Light and Tender Gnudi

Italian cooks came by gnudi the way other cooks in that part of the world came by panzanella and pappa al pomodoro—which is to say by necessity more than by design. They patched together the soft, fresh cheese and greens (usually chard or spinach) that were abundant in pastoral pockets of Tuscany, binding them up with egg, flour and/or bread crumbs, grated Parmesan or pecorino, and seasonings. When the dough was adequately cohesive, they molded small portions into round or cylindrical dumplings; gently poached them in salty water; and sauced them with something simple, such as tomato sugo or browned butter.

This was cucina povera at its best: a couple of naturally paired provisions deftly worked into something substantial and satisfying. And while the name of the dish suggests a certain deficiency, the dumplings’ appeal is arguably thanks to—not in spite of—the absence of pasta dough. (“Gnudi” literally means “nudes,” referring to the way they seem like ravioli filling without the wrapper. They’re also known as malfatti and strozzapreti; for more information, see “What’s in a Name?”) In fact, Italian food (2009), Zanini De Vita notes that the Franciscan friar and chronicler Salimbene da Parma “… tasted gnudi for the feast of Saint Clare and considered them a true delicacy.”