The word polpetta is soft. I love the way the three syllables are animated, how they feel like two pops and a satisfied sigh as they come out of your mouth. The word comes from the Latin polpa, which translates as meat, flesh or pulp (as in that of an aubergine or peach), followed by the suffix etta, which denotes something little. The process of making them is soft, too, thanks to the forgiving give-or-take proportions, the squish through your fingers and rolling between your palms, and the all-important resting. And then there is the simmering of the resulting polpette in red sauce.
The word polpetta can also be hard, like nails, three of them shooting out of a nail gun or scratching a blackboard. Making them can be everything other than soft and squishy: the figurative “ridurre qualcuno in polpette, massacrarlo” (reduce someone to a pulp, massacre them) is far more appropriate than any culinary definition of seasoned minced meat and careful rolling. The simmer can be a hissing spit.
The first, soft polpette are obviously far more suitable for a newspaper recipe column, especially if they come with an appropriate fond memory and the evocation of a deceased relative, ideally an Italian grandmother who was always reluctant to share the exact proportions or cooking time. I have done softness before, though, along with evocation and a lack of vital details, several times – for Roman meatballs, poached meatballs and winter meatballs – each time genuine, if a bit weary and disingenuous. Cooking is a reflection of the cook: it can be soft and hard and everything in between, most of which are not as neat as a column.
The day I made these polpette was not a good day, and my cooking was a mirror of me: tired, irritable and hard. It is true that cooking can be cathartic; that many bad moods have been neutralised by chopping, irritation at the world simmered away with a pan of soup (although maybe not as many as I would have you believe). But not that day – and I was glad about it, too. I drowned a crustless slice of bread in milk for 10 minutes, squeezed out the excess milk and crumbled the bread into a bowl. I minced 300g chicken as if I didn’t like it and, using my hands, squeezed it with 150g ricotta, 40g grated parmesan, the zest of an unwaxed lemon, salt and pepper. I asked Vincenzo to shape the mixture into ping-pong-ball-sized polpette, complained about how he did it, then I flattened them into UFOs.
While they rested for 30 minutes, I wiped surfaces and thought about the day another food writer told me the secret ingredients to all her food were love and calm.
Forget love and calm: the choice here is rosso or bianco, red or white – that is, either in tomato sauce or browning, and then adding white wine. I wasn’t about to bother with sauce, so I heated a bit of olive oil in a nonstick frying pan, added the polpette and browned them all over.
The great thing about these polpette is that the ricotta and milky bread ensure they stay tender even in the most malevolent of hands. I got a bottle out of the fridge and poured in 200ml white wine (an alternative is light vegetable stock) which meant the pan hissed like an angry cat, and I then left the pan to simmer and spit for 20 minutes, turning the polpette halfway, until they cooked through and the liquid reduced to just a little, thick sauce. While the polpette cooked, I steamed some rice, made a very average chopped winter coleslaw and washed up – resentfully.
As hard as I felt and cooked, the chicken, ricotta and lemon polpette were soft and, it turns out, resilient. Even in most irritable of hands, the three ingredients, like two pops and a satisfied sigh, combine brilliantly. Chicken and ricotta ensure the polpette are plump and tender, the lemon zest that they are bright and lively ... quite annoying when you are feeling far from it.
Chicken, ricotta and lemon polpette
Prep 10 min
Rest and soak 40 min
Cook 30 min
Serves 4
40g white bread, crusted (weight without crusts)
60ml milk
300g chicken breast, minced
150g ricotta
Zest of 1 unwaxed lemon
Salt and black pepper
Olive oil
200ml white wine or light vegetable stock
1 tbsp chopped parsley
Soak the bread in the milk for 10 minutes, then squeeze out the excess milk and crumble the soaked bread into a bowl.
Add the minced chicken, ricotta, lemon zest, salt and pepper to the bowl and, using your hands, mix and squeeze everything together.
Shape the mixture into ping-pong ball-sized polpette, flattening them slightly, and leave to rest for 30 minutes.
In a nonstick frying pan, warm a little olive oil. Add the polpette and brown them on both sides. Add the wine or stock and leave to simmer for 20 minutes, turning the polpette half way, until they are cooked through and there is just a little thick sauce remaining. Sprinkle over some parsley and serve. Serve with rice, greens, mashed potato or a leafy salad.
