Zucchini boats found me in Genoa, on a July afternoon, in a fourth-floor apartment that smelled like basil and hot olive oil.
I had booked one night with a host named Marcella through a friend of a friend. Or a friend of a client, technically, from when I still had a travel-agent desk. I had plans. Walk down to the port. See the aquarium.
Marcella had other plans.
She met me at the door with a canvas apron already looped over her head and a second one folded over her arm. Non oggi, she said. Not today. The aquarium would still be there tomorrow, but the zucchini were at their peak this week and she wanted to teach me before I left. I put my bag down and put the apron on.
The Genoa Cooking Class That Wasn’t Really a Class
Marcella’s kitchen was maybe six feet wide. A gas stove, a marble counter the size of a briefcase, a window that looked out at the laundry line of the woman across the alley.
She had already been to the market at Piazza Statuto. Four zucchini on the counter, a ball of mortadella unwrapped, a crust of pane raffermo that had gone hard on the Tuesday and was now, by Friday, exactly what she needed.
She did not use a recipe. She used her hands and my ears. I stood at her elbow and wrote nothing down, because she would not let me. Se scrivi non impari, she said. If you write you do not learn.
So I watched her scoop and salt and taste. I hoped my memory would hold. The dish, she told me, is zucchine ripiene. Also called barchette, little boats. Ligurian to the bone.
Her mother’s version had tuna. Her grandmother’s had veal and pork. Marcella’s had all of the above depending on what was in the fridge on Sunday. There is no one recipe. That was her first real lesson.
Where Zucchini Boats Actually Come From
I did the reading on the flight home. Zucchine ripiene are old. The technique of hollowing a vegetable and stuffing it goes back to Roman and Greek kitchens, and the modern zucchini varietal was cultivated in Italy in the 19th century, developed from squash brought over during the Columbian exchange.
Liguria took to stuffed vegetables in particular because it never had much pasture land for cattle. A little meat, a lot of vegetable, stale bread to stretch it. Cucina povera doing what it does.
The dish traveled to the United States around 1900 with Italian immigrants, which is why the phrase zucchini boats now shows up on every American recipe site with photos of cream cheese and taco meat. Those are descendants. This is the parent. Marcella would not necessarily disown the descendants. She would raise an eyebrow though.
What I Used
- Four medium zucchini, straight and firm, about two pounds together
- Fine sea salt, used in two rounds, one to draw water and one to season
- Extra virgin olive oil, the good one I only use raw or almost raw
- A small yellow onion and two garlic cloves
- Half a pound of a beef, pork, and veal blend, ground
- Three ounces of mortadella, chopped small enough to almost disappear
- Fresh breadcrumbs from a stale country loaf, soaked in whole milk
- One large egg, lightly beaten
- Parmigiano Reggiano, three quarters of a cup, most inside and a little for the crust
- Flat leaf parsley, chopped just before mixing
- Freshly ground black pepper
- A spoonful of dry breadcrumbs for the top
Cooking Zucchini Boats Back in My Kitchen
Back home I got the ground meat blend from the butcher at the Hollywood Farmers’ Market on a Sunday morning. The mortadella came from Claro’s out in the valley, sliced thick and chopped by hand because a food processor turns it to paste. I have opinions about this. Do not use a food processor on mortadella.
The kitchen was warm the first time I made these here. Late August, no clouds, western light coming through the window and hitting the wooden table I write on. I had a Lucio Battisti record playing because I did not have a Genoese one and Battisti felt close enough.
The zucchini went cut side down on a clean towel with salt on them, and I stood there for fifteen minutes watching them weep water into the fabric. That salting step is the whole game. Skip it and the boats swim.
Marcella salted twice. Once on the raw halves for the water, once in the filling for the taste. Then a quick two minute parboil to soften the walls without cooking them through. Do not skip that either.
The filling I mixed with my hands, gently, because working it too hard turns it into a rubbery hockey puck. I learned that the hard way, a batch or two ago. The reserved zucchini pulp went into the pan with the onion and garlic and cooked down until the skillet was almost dry, which is what carries the garden taste into the filling.
Marcella was very firm about not throwing the pulp away. Very firm.
I mounded the filling high, sprinkled the dry breadcrumbs and the extra Parmigiano on top, drizzled the last of the olive oil, and slid the tray into a 400 degree oven for twenty-five minutes. The apartment smelled like Marcella’s, more or less. Close enough that I stood in front of the oven for a minute without moving.
Variations I Have Actually Tried
I have made the tuna version, the coastal Ligurian one, with oil packed tuna, capers, and pine nuts in place of the meat. Lighter. Saltier. Better with a chilled Vermentino.
I have also made these with just the vegetables and a lot more Parmigiano, when I had no meat and no patience. Honest and quick. Not the same depth though.
One thing I do not do. Cream cheese. Marcella would have thrown me down the stairs.
Eat them warm, or at room temperature the next day out of the fridge with a piece of crusty bread. That is when they are actually at their best, I think. I always mean to save one for lunch and never do.
Zucchini Boats
Ingredients
Equipment
Method
- Preheat the oven to 400 F and line a rimmed baking sheet with parchment paper.
- Trim the ends of the zucchini and slice each one in half lengthwise. Using a melon baller or small spoon, hollow out the centers, leaving a sturdy border of flesh about 1/4 inch thick so the boats hold their shape. Reserve the scooped pulp.
- Season the insides of the boats with 1 teaspoon of the salt and place them cut side down on a clean kitchen towel. Let them rest for 15 minutes to draw out excess moisture, then pat dry.
- Bring a large pot of water to a boil. Slip the zucchini boats in and parboil for 2 minutes, just until crisp-tender. Lift them out with a slotted spoon and set cut side down on the towel to drain.
- Meanwhile, soak the fresh breadcrumbs in the milk in a small bowl until softened, about 5 minutes. Squeeze out any excess milk and set aside.
- Finely chop the reserved zucchini pulp. Heat 2 tablespoons of the olive oil in a large skillet over medium heat. Add the onion and cook until soft and translucent, about 5 minutes.
- Add the garlic and chopped zucchini pulp to the skillet and cook, stirring often, until the pulp releases its water and the pan is nearly dry, about 6 minutes. Season with the remaining 1/2 teaspoon salt and the black pepper. Scrape the mixture into a large mixing bowl and let it cool for 5 minutes.
- To the bowl add the ground meat blend, chopped mortadella, soaked breadcrumbs, egg, 1/2 cup of the Parmigiano Reggiano, and the parsley. Mix gently with your hands until just combined; do not overwork it or the filling will turn dense.
- Arrange the drained zucchini boats cut side up on the prepared baking sheet. Divide the filling among them, mounding it slightly and pressing it in so it clings to the walls.
- Stir together the dry breadcrumbs and the remaining 1/4 cup Parmigiano Reggiano and sprinkle evenly over the tops. Drizzle with the remaining 1 tablespoon olive oil.
- Bake for 20 to 25 minutes, until the filling is cooked through, the zucchini are tender when pierced with a knife, and the tops are deeply golden and crisp.
- Let the zucchini boats rest on the pan for at least 10 minutes before serving. Serve warm or at room temperature.