Shapes: Laganelle

The Ancient Ribbon of the Apennines

The Quiet Ribbon of the Hills

In the villages between Sulmona and Agnone, women still roll out laganelle on wooden boards worn smooth by generations.
The rhythm is slow, deliberate: a push, a pause, the sigh of dough against flour. No machine hums, no cutter spins — just the soft percussion of a knife dividing pale ribbons of semolina.

Outside, the mountains rise in silence; inside, something ancient unfolds.
These are laganelle — wide, rustic ribbons that link today’s kitchens to the dawn of Italian pasta. When paired with lentils or chickpeas, they carry the taste of both endurance and affection, the kind of food that makes winter feel less eternal.

From Laganum to Laganelle

The story of laganelle begins long before Italy existed.
The Latin laganum — from the Greek laganon, meaning “flat sheet of dough” — appears in the writings of Horace, who boasted of eating it with chickpeas, and in Apicius, who layered it with meat and spices.
These were the ancestors of both pasta and lasagne: simple sheets of dough cooked on stones or in broth.

As Rome’s empire fractured, the technique of rolling dough survived in monasteries and mountain homes.
Across the Apennines, especially in Abruzzo and Molise, families kept making rough, wide ribbons from semola and water.
Over time, laganum became lagana, then laganelle: a plural diminutive for the smaller, hand-cut form — shorter than lasagne, humbler than tagliatelle.

If you trace the map of old transhumance routes — the paths shepherds took from Abruzzo’s high plains to Puglia’s lowlands — you can still follow the path of laganelle. It’s a ribbon of history winding down the spine of Italy.

The Craft of Simplicity

There is no mystery in the ingredients: semola rimacinata di grano duro, warm water, and salt. The secret is in the hands.
The dough is kneaded until elastic, rolled thin, and cut into ribbons — about a finger wide — with the same knife used for bread.

Traditionally, laganelle are laid on linen cloths to dry, sometimes over the backs of chairs, the air perfumed with wheat. When cooked, they remain dense, chewy, and slightly porous, designed to hold the starchy broth of legumes.

Unlike their northern cousins, they contain no egg — a deliberate abstinence that made them perfect for fasting days and poor households.
In a mountain culture where nothing was wasted, laganelle were a lesson in restraint: nourishment from what the land could always provide.

The Heart of a Regional Table

In Abruzzo, laganelle meet lentils from Santo Stefano di Sessanio, garlic, olive oil, and a touch of sweet pepper. In Molise, they turn up in soups thick with chickpeas or beans, simmered until the broth becomes gold and the pasta softens just enough to release its starch.

This is the dish of feast and fast alike — a food for saints’ days and for snowstorms.
It’s eaten in earthen bowls, with bread on the side and wine that tastes faintly of iron.
Every family adds its own small flourish: a pinch of chili, a sprig of rosemary, a spoon of tomato conserve saved from summer.

Where They Survive

Artisans & Producers

• Rustichella d’Abruzzo (Pianella, PE): One of the few producers to offer a true Laganelle format — bronze-drawn, slow-dried, and even available in a lemon-infused variant. Their pasta is made from 100% Italian durum wheat semolina and dried for up to 56 hours at low temperature.
• Fara San Martino’s historic pastifici — including Cocco and Delverde — maintain the traditional methods of slow drying and bronze cutting that mirror the laganelle philosophy, even if the shape itself is rare.
• Local agriturismi and women’s cooperatives in villages such as Castel del Monte, Agnone, and Pacentro still teach laganelle workshops, rolling dough by hand in communal kitchens on winter weekends.

Restaurants & Trattorie

• Osteria Dentro la Mura, Campobasso — serves Laganelle con Lenticchie e Peperone Dolce, the quintessential Molisan version.

• Trattoria La Locanda del Gatto Bianco, Sulmona — pairs laganelle with mushrooms and truffles from the Maiella forests.

• Ristorante Antica Osteria dei Gemelli, Teramo — occasionally features laganelle e ceci on its seasonal menu.

Most often, though, laganelle survive in private kitchens — handwritten on flour-stained recipe cards, never printed on menus.

A Taste of Continuity

To eat laganelle is to taste an unbroken line — from Roman soldiers’ campfires to mountain hearths.
The texture is unmistakable: thick, rustic, a little uneven, with the satisfying chew that industrial pasta forgot.

In the modern world, chefs occasionally reinterpret it: a lighter broth, a drizzle of truffle oil, a garnish of fried lentils for crunch.
But the essence remains unchanged. No matter how refined the table, the soul of laganelle stays peasant — simple, honest, eternal.

Fun Facts & Curiosities

• The Latin laganum predates all modern pasta — making laganelle one of the oldest surviving shapes in Italy.
• In Abruzzese dialect, “fa’ la lagana” means “to take your time,” a friendly tease for slow cooks.
• Farmers without rolling pins once used wine bottles to flatten the dough.
• Because it contains no egg, laganelle became a staple on Fridays and during Lent.
• A proverb from Molise says, “Chi magna laganelle, non teme la neve” — “He who eats laganelle does not fear the snow.”

Reflection

Laganelle are not a shape that needs rediscovery — they never vanished.
They exist quietly, in the corners of kitchens, in the muscle memory of hands that learned from mothers and grandmothers.

Each ribbon is a relic of patience, an edible artifact from when food was both nourishment and narrative.
When you eat laganelle, you taste continuity — wheat, water, and wisdom, stretched thin but never broken.