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?

Olive oil, lemon zest and Greek yogurt cake



Today was supposed to be my day.

F. left yesterday on a business trip. He is usually in charge of taking the children to kindergarden and daycare since I go to the office shortly after 7AM. Since I had some paid leave hours I had to use up by the end of the month before they expired, I decided I would drop the children at school and take a day off all for myself. This was a first in the five years I have been a mom.

I would take the kids to their classrooms, I would meet up with a friend for coffee in a café near school and have one of their amazing nutella croissants. I would then go to the Tuesday market 10 steps from my front door to buy large amounts of fresh fruit and vegetables, some mozzarella di bufala perhaps, maybe some olives from large overflowing buckets. I would then go home and  have a few luxurious hours to cook something for my blog without any interference. I could even try something a little more complex and time consuming. I could take pictures in daylight, try to improve my technique. Then off to a sushi lunch with my friend and just a few more hours to get some things done in the house that I never get to do when the kids are running around. A quick trip to a neighborhood fabric store to pick up something to make with my daughter for her carnival costume and then off to pick up the kids early for once. The perfect day.

But as we all know, no plan is perfect, especially when it involves a mother with children younger than 20 taking a few hours for herself. Moms all over the world, you hear me, right? You know what I am talking about, don't you? Just thinking words as harmless as 'haircut' or 'manicure' or even just 'book' is asking for trouble. And so no sushi and Nutella for Mommy, no vegetables and fruit in the fridge, no time to finally make something a little more intriguing for you my friends...

In the middle of a thereafter sleepless night, my little boy got a fever. He is not sick enough (fortunately!) that he can't play, but just sick enough that he is whiney and clingy and needs constant entertainment. As I was writing the first paragraph (while he was suddenly - finally - incredibly busy playing with his car in the kitchen sink, standing on his Stokke chair), I turned to find him pouring dish soap all over the counters and floor and noticed some suspicious looking bubbles on his lips. I now write as he sleeps.

So instead of the confit de canard and the multi-layered cakes I had been envisioning, here is a recipe for a cake that is the essence of the sunny Mediterranean at its simplest. Olive oil, lemon zest, Greek yogurt. I have been seeing this recipe bouncing from blog to blog in different versions lately and admit my curiosity was piqued. What would a cake made with the lovely Tuscan extra virgin olive oil I have taste like?

The result was moist, not overly sweet, with a slightly citrusy taste and a suttle yet distinct fruitiness from the olive oil. It is what I consider a perfect breakfast cake, or fitting to eat with a cup of tea on a rainy day with a sweet, feverish bundle asleep in your arms.
 

Ossobuco alla milanese (or braised veal shanks)

He sat on the scaffolding suspended from the cupola and shook his wrist for a few seconds, trying to ease the cramping of his fingers. He had been working on this window depicting St. Joseph for an hour, or maybe more he decided looking through the beautiful stained glass at the sun, which had moved considerably higher since he had last checked. Vincenzo had arrived from Leuven, Flanders with many others from all over Europe to work in the Venerable Factory of the Duomo, the construction site for the enormous gothic cathedral that was being built in the wealthy Duchy of Milan. The colors of his glass were renown because they were particularly striking, especially the yellow inserts. His secret was that he always added a touch of saffron when preparing the glass.  He decided to stop for a quick lunch, suspended in the air because there was always much to do and little time to climb down and chat with the others. He had brought a bowl of rice, which grew plentiful in the countryside surrounding the city and was cheap to buy, to work. He untied the knot in the cloth that he had wrapped his lunch in and just as he was moving his work utensils to the side, a fellow worker hollered from the scaffolding above.

"Perfundavalle! Buon appetito!".

Startled, he knocked over a tiny jar of the precious saffron he carried with his tools at all times and a little fell into the wooden bowl of rice. Vae! he mumbled in Latin, this was not good. So much waste of prized saffron and a ruined lunch! His stomach grumbled as he thought about what to do. He decided to taste the rice anyway, he was too hungry to wait till sunset and he had some wine to wash it down with. After all, saffron was a plant, how bad could it be? He stuck his fingers in the bowl, took a few kernels of rice, closed his eyes and stuffed them in his mouth. He chewed slowly, ready to spit out the offending bite. He chewed some more and sides of his mouth turned up into a big smile. This was delicious! Who would have ever thought saffron was so good? And the rice looked as beautiful as it tasted, with its yellow hue.

That is how the legend goes, regarding the birth of Milan's most famous dish, risotto giallo or allo zafferano. It is a versatile dish that can be eaten many different ways, as a first course or as a main course served with ossobuco, like the recipe I posted. It is always good to make in abundance so you have leftovers for riso al salto the next day, a crunchy, thin, pan-fried version of the rice beloved to all Milanese.

As you may or may have not have noticed, it has been a while since I last posted. I was offered a very interesting work opportunity last week that I couldn't turn down, despite the deadline being atrociously near, the amount of work being quite daunting and the fact that I have a full time job and pretty noisy children. This job involves writing, translating, researching to a certain extent. I am reading a lot on historical and artistic facts about the Duomo, Milan's cathedral.

It just so happened that when I received the file on the Duomo in my mailbox, I had 4 ossobuchi defrosting in my fridge. The more I read and wrote about the past glory of this town and the immense human and artistic effort made for decades, even centuries, to build the cathedral, the more I was excited to be preparing this dish for my family. Besides being one of F's favorite dishes, it somehow just made sense with its perfect timing, it made me feel connected to this city that often seems unattractive but that has some beautiful hidden secrets if you are willing to scratch a little beneath the surface. And so here is my ode to Milan, Oss bus a la milanesa con gremolata.