a true tale

I’d intended to post this week’s Kitchen Sink Tales yesterday, meaning Thursday, the day gnocchi is traditionally eaten in Rome. Of course you can eat them whenever the heck, or day you want. Having been the woman Artusi writes about – the one who puts her spoon in the boiling gnocchi pan to stir, only to watch them disintegrate like a soluble aspirin in a glass of water – but now having got the knack, I hope I share that. I would love to know your stories, both good and bad, also the types of potato that work best for you, wherever you are, the egg or no egg.

I cannot sigh off without a deep, loving nod to Alan Rickman. Most actors (or in my case ex actor) have a tale set during their drama school years, when they queued for returns then sat thorough the same production half a dozen times, each performance more spine tingling than the previous. For me, it was Alan Rickman’s Anthony to Helen Mirren’s Cleopatra at the National Theatre in the late 90’s. I was hypnotized by his long, expressive face and body; both with a laid back seductiveness, and rich, resonant voice, somewhere between a purr, a growl and a song, which came from almost disconcertingly closed lips. I can hear his voice now. Again in A Winter Guest at the Almeida, then films Truly Madly Deeply and Close My Eyes, he knocked me sideways. He was an actor who made me want to be an actor. Reading the tributes that are flooding in from those who knew him, all of which confirm his hypnotic brilliance, we learn too of his extraordinary loyalty, generosity, kindness, political integrity and boundless creativity. The world is a sadder place without him. It is going to sound naff maybe, but reading them, and thinking of AR has left me wanting to be kinder, more generous and as creative as I can be.

Back soon with a recipe.

R