Mother Jones
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I fell in love with farro, an ancient relative of wheat, more than 10 years ago at the venerable Brooklyn restaurant Al di La. The puffed little kernels formed the basis of a chilled salad, tossed with arugula and tomatoes. The farro was light yet nutty, substantial yet melt-in-your-mouth tender, and it merged beautifully with the other ingredients, like some kind of Platonic ideal of pasta. Then I encountered it in similar several times in a trip across Italy working on organic farms, mostly in the northern states of Umbria and Tuscany.
I returned to the United States in the throes of a full-blown farro obsession, determined to make it part of my repertoire. By then I had moved out of New York City and was living on a small farm in rural North Carolina, far from any fancy-food emporia. Online researched seemed to suggest that what we call spelt in the US is identical to Italy’s farro. So I embraced spelt berries, which I could find at the local health-food store. Results were more or less dismal. Even after long soaking and hours of cooking, something almost always seemed off: the kernels would be either way too chewy, deplorably mushy, or, paradoxically, both. In time, I learned that true farro (also called emmer) and spelt are indeed distinct, but by then I had ceased to care. I had moved on to other obsessions. (Somewhat childishly, I exacted my revenge against spelt in this 2011 April Fool’s piece. I should note that spelt flour is an excellent thing, especially for non-yeasted baked goods like biscuits and cookies).
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