Florentine lace cookies and almond brittle ice cream

 

 

 

 

 

Thump. Thump. Thump.

With every step I get closer. And with every step I go farther.

Closer to home, farther from her.

Thump. Thump. Thump.

Just keep running. Keep your mind on your breathing, on the beautiful moon, on the vans delivering boxes and boxes of goods to stores.

Thump. Thump. Thump.

My watch reads 6.35am. If I run a little faster, I might just make it home before she gets into the taxi to leave. Maybe, but probably not. I know her well enough to be pretty certain that she is already downstairs with her luggage, waiting. As soon as the taxi arrives, she will get in and they will drive away.

So just keep your rhythm, stay with the others, chit chat about your day. Get rid of your blues by keeping your body and mind busy.

Thump. Thump. Thump.

As I approach my street, I look over to see if the taxi is there. It isn't, as I suspected. It is 6.40am on the dot, the time the taxi was due, but I know they always come early hoping to make and extra buck or two. They left, she is on her way to catch her plane.

 

 

 

I run on, no point going home right away anymore. I still have five minutes to spare. I watch the sky turn from pink to grey-blue. Then I say good bye to my running companions and sprint across the street.

Thump, thump, thump.

I enter the apartment. It is dark and quiet. The kids and F are sleeping behind closed doors but it feels empty. I smell her perfume, or something more subtle, perhaps her face cream? I glance into her room, see the tousled sheets. She has been gone for so little that her pillow might still be warm, but probably not. I smile remembering how much I had to insist last night for her to leave the bed undone... no bed making allowed before 7am when you have a flight to catch.

I am sad I missed her on my way back from my morning run. I would have loved to have said goodbye again. I am glad I missed her on my way back from my morning run.  Good byes are hard.

It does not matter who you are or what you have achieved in your life, whether you have a career, whether you have won a Nobel prize, whether you are a mother, a father, a husband or a wife... when you are with your mother you are a daughter, you are a son, you are her child.

It takes time to readjust, to go back to being an adult with responsibilities and a family of your own, to protecting others instead of feeling protected.

We spent some lovely days together, the two of us alone and the two of us with my children and F.

We spoke, we laughed, we remembered, we ate, we drank. We went to museums and shopping.

We spent a decent amount of time in my kitchen chatting, looking through recipes and planning meals. I cooked, she watched and took note. She researched and suggested and I listened.

I may have mentioned before that growing up my mother was not a woman to wear an apron and cook up a Sunday roast. Having lunch out and seeing an exhibit was a more normal way for us to spend a Sunday. That does not mean we do not have our share of family favorites or that she does not know how to cook up a feast. And even if I do not have childhood memories of tinkering in the kitchen with her, I have her to thank for my love of good food and cook books, my fearlessness of trying pretty much anything.

We came up with this recipe together (and I created a new Pinterest addict in the process).

This, in short, is how it went:
1. Mom tastes friend's failed (friend's words, not mine) delicious cookies and is reminded of her love of florentines.
2. Mom starts obsessing about florentines.
3. We decide to dedicate an afternoon to baking together.
4. We make florentines, love them, but both agree they should have baked a little darker.
5. I want to show off my ice cream making skills and machine to her.
6. I decide to crumble the florentines and use them in said ice cream.
 

  

 

The florentines were truly delicious on their own, but the ice cream was sublime: each custardy, rich spoonful studded with crunchy morsels of caramelized nuttines. I am sorry I did not get a better picture of it, just to get your taste buds going, but there was none left the next day to photograph in day light.

Chocolate almond torte. For Laura

A couple of weeks ago I mentioned being upset because of sad news from close friends who live on the other side of the world and of the equator. They used to live right next door, our children grew up together, we learned to be parents together. Today the news was confirmed and it is was much worse than I ever imagined. I can't believe they are so far, that I cannot be with them, embrace them, bring them some comfort.

Today Laura was born. This is my birthday cake to her, because this will be her only birthday and I want to celebrate it. To celebrate her life, her fleeting presence in this world. She spread love to those surrounding her without even meeting them. She is love.

Happy birthday baby Laura.

Recipe from the Joy of Baking.

Ingredients 

1 cup (100gr) finely ground almonds

4 large eggs

7oz. (200gr.) bittersweet chocolate (I used over 70%), chopped

11 tbsp (150gr.) butter, cut into small pieces

3/4 cup (150gr.) sugar, divided

1/2 tsp vanilla extract

1/4 tsp cream of tartar

a handful of almond slivers

If you are grinding your own almonds, preheat oven to 350° F (177° C) and place the blanched almonds on a baking sheet. Toast in the oven until lightly browned and fragrant. Let cool completely and then process until finely ground. Increase the oven temperature to 375° F (190° C) and line an 8 inch (20 cm) springform pan with parchment paper.

Separate the eggs, placing the yolks in one bowl and the whites in another. Make sure they are at room temperature. Melt the chopped chocolate and butter in a bowl over a saucepan of simmering water or in the microwave. Then add  1/2 cup (100gr) of white sugar to the egg yolks and beat together until pale and thick. Beat in the melted chocolate mixture and vanilla extract. Fold in the ground almonds. My batter was very dry and I worried I had made a mistake but it loosened up considerably when I folded in the egg whites.

Place the egg whites in a clean bowl and whisk until foamy. Add the cream of tartar and continue whisking until soft peaks form. Gradually sprinkle in the remaining 1/4 cup (50gr) sugar and whisk until stiff peak forms. Fold about 1/4 of the whites into the chocolate batter to lighten it. Then quickly fold in the rest of the whites and mix only until incorporated.

Pour the batter into the prepared pan and bake for about 45 to 50 minutes or until a toothpick inserted in the center of the cake comes out clean. Remove from oven and cool on a wire rack. The cake rises during baking but falls during cooling, leaving some cracks in the crust. Decorate with powdered sugar or almond slivers.

Paste di Mandorla for zio Filippo

I probably shouldn't call these paste di mandorle because technically they aren't.

But let me start from the beginning.

On Wednesday zio Filippo (F's uncle) passed away. It was in the air, I woke up feeling a little melanchonic. I just didn't have it in me to write anything funny or cutesy. But you know that already if you read my last post. Then, in the evening, we got the sad news from Sicily.

Zio Filippo was no longer a young man and in the past year the C word had entered his life. Despite this, his death took us by surprise. It is not that long ago that I remember him working his piece of land, telling us about the many fruits his plants were bearing, the plants he tended to with great love and care. He loved food and cooking and often sent us things he had picked, prepared with his own hands or delicacies he had discovered in the surrounding area. He loved to read, he loved theater and music. I have fond memories of him singing a beautiful aria one evening shortly after our wedding. That night food was plenty, wine was flowing in copious amounts and by the end of the evening both my relatives and F's had taken turns singing and reciting poems and not an eye was dry. It was beautiful, a memory I will always cherish.

But the thing zio Filippo loved above all, after his family of course, was his island, so ruggedly beautiful, so rich in history and art, so misunderstood and plagued by the corruption of few.

My in-laws were already on their way to Sicily when the news came and attended the funeral yesterday for all of us. F lit a candle in church and I left the office a little early to make these sweets for him. While his grandson, the one named after him and who is following in his footsteps pursuing a military career, was reading a letter about him to a crowd in Trapani and F was lighting the wick, I was mixing the ingredients, the essence of Sicily. Whilst grinding the almonds I started thinking of the beauty of the blooming trees, while I was zesting the lemon I thought of the island's clear waters, the crisp blue sky, the winds from Africa. I thought of zio Filippo, his bushy eyebrows, his family, the many children and grandchildren he left behind. I thought that he had done good, that he had had a full rich life, no regrets. I thought of his wife, zia Lina, of the first time I saw her making paste di mandorle in my mother in law's kitchen and of how hard it must be for her. They were married for more than half a century.

I was so lost in my thoughts that I realized too late that I had skipped an important step. I forgot to beat the egg whites. I just mixed them in! I baked the cookies anyway, determined to make these in Filippo's memory and honor. I'm glad I did, because they turned out delicious anyway. They were chewy and full of flavor. Perhaps they didn't rise as much and they were chewy and soft instead of being slighty cakeu and moist, but every bite was still a bite of Sicily.

Per te, zio Filippo.


I got the recipe from Manu's Menu.
This is a vegetarian recipe, it uses up those left over egg whites in your freezer, it has just four ingredients and it is gluten free. What are you waiting for?