It was an usually hot summer in Rome this year, so my friend Carla Tomasi kept the savoy seedlings in her storeroom for longer than usual. It was 4 September when she planted them outside. On 8 December, after the sort of cold spell brassicas like, she picked a savoy cabbage from her vegetable patch for me.
Until then, I thought the cabbages at the farmers’ market were impressive, but they weren’t a patch on Carla’s huge, lotus flower-like beauty with its rumpled leaves that seem fresh from a porcelain factory, in shades of darkest to palest green. In my vegetable box there are now also two bulbs of fennel with fronds that wouldn’t look out of place on a Las Vegas showgirl’s head, tiny turnips with not so tiny tops, carrots and bunches of kale, rocket, sage and rosemary. The four tins of Colman’s mustard powder I have brought back from London feel a slightly lame exchange for the glorious box, but Carla seems happy.
Carla isn’t just a fine gardener, she is a fine cook and teacher, who has patiently taught me to make pumpkin ravioli, Italian savoury pies, glorious dome-like zuccotto puddings and whole baked fish. She also spent many years in England cooking Italian food, at the same time falling fondly for English pies, preserves and cakes.
In fact, the day we call at her home in Ostia, about 15 minutes from Rome, to give her the mustard powder destined for piccalilli, two rich fruit cakes are baking. The smell in the kitchen brings on a huge wave of nostalgia for England and Mum baking the Christmas cake while yelling at my brother to take the Lego out of his nose. We don’t mean to stay, but before we can say so, tea is brewed, pear cake is cut and my four-year-old, Luca, is hugging the large biscuit jar with an even larger grin.
While we eat, we talk about Mary Berry’s versus Jane Grigson’s Christmas cake, slugs in the garden and the setting point for marmalade. It is lovely – and relatively rare – to encounter such affection for English food in Italy, especially from such a good cook. Driving back home along the Via del Mare, even though the vegetable box is in the boot, the Fiat Panda is a herbal bong of sage and rosemary. Back in Rome, the leaves I pull away to fit the cabbage in the sink become the wings for a four-year-old cabbage superhero.
For as long as I can remember I have really liked cabbage. As a little girl I thought cabbage with butter, salt and enough black pepper to tickle the back of my throat was the best. Not very discerning, I also ate the sad slump that came out of the school kitchen, the sulphurous smell of which lingered, like us, in corners and corridors. I might even have eaten other peoples sad slumps, which now seems particularly odd.
These days, I try to avoid sad slumps of all kinds. I still think cabbage with butter, salt and pepper is delicious. Carla has also taught me to wilt cabbage in olive oil in a hot pan then add boiled potatoes, then continue frying until the potato and cabbage has a crusty, golden bottom, a dish which reminds me of colcannon and my Irish roots. Other favourites when cabbages are plentiful and brilliantly cheap are Jane Baxter’s braised cabbage and lentils, which are finished with a happy jolt of lemon juice, Mona Talbott’s cabbage, bacon and potato soup, and stuffed cabbage poached in tomato sauce. Which brings us to today’s recipe: the majestic oak-tree sausage and cabbage cake.
Quite how majestic your oak tree will be depends on the cabbage leaf you choose. Pick the nicest, least damaged leaf – the central rib is the trunk and the veins branches – for the bottom of the buttered dish, as this will be the top when you invert the cake.
My recipe is inspired by a Rowley Leigh recipe for a sort of chou farci, or stuffed cabbage. The idea is simple: you line a buttered dish with cabbage leaves, then fill the dish with alternate layers of seasoned cabbage and sausage meat. You then bring the overhanging leaves up and over to make a neat parcel, which you bake and then invert carefully on to a plate. After admiring your tree, you might well admire each slice, with it’s pleasing layers of pink and green. A spoonful of the rich tomato sauce I wrote about last last week is a good companion for majestic oak tree cake. Best of all, though, is some very buttery mash. I bet a spoonful of piccalilli wouldn’t go amiss here too. I will have to ask Carla for a jar.
Cabbage and sausage cake
Serves 4
1 large savoy cabbage
20ml olive oil
A small knob of butter
About half tsp fennel seeds (optional)
500g lean, well-seasoned sausage meat
More butter, for greasing and dotting
Salt and black pepper
1 Choose 7 of the largest, nicest outer cabbage leaves and wash them. Bring a large pan of well-salted water to the boil then blanch the chosen leaves for 2 minutes. Use a slotted spoon to lift the leaves out, keeping the water. Rinse the leaves briefly with cold water and blot on a clean tea towel.
2 Cut the rest of the cabbage into quarters and bring the water back to the boil. Cook the cabbage in the boiling water until the leaves are tender, but the stem still firm – about 5 minutes. Drain the cabbage and, once cool enough, squeeze out any excess water. Cut away the stem, chop the leaves roughly, put in a bowl and dress with the olive oil, a knob of butter, salt and pepper and some fennel seeds, if you like. Squeeze the sausage meat from the casing.
3 Butter a 20cm-round ovenproof dish. Choose the nicest leaf from the seven you saved and put it at the bottom of the dish. Now arrange the other six so they cover the sides of the dish, overlapping a lot and hanging over the edges.
4 Now, for the layers. Press a third of the dressed cabbage mixture into the bottom of the leaf-lined dish. Then make a layer with half the sausage meat, pressing it down firmly. Repeat the process ending with a third layer of cabbage leaves. Fold over the overhanging cabbage leaves and cover to make a neat parcel.
5 Dot with a little butter and bake at 180C for an hour. When ready, let the cake sit for 5 minutes before inverting over a plate carefully, as there will be hot juices. Serve with rich tomato sauce, buttery mash, or both.
