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on washing and lentils

This article was originally written for Guardian Cook and published on Friday 24th October 2014.

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When I first moved to Rome nearly 10 years ago I lived in a third floor flat above a bread-shop and shared a courtyard with a trattoria. After a month or so, the smell of baking bread and the clatter of plates and pans had become the everyday soundtrack to my life.

Similarly familiar was the sight of laundry shunting past my window on lines strung across the communal courtyard – eeck, eeck, eeck – as they ran through rusty pullies. My neighbours at the time were two elderly sisters who’d lived all their lives in the building and had laundry hanging down to an art. The sequence began at about 7am when rugs were hung, thwacked and reeled back in. Cloths, clothes and sheets followed and, once a month, I was reminded that I’d never washed a seat cover in my life, as a set of them shuddered, like a surrealist photo, into the frame. I’m sure the sisters noticed my neglect. They certainly noticed I never polished my front door, because when I did, they said ‘Brava, finalmente’.

Washing done, the sisters would set about the daily task of making lunch and the smell of pancetta in a hot pan and greens or beans (Romans eat a lot of greens and beans) rolling around in boiling water would meet those swirling up from the trattoria below. In my own kitchen, door open onto the courtyard – an enthusiastic cliché – I did my best to join in.

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Ten years on, I no longer live in that building. I am close-by though and still visit the bread-shop on the first floor, friends on the second and the sisters on the third, usually with my 3 –year-old half-Roman son. Inevitably we pause on one of the narrow balconies above the communal courtyard; Luca to kick the railings, me hoping to catch a nostalgic sound or smell. Places and habits change: it has been a while since we ate at the trattoria whose kitchen windows open onto the communal courtyard. However I still feel affection for a place that provided the background clatter to my kitchen life for six years, the place in which I ate many traditional Roman dishes for the first time: carbonara, amatriciana, oxtail stew, braised artichokes and bitter greens were all eaten here, and then later, the minestre: thick, pulse-based soup-stews reinforced with pasta. I say later, because I noticed and ignored all of these dishes – now my staples – on plasticized menus and daily specials boards (which I thought ironic, as they sounded anything but) for quite some time. Too dense, too beige, I’d think before ordering the pasta with clams.

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I wish I could say I came round to the satisfying pleasure of minestre by myself, but I didn’t. It was my partner Vincenzo, who, like many Italians I know, is happily devoted to these unassuming dishes. He ordered, I tasted. My conversion was slow but sure; a taste of rosemary scented chickpea soup with ribbons of tagliatelle, another of fresh borlotti blushing with fresh tomatoes and quills of pasta, a spoonful, then two, of braised lentils, plainly good, dotted with tiny tubes of pasta called ditalini or little thimbles.

The first minestra I made at home was the beige-sounding but reliably delicious pasta and potatoes, finished with a blizzard of grated pecorino cheese. The next was pasta and lentils, for which I asked and received a disproportionate amount of advice, ranging from scant and impressionistic, to opinionated and precise instruction. I tried and tested until I found way that I liked, that worked for me and suited how I like to eat.

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True to Roman traditions, the way I like to eat these days is mostly simple, unfussy, nutritious food that tastes good. I value good value too. I also enjoy not cooking as much as I do cooking, so the prospect of a pan of food that provides two or three meals is very appealing. This is why a big pan of lentils, braised with a soffritto of extra virgin olive oil, onion, carrot, celery and garlic and is one of my most trusted things to make, half to be served with some pasta or rice, the rest the following day (when the lentils are even tastier) with grilled or pan-fried sausage or a frilly edged fried egg.

These days, with no shared courtyard and no sisters, there is no-one to notice the (in)frequency of my laundry. No sisters either to notice my annual door polishing or that I’ve mastered my weekly minestra. However, I am pretty sure that if they knew, they would approve.

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A pan of braised lentils to serve two ways

8 Servings

  • 1 medium onion
  • 1 medium carrot
  • 1 rib of celery
  • 2 garlic cloves
  • 5 tablespoons extra-virgin olive oil
  • 500 g small brown lentils – Castelluccio lentils from Umbria are particularly good
  • 2 bay leaves
  • salt and freshly ground black pepper

To serve –  250 – 400 g rice or pasta for the first meal then 4 pork sausage or 4 large free range eggs for the second meal.

Finely chop the onion, carrot, celery, and garlic. Cover the base of a large heavy-based frying or sauté pan with olive oil over a medium-low heat, add the chopped vegetables and cook very gently until they are soft, but not coloured.

Pick over the lentils to check for gritty bits, then rinse thoroughly and add them to the pan along with the bay leaves, stirring for a minute or two until each lentil glistens with oil. Cover with 1.2 litres of water (the water should come about 2.5 cm above the lentils), bring to the boil and reduce the heat to a simmer. Cook the lentils, stirring occasionally, adding a little more water if they seem a little dry, until they are tender but not squidgy – they should still have lentil integrity. Ideally not all the water should be absorbed and the lentils should be just a little soupy. This will take 25–50 minutes, depending on the lentils. Season them generously with salt and pepper.

First meal

Gently re-heat half the lentils. Cook the pasta or rice in plenty of well-salted, fast boiling water until al dente and then drain reserving some of the cooking water. Mix the lentils and the cooked pasta or rice, adding a little of the reserved water to loosen the consistency if you think fit. Serve with more extra virgin olive oil poured over the top and a bowl of grated parmesan cheese for those who wish.

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Second meal.

Gently re-heat the rest of the lentils, adding a handful of finely chopped parsley and a couple of spoonfuls of olive oil for shine. Divide between four bowls and top each one with a grilled or pan-fried sausage or fried egg.

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There is also an accompanying short film to this article made by Micheal Thomas Jones, Marissa Keating and Mina Holland you can see here.

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Filed under Beans and pulses, cucina romana, recipes, soup, Testaccio, Uncategorized, winter recipes

sip and sauce

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A story that isn’t about sauce.

Last night a new friend invited me over for dinner. She had also invited another mutual friend who now lives in the US so I’d taken a bottle of sparkling wine chosen from the scant selection in the fridge in my local wine shop before grabbing a taxi. Not a bottle I would have usually picked, but I hoped it would be good. My friend’s husband opened the bottle as we stood on their balcony on a sultry and still July evening in Rome, he poured, we raised glasses and drank.

The wine was odd, not terrible, just odd, sort of sour! Or was it the fact I had cleaned my teeth not long before? I took another sip hoping it would taste different, which it didn’t. I tried combining it with a toasted almond, then tasted again.

As I said, they are new friends with whom I feel comfortable, but not enough to say ‘I think this is a bit odd, lets ditch it and open another bottle.‘ I took another sip, hoping my persistence would improve things (it didn’t) by which point it felt too late to comment as everyone else was drinking so to do so would question their taste buds. Or where they merely drinking politely thinking this is odd and wondering why the person who brought the bottle isn’t saying anything? Then again maybe it was the particularly minty toothpaste?  In short, in the shortest time I completed a half marathon of anxiety and ate almost the entire bowl of almonds.

We sat down and my anxiety and the taste of the sparking wine ebbed away with each sip of nice red in easy company. The smell of dinner was as enticing as you’d hope, ‘It’s beef braised in red wine’ said my friend. ‘Made with meat from a new butcher’ so she hoped it was good. It was, especially with the pilaf of rice and mushroom and slender green beans. My friend however, picking up the anxiety baton I had dropped, was disappointed. ‘It was tough‘. Everyone was too busy eating to reply. ‘It’s tough‘ she said again, this time posed as a question. ‘It was firm’ was the answer.’ ‘But extremely tasty.‘ Plates were handed back for seconds but even that didn’t convince the cook who was quiet until eventually conversation and wine drew her back in. Salad, pudding, coffee, amaro and more conversation followed. It was a good night and I left late liking my new friend even more than when I’d arrived.

This morning as I waited for the coffee to gurgle out of the moka, my phone beeped with a message asking me about the name of book I’d mentioned and apologizing for the beef again. First I drank my coffee, each sip chipping away at my not unpleasant amaro head, then I wrote back to tell her the beef was firm but damn tasty and that the name of the book – a favorite – was Laurie Colwin’s Home Cooking.

Possibly the ideal book given the circumstances and our short relay of anxiety the night before. ‘Home Cooking’ is the antidote to most food writing malarkey that tells us things should be perfect and effortless and the hostesses unflappable, a funny and wise collection of kitchen essays that touch on the human, therefore imperfect, nature of home cooking. It is a book about ordinary delights, but also fiascos and disappointments; ingredients that don’t behave, dishes that don’t turn out as they should, dinners we cook for friends that we wish were different, the sour and the tough if you like, which others might not have thought was sour or tough at all.

As I tapped the old grounds out of the coffee pot into the bin and watched most of them fall on the floor, refilled the pot and put it back on the stove, I had another wave of anxiety about the wine (I hold onto anxiety in the way some people hold grudges: I still cringe about the homemade humus with a hair in it I took to a dinner in about 1998). There was only one thing for it; have a gin and tonic! Unfortunateley it was nine in the morning! So I did the next best thing, I planted my son in front of a video, poured my third coffee and sat on the sofa to read Laurie Colwin.

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The sauce that has nothing to do with the story.

A summer sauce for when good flavoursome tomatoes are plentiful and cheap (ish). Peeling the tomatoes might sound a bit of a faff, which it is, but only for a few minutes and it is undoubtedly worth it. Having peeled and roughly chopped the tomatoes you cook them in lots of garlic scented olive oil until any extra water has evaporated away and you have rich, sauce that clings insistently to the pasta and your child’s face. It is one of my hands down favorite things to eat.

Fresh tomato sauce for with spaghetti or penne

Peel a kilogram of flavoursome tomatoes by plunging them into boiling water for a minute, then cold water for another 30 seconds at which point the skins should slip away easily. Cut away any hard-core or hard white flesh, then chop the tomatoes into rough pieces, ideally over a plate to catch any juices.

In a large frying pan, warm 5 tablespoons of extra virgin olive oil and a peeled squashed garlic clove over a modest flame until the smell of the garlic rises up from the pan (do not let it burn). Add the tomatoes and a big pinch of salt and stir. Let sauce simmer for 10 – 20 minutes or until – with some of the water evaporated – the sauce is thick and saucy. Add a few torn basil leaves, stir and then remove from the heat.

For four people, cook 500 g of spaghetti in fast boiling well-salted water until al dente, drain and mix with the sauce (which you can warm gently if a significant amount of time has passed since you made it) and serve immediately.

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I am, as many of you know, writing a book, which is why I am here so intermittently. We are about to start the editing process and work on design, by October I should be back each week. Meanwhile I am posting on Instagram and continue to miss you more than you miss me. Rachel.

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on bread

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My Granny Alice, my mum’s mum and my second namesake, loved bread and butter. She was also particular about how to unwrap and then re-wrap the foil or waxed paper, after all butter wrappers are not just for keeping butter safe, later they can be used for smearing the last bit of butter on a tin or pie plate. Alice would have tutted at the mess captured in the picture above. Actually I want to tut at the mess I made of the pack above. I even considered changing the picture, until I realized it was a good place to start because it is precisely this sort of banal, badly opened detail that can stir a thought or memory that then tumbles like a domino into more memories and suddenly bread and butter is so much more than just bread and butter.

After this picture was taken I called my Dad to ask something for my book and the conversation turned to bread and butter, of which my dad is very fond too. I told him the wrapper had made me think of Alice and he told me that when he was a boy there was a plate of buttered bread on the table at every meal. He also reminded me that on my Mum’s side of the family Alice’s sister May used to butter the end of the loaf before cutting the slice. As he spoke, a memory emerged of Auntie May, short and strong, in the kitchen in my Granny’s pub, buttering the end of a white loaf. This memory of May then rolled into one of uncle Colin in about 1980, so when he was 23, more or less the age he remains in our minds as he died not long after. In this memory Colin, still in his dressing gown his fringe hiding his eyes, strolls as if to music into the kitchen in search of strong tea and a bacon sandwich. There is Alice in the kitchen too, frying back bacon to be sandwiched between slices of bread, every now and then casting exasperated but adoring glances at her youngest son. While the bacon fries, Colin lights a cigarette and May chases him out of the kitchen with a pair of kitchen tongs, which we, his young nieces and nephew think hilarious. Colin always made us laugh. Now the memories are spreading like soft butter on bread, of Colin and the unbearably sad things to come, so I think about the bacon butties eaten in the kitchen of the Gardeners Arms pub and the taste of the bread that was put in the empty pan to soak up the bacon fat. I think about Colin putting another coin in the pub Juke box, Just take those old records off the shelf I sit and listen to ‘em by m’self. Fat memories.

Now in Rome I’m playing a game of association Bread and butter, bread and flora margarine, bread and bacon fat, bread and drippingBread and olive oil‘ Vincenzo says with the knowing glint in his eye that drives me mad. ‘Yes yes, of course bread and olive oil is delicious but I am thinking about EnglandNow, where was I? Bread and bacon fat, bread and dripping from the sunday roast, bread and bone marrow’. Bone marrow, the creamy heart of  the bone that has been roasted just long enough to melt the marrow into a soft, opaque cream to be squashed on toast.

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I have hazy memories of sucking or poking bone marrow from the bones of a sunday Roast, but a clear one of the first time I ate bone marrow at a restaurant called St John in London. I was taken by my friend Jo, an architect, to the cavernous, whitewashed place on St John street that seemed to be full of other architects. The restaurant, I was told, served a kind of British cooking and lots of offal which was disconcerting then. We drank in the bar and then ordered from the bar menu chalked up on the blackboard. I would order from that menu countless times over following years and so my memories are a muddle of many visits repaid with brilliantly simple and delicious things to eat; Welsh rarebit, boiled eggs and celery salt, radishes, butter and salt, skate, chicory and anchovy, rabbit terrine, smoked eel with watercress and horseradish, crispy pigs tails and sorrel salad, soft roes on toast, cured beef with celeriac. A muddle except for that first dish on that first visit of Roast bone marrow with parsley salad.

Bone marrow isn’t, as I used to think, all fat – not that this presented me with a problem – it is also protein and a veritable collection of vitamins and good things. It is also delicious, quivering and rich and melts into the warm toast luxuriously. Like butter and olive oil, bone marrow on toast cries out for salt, ideally tiny shards of it, that catch the sides of your mouth. The pinch of parsley, caper and shallot salad: grassy, salty and sharp is a welcome addition contrasting with the marrow and bread. Simple, purposeful and delicious food. Food that I wouldn’t have remembered and then made were it not for a piece of bread and butter and a badly opened pack.

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Roasted bone marrow on toast with parsley salad

adapted from Fergus Henderson’s Nose to Tail eating.

Serves 2.

Roast six 3″pieces pieces of middle veal marrowbone on a baking tray in a hot oven until the marrow is soft and jelly -like but not melted away – this should take about 20 minutes. Meanwhile make a salad of some finely chopped flat-leaved parsley, a teaspoon of fine capers, 1 finely chopped shallot, lemon juice and olive oil.

Serve each person 3 bones, a pile of salad, a little pile of coarse salt and two pieces of sourdough toast. Using the other end of a teaspoon scoop the bone marrow onto the toast, crunch over a little salt, pinch over some salad and eat and repeat.

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shove and dish

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Some years back I smashed a pile of bowls. The bowls, seven or eight of them, were stacked biggest to smallest on a shelf in my kitchen in London until, one day, I decided to lean a large plate against the wall behind the pleasing pile. As I turned away I sensed a movement and spun back just in time to watch the plate, like a coin in a shove ha’penny machine, slide down and push the entire pile onto the floor. The bowls, mostly terracotta yogurt pots brought back wrapped in damp beach towels from trips to Greece and two bowls from Italy bought from Camden market, remained more or less in a pile only smashed into fierce segments. I remember staring at the pile, like a crude un-grouted mosaic, and then up at the smooth shelf wondering why on earth I balanced the plate before picking up the pieces and wrapping them in newspaper. It was only later that day, when I noticed the large plate that had slipped sitting flat on the shelf nonplussed, that I cried.

On Sunday I bought three dishes from Porta Portese market here in Rome; wide creamy-white bowls from Puglia with what look like tiny blue paw prints around the thick lip. I thought I’d struck a good deal, haggling him down from the initial 30 for the largest plate and 40 for the two smaller ones to 50 for the lot. Vincenzo took one look at the chipped edges and told me I’d been robbed and that never mind the trio, I could buy an entire orchestra of plates and dishes for the same price in Puglia. This didn’t dampen my clunking satisfaction at the three dishes, two of which were just like the bowls I’d lost, now wrapped in newspaper and in a blue plastic bag suspended across the push chair handles. Luca, usurped from his chair, chose a disturbingly realistic plastic crocodile from a bric-a-brac stall which he then swung at passers-by all the way home.

The bowls, the largest of which is almost as big as the kitchen table, have dominated all week. They have sat, one on top of the other just so, then in turn been filled with lemons with leaves, the first apricot-coloured nespole, oranges, strawberries (the strawberries have been superb this year), beans with tuna and hard-boiled eggs and green salad. Then on Thursday night, wanting to do little more that open a bottle of wine and boil something, I filled one of the bowls with fine green beans, ripped basil, loads of freshly grated parmesan cheese and olive oil for a supper so tasty I made it again for lunch the next day.

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The key is good beans. I used fine fagiolini al burro, crackingly good, bright green things that cook, as their name suggests, into almost butter like tenderness. Key too, is putting the olive oil, grated cheese and ripped basil in the bowl first so the warmth and weight of the just cooked beans release the rich, spicy scent of the basil and encourage the cheese to mingle with the olive oil creating a granular dressing, a lazy pesto really, which you then bring up and over the beans. You finish off with more cheese, grated on the finest holes so it is dusty rather than stringy. If you are generous enough with the cheese and olive oil this is a much more substantial dish than you’d imagine and far too good to be sidelined. On Thursday we had it with bread, more parmesan in craggy chunks and lots of wine. On Friday we had it with burrata, which is best described as a bag or purse fashioned from mozzarella filled with rags of mozzarella in cream.

The bowls are now in a pile, on a low shelf, with nothing balanced behind.

Green beans with basil, olive oil and parmesan

serve 2

  • 5oo g fine green beans
  • extra virgin olive oil
  • freshly grated parmesan
  • a handful of fresh basil leaves

Top and tail the beans and then boil them in lots of fast-boiling, well-salted water until they are tender but still with a little resistance.

While the beans are cooking pour a some olive oil into a shallow dish, grate over lots of parmesan and add the basil leaves ripped into smallish pieces.

Once the beans are ready drain them, wait a minute and then tip them into the bowl and toss everything together. Grate some more parmesan over the top and serve immediately.

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do choke

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They are only thistles, but what beautiful thistles, weighty with purple tips and ribbed stems. I set the artichoke alarm this morning and was at the market before 8, on a Saturday and without the assistance of caffeine or a hairbrush, which meant I wasn’t really awake and my shadow had a fuzzy halo. Even when it’s early and quiet the market rushes at you, a blur of leaves and rounds, gleaming fish scales, marbled meat, cheap shoes, Roma scarves and banter. Shoppers are earnest at that hour, no amateurs, except me. My fruttivendolo took control and  picked me 15 of the nicest globes and offered to buy me a caffè. He also found me a box for my thistles, which I carried back down Via Galvani, artichokes jolting in time with my steps towards breakfast.

Tomorrow my friend Elizabeth and I are going to fry seven trimmed artichokes until they look like bronze flowers and stuff and braise seven more until they are drab green (but taste anything but) and look like wind inverted umbrellas. Well, that is the plan. 7 plus 7 is 14, which means there was one extra for lunch.

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It may seem unusual for a vegetable associated with slow braises, bakes and long steamy boils, but very thin slices of raw globe artichoke tossed with olive oil, lemon juice and paper-thin wisps of parmesan cheese make a superb and surprising salad that seizes every taste bud. The crisp slices of artichoke, bitter with curious sweetness contrast brilliantly with the salty, granular cheese, the lemon softens the rawness but sharpens the edges and the olive oil envelops everything.

It is not an obedient salad, you need a crust of bread and a fork to maneuver and eat, and then another crust to mop up the leftover dressing and chase the tiny flakes of cheese marooned on the side of the plate.

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Artichoke and parmesan salad

Trimming artichokes can make you feel rather like Edward Scissorhands when you start out and your first artichoke will look a little like a two-year old who has cut his own hair (which is no bad thing for this salad.) Persevere, it is more fiddly than anything and worth it. The younger and more tender the artichokes the better.

serves 2

  • 2 lemons
  • 2 large or even better 6 – 8 baby globe artichoke
  •  4 tablespoons of extra virgin olive oil
  • parmesan cheese

Prepare a bowl of cold water acidulated with the juice of a lemon. Trim the artichokes by first pulling away the darker tougher leaves, pulling them down towards the base of the artichoke and snapping them off just before the base. Then using a sharp knife, pare away the tough green flesh from the base of the artichokes and the stem. Lop about an inch off the top of the central cone, As you work, rub the cut edges of the artichoke with the squeezed half of the lemon. Working quickly, cut the chokes first into quarters (and pull away away hairy choke) then thin slices and put them in the acidulated water.

In another bowl whisk together a tablespoon of lemon juice and the olive oil. Drain and dry the artichoke slices then toss them in the dressing. Pile the dressed artichokes on a plate, pour over any remaining dressing and scatter over some thin slices of parmesan, eat immediately.

Note – As my friend Valeria notes below, it is extremely hard to pair artichokes with wine as they contain a chemical compound called cynarin which has the bizarre effect of of making everything you eat or drink after taste oddly sweet. Which is bad news for wine, and bad news for wine is bad news for me. The parmesan and bread though, redress the balance enough to make a glass enjoyable. Valeria suggests following the what grows to together goes together rule, meaning a wine from the region the artichokes were grown in. I ate my artichokes from lazio with a malvasia from Lazio.

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two things

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1.

Nine years ago today, March 8th 2005, I didn’t pack anything and went to Gatwick airport. I picked a destination from the departure board in much the same way that you might grab the first book off a shelf. A few hours later I boarded a flight to Naples; a city that invaded all my senses and slapped me in the face – I needed it –  and a week later I took a nightboat to Sicily. Two months later I arrived in Rome. It remains the most impulsive and disorienting thing I have ever done, also one of the best, give or take a cliché. Over the years I have talked and written, been earnest and irreverent about this moment in my life. Today I am simply noting it, and later, toasting it with a negroni.

2.

Good bread, spread thickly with fresh ricotta and then finished with extra virgin olive oil, salt (ideally flakes with sharp edges that crumble into tiny shards) and some black pepper is mysteriously more delicious and satisfying than the sum of its parts.

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Bread, ricotta, olive oil and salt

serves 1

  • a slice of good bread
  • some ricotta
  • extra virgin olive oil
  • salt and pepper

Spread the ricotta on the bread thickly, crumble over some salt, pour over some olive oil and grind over a little black pepper. Eat.

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well-framed

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We’ve driven out of Rome on three half-day trips this week; along the ancient Appia Antica to the hills, to the sea and to a town called Campagnano, small escapes providing space and an outside view. I remember a Drama tutor once asking how on earth can you comprehend what is on top of you, I think this is especially true of Rome and writing a book, both of which can loom so large and feel so claustrophobic that you need to take a step back to have any sort of perspective. Three trips meant three lunches.

One lunch was no more than fine, the other two though, well they seemed sent to remind my lately cynical self of the unique brilliance of Italian food and wine and the kaleidoscopic connection with place, history and tradition that can pass nonchalantly through a meal. I am still thinking about an antipasto of pear dipped in polenta and then deep-fried until golden and served with a dusting of pecorino cheese, abbacchio brodettato, lamb with egg and lemon sauce, and a dish of salt cod, tomatoes, raisins and pine nuts, all three of which may well sound unlikely, but were superb.

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I’ve written about peperonata before and I will probably write about it again. It will also be in the book, with a hilarious (or not so hilarious) story to justify its place. It is a recipe that falls into my extremely useful and delicious category. I first made it fifteen years, transported by Elizabeth David, Jane Grigson and a scarlet stew to Italy long before I moved here, I have made it constantly ever since. So many things about peperonata are good. It is simple and relatively quick to make: onions, red peppers, tomatoes smothered and simmered in olive and butter into a thick, vivid, full- flavored stew that is at once silky, sweet and savory. It is forgiving, proportions can be varied, tomatoes fresh or tinned. It’s generous, bringing the best out in peppers and tomatoes, even the underprivileged sort, making them the tastiest they can be.  It keeps well for a couple of days in the fridge and it freezes well. Peperonata is also, like my friend Tom, the most accommodating dish ever, it quite simply goes with everything.

It is excellent served hot with chicken, pork, lamb, beef and my favorite, topped with a  poached egg. It can be stirred into pasta or rice. It’s jammy almost chutney-like-nature makes it good in sandwiches, on toast or crostini. It is lovely as a salad or part of an antipasto like supper, sprinkled with parsley or dotted with black olives. It good too – as I discovered a couple of days ago – made into tart.

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I make the pastry ridiculously quickly – 120 g plain four, 50 g cold diced butter, salt, a little grated parmesan, iced water – and rolled it thinly, lifted it into the tin, pricked it and then sat the tin in the fridge for 30 minutes to chill. I then baked it until it was the colour of a walnut, before spooning in the peperonata and sliding it back in the oven for 5 minutes. I’m not sure this was entirely necessary.

For a moment I felt as though I had inherited my mum and granny Alice’s knack for pastry: a thin, buttery crust, slightly crumbly at the edges but holding firm underneath. The parmesan was a random impulse that works well, giving the pastry a sharp, salty edge. It is important your peperonata is (as Jane Grigson puts it) moistly juicy, even a little dry, never sloppy. We had the tart – the peperonata framed neatly by the pastry – with thinly sliced fennel with olive oil and salt, a lunch that made me nearly as happy as slamming shut those books.

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Peperonata tart

Note – this makes enough peperonata for two 21 – 24 cm tarts – you can never have too much peperonata. You can of course use fresh tomatoes. I’d make double if I were you.

  • a large white or yellow onion
  • 3 tablespoons olive oil
  • 25 g butter
  • 3 large red peppers
  • a tin of tinned plum tomatoes or 6 good ripe tomatoes peeled and roughly chopped
  • salt and black pepper
  • 120 g plain flour
  • 50 g butter
  • 20 g freshly grated parmesan
  • salt and black pepper
  • cold water
  • You need at 21 cm – 24 cm tart or flan tin (ideally with a loose base)

Peel and slice the onion and then sauté it in olive oil and butter until soft and lightly golden. Cut the peppers into short strips, discarding the stalks, seeds and pith. Add the sliced peppers to the pan, stir and then cover the pan and leave over a medium flame for 15 minutes. Lift the lid once or twice to stir.

Add the tomatoes to the pan. Leave the peperonata to cook uncovered for 30 – 40 minutes at a lively simmer or until all the liquid has evaporated away and the peppers are extremely soft and lie in a rich, thick, vivid tomato stew. It should be not be sloppy.  Season vigorously with salt.

Rub the diced butter into the flour with your fingertips until they resemble fine breadcrumbs. Add the parmesan, a pinch of salt, some black pepper and enough iced water to bring the ingredients together into a smooth ball. On a lightly floured board roll the pastry into a round an inch larger than the tin. Lift the dough carefully into the tin, press it into the corners. Leave the pastry overhang. Prick the base of the pastry with a fork and then put it in the fridge for 30 minutes to rest.

Bake the pastry case blind for 15 minutes (or until it is pale gold and firm) at 180°. You can break off the pastry overhang or leave it be. Fill the tart case with peperonata and then return to the oven for 5 more minutes. Serve the tart warm or at room temperature with salad.

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