The why phase

The munchkin's hit the why phase; she's a bit slow on the uptake (only two questions in one week), but the ones she does ask are deep.

Tonight's serving: mummy, why do we eat?

I have to admit I was somewhat stumped for an answer. Funnily enough, my first answer was not, because we love to, but rather, because we need fuel, much like a car. So we can jump, dance, learn, you name it.

Amazing.

Ill

Hence no posts. I think I need a break. Can't even begin to think about food, given that I can't swallow it either. Hope to be back soon.

Florence

Yesterday evening, by some strange turn of fate, I caught the end of a programme that I had meant to watch: Travels with Vasari. The item I was specifically interested in, and which I have craved to see since I was about 15 years old, is the Corridoio Vasariano, or Vasari's Corridor.

Those who have been to Florence might know that this overhead passageway runs from the Uffizi, along the Arno, over the Ponte Vecchio and right up to the Pitti Palace in the Santo Spirito neighbourhood, thus linking the Offices (or Uffizi) of Francesco de Medici to his residence (the Pitti).



What makes this corridor so special is the fact that it contains approx. 1,000 paintings, all self-portraits, by some of the most famous masters from the sixteenth century to the present day. Some name-dropping: Rubens, Ingres, Rembrandt, Ensor and many others... Although I did study in Florence, and have visited it on several occasions, the Corridoio is notoriously difficult to visit and I have never been fortunate enough to walk through it myself. These days, access is largely reserved to politicians and other such luminaries.

Another thing that I love about Florence is the Bistecca Fiorentina. Think of it as the Florentine version of a Porterhouse steak. Its secret lies in the low-fat beef, which is sourced from Arezzo (Chianina) or the Maremma (Maremmana).

It requires a grill, some bloody hot coals, and a fantastic T-Bone steak.
Heat the grill, slap the steak on the grill, cook for 5 minutes on either side. After taking it off the grill, you can season to taste with salt and pepper, and eventually some oil.
Think rare, or even moo for the right taste on the inside, and brown on the outside. Serve with some vegetables (rocket salad, or if you so prefer some garlic sautéd spinach).
Not for the vegetarians among us.

Finally, if you ever head to Florence, walk down to San Lorenzo, where I used to live and visit the Mercato Centrale for some delicious extra virgin oil, truffles, funghi porcini, etc. You will not regret it.

Nigella.com: finally

And yes, the moment you(?)/I (certainly) have been waiting for. Nigella's website is at last relaunched and how!

Recipes, forum, Nigella's knick-knacks, you name it, it's there.

Pardon me, but I have more important things to attend to today. And tomorrow... and all the next days!

(We've been invited to a Thanksgiving dinner on Saturday, but to all you turkey diners out there, thanks for finding your way here, staying a while longer, and even becoming friends. And to Miss Velveeta in Kansas: hope that organic turkey was as succulent as it should be!).

Partnership: the PTA

Interesting discussion this weekend during the quarterly meeting of gay and lesbian parents: several of us feel the need to overcompensate. Many of us have volunteered for the parent/teacher association and almost of all of us had volunteered to bake cupcakes, help wash up, clean up after painting classes, etc.

Why is it that we do this, I wonder? I can think of a myriad of answers, but I'd like to hear yours... And as a straight parent, reading this blog, do you feel just as duty-bound?

*gearing up to (wo)man the glühwein stand at the Christmas concert in a few weeks and prepping 450 bags for Sinterklaas in ten days* it's tough being a parent...

Snow...

Ever so gently at first, the flakes rolled in. Then a dusting. Next thing you know, packed snow, excellent material for snowballs and snowmen (we tried it) and scary driving. Today is the first time ever that I drove in snow myself. I'm that much of an idiot that I had to take a pic to document this, rather than keep my hands on the steering wheel...

Forgotten vegetables: the saga continues...

Come autumn, this domestic demi-goddess is in her element as she peruses the shelves of the supermarkets and farm stands. Pears and parsnips, maple syrup, hare, pheasant and partridge, wild mushrooms: you name it, I love it. The fresher the spoils of the forest, the better although I do tend to draw the line at foraging for them myself. My grandfather used to shoot rabbits for Sunday lunch and to this day I still cannot bring myself to eat this typically Flemish delicacy.

This preamble brings me to the subject of today's post. In October, Jerusalem artichokes become a staple ingredients of our menu. These gnarly looking fellows are reminiscent in taste of garlic or mushrooms.

Sautéed, they become soft like potatoes. If they're early in the season, you can leave the peel on. As the season progresses, you might consider peeling them.

Tonight's fare was pretty simple:
Peel 600-700 g of Jerusalem artichokes and put in a large oiled pan. Sautée on medium heat until golden on all sides. Finely slice two cloves of garlic, grab some bay leaves and add to the pan. Splash with some white wine vinegar. Cover and let sautée until soft. Shift the artichokes to the side. Add a handful of sage leaves (we always grow some in our window boxes, wards off the evil spirits and is a great friend of pork chops) and 12 pancetta slices (we don't believe in scrimping here) to the pan.

Fry bacon and sage until crisp. And voilà, you have a nice autumn salad.


Photos taken with my phone, hence the pathetic quality. The salad, in contrast, was excellent and polished off by all and sundry.

Not that impressed...

Impressing the Czar - Royal Ballet of Flanders.



I will admit to nodding off during the first part (Potemkin's Unterschrift), watching the second more attentively (In the middle, Somewhat elevated -- which I love) and positively adoring the last part (Bongo Bongo Nageela): Britney Spears vs. the Wordy Rapping Hood. The schoolgirls are both male and female.

Amazing though how a body can make a difference to a choreography...

The Lady in Red

Sophia Loren (wartime nickname: Toothpick (!!!))notoriously said:
"Everything you see, I owe it to pasta...".

So without further ado I share her recipe for Spaghetti con pomodori with you.

Ingredients:
1 1/2 pound spaghetti
2 pounds tomatoes, not quite ripe, chopped
1/2 pound fresh mozzarella, thinly sliced
2 medium red or Vidalia onions (or less), thinly sliced
1/4 cup pitted Sicilian green olives, roughly chopped
2 tablespoons drained capers
1/4 cup minced Italian parsley
12 chopped fresh oregano leaves
2 cloves garlic, crushed
Salt
Freshly ground pepper
1/2 cup extra-virgin olive oil
Freshly grated Parmigiano cheese (optional)

Directions:

Cook the pasta until just al dente. While the pasta is cooking, place in a large serving bowl the tomatoes, mozzarella, onions, olives, capers, parsley, oregano, garlic, and salt and pepper to taste. Pour the oil over and toss gently.

When pasta is ready, pour it into a colander and quickly rinse it under cold water; drain well and add the warm spaghetti to the bowl. Toss to combine, remove the garlic if desired, and serve. Pass the cheese at the table.

Should serve 6.

Now can somebody tell me what the lady below eats? Oh wait, I know: chocolate.

Logically, I should end this post with a photo myself, but the only red garment I own is a nightdress. I think it's best for all parties concerned that I spare you my night-time apparel.

Family, friends, food

Good food is best enjoyed in the presence of good company. This old adage rings all too true after a wonderful weekend of birthday celebrations for my other half.

With the hunting season in full swing, we all flocked to my mother's to enjoy her take on guinea fowl, which she roasts in the oven and serves with stewed Brussels endives (with that bit of mother magic known as a spoonful of sugar), potato croquettes and of course her infamous grape sauce. That sauce conjures Proustian memories, because for as long as I can remember autumn, I remember this particular dish.

November is also a particularly poignant month for our family, as we commemorate the death of my father, on my other half's birthday. Last Sunday, it will be exactly 11 years ago since he died.

I was in the US at the time, visiting with my future in-laws. After my father woke us to wish my SO a happy birthday, we had gone out for the Washington Post, the New York Times, mulled cider and some fresh pains au chocolat from the local farm stand. It was a cold, grey day and we only had an evening dinner date, so we retreated back to the comfort of the warm bed.

At 11 am my sister rang to say something was horribly wrong and that she was on her way to the house. I rang my mother, who at that time was standing in the street, flagging the ambulance down. By then my father had already died from a massive coronary, but it would take me one more hour to find out as he was only declared dead on arrival at the hospital. It was left to the doctor in the emergency room to break the news to me by phone on remote Cape Cod, as my mother returned home to sleep alone in the marital bed for the first time in 28 years, accompanied by her parents and my sister.

I remember the primal howl that erupted from somewhere deep inside of me; I remember sitting in the shower with the cold water pounding on my face and body in hopes that I would wake up from this nightmare. I remember throwing roses into the ocean that afternoon. Above all, I remember my last visit with him in the morgue, as he lay there tan and peaceful.

Over the next days, family members from all over the world convened to bid him goodbye. We cooked, we ate, we dined out. After the funeral, we had a wake and again we ate. That Sunday, we had a last meal together before everyone, including my other half, left for their respective homes. I do not remember much of the meals themselves, but I do remember the ebb and flow of conversation, the memories shared, the warmth of a family together.

That same Sunday afternoon, after putting my exhausted mother to bed, my sister and I fell asleep on the couches in the living room. At 5:03 p.m. I woke up to the chime of a doorbell. I staggered to the door half asleep, only to find nobody there. I realized, in that same moment, that it was the moment my father must have died, exactly one week ago, on the same sofa on which I had been sleeping... and I wept, for I felt terribly alone in that instant.

Time has passed since, and over the past eleven years, I have implemented a scorched earth policy. I prefer not to look back, not to reflect on the past, but instead to move ahead. The second part of our weekend was spent with friends, over food, during a brunch, and even this evening, we dined with friends.

And yet, deep down, among the friends, the family, and over the food, one can never quite shake that feeling of being quite alone.



For my father...