Lentils, lentils lentils (and a soup with Tuscan kale and pancetta turns into a warm winter salad with oranges)

 

 

Lentils are small, lentils are round,
lentils are red, yellow and brown.

I like them in soups and burgers for sure,
I love them as curry, vegan and more!

I like them warm, I like them cold,
I like them fried or a couple days old.

They make sense as a snack, they are perfect in salad,
I love them, adore them and wrote them this ballad.

There may be no scoop
on lentils in soup,
but they still make you want
to jump through a hoop!

And just in case you don't already know,
here are two things about them before you go:
Thing 1: protein, fiber and iron make them healthy,
Thing 2: Italians believe they make you wealthy.

Just try them,
just eat them,
just have some already.
They are good, they are great,
it is never too late!

 

I admit my reading several Dr. Seuss books to my son last night contributed to this post, but lentils also just happen to be something I get childishly excited about.

 

Yesterday, like so many other times, I cleaned a big, bright orange carrot, I cut a couple of stalks of celery, peeled a clove or garlic and an onion and prepared a mirepoix which I sauteed in some olive oil until the little chunks turned shiny and translucent. I added a bay leaf, and a handful of diced pancetta and let it brown slightly before adding the rinsed lentils and water. I lowered the flame, covered the pot and let the magic begin.

 

 

 

A couple of hours and few more cups of water later, the lentils were soft yet still slightly toothsome, the water had turned into a dark, earthy, savory broth and the kitchen was warm and smelled delicious. I added a good pinch of salt and some chopped up Tuscan kale (but you can use spinach, Swiss chard or any other leafy green).

I seasoned it with plenty of freshly ground black pepper and a good glug of extra virgin olive oil. Sometimes I will add some grated Parmesan cheese, but this time it was perfect just the way it was, those little nuggets of smokey goodness from the pancetta satisfying me one hundred percent.

 

The left over soup turned into a delicious salad for lunch, so much so that I am still wondering why I never paired oranges and lentils before. Think slightly warm lentil quenelles,  the chew from the pancetta and the cool sweetness of the orange segments, highlighted by their zest. I think some crumbled feta cheese, small black olives or thinly sliced red onion - perhaps pickled? - would work great in this too.

Healthy.
Delicious.
Filling.

So before I go all Dr. Seuss on you again, just go and make some!

Have you packed your spatula? A book review and pea, mint and feta fritters

I thought I was going to start this post telling you how I had been eagerly awaiting a package for weeks, checking my mail day after day but when the Royal Mail is involved, things arrive at your doorstep rather sooner than anticipated. That is not to say I wasn't impatiently waiting, even if it was just for a handful of days.


My excitement upon carrying the red and white parcel upstairs was palpable for a variety of reasons, the first being that it is not all that often that I receive tangible evidence of the people I communicate with every day in the virtual world. It is nice to know they actually exist in the flesh and not just in some crazy corner of my mind (do you ever wonder if the blogging world is all just a figment of your imagination?). The rush of pleasure that I experience upon opening a new cookbook, or any book for that matter, is not a secondary factor. I know you know what I mean, that slight crackling of the binding when you first turn the pages, the anticipation of pages filled with words, colorful photographs and enticing recipes yet to be discovered.

 

 

Last, but certainly not least, my excitement was generated by the opportunity handed me by an extremely talented blogger to review her first baby, the one in print that is. Although it actually isn't her first book, as she already has an e-book out on no-carb eating.

 

Tori, in case you don't know her yet, is an Australian food blogger based in London, married to the Hungry One. After going through a white food phase in her earlier years, she turned into a travelling omnivore once she met her soulmate. They set off to discover the world with a "wish list scribbled on the back of a boarding pass".  After wandering to the farthest reaches of Asia from their home in Sydney, in the past years they have started visiting more of this side of the hemisphere (but not only) taking advantage of the endless low-cost weekends on offer. Their wish list turned into a baby bucket list and as the months went by, more and more items got crossed off. Not that having a Stowaway (yes, the baby already has his very own blogging alias) has really stopped them, as they travelled to the Americas in the throes of morning all-day sickness. As Tori's belly grows into various stages of fruit and vegetable, her trips have been getting shorter. Not a bad thing for those eager to learn more about the beauty England has to offer.

If you are a reader of her blog, you already know she is  as partial to pink wine as the Hungry One is to black forest cake (of which there is a mouthwatering cheese strudel version in the book) and she can get evangelical about pulses. She loves spread sheets and nuts in all shapes and sizes.

Her book is an extention of her blog, like the bonus dvds with great extra content you get when you buy a movie you love. Except better. It is so much more than just eye candy: it is a travel journal and a good read, peppered as it is with the author's trademark evocative phrases that conjure images of irresistible meals: yolks bleeding like a sunset over sand, pale plumes of ricotta, tomato fritters as dark red as a British backpacker's neck, sauce as soothing as a squeeze from your mum, fish flesh as pink as pinched cheeks.

She not only gives us pointers to the best hot dogs in the world, her pages are filled with recipes that are vibrant in color and texturally intriguing. She intersperses them with advice like joining a long food line "because locals are always waiting for a reason"; or "if something has been washed it doesn't mean it is clean" (especially if it was washed using local tap water, might I add!). She teaches us what any traveller needs to know: after suggesting we pack the now-obvious spatula, trusty black flats and a scarf that doubles as an airplane blanket or pillow  in her blog, in the book she advises taking along an open mind and an insatiable curiosity and appetite. But beware, it might lead you as far as tasting evil in the form of fish protein.





Do you need any more convincing? I didn't think so.

Expect to walk through the markets of Paris with a heavy backpack strapped to your sweaty back in search of some perfect picnic nibbles to then quickly change into a black dress and those flats you packed for a night out in a Michelin-starred temple. You will lie with her on the beaches of the Pacific and watch people ski by you whilst resting on the deck of a chalet in Switzerland.

 

Mind you, your journey will not end there.

Lemony sardine pâté

 

 

 Sardines are an extremely underrated fish. Unless you are Portuguese of course. Or Mediterranean.

 

The truth however, is that sardines are cheap, tasty, healthy, nutritious and a perfect pantry item.

 

I will not lecture you about the importance of eating certain kinds of fish for nutritional and environmental reasons. Suffice it to say write that this recipe is a new winner in my book.  

 

 

 

 

Before you get down to making this, a few fun sardine facts from the web.

The word “sardines” is actually a common name used to describe the immature fish of a variety of species all around the world. So when you are eating a sardine you are actually eating one of many kinds of fish, such as herring, smelts, brislings and pilchards, that get caught in nets during fishing.

 

Sardines are named after the Italian island of Sardinia, where they were seemingly abundant in past times.

 

Omega 3 fatty acids, highly present in sardines, reduce the likelihood of Alzheimer's disease, dementia and heart disease and lower blood sugar levels.

 

 

 

Canned sardines are however high in cholesterol, also because of the oil they are preserved in.

If you eat the whole sardine, including the tiny bones, the canned variety also ensures a good calcium intake.

Napoleon greatly helped in spreading the popularity of sardines: tinning the fish was an idea of two Frenchmen, Appert and Colin, but he started the canning industry at the beginning of the 19th century to feed the growing population and military. Sardines perished easily, so canning them was a way to ensure that the inhabitants of the farthest reaches of his Empire had a cheap and plentiful protein source.

Canned sardines have been known to hold up to 30 years.

  

 

 

 

Have you ever heard of the South African sardine run? Between May and July billions of sardines spawn and then move along the eastern coast of South Africa in shoals, which are often more than 7lms long, 1.5km wide and 30 meters deep and are clearly visible from the surface.

 

In the early 1900s Maine counted large numbers of canneries, producing up to more than 4 cans per American at that time, but now there is only one sardine plant left.

 

During the Cold War, sardines were extremely popular in the US. The US government apparently bought great quantities in the bomb-scare years and they became the number one convenience food for Americans. Now the average American does not taste a sardine before the age of 40.

 

Many expressions have arisen from the sardine canning industry: “packed in like sardines” originated in the 1800s from the practice of close packing this fish, describing any situation where people/things are crowded together. Then there is Alan Benett's "...Life, you know, is rather like opening a tin of sardines. We are all of us looking for the key..."

 

 

 

 

This is one of those examples of Pinterest actually being useful and not just a huge waste of my free - and not so free - time. I saw this idea ages ago on Food52 and loved it, pinned it and forgot about it. Until now that is.

  

It is so fast it won't take more than five minutes to make (and for half of that time, it is actually your food processor that is doing all the work). It is quite delicious and much cheaper than pate.

 

It is creamy yet tangy, and not very fishy at all (if that worries you) and the contrast of this cool, buttery spread on a slice of warm toasted bread will make you swoon. Guaranteed.

 

Adapted from HalfPint

Pasta e fagioli

 

 

I spent a lot of my childhood locked in a closet, a trunk, or with a soap bar stuffed in my mouth.

She, on the other hand, always got into trouble, even when it was my fault, because she was older.

 

I spent years following her around and copying her every move.

She spent years figuring out how to get rid of me.

 

I kept her up at night, whispering and making her sing along to songs from musicals. Evita, specifically.

All she wanted to do was sleep.

 

When we were very young we, or rather she, used to play this game where she pretended she was dying and would say goodbye to all her dolls and stuffed animals one by one, in tears. I sat and watched and sobbed, impotent. Finally, she went to her favorite stuffed animal and kissed it goodbye and then gave it to me and said: "my beloved sister, please take care of xyz for me, make sure nothing ever happens to him/her, keep each other company and don't ever forget me". This game made me spiral into a state of desperation and I fell for it every time, even if we played it at least once a week.

 

We fought like there was no tomorrow, I drove her nuts and she could be pretty mean to me. But we were always together, whatever side of the Atlantic Ocean we were living on at the time, no matter what our family nucleus was at any given moment.  Our lives changed pretty often, but we were a certainty for each other, whether we liked it (I) or not (she).

 

 

 

 

 

That is what being sisters means: you are blood sisters and soul sisters, a bond that can never be broken.

 

So sure, we had our differences.

 

She was reserved and kept her feelings deeply buried inside.

I was a chatterbox and wore my feelings out in the open, for the world to see.

 

She was popular and loved to socialize.

I was goofy and painfully shy when it came to my peers.

 

She loved being out there, doing stuff, away from home.

I got really homesick and hated "doing stuff".

 

When we went our separate ways in the summer, I sometimes had to concentrate just to breathe without her. I spent the first part of my vacations away from her crying. One summer we were reunited in London after more than a month apart, me back from the States and she back from a great time at summer school. I was happy, I felt safe again. She hated it, because "seeing you means my summer is really over".

 

But despite our differences, we shared a lot.

 

Bizzare and embarassing memories, for example. Like soaking our wash cloths in hot water and then scrubbing our limbs until they were raw and red, because her seven year old self said it would get rid of germs; or almost falling into a canal on the way home from school when we had just moved to Venice and were experiencing our first acqua alta episode.

 

 

 

 

There was the time in New Delhi that we bought a really cool embroidery set at a street market and were so anxious to try it out, that we cut some fabric from the back of the luxuriously thick curtains of our hotel room while our mother was in the bathroom. She, by the way, just found out about that when we all reunited for my grandmother's memorial service right before Christmas. We had the whole family laughing hysterically with some of those anecdotes, and I'm telling you, it was so good to mix tears of laughter with the tears of grief.

 

 

 

 

And then there was the time we were in a hotel in Salzburg and had such a bad fight that we almost wrecked the hotel room (am I the only one noticing a recurring theme here?). Our mother had gone out to a ball and gave her two teenage daughters some money to get some food and watch a movie in their room. Next thing, the younger sibling was flying across the room and knocking down a lamp and some other decor in the trajectory.

 

 

 

 

If you ask our husbands, they both have stories of their first encounter with the "other sibling" that involves some kind of the physical evidence of fights prior to their arrival. Maybe, and I am neither confirming this piece of information nor denying it, something along the lines of being kicked in the stomach or an arm being twisted and bruised.

 

What can I say? We have had a passionate relationship and have pretty much gotten the fighting out of our systems. Now we laugh together like with nobody else. That initially loud, then totally mute kind laughter that encompasses your whole body and leaves you feeling tired and revived and rejuvinated, all at the same time, when it stops.

 

We are sisters and if I hadn't gotten her, I would've chosen her. She is the reason I wanted another girl, but now that I am blessed with a boy I hope every day that my kids will feel that way about each other when they grow up.

 

 

 

So here is to sisters, and to mine especially, who is about to land here any minute.

 

As the last weeks of cold weather envelop this part of the globe, here is a dish some of us won't be able to enjoy for much longer,  while others on the other side of the globe will just be getting into the mood for. Italian comfort food at its best.

Cascina Lasso and Vigevano

 

 

If you have been reading my blog for a while, you will have realized that I do not often post about restaurant meals. For a variety of reasons, I might add.

The first being that I don't dine out half as much as my former self, the one without children. Exhaustion, the need to meticulously plan ahead and finances play a key role in that decision.

Secondly, dining out with a 3-year old and a 7-year old is just not that amusing. Granted it is getting easier every year, but however fun and delicious the experience might be, it is definitely not relaxing. It is all about cutting up food, mopping up spilled drinks, pulling out toys and books from your bag quicker than Mary Poppins, eating quickly and getting out before the people at the other table starts rolling their eyes at us. Not to mention multiple trips to the bathroom after a miniature member of the family loudly announces their need "to go" and exactly what category "needs to go" so that all the diners can hear.

However, although it is not a daily event, we do still go out. Our wining and dining can be split into categories.

a) Going out sans kids either means date night or having dinner with friends, but we are usually too busy knocking back cocktails and having adult conversation to remember to take pictures of what we are eating.

b) Going out with kids involves more casual affairs in child-friendly environments, often local hang outs, usually at lunchtime, that are good'n'all, but not something to write home post about.

 

The other reason I don't post much, truth be told, is that I hate being that person taking pictures of her food in a fancy restaurant. I admire all of you great food bloggers who entertain us daily with your  fantastic food and restaurant shots all over the world, but I just don't have the guts. I am incapable of shrugging off what other people are thinking: I don't feel comfortable when waiters sniff at me, when other tables watch me disapprovingly or with mild curiousity. I hate making others at the table wait for me to snap the picture because I feel rushed. I would die of embarassement if someone came to my table to tell me pictures aren't allowed and (it makes me cringe to admit this) I don't want to pass for that person who has never dined in a nice restaurant and absolutely needs to send pictures home, as shallow and silly as that may sound. And let us not forget the impossibility of taking a decent pictures (inconspicuously or not) at night. How do you do it?

I admit I have tried on various occasions and all of them have failed: bad lighting, bad angle, bad shots. I just end up throwing away the god-awful pictures I took hiding under a napkin or behind a menu each and every time.

I have embraced the fact that I will never be that person who demands a table by the window to get the perfect shot and that jumps up to get a great angle. I am just not that bold. I only snap pics when I am in totally casual sorroundings or positive that I am in no way disturbing anybody's sensibility by taking pictures. And of course the meal has to be worth it. Not an easy combination.

Last week end was the perfect example. We went for a drive: the weather was reasonably decent after some days of snow and rain, the kids needed to get rid of some pent up energy and my mother had never been to Vigevano, a somewhat hidden jewel in the province of Pavia. Surrounded by the famed rice paddies of the Lomellina, that produces the best risotto rice in the world, lies this dormant town with one of Italy's most beautiful examples of Renaissance  piazza, presumbly designed (together with the tower) by Bramante. The castle was originally a fortress and hunting lodge for the Visconti family and then renovated by the Sforza family.

 

Upon arrival, not only were we delighted by the beauty of the Piazza Ducale, with its frescoed arcades, but also surprised by the replica of an old carousel that the kids (and I in tow) rode on before walking up to the tower and castle.

 

Once we had worked up an appetite, we got back into the car and drove just a few minutes to Cascina Lasso, in the Parco Naturale del Ticino, a park and protected area in the Ticino valley. Cascina is the word used in Northern Italy, usually Lombardy and Piedmont, to describe a working farmhouse, with or without livestock.

Cascina Lasso has been owned and run by the same family since the early 1900s. A family of four lives there now: the husband farms the land and takes care of the animals, while the wife, a mother of two, is a gracious hostess in the restaurant, that is only open on week ends, when they hire extra help to cook and serve clients. Most of the food they serve is grown on the farm and what isn't they acquire from neighboring farmers. This guarantees a meal that is extremely fresh and seasonal for a comparatively low price for the Milan area.

The meal consists in several courses, so be warned and come hungry! The restaurant is located in the renovated barn, on two floors and is charming and cozy in its rustic simplicity (and extremely clean!).

Antipasto 1: homecured meats (salami, coppa and ham) accompanied by homemade warm focaccia

Braised rabbit with black olives and ground almonds

 

 

 

I'm not that kind of girl. Really.

 

It is not like me to turn my back on a meaningful relationship because things aren't the way they used to be. Things change, we get older. I always knew that. And let's face it, he was no spring chicken to begin with. When we met he was stylish and wordly but he had had his share of relationships before me and they had certainly left their mark. It didn't matter to me then, I coveted him from afar and waited patiently, because I knew he would come to me. He did and the fact that he was older didn't matter to me at all because I loved him. All I cared about was sharing my time with someone who was really there for me, supportive, someone who was in it for the long-term. So when we walked down the street I didn't care if people stared, I just walked on, my hand curled around him, head high, confident of what we shared, disinterested in what people thought of us. So what if he was old? Nobody knew what we really shared. He knew everything about me, kept all my secrets. He made me laugh, he made me cry. Thanks to him, I contacted old friends I hadn't seen in years. He got me to stay more in touch with my family, he travelled around the world with me. He shared my fondest memories: my children growing up, our travels. So even if I saw the signs of his ageing, I shrugged them off. Until there was just no ignoring them anymore: he was suddenly slow, he just couldn't keep up with my pace anymore. He often needed to rest, to recharge his batteries.

 

 

And then it happened. A few months before Christmas, I met the object of my desire. Young, sexy, sleek, sophisticated. Fair, so different from the darker tones I was used to. He knew everything about anything, he seemed ahead of his time. I accidentally brushed him with the tips of my fingers and was amazed at how responsive he was to my touch. My head was spinning, I had forgotten what that felt like. I left immediately, ashamed of my behaviour, my heart pounding. I told no one for the longest time, not you, not my friends, not my family. How could I? I turned my head and went on with my life. I pretended I had never seen him, that he did not exist, that he wasn't suddenly everywhere I looked. I am not one to make sudden decisions and I knew I did not want to invest in a whole new relationship, the cost would be too high, it was not worth it. All relationships get old sooner or later, the excitement wears off quickly. But I couldn't shake the memory of our first encounter and my relationship was undeniably starting to show the strain. I kept trying to ignore all the signs but finally I gave in and went to look for him.

 

I could not resist, I succembed. Forgive me, but I am in love or call it lust if you prefer. I know things will change, but for now I have decided to enjoy every second.

Parmesan vinaigrette

I love salad.

 

In Italy, salad is usually a pretty simple affair. Unless you are eating it as a main course during your lunch break in one of the many bars near the office, where it is often served with a choice of corn, tuna, mozzarella or shrimp, it usually consists in a mix of greens, perhaps some carrots and/or tomatoes. No ingredients like croutons or cheese to distract you from the perfect balance between tender soncino leaves, crunchy lettuce or romaine, the peppery bite of arugula and a bitter hint of radicchio.

The dressing is also understated, it's purpose being to compliment the perfection rather than drench it in creamy richness in an attempt to make you forget you are eating salad to begin with. You usually use a good glug of extra virgin olive oil, a dash of vinegar (balsamic or other) or freshly squeezed lemon juice and a sprinkle of salt (and lotsa pepper if you are me).

 

Now I am perfectly happy having just greens with some meat or fish anytime. But when I have salad for lunch I usually add in whatever leftovers I have sitting around, from chickpeas to roasted vegetables, meat, fish, feta cheese, avocado, herbs. A sprinkle of sunflower seeds, cranberries, sone chopped dried figs or furikake and I am set. My dressing however is always the same, the kind described above, simply because living here I tend to forget about the variety of options there are out there.

 

 

Arugula, feta cheese, roasted butternut squash and sunflower seeds

F, on the other hand, is not as salad crazy as I am so at times like this, when leaves are a constant presence on our dinner table in an attempt to eat healthier and lighter after the holiday bonanza, I try to shake things up a little. Yesterday it hit me: the man loves eating salad abroad because of vinaigrette! Why don't I think of that more often?

 

So I pulled out my Joy of Cooking and was blown away by the amount and variety of dressings it describes. Yesterday (and I think this is the beginning of a trend) I made this vinaigrette paired with romaine lettuce and chopped celery. Boy was it good and it took under five minutes to make!

 

 

Ingredients

1/3 cup balsamic vinegar

1 small shallot, finely minced

1 small garlic clove, grated

3 tbsp grated Parmesan cheese

1 1/2 tsp crushed fennel seeds

1/2 cup extra virgin olive oil

pepper

salt

 

A few notes: I used less vinegar because I am currently the owner of a very good-quality, aged balsamic vinegar with a syrupy consistency so a little takes you a long way. I used a very small shallot and less garlic than suggested because I was worried they would be overpowering as we are not that used to eating them raw. This amount worked perfectly for us, but feel free to go crazy. I also used less olive oil than suggested because I used less vinegar.

I put all the ingredients in a mini food processor at the same (I previously crushed the fennel seeds in a mortar). I merely peeled the shallot and garlic and put them in whole with the rest. I pulsed for a minute to obtain a creamy consistency. If you are making it by hand, mince and grate the shallot and garlic, crush the fennel seeds and then mix everything together, adding the olive oil last while mixing with a whisk to emulsify. Dress salad right before serving.

Tuna and swordfish ceviche

The other day I finally made it to the hairdressers. I was greatly in need, my hair was extremely grateful.

Saying I dislike going to the hairdresser is an understatement. What seems to be a national passtime here in Italy, especially among the older gals, is something I dread. I mean, when you have a job and kids, the last thing you want to do is waste away your precious Saturday sitting at the hairdressers fighting throngs of other women. I can think of so many other things to do in those hours. Like stuffing some of the clothes overflowing from my laundry basket into the washing machine. Or running an errand. Or making a meal in daylight that I can actually post about. Or, so much better, spending the afternoon at the park with my family and maybe eating some sushi for lunch. Even pulling the fuzz balls off of my wool sweater has more appeal to be honest.

Besides hating to wait around for hours even if I have an appointment, I feel like a Christian in the Colosseum fighting off lions the girls insistently offering manicures, pedicures, special treatments, hair masks or their $50,00 bottles of shampoo and conditioner.

Not to mention going to a decent hairdresser is an expensive affair and you usually purposely mess up what you just paid for with your own hands the minute you turn the corner. And that on your walk home you realize every other woman has your hue of golden blond with warm highlights. I mean, is it just here that every woman over sixty seems to have the same puffed up bad hair color with blonde highlights that look like they were painted on by a road line marking machine?

Unfortunately the older you get the harder it is to walk around in your bed hair and to be taken seriously in life. Another unfortunate thing is that when you turn *beep* you have  a new problem to deal with, or rather a new color. White.

Why do men "grey"? Why do they get to call their white hair appealing things like pepper and salt or speckled? Why do George Clooney and Richard Gere just get sexier?

When a woman gets white hair, it is the beginning of the end. It is all downhill from there. They even dedicated a whole episode of Sex and the City to Samantha's discovery down south.

And why is the only white hair I have located exactly on the top of my head, where my hair parts, sticking up obnoxiously for the whole world to see, just in case people hadn't already noticed its annoying, wiry, thick texture. Couldn't I have more, but strategically hidden on the sides, under layers of youthful  hair? Not me, nuh-uh. My scalp seems to be saying: we ain't got much, so we might as well boast it.

So this is the story of when I went to the hairdressers to hide those little suckers and for the first time (because it wasn't a Saturday and I wasn't in a rush and because I had said no enough times) decided to go with the flow and have the half hour treatment to pamper my hair with nutrients and such.

And lo and behold I discovered a new world. The lady I was assigned to put on Barbra Streisand from an IPad lying next her station, she pulled out a foot rest from the chair I was sitting in and pushed a button that got the rollers going in what I discovered was a massage chair (I instantly felt like Sally hanging out with Harry in The Sharper Image). She then proceeded to massage a personalized concoction into my hair and I decided to enjoy it for the few mintues it lasted.

Little did I know the massage would last the whole half hour of hair mask. The woman massaged my head, my neck, my shoulders, my face. She even massaged my ear lobes! Who even knew ear lobes liked massages? Well, let me tell you, they do. 

When it was over, not only did the camouflaged white hair make me look 5 years younger, I also felt a decade younger. Lady, why didn't you just tell me I would get a free massage with my hair treatment???

Because I am still feeling good, and because I am trying to improve my eating habits and lose a few pounds these days, my recipe today is a healthy and tasty dish that is good for the body and soul.

Ceviche, as I am sure most of you know, is a Central-South American seafood dish prepared cooking the fish in citrus juice, usually lime, instead of heat. It is often accompanied by fresh cilantro (coriander), chili peppers and raw vegetables like onions, avocado etc. I left out the heat factor for my kids and used tomatoes, small green peppers, cucumbers and chives to make it as refreshing and light as possible. I also added a tablespoon of dried unsweetened coconut and a pinch of banana chipotle salt from  Farm Candy to give it a tropical hint and a teeny touch of heat. You can really play around with ingredients and quantities, so I am only giving you guidelines. Use any vegetable that appeals to you, or none for that matter, choose your favorite citrus (I am partial to lime), pick any fish you like but make sure it is very fresh.

This will make a great appetizer served with some toasted bread or tortilla chips or a healthy salad for lunch.

Artichoke, feta and sundried tomato bruschetta

It is Friday and spirits are high.

To tell you the truth, I am dealing with my first-ever sinus infection and I feel like my whole face is a time bomb waiting to explode, but the week end is nearing, tomorrow evening F and I are going out on the town with friends and after two weeks of rain the weather should be getting better. So I am a happy gal.

This week end I am leaving you with a recipe for a delicously addictive bruschetta (pronounced brusketta, not brushetta please!) that you can easily store in your pantry for whenever the craving hits or unexpected guests ring your door bell.  Well, to be honest it is not technically bruschetta, because it does not involve garlic, fresh tomatoes and copious amounts of delicious extra virgin olive oil etc. But there certainly is a crunch and lots of flavor. You can have it with a salad for a light lunch or prepare it alongside other dishes if you are planning a brunch. You can make it bite size and serve it with drinks for an aperitivo. You can eat the leftovers with a spoon directly out of a bowl standing in front of your fridge at 3:00a.m. for all I care.  

Just make it! Have a great week end.

Pasta with dried porcini and prosciutto ragout

This is a post about ends. A long-awaited end and prosciutto ends.

But before the end, the beginning.

Yesterday my day started at my local police station and ended about 8 hours later in the central immigration office. Well, to be exact it started several months ago with endless phone calls, trips to various municipal offices and the Consulate, but you know that already.

I am now the proud holder of a permanent resident visa after decades of renewals, endless lines and many moments of distress. I still cannot believe it, I still am scared to even put it down in writing lest the law change and someone in uniform come knock on my door and take that precious slip of paper from me.

I think immigration is a nightmare wherever you are, what makes the difference in this country is the uncertainty of the outcome. Usually you know where you are going, what you have to do, what you have to bring. If all the requisites are there, you get what you went for and if they are not, you just don’t.

Not here. Laws change quicker than a model at a fashion show. What was valid yesterday may not be today, what was a fact the last time you called that office is now dubious. I think I got about ten different versions of how to renew my permit and what papers to present over a few weeks. I filled out forms and sent kits and was handed computer-generated appointments only to find my self once again filling in the same paper form I used ten years ago after a day at immigration last week and a broken down computer system. I paid fees at the post office only to find out that the new fiscal budget, which became effective on the day I sent in my kit, required an additional €200,00 payment. Then I ended up not paying a thing. I did not question that.

Now, I understand and admire the people working in these offices. They find themselves having to explain a system they don’t understand themselves to hundreds of foreigners who do not speak a word of Italian. They are constantly interrupted in their work by impatient, angry and somewhat desperate people asking all kinds of questions. Also, let us not forget that until recently Italy was a country of emigrants and it has not yet quite learned to deal with the soaring levels of immigration of the past two decades. To make things worse, public funding is at a minimum and more than one officer complained that they did not even have paper to print on (one actually asked me if he could use a copy I didn’t need to print something out for me on the other side. I kid you not).

Then again there is the other kind of employee: comfortably seated behind a glass partitioning who is rude, arrogant and impatient. The kind who raises his voice and treats people differently according to the color of their skin, their passport, their clothes even. The kind who forgot that at least one person in his family probably emigrated to the US, South America, Australia or some country in Europe. I am aware these people exist everywhere, not just here, and whenever I watch these things happening I feel a tightening in my chest.

I can count myself lucky as I am usually treated civilly once they hear my fluent Italian and see my US passport. Being a woman can be helpful too, but then again it may work against you according to who you end up dealing with. After many years, I have learned my way around. I bring pretty much any document I own with me (my husband teased me the other day when I wondered if I should bring some totally unrelated papers with me, which I incidentally ended up using) and copies of them all.

Yesterday I was given at least three reasons why I couldn’t renew my visa:

I didn’t have my husband’s tax returns with me (hello, I work, this is the 21^st century, I have my tax returns with me).

I didn’t bring a certificate of family status with me (hello again, the Municipality offices gave me this paper – pull out – saying that as of 1 January 2012 they can no longer issue this paper for residents using them in PA offices. The PA must contact them directly. And by the way my children and husband’s social security numbers are on my tax returns).

I was told I had to go to another office for my specific case and when I did, they asked me (after waiting for 80 numbers before my turn) why I had gone there for the renewal (uhm, because you sent an email to the officer I was talking to asking him to send me over). I was then warned that the new law no longer envisaged ten-year renewals, the maximum was five. Bummer. So, how did I end up with a permanent visa? Once again, I am not asking.

I gave my Oscar-worthy performance: I played the helpless blonde with the grateful smile, I played the sympathetic friend who fully grasps the difficulties of being a public official, I played the taxpayer filled with indignation, I played the hard working feminist who supports two Italian citizens and I played the graduate from law school pulling out laws and lists.

Whatever I did it worked and I am grateful for what I was given. I just wish everybody on every line in every office could feel how I feel today, the relief, the joy. But I unfortunately know that will not be the case.

Now to the prosciutto end. This pasta is packed with flavor thanks to the prosciutto and with umami from the dried mushrooms. In Italy you can buy the end part of a prosciutto leg, that little piece that you can no longer slice with the machine. Sort of like that last little part of the pencil you can no longer sharpen. This works fine of course with some lovely sliced prosciutto too, but if they are slicing it freshly for you, ask them to make thicker slices. Otherwise, try asking at the counter for that endpiece, you might get lucky. Amounts here vary depending on how many people you are making this for, so I will give you a general idea.

Eggplant burgers - polpette di melanzane

It is hard to think of little else here besides the cruise ship that ran aground off of the coast of Isola del Giglio in Tuscany last Friday night. It is all over the news, on every paper, every TV channel, day in and day out. Why is it that we feel this need to become voyeurs of other people’s tragedies? Nowadays media coverage is so extreme, with its real time updates of every minor happening, that it is impossible not to be sucked in. A journalist of a regional paper is tweeting regularly and we are being flooded by photos and videos of the evacuation and the rescue operations by the coast guard, divers and now the marines.

Naturally, we are distressed about the fatalities, worried about the unaccounted passengers (where are they? what happened to them?) and shocked, to say the least, about the dubious behavior of the captain, allegedly (more like definitely - while I was writing the infuriating call between the harbour office and the culprit was broadcast) more concerned about saving his life than his passengers after deviating from the ship’s standard course. There is controversy about his authority to make this kind of decision and the fact that the ever-growing size of cruise ships for profit affects onboard safety. Last but not least, we are once again concerned about another ecological marine disaster, about 500,000 gallons of fuel spilling into the Tyrrhenian Sea.

But let’s face it, we are all victims of reality TV nowadays. How many of us here have not been sucked into the frenzy of watching every detail of these peoples’ nightmare? Who hasn’t clicked onto the blue-tinged photos of the eerie underwater world of luxurious salons and lopsided corridors, where walls have become floors and ceilings walls? Who can suppress a shudder while watching the infra-red images of thousands of people climbing down the side of the ship with rope ladders like ants in a line, such is the size of the capsized monster. Or when listening to the screams in the dark filmed by a helicopter and the victims with their cell phones?

The truth is that, whilst we are all incensed and truly preoccupied, we cannot resist the lure of the Titanic-like imagery, as the NY Times rightly defined it. We are mesmerized because that horrible night of a century ago has taken on a legendary status in our minds. Which one of us has not at one time or another imagined what it would have been like to be on the Titanic as it sank to the bottom of the sea? The ice cold deep water, the dark night, the sound of clanking metal and waves? I can’t help but wonder if some of those missing people are still blocked in their cabin or in one of the many other rooms of the ship. I can’t help imagining what it would be like to be alone on a dark, half submerged ship, I cannot resist directing and acting in an imaginary movie of which I am the sole spectator. The waiting, my calls for help echoing in the empty halls, the fear, the desperation, the cold. Hearing distant sounds and searching for other survivors…

What attracts us is that human trait, mostly compassionate but at times a little twisted, of identifying ourselves in others.

This was supposed to be a post about the sea, the sun, the island of Sicily and a traditional recipe. It turned into a post about the sea, an island and a tragedy.

Once again, we are the lucky ones, enjoying a meal with our family on a Saturday afternoon. My prayers and thoughts go those who were not so lucky on that day.

I made this vegetarian lunch because F and I were going out that evening with friends to a Brazilian restaurant and I knew I would be having enough meat to last me a week. It isn’t really the season for eggplant on this side of the world, but I couldn’t resist the huge offer in my local supermarket the other day since I recently came across a recipe I had bookmarked from Manu’s Menu a while back. It is the season for this vegetable in the other half of the world so I thought there surely would be someone out there who would enjoy this dish as much as we did.