Ziti al Forno

In Naples, this is what you serve when something matters. A wedding. A christening. Sunday, when the family gathers. The pasta must be ziti, the long tubes that Neapolitan brides have broken by hand for generations. Not penne. Not rigatoni. Ziti.

The breaking is not arbitrary. You snap them into pieces roughly two inches long, irregular and imperfect. This creates edges that catch the ragù and cheese, surfaces that brown in the oven. Factory-cut pasta cannot replicate this.

What you keep out is as significant as what you put in. There is no béchamel here, no cream, none of the northern richness that would smother the bright acidity of the tomatoes. The ricotta goes in as dollops, not stirred through. The mozzarella must be fresh, sliced by hand, not the pre-shredded rubber that melts into grease. The ragù simmers for hours until the pork surrenders completely.

This is not difficult food. It is patient food. The ragù takes time. The layering takes care. The baking takes attention. But a child could learn it, and in Naples, children do.