Pane, burro e marmellata (lavender apricot jam with edible flowers)

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English below

All’approcciarsi del mese di agosto, quello che in inverno viene convenientemente lasciato il un cassetto a fare la muffa al pensiero di ‘Ma si, tanto c’è tempo‘, ritorna a prendere posto sul suo trono estivale, come un incubo che ti si siede sulla schiena mentre tu tenti di prendere sonno. Ed è proprio mentre ti rigiri tra le lenzuola, tra le undici e mezza e mezzanotte, che un pensiero ardito prende forma e, il desiderio di condivisione è cosi’ forte che decidi di svegliare il vikingo che ti respira beato accanto con un: “Ora basta! Domani mattina mi sveglio alle sei per fare sport.

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Home alone and insalata di fagiolini

 

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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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The joys of pasta

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When I was younger I was not a big fan of pasta. I could still finish a 1 kg Fiorentina t-bone steak (Medium rare, please) and eat two-three servings of wild boar stew that had bubbled for hours on a stove and literally melted in your mouth; but pasta left me unimpressed. Lately my taste buds are experiencing a copernican revolution because I would eat pasta even for breakfast. Which, incidentally, is one of the best cures for hangovers.

If  the French have a cheese for every day of the year, Italians follow their european cousins with a similar number of shapes for their pasta.*

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Cooking therapy and gallette aux tomates

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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

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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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