Snow Cones Squared: The Joys of Granita
It is time to write of something sweet and cold. Bowls of colored jewels -- pale watermelon surprised by a squeeze of kaffir lime, coffee paired with almond, or the ultimate classic: clean white lemon with bits of yellow peel. Slushy and refreshing, true granita may bear some vague resemblance to a snow cone, but oh, it is so much more than those cloying crushed ice concoctions.
I first tasted the genuine article in a town outside of Naples and have since learned it is a Southern Italian passion. My cousin Luisa had taken me on the back of her motorcycle to an early morning market; the day grew miserably hot and muggy as we wandered around, and the granita street vendor was a welcome sight. He served us limone, his only flavor, in little white cups, and it was dolce, but also intensely lemon and icy cold, seriously icy. It was blended, but not to the point of processed ices or sorbet; its texture was coarse and uneven. Grainy, you might say.
Later, in the house of another of my Italian relatives, I was offered a fragola version of this delight, icy chunks of strawberry essence in a little glass dish. Somehow the flavor of the fruit in granita is concentrated within the crystals of ice and released onto the tongue in a rush of cool. The effect was sublime in strawberry. Sensing that I was becoming an avid granita fan, Luisa created her own interpretation of the lemon that night, lighter and thinner, served in a wine glass and eaten with a spoon, and I fell in love with the classic over again. There is something about the tartness and hint of bitter that makes the limone the most refreshing and sophisticated of all granita flavors, although I am willing to be convinced otherwise.
In a rather charming coincidence, it turns out that our good friend Jeanne has been experimenting with granita this summer, and now and then Monte and I walk up the canyon to her house on a Sunday evening to sample her creative variations. (It’s a tough duty, but we try to be neighborly.) I already told you about her mango chipotle, where rich sweet mango is given a snappy pepper bite. It’s hot. It’s cold. It’s even picturesque.
And there are the berry best that begin in Jeanne’s garden, scoops of magenta, rich as garnet. Monte likes the coffee, which is barely sweet. We have been speculating lately about peach and ginger, and I’ve even heard talk of grape. And fig. Excuse me for a moment while I contemplate fig.
In an essay called Mint Snowball, Naomi Shihab Nye writes about a specialty her great-grandfather created in his Illinois drugstore long ago. He stirred fresh mint leaves with sugar and secret ingredients in a small pot on the stove, then shaved ice into tiny particles that were permeated with the mint mixture, and served it mounded in a glass dish alongside a scoop of vanilla ice cream.
“The Mint Snowball,” says Naomi, “tasted like winter…snow frosting roofs…little chips of ice on the tongue, their cool slide down.” Her great-grandfather's recipe has long been lost, and no one has ever been able to reconstruct it precisely, but I am certain of one thing: it was granita.
As far as I can tell, most granita recipes begin by simmering sugar and water to make a syrup, but true granita requires the addition of fresh fruit and authentic flavors. It also requires a commitment of time and the leisurely rhythm of summer because it needs to be revisited frequently during the coarse of its freezing. After the basic sugar syrup has cooled slightly, you add a puree of fruit to it, along with other ingredients of your choosing, transfer the mixture to a pan, and place it in the freezer. When ice crystals begin to form around the edges, you crash into it with a fork and stir it up. Don’t go too far from the kitchen; you’ll need to do this every thirty minutes or so for three to five hours to get the texture right. It is a ritual. A lingering. The bestowal of attention to a promise of pleasure and a pleasure in itself.
Naomi reflects: “Perhaps the clue to my entire personality connects to the lost Mint Snowball. Although I know how to do everything one needs to know – change airplanes, find my exit off the interstate, charge gas, send a fax- there is something missing. Perhaps the stoop of my great-grandfather over the pan, the slow patient swish of his spoon. The spin of my mother on the high stool with her whole life in front of her, something fine and fragrant still to happen…”
That’s it. Something fine and fragrant and still to happen.
Better yet, something happening right now.
And what could be more satisfying than to sit with a friend on a balmy night enjoying a dish of crystallized, concentrated summer?