I have been avoiding writing the recipe for this traditionally Moroccan marinade for weeks on end, or so it seems. Publishing what should be a straightforward short story is long overdue. In fact — while I have been contemplating how to narrate the preparation of a simple mixture of fresh herbs stirred through warm spices — summer has officially slipped into autumn. It should be simple and yet it has turned out to be complicated. It seems that the only way to resolve this impasse is to explain my predicament.
After that, I think I can get back to the subject of cooking. Continue reading
I think I could write a book about caponata. I realize that this is a rather dramatic statement to make about something as simple as onions, celery, zucchini and eggplant cooked with tomatoes. But it’s the vinegar combined with just a touch of sweetness (in my case always honey) that makes this Italian version of the French ratatouille a subject of endless possibilities. Like each day of the week — caponata is never the same way twice — and this is exactly why I love it.
If I were to follow my personal preferences in the kitchen, I would create a different soup for every day of the week. I love the comfort of folding my hands around a meal in a bowl and adore the endless possibilities a cast iron pot stewing on the stove provides. The process of cutting, chopping, stirring and simmering wards off the winter chills. But most of all — making soup satisfies my obsession for vegetables.
Just over a week ago all was quiet. Celebrations to close the book on the old and start a brand new year started with a strangely quiet morning. A peek out the kitchen window revealed empty city streets. Funny how the first of the year feels like a long winter slumber. Being one for rituals, I set out early to get rid of domestic clutter and to cooking a pot of lentils. Lentils (and the spicy sausage “cotechino”) are traditionally served throughout Italy as a symbol of good fortune on New Year’s Eve. Their earthy perfume reminds me of home and of the comfort that comes from simplicity. Here’s to January and slow beginnings.
I feel the end of summer vacation coming on. It feels like curled toes at the edge of a cold swimming pool I am not quite ready to jump into. The month of August is the Sunday of summer and I have promised myself to prolong the sense of freedom that goes with loose-fitting timetables indefinitely. My plan is to outrun the seasons by intermingling spontaneity with life’s daily necessities.
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