olive pits and rice: the remains of dinner

My older son, Ben, is 9 and a half. For the first couple years of his food-eating life, he ate whatever we put in front of him: eggplant caviar. Goat cheese. Pickled daikon. Chard lasagne. And then bit by bit, he started dropping foods from his diet. It didn’t happen when he started school, as many predicted, but it happened obviously enough that I began to think of him as a picky eater. An unusual picky eater, to be sure; he ate chard and pickled things and bitter marmalade, but no melted cheese (hardly any cheese at all), no milk except a bit to wet his cereal, no tomatoes. Birthday parties, with their ubiquitous cheese pizzas, became difficult. Eating out wasn’t so easy, either. And at home, despite our best intentions to keep cooking the foods we like and waiting for the kids to come around, we found ourselves subtly adapting our cooking to our kid’s appetite, or making modular meals of something new (a different kind of green, squash cooked a new way) topping something familiar (rice or pasta). We have fallen into ruts, and then needed to climb out of them. We get excited about new foods and then exhausted by the problem of needing to make dinner every single night.

But this week we’re on vacation. Even though you never get a real vacation from parenting, we’re all feeling relaxed, spending longer over meals, being a little more casual about breakfast for dinner or eating out. Plus, we’re getting excited about planning our summer adventure with friends: ten days in Turkey! Eli is poring over the brochure for the rental house; Ben wonders aloud what might be growing in the garden in August. Tony has wisely researched Turkish restaurants in San Francisco and last night we went to one. After studying the menu a while, Ben asked for an order of olives (marinated in herbs and citrus); we rounded out his dinner by ordering up a buffet of mezze: hummus, muhammara, haydari, falafel and zucchini cakes. We ordered extra pita and a rice pilaf, just in case.

The olives and pita were a hit. Ben picked delicately at the falafel and took a proper bite of zucchini cake. He scowled, but then said he liked the after taste. Not enough to eat more right then, but enough to try it again. We’ve all agreed to eat Turkish food once a month until we go on our big trip, and to try something new each time we do. They may still subsist on pita when we travel, but we’ll try to familiarize them a bit with the (fabulous, delicious) range of options. We had a great conversation over the meal, so even though I think my children really only ate olives, pita, and a bit of rice for dinner, the memory of the meal is a happy one, and — I hope — bodes well for our summer travels.

So, I think, does this: Midway through the meal, Ben pulled the bay leaf out of his olives and ate it. I didn’t notice until afterwards, when he said, “That leaf on the olives is really bitter!”

“That’s a bay leaf, Ben,” I answered, “It flavors the food, but you’re not really meant to eat it.”

“Oh, well, maybe it’ll flavor my water.” And with that, he stuck the bay leaf in his water and drank it down.

Of all the new vegetables we’ve met via our CSA — the cardoons, the agretti — I think my favorite might be romanesco broccoli, the fractal vegetable. It’s firmer than standard broccoli but sweeter than cauliflower, and it tasted great the other night in an easy pasta with lemon zest, sliced almonds, and asiago cheese. Here’s the recipe:

12 ounces campanelle or penne pasta
7 tablespoons olive oil, divided
2 heads roughly chopped Romanesco broccoli (about 1 1/4 lbs. total)
3/4 teaspoon kosher salt, divided
3 garlic cloves, finely chopped
1/2 teaspoon red chile flakes
Zest of 1 lemon
1/2 cup toasted sliced almonds
1/4 cup shredded asiago cheese

Cook pasta according to package directions.

Meanwhile, heat 3 tbsp. oil over medium heat in a large frying pan. Add Romanesco and 1/2 tsp. salt and cook, stirring occasionally, until tender-crisp, about 5 minutes. Add 1 tbsp. more oil to pan along with garlic and chile flakes. Cook until garlic is fragrant and light golden and Romanesco is tender, about 5 minutes more.

Drain pasta, reserving 1 cup pasta water, and return to pot. Stir in Romanesco mixture, lemon zest, almonds, cheese, remaining 3 tbsp. oil and 1/4 tsp. salt, and enough pasta water to moisten (about 3/4 cup).

My parents are visiting this week (on the California leg of my Dad’s book tour) — and that means I am experimenting with recipes I wouldn’t make for just the four of us.

My parents (unlike my children) are eager and adventurous eaters, and while the food here ultimately matters less to them, I think, than the company (grandchildren!), they’re happy to eat just about whatever Tony or I feels like cooking. They like to cook, but I know it’s a nice break for them to be catered to; they have a great store of homegrown produce in their root cellar and freezer, but I know that what looked like an appealing bounty in August can start to feel a tiresome burden in October. Because everyone, not just the parents of young and picky eaters, gets into food ruts. Whatever breaks you out of a routine — houseguests, the change in seasons, a new recipe — is a blessing. Right now, we’ve got all three working for us, and I’m grateful.

I spotted this curry recipe a couple weeks ago, just before the first pumpkin arrived in our CSA, and have been saving it for my parents, though it’s a mild enough curry that your kids may like it, too (mine tasted it, and then ate rice with plain tofu). I’ve linked to the original and will paste in the recipe as I made it.

1 1/2 quarts peeled pumpkin or other orange-fleshed squash, chopped into 1 1/2″ chunks (from a 3-lb. squash)
About 1 tsp. kosher salt, divided
3 tablespoons vegetable oil, divided
1 onion, halved and cut into half-moons
1 or 2 red or green serrano chiles, minced (adjust to taste)
1 cinnamon stick
20 fresh curry leaves (the original recipe suggests you can substitue bay leaves but I wouldn’t recommend it; just leave the curry leaves out if you can’t find them)
1 teaspoon turmeric
1 teaspoon cumin seeds
1 can (14.5 oz.) coconut milk
1/2 lb tofu, cut into chunks (not in the original recipe, but added for extra protein)
1 cup salted roasted cashews (I happened only to have peanuts, which were fine; toasted pumpkin seeds would be nice, too)
1 tablespoon lemon or lime juice (or, in my case, as much juice as you can squeeze from half a lime)

Preparation

1. Sprinkle pumpkin chunks with 1/2 tsp. salt. Heat 1 tbsp. oil in a large nonstick frying pan over medium-high heat. Brown half the pumpkin in oil, turning once, 6 to 8 minutes; reduce heat if pumpkin starts getting dark. Transfer to a bowl and repeat with 1 tbsp. oil and remaining pumpkin. Set all the pumpkin aside in a bowl.

2. Meanwhile, heat remaining 1 tbsp. oil in another large frying pan over medium heat. Cook onion, stirring occasionally, until deep golden, 12 to 15 minutes. Transfer half to the pumpkin- frying pan and reserve other half in a bowl.

3. Add chiles, cinnamon, and curry leaves to onion in pan. Cook, stirring often, until curry leaves are very fragrant, about 2 minutes. Add turmeric, cumin, and remaining 1/2 tsp. salt and cook, stirring, until spices are fragrant, about 1 minute.

4. Return pumpkin to the pan with the onion and spices and add the coconut milk and tofu. Bring to a boil over high heat, then cover, reduce heat, and simmer until pumpkin is tender, 5 to 10 minutes. Stir in lemon or lime juice, and add more salt to taste. Top curry with nuts and reserved onion and serve over rice.

On Friday evening, we were on our way for tacos, when all hell broke loose in the car. It was 5:30 pm. My 7-year-old son had just finished an intense 90-minute soccer practice. During this time his sister had been kicking the ball around with a few teammates. It was the end of another 90 degree day. Both kids were hot, sweaty, and my son’s knees were black from turf dirt.  They were hungry.  They were tired.   It was no surprise what happened next: yelling, fighting, tears, complete and utter irrationality.

Normally, this is not the state in which I take kids out to eat. In fact, taking tired, hungry, cranky kids out goes against everything I’ve ever written here about kids and restaurants, summed up here.

But let me back up. The kids are growing like weeds. These days Finn reminds me of a baby giraffe. He’s all lanky arms and spiking legs and careens around on his bike, or skates, or on the field in a headlong way, as if shot from a catapult, always on the verge of falling.  Ella is an athlete.  She spends long, intense hours at the soccer field and in the pool.  To see her in her soccer gear or swimsuit is to see a girl totally at home in her body and its strength. It’s awesome, and we tell her this every day.   It’s become clear to her father and me that her body craves this kind of  physical outlet just as much as her mind craves the novels she schemes to stay up too late reading. Even Finn, whose sports are less serious will gear up  for roller hockey and skate in the car port on days we’re at home.  All this means one thing:  they need more food.  A lot more food.  A few weeks ago we made the direct link between between the kids’ moods and their blood sugar levels.

There are distinct danger times: right after school, right before lunch, right before dinner.   Snacks have become urgent, no-compromise affairs.  I’ve been tempted to show up at school with those little glucose packs cyclists carry.  Instead, I’ve become an efficiency expert, whipping up smoothies with milk and fresh fruit or peanut butter, slicing cheese, cutting fruit, freezing yogurt, rolling salami, pouring milk, handing over crackers, defrosting edamame, portioning nuts. Protein has become essential for both of  them, pre- and post- practice, and calcium is especially important for Ella in these pre-adolescent years–as it is for all girl athletes.

So that night on the way to tacos (or not) I had two choices: take them home and find something to cook, or soldier on and hope for the best.  The first option was not so appealing to any of us. My kitchen was clean.  I had nothing prepped. We love tacos. What they needed was food. Fast. So against my better instincts, I drove straight past our house and up the hill to the taqueria, all the while scheming about what healthy, sustaining thing I could get into them fast.  Because it was hot, and perhaps because the taste of fresh lime and seafood is still lingering from our San Diego extravaganza, my food brain conjured one word :  ceviche.

Before we entered, tears were dry, kids were calm, and they had been read the riot act in my scariest mom voice.

Inside, they commandeered the table where they could watch the MLS game (another benefit of taco night out). I stood in line. ordered for all of us, and asked for the ceviche to be brought right away.  I had no reason to think they would love it.  But I also had no reason to think they wouldn’t.  It was cool and fresh and full of  citrus and tender white fish.  I knew it wouldn’t completely stuff them before their dinners, and I knew it would complement whatever they ended up ordering.   I also told them they had no choice in the matter, and so two minutes later, while we waited for carne asada, and tacos al pastor, and a quesadilla, the kids confronted a gorgeous pile of white fish ceviche with fresh avocado and a mountain of fresh chips.  Finn dug in first, and then there was no turning back. Not for him, not for Ella, and not for the mood of the night.   As quick as they could load a chip, the mood of the night turned.  They polished off the ceviche until only scraps of fish were left.  Dinner came and they didn’t stop eating.  We went home happy and ate ice cream.

The lesson here?  Food is fuel.    If you’re lucky, sometimes it’s more.

Post-ceviche bliss

As Tolstoy didn’t write, easygoing eaters are all the same; every picky eater is picky in his or her own way.

So I was reminded the other night when I unpacked our CSA share and pulled out a bunch of escarole bigger than my head:

“Yum!” said Ben. “What’s that?”

Can we just pause a moment to unpack those two short sentences? To marvel at the uncharacteristic enthusiasm — “Yum!” — which precedes the question? Because this cheerful reaction came from a child who generally approaches the world with a healthy dose of skepticism, and examines each bite he takes as carefully as the local health inspector. He will not tolerate butter or cheese (especially–shudder– if they are melted); frets if I put any kind of cooked dried bean (black, white, navy, garbanzo) on his plate; and rejects tomatoes in all their glorious forms (fresh, sauced, dried). On the other hand, he will eat whole wedges of lemon (rind and all), loves pickled burdock root, any manner of candied peel, and all cooked greens. The more sour and bitter, the better.

So I thought I had a good shot at getting him to eat escarole, especially when the sheet of recipes from our CSA included one for a warm salad of escarole, apples, raisins and toasted nuts. The original has cheese, which sounds delicious to me, but I didn’t have any, and Ben wouldn’t have eaten it that way, anyway. As it turned out, Ben liked it (though he found the escarole a bit chewy; I’ll tear the leaves up smaller next time), and even Eli, who of course is his own brand of picky (he doesn’t like any cooked vegetables), gave it long consideration rather than reject it automatically. So I’m calling this one a success.

Warm Escarole, Apple and Walnut Salad (adapted from a recipe by Jonathan Miller):

1/4 c raisins
1 apple, peeled and cut into wedges
1 head of escarole (my bunch was so big, I used less than half, which turned out to be one pound)
1 lemon
1/4 c chopped walnuts or pecans
2 oz gruyere
butter or olive oil

Cover the raisins with boiling water and let sit while you prepare the rest of the dish.
Zest the lemon and then squeeze out the juice. Keep them separate.
Wash the escarole and tear the leaves into bite-sized pieces.

Heat a large skillet with a couple tablespoons of butter or olive oil. Add the apples and a pinch of salt and cook, stirring occasionally, over medium-low heat until the apples have softened. Put in a large serving bowl with a splash of the lemon juice.

In the same skillet, toast the nuts until they’re dark brown and fragrant. Remove from the pan and set aside (don’t put them in with the apples just yet, or they’ll get soggy).

Now add a bit more olive oil or butter to the pan, the lemon zest, the remaining lemon juice, the escarole and a splash of water; cover the pan and let the escarole cook. As soon as the water begins to steam, uncover the pan and continue to cook, stirring, until the escarole is just wilted. Transfer to the serving bowl with the apples. Drain the raisins and sprinkle both those and the toasted nuts on top. Use a vegetable peeler to shave the gruyere on top and serve.

Click here for other escarole recipes.

I know this happens to you: the kids ask what’s for dinner, you tell them, they groan. Or whine. Or pout. Or lament the lousiness of what you have to offer.  Usually the question comes around 4 or 5 PM, when they’re most hungry and ready to have a melt down. I’m sick of it.  And I’m most sick of it not because my kids are hard to please at the table. I’m sick of the complaining because it’s not true. On almost every night that they whine and complain, they end up eating dinner happily. So, I know, maybe I shouldn’t be whining myself, but I am really, really sick of the complaining, and climbing that hill of anguish that leads up to the table (we all have our battles). I  have taken to doing 2 things to avoid it: 1)  Responding “I don’t know” or 2) Telling them in no uncertain terms that they are not getting anything other than what’s on their plate….

So, it was with some trepidation that I made chili on Sunday–the first batch I’ve made in years.  It was unfamiliar, to them, & soup type things are not always a hit. So I kept my mouth shut, and warned them not to complain when they sat down. There was corn bread. Which may be their favorite thing on earth right now, so that helped. Still, I was expecting the very worst.  Even my husband gave me a hard time for expecting the worst. And I was so very, very wrong.  The corn bread was the lure, and the chili was a big hit. So much so that Ella asked if she could bring it to school for lunch (with corn bread of course)–and leftovers for school lunch are pretty much verboten in her mind.

So I offer this story for three reasons, and none of them have to do with chili, because my chili recipe is really nothing special. Heck, I’m not even sure it’s chili. But for what it’s worth: 1) don’t let whining keep you from introducing new food 2) don’t underestimate your kids; they may love something now they didn’t a year ago 3) stick to your guns 4 ) serve corn bread.

Sunday Chili

• Sautee 1 chopped red onion & 3 cloves garlic & 1 bay leaf
• Add 1 stalk chopped celery, 1 large chopped carrot
• Add 1lb ground beef and sautee until no longer pink
• Add 1 can tomato paste and cook for 3-4 minutesto
• Add 1 large can plum tomatoes, 1 can kidney beans, 1/2 cup dark beer, 1-2 Tablespoons chili powder, and enough vegetable juice to make a consistency you like.
• Cook on very  low heat for 30-60 minutes, to let flavors blend.
• Serve with cornbread.

And children: This is how you should answer your mother when she tells you what’s for dinner:

Last summer Ella’s grandparents took her to see a regional production of Annie and then out to dinner at a fondue restaurant.  She loved the show. (Annie was a very close runner-up for the Halloween costume even though, in the end, Hermione won out.) But the restaurant?  Well, we’ve heard about that restaurant at least once a week for the past 6 months. Before Fondue, she had never of the stuff.  After, it was nearly all she could talk about  (in terms of food).  We heard each course recited ad infinitum, with every detail of service, and in as much descriptive power as she could muster. Over, and over, and over.  “Can I tell you what we ate, Mom?” “Do you want to know what they have at the Fondue Restaurant?”  We humored her, but it’s not a cheap restaurant, so we didn’t rush back.

But  recently she had something to celebrate, so we did take her back.

In the hours leading up to the event, she was so excited she willingly put on a new dress, and knee high athletic socks, and cute denim flats. Without being asked, and long before the last minute. Her brother was another story.  Finn grudingly put on his grey jeans and a shirt with a collar. And then, when he figured out we were actually going to the Fondue Restaurant, the real fun started. He whined, he cried, he lay on the ground and refused to put on his shoes. He rolled around like a Weeble.  “Why, why, why?!” he moaned. “I don’t want to go the THAT restaurant…”  The tears fell.   He doesn’t tantrum, but he is really good at weeping.

So, we did what we always do when a child threatens to ruin our plans.

We told him we had no choice, that we expected good behavior, and we put him in the car.  I was nervous, of course.  One can never be too sure of one’s kids.

By the time we got to the restaurant, Finn was carsick and Ella was so happy she nearly skipped into the restaurant. The host led us upstairs to a comfortable booth, and there, resting against the melting pot, was a card for E. signed by all the servers. Super cheesy, yes, but very sweet and sort of perfect for an 8-year old girl’s celebration.  At that little surprise, Finn started to come around. They were offered a mini box of colored pencils and a booklet with tic tac toe grids, which also distracted him long enough not to complain.

And then, the server offered them Italian sodas, of which they eagerly partook, and things started to look up.

Ella ordered (she’d had the menu in her head for months, remember), and there was something lovely watching her confidently put in the order for all of us (except for the wine).

And then– the server arrived with a tray of ingredients and made the cheese fondue in the pot in the middle of the table.  Finn was riveted. For really, what kid doesn’t like to see things melt and simmer and bubble and transform right in front of him?  There was bread, and apples, and long dangerous looking forks, and lots of things to spear with them.

One bite, two bites, and soon Finn was happily eating away, too.

“Hey,” he said, “You know this is MUCH better than I thought it would be.” He nodded and smiled and kept dipping and eating. “This is really good. I didn’t KNOW this was like this. I LOVE this. Thanks, Ella!”

And so.

We simmered all kinds of meats and shrimp and potstickers and vegetables in broth, and Finn was as charmed as Ella was blissed out.

Then there was the chocolate fondue with cheesecake, rice krispie treats, pound cake, brownies, and strawberry dippers…(don’t even ask).

Really, I’ve had better fondue.  The restaurant is sort of expensive. But as my husband noted, this place has it dialed in. The manager came over to congratulate Ella.  It has just enough fancy to impress the family but it’s not too formal.  And there is not much more communal fun than a fondue pot. There’s something magical about melting cheese, and simmering broth, and sharing all the little parts of a meal in a very active, ongoing way.  The night was easily one of our most fun family dinners–and for Kory and I it wasn’t because the food was top  notch. The kids, of course, would disagree. They think fondue, at this place, is the best thing in the world, and I’m not going to disabuse them of that notion. I hope they grow up and remember this place as an occasion, as something new and different, as something we did together to celebrate.  If they love mediocre fondue, and choose this place for their celebrations,  I’ll give it to them every time.  It’s better than a happy meal. Or Macys. We all came together to celebrate Ella, but we celebrated just being together, too.

Also: There was a great big blue flame.  And really, what more is there to be said about why fondue is a fun family dinner?

It’s been a week of experimenting here in the kitchen and not all of it has been successful.  The carrot mostarda was too sweet, the celery root carpaccio too salty–but the pork involtini were delicious–fast, easy and a huge hit with everyone.

I was inspired by my new issue of La Cucina Italiana, which is a favorite food magazine. The recipes are often too involved and time consuming for a weeknight, but a girl can dream…

Involtini is a technique which involves pounding a meat until it is very thin, then rolling it around some delicious filling, then securing the pretty little bundle with a toothpick. The rolls are browned, then quickly braised, then sliced into pinwheels for serving (or not). This recipe involves only 3 ingredients (+ olive oil and salt), and you can make the rolls ahead of time and refrigerate them until it’s time to cook. They cook in just a few minutes–enough time to steam some broccoli, sautee the rest of the chard, and warm some garlic bread in the oven.

They are adorable. The kids were charmed by them. Just this once, I let them eat with their fingers so the rolls stayed intact. They dipped the rolls in a country mustard, which isn’t necessary, but is pretty good.

Pork Involtini with Swiss Chard

• 1 lb pork tenderloin
• 4 large leaves Swiss chard
• 12 scallions, white and light green parts only
• salt
• olive oil
• Special equipment:  toothpicks

1. Cut white stems and ribs off the chard, so you have only the leafy green part.
2. Cut the tenderloin into 4 equal pieces.
3. Using a rolling pin or meat tenderizer, gently pound the cutlets into very thin cutlets, about 1/4-1/8 inch thin.
4. Lightly salt both sides of meat.
5. Lay a single layer of chard leaves over each cutlet.
6. Beginning with narrow end, roll up each piece of meat and secure with toothpick.
7. In a large pan over high heat, with a few tablespoons of olive oil, brown rolls on  all sides.
8. Add 2-3 tablespoons of water, the scallion.
9. Lower heat. Cover and cook until pork is cooked through, about 8 minutes.
10. Slice the rolls to your liking, remove the toothpicks, and serve with pan drippings.

This is not really a post about okra (though I do have a simple recipe below) but a reminder that when kids are involved in your meals, they should be involved in your meal planning. My husband and I know this, of course, and we do involve them to a certain extent — we ask whether they want pasta or rice; we let them vote on cooked spinach vs spinach salad; we bring them to the farmer’s market and let them pick things out. But lately we don’t often go to the grocery store with them, and that was site of this weekend’s revelation.

Tony and Ben had snuck out secretly to get a Christmas tree while Eli and I were at a birthday party. Decorating a Christmas tree requires eggnog, of course, so the guys headed off to our local market, which you enter through the produce section. Ben spotted the okra and remembered he loves it. Years ago, a friend made an Indian-spiced fried okra dish that he devoured, and Ben still talks about it (I remember it simply as the first time I enjoyed okra). But okra doesn’t show up in our CSA box and I don’t seek it out at the farmer’s market. Frankly, I don’t love it, but that shouldn’t be the most important factor now that the kids are getting older, and especially not if we want them to try new things. Plus, it is incredibly easy to cook.

Tony gets the credit for this simple recipe, which was delicious and different and everybody enjoyed (except Eli, to whom I suggested he could learn to like it). It inspired an entire Indian feast, with a simple curry of potatoes and tofu, papadum, and lime-mango chutney. More than that, it inspired us all to think we might possibly be taking the first small steps away from the kids narrow food choices of the last couple years.

Simple Fried Okra
Wash and trim the okra, then slice it into 1/2″ rounds. Fry it in a bit of olive oil until it has started to brown and crisp around the edges, about 6-10 minutes. Sprinkle with a mixture of ground cumin, coriander, turmeric and a bit of salt.

image credit

I found this recipe watching one of the 13 episodes of Lidia Bastianich’s television show, Lidia’s Italy, taking up space on my tivo, and it’s exactly the reason why I love her & her show.

I had never heard of panelle, nor could I have made this up. It’s a regional street food of Palermo and it is unusual for an American kitchen but it’s one of the most fun, satisfying and delicious things I’ve come across in a while. It’s also sort of addictive.

Basically, panelle is fried chickpea polenta made from chickpea flour, water, olive oil, and salt served on fresh sesame bun.  You cook the polenta, pour it onto a baking pan, then refrigerate it.

Then you cut it into small squares and fry in olive oil.

That’s it.  I’ve made it twice now, so I know that the kids enthusiasm for it is no fluke. They love it. We love it. It’s one of those things that when, they ask “What’s for dinner?” and I say “panelle,” they cheer. And not just because they get to watch baseball while they’re eating it.

Panelle is an easy, healthy, high protein, fun, vegetarian dinner. It makes great leftovers.  And it’s a simple, no mess, satisfying food that ‘s perfect for eating in the living room while your baseball team battles it out for the pennant. Add salad, dessert, a festive beverage inspired by your team, and you’re set.

It takes a bit of planning because the polenta needs to chill for at least an hour, and frying anything can be a little messy, but it’s basically a simple and stress free process. Below is the recipe taken exactly from here, which is exactly what I saw on TV.

Panelle

• 4 cups water
• 1/2 lb chickpea flour
• 1/4 cup olive oil
• 1 tsp. salt.
• A rimmed baking sheet, rubbed with olive oil.

***NOTE:  Chickpea flour is available at my local Italian deli, and it may well be available at yours.  Try specialty stores, well stocked markets, and if you can’t find it, you can make your own by grinding dried chickpeas into a very fine, well, flour.***

1. In a heavy bottomed saucepan, whisk chickpea flour into water, olive oil, and salt. Try to get it as smooth as you can.
2. Over medium high heat, cook chickpea polenta until it thickens and pulls away from the sides of the pan as you stir.
3. Quickly pour the polenta into the baking sheet and with a wet, offset spatula or knife, spread smooth. The polenta should be fairly thin and in a smooth even layer.
4. Refrigerate for one hour or over night.
5. Cut the panelle into squares, about 3 x 3 for sandwiches.
6. Pour enough olive oil into a frying pan to cover to about 1/8″ depth, and fry pieces until they are golden brown. They will puff slightly.
7. Drain on paper towels and serve on fresh, soft, untoasted plain old sesame buns. Adults can eat 2 panelle per sandwich, the kids will eat one larger one.