Culture
Why Marcella Hazan Is Still Teaching Us How to Cook Italian
In the 1980s, an assistant at Glamour took her romantic life to the next level with the aid of two lemons and a chicken. At the suggestion of one of the magazine’s editors, who was more or less following a recipe she’d found in an Italian cookbook, the assistant poked the lemons full of holes, stuffed them into the bird and loaded it into a hot oven. She ate the chicken with her boyfriend. Not long after, he proposed. Intrigued, other assistants tried the lemon-and-chicken trick on their own boyfriends. And lo, it came to pass that the halls of Condé Nast were soon glittering with the sparkle of new diamond rings.
The author of the cookbook was Marcella Hazan. If she had never done anything else in her life, Ms. Hazan would still have a guaranteed place in history as the progenitor of Engagement Chicken, a phenomenon so durable it has probably outlasted some of the marriages it was said to inspire.
Of course, Ms. Hazan did much more than that. She changed, thoroughly and irreversibly, the way Italian food is cooked, eaten and talked about in the United States. Although it has been 12 years since Ms. Hazan died, at age 89, and more than 30 since she put out a cookbook, nobody has yet overtaken her as the source Americans consult when they want to know how Italians get dinner on the table.
The new documentary “Marcella,” which opens at the Quad Cinema in Manhattan and begins streaming on May 9, ticks through a few of the things we can thank her for: Balsamic vinegar. Sun-dried tomatoes. The idea that there is no single “Italian cuisine” but many local ones, each with its own constellation of flavors.
I saw the movie in April at a screening at the Smithsonian Institution’s National Museum of American History. For the occasion, the curators unwrapped 19 cooking tools the museum acquired from Ms. Hazan’s kitchen last year. On display outside the theater were her square-cornered lasagna pan, her vintage garganelli comb adapted from a weaver’s loom, a linen apron printed with grapevines in dye made from vinegar and rust, and her wooden risotto spoon, which flares at the bottom like a rowing scull. (“You must never stop stirring,” she once wrote.)
Some of these items, along with the lined notebooks filled with recipes she wrote by hand in Italian that the museum also collected, are familiar from the photos, illustrations and endpapers of her cookbooks. One item not on view was her copper zabaglione pot, which the conservation department is getting ready to unveil next spring in an exhibition of 250 objects marking the 250th anniversary of the United States.
The Hazan trove isn’t as immense as that of Julia Child, whose kitchen has been rebuilt on the museum’s ground floor in all its cluttered glory, down to the paper-towel holder and plastic flip-top trash can. Looking at it, you can see how Ms. Child worked. Ms. Hazan’s artifacts show us something different. They are the products of her long campaign to bring the flavors of Italy to the country she adopted in 1955.
For many of the people who appear in “Marcella,” Ms. Hazan is more than a historical figure. She’s still with them.
“It sounds loopy, but Marcella’s voice is in my head as I’m cooking,” says Steven Sando, the bean merchant whose company, Rancho Gordo, sells a thin-skinned cannellini named in her honor. “And every time, she’s right.”
It doesn’t sound loopy to me. That voice — brusque, solidly accented, cured in cigarette smoke, marinated in Jack Daniels — comes to me all the time. Seeing cold pasta at a deli, I’ll hear her saying, “If I had invented pasta salads I would hide.”
When I can’t hear her, I freeze. I’ve stood for long minutes staring at boxed pasta in the supermarket trying desperately to remember which shape Ms. Hazan insists has to be used when you’re making Sicilian sardine sauce (bucatini or perciatelli). Fairly often, when the internet is drowning in a tidal wave of “Italian sushi” or some other mutant creation, I fantasize about hiring a medium to summon her spirit.
She delivered her dictums less as personal opinions than as natural laws. “The most useful thing one can know about basil is that the less it cooks, the better it is,” she wrote, as if this were a fact as ironclad as the tendency of water to flow downhill.
Although she claimed that she had never boiled water outside a laboratory before moving to New York to join her husband, Victor, she often sounded as if she learned to trim artichokes around the time of the Renaissance in a cooking academy taught by God.
Her overwhelming conviction that hers was the right way was daunting enough to the students of the cooking classes she began teaching in her Manhattan apartment in 1969. When she trained that confidence on the entire population of the United States, which included a fair number of Italians, the result was a small revolution.
Americans already thought they were in love with Italian food in 1973 when Ms. Hazan’s first book, “The Classic Italian Cookbook,” came out. What they were in love with was, in fact, the product of a mass migration of Italians who, more often than not, came from Campania, Sicily and other Southern regions. Many were fleeing the desperate rural poverty of tenant farms run under almost feudal conditions. Others were tradespeople with no formal education. Their marinaras, meatballs and lasagnas had evolved in their new country, but the roots were southern.
This world was not the Hazans’. Both Victor and Marcella were well-off northerners, from Romagna. Victor’s mother and father were Sephardic Jews who owned fur stores. When they left Italy, they were escaping, not poverty, but fascist antisemitism. Marcella’s parents were landowners whose tenant farmers paid a share of their earnings and brought them traditional tributes of chickens and rabbits when major holidays came around. Marcella was sent to universities in Padua and Ferrara, where she earned two doctorates in natural sciences.
Most of the recipes in “The Classic Italian Cookbook” were Northern Italian, too: roast lamb with juniper berries from Lombardy, Bolognese ragù with milk and nutmeg; minestrone in the style of Emilia-Romagna. She jotted them down in Italian, the only language she spoke when she moved to New York. Victor, her uncredited ghost writer, translated theminto English along with introductions stating his wife’s rigorous views on seasonality and simplicity. The style the couple hit on was stately, controlled, literary, erudite. It made allusions to Picasso and Aristotle. Above all, it was suffused with a belief that Italian cuisine was one of civilization’s great achievements.
“Nothing significant exists under Italy’s sun that is not touched by art,” that first book proclaims. “Its food is twice blessed because it is the product of two arts, the art of cooking and the art of eating.”
This was not the kind of message Americans were accustomed to hearing when they sat down to eat spaghetti by the flame of a candle stuck in a Chianti bottle while Dean Martin compared the moon in your eye to a big pizza pie. But by 1973, Italy’s image abroad had changed. It was now a beacon of style and the arts, the land of Fellini and Antonioni, Pucci and Valentino, Ferrari and Alfa Romeo. So when the Hazans came along selling the idea that Italy had also figured out a few things about good food that added up to a collective body of knowledge — in other words, culture — readers were ready to pay attention.
After her first cookbook, Ms. Hazan began collecting recipes around Italy, and she gave the food of the south its due. But she never warmed up to Italian American food, sniffing at its limp pasta, overcooked tomato sauces and heavy hand with garlic. Readers who were devoted to chicken scarpariello would come to see it and dishes like it as weird, bastardized aberrations. That is one of her legacies, too, for better or worse. When Carbone charges $94 for veal parm, some people seem to think it’s a scam. When Nello, a Northern Italian restaurant on the Upper East Side, charges $89 for veal Milanese, they just say it’s expensive.
It’s hard to imagine a recipe writer today changing the way a whole country thinks as thoroughly as Ms. Hazan did. Book contracts go to influencers whose advances are determined by their number of followers. Ms. Hazan didn’t have followers. She had disciples.
She still does. Peter Miller, who directed, produced and wrote “Marcella,” said almost all of the money for the film came from donations from hundreds of her fans.
“Everybody who gave money gave money because they love Marcella,” Mr. Miller said. “It’s not a sensible way to fund a film and it took a really long time, but I ended up building this whole network of people who knew her.”
The contributions were more than financial. Donors shared memories and photographs of Ms. Hazan that made their way into the documentary. One suggested Mr. Miller talk to Shola Olunloyo, a Nigerian-born chef in Philadelphia whose first non-African cookbook was one of Ms. Hazan’s. From it, he learned Bolognese her way, and has been making it about, once a week for two decades.
In another scene, the New York chef April Bloomfield cooks Ms. Hazan’s radically easy recipe for tomato sauce that bubbles away with butter and an onion that you fish out at the end, like a bay leaf. After tasting it, Ms. Bloomfield looks up toward the sky.
“Marcella, I hope you’re happy,” she says. “I hope I did a good job.”
If you own one of Ms. Hazan’s cookbooks, you know the feeling.
Let’s memorize a poem! Not because it’s good for us or because we think we should, but because it’s fun, a mental challenge with a solid aesthetic reward. You can amuse yourself, impress your friends and maybe discover that your way of thinking about the world — or even, as you’ll see, the universe — has shifted a bit.
Over the next five days, we’ll look closely at a great poem by one of our favorite poets, and we’ll have games, readings and lots of encouragement to help you learn it by heart. Some of you know how this works: Last year more Times readers than we could count memorized a jaunty 18-line recap of an all-night ferry ride. (If you missed that adventure, it’s not too late to embark. The ticket is still valid.)
This time, we’re training our telescopes on W.H. Auden’s “The More Loving One” — a clever, compact meditation on love, disappointment and the night sky.
Here’s the first of its four stanzas, read for us by Matthew McConaughey:
The More Loving One
Looking up at the stars, I know quite well
That, for all they care, I can go to hell,
But on earth indifference is the least
We have to dread from man or beast.
Matthew McConaughey, actor and poet
In four short lines we get a brisk, cynical tour of the universe: hell and the heavens, people and animals, coldness and cruelty. Commonplace observations — that the stars are distant; that life can be dangerous — are wound into a charming, provocative insight. The tone is conversational, mixing decorum and mild profanity in a manner that makes it a pleasure to keep reading.
Here’s Tracy K. Smith, a former U.S. poet laureate, with the second stanza:
How should we like it were stars to burn
With a passion for us we could not return?
If equal affection cannot be,
Let the more loving one be me.
Tracy K. Smith, poet
These lines abruptly shift the focus from astronomy to love, from the universal to the personal. Imagine how it would feel if the stars had massive, unrequited crushes on us! The speaker, couching his skepticism in a coy, hypothetical question, seems certain that we wouldn’t like this at all.
This certainty leads him to a remarkable confession, a moment of startling vulnerability. The poem’s title, “The More Loving One,” is restated with sweet, disarming frankness. Our friend is wearing his heart on his well-tailored sleeve.
The poem could end right there: two stanzas, point and counterpoint, about how we appreciate the stars in spite of their indifference because we would rather love than be loved.
But the third stanza takes it all back. Here’s Alison Bechdel reading it:
Admirer as I think I am
Of stars that do not give a damn,
I cannot, now I see them, say
I missed one terribly all day.
Alison Bechdel, graphic novelist
The speaker downgrades his foolish devotion to qualified admiration. No sooner has he established himself as “the more loving one” than he gives us — and perhaps himself — reason to doubt his ardor. He likes the stars fine, he guesses, but not so much as to think about them when they aren’t around.
The fourth and final stanza, read by Yiyun Li, takes this disenchantment even further:
Were all stars to disappear or die,
I should learn to look at an empty sky
And feel its total dark sublime,
Though this might take me a little time.
Yiyun Li, author
Wounded defiance gives way to a more rueful, resigned state of mind. If the universe were to snuff out its lights entirely, the speaker reckons he would find beauty in the void. A starless sky would make him just as happy.
Though perhaps, like so many spurned lovers before and after, he protests a little too much. Every fan of popular music knows that a song about how you don’t care that your baby left you is usually saying the opposite.
The last line puts a brave face on heartbreak.
So there you have it. In just 16 lines, this poem manages to be somber and funny, transparent and elusive. But there’s more to it than that. There is, for one thing, a voice — a thinking, feeling person behind those lines.
When he wrote “The More Loving One,” in the 1950s, Wystan Hugh Auden was among the most beloved writers in the English-speaking world. Before this week is over there will be more to say about Auden, but like most poets he would have preferred that we give our primary attention to the poem.
Its structure is straightforward and ingenious. Each of the four stanzas is virtually a poem unto itself — a complete thought expressed in one or two sentences tied up in a neat pair of couplets. Every quatrain is a concise, witty observation: what literary scholars call an epigram.
This makes the work of memorization seem less daunting. We can take “The More Loving One” one epigram at a time, marvelling at how the four add up to something stranger, deeper and more complex than might first appear.
So let’s go back to the beginning and try to memorize that insouciant, knowing first stanza. Below you’ll find a game we made to get you started. Give it a shot, and come back tomorrow for more!
Play a game to learn it by heart. Need more practice? Listen to Ada Limón, Matthew McConaughey, W.H. Auden and others recite our poem.
Question 1/6
Looking up at the stars, I know quite well That, for all they care, I can go to hell,
Tap a word above to fill in the highlighted blank.
Your first task: Learn the first four lines!
Let’s start with the first couplet. Fill in the rhyming words.
Monday
Love, the cosmos and everything in between, all in 16 lines.
Tuesday (Available tomorrow)
What’s love got to do with it?
Wednesday (Available April 22)
How to write about love? Be a little heartsick (and the best poet of your time).
Thursday (Available April 23)
Are we alone in the universe? Does it matter?
Friday (Available April 24)
You did it! You’re a star.
Ready for another round? Try your hand at the 2025 Poetry Challenge.
Edited by Gregory Cowles, Alicia DeSantis and Nick Donofrio. Additional editing by Emily Eakin,
Joumana Khatib, Emma Lumeij and Miguel Salazar. Design and development by Umi Syam. Additional
game design by Eden Weingart. Video editing by Meg Felling. Photo editing by Erica Ackerberg.
Illustration art direction by Tala Safie.
Illustrations by Daniel Barreto.
Text and audio recording of “The More Loving One,” by W.H. Auden, copyright © by the Estate of
W.H. Auden. Reprinted by permission of Curtis Brown, Ltd. Photograph accompanying Auden recording
from Imagno/Getty Images.
Literature
‘Romola’ (1863) by George Eliot
Who knew that there’s a major George Eliot novel that neither I nor any of my friends had ever heard of?
“Romola” was Eliot’s fourth novel, published between “The Mill on the Floss” (1860) and “Middlemarch” (1870-71). If my friends and I didn’t get this particular memo, and “Romola” is familiar to every Eliot fan but us, please skip the following.
“Romola” isn’t some fluky misfire better left unmentioned in light of Eliot’s greater work. It’s her only historical novel, set in Florence during the Italian Renaissance. It embraces big subjects like power, religion, art and social upheaval, but it’s not dry or overly intellectual. Its central character is a gifted, freethinking young woman named Romola, who enters a marriage so disastrous as to make Anna Karenina’s look relatively good.
It probably matters that many of Eliot’s other books have been adapted into movies or TV series, with actors like Hugh Dancy, Ben Kingsley, Emily Watson and Rufus Sewell. The BBC may be doing even more than we thought to keep classic literature alive. (In 1924, “Romola” was made into a silent movie starring Lillian Gish. It doesn’t seem to have made much difference.)
Anthony Trollope, among others, loved “Romola.” He did, however, warn Eliot against aiming over her readers’ heads, which may help explain its obscurity.
All I can say, really, is that it’s a mystery why some great books stay with us and others don’t.
‘Quiet Dell’ (2013) by Jayne Anne Phillips
This was an Oprah Book of the Week, which probably disqualifies it from B-side status, but it’s not nearly as well known as Phillips’s debut story collection, “Black Tickets” (1979), or her most recent novel, “Night Watch” (2023), which won her a long-overdue Pulitzer Prize.
Phillips has no parallel in her use of potent, stylized language to shine a light into the darkest of corners. In “Quiet Dell,” her only true-crime novel, she’s at the height of her powers, which are particularly apparent when she aims her language laser at horrific events that actually occurred. Her gift for transforming skeevy little lives into what I can only call “Blade Runner” mythology is consistently stunning.
Consider this passage from the opening chapter of “Quiet Dell”:
“Up high the bells are ringing for everyone alive. There are silver and gold and glass bells you can see through, and sleigh bells a hundred years old. My grandmother said there was a whisper for each one dead that year, and a feather drifting for each one waiting to be born.”
The book is full of language like that — and of complex, often chillingly perverse characters. It’s a dark, underrecognized beauty.
‘Solaris’ (1961) by Stanislaw Lem
You could argue that, in America, at least, the Polish writer Stanislaw Lem didn’t produce any A-side novels. You could just as easily argue that that makes all his novels both A-side and B-side.
It’s science fiction. All right?
I love science and speculative fiction, but I know a lot of literary types who take pride in their utter lack of interest in it. I always urge those people to read “Solaris,” which might change their opinions about a vast number of popular books they dismiss as trivial. As far as I know, no one has yet taken me up on that.
“Solaris” involves the crew of a space station continuing the study of an aquatic planet that has long defied analysis by the astrophysicists of Earth. Part of what sets the book apart from a lot of other science-fiction novels is Lem’s respect for enigma. He doesn’t offer contrived explanations in an attempt to seduce readers into suspending disbelief. The crew members start to experience … manifestations? … drawn from their lives and memories. If the planet has any intentions, however, they remain mysterious. All anyone can tell is that their desires and their fears, some of which are summoned from their subconsciousness, are being received and reflected back to them so vividly that it becomes difficult to tell the real from the projected. “Solaris” has the peculiar distinction of having been made into not one but two bad movies. Read the book instead.
‘Fox 8’ (2013) by George Saunders
If one of the most significant living American writers had become hypervisible with his 2017 novel, “Lincoln in the Bardo,” we’d go back and read his earlier work, wouldn’t we? Yes, and we may very well have already done so with the story collections “Tenth of December” (2013) and “Pastoralia” (2000). But what if we hadn’t yet read Saunders’s 2013 novella, “Fox 8,” about an unusually intelligent fox who, by listening to a family from outside their windows at night, has learned to understand, and write, in fox-English?: “One day, walking neer one of your Yuman houses, smelling all the interest with snout, I herd, from inside, the most amazing sound. Turns out, what that sound is, was: the Yuman voice, making werds. They sounded grate! They sounded like prety music! I listened to those music werds until the sun went down.”
Once Saunders became more visible to more of us, we’d want to read a book that ventures into the consciousness of a different species (novels tend to be about human beings), that maps the differences and the overlaps in human and animal consciousness, explores the effects of language on consciousness and is great fun.
We’d all have read it by now — right?
‘Between the Acts’ (1941) by Virginia Woolf
You could argue that Woolf didn’t have any B-sides, and yet it’s hard to deny that more people have read “Mrs. Dalloway” (1925) and “To the Lighthouse” (1927) than have read “The Voyage Out” (1915) or “Monday or Tuesday” (1921). Those, along with “Orlando” (1928) and “The Waves” (1931), are Woolf’s most prominent novels.
Four momentous novels is a considerable number for any writer, even a great one. That said, “Between the Acts,” her last novel, really should be considered the fifth of her significant books. The phrase “embarrassment of riches” comes to mind.
Five great novels by the same author is a lot for any reader to take on. Our reading time is finite. We won’t live long enough to read all the important books, no matter how old we get to be. I don’t expect many readers to be as devoted to Woolf as are the cohort of us who consider her to have been some sort of dark saint of literature and will snatch up any relic we can find. Fanatics like me will have read “Between the Acts” as well as “The Voyage Out,” “Monday or Tuesday” and “Flush” (1933), the story of Elizabeth Barrett Browning’s cocker spaniel. Speaking for myself, I don’t blame anyone who hasn’t gotten to those.
I merely want to add “Between the Acts” to the A-side, lest anyone who’s either new to Woolf or a tourist in Woolf-landia fail to rank it along with the other four contenders.
As briefly as possible: It focuses on an annual village pageant that attempts to convey all of English history in a single evening. The pageant itself interweaves subtly, brilliantly, with the lives of the villagers playing the parts.
It’s one of Woolf’s most lusciously lyrical novels. And it’s a crash course, of sorts, in her genius for conjuring worlds in which the molehill matters as much as the mountain, never mind their differences in size.
It’s also the most accessible of her greatest books. It could work for some as an entry point, in more or less the way William Faulkner’s “As I Lay Dying” (1930) can be the starter book before you go on to “The Sound and the Fury” (1929) or “Absalom, Absalom!” (1936).
As noted, there’s too much for us to read. We do the best we can.
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Literature
‘Prayer’ (1985) by Galway Kinnell
Whatever happens. Whatever
what is is is what
I want. Only that. But that.
“I typically say Kinnell’s words at the start of my day, as I’m pedaling a traffic-laden path to my office,” says Major Jackson, 57, the author of six books of poetry, including “Razzle Dazzle” (2023). “The poem encourages a calm acceptance of the day’s events but also wants us to embrace the misapprehension and oblivion of life, to avoid probing too deeply for answers to inscrutable questions. I admire what Kinnell does with only 14 words; the repetition of ‘what,’ ‘that’ and ‘is’ would seem to limit the poem’s sentiment but, paradoxically, the poem opens widely to contain all manner of human experience. The three ‘is’es in the middle line give it a symmetry that makes its message feel part of a natural order, and even more convincing. Thanks to the skillful punctuation, pauses and staccato rhythm, a tonal quality of interior reflection emerges. Much like a haiku, it continues after its last words, lingering like the last note played on a piano that slowly fades.”
“Just as I was entering young adulthood, probably slow to claim romantic feelings, a girlfriend copied out a poem by Pablo Neruda and slipped it into an envelope with red lipstick kisses all over it. In turn, I recited this poem. It took me the remainder of that winter to memorize its lines,” says Jackson. “The poem captures the pitch of longing that defines love at its most intense. The speaker in Shakespeare’s most famous sonnet believes the poem creates the beloved, ‘So long as men can breathe or eyes can see, / So long lives this, and this gives life to thee.’ (Sonnet 18). In Rilke’s expressive declarations of yearning, the beloved remains elusive. Wherever the speaker looks or travels, she marks his world by her absence. I find this deeply moving.”
“Clifton faced many obstacles, including cancer, a kidney transplant and the loss of her husband and two of her children. Through it all, she crafted a long career as a pre-eminent American poet,” says Jackson. “Her poem ‘won’t you celebrate with me’ is a war cry, an invitation to share in her victories against life’s persistent challenges. The poem is meaningful to all who have had to stare down death in a hospital or had to bereave the passing of close relations. But, even for those who have yet to mourn life’s vicissitudes, the poem is instructive in cultivating resilience and a persevering attitude. I keep coming back to the image of the speaker’s hands and the spirit of steadying oneself in the face of unspeakable storms. She asks in a perfectly attuned gorgeously metrical line, ‘what did i see to be except myself?’”
‘Sonnet 94’ (1609) by William Shakespeare
They that have power to hurt and will do none,
That do not do the thing they most do show,
Who, moving others, are themselves as stone,
Unmovèd, cold, and to temptation slow,
They rightly do inherit heaven’s graces
And husband nature’s riches from expense;
They are the lords and owners of their faces,
Others but stewards of their excellence.
The summer’s flower is to the summer sweet,
Though to itself it only live and die;
But if that flower with base infection meet,
The basest weed outbraves his dignity.
For sweetest things turn sourest by their deeds;
Lilies that fester smell far worse than weeds.
“It’s one of the moments of Western consciousness,” says Frederick Seidel, 90, the author of more than a dozen collections of poetry, including “So What” (2024). “Shakespeare knows and says what he knows.”
“It trombones magnificent, unbearable sorrow,” says Seidel.
“It’s smartass and bitter and bright,” says Seidel.
These interviews have been edited and condensed.
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