Storia di una Luigina


Pugliese e geneticamente non modificata dalla sua decennale residenza abruzzese, La Luigina, donna di sinistra, avrebbe salvato questo paese se fosse rimasta militante di partito prima nell’Ulivo e dopo nel PD.

Ma la salentina, da un gruppo di amici stretti, anche chiamata Lulla, ha smesso da tempo i suoi stivaletti rossi, coi tacchi consumati dalle numerose manifestazioni alle quali costretto noi amiche a partecipare ai tempi dell’università, e con un perentorio “Ora basta” urlato al telefono tra Ginevra e l’Aquila, ha deciso che per l’Italia ci vorrebbe un miracolo della Madonna di Santa Maria di Leuca, alla quale lei ha acceso già fin troppe candele per poi vedersi rappresentata da Salvini.

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Amelia dreaming: Almond granita and crunchy zucchini flowers


I have been away for a while but I have a good excuse. I turned (eek!) 40 a couple of days ago and the viking organized a week long – indian wedding style – celebration to mark the milestone.

A surprise party on Wednesday was followed by a great dinner at one of the cosiest Japanese restaurants in Geneva, where he announced that we are going to Japan next year (heart, please, be still). The week-end we travelled to Annecy where we ate at the restaurant of Laurent Petit, a French chef awarded  two stars by the frightening Michelin Star Guide, who only cooks with local vegetables, herbs and fish; no meat.

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FOMD and octopus alla Luciana


If one day I am ever confronted with any sort of apocalyptic scenario and need to pick a small gang to bring to an island, D2 would be definitely on my list. Aside from being one of my best friends, the choice would also have critical survival implications since he’s much taller than the viking and I.

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Home alone and insalata di fagiolini



I am home alone. The viking travelled back to Norway to celebrate the wedding of a friend (Hurra Knut!). Tonight, the wind gently peaks from the open windows and the heat feels more like a reassuring hug rather than a ‘you shall faint now‘ arm choke.

I have been walking around the whole day and, after a couple of phone calls with friends I opened a bottle of cold Aligoté and started reading The Underground Railroad on my kindle. I could not focus on the book so I decided to water the plants.

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Cooking therapy and gallette aux tomates


Have you ever noticed, as the holidays approach, reality increasingly resembles the season finale of the walking dead?  It’s almost like the stars perfectly align with Saturn just to p**ss you off for free. Today, in the midst of a review of the office work plan, while I was trying to make sense of complete and utter chaos, a vein on my forehead started to pound and I seriously thought this might happen.

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Swordfish Roulade and the pains of plating


I need to make a confession: I am a sucker for cooking shows. I love them all, even those that have nothing to do with actual cooking and only explore the neurosis of Michelin star chefs. For some, cooking the perfect plate of food can become an unhealthy obsession. So much drama can be hidden in a crunchy pavlova or in an innocent caramel sauce.

I am, for instance, in a ‘complicated relationship’ with plating. I stubbornly practice with piping, I experiment with different textures and colors and I recently even bought a food tweezer. But then, I open this instagram account and my plating fantasies deflate like a chou pastry that I forgot to puncture.

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Estati inglesi e zucchine al forno

Anni e anni fa i miei decisero che dovevo imparare l’inglese. Ogni estate, per qualche settimana mi mandavano a studiare in Gran Bretagna. Ricordo il piacere della frescura di agosto, l’odore dell’erba umida, la necessità impellente di mettere un maglioncino di cotone, quel verde quasi neon che si scorgeva dall’ oblo’ dell’aereo quando in Calabria l’estate sapeva di giallo e polvere. L’Inghilterra era un regalo che puntuale arrivava ogni estate e mi salvava dai 40 gradi all’ombra.

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