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November 2 - November 18, 2024
At one point during the evening, at his insistence, we experimented with “hyperdecanting” a bottle of wine by putting it in a blender for a few moments. Did it work? I think so, but the chocolate cake I’d eaten was confusing my palate. Must try again.
I might have to take up golf, so I have an excuse to go back. Or I’ll just go back. I have no desire to play golf. I’d rather be flayed.
In the airport lounge I ate a croissant that was rather good.
Once in the air, I realized I was hungry due to the delay, so I ate the cold prawn appetizer, which was benign but well cooked and not mealy like prawns can be when too well cooked.
Caponata is a Sicilian sweet-and-sour ratatouille of sorts with peppers, eggplant, tomatoes, sultanas, vinegar, sugar, celery, pine nuts, and so on.
Anyway, I asked her to come and enjoy the sunshine that blessed my terrace, as neither of us has seen the stuff for months because we live in London, where the sun insists on making itself a stranger.
Tiny carciofi alla giudia: These are the ubiquitous fried artichokes of Rome that were originally cooked by the Jewish population and eventually became a favorite of all Romans.
I find that odd, however, as butter is not often used in Lazio, or for that matter south of Bologna or Turin. All we know is that carciofi alla giudia are addictively delicious when cooked properly, and these were exactly that.
We were told that, like the rest of their countrymen, they were on strike because Macron had raised the retirement age from thirty-five to thirty-six or something like that.
The fish was as fresh as any I’ve ever tasted, the rice warm and almost sweet, and the soy sauce dark and creamy.
Instead, I ordered the paglia e fieno pasta with zucchini, basil, garlic, Parmigiano, and a bit of butter.
The streets were alive with pedestrians, as opposed to those in LA, which are mostly devoid of humans using their legs for their intended purpose.
Manhattan. The City. New York, New York. The city so nice they named it twice.
I loved that those cobblestones were Belgian block brought over as ballast on merchant ships from Europe and put to brilliant use paving the streets of a place that would become one of man’s most significant creations.
It wasn’t just the never-ending newness and energy of the city that I sought like so many young people, but also its past.
In fact, there is still wild rocket (arugula) that grows in nooks and crannies throughout the city because it was brought there by the Romans.
I am physical, kinesthetic, tactile. Through touch, I take in information.
It is the house from which I watched my children leave for their very first days of school, the house where we learned of their mother’s illness, the house in which she passed away, and the house that overlooks the magnolia tree where some of her ashes are scattered. It is the house where Felicity came to live with me and my children and where we shared many meals with family and friends both old and new. It is the house by the ancient oak underneath which Felicity and I were married, and the house where her family, my family, and Kate’s father spent our first Christmas together.
The Cuban sandwich would have been excellent had they not slathered it with so much Dijon mustard that it was eye-wateringly difficult for anyone to eat.
In the evening, after the children ate pasta con pesto, I steamed mussels in white wine with shallots and garlic, dressed them with olive oil and parsley, and served them with toasted French bread.
I think she gets tired of eating pasta constantly, unlike me.
How strange that we have never been able to grow food on such a scale or transport it as quickly as we can today, and yet food insecurity is growing.
I do wonder how strange it must be to see your father onstage or in films.
For the children’s dinner we made chicken cutlets, white rice, and steamed Romanesco, a pointy, green broccoli-like vegetable.
I picked up Millie at about five p.m. from a playdate a month ago and she told me she’d just finished dinner. Which means she ate at four thirty p.m. I had no idea her friend lived in a retirement home.
Truth be told, I really am looking forward to someday not having to cook two different meals and eating at a reasonable hour. All of us. Together.
Soba noodles in homemade chicken broth with chopped chives, wild garlic leaves, and scallions was our post-workout early lunch.
After cleaning up the leftover crusts of the jam sandwiches and the uneaten carrots and cucumber spears that I’d slaved over, I opened the fridge drawer and was confronted with four beautiful eggplants.
I sliced the remaining two eggplants the same way and grilled them with olive oil, garlic, cherry tomatoes, red onion, and salt.
Reserving some of the pasta water (always), I strained the pasta, put a large helping into the pan with the eggplant, added a bit of pasta water to emulsify it, turned off the heat, grated Parmigiano over the top, and tossed it some more.
But I do worry that as often happens, the next attempt will be overthought and won’t turn out as well.
My father always wanted to write a cookbook about eggs because he loves them so much.
Everything does when it’s cooked outside. Why is that?
The place was empty save for one customer who I could tell recognized me but was unsure from where, because he just kept staring at me.
I was paralyzed for a moment. But I really wanted it, so I ordered it, and my prophecy came true.
For dinner I made a sauce with fresh tomatoes, onions, garlic, and basil to serve over some homemade spinach pasta that Felicity had made a couple of weeks before and we had tucked away in the freezer.
I hate it when that happens. Both the argument and the forgoing of a meal. I blame myself. Partly. Mostly.
It was the king’s coronation, so we decided to show our support by visiting the land of the monarchy’s centuries-old rival. Felicity, wisely as ever, booked a place on the coast.
The usual French breakfast fare. The best baguette ever in the history of baguettes.
Everything was just… okay. Would I go again? No.
The vegetables, mange-tout and some string beans, were a kind of sad afterthought. The frites were amazing, however.
Oyster size is classified by numbers, 00 being the largest, 5 being the smallest. I don’t know why, and I don’t care.
At home in the late morning, I made a light tomato sauce to use for a few different dishes over the next couple of days. Also made cannellini beans with chopped carrot, onion, celery, and sliced garlic.
I like to make tomato sauce whenever I return home after a trip, or when I arrive at a vacation home or wherever I’m staying while filming. I find it grounding.
Obviously, I love going to restaurants, trying different dishes or old staples in the hands of a new chef, but I know that after a few too many meals out in a row I long to be home so I can eat what I want to eat when I want to eat it. And besides all that, I miss the actual act of cooking.
I made chipolata sausages for the kids in the new air fryer (amazing contraption) and a side of rice and peas, and that was that.
I guess sometimes you must be made extremely weak to find a strength you never knew you had.