Columbia Road Flower Market

Every Sunday, East London blooms.

The Flower Market in Columbia Road, near Shoreditch, is a paradise of plants and bunches, where enjoy a bit of crowd-watching while sipping an indipendent roaster’s coffee and nibbling on a bagel.

On the sidewalks, small shops and stalls hidden in internal yards display vintage trasures alongside modern homeware.

One of my favorite places to go in London, in the earlier hours, when it is still a bit quiet.

Only some photos today, an inspiration for the weekend. In the hope that Spring will come sometime.

—–

 Londra sboccia ogni domenica.

Il mercato dei fiori di Columbia Road, nella parte est della città, vicino a Shoreditch, è un paradiso di piante e mazzi di fiori di ogni tipo, un luogo dove godersi il bagno di folla mentre si sorseggia un caffé “indipendente” e si assaggia un bagel al salmone.

Nelle retrovie, negozietti e banchi nascosti nei molti cortili interni mettono in mostra tesori di ogni tipo, piatti, vasi e suppellettili vintage.

Uno dei luoghi che più amo di Londra, soprattutto il mattino, quando tutto è più quieto.

Oggi solo foto, un po’ d’ispirazione per il fine settimana. Speriamo la primavera sbocci presto.

Italian Table Talk #12: On Breakfast and Raisin Buns | Panini all’uvetta (e tulipani)

Looking at my food habits, breakfast is the meal that can best describe my path, my growth, my life from childhood to adulthood. It is the only meal that remained stable and consistent for a given period of time that corresponded somehow to a phase in my life, and that adaped to my changes and evolution as a person through adolescence and maturity.

I never skipped breakfast. Ever. Even when ill, I would be more inclined to have a small breakfast and nothing else for the rest of the day rather than chicken soup. The reason is, I tend to wake up in the morning extremely hungry –rather, I usually wake up because of hunger. Few things make me suffer as much as going to get a blood test on an empty stomach in a crowded hospital. I haven't had my blood checked in years, I just can't stand the torture.

Many consequences derive from this state of things. First, I have never been a huge fan of the oh-so-Italian ritual of the bar breakfast with cornetto and cappuccino. Second, that I have never been very inclined to eat a classic Italian home-breakfast made of caffelatte and cookies. No, my breakfast has always needed time and quantity. Time as not necessarily time to make it, but definitely time to eat it.

Growing up in the nineties, I started with cereal since when I was a little girl. Kellog's had just begun to enter the Italian households and kids were going crazy for Choco Pops and Frosties, including me. What I immediately noticed, though, was that my hunger never allowed me to follow serving suggestions: I always needed a top up. When mum noticed that the boxes were finishing only halfway through the week, she thought to set some rules on cereal consumption. She started to buy those with less sugar, which I hated, to alternate the sugary, chocolaty ones.

Then something happen. I just can't recall the exact moment, but I started to go to ballet and count calories. I knew exactly the nutrition of all the Mulino Bianco little breakfast cakes and cookies we had in the house, which were a breakfast staple for the rest of my family as for many families in the country, but not for me. Cereal boxes were banned from my table. I started to eat sad, dry toast (fette biscottate, yet another big classic) and fruit yogurt, and I kept having these same things for years, until I got so tired of it I would had rather eaten shredded paper.

Bran cereal (those terrible All Bran sticks) entered my life at that point, together with all the insecurities of adolescence. They tasted like cardboard, and splashing them with skimmed UHT milk didn't help their cause. However, in my mind they were the best option I could get to keep me full and "healthy" (read "thin") at the same time. I know, sad. I still had a long way to go. We've all been there.

In all those years, there was a big gap that now seems inconceivable: I wasn't drinking any coffee. I started to drink coffee when I was 21 or something, deep into University life. Before then, I was drinking juice, or just plain water or milk. Coffee consumption started as a necessity to stay awake during those long nights studying for exams, and never stopped since, becoming a fundamental part of my breakfast ritual on the way. One could say I became mature in my food habits only at the threshold of mature age. I am not proud to say that the amount of coffee I drink has increased exponentially, especially in the morning, but it is still something I am not ready to stop, prevent, or give up. The bubbling moka pot (serving 9, according to Mr Bialetti, but actually making the two of us barely satisfied) is a pleasure nurturing my body and soul.

When did I stop eating bread, ricotta and honey, like I was at college, and start eating muesli and oatmeal? Probably during the graduate year in Bra. The international atmosphere and the moltitude of food habits made me crave for divertity, for foreign flavors, for novelty. I began with muesli and yogurt, being perhaps the easiest step; then, I embraced the warming creaminess of oatmeal during those cold snowy days in Vermont, encouraged by J's presence. What I found was a revelation about myself, too: those two breakfasts were the ones I felt most mine, the ones which suited me the best –they nourished me, satisfied my slight sweet tooth and my cravings for health and balance.

Realising and accepting that my ideal breakfast will never be "Italian" meant becoming aware that origin doesn't necessarely describe tastes or inclinations. That I was allowed to prefer something else; that liking oatmeal more than cornetto was completely fine and acceptable; that there are no set rules, but only preferences, moods and exceptions. Like these buns, for example. They are an evidence of these exceptions.

Raisin buns are part of the frame in any memory of any bakery window I can recall from childhood. Little ones, almost bite-size, or large spongy ones, or even long, aubergine-shaped ones, I loved them all equally. Mum would buy one ore two from time to time at the local bakery, together with the rest of the bread shopping, and I was alowed to have one for breakfast the morning after, slathered with strawberry jam. Grandma was also used to get a large pagnottella con l'uva every Wednesday, the kind that had polenta in it, soft and doughy as a pillow, and she would save half for me every time. I liked raisin buns more than any packaged cake. It was my special breakfast treat, alongside a sporadic slice of leftover crostata my mum would bake twice a year. They were nothing fancy, these little buns: simple, slightly buttery and not too sweet white bread dough, enriched with raisins and glazed with some egg wash. But they were exactly what I liked –sweet but not sugary, soft but not cake-y.

Throughout the years, raisin buns have always been the ones which got my attention when in the mood for something different and a bit special –now, together with pancakes. They are another small link to my roots and memories, which I like reviving from time to time in my kitchen, wherever I am.

So here are a recipe and some thoughts I wanted to share for this month's Italian Table Talk, dedicated to the rituals of breakfast, where together with these buns you'll find Emiko's delightful cherry crostatine (and some tips on the perfect breakfast in Florence), Jasmine's home-y and comforting torta margherita, and Giulia's classic Italian cornetti.

Gnudi

I have a list of fears I am trying to come to terms with.

I hate phone calls from and to strangers: I hate calling my GP clinic, I hate calling to book a table at a restaurant, I hate calling to set a meeting. I hate doing them and receiving them, and I much rather send an email and communicate facts in a written form. It seems somehow more controllable and less stressful. It gives me the impression of grasping the message better and having less room for misunderstanding and mistake.

Answering the door makes me anxious. I never feel appropriately put together for the task. Rightly so.

Going back into a grocery store to say that they charged me full price for something which was on special is another hated situation. It makes me feel cheap, although I am right. If I am with J, I beg him to do it in my place. He's good at saying no and making me do it. I would just walk away if I were by myself.

I hate calling waiters' attention. I much rather have them coming to my table. Waiving my arms in the air to grab their glance makes me feel idiot, and the fact that I am a small person doesn't help. Once again, I look for J's support to do it. My attempts are rarely successful.

Saying no to people is a huge problem for me. I have always been that kind of person who tried to please everybody and be liked by everybody, which is per se a sizable source of stress, much more than having the gut to say no. If I really feel like "no" is the right answer, I try to give convincing excuses not to hurt people's feelings, only to feel guilty a minute after.

And then, I hate scales, changing rooms, and bright artificial lights.

I have never thought to be a shy person. In fact, I have always felt fairly self-confident, but these traits revealing nothing but weakness in my personality are way too many to keep ignoring the issue. The problem is I yet have to find a strategy to overcome these fears. Maybe meditation would help. Maybe I just have to stop caring for everybody's feelings and opinions and consider mine first. Any suggestions?

Gnudi. They have always sounded terribly appealing and intimidating at the same time. What if I made them wrong and they disintegrated in the boiling water as soon as I dropped them in? What if they came out tough or too doughy? But then, it happened that I bought a huge bag of fresh spinach on special, and that the organic ricotta in the fridge had one day before expiring (this is how my meals come together most of the time, far from any romanticism). Gnudi came to mind: it had to be then or never. I made them, and they were good.

In the kitchen, overcoming my fears is way easier. Maybe this is the key to everything else.

Fava Beans and Pecorino Bruschetta

I has been a while.

Life rolls fast these days, and I can barely keep up. The new routine of leaving in the morning and coming back for dinner feels lovely, except some (minor?) cons. Light is not enough for photos in the evening, although it is getting better. I usually feel exhausted and I am keen on bruschette and big salads more than anything else, leaving leftovers for the day after. Time for myself is drastically less: one hour. In on hour, I try to shower, do some relaxation and yoga, read my email and wash the dishes –as that one pot is generally used at each meal. Dinner is only half-ready by the time J comes home. After dinner, we tend to collapse on the sofa in a few minutes. No writing or photo-editing involved.


As I said, bruschetta. Did I mention I don't even make my own bread anymore? I got into this very dangerous habit of hitting Waitrose at around 7pm (I leave work at 6.30, so it's totally casual!) when all the bread left on the shelves gets marked down to a handful of pennies. I usually buy one or two (sometimes three, if it's sourdough from Gail's) loaves for the following days: I am never particularly worried it would get stale, as one loaf tends to last less than one day in this house. My preference goes to good-looking, crusty bread such as spelt boule, seedy bloomers or stone-baked baguette, which surprisingly are always left behind, waiting for me to get the bargain. I must be part of the minority who dislikes the mushy, sliced sandwich bread that is so in vogue here. Anyway, you can see how such easy and cheap access to good bread made me put my home baking spirit on a side. I am a bad foodblogger in so many ways.


Loaded as I am with delicious and effortless loaves, my meal developer imagination these days goes not further than bruschetta, toast, soup and grilled cheese, or panzanella. Quick, easy and filling after a day on my feet is just what I want, and surprisingly I never seem to get tired of such fare. In fact, the late but welcomed explosion of the good season, including sunny days and warmer temperature, and abundance of spring produce ranging from peas to fava beans (no less!) gave a twist to the same old, and made me feel like I was eating a completely different dish altogether.

The rest is history. I found fava beans. I got very excited (as last year I had to cope with edamame instead), and I thought to pair them very classically with some pecorino (cheese is never a problem in this realm), on top of the above mentioned (cheap) stone-baked baguette. Some micro greens for the flashes, as they make everything cute, and dinner was on the table, alongside a big salad with asparagus and the like. Yes, I said big salads before, too. I spare you the details for another time.

Hope you are well. Are you well?

The recipe is very silly: start with about 500 gr of fava beans (in their pod). Remove the beans from the pods, blanch them for 30 seconds in boiling salted water, drain them and let them sit in iced water for a few minutes. If you feel like it, take out the core part of the bean from the tougher, outer shell. Season with sea salt, freshly ground black pepper, good olive oil and some lemon juice. In the meantime, toast some good bread until fragrant and crispy. Arrange the fava beans on the bread, shave some pecorino romano on top, and serve with some micro greens (totally optional) for a touch of cuteness. Enjoy with a glass of chilled, crisp white as an appetizer.