Puntarelle Salad

“Aò, nun vedi che stai a fà un casino?" (Hey you, you are making a mess, don't you see?)

We were sharing the first course, a big plate of steaming, saucy tagliatelle al sugo d'involtino. Or trying at least, as I was failing in the attempt of splitting it: I stained the table cloth while trying to transfer a forkful of tagliatelle on my plate, and succeeded in creating a very intricate bundle. The waitress hurried toward us and promptly sorted things out – not without commenting on my poor performance. She stripped the two forks I was clumsily holding, and skillfully rolled the tagliatelle into two perfect portions. They were fantastic, of course, like the rest of the meal, of the day, of our stay in Rome.

We were lodging in a small apartment not far from the Vatican – or better said, not far from Bonci's pizza spot in Via della Meloria. On New Year's Eve we woke up to a bright, sunny, spring-like day, and made plans to take the metro to the Piramide, wander around Testaccio and Trastevere, and fit a good meal in between. "You must try Da Felice", a friend told us. We phoned and booked a table for a late lunch.

Spelt Orange Brioche with Maple Roasted Pears

A handful of days from our wedding, on January 7, 2012, I drove him to the airport. We had just come back from our honeymoon in Rome. In our initial intentions, it wasn’t supposed to be a honeymoon, but rather a New Year’s escape we booked way ahead. We found it convenient to simply change the name of the holiday, without actually changing its substance: a week exploring and eating, with visits to museums and monuments planned around lunch and dinner reservations.

I caught the flu right after we came back – actually, on our way back. I should have seen the bright side of this, but the idea of spending the rest of our so very precious days together at my parents’ home, with me drinking tea and sleeping on the couch, was still depressing. They went equally very fast.



The day of his departure, I drove him to the airport, bundled up in a rustic and puffy wool scarf my grandma had knitted me for Christmas, still very sick, and equally, deeply sad. His student visa has expired, and despite the marriage, my unemployment wasn’t going to grant him a permesso di soggiorno, or us a fresh start. We had everything planned out, though, and we were hopeful: The separation was going to be temporary, and very short – two months at the most. He was going to sort out the paperwork for my Green Card from the US, so that we could move together somewhere on the West Coast.

I really thought I could manage all this, – the separation, the awaiting, the unknown – but I was a mess the moment he passed security. Driving back, head numbed by fever and crying, runny nose, hazy eyes, I realized it was going to be fucking hard – every single day away from him was going to be a little torture, which no Skype call or long, heartfelt email was going to ease.

Italian Table Talk: On Soups and Risi e Suca

Rice used to come to the table in the shape of steamy platefuls of creamy, buttery risotto. It could have been with mushrooms, or asparagus, or shrimps, or chicken gizzards; sometimes even with spinach – not often, thankfully, as it was my least favourite, and seemed more like a trick to make me eat the dreadful leafy greens. My grandma, especially, has always had the habit to make risotto for Sunday lunch, as a primo, followed by a meat course. It had become almost a ritual, and a welcomed one. I was always going for second helpings even though her risotto was known for being quite thick, a bit heavy, and certainly not what purists would call a 'properly done' one.

Since the beginning, then, I had associated rice with something quite festive, a nice change from the everyday bowl of pasta. However, as I discovered later, it hasn't always been the case – it was actually the other way around. Rice, in the flatland of Veneto as well as those of Lombardy and Piedmont, in the North of Italy, was a staple food, far more widespread and widely available to the masses than dry (or fresh) pasta. Rice was a key source of energy in people's diet alongside polenta, and it was often combined with legumes and other vegetables, and sometimes small amounts of animal fats, for a complete meal. Many traditional Venetian cookbooks will list recipes featuring rice, whose amount overshadows the one of pasta recipes. Pasta seemed to be something reserved for the Sunday meal, well dressed with oily meat ragù – but only for those lucky enough to afford it.

Not only was rice an everyday food, but it was also rarely made into risotto. Rather, it was mostly throwin into soup. Many famous Venetian primi piatti, especially those of the cucina povera, i.e peasant origins, are actually rice-based soups: risi e bisi (rice and peas) in the spring, risi e faxoi (rice and beans, an alternative to pasta and beans), risi e patate (rice and potatoes), risi e verxe (rice and cabbage), and risi e suca (rice and pumpkin), in the fall and winter months. These dishes were nourishing, economical, seasonal – and even relatively healthy.

Risi e suca is definitely one if my favourite soups. As far as I can remember, I have always loved the flavour of pumpkin, particularly in savoury preparations. Although it wasn't my mum's strongest suit – she never really liked pumpkins, and really hated cutting them – she would still make this bright orange, creamy soup a couple of times a year, whenever grandma would send us one of her deliciously sweet pumpkins. Her trick to balance out the overall sweetness of this soup was to add a little bit of freshly made (non-aged) salami in the onion soffritto. The other trick: she would also blend the cooked pumpkin with its cooking water to make a smoother broth, and eventually, a creamier soup. I am not sure if any of this is truly orthodox – there seem to be no trace of salami or blending techniques in any Venetian cookbooks (written in dialect!) I came across. But as you might know by now, she liked to break the rules. I like to think they are these anarchic recipes I am bringing with me – they teach me a lesson in being myself without forgetting where it all comes from.

Omelette Sandwich

I put my cold hands in the pocket of my coat and felt a whole in one. How did I do it?

Only after a few moments did I realise that another winter had almost passed – and that I didn't quite consider buying a new one. I just didn't notice – I am amazed at how fast life can run here. That pretty Montgomery I bought in Italy before leaving for London had kept me warm for almost three, long winters. Admittedly, it looked a bit beaten up, with balls of fuzz on the side where I always hang my bag – and now, with a whole in the pocket.

I still remember the first winter I wore it, brand new, here in London. It was March, and yet the rain was still chilling the joy out of me. Something happened during that first month that I will never forget – something that felt like the 'initiation' of a new life in a foreign place. I was on my way back from the supermarket, bags full of groceries in hand, eyes wide open to catch every single detail of this new world around me. A bus pulled over by the bus stop as I was passing by, and suddenly something hit me like a bullet, coming from one of the windows of the upstairs deck. It was unexpected, and fast. An egg. It was an egg.