Pici all'Aglione

Do you get food crushes? You know, that strange alimentary infatuation that makes you want to eat and prepare the same dish over and over?

The pici all'aglione I had on a lovely vineyard excursion in Tuscany on the weekend were so delicious, that I had to replicate the dish and eat it again today. And I might make it again before the week is over...

Pici all'aglione is a traditional Tuscan pasta dish, particular to the area around Siena. Pici are thick and rustic, homemade water and flour noodles, and the Aglione sauce is made with slow cooked tomatoes and a big quantity of garlic. It's perfect for vegan and vegetarian dinner guests, since there is no egg in the pasta, and no meat/fish in the sauce.

The birthplace of pici is the rural area of the Val d'Orcia, in the Crete senesi and the Valdichiana valley. This was a rustic, poor man's meal that was filling and whose preparation was traditionally entrusted to the women and children of the family.

Siena homemakers still make pici in their sleep, it's part of their DNA, but local grocers also sell the packaged kind. If you're lazy (like I was today) you can skip the pici-making instructions that follow, and cut straight to the sauce, using regular packaged spaghetti instead.

200 g (1 cup) all-purpose flour
200 g (1 cup) durum wheat flour
1 Tbsp extra virgin olive oil + more for greasing
A pinch of salt
Lukewarm water

Mix both flours and salt and pour onto a work surface. Make a well in the middle of your mound and pour the olive oil in the "crater." Gradually add warm water a little at time, and mix everything until the dough is firm but flexible. The quantity of the water greatly depends on the way the two flours react. When rolled into a ball, the dough should not stick to the palm of your hand, rather fall out of your hand when you release your fist. If it sticks, you need to add more flour.

Cover the dough with cling film and allow it to rest for about an hour.

Roll out the dough on a slightly floured (preferably wood) surface to about 5 mm (1/4 inch) thick. Slightly grease the surface of the dough, this will prevent the pici from drying during the noodle rolling process, or – worse – stick together into tangled clumps (which will remain raw at the core during cooking!). The action that follows gives pici its name: the verb appiciare, which is dialect for 'stringing into noodles.'

Cut the flattened dough into 5 mm wide strips with a sharp knife or a pizza wheel cutter. Hand-roll the strips into thick, spaghetti-like strands. These should be about 3 mm (1/8 inch) thick and as long as possible, usually pick are as long as 30 cm (12 inches).

Gently smother the pici in a handful of cornflour (polenta) and string them on a tray lined with a kitchen towel.

Aglione (yields enough sauce for 400 g/14 oz of pasta, 4 servings)
8 garlic cloves (yes, you read correctly), peeled
4 Tbsp extra virgin olive oil
4 Tbsp dry, white wine
800 g (28 oz) crushed tomatoes
Salt
1/2 Tsp sugar
400 g (14 oz) fresh pici-type pasta (or the fattest packaged spaghetti you can find)

Halve the garlic cloves and discard the inner (often pale green) sprout, and mince finely.

Film a large pan with olive oil and gently sauté the garlic – careful, it mustn't burn.

Add the white wine and cook the minced garlic on gentle heat, using the tines of a fork to further reduce the garlic to a paste.

Mix in the tomatoes, a large pinch of salt and the sugar.

Simmer the sauce on low heat for 30 minutes, stirring occasionally with a wooden spoon.

Cook the pici in a large pot of lightly salted boiling water, for about 3-4 minutes. Shortly before being al dente (about 1 minute), save a teacup of pasta cooking water and crank up the heat under the pot with the aglione sauce.

Drain the pasta and transfer it directly to the sauce, tossing from the pan handle to coat the strands completely in the sauce. Use some saved cooking water if you see the sauce is too "sticky" and needs more moisture.

Serve immediately, and in this case, hold the Parmigiano in favor of a light dusting of Pecorino.

 

Photo 2 courtesy of crumpetsandco.wordpress.com 

Lardo di Colonnata | Pork fat nirvana

Belonging to the municipality of Carrara, considered the world's white marble capital, and the place where Michelangelo used to shop the raw material for his sculptures, Colonnata is a small village perched on a ridge between two marble quarries in the Tuscan Apennine Apuane Mountains, which is mostly known for another kind of white marbling, the one in the lardo.

Lardo di Colonnata © Massimo Zivieri

This smooth and delicious cured meat should not be mistaken with lard. What in the English-speaking world is commonly referred to as 'lard', is a rendered white paste that's used for cooking as a shortening, and named strutto in Italian, and sugna in the south of the peninsula.

Some folks are still nervous when it comes to eating fat. I personally am more suspicious of whoever rips the white part off prosciutto, but that's me. Lardo di Colonnata is a delicious cured "affettato" that should not be eaten with distraction. Each morsel of silken pork fat is a precious, melt-in-your-mouth, mystic experience, and the complexity of its flavor should be savored religiously.

Until recent times, lardo in northern Tuscany was considered a poor-man's meal, that cavatori –– the marble quarrymen of the area –– would stuff it in crusty homestyle bread sandwiches, along with sliced onions and tomatoes. This humble panino was prepared early in the morning before the men went off to carve statue staple out of the Apennines at 6200-ft altitude, a snack that had to last them all day. The calorie content, along with the vegetables and a nice flask of local wine, assured the necessary sustenance in the long and strenuous shifts at the quarries. In time lardo has become an exquisite gourmet item, and a highly sought foodie must.

Lardo di Colonnata is a beautiful white –– or sometimes pinkish –– slab of thick pork fatback, which is cured with a mixture of salt, spices, herbs and minced garlic. In the curing process the salt extracts moisture from the fat, creating a brine that preserves it from air and bacteria, and flavors the tissue. 

Alpi Apuane © Lucarelli

According to a local legend, Michelangelo could have never managed to extract his own marble or even sculpt his statues, were it not for the local lardo, of which he had grown very fond of during his stay in the Apuane.

Marble conca © lardodicolonnata.net

The procedure to make lardo dates back to Ancient Roman antiquity, and the secret has been handed down through generations. The seasoning magic happens in vats of various sizes called conche, carved out of marble blocks commonly stored in caves, or in underground cellars. The concas are initially rubbed with garlic, and the bottom scattered with sea salt, black pepper, cinnamon, cloves, coriander, sage, bay leaves, rosemary and more garlic. The trimmed fatbacks are placed in the conche and layered with more salt, herbs and spices, and so on; and closed under a wooden covering for about a week. Then the concas are flooded with a salt-water brine, sealed with a marble lid, and the lardo is aged in the brine up to 6 - 10 months. The natural humidity of the caves, and the porous surface of the marble basins create a perfect habitat for the lardo's maturing process. Chemical and bacteriological tests on the lardo have determined that the ancient curing method is extraordinarily efficient and safe, and the pork doesn't require any chemical treatment, nor preservatives.

Image @ culinarytypes

Thin slivers of lardo arranged casually on warmed slices of bread... see it melt slightly, before tasting the life-changing goodness. Perfection.

A glass of wine, a view, some pig fat on bread. Life is good.

Some like to wrap thin slices of lardo around filet mignon, go overboard with foie gras pairings, or prefer it employed in novel seafood recipes. Tuscans use the leftover lardo rind as a flavor booster in hearty soups and minestrones.

On one of my regular shopping spree trips to Colonnata, I learned a wonderful new way of enjoying lardo. Here is the recipe that –– besides the star ingredient –– also employs leftover polenta, and lightly seared radicchio.

radicchio tardivo

Ingredients:
Leftover polenta, cut in thin slices
1 head of radicchio tardivo, ribs separated
Lardo di Colonnata
Olive oil
Salt

Film a skillet with olive oil and lightly wilt the radiccio ribs.
Place the polenta slices on a greased oven pan, or on the grill, and toast 5 minutes on each side.
Dress the toasted polenta crisps still hot from the oven, with a generous amount of thinly sliced lardo. It will go translucent and melt beautifully.
Top with the grilled radicchio, uncork the vino rosso, and relinquish all inhibition.

To learn more about Lardo di Colonnata visit lardodicolonnata.net

You can also read an interesting article on Lardo di Colonnata: Protecting traditional foods from EEU regulators

Pomodori al Tonno recipe

I'm a hard worker, but not in summer. In summer I'm lazy.

Even in the kitchen.

Plus it's hot, and working by the stove–or even worse, the oven–in this weather, is torture.

Like today, for example. I wasn't feeling too good, I had no appetite (a bad sign for me), and I didn't have the desire to even swim once. What I did do was take a nice walk in the property's orto (vegetable garden) with a large basket, and returned home with inspiration.

And lunch.

The good thing about spending time in the country is that you don't have to bother going grocery shopping. The produce is all home-grown, and every family has a ridiculously well-stocked pantry. Olive oil, wine, jams and preserves, canned vegetables, honey, bottled sauces, eggs, sausages, herbs, bread... everything is sourced or made right here, on the premises.

When I rinsed the field dust off these tomatoes, they were still warm from the sun.

I whipped this dish up in 10 minutes, and it managed to restore a smile on my face.

And a grumble to my tummy.

6 small Vesuvio tomatoes, halved
200 g (1 cup) oil-packed tuna, drained and flaked
2 ribs of baby white celery, diced
3-4 tablespoons of light mayonnaise
Pinch of salt

Scoop out the pulp from the tomatoes, removing seeds and watery parts, and set aside.

Chop the tomato pulp, toss in a mixing bowl with remaining ingredients, and stir to mix well.

Divide the mixture and scoop it into the halved tomatoes. Refrigerate 30 minutes before serving.

Uncork the chilled Sauvignon and put your feet up, it's summer and you deserve a break after all this hard work.


Buon appetito.

Villa Rucellai

This is where I'm staying. A beautiful agriturismo farm called Villa Rucellai in the hills between Pistoia and Prato.

WiFi and willpower are spotty, so I check email and post erratically. Right now I'm writing this as I enjoy a glass of Franciacorta in the garden.

The orange and wine braised wild pigeons are simmering on the stove, and the mosquitoes are coming, so I better go inside and get out of this wet bathing suit.




Ciao,
E.

Golden slumbers

I'm lying under the cherry tree, damp grass between my toes.

Dappled sunlight through the branches, I breathe in the sweet aroma of afternoon green.

A small powder-blue butterfly dances with a dandelion.

I lie still, careful not to scare her away. I close my eyes. 

Distant children's cackle, I recognize my son's among other joyful voices. The train down in the valley whistles––then suddenly mutes––as if swallowed by a tunnel.

Someone is burning dry leaves somewhere.

Or am I already dreaming?

We are in Tuscany on vacation. And lazy afternoons like these are the norm.

I feel a little bit guilty: markets are dropping, cities are rioting, politicians are at each others' throats, and I'm here, dozing under a peaceful cherry tree, fully relaxed. And happy.

Budino di Riso recipe

Rice pudding––as we know it in Toscana––is one of those quintessential family type desserts – you feed it to kids for afternoon snack, or to perk them up when they're sick. They're sold in both pastry shops and bakeries, and are available all year round. The name "budino" actually means pudding, but there's no resemblance to the classic rice pudding. These are small baked rice pastries, the closest we Italians get to cupcakes!

Whenever I bite into one, the texture and flavor swing me back to my childhood. "Budino di riso" recalls Sunday morning passeggiatas in the Villa Borghese with my friends Margherita and Isabella, picking pine nuts and chasing butterflies, chaperoned by their nonna, the late Suso Cecchi d'Amico––world known screenwriter for Fellini and other cinema icons––accompanied by her gluttonous golden retriever Porto (who never missed a fountain for a dive).

Suso was a tireless nanny, great story-teller and awesome goal-keeper when it came to impromptu games of field soccer. During our playtime, we'd always stop at the Casina dell'Orologio cafe for a treat, and our order was always the same: a portion of budino di riso.

This recipe yields about 10-12 pastries, according to shape.

For the filling:
150 g (3/4 cup) of rice (I use the kind that will give off starch, like Vialone Nano)
400 g (2 cups) whole milk
100 g (1/2 cup) sugar + some confectioner's sugar for dusting
50 g (1/4 cup) unsalted butter + more for greasing the molds
A pinch of salt
2 egg yolks
A shot glass of rum, or cognac
A dash of cinnamon
1 vanilla pod, slit open and scraped (or 1/2 tsp vanilla extract)
The zest of 1 orange and of 1/2 lemon

For the pastry crust:
200 g (1 cup) "00" flour + more for dredging
150 g (3/4 cup) unsalted butter, chilled
A pinch of salt
1 egg yolk


Preheat oven at 180°C (350°F).

Use whatever muffin pans or ramekins you have at home, but ideally you'd need oval molds to make these typical Tuscan rice puddings.

Prepare the pastry first.

Quickly work the ingredients for the shortcrust with your fingertips (run them under cold water first) away from the oven or hot stove: remember, shortcrust pastry dough is tricky.

In a large mixing bowl, stir together the flour and a pinch of salt, and using two knives, cut the butter into the flour. Roll up your sleeves, remove any rings and bracelets, and get in there pinching and breaking up the butter chunks further with your fingertips until the texture resembles coarse oatmeal, and the butter pieces are no larger than peas.

Drop in the yolk, and knead just until the dough pulls together. You want to obtain a silky texture, so don't be tempted to add flour.

Transfer the dough to a work surface, pat into a ball and flatten into a disk, cover with plastic wrap and refrigerate for 20 minutes. Then roll the dough down to 4 mm (1/8 inch).

Butter and dredge your muffin pans or molds with flour, line each with some pastry dough, and return to the fridge.

Bring 2/3 of the milk to a simmer and add the rice. Cook stirring until it's half done, then fold in the sugar, a pinch of salt, and the butter. Continue to cook, stirring and adding milk as the rice absorbs it, until the rice grains are quite soft.

Remove the mixture from the stove, let it cool until it is hot but not boiling, and stir in the eggs, liquor, cinnamon, vanilla and zest, mixing well.

Pour the mixture, divvying it among the prepared dough-lined molds, and bake for 15 minutes or until a light brown crust forms. Cover with foil and finish baking for another 10-15 minutes.

Remove the pastries from the oven, gently dislodge from the molds and let them cool on a rack. Dust with confectioner's sugar and serve at room temperature, with a nice cuppa.

Images © NatadiMarzo

 ...

Tuscan street food

Image © AT Casa

I wrote a post on Panelle some time ago, providing the recipe for the typical Sicilian street food fritter made with chickpea flour.

But I had completely forgotten about Cecina! During a recent weekend escape in Lunigiana, I was pleasantly reminded of this local delicacy. And I indulged in the reminder several times a day, to be honest.

Although very similar in its composition to Farinata–from Liguria–and Panelle, Cecina is not fried like its Sicilian counterpart, rather it is traditionally baked in a large copper pan called 'teglia' measuring over 1 meter in diameter (3 feet). Cecina is commonly baked in a wood-burning oven, but you can also make it at home. La cecina is a simple mixture of water, chickpea flour and salt. The rather liquid batter is poured with a jug into the special teglie and baked for a few minutes until crisp and golden, yet remaining incredibly soft and fluffy on the inside!

It is best eaten piping hot with only a sprinkling of ground black pepper. Its unique crisp/tender texture melts in your mouth and pleasurably scratches your throat at the same time. You can find Cecina sold as a snack all along the Tuscan riviera, in Lunigiana but also in Pisa, Livorno, Lucca and Massa Carrara.

Illustration by Olga Bruno © terraditoscana.com

This made me think of other Tuscan street food examples.

I ignorantly thought Rome held supremacy over tripe, but I was wrong. Toscana boasts a long tradition of offal dishes, and a long-established custom of selling them in roadside kiosks.

Take the Panino col Lampredotto sandwich, for example. Although widespread throughout the entire Tuscan region, this peasant preparation actually comes from Florence. The fourth and final stomach of common bovines, stewed in a seasoned broth, is shredded and stuffed in a bread roll. When asked if you want your €2,50 sandwich bagnato (wet) you should always say "Sì!" The trippaio preparing it will dunk the top portion of the bread in the lampredotto cooking sauce, and will therefore be served to you juicy, wet and dripping with tasty sauce.

Add on: Thanks to Oriana from Tuscanycious, who reminded me of the mandatory green sauce topping. Here's the recipe. You can also watch their fun video that graphically explains how to make Lampredotto sandwich.

Image © S-Punti di vista

Image © consumazione obbligatoria

Or the Insalata di Trippa, a cold plate made with boiled calf's tripe, sliced oranges, celery and seasoned with olive oil and cracked black pepper. It contends the title for best tripe dish with local Trippa alla Fiorentina, in which the meatier or spongy, honeycomb part of the stomach lining is cut it into very thin strips, stewed with battuto and tomato and then sprinkled with grated Parmigiano cheese before browning it in the oven for five minutes.

Other trippai specialties (kiosks that sell these snacks) include fried brains–which shortly after the popular cannibal movie saga was aptly renamed "the Hannibal"–nervetti (chopped up tendons and meat from the calf's foot), lingua (tongue), pan co' grifi (a sandwich made with stewed pork muzzle. The chopped meat is ladled into a deep bread pocket called "orcello", used like a soup bowl, and comfortably eaten with a spoon, during your passeggiata. Grifi, or musetto can also be ground into a sausage or used to add flavor to stews and soups); and Animelle, which according to the Italian Culinary Foundation are defined as, "sweetbreads, or the thymus glands of veal and lamb." The testicles (that's what they are, essentially) are skinned and soaked in chilled water for 2-3 hours before being fried and served in paper cones.

Another typically Tuscan snack is ranocchi fritti, or fried frogs (this is turning into a post not suited for those with a delicate stomach). This peasant dish is native to the watery lowlands of western Florence, and the best hunters for the main ingredient were notably kids, who took the chore as a game. The skinned amphibians are left to marinate in beaten eggs, lemon and salt, and then deep fried in vegetable oil.

Mau & Tamara, the trippai in Piazza Mercatale, Prato

A few favorite places in Florence banchini dei "trippai" where you can find the dishes mentioned above:

- Mario in Piazzale di Porta Romana
- Lorenzo in Piazza Artom
- Marco on Via Gioberti (near piazza Beccaria)
- Alessio on Via Aretina (on the corner of Via Casaccia)
- Orazio at the Loggia del Porcellino
- Sergio on Via de' Macci (on the corner of Borgo la Croce)
- Leonardo on Viale Giannotti (corner of Via Paradiso)
- Lupen e Margo (used to be called La Trippaia), on Via dell'Ariento (on the corner of Via Sant'Antonino)
- Simone in Piazza de' Nerli
- Il Trippaio di Firenze on Via Maso Finiguerra (corner of Via Palazzuolo)
- Maurizio, "il Molisano" on Via dei Cimatori

Image © Big Map

Buon FERRAGOSTO a tutti!

Selena's "rosbif" recipe

I’ve known Selena since my first clumsy approach towards country-life in my early teens, many many years ago. It seemed an impossible task back then. Forcing a family summer vacation in campagna on a 14-year old whose only desire was to dance on the beach, flirt and watch TV. But I must say, I tackled it phenomenally.

Every summer, Selena and I grew closer and became good friends. Each time I’d visit her splendid country estate, I learned some new kitchen trick, surrendered peacefully to the supremacy of bees and babysat her kids. She taught me to appreciate the rural life and helped fuel my love for the simple joys of cooking.

She was with me during the very last days of single mama-to-be pregnancy, when I needed the fresh, hands-on advice of a fellow mother and the warmth of a friendly embrace. I was in full gestational nesting compulsion, and she encouraged my impetus by helping me clean out an entire wall-to-wall bookshelf, rearranging all the volumes I own, and classifying them thanks to her skillful archivist expertise.

Selena competes with my mother for the 'best cook I know' title. She delights friends and family with her spectacular cooking and engages in crazy food tournaments with my mother when we all visit together. Copious drinking, gargantuan meals–and consequent weight gaining–take place during these festive occasions.

After swimming or roaring ping pong matches, forest walks, lazy chit chat while crafting lavender sachets, or picking fruit off the trees in the orchard, I like to sit under her cherry tree, smiling in the sunset. I sip last year’s vintage Sangiovese, and sniff the aromas wafting out from the nearby kitchen. Bliss.

Here is the recipe for what she fed us 20 guests during last year's grape harvest special. With prior permission to pass it on, Selena's rosbif––as is pronounced here––a sensational (pot)roast beef.

1 kg (2 lbs) lean beef sirloin tip roast, trimmed and tied
2 garlic cloves, unpeeled
1 fat sprig of rosemary
3/4 cup extra virgin olive oil
Salt and pepper

Butcher's twine

The trick is in the lacing, she says. Start tying the roast salami-style. This is quite easy, just tie one of the ends with a piece of kitchen string and do not cut it. Then pull the string about 5 cm (2”) from where you made your first loop and circle again around the roast.

Pass the string inside the loop and pull (see picture). You'll need to use all three pairs of hands for this. Although my mother (she's the hand model in these photos) does it without thinking.

Scrub the beef with salt and pepper and place in a high-rimmed Dutch oven type broiler with the oil, unpeeled garlic cloves and the rosemary. I slide the herb sprig directly under the lacing so that it is in close contact with the meat. I do NOT however cut small slits to lodge the garlic in the beef. Too surgical. And useless, since this particular cooking method assures plenty flavoring without cutting gashes into the flesh.

Note: Be sure that whichever pot you choose as a cooking vessel, is complete with a tight fitting lid.

Turn on the heat on very high mark, and as the oil begins to heat up, sear the meat with the lid covered for 5 minutes. Uncover, turn the roast on the other side and cover again. Sear for an additional 5 minutes on the b-side, then lower the heat to medium intensity and cook covered for 20 more minutes. It is important that you do not take the lid off the cooking pot during this time. Ever!

Serve your roast beef immediately, carving generous slices against the grain, lavishly drizzled with the cooking drippings. Best if eaten along side a fresh garden salad or fluffy mashed potatoes and stewed peas.

Note: for roast cuts of different weight, calculate 3 minutes for each 100 gr (3 1/2 oz) total cooking time. For my kilo (1,000 g) of roast I counted a total of 30 minutes, searing one side for 5 minutes, the flip side for 5 minutes and then roasting for final 20 minutes (5+5+20=30). Provided no cool air enters the pot, the result is an evenly browned, sizzling outside and a lovely rare crimson heart.

Visiting Selena and her storybook family in her splendid Tuscan Renaissance Villa in the hills overlooking Prato is my idea of the perfect vacation. I usually plan it out so that I can also squeeze in hosting a few cooking classes and offer Culinary Adventures in the area.

My train whistles at 8:40 tomorrow morning. For the next 3 weeks, this is where you can find me...

Villa Rucellai ~ Canneto (PO)

Rosticciana, tomato salad, bruschetta...

Arrivederci!

Tonno ubriaco recipe

Tonno ubriaco means drunken tuna: a basic recipe originating in the seaport city of Livorno. It takes 10 minutes to make and can save the day in case of unexpected (and famished) dinner guests.

4 large fresh tuna steaks
3/4 cup of red wine
1 small onion, finely chopped
2 garlic cloves, peeled
1 sprig of Italian flatleaf parsley, finely chopped – I use fresh basil because I can't eat parsley
1 cup unbleached flour
Extra-virgin olive oil
Salt and pepper to taste

Sauté the garlic in olive oil over medium heat and remove it from the frying pan before it browns. Add chopped onion and parsley/basil to the pan. 

Dredge the tuna steaks with flour and cook along with the onion for 5 minutes. Add the wine, crank up the heat and allow it to evaporate.

Serve the steaks with the resulting fondo, fresh garden greens and golden fried potatoes.

The wine? Pairs well with either white or red, as long as dry and somewhat chilled.

{the tonnara at Scopello, Sicily}

Castagnaccio recipe

Castagnaccio is a typical Apennine region non-sweet dessert made with chestnut flour and love. During a particularly difficult shoot in Garfagnana where long working days were spent immersed up to the waist in a tumultuous river, the thought of returning to the hotel and munching on foot-long slabs of castagnaccio in front of the fireplace, made conquering the Serchio river bank effortless.

Image © Fraenzi

500 g (2 1/2 cups) sweet chestnut flour (the cheaper kind is lumpy and bland)
750 ml (3 3/4 cups) water
A pinch of salt
6 tablespoons extra virgin olive oil
A pinch of fresh Rosemary needles
100 g (1/2 cup) Pine nuts
50 g (1/4 cup) Raisins

Preheat oven at 180° C (350° F).

Soak the raisins in a glass of lukewarm water and set aside. Pour the olive oil in the water and set aside. Sift the chestnut flour in a large mixing bowl and add the salt. Slowly drizzle the water and oil “emulsion” over the flour and keep mixing with a wire whisk to avoid lumps. The blend will turn out quite liquid, but do not worry.

Pour the mixture in a well-oiled cake pan. Don’t mind the uneven composition swimming in the pan, the recipe requires it to be that way, trust me.

Sprinkle with pine nuts, raisins and rosemary needles. Drizzle with one more thread of oil and bake in the oven for about 30-40 minutes. I like my castagnaccio soft with a lightly crisp crust. Mind you, the pie doesn’t rise, so the thickness shouldn’t be more than a 1/2-inch.

Tip: Don’t sink your teeth in your castagnaccio before it has cooled down completely. The oil will comfortably be absorbed during cooling and you won’t scorch your mouth.

Oh, one more thing: castagnaccio loves Chianti.

Summer escape - Villa Rucellai in Tuscany

We escaped. It was too hot and lonely in Rome.
I packed a light tote for Mr.E and myself, and we made for the country. As in Tuscany, where "pastoral" is as pretty as it gets.

Right now, as I finish posting this, friends are setting the table for dinner. The barbecue is on...


Rebecca is toasting bread for bruschetta (pronounced with a K)

The menu this evening will be: rosticciana - which is a lovely Tuscan word for 'pork spare ribs' - herb-rubbed chicken skewers, garden salad and homemade gelato.


I can't get enough of these scallions and vine-ripened tomatoes picked warm this morning in the vegetable garden.

So I halved and scooped-out some Roma tomatoes, and stuffed them with a little crushed tuna; the chopped pulp; and some diced celery, which I tossed with mayonnaise, before divvying up the mixture back in the tomato halves for our antipasto.

The air smells like burning firewood.
The swallows dance vast circles above our heads, and our swimming costumes are still dripping pool water, over there on the west-facing hedge.

Mr.E is in seventh heaven. He spends most of his time playing in the garden, digging up dirt, or climbing trees and plucking the juicy pears.


Look at that sunset...



...and the olive trees beneath the forest...

And what about this view of the main entrance?
Isn't it lovely?


Ducks paddling in their little spa pond...

...Geraniums sheltered by the shade of a cherry tree...

...and beauty as far as the eye can see...

Speaking of tomatoes, tomorrow my friends Selena, Rebecca, Lorenzo, with Mr.E and I (and the supervision of my mother) will begin the summer's production by cooking the first 5 gallons of Pommarola tomato preserves.
The following day, it will be fig marmalade. Depending on the yield, perhaps plum jam too.

Aperitivo is ready, I'm being summoned outside.
I have to go now...



...and I need to slip on a jumper, because it's getting chilly...