Baked Churros

l'America era un angolo, l'America era un'ombra, nebbia sottile,
l'America era un'ernia, un gioco di quei tanti che fa la vita...

America was a corner, America was a shadow, a fine mist,
America was a hernia, a game of the many that life plays...
~ Francesco Guccini, Amerigo

He was selling churros with cinnamon from a cart on 16th Str., behind the stairs at the exit of the subway; his name was Francisco but for his friends and in the neighborhood and he was only and ever Pancho. He was as old as Jesus, black hair over the shoulders and hands stained with sugar and fatigue. He spoke slowly in a language foreign to him, masking his stubborn and unyielding southern accent against his will. His underground America was that street corner, a t-shirt Yes We Can, and a dream never faded.
He was a sinner, an innocent outlaw with his breath always on the alert: his mistake without fault was to be born beyond, in a country with no moon, torn apart by knives, white powder and misery.
He had arrived at night, clinging to the dark wind of a train still in the running. They say he had a girl, too young to still remember him, too beautiful to stop loving her. He had left behind his heart in love, closed his eyes to the sadness and left for his quest.
He ended up in the city that bore his name, greeting and hope for a better future, witness and accomplice of a present without glory. 12 hours a day, 300 churros at sunset and one Sunday for beer and freedom every month.

TWO FOR $ 1.
TWO FOR $ 1.

A hand-written sign was selling his sweetness for him, filled with memories and the warm scent of melancholy. A handshake, a smile, a buenos dias: two churros to the gluttons for a dollar of his youth.
He was always there, Pancho, smiling and generous in front of us who asked no questions. He was always there, safe and cozy, with his eyes fixed on the future.
Until one morning when we couldn't find him anymore: they say they were stationed, an unhappy call, the forced supervision of a mockery of fate.
Everybody liked him, them also, Francisco Pancho Juarez, Francisco Pancho fabricante de churros.




Baked Churros
for approx. 15 pieces

flour 140 gr
sugar 50 gr
butter 100 gr
salt 1 pinch
water 200 gr
egg 1
vanilla extract 1/2 teaspoon
sugar and cinnamon to finish as needed

Heat water with salt and then dissolve in the sugar. Add butter and when it's completely melted, add flour and mix. Cook until the dough is smooth and has no lumps, and gathers into a shiny ball (it'll take about 1 minute). Remove from heat and let cool. Add the egg, at room temperature, vanilla extract and mix well.
Put the dough into a pastry bag with a star tip, form several strips about 3-4" long and place them on a baking sheet lined with parchment paper; bake at 350 for about 30 minutes until churros are golden.
Roll them still hot in sugar mixed with cinnamon.
Churros, traditional Mexican sweets, should be fried in hot oil; this is my so-called light version.
Light but not vegan, for the first sin of the year.

Chana Masala

They're chickpeas. Cooked.
Cooked and then sauteed in a sauce that's vaguely tomatoish and super-extra-hot.
But then let me tell you, these are the Kings of chickpeas, inimitably pleasure-giving, humble sailors on a red sea of spices, luxurious, deep, and blissfully stormy.
Embellished with a long list of spices, from here to Porbandar, these chickpeas become an alternate reality, a mysterious and welcoming world, a refuge for the heart and the palate.
My advice is this: do not be intimidated. Ok, the powders are many and perhaps hard to find, maybe they'll make you run from one side of the city to the other, you'll probably lose patience and maybe even half a day; but perhaps they'll also make you explore hidden corners, discover the magic of new colors bursting with life, or understand the beauty disguised within our conundrums.
If you're in doubt, but even not, just do it. Buy them all. Because it's worth it. Because some like it hot.
Just do it. And tell them I sent you.




Chana Masala
for 4-5 people

dried chickpeas 300 gr
onion, large 1
ginger garlic paste 3-4 tablespoons
fresh jalapeño 1
cumin seeds 1 teaspoon
coriander powder 1 tablespoon
mango powder 1 tablespoon
cayenne pepper 1 teaspoon
turmeric 1 teaspoon
paprika 2 teaspoons
cumin powder 2 teaspoons
garam masala 1 teaspoon
tomato paste 2 tablespoons
lemon 1
olive oil, salt, fresh cilantro to taste

Soak chickpeas for about 6-8 hours. Rinse, cover with water and cook over medium heat for about 1 hour and a half or 2 hours, until they are tender. Drain, keeping aside a cup of their cooking water.
In a large pot heat 3 tablespoons of olive oil, toast the cumin seeds for a few minutes, then add the ginger garlic paste (if you can't find it, you can use 2 garlic cloves and a lot of ginger, minced; however, if you're lucky enough to have an Indian store, full of spices and traditional products close to home, or even at a 45-minute ride from you, I recommend this alternative), onion and jalapeño, finely chopped, and cook for about 5 minutes. Add the rest of the spices, the reserved chickpea water and the tomato paste, and cook for a few minutes. If necessary, adjust the flavor.
Add the chickpeas and cook for 10 minutes; finally add the lemon juice and a handful of chopped fresh cilantro.
If you wish, serve with basmati rice. Or maybe not.
w.v.<3

Blueberry Pie

Every bad situation is a blues song waiting to happen.
~ Amy Winehouse

Soon I'd turn 30; my hair was long and smooth like silk, I had white skin and the deep, black voice of soul. At my side I had talent, youth, a bit of money and success: an ironic cocktail that would not grant me happiness; that thing called life, thrown in my hands by chance, I felt it on me as hard and heavy as a stone. To the public I was singing of love, betrayal and jealousy, but inside I was chasing a single dream of peace; and I was drowning, swept adrift by my own thoughts, choked with anguish, shame and misery of life; to remain afloat, I sought comfort in chemical clouds and emptied bottles of vodka, starting from scratch every day to defy my will and play poker with my brain.
I sensed myself that I, too, would join that cursed club of the 27's of rock: Jimi and Janis, Kurt and now me; young, angry angels, coward murderers of dreams, united by the invisible thread of our silly illusions, an irrational boredom of life that grew together with success, victims of a dark soul that asked our body for revenge. From life I could have had it all: an almost kind god had given me feline eyes and lips of a star, whispering in my ear the sweet secrets of blues; but in return I paid him with the confusion of being, a solitude without horizon, and that twisted, fragile anger.



Yet, life, I had really loved it, when, as a kid, I used to run down the street chasing my feet and the smell in the air; when Gramma used to talk about Frank, and on Sunday for lunch we'd go to Brook's, Alex and I sharing a slice of blueberry pie, my little corner of paradise not yet washed down by alcohol; and the first guitar, what a dream!, at 13 it was a fairy tale with no poison. In my life I wanted to be a woman, a wife and then a mother, I wanted to stay forever at his side, me and Blake strolling serene on any given day.
I had learned to offer emotions to people, but I couldn't look my father and mother in the eyes anymore; the darkness rising from inside devoured me every day more, leaving room only to fears and goblins of glass. To my father and mother I now ask for forgiveness, for having seen me wasted, for having found me disturbed, intoxicated with suffering, for having to bear the blame forever.
Inside me I had no labels: I was not a star, I was not a singer, a rebel, an angel or a rejection, I was neither a junkie nor an alcoholic. Inside me I was just a woman, curled up in my agony and passed away too quickly. I was just one among many. But me, the words that I wrote and sang to the clouds will forever save my face.

Amy Winehouse
9/14/1983 - 7/23/2011


Blueberry Pie*
for a round pie dish of 9" diameter

For the dough
flour 315 gr
cold butter 225 gr
sugar 1 teaspoon
salt 1 teaspoon
cold water 120-180 ml

For the filling
fresh blueberries 1 kg
lemon 1
sugar 125 gr
corn starch 35 gr
egg 1
butter as needed

*I adapted the recipe from her, the unbeatable, extra blonde, Martha Stewart. In particular, I'd like to recommend everyone the recipe of her pie crust: it's flaky as hell.
Please excuse me and M.S. if we aren't veg today.

For the dough, mix flour, sugar and salt. Add butter, cut in pieces and very cold, and work quickly with a spatula until you get big crumbs. Add cold water gradually and knead until you get a smooth ball and not too sticky. In order to get a flaky crust, there must remain visible pieces of butter in the dough: which is why you shouldn't work it very long nor warm it up too much.
Divide the dough in half, wrap each piece in plastic wrap and let stand in refrigerator at least 2 hours.



Meanwhile, rinse blueberries and mix them with the grated lemon zest, one tablespoon of lemon juice, sugar and cornstarch. Crush about 1/4 of the filling with your hands or with a fork and set aside.
Dust the work surface and the rolling pin with plenty of flour, roll out the dough into two discs and place one of them into a deep pie pan, leaving a border of about 1/2 inch. Fill the base with blueberries, piling them a little more in the middle, sprinkle a few flakes of butter on top, and then cover with the second disc of dough. Seal the edge crushing it slightly with your hands, etch the surface with 5 or 6 concentric cuts, brush with the egg, beaten, and keep in the fridge at least half an hour before baking.
Bake at 380 for 20 minutes, lower the oven to 350 and continue baking for another 40 minutes, until the surface of the pie is golden. Serve warm.

Pistachio Pesto with Roasted Garlic

Give me songs
to sing
and emerald dreams
to dream
and I'll give you love
unfolding.
~ Jim Morrison

Sure thing after an introduction like that, a la Jim Morrison, I have very little to say.
I could probably tell you about the scent of basil, a universal sign of summer; I could unroll the thread of my thoughts and explain how it is that it's tied to pistachios; I could go on about roasted garlic' newfound kindness, an irrefutable proof of the innate goodness of the universe; or else I could write half a treaty on the color green and the vegan pesto.
Or maybe I could accept Jim's invitation and leave to wander around, speaking of emerald dreams, the meaning of life before and after pesto, of black and white movies, the surprise endings or the songs at the end of spring.
Instead, don't panic, there will be none of that. Today I (almost) prefer to be silent and instead entrust my post to Jim's words, my pictures and the green color of this pesto, wishing you a weekend a little rock and a little roll.
I, for my part, will go out for a walk down to Costa Rica, to regain my green and the energy I've lost along the way.
May pesto be with you until I get back. If I come back.
Besos.




Pistachio Pesto
with Roasted Garlic
for 2 jars

pistachios 75 gr
cashews 25 gr
garlic 6 cloves
lemon 1/2
basil 1 big bunch
extra virgin olive oil 70 gr
salt, pepper to taste

First roast the garlic cloves: put them in a pan, unpeeled, toss with a tablespoon of olive oil, salt and pepper and bake at 360 for about 40 minutes, until they are softened. (Now, I admit that the above process seems too much for six miserable cloves of garlic, so I suggest two alternatives: either you double, what am I saying?, triple the amount of pesto, or, as in my case, you roast a huge amount of garlic cloves, because I swear they're delicious, spread on bread they're a real pleasure, and if you don't make them in abundance you'll regret it, be warned...).
Put in a blender (or in a mortar, for traditionalists) pistachios, cashews and garlic cloves, roasted and peeled. Blend until you get a rather fine grain. Add abundant basil leaves, lemon juice, salt and pepper and blend again. At the end add the oil a little at a time until you get a creamy pesto and fairly fluid. Place in the jars, cover with more oil and store in the fridge.
To those who ask me what about Parmesan cheese?, I'd say that Parmesan in pesto is just a modern fantasy; you can do very well without it, and in any case, to avoid any doubt, I added if you notice a handful of cashews, which will give your pesto just the right touch of parmesanosity creaminess.
Yes you can do it, too.
w.v.<3

No-Knead Pizza with Eggplant, Ginger and Basil

Give me your tired, your poor,
Your huddled masses yearning to breathe free,
The wretched refuse of your teeming shore.
Send these, the homeless, tempest-tossed to me,
I lift my lamp beside the golden door!

~ Emma Lazzarus, The New Colossus, sonnet written at the base of the Statue of Liberty


A short story. Because it's not just those others, the immigrants we're afraid of.
She had managed to sell two plates, the candlestick and an embroidered shawl, in exchange for a green suitcase and a pair of thick and comfortable shoes for me. Before embarking, my mother lit a candle to St. Joseph, and praying quietly she asked him to escort us at least until the exit from that island of tears.
That was how uncle called it; he had made ​​the journey three times already, and in town rumor had it he had made ​​a fortune: he was no longer living like a rat underground, he had his own room overlooking the street, and just enough money to buy oil and fresh bread, and on Sundays in the summer, to go to the beach in Coney Island.
When he came back last time he was different; he wore a hat and had his beard in order, but he looked tired and full of melancholy. You could see inside of him the same mix of stubbornness and pride that had led him to leave, stronger than the call of the sea and the smell of lemons among the rocks. He had come to bring along his children with the promise of a future, and he ended up dragging my mother with him, widow for years and with nothing to lose.
The crossing was long and tedious; Cece and I slept together on a dirty mattress, suffocated by the sweat of people packed all around. To survive, we recalled the afternoons spent playing soccer barefoot in the streets, wondering if we'd find enough friends in this Brooklyn to make a team of six, including the goalkeeper.
We got off in Ellis; grim-faced men in uniform ordered us to stand in line, while we, leaning against each other with our stomach swollen from hunger and fear, perceived by far the flattery of Lady Liberty. Someone, perhaps for the long beard or a flash of madness in the eyes, was pushed back and overwhelmed with shame. Uncle had warned us: Ellis does not forgive, he had said, but during the long nights of that trip he had filled our heart with hope. Still stunned by the ocean, they plagued us with mysterious questions, writing our destiny on a stamped document and searching for sins, pregnant women and monstrous diseases.
Under the striped flag I saw Cece for the last time, amidst the anxiety of the hungry and noisy crowd. A merciless doctor marked his jacket with a white letter, and two indifferent arms dragged him inside a large room that smelled of dust and threats: they'd force him to re-embark on the same ship from which he had gotten off, indicted by a malformation of the eyes that couldn't grant him the entrance.
Dragging the fatigue towards the future that was open to us, I felt a pain in my belly, quick and dry like a whip on bare skin. I looked up at my mother, frail and scared, and I thought, is this the Merica of our dreams, will it be like this our new world?





No-Knead Pizza*
with Eggplant, Ginger and Basil
for 4

For the dough
flour 500 gr
salt 16 gr
dry yeast 1 gr
sugar 1 teaspoon
water 350 gr

For the topping
crushed tomatoes 1 can
Japanese eggplants 2
fresh ground ginger 2 teaspoons
garlic 1-2 cloves
salt, pepper, chili pepper flakes, olive oil, basil to taste

*The first pizzeria in the United States was opened in New York in 1905 by Gennaro Lombardi, who emigrated from Naples at the end of the century. What follows is the no-knead pizza by Jim Lahey and his Sullivan Street Bakery; I took and adapted the recipe from here.

In a bowl mix flour, yeast, salt and sugar. Add the water and stir with a wooden spoon or with your hands, just until the dough comes together. Cover with a cloth and let rise at room temperature for about 18 hours, until it more than doubles.
Place the dough on the counter dusted with flour, divide it into four pieces and work each piece as follows: take the right side of the dough and fold it toward the center; then do the same with the left side, and with the two ends above and below (the order doesn't matter, what matters is having four folds). Then give it the shape of a ball and then flip it upside down, so that the folding is underneath. With cupped hands, shape the dough by turning and pulling it slightly downwards, so as to have a round ball with a smooth surface. Do the same with the other pieces, then lightly dust them with flour and cover with a kitchen towel. Let stand for another half hour.
After this time, take each piece, flour it and slightly push it down, pulling it out from each side to form a round disc of about 4-6" diameter. Still using your hands, or making it spin on the knuckles, stretch it until you get a thin base of about 10" diameter.
At this point, pizza is ready to be dressed to taste. It's baked on a baking stone preheated to 500 for about 20 minutes.
As usual, all this is easier done than said; but trust me, it's really very easy, and a short explanatory video can be found here.
My pizza, if you're really really curious to know, is a modern melting pot, a little heretic and a bit underground, in perfect immigrant style: tomato sauce seasoned with salt, garlic slices, grated ginger and Mexican chili, grilled Japanese eggplant slices, and to finish a few leaves of Thai basil and a drizzle of Tuscan olive oil.
w.v.<3

Harissa Homemade

Give me a bit of your time, a look at the horizon and a memory. Every day and forever.
I'll give you a smile, a little light on my shadows and something red. Every day and forever.
~ Anonymous

I wish I was able to describe colors to a blind man, to speak of white, silver and blue, or green, black and yellow, to make them alive even without light, and to stick them forever under the skin and inside the eyes; I wish I was able to grasp their secret, to understand their mystery and enigma, and then give the answer to those who don't know it.
And then I wonder, what color is it, the color red? Warm and strong like a sudden jolt that goes through your stomach; it's the color of sin, a forbidden apple, the tousled hair of an almost respectable girl. It burns, at times, like a sick passion, a cross and some blood spilled on the crazy sidewalks. It's exuberant as crimson and soft as velvet, positive as a new beginning and a horizon full of hope. It's the color of Mondays, safe, straightforward and a bit ambitious.
But red are also the bricks and the cracks of the houses up the hills, within the faded frame of my memory; summer tomatoes under the sun, a bed of poppies that you wanna dive in, the smell of the earth, and the dirty hands of simplicity.
Red to me is the only wine, full of fruit, and intoxicating with love and serenity. Red is the truth, that feeling that screams and suffocates, but that sometimes, unexpected, brings life back.
Red and shiny are the shoes that I've always wanted to wear, a touch of makeup that made you fall in love one day, and in the end, is that flower that we no longer had the courage to share.
I wish I was able, able to explain all the red that I carry inside and that you don't know. I wish.




Harissa Homemade*
for 2 small jars

medium size red bell peppers 3
cumin seeds 1/2 teaspoon
caraway seeds 1/2 teaspoon
coriander seeds 1/2 teaspoon
small red onions 2
garlic 6 cloves
fresh red hot chilies 4
extra virgin olive oil 1 tablespoon
tomato paste 1 full tablespoon
lemon juice 4 tablespoons
salt 1/2 teaspoon

*This one comes always from here, Plenty, a book so full of red, yellow and green, so packed with vegan recipes... but not too much. Come on, tell me you already like it.

Harissa is a spicy hot sauce, typical of some North African countries (Tunisia, Algeria, Libya, Morocco), it's used to accompany grilled vegetables, meat (noooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooo!!), or rice and couscous dishes. But in my house it's also eaten with bread by the spoon...
Peel the bell peppers: roast them over a gas flame, close them for a few minutes in a paper bag, then remove skin and seeds. Cut into pieces and set aside.
Toast cumin, caraway and coriander seeds in a hot pan, then grind them up in a food processor until you get a powder.
Coarsely chop garlic and onion, and sauté them for a few minutes in a pan with a tablespoon of olive oil. Add the chilies, cleaned, seeded and cut into pieces. Cook over medium heat for about 8-10 minutes until they take on an amber color. Let cool off slightly, and then blend the mixture with roasted peppers, spices powder, tomato paste, lemon juice and salt, until you get a smooth paste with no lumps.
It keeps in the fridge for a few weeks and it's used with love.
w.v.<3

Pink Juice (Rhubarb, Carrots and Beets)

I believe in pink.
~ Audrey Hepburn

If I were asked to color the world, I'd have no doubt, I'd paint it pink. Maybe with some shades of red, which - let's face it - never hurts, in my opinion. But then green light to strokes of pink, in all its possible shades, from lilac to magenta, through fuchsia, purple and plum.
I'm not talking about the color of the cheesy and impossibly romantic tales of my unhealthy youth, because if it were up to me I'd give Cinderella, Snow White and Sleeping Beauty a nice pair of flat and comfortable shoes and a motorized convertible pumpkin to drive around the world by themselves, without waiting to be awakened by Prince Charming, rather by a double cappuccino with brioche as an option.
Instead, I'm talking about the pink of the strawberries when they turn into jam, of cherry trees when they blossom on the side of the road, and the unbeatable pink of the sunset during some evenings up in the mountains; pink, like the scent of freshly baked bread; like the Gazzetta newspaper when Italy is playing; like a slice of cold watermelon consumed on the streets under the August stars.



Because if you close your eyes and imagine the world as such, if you close your eyes but open your heart, if you focus on listening to the sound of the breath or that of the wind, forgetting the fears, the judgments, the things to buy, the rush, the time, the hours and tonight's dinner, then you realize that it's you who paint the world, and happiness is inside your head, just behind the madness at the end of the thoughts; and the room for your suffering and for the loneliness of those long afternoons in November becomes immediately smaller; goodbyes are not goodbyes but curves of a moving path, and every day, if you want it, is made to be like cotton candy, red like Heidi's cheeks, or yellow and green like daisies in the meadow, comfortable and perfect as an upside-down octagon.



I don't believe in Prince Charming (have you ever seen him in a fairy tale kissing a frog?), but I have confidence in the color of daily life, in fantasy mixed with reality, and in an oasis full of flowers in a garden behind your house. More effective and more feasible, just like a purple wig to wear on an ordinary day, a lady elephant that runs away from the circus, or a ride on a Vespa under the snow in December.
But now please excuse me, I got thirsty.




Pink Juice
with rhubarb, carrots and beet
for 2

rhubarb 3-4 stalks
red beet 1
carrots 3-4
green apple 1
lime 1
fresh ginger 1 small piece

Wash fruits and vegetables and peel the beets. Cut into pieces and juice. Add a small piece of ginger to taste. At the end, stir in lime juice and mix. Serve cold.

Strawberry Agua Fresca

people
their eyes
the scent of the sea
I need flowers and grass
wheat, sun.
sugar and strawberries
moon, wind, letters and colors.
I need ideas
words
the sound of a smile,
to share a night
or paint the winter,
I need brotherly love
wine, milk, and salt.
I feel it bursting from inside
this desire, a mirage of life
it suffocates me, it quenches
it burns
it consoles
~ Anonymous to the wall, Strawberries in Winter




Strawberry Agua Fresca
for 4 people

strawberries, net 600 gr
water 750 ml ca.
lime 2
sugar 3/4 tablespoons

Wash strawberries, remove their stalk and blend well until they are reduced to a puree. Pass through a sieve with fine meshes and discard seeds. Add water, lime juice and sugar, and mix well until the sugar is completely dissolved. If you want, add a few leaves of fresh mint or basil. Serve the drink cold, preferably in the middle of a sunny day.

Granola

We always run in one direction
but what it is and what is its meaning, who knows...
~ Francesco Guccini, Running Into You

My name is L., but friends call me RunningWolf.
I started by accident one summer afternoon, I was twelve year old, not yet really, and dew was covering my skin. At half past six on a Sunday in July, I kicked the door open and started following the direction of the wind. I found myself that day on empty streets and paths moist with tears and rain, going through the pink sky at sunset and the smell of freshly picked grass. I was running after dreams and clouds to escape the offenses, looking for shelter from the fear of being and my almost teenage anger.
I then ran for a time that seemed endless, amid furtive and guilty kisses, Sundays devoted to feast and exclusive friendships sworn forever. I ran for boredom, futility and shame, chasing a scent of rebellion that didn't belong to us anymore.
I ran through my twenties, in the heart I was carrying one single memory always too close, and in the head eternal fantasies of freedom. I ran to the notes of an off pitch violin, to the verses of poems recited to the moon, dreaming of a romantic future that corresponded to my reality.
I ran alone and at night to escape ghosts and mirrors; I, whom no-one ever saw staying up late, was confusing and mixing this way darkness and dawn. I ran on ice in the winter to mask the cold coming up from within, and from my frozen lips I blew away insecurity and pride. I ran to forget, bury and forgive; I ran for redemption, devotion and renunciation.
Then one day I ran 26 miles in a row, my calves hardened by fatigue and my mind scared by the wall and concrete. I ran alone with a thousand people, fifteen years in a few steps through a handful of neighborhoods, and on that day I found myself at the finish line.

Diary of a pretending marathoner
New York, November 7th 2004




Granola
for 8 people

rolled oats 300 gr
sliced almonds 100 gr
pecan nuts (or walnuts, hazelnuts, cashews) 100 gr
dried coconut flakes 80 gr
dark brown sugar 60 gr
maple syrup 110 gr
light vegetable oil 40 gr
salt 1 teaspoon
raisins 125 gr

Roughly chop pecans. Mix them with oats, almonds, coconut and sugar. In a separate bowl, mix maple syrup, oil and salt. Pour wet ingredients over the nut mixture, and mix well.
Place granola on two baking sheets and bake at 250 for about 1 hour and 15 minutes, stirring frequently so that it gets a uniform color. Allow it to cool down, then add raisins.
It will keep for weeks in an airtight container; eat it with milk or yogurt, and/or fruit.




Granola is pure crunchy energy. Early in the morning it gives wings to your feet.
Word of a running wolf.
w.v.<3

Lemon Curd

Epiphany n.1: lemon curd is very good;
Epiphany n.2: lemon curd is very easy;
Epiphany n.3: lemon curd is very fast;
Epiphany n.4: lemon curd is already gone!!


Lemon Curd
for two small jars

eggs 3
sugar 3/4 cup (150 gr.)
lemon juice 1/3 cup (80 ml): you'll need 2 or 3 lemons, depending on their size
grated peel of one lemon
butter 4 tbsp (60 gr.)

Straight from The Joy Of Baking, with some changes to the process. Oh, what a lemon joy!

In a small saucepan over a lightly simmering water bath, melt butter with the lemon zest. Add sugar all at once, stir quickly until it's all well blended, then add the eggs, lightly beaten, and the lemon juice. Stir and continue to cook gently until the curd thickens. It will take about 15 to 20 minutes. Remove from heat and pour through a fine strainer to remove the lemon zest and any lumps. Cover with plastic wrap and let it cool.
It is said that lemon curd can last in the refrigerator for about 10 days....

PS: for those who were worried, just kiddin', my lemon curd is only "technically" gone. Don't touch it, as I've already decreed its end. Will find out in the next episode.

I wonder how, I wonder why
Yesterday you told me 'bout the blue blue sky
And all that I can see is just a yellow lemon tree.
(Fools Garden, Lemon Tree)

Homemade Cured Salmon

Ever thought of doing it yourself? Me neither, at least until two days ago, when, coming back from a Saturday in Big Sur and from the necessary stop at Big Sur Bakery, which I've already told you about, here, I've rediscovered this old friend. For the first time, glancing at the wonderful pictures and the unreproducible delicacies, I wasn't tempted by scones, cookies or any other sweet, but my eyes fell on the description of the process to make your own cured salmon. It's extremely easy, I'm sure if you try it you'll never let it go again. The only advice is that it doesn't last long, two weeks at the most, so it's better not to let it get out of hand and choose a piece of salmon of manageable size.

P.S: Sometimes it's really encouraging realizing that all those books on the shelves have a reason to be, you almost feel like going on with the collection for ever...
Now, I'd say we need a bagel. Or a nice Christmas Eve.


Homemade Cured Salmon

salmon fillet, skin on and no bones about 300 gr.
sea salt about 350 gr.
sugar 50 gr.
black peppercorns 1 tablespoon
fresh dill to taste

Crack the peppercorns in a mortar. Mix together salt and sugar and place half of the mixture on the bottom of a container large enough to hold the piece of salmon. Place salmon on top, skin side down, cover it with pepper and few dill sprigs and then pour the rest of the salt mixture on top of it, so that the fish is covered all over. Cover it with plastic wrap and keep in the fridge for 2-3 days.
Marinating time will depend on the thickness of the fillet. After two days, check for doneness: pressing it in the middle with your finger, it should feel pretty firm. Otherwise, leave it in the brine for one more day. Rinse salmon very quickly under water, to wash away salt, pat it dry with paper towels and slice it very thin.

In my extra-fluo version, I’ve paired it with purple potatoes, boiled and sliced, and I’ve dressed it with a simple caper sauce (capers, lemon juice and olive oil, mixed together in the mortar). But, as I mentioned before, it would be perfect on top of a nice bagel, toasted and spread with cream cheese, maybe even with a thin slice of red onion and a couple of capers…