Strawberries & Cream French Toast

For us, living in this peripherical part of town, the end of June is the most exciting time of the year. This otherwise forgotten corner of London, where families move to stay out of the crowd and enjoy the green; where rich people found an antidote against their otherwise hectic lives in the city; and where it takes a long tube journey to get anywhere nearly exciting – this part of London called Wimbledon is now ready to shine.

The world-wide known tennis competition has started, attracting the crowds and bringing some life to the neighborhood. People gather in pubs and cafés. They all seem to be in a cheerful and relaxed mood, and the locals are happy to join in. It's all about the tennis, of course, but it is also so much about the glamour and the atmosphere. Wimbledon might not be Ascot, but the village is very pretty, elegant and still considered quite posh. Admittedly, it feels good about sitting outside in one of the restaurants, eating some very Wimbledon-style fare while doing some proper people-watching.

There's no Wimbledon Championships, though, without strawberries and cream. Britain produces some pretty awesome and tasty strawberries, and people tend to go literally bonkers for them as soon as the season starts, with the peak of strawberry madness happening around the final match.

cheering with a glass of spritz

It all started from an idea: talk about Italian food with a different voice. More authentic? Less conventional? Based on some real research? Perhaps we just felt like we had something to share, each of us in our own unique and complementary way, about Italian food and the whole lot of culture and traditions surrounding an Italian table. Italian Table Talk wanted to be a conversation, a chat, and exchange between four friends, Emiko, Jasmine, Giulia and I, and you, our readers; a virtual table where we could sit and learn something new each month. After one year, we felt we had shared a lot, and personally, I feel extremely enriched. Where we'll go from here, we don't know; all we know is that we have deeply enjoyed the process, the exchange, the learning curve; and we feel we have still a lot to learnt, discuss, discover.

To celebrate our first year, we wanted to dedicate this episode to celebrations. Each of us would be sharing a dish, a moment, a memory that is somehow linked to festive occasions: Giulia with a crème caramel called latte alla portoghese; Jasmine with a tuna paté; and Emiko with tiramisu. I, for much that I tried to find a recipe to share, couldn't think of anything better, or anything more truthful, honest, spontaneous and reflective of what I like than the most famous Venetian drink of the modern era: spritz.

In fact from a point in my life onward, most celebratory moments have been cheered to with a glass (or two) the bitter-sweet delectable aperitivo drink that is spritz. Any success, exam passed, birthday, graduation, anniversary and the like has had a good deal of orange glasses clinking. Even now, I have my stash of ingredients to make it at home whenever the situation calls for it.



If you have never tried spritz, summer is the perfect time to start: it is highly refreshing and extremely (dangerously) easy to drink, but also very convivial and perfect for those long aperitivi spent in some lively piazzas before heading to a late dinner. The history of the drink dates back to WWI. It started as a glass of white wine, watered down by sparkling water to cut on the alcohol content; and it then evolved until it became what it is today: a mix of Aperol (an orange, bitter-sweet liquor), sparkling white wine (prosecco) or dry white wine, and a drop of soda, all served on the rocks. Prices for a glass vary all over Italy, but in Veneto you'll easily find it for 2 to 3.50 euros. Outside of the Veneto, it's often treated as a cocktail, so it's likely to cost more. Spritz is great on its own but it pairs well with salty snacks –  olives, crisps, or some small nibbles like cicchetti (Venetian tapas of sorts).

Spritz

The classic recipe

2 parts Aperol or Select 

3 parts good prosecco, chilled

a splash of soda

1 slice of orange

ice cubes

Place 5-6 ice cubes in a tumbler glass. Pour the liquor first, then add prosecco and soda and stir to combine. Serve immediately with a slice of orange.

Coconut Rhubarb Mess

I made meringues for the first time.

I made them on a rainy, damp day. The egg whites didn't get as fluffy as I hoped, and in their raw form they looked more like melted marshmallow. I was already discouraged, but I thought to bake them anyway. I spooned the liquid, pearl-white, thick mixture into my muffin tins so that it would stay in place. I turned on the oven at the suggested temperature. I waited. And to my big surprise, I saw them growing rapidly inside their beds. They grew and formed mushroom tops that became increasingly golden and firm. I removed them from the oven with a mixture of fear and hope. I thought  they were too pretty to be true, and that given how it all began, they would collapse as soon as they were out.



But they didn't. They stayed up and crispy. I waited for them to cool. I tried to pick one from its mould, but the bottom remained attached to the edges of the tin. I turned the meringue upside down in my hand and looked underneath the crispy top, which had a strange, jellyfish-like look. Its centre was soft and chewy, almost like cotton candy. Half a meringue, one-fourth a macaroon,  the rest a marshmallow. Something without much of a definition, an identity, something that didn't really fit into any category, and yet, something good enough to be used, to be eaten and enjoyed. I could sympathize, almost. Excuse the subtle metaphor.



The whole point of making meringues was not about the meringues at all, actually. I wanted to make Eton Mess, the oh-so-very-British Summer dessert featuring strawberries, meringues and cream, using some rhubarb I put my earthy hands on some days before in place of strawberries, and my favorite coconut whipped cream recipe instead of normal whipped cream. The rest came along: the coconut-y flavor called for some coconut chips for some crunch; a handful of rose petals fit perfectly into the feminine, pink nuance of this pudding.

Spring Quinoa Salad with Labneh

Green.

Energy, hope, renovation. 

Spring.

Spring might be almost at the end, but for us it has barely started. The forecasts fill us with hope as they announce a week of sun and warmth. We can finally dare putting the winter coats under the protective plastic case, back in the closet, down in the darkest corner where the eye cannot see and can't be reminded of how fast this good season goes, and how incumbent the menace of that dark tunnel of months is upon us, back again, way too soon.

But for now, hope and lightness of the heart. Del doman non v'è certezza.

To stress the accent on this seasonal change; to make it even more evident before our eyes, we have been filling our house with a variety of spring produce: peas, runner beans, asparagus, fava, spring onions, fresh spinach and herbs. I have deeply enjoyed combining their different shades and textures to create flavorsome green salads, enriched with some crumbled feta at times, others stirred into a pot of cooked grains. I never seem to get tired of them, and I let myself indulge in this little luxury until the season, and this profound need for fresh colors last.