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I'm not even going to try to spin this. It's simply straight-up food porn. You know you love it.

Blood Orange Sunset Over Sicily

For many days I had the pleasure of watching dramatic sunsets over Sicily from across the Strait of Messina: brick red bleeding into rust melting into tangerine with flecks of pink fading into old fashioned vanilla.

That was nearly a year ago, and I haven’t thought much about them lately. That is, until yesterday, when I pulled a knife through the globe of an orange, split it open and there it was: one of those stunning Sicilian sunsets.

I had purchased the orange – nearly a dozen of them – from the independent grocery store up the corner from my house. The produce bins are always laden with spiny fruits and riotous-colored vegetables that the Latino customers seem so sure about and which leave me gaping. This is the most beautiful thing I have every seen; it must taste good. This is a regular thought of mine.

Inexplicably placed near the onions, a gang of blood oranges beckoned me, winked at me, showed off their rouged, lacquered skin. Upon close inspection they were pretty puny – each one could fit in the palm of my hand and my hands are pretty small. Many were badly bruised and soft. But I found some resilient ones with lovely maroon dapples and firm-feeling flesh.

Satisfied with my loot, I headed toward the cash register when a sign stopped me in my tracks. Backing up, I read, “Sicilian blood oranges.” Wait a minute. Beneath the sign I found a pile of very regular looking oranges, except that their skin was a deep, rich orange instead of that indecisive yellowish orange that navel oranges sometimes have. Why didn’t they look like the blood oranges I was carrying in a plastic bag? Were they mistakenly identified? For curiosity’s sake, I took two of these and continued toward the register.

Back in my kitchen I poured the oranges into a bowl. The reddish ones had stickers on them: Moro Sunkist 4381. The larger, orange-skinned so-called Sicilian variety didn’t have stickers. It was time to settle this. I took one of each and sliced them down the middle.

Swept Away

The moro made my heart melt in my chest. It's interior was the painted western sky on a warm evening in Reggio di Calabria, a salty breeze sweeping in off the strait, unsettling skirts as women walked with their lovers and their loved ones for a passegiatta on the promenade. The heavy sun settling back behind Sicilia’s chunk of jagged hills and sloping cities, less than three miles across the cobalt water.

But this was a California orange.

The Sicilian orange did not have the same effect on me. Its prismatic flesh was predominantly orange with only a ring of bleeding around the outer circumference. I was disappointed.

But then it was time for a taste, and the Sicilian variety redeemed itself with elegance. Its flesh was superior in sweetness to the moro. It was juicier, too. If I wanted to eat a blood orange by itself, this was the one I wanted.

I had loftier intentions, though, and as it turned out the combination of these two varieties was exactly what I needed. I had in mind to make a salad similar to one typical to Sicily. Italians, including Sicilians, generally don’t add fruit to their salads, except citrus, and Sicilians take smart advantage of the citrus groves that swath the island’s rugged countryside.

There are so many variations to a Sicilian orange salad that I’m not sure which recipe is authentic. Some combine the fruit with fennel and olives, green onion or mint. I suspect it varies from household to household and the ingredients available. Such is the beauty of Italian cuisine (if there is such a thing; Italy’s cuisine is, of course, so regional.)

I decided to create my own variation, combining blood orange segments with basil for a note of licorice, with red onions for their color, crunch and sweetness, and with crumbles of grainy ricotta salata, a sheep’s milk cheese made from pressed and dried curd, which adds a pleasant saltiness to the salad as olives would have but also another layer of texture. I dressed it with a sprinkling of flavorful extra virgin olive oil.

This salad is full of color and contrast, just as Sicily is itself. When you go, you will find gritty, congested cities like the port town of Messina and fairytale hilltop towns like glamorous Taormina. There will be a hodgepodge of architecture from Arab-Norman cathedrals to Grecian temple ruins. Its people will show you hospitality and reticence, but you will find beauty in it all. Especially if you pause to watch a sunset.

Sicilian-inspired Blood Orange Salad

4 California moro blood oranges
4 Sicilian blood oranges
1/4 of a whole red onion
8 basil leaves
4 oz. ricotta salata
extra virgin olive oil

serves 4 for a light first course

Peel and slice each orange into approximately eight wedges. Slice the onion as paper thin as you can make it. Taking a few basil leaves at a time, roll them tightly around each other cigar-style. Slice them widthwise into a chiffonade. Crumble the ricotta salata between your fingers. Arrange the ingredients together on each plate and drizzle with olive oil just before serving.

OR

Turn the salad into a canapé. With each wedge, cut the pulp from the rind and place the pulp back on the skin, slightly off center so the eater will know its already detached. Sprinkle with a few pieces of basil and onion and few ricotta salata crumbles and drizzle with olive oil.

Your Monthly Fortune: Napoleon Caprese

You have died and gone to heaven. Here we eat buttery pastry with our salad.

When I was dreaming up a salad/appetizer in which to use a creamy mass of freshly-made mozzarella I recently purchased from an Italian market, suddenly the vision of a delicate tower came to me. It had gorgeous layers of color and contrasting textures. It was constructed from slices of fresh mozzarella, red beefsteak tomatoes, and … what was that? What was that golden, flaky square balanced on top? (Insert angels’ chorus.) It was a layer of pastry formed from several buttered sheets of crispy phyllo dough.

Everyone knows – and most everyone adores – Caprese salad. This is a tricolor salad that supposedly originated on the island of Capri in the Bay of Naples. It is traditionally made with slices of mozzarella and tomato combined with fragrant basil leaves and drizzled simply with olive oil.

A Napoleon is a stacked dessert made with layers of crisp, tissue-thin pastry and luscious cream. The top layer is often glazed with icing or dusted with powdered sugar. (Incidentally, this dessert is a favorite of both mine and Nicole’s. You know, just throwing that out there. Eh-hem.)

I have come up with an appetizer I call a Napoleon Caprese because it marries the perfect taste combination of the Caprese salad with the eye-catching construction and satisfying crisp of a Napoleon. If you are skeptical about the pastry, I assure you there’s nothing sweet about the phyllo dough squares and the butter we will use to glue each phyllo sheet together will only bring out the rich butteriness of the mozzarella. Another cool part: Instead of plunking whole basil leaves in between the layers, we are going to glaze the pastry in basil oil.

This is a dish that hits a homerun in presentation, deceiving all your family and friends that you slaved all day for them. (Yeah, right. For them?) On the contrary, this recipe is so short and simple, I have lots of room this week to illustrate each step with pictures. So let’s begin with the ingredients.

NAPOLEON CAPRESE

Serves 4.

• 6 Tbsp olive oil, separated
• 4 garlic cloves, peeled and left whole
• 4 Tbsp butter, melted (plus a little extra butter for greasing the baking sheet)
• 6 sheets of purchased phyllo dough
• 2-3 beefsteak tomatoes
• 8 one-inch slices of fresh mozzarella
• 1 bunch fresh basil
• salt and pepper to taste
• flour for dusting baking sheet

If you want to purchase garlic-infused oil you can go ahead and skip this first step. Otherwise, place 3 Tbsp of olive oil with the garlic in a small saucepan and keep over medium-low heat (turn it lower if it starts to sizzle). We’re just trying to get the flavor of the garlic into the oil, so you can let that hang out for a while. Go onto the other steps and check back in a little while. If you can taste the garlic in the oil by dabbing your finger carefully into it, the infusion is done.

Take the oil off the heat and disgard the garlic.

Next, liberally butter and flour a baking sheet and preheat the oven to 350 degrees. Place one sheet of phyllo dough onto the pan and brush with melted butter. Place another sheet directly on top of the first and brush with butter. Repeat until you have six layers. Using a sharply pointed knife, cut the dough into eight squares. Bake in the oven until each square is slightly puffed and golden (less than 10 minutes). When they have finished baking, set aside to cool.

Meanwhile we’ll grill the tomato. Cut the tomatoes into thick one-inch slices and brush them with the garlic-infused oil. Heat a cast iron grill pan until it’s screaming hot. If you don’t own a grill pan, use a saute pan, you just won’t get the beautiful carmel lines on the tomato. Cook the tomato slices on one side only. We’re just trying to get a little carmelization on them and soften them up a bit. When you have achieved this, set them aside in the refrigerator to cool.

It’s time to make our basil oil that we will use to glaze the pastry squares. In a blender, combine 3 handfuls of fresh basil leaves, 3 Tbsp olive oil, 2 pinches of salt and one of pepper. When this is well blended, brush the oil onto the puffed sides of the pastry squares.

Seriously, that’s it. Now all that’s left is assembly. The first layer will be tomato. Place a slice down on the serving plate and add a slice of mozzarella on top. Next add a square of basil-brushed pastry. Repeat all three layers and garnish the plate with a whole basil leaf and a drizzle of remaining basil oil.

Buon appetito!  -- J. Fortune

Your Monthly Fortune: Poached Pear Salad

To kick off my column, I thought I’d break down a satisfying three-course winter meal, dedicating one post to each course, so that you can practice each at your own pace and feel completely confident before choreographing them into one delicious dinner.

Our complete menu will begin with a poached bosc pear salad with an orange-red wine vinaigrette; then we will tuck into a hearty, Italian-inspired cheese rollatini smothered in bolognese sauce; and we will finish with a light and cheery lemon curd with chantilly cream. Hey, was that your stomach growling or mine?

Let’s begin with the poached pear salad. For four servings we will need:

• 2 Bosc pears
• 2 cups water
• 2 cups orange juice
• 1 cup red wine
• 1/2 cup sugar
• 1/2 cup crumbled gorgonzola
• 1/2 cup pignoli nuts
• 1/4 cup white wine vinegar
• 1 cup extra virgin olive oil
• 1 endive head
• 2 cups arugula

Bosc pears are the elongated, russet-colored pears that are available in markets through the winter. They are ideal for this dish because their firm flesh stands up nicely to the poaching method.

Now, if you have never poached before, don’t worry. You’ll be amazed how easy it is. Think of it as preparing a soothing hot tub for the pears -- they'll relax for a few hours in orange-scented water while sipping a little red wine.

Let's draw the bath: Pour the water, orange juice and wine into a medium saucepan. Place over high heat and bring to a boil, then lower heat to bring the liquid to a simmer. Meanwhile peel the skin from the pears – that’s right, they’re going skinny-dipping – but leave the fruit whole and stems still intact (for presentation sake). When the liquid is simmering, add the sugar and mix until you feel it has dissolved. The bath should be ready now – appearing a rich pink grapefruit color – and you can add the pears. Keep it barely at a simmer over medium low heat for about an hour and a half. Don’t worry about the pears. They’ll enjoy the privacy.

Meanwhile, put the pignoli into a dry saute pan and toast them over a medium flame, moving them around often so they don’t scorch and they brown evenly. When the nuts are a lovely golden color and smell divine – you’ll know it – remove them from the heat.

After about an hour and a half, remove the pears from the saucepan, reserving the liquid. Allow the pears to rest and cool in an open container or dish with a little of the poaching liquid to keep them moist. The pears should still be firm to the touch – remember, we’re serving them in a salad, not a dessert.

While the pears cool, make the vinaigrette. Get out the blender you haven’t used in seven years and make sure the pitcher is clean. Pour in a cup and a half of the poaching liquid along with the white wine vinegar. (Note: Be careful when blending hot liquids. The steam can blow the top off the blender, splatter the liquid, scald the skin, mass hysteria...) With the blender on, add the olive oil in a steady stream through the hole in the lid until all ingredients incorporate and the vinaigrette thickens a bit. Season the vinaigrette to taste.

Hey, guess what? We made it! Now all that’s left is assembly. Cut the pears into quarters, lengthwise. Create a bed of arugula and endive leaves on each salad plate. Sprinkle the leaves with gorgonzola (that’s Italian blue cheese, which is a milder variety, so don’t be afraid) and toasted pignoli. Then arrange two pear wedges so that they’re kind of leaning on each other, stems facing upwards. Spoon the vinaigrette over the salad and serve.

If you run into any problems, let me know by posting a comment below. Otherwise, I'll meet you back here next week. Buon appetito!

-- Chef J. Fortune