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November 2 - November 18, 2024
I apologized profusely and was about to find a receptacle in which to dispose of the water when she asked if I would drink it. Without a moment’s hesitation I obliged by taking a big swig under her watchful gaze. It was less than tepid and tasted like a liquid sock, but I smiled nonetheless at her, as if to say, See, it’s not a flammable liquid, nor is it a poison. It’s just water. She thanked me and I placed the water bottle into the gray bin.
Unfortunately, one of our bags was redirected to the “other belt,” a sign that the unhappy examiner had spotted something that made him even unhappier and warranted further inspection.
(In Italian, aglio is “garlic,” so aglione basically means “big garlic.”)
It is traditionally served with pici, a thick, quite heavy, eggless, spaghetti-like pasta. In Umbria pici is known as umbricelli. The reason for this is that “pici” is the Tuscan name for this type of pasta, and God forbid an Umbrian should use a Tuscan name for anything, especially pasta. And vice versa.
We ate at a nearby restaurant, where I had gnocchi with ragù d’oca, meaning “goose ragù.”
When Italy was in fact a country of city-states controlled by the church and/or royal families, geese (and all good cuts of all meats) were reserved for those in power, like members of the clergy, royalty, or the “seigneurs,” the landed gentry who owned the fields and farms on which the tenant farmers worked. Yet after the harvest, as an act of gratitude for their toil, the seigneurs gifted a certain number of geese to the farmers, on which the farmers would feast for one night. These geese were roasted in the large communal oven.
(The beef used for bistecca alla fiorentina comes from a rare breed of white cow that feeds only on grass and whose meat is some of the tastiest in the world.)
I ventured out one day to take Matteo to the doctor to have his tonsils and adenoids checked, as he is prone to strep throat and is a “heavy breather,” as they say. After a quick peek at both, the doctor told us that he would indeed benefit from having them removed. He said the heavy breathing along with his snoring would cease, the slightly dark circles under his eyes would disappear, and his sense of taste would be improved by the removal of his adenoids. He said that children will often put on a bit of weight after the procedure as they eat more because swallowing is easier, and everything
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3 aglioni (left over from Umbria) 3 black truffles (also left over from Umbria and smuggled in)
It’s not every chef who is able to connect with children and effortlessly integrate them into the joys of cooking.
I love holidays like this because I really love cooking for lots of people who appreciate food and are also willing to help.
Yet I must contradict myself. (Why not? Everyone else contradicts me.) As much as I love cooking with people, I am also more than happy to cook alone. Obviously cooking has a practical purpose but often for me it’s just using food for thought.
When I cook alone, I’m free to think about how I might, say, write a certain passage of this book, how I might correct or improve a certain passage, or if I should just stop writing altogether; how I might write a scene for a script I’m working on; how I might address a scene I will act in the next day; or how I rue the way I acted in a scene the day before.
It was hot, and according to the weather report it will remain so for the next week or more. Yet another visceral testament to global warming.
The fellow sells great mince. I blame that certain cow.)
Since I had not eaten since midafternoon (a quick repast of stuffed grape leaves, hummus, crackers, and taramasalata), I sautéed some onion; added leftover puréed tomato sauce, leftover peas, a dot of butter, grated Parmigiano, a splash of white wine, a few torn basil leaves, and a drizzle of EVOO; and cooked it in a saucepan for about fifteen minutes. I boiled some pasta (tubetti), tossed it all together, ate two bowls of the stuff accompanied by a glass of red wine, and then wrote about it.
As he is a pescatarian I made a leek and zucchini risotto with a quick veg stock I cooked up, followed by cod alla livornese, which I can’t seem to get enough of these days.
Not unlike the French, Italians are so good at striking that they could make it a profession.
Had oysters, serrano ham, focaccia, and Vesper martinis at Rick’s again in Bristol. Loveliest staff and proper bartenders. Great place.
It’s a stupid idea, I know, but someone must address the fact that as airline prices increase, the quality of service and on-time performance decreases.
And to top it all off, the food is dreadful. Maybe if the food were better, we could all endure it. I must write a letter.
The second house that Kate and I lived in together had a small orchard of apple trees, some of which were so old that even the arborist who looked after them had no idea what species they were.
In my last home in the US, where Felicity came to live with me, Nico, Isabel, and Camilla (and the one that Willie Geist stole from me), Kate and I planted three apple trees, one for each child, and at the house in Devon it’s my intention to plant one for each child again. That means at least five.
Why does gardening become a common pastime when people grow older? Is it because after years of dealing with humans it’s just easier to spend time with something that needs attention, gives sustenance, and enhances your world but doesn’t talk back?
And for others, maybe, when age creeps its way in, we innately feel the need to cultivate and encourage life, especially if that life is perennial, because ours, very much, is not.
(grilled octopus and squid with cream of peas, tagliatelle with shrimp, and grilled whole fish with olive oil and lemon).
Lake Como is where Felicity and I met, during her sister Emily’s wedding. We chatted a lot during that two-day fête and began dating when I visited London soon after. My God, is she lucky.
We are planning a party. Not sure why, but Fee and I both had the same thought when our trip to Marrakech for a friend’s birthday party next weekend was canceled. We are using the excuse that our eleventh wedding anniversary is on the twenty-ninth, and that’s a good enough excuse for us. How is it possible that eleven years have passed? It seems like twenty-five. For Felicity, I mean. For me, but a moment. We are inviting seventy people. I hope we have room. Invites going out today. Part of me hopes that not everyone can make it.
What’s worse than no one showing up to a party? Everyone showing up.
My father’s maternal uncles owned a haberdashery in Peekskill, New York, where I was born, called Pisani Brothers. I remember going there as a young boy a few times and thinking the racks of perfectly organized jackets, suits, shirts, and ties were so beautiful.
Wool is one of the reasons I love autumn and winter so much. And vice versa I guess.
He was a chef and restaurateur who took classic Italian dishes and Frenchified them, because basically French restaurants were the only kind of restaurant there was in London. British restaurants didn’t really exist, except for pubs, and Italian restaurants were considered lower-class.
(with just the right amount of zazz from the capers and pickles),
(Aunt Dora never stopped talking and my mother does not waste words),
Because the flight was going to be a long one due to a storm that needed to be circumvented, I decided to eat the food on the plane. I ordered the salmon. But like a rock star with a fluctuating identity, what arrived was a piece of fish formerly known as salmon. I dared two bites of what seemed like softened fiberglass and gave up.