Agnolotti del Plin

In the Langhe hills of Piedmont, where fog settles between the vineyards in autumn, women have been making these tiny parcels for generations. The name tells you everything: plin means pinch in Piedmontese dialect. You pinch the dough between thumb and forefinger to seal and portion in one motion. This is not decoration. This is function.

Agnolotti del plin are small, smaller than you expect. Each one should be no larger than a fingertip. This is deliberate. The ratio of tender pasta to savory filling must be precise. Too large, and you taste only meat. Too small, and there is no filling at all. The Piedmontese have been calibrating this ratio for centuries.

The filling is not raw meat mixed with cheese, as in some lesser filled pastas. It is braised meat, already cooked to tenderness, then chopped fine and bound with egg and Parmigiano. The meat has already given up its toughness. What remains is pure flavor. Rabbit, pork, beef, sometimes a mixture: the contadine used whatever the Sunday roast provided.

This is not a beginner's pasta. I will not pretend otherwise. The dough must be thin enough to cook in moments, strong enough to hold the filling. The pinch must be decisive. The parcels must be uniform. But if you have made fresh pasta before and are willing to practice, you can learn this. Piedmontese grandmothers were not born knowing how to pinch. They learned. So can you.