Quinoa with Sauteed Spinach, Lemon and Ginger

Your house, being the place in which you read, can tell us the position books occupy in your life, if they are a defense you set up to keep the outside world at a distance, if they are a dream into which you sink as if into a drug, or bridges you cast toward the outside, toward the world that interests you so much that you want to multiply and extend its dimensions through books. To understand this, the Reader knows that the first thing he has to do is visiting the kitchen.
The kitchen is the part of the house which can tell more about you.
~ Italo Calvino, If on a winter's night a traveler



I walked into a trap. Yesterday I read these words, and, at the peak of my blogging vocation of these (maybe last) days of exile, I decided to borrow them to start a new post.
But then I had the feeling of being on a slippery slope, forced by myself to continue a conversation that doesn't bear comparison. I can't do it. I really prefer to drop them like that, these stolen phrases, silent but bulky, full and thick as snowflakes.
After all, what could be inferred from my kitchen that doesn't exist? It would be a disappointment. Perhaps you, Reader, you may think that my blog is all a bluff (as I keep repeating to anyone who gives me a little confidence...), and that in fact I really prefer spending time arguing with ghosts, piling pieces of wood and listening to the voice of things, especially the rusty and tired ones, rather than sharpening knives and shredding carrots for the soffritto. Because to be honest, I've never liked to prepare soffritto, with all that onion to be sliced amidst meaningless tears, and those vegetables to be cut at perfection, otherwise you'll be forever discredited by the Great Council of Soffritto-Makers.
What could be postulated from my strictly mismatched bowls, by that array of spices without hesitation that manage to make their way depending on the mood of the moment, by raw sugar and the inevitable handful of Manitoba flour, because you never know? I could also add, for those who want to investigate further, that in spite of myself I have a H.U.G.E. oven, a black and deep hole, turkey-proof, extremely disproportionate and embarrassing. Over time I've learned to get along with it and I've put his unsympathetic size to good use by turning it into a cupboard; if you, unfaithful Reader, if you could look into it, you'd see an indistinct stack of dark and broken trays, piled on top of each other with no sense, those unpolished and heavy trays that everything sticks on them and that not even Martha Stewart can use to bake cookies.
I also have a toaster, almost new but fake vintage style; many jars full of jam, usually red and with strawberries, of the simple kind, with pieces but without peppercorns, balsamic vinegar or other gimmicks. A deliciously unbloggable jam.
A tagine that I'd like to use more often, four large glass jars, accessible only by a ladder, full of molds for every form on earth: for Christmas cookies with honey and cinnamon, for Cannelés de Bordeaux and for filled ravioli that will never see the light. Pots hanging from the ceiling, mini cocottes in all the colors of spring, and only one futuristic concession to a shameful array of graters, long, thin and very sharp.
But there is no room for two, in my kitchen. There is not even a chair, let alone a table! There is neither a pantry nor a drawer, and the imperfect order of cookware, silverware, tools and gadgets is based on a very delicate balance, designed with fatigue and protected with pride.
What you could infer, dear Reader with a pitiless look, I can't really say. I thought about it, the whole evening and then an hour this morning with coffee. But my real kitchen is an imaginary space, "a dream into which I sink as if into a drug", a defense to get away from the world, asking the world to come with me.
So here it is, have a good spinachy quinoa you all.




Quinoa with Sauteed Spinach
with Lemon and Ginger
for 4-5 people

quinoa 250 gr
fresh baby spinach two big bunches
garlic 2 cloves
lemon 2
fresh ginger 1 piece
olive oil, salt, soy sauce as needed

Gently clean the spinach and remove the bigger stems. Heat a few tablespoons of oil in a large pan, fry the garlic cloves, peeled and cut in half, for two minutes, then add the cleaned spinach and cook them slightly. Season with lemon zest and grated ginger.
In the meantime, cook the quinoa in salted water, following the directions written on the package. Let it rest for a few minutes.
When ready, add it to the spinach and sauté for a minute, stirring and adding soy sauce or a pinch of salt to taste.
Serve warm.
w.v.<3

California Quinoa Salad

The paradox.
America.
So beloved, idolized, so desired, idealized, yet so vilified.
The imperialist America, the lonely, arrogant, bigot, militaristic. So contradictory, intrusive, nosy, a policeman, interventionist.
America so rude, liberistic, oppressive, insensitive and racist.
Stubborn, arrogant, capitalist; warmongering, too armed and a little fascist.
Say what you want.
But there is New York.
And there is San Francisco.
And if you put your foot in there, like a traitor lover you can forgive her everything, and love her nonetheless.





California Quinoa Salad*
for 4-5 people

quinoa 220 gr
water or vegetable stock 400 gr
red bell pepper, small 1
red onion, small 1/2
mango 1
edamame, net approx. 1 glass
sliced almonds 1 handful
cranberries 1 handful
lime 2
balsamic vinegar 4 tablespoons
cilantro, dried coconut flakes, salt, pepper to taste

Put water (or stock) and quinoa in a pot, bring to boil and cook over medium-low heat for about 15 to 20 minutes, until all the liquid has been absorbed.
Cook edamame in boiling water for 4 minutes, drain, shell and set aside. Meanwhile, finely chop the onion and cut bell pepper and mango into small cubes. Mix everything with the quinoa, adding the juice and zest of limes, almonds, cranberries (you can substitute them with raisins or dried cherries), balsamic vinegar, salt, pepper, minced fresh cilantro and a generous sprinkling of coconut flakes. Serve the salad cold or at room temperature.

*I put together this recipe inspired by a similar thing that I spotted at Whole Foods. I looked at the color, peeked at the ingredient list, and voila, my serenade to California.
.
w.v.<3

Pappa al Pomodoro (Tomato Bread Soup) with Grilled Eggplants, Black Olives (and Feta)

ma è meglio poi un giorno solo da ricordare
che ricadere in una nuova realtà sempre identica...

but it's better a single day to remember
than falling into a new reality that's always the same...
~ Francesco Guccini, Sirocco

It was a warm evening in August, the wet and deserted city populated only by tourists in love, tired old men and cats in search of masters. The two of us sat on the river bank to fiddle with our gaze; we were waiting for the wind and for something to change.
You had asked me to go back there, to that outdoor table where I looked at you the first time, tanned and shy with your veil of lipstick. Stifled by useless memories and legitimate fears, words and sentences remained suspended, motionless in the air dense of silence that had been gathering between us. There were one man and one woman too many, two lives already started and too big of a morality.
It was a warm evening in August, that night when we let ourselves grow up. We were still in love with each other in our own way, yet we no longer loved each other.


Pappa al Pomodoro*
with Eggplant, Black Olives (and Feta)
for 4

day old Tuscan bread 200 gr
ripe tomatoes 800 gr
garlic 4 cloves
tomato paste 2 tablespoons
eggplant, small 1
black olives 1 handful
crumbled feta 2-3 tablespoons
salt, pepper, olive olio, vegetable broth, basil as needed

Slice a shallow cross into the bottom of the tomatoes and place them in boiling water for a few minutes. Peel them and pass them through the mill. Cut bread into cubes. Sauté garlic cloves, peeled and lightly crushed, in a little olive oil, add a few basil leaves, and then the bread. Sauté for about 10 minutes until it takes on a beautiful amber color. Add the tomato puree, tomato paste (optional), salt, pepper and stir well. Cover with broth and cook over medium-low heat for about 30 minutes until the bread is reduced to a puree.
Meanwhile, cut the eggplant into slices, grill them on both sides and cut into small cubes. Pit and coarsely chop the olives. Serve the pappa al pomodoro garnishing each bowl with grilled eggplant cubes, a handful of chopped olives and a sprinkle of crumbled feta.
It goes without saying that feta is not approved by the vegan police. So then just forget it, and voila, wv <3, lunch is served.

*Room for a small self-celebration: the recipe above was published this month in the Corriere della Sera, in the section Racconti di Cucina (Tales from the Kitchen), along with three others of my recipes with tomatoes as the main star.
If you're curious, you can find the link to the newspaper's archive and read the main article of that page here. And in this regard, as if it were the night of the Oscars, I want to thank all those who have shown me great affection and who have posted and reposted the photo of the page on my facebook wall. Thank you!

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.

Green Gazpacho

I wanted to write a short story. The words are mine, the memory is of others. I hope you enjoy it.

My father, I still remember him with dirty hands, black as coal just like his curly hair, peaking flat and long under the cap. He used to put it on every morning after coffee, along with that curious flashlight on his forehead, which would brighten his job down in the earth's gut. When he walked out the house, he had the calm look of a wise old man and the proud stride of an eternal runner. He used to speak very little, in a hoarse voice and with a strong northern accent; he had blue eyes and was always dressed clean, with that green checkered shirt and its starched collar. Every evening, except on Good Friday, my birthday and the eve of European Soccer Cup, he met up with the others down at the pub, and talked with an open smile about his job at the mine and the reason why the Newkie Brown was the best beer in the world. Extroverted enough, he was courteous and tolerant of new ideas, even when he began getting entangled with obstinacy in the arguments of his politics, defending his teammates and the infinite strike of that sad winter of thirty years ago.
At that time I was attending Northgate Middle School, I wore my hair short and had biker boots with red laces, and I used to listen to the Ultravox indefinitely. I was twelve years old when he came home and said that's it, my dear, we're on strike. I didn't know why but I was afraid, I felt a change in the air that would destroy us.
It was a long and cold winter; he resisted until the end picketing hard in front of the mounted police, while my mother wrote poetry and sold hope at the flea market. That time at Christmas we couldn't wear ironed pants, and we received peas and canned meat as gift from our merciful neighbors.
I used to see her on TV with the hair in order and the inflexible look; she had called us enemies and I couldn't forgive her, blaming her for everything, the cold, the empty streets, the fights with our cousins. My father loved his dark helmet and everything he asked for was the honesty of a job to give us ideas, books and happiness. Seven years later, when people cheered shouting Maggie's gone, I wasn't able to join the party, because I knew that the rift between us was forever.
Today I listen to the news in the shyness of London spring, in front of an unlikely soup in a modern bistro, and I find myself in front of the same iron gaze just like I had left it in my memory. Dozens of posthumous and biased reports will be of no use, I already know that I won't watch them, those fake and glossy documentaries. I've lived it from within, in the coldness of months with no bread and no light, and I still have all the poems, the biker boots and the t-shirt. I didn't fully understand, but I was there to share the anger; and I know for a fact that since then, nothing has been as before.





Green Gazpacho*
for 6 people

celery 2 stalks
green bell peppers 2
peeled cucumbers 600 gr
stale bread 80 gr
toasted walnuts 130 gr
fresh green chili pepper 1
garlic 4 cloves
sugar 1 teaspoon
baby spinach 200 gr
fresh basil 1 big bunch
minced parsley 2 tablespoons
balsamic vinegar 4 tablespoons
olive oil 60 ml
coconut milk 3 tablespoons
water approx. 700 ml
ice 4-5 cubes
salt, pepper, croutons as needed

*I adapted the recipe from Plenty, by Yotam Ottolenghi, a well-known London chef. At times it appears on the menu of his restaurant in Notting Hill. And the book, between me and you, is a real treat.
Coarsely chop celery, bell peppers, cucumbers, bread, nuts, chili pepper and garlic. Process with a blender adding sugar, baby spinach, herbs, olive oil, vinegar, coconut milk, almost all of the water, ice, salt, and pepper. If necessary, add more water until you reach the desired consistency.
Serve with a drizzle of olive oil and toasted croutons.

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.

Spicy Roasted Cauliflower

Through your window
That's one way to see the world
Step outside and look back into
~ Dave Matthews Band, Drunken Soldier


I believe in the logic of spices, I have confidence in the pepper grains, the saffron threads and the cinnamon powder; I am a follower of the systematic of ginger and I subscribe to the philosophy of licorice. I give absolute power to tarragon, poppy seeds and savory, and I leave my legacy of human being to dill, vanilla and tamarind. I trust in spices because they represent the colors of the world; like a tram on the rainbow's tracks they carry us into the fantasies of another one's games, and save us from the starch of the uniforms and the gray of the clouds.

I love cumin because it has the flavor of the land, strong and deep-rooted as the origins of my memory, nostalgic and soft as a handful of tears drowned in a glass of grappa.
I love turmeric because it has a curious name and the warm color of midday sun; it protects from the sunburns of life and it favors happy unions.
I love paprika because it speaks of the East, of walls scary and strong like a plate of goulash, but that can be climbed without training with a simple strum to the chords of the heart.
I love garlic powder because it keeps nightly ghosts away, it fries out our fears, and it teaches to make friends with witches of every season.
I love peppercorns because they are round, perfect, and sometimes they even come in pink. They never go out of fashion, they infuse positive energy and foster loving dreams.

I love spices because every time is like the first time, with the unknown outcome, the intense flavor, and the promise to do it again, better and different.
I love spices because they stain your fingers and ruffle your kitchen, but they paint your days and brighten your cauliflowers. I love spices because they have the taste of freedom and speak to the future, they season the mind and soften the heart.





Spicy Roasted Cauliflower
for 4 people

cauliflower 2
extra-virgin olive oil 4-5 tablespoons
cumin, turmeric, paprika, garlic powder, salt, pepper
as needed
pine nuts 2 handfuls
mint, cilantro, lime juice as needed

Cut cauliflowers into florets, rinse and drain them. Drizzle with olive oil and spices to taste. Spread on a baking sheet and bake at 425 for about 30 or 40 minutes, until it is quite tender.
Add chopped mint and cilantro, the pine nuts toasted in a pan, and plenty of lime juice. Season with salt and pepper and serve.

With vegan love and absolute freedom of interpretation.

Blistered Padrón Peppers

Los pimientos de Padrón,
unos pican y outros non.

No offense, but I can certainly say I am lucky.
I realize it all of a sudden a Sunday morning in the middle of summer, while I walk around the stalls of a neighborhood farmers' market, still sleepy, and, between endless varieties of tomatoes - pink (!!!!!!), black, and cherry red - among Korean melons, Thai basil, tomatillos and lemongrass, between Chinese spinach and sweet potatoes, in the hands of a Mexican teenage boy to my own surprise I find these peppers, which I happened to taste for the first time spread on top of a deliciously sweet pizza, and then again cheesely lying on a bed of almond cream during one of those romantic evenings that smell of strawberries, basil, and illusions.
These pimientos de Padrón are a variety of small green chilies, typical of the region of Galicia. They are commonly served as a tapa in the local taverns, usually accompanied by a nice and refreshing cold beer. The characteristic that makes them appealing as well as famous, is the fact that some of them are harmless and sweet, others are intense and spicy, but it's impossible to know, since from the outside the two varieties look exactly the same.
For this reason, someone said that our peppers are like a Russian roulette, sweet or pungent, you never know what will happen. Any bite could be fatal, and hit you like a super hot puncture.
Me, I'd rather think that they are just like the Alpine sky on an August afternoon, mysterious and unpredictable, a minute before it's warm and blue, and then suddenly it becomes arrogant, brash, and stormy.
Or, if you excuse me, I'd rather say that these small pimientos are just like the night, like all those sleepless nights that are sometimes sweet, sometimes bold and violent. Not sure what to prefer, but in the end you don't even have to choose.
Why try to prefer one over the other when you can have both? Just let yourself go with trust, surrender to their temptress and illusory tenderness, and let each bite surprise you with such elusive goodness.

Blistered Padrón Peppers
quantities are variable, depending on the hunger of diners

Padrón peppers
extra-virgin olive oil
fleur de sel
lemon juice

Shamelessly and blatantly a non-recipe. But trust me, the best way to enjoy these adorable pimientos - lucky me - is also the simplest in the world.
Heat some extra-virgin olive oil in a heavy skillet, wash the peppers, pat them dry, and add them to the pan, whole. Let them cook thoroughly over medium-high heat until they soften and darken on both sides.
Pull out from the back of your pantry your most precious salt, and use a generous handful to flavor the pimientos. If you like - I do, for sure - add also some fresh lemon juice.
Accessorize with a glass of beer and possibly with a nice and sunny afternoon.

Roasted Baby Eggplants

Roasted eggplants comeback. Only, this time a little tinier, rounded and softer.
While searching for raspberries at the farmers' market, I instead let myself get swept away by this avalanche of purple tenderness.
Honey. Olive oil. Chilies. Salt and pepper. Thirty minutes in the oven and they win you over.



You understand me?

Jicama, Pineapple and Mint Salad

Longing for summer? YesYesYesYesYesYesYesSYesYesYesYesssssss!


Jicama, Pineapple & Mint Salad
for 4

jicama, medium size 2
fresh pineapple 4-5 slices, about 1/2 inch thick
shallot 1
lime 3
chili pepper, a Thai one, if possible 1
salt, fresh mint as needed

If you don't know jicama, you could:
a) read here, and here;
b) try to imagine a tuber similar in shape and color to a large, flattened potato, with the not-so-subtle difference that your jicama is best eaten raw, and what's more, it is sweet, crisp, and refreshing like an apple.
Jicama is grown widely in Mexico and Central America, where it is often consumed as an antidote to summer heat, cut into sticks and simply seasoned with chili, salt, and lime juice. Humbly good and refreshing.

Today, however, instead of sticks, I cubified it. How did that story go, about changing the order of the factors...? Or something like that, ah here, I think they say that despite everything, the result doesn't change. Sticks, fillets, cubes or parallelepipeds, who cares? Try it. Rain (worse) or shine (better), jicama won't let you down.

As for the so called recipe, simply peel the applepotato jicama and cut it into small cubes along with the slices of pineapple; mince the shallot, squeeze the limes, remove the seeds from the chili pepper and chop it fine (maybe try to remember washing your hands after touching the seeds and before rubbing your eyes), mix everything well in a pink, green or blue bowl, season with a pinch of salt and quite a bit of freshly chopped mint... and today also we can breathe a sigh of relief.

Photo (Satur)Day: Turnip

One sunny Saturday. At the Farmers' market.

Baked Fennel With Orange, Pine Nuts and Raisins

This post - I admit - should have been the last entry of Citrus Week, which against all odds ended after three, pathetic, episodes.
But what can I do? Do you know how many impediments are there for a poor foodblogger? Error, conditio, photos, cognatio, etc ... etc ...
WHL (= What a Hard Life).


Baked Fennel
with Orange, Pine nuts & Raisins
for 4-5

fennel 2
orange, large 1
raisins, pine nuts 1 handful each
salt, pepper, olive oil, fennel greens, bread crumbs

Clean fennels, cut them in half and slice them not too thin. Season with salt, pepper, olive oil and the juice of the orange, and set aside. Toast pine nuts in a nonstick pan for a few minutes. Mix few tablespoons of bread crumbs with the chopped fennel greens and grated orange zest.
Grease a baking sheet with a little olive oil and sprinkle the bottom with bread crumbs. Make a layer with the prepared fennel, pour half of the liquid over it, sprinkle with pine nuts, raisins and more bread crumbs. Cover with the rest of the fennel and the remaining juice, another handful of pine nuts, plenty of bread crumbs and sprinkle with olive oil (don't put the raisins on top because they'll burn and become bitter).
Bake at 400 for about 45-60 minutes until the fennel is tender. If it starts browning too much while baking, cover the pan with aluminum. Serve warm, even better if the next day.