Polenta

Polenta today is both rustic and chic, a dish appearing in restaurants all over northern and central Italy topped with everything from a wreath of quail to wild mushroom ragù. It is only recently that many women would think of making polenta voluntarily. So many years of scarcity had cast it as the food of deprivation and every bite was overlaid with memories of sadness and hard times. Earlier in this century, people ate polenta because they had no choice. They ate it two or three times a day, perhaps cooked in a little milk or broth, perhaps with a bit of salami, cabbage, cicoria, or green beans. In many families the big dome of polenta was poured onto a board in the center of the table and everyone sat around—no plates required—scooping out a space for sauce or flavoring and spooning up the polenta right in front of them. For holidays and very special days in the lives of the poor, the glowing golden circle of polenta was turned out onto a wooden board and a single herring was slapped against each person’s piece, the rare moment in the countryside when the taste of meat or fish came to table.