Pan Dolce and the Epiphany

If we were in medieval Europe, there would still be two days (of the original twelve) left of Christmas. The Feast of the Epiphany—also called three kings day and Theophany—arrives on January 6. It is the day when the three wise men are said to have followed that very special star.

This month’s “Not to Be Forgotten” recipe brings us Pan Dolce for the occasion. It comes from the time and place of my great grandmother who was born and learned to cook on the Mediterranean coast near Genoa. A great Italian celebration bread—Pan Dolce is filled with nuts and fruits. It was (and still is) an essential on Christmas Day and on the Feast of the Epiphany, too. (And it is not to be confused with tall and springy panettone from Milan.)

Truth be told, I’ve been obsessed with this recipe, filled with ancient flavors and ingredients. It has given me joy and heartbreak—and that’s always a sign of true love, isn’t it? Read the ingredients and you’ll see why.

Pan Dolce (DöÇe de Natale) Take a kilogram of good flour, a half glass of marsala wine, 250 grams of butter, 50 grams of orange blossom water, 300 grams of sugar, 50 grams of sweet fennel, 100 grams of pignoli, 300 grams of sultanas [golden raisins], 200 grams Malaga [raisins from Malaga grapes], 50 grams of candied pumpkin, 50 grams of yeast from beer. Place the flour on your work surface and make a hole in the middle. Dissolve the yeast with a little warm milk. Add the liquefied butter, the sugar and all of the already prepared ingredients. Knead the dough well for about an hour. Form the dough into the shape of a bread and place in a pan dusted with flour. Cover with a dishcloth and leave in a warm place to rise for two hours. Make three cuts in the middle of the dough in the shape of a triangle and cook it in a hot oven (about 170 to 180 degrees) [325 Fahrenheit] for about an hour. -- Giovanni Ratto, La Cuciniera Genovese, 18th edition, originally published 1863 Special Note: Many thanks to Alison Radecki for translation help

Now, of course I could have chosen a much easier way to go. I have a collection of contemporary recipes for pan dolce that spell out each step and procedure quite logically (and didn’t need to be translated, mind you). Carol Fields has one in her book Celebrating Italy that looks sure to provide good results. But where and when does it come from? I couldn’t be sure.

When I am really cooking from history, I’m not necessarily looking for the best, the most efficient, nor the easiest—and sometimes not even the best tasting. I am looking to receive something from the ghosts--without intrusions from the Kitchen Aid. Modernizing and improving can come later. But first, I always begin the journey by following a historic written recipe as carefully as I can, with the zeal that makes me feel like a detective.

And so last month, I found myself on a hunt for orange blossom water—a medieval (or probably older) ingredient popular for confections in Southern Europe and the Middle East. It is made from distilled water and the flowers of orange trees. Ridiculously, I went to my local A&P supermarket and scanned the baking aisle. Boxed cake mixes, instant breads and row upon row of canned cake frosting (amazing just how much shelf space frosting gets) stared back at me. The usual “what kind of a world are we living in,” feeling crept up. But I brushed it off and quickly fled to Whole Foods. No luck there either—except a tiny bottle of rose water.

The next stop was obvious. I headed to Paterson, an old New Jersey smoke stack of a city, now home to thousands of Middle Easterners, and a favorite culinary destination of mine. Here, all the houses have satellite dishes, and the main boulevards are lined with Turkish restaurants, halal butchers, and shops that sell zatar flatbreads, beautiful olives, and little spinach pies. Within moments of entering that town I was in holding a big lovely bottle of orange blossom water in my hands, listening to Jingle Bells in Arabic over the store radio. When I was back again in my car, I immediately opened and sniffed. It smelled like something I’d pour in my bath than eat rather than eat.

No matter: Onward. The recipe called for “zucca candita.” Candied squash was impossible to find even on the Internet, so I settled for candied citron (historically acceptable). From Baker’s Catalog, I ordered just the right sweet, bitter, sour gems made from citron rind.

More mysteries awaited: A half glass of marsala wine is how much? Yeast from beer translates to how many packets?

And there was the joy too… the lavish quantities of pine nuts, the scent of fennel (also medieval), and the search to figure out “Malaga,” (a kind of high quality grape grown widely in Spain--valued for wine and raisins).

At this point, it was still days before Christmas, and my dream was still alive. There’d be Pan Dolce for Christmas, I was sure, and according to tradition, I’d cover the first one in bay leaf and my youngest child would cut the first slice. Numerous fragrant golden loaves would follow-- to be sent as gifts to families and friends.

Well, I’ll just cut to the chase here. The huge quantity of pine nuts and raisins did not adhere well to the dough. Kneading was rough going with all those ingredients packed in. And … most perilous of all …a careless miscalculation from centigrade to Fahrenheit (at the moment raucous children arrived home from school) made a too-hot oven.

The outside burned while the inside was raw…It wouldn’t have been so bad if the smell and flavor of the bread wasn’t so tantalizing and exotic. I’d clearly come close. How could so much right go so wrong?

I put my pan dolce dreams aside until the New Years Day when I felt fortified to try again. Still so many pine nuts and raisins. Still nearly impossible to knead. But I this time my oven was cooler, and I eventually pulled out two well-baked loaves studded in nuts and fruits,

Eagerly, my husband and I pulled off a piece of still-warm bread to taste…. It was heavy and nutritious, definitely perfumey, winey, buttery, and a little licorice, too. But it was dense. How dense was it supposed to be in 1863? Well, I’m not sure. I am sure that it was definitely not up to the crumbly buttery loaf I once tasted in the home of a wonderful Genoese cook two summers ago.

I have long known that for me cooking often takes on a search for perfection in an imperfect world. Misadventures come, but to critique, to wonder, to be a detective, and to try again is part of the joy.

This new year will bring a trip to Genoa where I can continue my search and my many questions about pan dolce and other Ligurian foods.

That’s the great thing about the New Year. You can get over the holidays, get over your heartbreaks and start fresh, and just try again with a little more effort and a little more knowledge, to go forth and finally maybe possibly…get it right.

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Additional Note: You can find orange blossom water, good candied citron, and many other things at www.bakerscatalogue.com.