Italian Table Talk #15: Peach & Amaretti Pops

My father loves talking about his childhood. He nurtures fond memories of the years he spent at casa vecchia, the old house, in the middle of the Venetian country. The house wasn't a farm, but it was still surrounded by fruit trees, a vegetable garden, a small vineyard; it had a few courtyard animals, and a creek next to it where small freshwater fishes would go back and forth. It was a country house like many others you would find in that part of the world.

Most of my father's memories of those years have food at their core. Sometimes it would be food that was missing; others, food that was repetitive – pasta e fagioli every day, or polenta with figs every morning, or apples as the only fruit for months. Others again, it would be about the satisfaction and the feeling of victory in fishing some frogs in the ditch, or some catfish in the canal, using his rudimentary equipment. One of the best stories he would tell is about ice-cream, gelato. As a kid growing up in the middle of nowhere during post-war times, he experienced modernity slowly, and later than other kids living in the northern industrial cities. Modernity meaning TV, a refrigerator, a freezer, a washing machine, as well as certain foods – gelato was one of those.

Gelato made its appearance in my father's life in the form of a little truck, driving through fields and unpaved roads, announcing its presence with a bell. 'Ortodox' people wouldn't even call it gelato, yet that was the name used to call the frozen creamy sweet thing in a cup or a stick that was sold from the van window. The kinds of ice-creams it would sell were coppette (cups with half cream and half chocolate), ghiaccioli (fruit popsicles), or moretti (vanilla ice-cream on a stick, covered in a iced chocolate glaze). The best part of the whole story was that, at times, my father would be able to buy his ice-cream in change for eggs; others, he would have to pull 10 liras out of his pocket, which he would earn working at the Saturday cine forum at the church. For years, probably until the late 1970s, this is the only form of gelato people living in those areas had access to.



Gelato is among the first foods tourists think they should experience once landed in Italy. Italy is indeed the land of gelato: it is were it has been invented, back in 1565, in Florence; and where the art has been brought to perfection by excellent artisans making a great product using only the best ingredients. However, artisan gelato has become 'popular' and widespread only in recent times. Before then, it was a luxury item available only to the upper classes which had physical and financial access to it. As for the rest of the people, the normal people like my father, who lived far from the cultural and economical centres of the country – Milan, Turin, Florence, Venice, Rome, Naples – gelato remained something obscure until after the war, and even then, it wasn't the kind of gelato we all know about: creamy, luscious, in all its inflections of flavours, scooped out and gently unloaded on a colourful paper cup or a crunchy cone. No, it was the frozen cream, pressed in the little cup, or molded on a stick.

The subject of gelato is vast, somehow controversial, and yet deeply ingrained in Italian food culture. There is history mingled with technology, culture, language and sociology. We felt is was worth discussing; we felt we should dedicate an episode of Italian Table Talk to it. Each of us will narrate a little bit of the whole picture, without the presumption of covering it all, but at least trying to bring a better insight to the traditions and the culture linked to this beloved food so popular among locals as much as among tourists. In this episode, Giulia will share the recipe of a traditional gelato flavour, crema fiorentina; Emiko, the art of making affogato; and Jasmine, the recipe for a truly vintage classic, pinguino.

As for me, I wanted to share a recipe for pops – gelato on a stick like my father would have had. And in doing so, I got inspired by seasonal stone fruits, and by a traditional summer dessert from Piedmont, pesche e amaretti, or pesche ripiene. Peaches and amaretti (bitter almond cookies) are a true classic – they go heavenly together in their original form as well as in the form of frozen pops. In sticking to tradition, I thought to use mainly Piedmontese ingredients: Volpedo peaches, a heirloom variety typical from that part of Italy; and Piedmontese amaretti.

I am at a loss for words when it comes to describe these pops. It would be easier for me to use images rather that adjectives. To me, they taste of old, faded photos, of a summer of many years ago, of memories that don't belong to me, but that I lived through the eyes of the storyteller.

Roasted Chermoula Aubergines

Where do you get inspiration in your everyday cooking?

It is rarely one source only for me. Rather, I pick up elements here and there: it can be an astonishing course I had at a restaurant or cafe; or something I have seen on a cookbook, or on the web; or a trip to somewhere unfamiliar; a bountiful market stall filled with vibrant seasonal produce. It can be watching my mother, or my grandmother, cooking their favourite recipes. The best part of it all is, the cooking process I embrace can be romantic, and creative, and extremely inspirational, or it can start from the most trivial elements – it is just part of how things go.

This recipe is the least romantic kitchen story I could possibly tell you, but it is worth getting to the end of it. Here is how it goes.

I have been nursing a lot of recipes from Jerusalem by Ottolenghi for a while, postponing them mostly because they require ingredients which are strikingly seasonal and asked for a precise time of the year for their execution. In fact, I had mostly bookmarked summer recipes, and awaited for the warm season to come and bring tomatoes, peppers and aubergines along. I was especially mesmerized by the beauty of his aubergines recipes, in Jerusalem as much as in Plenty – hearty, spiced, burnt-y and luscious. I had had the confirmation of how solid and satisfying his aubergine dishes are upon my visit to Nopi, Ottolenghi's restaurant – perfectly soft, perfectly seasoned, and simply, terribly good.

Yet, I had done only one aubergine recipe from his books so far. Perhaps it was the lack of time to turn me down, Ottolenghi's recipes being all made from scratch and including a long list of ingredients that required dedicated and purposeful grocery shopping. Sadly, I often accumulate recipes only to postpone them, ending up cooking improvised dishes based on fridge and pantry availability, with the consequence of forgetting about said recipes.

A few weeks ago, though, I went grocery shopping on my day off, with a few recipes in mind – not by Ottolenghi but rather fished here and there on the web and 'pinned' in one of my gazillion mood boards. I got what I needed and headed to the self-check out. On the wall, as usual, there were some recipe cards: the British classic, the low-cal colourful salad with pre-made dressing, a berry pudding. And some pretty good looking aubergines.

I never do it, but that one time, I went back inside the grocery store and shopped for the aubergine recipe. I really didn't think I was the right target for that kind of marketing material but in fact, with the aubergine thing, they really hooked me. The ingredients I needed were pre-made chermoula, aubergines, pomegranate, feta, salad onions. Pre-made chermoula? I remembered, just then, reading how to make chermoula from scratch on Jerusalem. Why didn't I do it? What kind of foodie was I? I am lazy, I admitted. That's the saddest, most truly true truth.

Baked Apricots with Recioto

I was quite debated about posting this recipe, as in theory, the peak of apricot season should be finished or just about to. I know, where did it go? Unlike peaches and plums, apricot season comes and goes in the blink of an eye, leaving us longing for more creamy soft, ripe, bright orange lovely fruits to bite in the heat of a summer afternoon.

But then, I saw her post, and thought if she can post about apricots and think that it is still fine, well, who am I to go against it? Joking aside, I made this recipe a few weeks ago, even before seeing hers, and have been aching to share it since, never getting the chance to. Now, I am kinda late, but in the end, my motto has always been better later than never (alongside this one). I am sure some apricots are still around…Yes?

Saffron Mango Lassi

The flavour of tropical fruit entered my life in the form of a 200ml tetra-pack brick with a folded straw attached to it. It was a valuable and exotic alternative to the most classic flavours: pear, or peach. Extremely popular in the 1990s, tropical fruit juice saw it's glory shaded by the newcomer ACE, a blend of orange, lemon and carrot – presumably containing vitamins of the same name. It was my to-go snack at school (la merenda) since my tenderest age, alongside a package of crackers.

I am not sure why tropical fruit juice was my favourite flavour. Perhaps it was its novelty to strike me, or its hardly recognizable identity – what kind of fruit was it made of? In the picture on the package there was a pineapple, but the rest? What was it called? I had no idea, and besides, I hadn't even tasted a real pineapple on its own before. Banana was the most foreign fruit I had access to.

For years, tropical fruit has remained a mystery to me, and I often had the names messed up – papaya for passion fruit and so forth. At one point, though, things started to become a tad clearer, when experienced tropical fruit in the form of ice cream – pineapple and mango had become pretty common flavours by the end of the 20th century, even in the small town in the middle of nowhere Veneto. People travel, right?

Right. The plain truth is, I never had a real craving for it – people hardly desire what they don't know. Until now. In the all-mighty economy of the capital, where thousands of individual demands meet the offer of the market, where all nationalities and all cultures collide – in a city which couldn't feel and be further from the tropics, I have started to eat tropical fruit. The actual fruit.

My love story with avocado has been revealed already. Yet, a part of me felt like there was still space for one more, just to make my carbon footprint even. It happened a few months ago, when J opened the door, back from work, with a yellow box in hand. He had finally been able to go into that Iranian shop near work, he announced, and he couldn't resist the sight of the newly arrived Alfonso mangoes that were neatly piled into boxes and kept apart by shredded paper -treated like precious, fragile objects. He bought 10 so that he could have the box to carry them, asking in change to have some ready to eat and some greener ones for good measure.

I had one that same night. It had the most intensely floral, sugary flavour I have ever found in a fruit, ever. It tasted of sunscreen and hot days on the shore – in the best possible way. Juice running down my forearm, I was unshamilgly licking my fingers, sucking every bit from the mid stone, and silently begging for more… But then, I thought, I had to pause myself to prolong and re-live the pleasure in the following days. After eating mangoes straight from the fruit bowl sitting on the table for a few nights, fruit as sweet as cake, needing nothing added to it, J suggested us making lassi. To which, I responded: a what? Only later did I remember that night at the Bombay Cafe downtown – I had ordered a savoury mango lassi as a drink to go along the cornucopia of beautifully spiced dishes on the menu.

One Saturday morning, then, I made my own, not savoury but still unsweetened. I am not sure with what logic I added these spices, but my instinct told me to follow the way of cardamom and saffron, the first to add a hint of extra exoticism, the other to enhance the sunny, bright yellow hue of the pureed mango. I was trusting that the sweetness of the fruit and the creaminess of the final result were going to be forgiving towards these additions. In fact, both spices not only blended in perfectly, but also gave this lassi a novel depth of flavour, a second layer of aromas, which made it particularly attractive to my senses.