Uova al Pomodoro coi Peperoni

Eggs seem to be the last thing I eat before leaving for a long trip, and the first when I come back. 

We made eggs on that rainy Monday, the day we left our little Wimbledon flat behind us – white walls and all. The meal felt nostalgic, a dejà vu of sorts. We ate on the set of plates we didn't want to take with us, which made us feel even more unrooted, fully conscious of our nomadic nature. All around us was an empty apartment, tainted by the same sort of emptiness we found when we first moved in three and a half years ago. Our life was now packed into eight heavy boxes and four suitcases. The time had come to move again. 

We made a meal with what we had left in the house: in the freezer, we found a bag of ragù we thought we could keep for Christmas; there was one good bottle of red wine left, which we wanted to save for a good occasion that never really came; and then, a little Parmesan, some bread, and four eggs. Cooking with these few ingredients, we managed to create something that was so decadent it made us slightly ashamed. Still, we didn't regret a single bite of those soft eggs cooked in meat sauce, topped with grated Parmesan, mopped up with bread, and washed down by Valpolicella. It made us full, yes, perhaps too full to move bags and boxes down the stairs; and a bit tipsy, too, maybe too tipsy to face a plane ride; but it made us happy, giggly, and it washed all sadness away. 

We left for the airport right after lunch. The front door closed behind us as the rain was falling heavily outside. We knew we were going to be back soon, but it still felt like the end of a chapter – the white walls now turned into white canvases, ready for other people to mark their lives on them. To my surprise, I was OK with that, with all of that really – the change, the novelty that was awaiting us, the unknown. I knew it was going to be good for us. I didn't shed a tear as the plane took off, not like I do every time I leave Venice. That was the sign I wasn't really leaving home, but I was rather going towards it – finally landing in Venice to stay for a while. 

Here I am now, writing about eggs and new beginnings from my old bedroom on the first floor of my parents' home in the Venetian countryside. Fall has been treating us well this far. Meals have been beautifully simple, but full of those intense flavours that only homegrown food can have. The last of the fresh peppers and tomatoes from the garden finished a couple of weeks ago – we had a great, long season, so they told me – and we have now moved onto the first few jars of Grandma's ruby-red, fleshy tomato sauce, which we use to season pasta, colour soup, cook eggs, and braise meat. It's all too good, and at the cost of being repetitive, I must say I did miss all this a good deal.

Eggs in tomato sauce aren't a novelty in my family kitchen, but for some reason they fell to the very bottom of our repertoire. Since I love them so much, I have recently re-introduced them, with a few variations on the classic vovi in tocio à la Venetian. The dish assumes different names depending on where it comes from: shakshuka is very in vogue right now, and the recipe below is somehow reminiscent of it; but I'd still call it uova al pomodoro, as it doesn't have the same sort of flavour combinations (and hefty dose of spices) of a shakshuka. What it does inherit from the latter, though, is the range of toppings: from the feta, which can be skipped but really shouldn't, or can be replaced with grated Parmesan; to the good dose of parsley that is sprinkled on top. Peppers are added to the sauce for flavour and texture, but they are a very untraditional take on the well-known eggs in purgatory, as this recipe is also called. Whatever the name, this is a dish one makes whenever the wish for something utterly comforting yet simple strikes. I still haven't found an egg recipe that is as satisfying as this can be.

 

Jujube Polenta Cookies

I realise now that a long time has past since my last appearance on this blog. A few things have happened in the meantime – some pretty major changes that are part of the reason why I have been a serial absent as of late. The biggest news is that London has ceased to be our fixed residence for a little while, and that since the end of September I've been staying at my family home in the Venetian countryside. Moving from a city of millions to the village of 300 souls where I grew up is a tad daunting, but also enriching. I'm making the very most of this newly found spare time by doing all the things that I have never had the time to do as much as I wished to: cooking and reading, mostly; but also exploring my region further and deeper, and seeing some dear friends that always live too far away. 

The garden at our family home is exploding with the best autumnal colours, and with a few edible things I used to take for granted and I am now savouring to the very last bite – particularly pomegranates and jujubes. You might have never caught sight of a jujube shrub or tree before, but they are fairly common in the countryside of Veneto. Traditionally used as ornamental plants, in time people started to appreciate them for their fruits and to turn them into confectionery and liqueurs. The most famous jujube-based product has to be brodo di giuggiole, a sweet boozy nectar obtained by the maceration of the tiny, sugary fruits. Delicious and so sugary that it makes your heart race first, and then melt in a puddle of joy. 

These fruits are particularly close to my heart for nostalgic and geographical reasons. Every year in October, the tiny medieval village of Arquà Petrarca, in the Euganean Hills of Veneto, hosts a picturesque, popular festival dedicated to the humble jujube. During the festival (but really throughout the whole year), you can find all sorts of jujube-based gastronomic delights, from brodo di giuggiole to cakes, candies and cookies. The latter being my very favourite thing to buy every time I visit, alongside some sweet moscato passito from the same hills for dipping.

In my family, nothing has ever been done with the host of jujubes our shrub was yielding every autumn. We are lazy, you see, so we have always tended to eat them al naturale, munching on the crunchy, sweet and ever so slightly tart flesh straight from the fruit bowl, and trying to beat the greedy fruit flies that seem particularly fond of these fruits. This year, though, the production was more abundant than usual and called for some express baking to use up the excess. My presence in the kitchen helped with the motivation, and a family dinner the following day became the best excuse to get started with butter and flour.