Focaccia with Figs, Onion and Walnuts

This is my alternative to darkness, fear, nostalgia, pride, sadness with no destination, the rain, the uncertainty, unanswered questions, expired passports, grammar mistakes, Texas, the camping out for the latest iPhone, the latest iPhone, songs by Pupo, headache, heartache, knee bruises, tight shoes, high-heeled shoes, fur-lined shoes, November, answering machines, pale tomatoes, sauce stains, cold feet, watered down coffee, overcooked pasta, withered flowers, Wi-Fi with password, train strikes, pizza with pineapple, D in the report card, a sold out show, the end of the book, queues at the supermarket, rosé wine.
Two figs and a focaccia and let's not talk about it anymore.




Focaccia with Figs, Onion and Walnuts
for two baking dishes of 8x12 inches

For the dough
type O flour 500 gr
lukewarm water approx. 275 gr
fresh brewer's yeast 10 gr
salt 10 gr
olive oil 1 tablespoon

For the toping
red onion 1
sugar 1 tablespoon
walnuts 1 handful
fresh figs 10-12
salt, pepper, olive oil as needed

The dough is the same that I used here, the recipe comes from the Simili sisters, do I need to add anything else?
In a bowl, dissolve the yeast with some of the water, add a little bit of flour, 1 tablespoon of olive oil, salt, and then the remaining flour and the rest of the water in two batches, alternating them and always beating the dough. Place it on the work surface and knead for 7-8 minutes, put it back in the bowl greased with oil, and let it double in size (it'll take about two hours).
Place it back on the work surface, divide the dough in half, form two loaves and place them on the baking dishes lined with parchment paper. Let them rest for another 15 minutes, then flatten them with a short rolling pin and the palm of your hand until they cover the bottom of the pan almost completely. Let rise for 30 minutes.
Meanwhile, peel the onions, slice them thin, season with a tablespoon of olive oil and a tablespoon of sugar, salt and pepper, and roast them for a few minutes under the grill. Cut figs in half and coarsely chop the walnuts.
Spread the figs and the onion on the surface of the focaccias. Push the tip of your fingers into the dough, forming deep imprints until you touch the pan, drizzle with 3 tablespoons of olive oil beaten with 3 tablespoons of water, and plenty of salt. Let them double again (this will require about an hour and a half). Bake at 390 for 25-30 minutes. Ten minutes before they're ready, sprinkle with the walnuts kept aside.
w.v.<3

Focaccia with Grapes and Rosemary

A wise man once to the question "Who or what are we?", answered: we are the sum of everything that has happened before us, everything that has happened before our eyes, everything that has been done to us; we are every person, every little thing whose existence has influenced us or which we have influenced with our lives; we are everything that happens after we no longer exist, and what would not have happened if we had never existed.
~ From the movie Almanya - My family goes to Germany
Yasemin Şamdereli, Germany 2011


When was the last time I saw you passing by, tanned and seductive, wearing those freckles and the wonder for life? I still remember your black hair, tied together against the wind, your colorful floral dress, fresh of summer and ingenuity, and your sandals already tight and from other times.
I was leaving towards the North, to chase a wealth that we had never had: a job that would last tomorrow, the security of a future, warm hands, two pennies and fatigue. I was looking for you in my mind, so beautiful in your twenties, while I slowly savored the sadness, so heavy and shiny, that September day that I left.
Two generations consumed among people who didn't really belong to us, who were looking at us awry and indifferent, between cold and foreign colors and horizons, strong perfumes yet devoid of memories. My father, locked up in his pride, never talked about it; the past was almost a shame that he seemed to have left behind, and yet it was all still there, asleep in the silence of his dark and sad eyes: the carts pushed by hand during harvest, the rise with the baskets on the shoulders, the grape must, the barrels, the bare feet and the cheer.
To me, sunsets and long summer days were enough: I'd close my eyes and I'd find the faces, I'd listen to those voices already distant and I'd feel alive again within the memory of their warm smiles. But tell me now, girl of that time, tell me now how your life went. I came back today among my poor people, hunting for what I can't find anymore. Roads, trees, houses and streams, everything always the same, and then, why so different? The stones, the streets, the names and the squares, I've cradled them inside, I've polished, protected and loved them in the sweet shell of my fantasies; I pretended they were my happiness, yet now that I'm so close, I don't recognize them anymore.
I brought you this flower as a gift, the red rose that I'd never given you. Only you, girl of that time, now that you're gone forever, only you are here for me to stay, that laugh with the eyes open and that life that was not.




Focaccia with Grapes and Rosemary
for 8 people

flour 400 gr
fresh brewer's yeaast 20 gr
water approx. 225 gr
salt 1 pinch
Concord grapes 1 kg
sugar, extra virgin olive oil, rosemary as needed

Dissolve yeast in lukewarm water and knead with flour, salt, 3 tablespoons of sugar and 3 tablespoons of olive oil until you get an elastic ball, smooth and homogeneous. Place in a bowl, cover with a cloth and let rise for about 1 hour and a half.
In the meantime, arm yourself with holy, holy patience, rinse the grapes and remove the seeds. (Yes, sorry).
Spread 2/3 of the dough on a greased pan lined with parchment paper, spread 2/3 of the grapes on top, sprinkle with sugar and finely chopped rosemary, and then drizzle with a little oil. Cover with the rest of the dough, fold and seal the edges, and then spread the rest of the grapes on the surface, dress with 2 tablespoons of sugar and a little oil. Bake at 360 for about 45 minutes.
If you wish, sprinkle with powdered sugar.
w.v.<3

Prune Blueberry Jam with Rosemary

Above us only sky
~ John Lennon, Imagine

Somewhere I read that if we lay down on the grass every night for ten minutes to really contemplate the sky and the stars, many of our problems would vanish like soap bubbles burst in the air, and the whole world would take little by little a different turn.

This has little or nothing to do with the jam, but it seemed too beautiful to not say it. And then I thought for real about this thing, and the first occasion in which I found a meadow with stars in my hands, I wanted to try it for myself, and I decided to share it like this, in my own way.

Prune Blueberry Jam
with Rosemary
for 6-7 medium size jars

prunes, net 1 kg e 1/2
blueberries 1 kg
sugar 850 gr
lemons 3
rosemary 2 sprigs

Wash the prunes, remove the pit and cut in pieces. Add 500 gr of sugar, the juice of two lemons and mix well. Rinse blueberries and mix them with the rest of the sugar and the juice of one lemon. Cover and let macerate the fruit separately overnight in the refrigerator.
The next day, cook over medium heat, separately, until the jams reach the desired consistency (blueberries may need less time than prunes, especially if the latter are a bit watery).
About half an hour before they're set, mix the jams together and add the sprigs of rosemary, whole. Finally, discard rosemary and pour the jam when still hot into previously sterilized glass jars. Seal them with their lid and boil in water for about 20 minutes to form the vacuum.

Tomato Peach Bruschetta

summer's here to stay
and those sweet summer girls
will dance forever...
~ DMB, Dive In

What could be better than bread and tomato under the sunlight?
Bread, peaches and tomatoes.
Trust me, I take full responsibility.




Tomato Peach Bruschetta
for 4

yellow peaches 2
cherry tomatoes 10-15
balsamic vinegar 3 tablespoons
extra virgin olive oil 3 tablespoons
garlic 3-4 cloves
salt, pepper, fresh basil to taste
country bread slices

Peel the peaches and cut them in small cubes. Mix them with the cherry tomatoes, rinsed and cut into quarters, season with salt, pepper, olive oil, balsamic vinegar and chopped fresh basil. Cover and let rest for at least an hour.
Toast the bread in the oven for a few minutes, and then brush it still warm with the peeled garlic cloves. Spread bruschetta over the bread slices, sprinkle again with some basil and serve immediately.

Grilled Peach Panzanella

... tanto doveva prima o poi finire lì
ridevi e forse avevi un fiore
ti ho capita, non mi hai capito mai

... sooner or later it had to end there
you were laughing and maybe you had a flower
I understood you, you've never understood me
~ Roberto Vecchioni, Lights at San Siro

Do you remember? Remember when we were twenty? I know what you'll say, with that slow, misty stroke of sadness that has been hitting us for hours: you'll say that now you're feeling it as well, all that nostalgia that you didn't understand back then and yet easily blamed me for. Do you realize instead, today, the way it makes your voice shiver and your gaze drop? And the way it makes you smile a little, because this whole encounter looks like a tedious cliché, an honest déjà vu, a movie that is narrated by others, that's already been lived, suffered and sung.
And you knew, I'm sure, that our talking now would go into reverse gear. Because what you're doing now, what you did yesterday or how was your life ten months ago, that doesn't matter to me, and I already know it. I imagined it all well back then, in our time together: to you everything seemed already written, in your words, in your studies and in the clippings you were accumulating from newspapers; you, so determined to stalk reality, while, with my uncertain future, I'd waste days interrogating mirrors, looking in vain for a response at the intersections and inside the pockets of randomness.
But remember? Remember when we walked together that night at the end of summer, drunk just right? From the boredom of a party we found ourselves in a dream, holding hands, walking around those reflections amidst the scent of an unexplored lake, forever ours. And then, all those times when you kept laughing at me when I said I'd rather die like Francesca, sinful and in love, rather than find myself one day trapped in the spectrum of everyday life.
Remember? Remember when you said that's enough, and the illusion of eight years crumbling between our hands, one love slipping away and a mystery still open. We've often asked ourselves what's left of what we had, and perhaps we can grasp the answer only tonight, in a slow and silent hug, hidden in the fog of a new, far-off city.
I was walking by; I know, it's been so long, how are you? I, yes, sorry, I thought that maybe we could... dinner, a walk, only a coffee; just like that, to talk a little.
It's eight o'clock, it's still light outside of this bistro. I'll make the order, trust me for once. You go ahead, I'll listen.



Grilled Peach Panzanella
for 4 people

yellow peaches 2
rustic bread 2 thick slices
cherry tomatoes 600 gr
arugula as needed
shallot 1
lemon 1
honey 3 tablespoons
olive oil, balsamic vinegar, salt, pepper, basil as needed

Brush bread slices with olive oil and grill them on both sides. Mix honey with olive oil and balsamic vinegar, drizzle over sliced peaches and cook them on the grill about a minute each side. Cut bread in pieces, mix them with cherry tomatoes, cut in half, and thinly sliced shallots. Drizzle with olive oil, vinegar, lemon juice, salt, pepper, and chopped basil, and let stand at least one hour. Before serving, add arugula and grilled peach slices.

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.

Cherry Sangria

Farewell, non pensarci e perdonami
se ti ho portato via un poco d'estate
con qualcosa di fragile come le storie passate...

Farewell, don't think about it and forgive me
if I took away from you a little bit of summer
with something as fragile as past love stories...
Francesco Guccini, Farewell

We had fallen in love in front of bottomless sangria amidst the warm scent of a June evening, blinded by a perfect moon, shiny and round, sad but without melancholy. It was a bet made for fun, a walk at sunset, and the innocent music of a dinner improvised on the floor.
Now I don't know anymore, if it was really happiness, that thing shining at the bottom of the glass. If it was an illusion, I loved it anyways, because it was sweet and intoxicating, a fragile dream that charmed us with its red cherry aroma and the cozy tenderness of a meadow in spring.
Time has cheated us, dragging away our own reality as a soap bubble in the middle of a storm. Still, the languid flavor of memories remains, as well as this glass of sweetness that dazzles and confuses me, just like then.

Cherry Sangria*
for 6 people

red wine 1 bottle
freshly squeezed orange juice 1 glass
cinnamon 2 sticks
brandy 100 ml
Grand Marnier 40 ml
Cointreau 40 ml
agave syrup 3-4 tablespoons
cherries as needed

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.

Vegan Apple Cake with Corn Flour

What's left to say about apple pie? Does it make sense to talk about it one more time, and pull out yet another version, different and always the same, when we've already used pages over pages of the blogosphere in its honor, and we've already emptied wagons full of cyber-praises in perpetual memory of it? After years of glorious dipping, do we really need to remind ourselves that not only it still exists, the stoic and fragrant Countess of the five o'clock tea, the soft Queen of breakfast latte, but it also wins the challenge against the sophistry of modern snacks thanks to its moving and unwavering simplicity?
The answer - I think - is all here, in the sincere and soft scent that has inundated my closet kitchen, while I was desperately trying to find a reason and make sense of this post.
So I realize that apple cake needs no justification, whether you like it or not it's like a scrapbook, always nice to browse and always ready to welcome an extra page. Each one has its own, with their personal stories, their grandmother and their summer afternoons; but when you look at the group photos with all the classmates, the snapshots taken at six year old, or the portraits of tanned and light faces under the August sky, as if by magic, in those looks, poses and smiles you'll find the same questions full of certainties, one big illusion flashing in those unsuspecting eyes.
Apple cake speaks a universal language, be it vegan, à la mode or American pie, with its vintage postcard's look and its cozy and pleasant scent; it gathers geographies and generations inside the same ampoule of peace, it surrounds the heart and the mind with the same warm and sincere illusion.
There will never be an end to apple cakes; as thoughts full of sense and mutually enriching, they are coming one after the other eternally separated by a semicolon. After an apple cake you can't put a period, let alone start a new paragraph; apple cake is like spring that returns always new to warm your guts, even if you leave an empty line in the middle.
And so this end of April of mine, without apology and without a reason, is just another apple cake with a semicolon at the end, different but luckily a little bit the same as before, and it adds to the list, to the end of the thought that goes on, it's another page no longer empty in the universal album of memories.




Vegan Apple Cake
with Corn Flour and Olive Oil
for a round cake pan of 9" diameter

type 0 flour 250 gr
fine ground corn flour 180 gr
corn starch 70 gr
sugar 200 gr
salt 1 pinch
soy yogurt 300 gr
olive oil 170 gr
lemon 1
baking powder 16 gr (1 small satchel)
raisins 80 gr
rice milk (or soy, or oat) approx. 1/2 glass
apple 1
cane sugar, cinnamon, powdered sugar to taste

Soak raisins in milk for a few minutes, drain and set aside. Beat yogurt with sugar, a pinch of salt and the lemon zest until there are no more lumps. Combine and sift together flours, baking powder, and cornstarch, and gradually stir them in, alternating the addition of olive oil and enough milk so that the dough gets soft but firm enough to drop heavily from the spoon. Add the raisins and mix. Peel the apple, cut it into thin slices and sprinkle them with lemon juice. Pour the batter into the baking pan, previously greased and dusted with flour, arrange the apple slices on top, and sprinkle lightly with brown sugar mixed with a little cinnamon.
Bake at 360 for about an hour, or until a toothpick inserted in the middle comes out clean. Allow the cake to cool off, then dust the surface with powdered sugar

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.

Orange Honey Marmalade

There are things that it may be better to do alone (although to be honest I can't think of any, or maybe cuddling the cat, so to have him all for yourself? But even in this case there's room for discussion...), and others for which it is best to have a co-pilot. Going to the amusement park, crying over a broken love affair, playing darts or hide and seek, eating a fiorentina steak or making a toast to the new year: these are all experiences that call for a navigator. Call it what you want, strolling buddy, coffee break friend, or co-pilot, his job remains the same. He is the one who cushions your falls, doubles the fun, and endorses the emotions; a happiness amplifier and a compass to not get lost, depending on needs and circumstances.
Making jam is one of them, a ritual so nostalgic, sleek and intoxicating that having a co-pilot becomes essential. To make jam you need a ladle companion, a friend with the easy smile who keeps track of how many times you've blanched the peels, or turns the spoon for you when you need a break for the usual photo; one that is moved as much as you when the house is filled with dense, tart and sweet aromas, and that while waiting for his turn just sits listening in silence, but with the heart always on alert. The co-pilot may not be an expert in jam, but if it is too bitter he'll tell you loud and clear and perhaps in exchange he'll offer a soft candy or a jar of roasted hazelnuts.
The orange marmalade co-pilot is also who tastes it with you, the next day, on a slice of toast for breakfast, watching the snow and dreaming of spring; or who gives you a recipe like this to share its bittersweet magic. An unexpected friend, found after years wandering around familiar paths, one of those who could teach you again how to ride a bike and whom you could count on for a spare battery. With him you can run on the grass screaming your favorite song out of tune, or lie down and watch the clouds breathing clean air in silence; he is made for walking together on winter afternoons, and then returning home to share jars and recipes with no fear of having done something wrong.





Orange Honey Marmalade
for 4 jars

organic oranges 1,500 gr
honey (orange blossom, acacia, millefiori)
750 gr

With a potato peeler or a sharp knife, remove the outer part of the orange rind, leaving out the white portion. Cut into thin slices and blanch in boiling water for 10 min. Drain and repeat two more times, always changing the water.
Peel the oranges to the flesh, remove seeds and thin membrane and cut them into pieces. Cook for about 10 minutes in a large pot, and then add the softened rinds and honey. Cook over medium heat, stirring frequently, until jam reaches the desired consistency. Pour it in glass jars and sterilize them as usual.


Before even finishing typing the recipe and definitely before publishing it into the world, I spountaneously hand myself over to the vegan police and confess my crime. For those who don't know, honey is not vegan, and I commit sin, BIG TIME! But since the world began, every rule has its exception, and my vegan world - for now - has three. One of these is called honey, the other two - for now - I'll leave it to you to guess.

And finally, badabum badabum, I inform you with great pleasure that this recipe marks the beginning of my collaboration with the magazine NB - Nero su Bianco, a monthly publication of news, culture and opinions directly from that beautiful town of mine, wedged between rose mountains, shooting stars and endless skies, queen of hearts Cortina d'Ampezzo.
If you're not shy, I leave you the link and my blessing to take a look at their facebook page. I like!