Chestnut Gnocchi

and thoughts on discernment through the ages

When Christina Tosi, founder and co-owner of Momofuku’s Milk Bar, makes her famous towering birthday cake studded with sprinkles and layered with fluffy white icing and cookie crumbs, she curves sheets of tall acetate inside a cake ring and builds the cake inside this clear sleeve. A layer of cake goes in first, then icing, crumbs, more icing, more cake, icing, crumbs, icing, cake, icing, crumbs. When all is said and done, she freezes the cake then lifts away the cake ring and the acetate sheets. What is left is a tall cake with smooth sides defying gravity, ingredients naked from the side and frozen where they landed. 

My backyard earlier this week looked like a Christina Tosi cake. Snow had fallen straight down, landing on the patio table, layering on top of the rhododendron leaves, the fence and the iron planter, and it stayed there, as if someone had pulled giant acetate sheets upwards, capturing the snow exposed and frozen in place. 

I am inside, sifting flour over a smooth pile of mash potatoes spread over the kitchen counter. The flour is flying everywhere, landing in mounds over the textured potato. It isn’t tidy. I scoop it up with a bench scraper (my favourite kitchen tool) and try to tame the mess. Slowly, I corral it together into a kneadable mass, then fold it, again and again, into a smooth dough. 

I am making gnocchi, inspired by the chestnut gnocchi with venison, partridge and smoky bacon bolognese I had when in London in the fall. The sauce was great, but it was the gentle sweetness of the chestnut gnocchi I remember most. It took me a while to find chestnut flour once back at home (thank you flavourfull.ca), but now I have lots - I really splurged - and am ready to roll.

It’s late afternoon and the light is falling. Now is the time to take a photo, so I turn the timer on my phone, stick the phone between my teeth, and carry on with the kneading, rolling and cutting of the gnocchi. I learned this trick from a food photographer during a workshop at least ten years ago. I still do it when I’m well into cooking and it’s too late to faff around looking for that flexible long-armed iPhone holder thing. This photographer also emphasized the importance of providing a touch of interest with your arms and hands - wear a splash of colour on the sleeve, play with your jewelry, and best of all, showcase a tattoo. 

Tattoos have been the topic of conversation around here. When my middle son Charlie was little, I told him that it was illegal to get a tattoo in Canada before the age of 25. I thought that arbitrary number gave the frontal lobe enough time to develop a discerning, personal style. Eighteen is the legal age; he figured that out a few years ago and has been dreaming up his vision ever since. Eighteen is just a month away. 

This week alone I’ve seen two eighteen year olds with fresh ink - one sacred heart wrapped in a crown of thorns on a left bicep, and a dragon twisting up a right arm. I needed the latter to help me make gnocchi. Imagine the visuals, the interest. Instead, I give you my unadorned arms, flour coated rings, and a brown cotton shirt - something I would have chosen to wear at 18, 25, or now. 

Personal style, I’m learning, is often baked in from the beginning. I took Charlie at the age of four to a barber who sat kids in his chair, covered them with a cape and buzzed their hair, one after the next, into short, tidy, flat tops. Afterwards, back in the car, Charlie sunk into his booster seat and said, “Mom, that barber just doesn’t know my style.” Charlie now has a mullet and a moustache. 

And then there’s Christina Tosi, who has won James Beard awards celebrating flavours from her childhood - panna cotta flavoured with sweet cereal milk, compost cookies made with all her favourite after school snacks, or towering birthday cakes studded with cookies and rainbow sprinkles. 

And here I am, making little barbie pillows, wearing my favourite colour since 1976. But I will elevate the pillows to older woman status by tossing them in sage leaves sizzled in hot butter. And lots of grated parmesan too.

A sage leaf would make a good tattoo. Right on the forearm, reminding the bearer of wisdom, flavour, softness and simplicity. I’ll see what Charlie says.

PS - I followed this recipe for chestnut gnocchi.

PPS - If you don’t have a gnocchi paddle, use the tines of a fork, or leave them as is.