Not only did we really, really like Laura and Deanna (and their families, who fed us and showed us Modena), but we came away with a much better understanding of the amount of hard work, deep-seated knowledge, and just plain magic that goes into aceto balsamico.

Most of what’s sold as balsamic vinegar is just red wine vinegar sweetened with caramelized sugar and has no relation to the real stuff. But it’s cheap to make and generates nice profit margins for manufacturers willing to capitalize on gullible shoppers.

Real balsamic vinegar begins with the freshly pressed juice of Trebbiano grapes. The juice or must is cooked down to about 30% of its original volume, then it begins the slow fermentation process in a set of barrels made from different woods called a batteria. Each year, if the vinegar maker think it’s good enough, some of the vinegar from the last barrel in the batteria is removed. That barrel is topped up from the next oldest, and the process moves up the line with some of the newly reduced must going into the first barrel. A batteria may only yield a few liters of vinegar every year.

Profumi Estensi works with vinegar makers who produce balsamico on a very small scale, primarily for their family and friends. They’re willing to sell a little to offset their costs, which can reach hundreds of euros every year. We visited one and climbed the steep ladder up into the attic to see the acetaia (ah-che-taya or vinegar works). Hunched under the low ceiling, Judith and I followed Sergio as he flipped back the cloth squares covering the evaporation holes on the tops of the barrels, dipping spoons into the thick balsamico.

Only a handful of people ever get to see a family acetaia, and we felt incredibly privileged. Sergio inherited some of his barrels from his father, and he grew up learning how to mix vinegar from the different barrels in the batteria to get the complex flavor of true aceto balsamico. Watching him move among the barrels and seeing his eyes light up as he talked about the vinegar, we both wondered how he could bear to part with a single drop.

But he could, and it arrived in Portland yesterday. I got some of Sergio’s young vinegar, only two years old but remarkably complex. Even better, it’s a bit less expensive, so I can offer a 60 ml bottle for $20. He also sent a little of an older balsamico, from the last barrel in the batteria and aged at least 8 years. It’s thicker and a little less sweet, despite being more concentrated, but a bit more expensive at $35/60 ml. Email me to get some.

What I’ve got: Italian and Californian extra virgin olive oils, Orleans method vinegars from Katz & Co. in Napa, hand-harvested flor de sal from Portugal, organic whole grain farro and heirloom varietal brown rice, salt-packed capers and oregano from the island of Pantelleria, and fennel pollen from Tuscany. And from our friends at Chop Butchery & Charcuterie and Alma Chocolate, salami and chocolate.

I’m out of a few things. The aceto balsamico from Modena and the California olio nuovo won’t arrive for another week or so. The Haricot Farms red beans and Crystal hot sauce are also on back order. All of these things should be here before Christmas, so check back for news if you just can’t get through the month without them. I’ve expanded my hours and added a few other sales events this month; here’s the complete schedule.

Rodgers’ Zuni Cafe cookbook came out in 2001 and her presalted roast chicken got a lot of ink, so I started cooking birds the same way. And Marco showed me how he’d been hanging chickens in the open air for several hours to dry out their skins for Bastas’ justly famous crispy chicken. So after salting l dried the chicken by letting it sit uncovered overnight in the refrigerator; incredibly good.

I’d been brining the Thanksgiving turkey, and while I liked the juicy results I wasn’t happy with the way the skin wouldn’t crisp up. I switched to presalting and drying. Best turkey ever.

Learn how to cook one yourself, along with my other favorite Thanksgiving dishes, right here.

After splitting and scraping out the seeds (edible when roasted, but, to me, not quite as good as pumpkin seeds), cut the squash in manageable pieces and microwave in a large covered bowl with a bit of water until soft. Or bake or steam if you prefer. When cool, use a spoon to scrape the flesh from the tough outer skin. The bigger squash yield a few cups, so freeze some if you’re not ready for several nights of squash eating.

As usual, I make fritters. These, made with polenta or any other good corn meal, are really good. Recently I’ve been using the cooked squash as an ingredient in other fritters. It worked well with some leftover salmon (flake the fish, combine with a little squash, egg, breadcrumbs, celery leaf, capers, shallots, and pan fry), and I really liked this shrimp version.

Cut some melon into bite-sized pieces. Ditto a cucumber or two (I prefer mine peeled and seeded). Slice several tomatoes. Pick some basil (if you didn’t plant any this year, figure out how to remind yourself for next spring). Put everything on table, either in separate bowls or arranged on a big platter, but not tossed or dressed.

Take as many pieces of whatever you like, arrange them on your plate, drizzle with your best extra virgin olive oil, add a splash of good vinegar (or balsamico), sprinkle with flor de sal. Eat.

Don’t feel constrained. If you’ve got anything else good, either fresh produce, leftovers, or a nice cheese, add it to the mix.

I like the wings for their high skin to meat ratio, so that’s what’s on my plate for the first round. Judith goes for the back with its hidden pockets of delectable dark meat. The next meal we split the legs and thighs, accompanied by whatever other leftovers might be around, or maybe just a salad.

And while presalting and ass-backward spatchcocking help keep the breasts from drying out, they’re the least favorite part of the chicken for both of us. By day three we’re also getting tired of plain old chicken, so I’ll pick off the white meat and use it to make chicken salad, add more protein to simple beans and rice, or toss it into a skillet of Spanish migas (like this, but with chicken). If the refrigerator’s got the usual tub of romesco, I mix some with the cut up breast meat for sandwiches or salads.

The whole time I’ve been saving any pieces of chicken skin that I managed to keep from eating. I put them into a skillet and slide it under the broiler for a few minutes until they’re nice and crispy. If I don’t eat them right out of the pan (delicious with a nice shot of Crystal), they get crumbled onto salads or added to a sandwich like this one:

Grilled cheese with romesco and crispy chicken skin

But I’ve switched to spatchcocking. I have mixed feeling about the term “spatchcock.” Admittedly a great word, its origins ambiguous but decidedly British, quirky consonants sounded at beginning, middle and end. But it’s right on the edge of being too precious. That said, once you know what it means, it does its job perfectly. Why say you’re splitting a whole chicken down the middle for spread-eagled cooking? All you need is “spatchcock.”

I’m less ambiguous about the actual deed. Spatchcocking, by definition, is splitting a chicken or similar fowl down the back. Once split, the bird is spread open and cooked, either roasted, grilled, or on the stovetop, sometimes under a brick. However it’s cooked, heat penetrates faster, and a whole chicken can be done more quickly.

The back itself is usually discarded (or saved for stock, if you’re conscientious). But if you’re married to an Italian American, especially one whose Sicilian nonna showed her how to wring every morsel of edible goodness from a chicken, you want to cook that back.

So, when I decided to deviate from my usual approach to roasting chicken, I opted to split the birds down the front. It’s actually easier than cutting out the back, requiring a single knife stroke through the keel bone. Once the bird’s been cut, I presalt as usual.

I‘ve cooked ass-backward spatchcocked chicken in the oven, simply splayed out in a big cast iron skillet. But the Weber does a much better job. Build your fire at one end (preferably with real wood charcoal, aka lump briquet), add a few sticks of hardwood if you like a smoky note (I save the trimmings from my fruit trees, but you can buy hardwood chunks for grilling), and put the chicken, skin side up, breasts toward the heat, as far away from the fire as you can.

Once the chicken is on the grill, cover it and follow this advice from Francis Mallmann: Don’t touch it (from his great book about Argentinean fire cookery, Seven Fires). After an hour or so, lift the lid and check the bird. At this point you can turn it over to crisp the skin a little more, but it might not need it. When it’s done to your liking, take the chicken off the grill and let it sit for at least 20 minutes before you cut it apart.

When I have the time to sit and and shuck, parboil, and peel a pile o’fave for myself, I’ll make fava mint bruschetta. Since a pound of fava pods yields maybe a cup of the edible inner bean, this spread stretches them so you don’t need to shuck quite so many.