IN THE KITCHEN : Polenta: A Stirring Tale

There is something about polenta that brings out the traditionalist in a lot of us.

I once cooked dinner with a wonderful woman named Giuliana Giacosa-Pionzo at her bed-and-breakfast on a hill just above the Italian town of Alba, approximately midway between the wine regions of Barolo and Barbaresco. Signora Pionzo’s B & B, which cost something like $45 per person, was luxuriously finished, befitting the wife of a prominent physician. For an extra charge (as I remember, more than the room itself), she would fix dinner for you, with most of the ingredients coming from her property.

In her kitchen, she had all the modern conveniences--electric range, dishwasher, freezer and refrigerator. And she had a wood-burning stove. She kept it, she said, because “I can’t imagine making polenta on anything else.”

Polenta is a deeply flavored, completely delicious sponge that is unmatched for sopping up juices from, say, stews or roast meats. In this sense, you could call it the Italian equivalent of mashed potatoes. But make it the old-fashioned way once, and you’ll understand why those little Italian grandmas, under their black dresses, have shoulders like NFL linebackers.

Technically, making polenta is no challenge. And as far as ingredients are concerned, nothing could be simpler--there are only three: cornmeal, water and salt. It’s the combining of them that is a pain. Imagine stirring tar for an hour continuously (no time off for good behavior) and you get a pretty fair picture of what I’m talking about. It’s weary work and if you’re not careful (or if you’re just wimpy), you can wind up with a nice blister on your stirring hand. Mine is recovering nicely, thank you.

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In restaurants, it’s a pretty sure bet that the only types of polenta you’ll see are those fried or broiled polenta tiles. They’re made from cooled and sliced fresh polenta and they look nice on a designer plate. They are also much more forgiving of quick preparation and can be made in advance and quickly finished at the last minute. I made fried polenta both from regular cornmeal and from instant polenta mix and I couldn’t tell the difference.

Fresh polenta is another story. It’s a funny thing, but when foods are this simple in concept, they frequently have what food writer Matt Kramer calls “taste transparency.” Take a bite and you immediately can tell what has gone into the dish--and if any shortcuts were taken. Polenta is that way. Taste a sample freshly made from an instant mix and then one made from regular cornmeal. There’s no convincing yourself they’re the same thing, no matter how sore your stirring arm is. I know. I tried.

In fact, I went beyond that. Various cookbook writers have come up with shortcuts to try to take the sting out of the preparation. I took two that seemed promising and made them alongside the regular and instant. And if you don’t think juggling four burners of polenta is fun . . .

First, the regular. Into 6 1/2 cups of boiling salted water, stir 2 cups of yellow cornmeal (some cookbooks insist on organically grown, stone-ground, but I used regular commercial, albeit from a store where cornmeal turns over very quickly and it was fine--I think freshness is the key factor). Use a whisk for this part of the job; it’s most important that no lumps form. If they do, you can try to work them out by mashing them against the side of the pan with a wooden spoon, but this is, at best, an imperfect solution.

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Traditionally, we’re told to add the cornmeal by the fistful, letting it trickle between almost closed fingers to prevent it from being added too quickly. I found this a pain. It worked better for me to shake it straight from a small bowl, being careful to add a little at a time, whisking madly all the while. It takes a little practice, but you’ll work out a kind of push-pull rhythm--sort of like rubbing your belly and patting your head at the same time.

An article in a wonderful Italian food magazine, A Tavola, recommends adding three-fourths of the cornmeal first and then stirring for 15 minutes before adding the remainder. When you make it, you’ll understand why. Three-fourths of the cornmeal is about what it takes to thicken the mush enough that it starts bubbling and spewing like some golden volcano. Watch it: Those spitting polenta gobs are hot. It’s not called Italian napalm for nothing.

Once all the cornmeal has been added, turn the heat to medium-low and stir with a wooden spoon. And stir. And stir. For about an hour. The polenta is done when it pulls cleanly away from the sides and bottom of the pan. In “La Cucina di Lidia,” noted Italian chef Lidia Bastianich recommends a cooking time of only 30 minutes to 35 minutes. I tasted it at that point, and neither the flavor nor the texture were quite right, though certainly each type of cornmeal will cook differently.

The shortcuts came from two good sources. Marcella Hazan, a traditionalist if ever there was one, offers a labor-saving wrinkle on the basic technique in her “Essentials of Classic Italian Cooking”: Once the cornmeal has been well stirred into the pot, cover tightly and then stir just one minute every 10 minutes. In her “The Splendid Table,” Lynne Kasper offers a more drastic alternative. She recommends adding boiling water to the cornmeal, sealing it tight and then cooking in a double boiler, stirring only four or five times. (This, I learned later, is itself a variation on a quick method developed by San Francisco restaurateur Carlo Middione, though in his version, the polenta is added in the traditional way and cooked for five minutes over direct heat before being covered and placed over a double-boiler.)

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When each version was completed, I added a couple of tablespoons of butter and grated Parmigiano-Reggiano and beat them in until the mush was smooth. Then I tasted.

Polenta “Original Recipe” was sticky and thick, about the texture of cream whipped to stiff peaks, and had a rich corn taste with a slightly bitter edge that was a perfect match for the cheese and butter. It was truly spectacular. In fact, I had to taste quite a bit before I could believe how good it really was. I kept hoping it was a fluke.

Of the shortcuts, Hazan’s was the best. It was slightly looser and smoother in texture, more like cream whipped to soft peaks. The flavor was not as deep or developed as the first, but it was very close. Kasper’s came in just ahead of the instant. The texture was fine--closer to the original than Hazan’s--but the flavor was light and undeveloped. It was a far cry from the original.

Why this is so, I can’t say, though it could have something to do with the cornmeal toasting a bit directly over the flame but not over the softer heat of a double boiler. If this theory is right, you should be able to improve the flavor by following Middione’s method.

Interestingly enough, an hour later, when all four had cooled significantly, the flavor differences had diminished greatly. And as great as the difference in texture had been between the original and Hazan’s shortcut, after cooling they were indistinguishable.

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Once cooled and sliced, polenta can be broiled or fried, as described above, or it can be layered with cheese and sauce and, if you want, other ingredients for strata--a kind of polenta lasagna.

As for hot polenta, the A Tavola article lists 25 versions--everything from polenta e latte (cooked in milk and sweetened with sugar and cinnamon) to suf (cooked in milk with butter added), including intruglia (a soupy polenta with beans and black cabbage added) and the delightfully named smacafam (a little savory cake made with special Grano Saraceno cornmeal and sausages). One night I mixed hot polenta, shredded blue cheese and chopped cooked broccoli to a good effect. There are also variations made with white cornmeal, though these are usually sweet.

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The use of instant polenta in this recipe, from Carol Fields’ “Italy in Small Bites,” is strictly optional. If you prefer, make it the traditional way, as described above. Just be sure to warm up your stirring arm in advance.

POLENTA CROSTINI

WITH MUSHROOMS

(Crostini di Polenta

ai Funghi)

1 ounce dried porcini mushrooms

3 to 4 tablespoons extra-virgin olive oil

1 large red onion, finely minced

2 small cloves garlic, finely minced

1 pound fresh brown mushrooms, such as cremini or portobello, well cleaned and sliced

3 or 4 small ripe plum tomatoes, chopped

1 tablespoon chopped flat-leaf parsley

Salt

Freshly ground pepper

Quick Polenta

Olive oil

Soak dried mushrooms in warm water to cover at last 45 minutes or until softened. Remove from liquid carefully and rinse well under cold running water to remove any sand still clinging. Chop mushrooms roughly and drain thoroughly. Strain soaking liquid at least twice through sieve lined with cheesecloth or paper towels, and reserve for use in another dish.

Heat olive oil in heavy skillet and saute onion until translucent and tender, 10 to 15 minutes. Add garlic and all mushrooms, turn heat to low and cook, stirring intermittently, for up to 20 minutes, until tender. Add tomatoes, parsley, salt and pepper to taste. Continue cooking another 5 minutes.

Cut Quick Polenta into slices 2 inches wide and 3 to 4 inches long and brush lightly with olive oil to taste. Broil until firm and lightly crisp on both sides. Place spoonful of hot mushroom sauce on top of each crostino and serve. Makes 8 to 10 appetizer servings.

Each of 8 servings contains about:

180 calories; 642 mg sodium; trace cholesterol; 6 grams fat; 28 grams carbohydrates; 4 grams protein; 1.21 grams fiber.

Quick Polenta

6 cups water

2 teaspoons coarse salt

1 (13-ounce) package instant polenta, about 2 cups

Bring water to vigorous boil and add salt. When water returns to boil, pour polenta into pot in steady stream, stirring with wooden spoon. Cook, stirring continuously 5 minutes or until mixture is solid but still soft.

Pour onto oiled 10 1/2- x 15 1/2-inch baking sheet. With wet hands or wet spatula, pat polenta into smooth, flat rectangle. Let cool about 10 minutes or until firm.