We called it “tatie hash.” The smell would meet us as we walked up the long garden path, and then my glasses would fug up as we walked in the sliding door and my grandma would remind us to be careful with the sliding door because it was “dicky.” The pan would bubble away on a back burner while we had a snack, usually malt loaf with butter and cheese, or crackers – my grandma was very keen on crackers. It would bubble some more while did our homework. Eventually my brother and sister and I would sit, as we did every Tuesday after school, at my grandparent’s table to eat a plate of beef shoulder, potatoes, carrots, celery and onion that had been simmered into a stew our family called tatie hash. I should note that, to others, “tatty”, “tatta” or “potato hash” might be more familiar, as might be the addition of corned beef .
We loved tatie hash as much as we loved our grandparents, and so when a school friend who cam e over for tea was rude about it, I was furious. As far as I was concerned it was beyond any sort of judgment, even less criticism. Tatie hash was like my grandma: comforting, straightforward, warm and – most importantly – something you could depend on. It was also to be finished if you wanted pudding, which was usually rice pudding, or tinned peaches with evaporated milk, the fruit syrup curdling the milk, which sounds unsavoury but wasn’t. Or was it? Again, it was beyond criticism.
But then one day I did criticise. I was about 10 and in a horrid mood the day I told my grandma that tatie hash was sloppy and boring, and that only old people ate the same thing again and again. I wanted to take back the words as soon as they came out and I watched the hurt shoot across my grandma’s forehead like a crack. A few years earlier she would have said something sharp back, but not then. I said sorry many times, but it never felt enough.
I still wish I could take the words back. While I was at it, I would also thank her for all the buttons sewn back on, holes in the elbows of jumpers darned, holes in knees plastered, stories told, purple fruit pastilles saved and tell her how important tatie hash Tuesdays were; those comforting-claustrophobic evenings in the maisonette flat on Cowper Road. I would also tell them that after years of kicking against any sort of routine, I now like nothing more than making the same thing again and again in this Roman, English, Sicilian kitchen: pasta and tomato sauce Mondays, roast chicken Tuesdays (which means chicken soup Wednesdays), and pasta e ceci Fridays.
“Pasta and chickpeas! Well that does sound exotic” Grandma Phyllis might have said.
“That would give me heartburn” my Grandpa might have added from the sofa. Everything gave him heartburn.
“Oh John, do give over! Pasta and chickpeas sounds lovely, Rach. Now lets have a cup of tea and you can tell me more about the part of Rome you live in, testicl*s is it?”
“Testaccio Grandma, it’s called Testaccio.”
I think Phyllis would have liked this second version of pasta e ceci – the storecupboard version (see alternative version with dried chickpeas in last week’s column). It begins by draining tinned chickpeas – surely the best and most useful of the legumes in tins, as they keep their texture and sweet depth of flavour.
Care is needed though, as we won’t have the broth that comes with soaking and cooking your own chickpeas. You want a full-flavoured soffritto – so go slowly and use good olive oil, a pinch of chilli, fresh rosemary and a good teaspoon of tomato puree – but you want it blushing, not burning red. Then there is the rind. I will be forever grateful to the person who taught me to keep the parmesan rinds with the last bit of dry cheese still attached in a bag in the freezer. Adding one to soup as it cooks imparts a deep savoury flavour, and provides an excellent chewy and cheesy cook’s treat at the end. Another tip I was happy to learn is buying sheets of fresh egg lasagna, and then cutting them into maltagliati – “badly cut”, which I think says it all.
Another key difference with last weeks version is the consistency. By pureeing half – with a food mill if you have one, which also deals with the skins – you have a soup the colour of a September sunrise and a texture that is creamy and deeply comforting.
Pasta e ceci – pasta and chickpea soup – version 2
Serves 4
2 x 400g tins of chickpeas
1 onion
1 stick of celery
1 small potato (optional)
Salt
6 tbsp of extra virgin olive oil
A sprig of fresh rosemary
1 tsp of tomato puree/concentrate
A small pinch of dried red chilli flakes (optional)
1.2 litres of water
A pinch of salt
A parmesan rind (optional)
120g small dried pasta such as tubetti or ditalini, or 200g fresh egg lasagna sheets cut into small squares
Black pepper
1 Drain and rinse the chickpeas. Finely dice the onion and celery, and peel and cut the potato into chunks. In a large heavy-based pan, warm the olive oil, add the onion and celery and cook gently until soft and fragrant.
2 Add the potato and stir until each chunk glistens, then add the rosemary, tomato and chilli (if you are using it), stir and cook for a minute before adding the chickpeas. Add 1.2 lites of water, a pinch of salt and the parmesan rind if you are using it. Bring to the boil, then reduce to a gentle simmer for 20 minutes.
3 Remove half the soup from the pan and pass it through a food mill or use an immersion blender to make it smooth, then return it to the pan.
4 Remove the cheese rind (a cook’s treat). Taste and add more salt if necessary. Bring the soup to a steady but moderate boil, add the pasta and then – stirring pretty attentively – cook until the pasta is tender, adding a little more water if necessary. Taste to check seasoning, adding black pepper if you wish. Serve with a little more olive oil poured over the top.
- Rachel Roddy is a Rome-based food blogger, author of Five Quarters: Recipes and Notes from a Kitchen in Rome (Saltyard, 2015) and winner of the 2015 André Simon food book award.
