahead.

“Gravy” is used because it contains several kinds of meats such as braciole, pork ribs or neck, sausage, and meatballs.

The meats are browned before adding them to the sauce, giving it a rich, brownish-red color. Meats are used when making any gravy; see how it makes sense now.

Yesterday, I made butternut squash manicotti with a creamy parmesan sauce with shallots and thyme. I served it with chicken Milanese. The two dishes were delicious and worth the time and effort.

While I was working in the kitchen yesterday, Marty asked me if a bomb had gone off in the kitchen. I have to admit the kitchen was bad even though I usually clean as I go, but that didn’t happen yesterday. When I have to pivot while I am cooking, things get wild.

Here is why I had to pivot. After attempting to make butternut squash ravioli, which failed miserably, I decided to make manicotti. Here’s what happened.

I rolled out my pasta dough. It was perfect, and it wasn’t sticking to the workbench. I used a small scoop when portioning out the squash filling on the dough.

I was holding my breath as I placed the other piece of pasta dough over the top. I carefully began to press the top to the bottom around the filling, and the dough started to break, and the squash was squishing through the top. Mother fucker! Ugh!!

After swearing, I took the top off, wiped the filling from the dough, and put it back in the bowl. The dough was very wet, so I needed to add more flour and knead it until it was smooth. This is gluten-free mind out so things were iffy at this point.

This was the point I had to decide what to do. Do I make lasagna like last time, or do I make manicotti? After I rolled out some rectangles, I blanched, filled, and rolled them.

The next step I didn’t plan on, but the manicotti needed a bechamel sauce. I’m a great sauce maker, so this extra step was no biggie.

I still had one last messy thing I had to do, pound out chicken breasts, bread them, and fry them. I popped them into a warm oven while the manicotti baked.

Then I tackled the inevitable clean-up, which was not that bad.

Here is the kitchen all cleaned up with the manicotti waiting to be popped into the oven. This cooking project was way more work and effort than I had planned.

I’ve yet to successfully make gluten-free ravioli after trying many times. It took me seven years to perfect our spatzle, so this is no different. I’ll figure it out. Someday.

Have a great week, guys! ♥️