Imagine a winter Sunday morning, cold and crisp, with the sun shining bright and a day of rest and vacation in front of you. You die to go out, to feel the frozen ground crunching beneath your feet.

You want to stay out for a long time, you want your cheeks to get reddened by the cold air and your mind to be cleared of heavy thoughts. All you wish is to come back home just before lunch and bring back a sparkle of joy you have been given by the sunbeams playing among the bare branches of the trees.

Sorry to interrupt this idyllic sunny winter scene, ladies and gents, but you mentioned lunch. Who is supposed to cook lunch if you all are enjoying a laughing walk outside in the countryside? I do not know what usually happens in your houses, but with my family it’s not Sunday if you don’t set the table and cook one of those rich and genuine dishes that satisfy your taste with sumptuous flavours.

If you want to enjoy your sunny winter morning outside and in the same time experience a lavish lunch, I have a solution. I made these slices of pork loin in no more than 10 minutes: lager beer and mustard make them tasty and unusual, giving the dish the richness of long cooking recipes that we so appreciate during winter. Read the rest of this entry »

I am passionate about the stories that tell a cross-section of life from the unusual and alienating perspective of an object, which unexpectedly connects the characters and is often the key to understanding something more about their lives, their expectations and their dreams.

I could tell you of a slow Tuscan Sunday afternoon, the one of two days ago for example, from the strange perspective of this particular autumn persimmon cake, a cake for a relaxed afternoon tea, wholesome, not too sweet, simple.

I baked the cake just after lunch, inspired by the basic and reliable pound cake recipe. It is the right cake for the autumn, a simple one perfect for a break in the afternoon: it has a slightly nutty taste given by the whole spelt flour, a caramel hint thanks to the moist muscovado cane sugar and slices of juicy persimmons, the fruit that best represents the season of flaming colours, the smell of fireplaces and the need of something cosy and warming to go with a cup of steaming black tea.

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They are three. Three white hairs. Three white hairs that I see every morning in the bathroom mirror, highlighted by the harsh spotlight that makes them stand out, so white and straight, among the other soft brown curls, that instead are huddled peacefully on my head, as they are supposed to be, as curly hair, in the early hours of the morning.

Until a few months ago, every now and then I spotted one white hair that wanted to stand out from the others and that – poor deluded – was short-lived, because as soon as I noticed its unwelcome presence, it was eliminated with decision. You, the intruder, what do you think to do here?

Then, lightning, a thought: it is generally believed that every white hair is actually a sign that we managed to indulge a whim. So why on earth are we trying to hide this flowing of time marked more by happily satisfied whims than by wrinkles? this is really a pleasant way of looking at the passage of time, a way that celebrates the achievements and victories, the small moments of personal satisfaction, and transforms them into trophies.

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I succeeded to post the recipe at the second attempt. I baked this biscotti for the first time early this summer for a special Tuscan dinner with friends, writing the ingredients on a small piece of paper and losing it as expected at the end of the evening. It’s always the same: you put the notes scribbled down with codes and abbreviations that only you can understand in that book because you are sure you will easily remember that it is there, except then forgetting about it after 5 minutes, giving the recipe for missing for the months to come.

The same happened with the small duvet buttons, put into the box on the shelf because it was clear that I would have searched for them there the next year… and of course I secured the duvet to the sheets with pegs for months! And it happened again with the new necklace I bought in Germany, put in the most obvious and easy place to remember and found at the end of the season during the wardrobe change, just by chance.

But here I admit it, Your Honor, I’m a persistent offender with recipe notes. I even bought a black Moleskine just for my recipes, but most of the times I forget to write there ingredients, temperature and steps on the glossy pages of my diary.

As in the best fairy tales, when you least expect it the slip of paper comes out, and the only thing you need to do is to decrypt with archaeologist attention my infamous abbreviations, so obvious when you note them down for the first time, so obscure when you find out the recipe months later.

After having sent a good bunch of darns to the past me, who insists on writing half in Italian and half in English, hopping from language to language and from units of measurement to units of measurement, I eventually managed to reconstruct the basic recipe of the cantuccini made with chestnut flour.

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