The dude’s 35th Birthday last week

devil’s chocolate cake

and sandwiched in between,

a small pot of homemade raspberry jam

and raspberries.

I highly recommend Nigella Lawson’s Kitchen

We were in Catania that night. A and P and I went checking out the nightlife. The café’s there are all bars where you can get just about anything. The bartender gave us a lesson in Italian: cafè corretto is a shot of espresso “corrected” with a shot of liquor. He was so excited we were eager to learn he started bringing food to the table – pastries filled with prosciutto and cheese, and peanuts and crisps. We had cold Moretti’s (thank god you can get them here in Little Italy) to wash down the espresso.

I’ve never had such amazing olives. It was like I’d never eaten an olive in my life until I ate them there. We went to this pizzaria, a very casual simple place, I had pasta norma (which I had practically all week, pasta, tomato, eggplant, fresh basil, parmigiano, that’s it), and they gave us a plate of olives, oh my goodness marinated in I don’t know what. I took a picture of them, but after eating half the plate.

Cannoli in Trapani. The others walked ahead and I dragged A into the cafè del corso. All the way down to the bar were pastries dressed to the nines behind glass. Eros Ramazotti playing, me singing to A’s embarassment (which would have been fine if I could sing). Classic Italians in trench coats and hats, sunglasses, joking around drinking espresso as usual. And there’s my cannolo all wrapped up.

4th Anniversary, Trinity Bellwoods Park,

fresh Italain bread, Sicilian pesto from Festival

crema di peperoncino from holiday in Sicily,

cured olives, grilled asparagus

sliced vine tomoatoes, sliced mozzarella ball, olive oil balsamic, salt, pepper

spiced genoa salami, medium boiled egg, cucumber

bottle prosecco, strawberry shortcake.

Margaret Atwood keeping watch.

curly lettuce

Whole Foods blackened chicken salad

peeled english cucumber wedges

roma tomato wedges

spring onion on the diagonal

squeeze of lemon

nicoise olives

soft boiled egg on the side

leftover baguette chunks, toasted in olive oil, red pepper flakes, garlic slivers, oregnao, parsley

hunks of blue, brie and oka cheese

drizzle olive oil

splash balsamic

**note: soft boiled egg + home-made garlicky croutons = YUM

curly lettuce

roma tomatoes

english cucumber

boiled egg

green onion

dill

nicoise oilves

squeeze of lemon

leftover baguette made garlicky, hot pepper, oregano croutons

sun dried tomatoes

blue, oka, and brie

lotsa olive oil

balsamic

YUM

]]> http://strawberrysnail.com/2010/07/summer-supper/feed/ 3 http://strawberrysnail.com/2010/06/shrimp-in-the-summer/ http://strawberrysnail.com/2010/06/shrimp-in-the-summer/#comments Mon, 14 Jun 2010 14:55:43 +0000 admin http://therese.neelands.net/?p=948

shrimp salad with peameal bacon

mixed greens tossed lightly in vinigrette

crispy fried peameal bacon

juicy shrimps tossed in homemade garlicky barbeque sauce.

]]> http://strawberrysnail.com/2010/06/shrimp-in-the-summer/feed/ 0 http://strawberrysnail.com/2010/06/breakfast-a-very-good-idea/ http://strawberrysnail.com/2010/06/breakfast-a-very-good-idea/#comments Tue, 08 Jun 2010 18:28:51 +0000 admin http://therese.neelands.net/?p=944

Breakfast

A little while ago, Andrew challanged his mum to barbeque thick slices of peameal bacon. It was really good.

We decided to try it on our own.

It was a very good idea.

Five Quarters of the Orange by Joanne Harris

Five Quarters of the Orange by Joanne Harris is filled with food. I’ve never read (gasp!) Chocolat (yet!), but I imagine that it was also filled with food, although of the sweeter kind. Five Quarters starts out sweet, then almost half way, gets dark and then darker and then a little mysterious. It’s about pleasure and repression. About family feuds past and present, innocence and experience, guilt, lies, and bold, fiesty hearts.

The writing is the best part. It’s simple but sumptuous and very real. And goes deliciously well with a stack of home made chocolate chip walnut cookies.

Chocolate Chip Walnut Cookies (not to be eaten with lemons)

'Eat, Pray, Love' by Elizabeth Gilbert

Una Buona Forchetta. That used to be me. Una buona forchetta means ‘a good fork’, or ‘a good eater’. I’ve always been una buona forchetta, despite my tiny little bones and tiny little chicken legs (the stick part of the chicken leg, not the juicy thigh or drumstick, even). When I was a little kid, my big sister would sit beside me at the dinner table and stare at the mound of food on my plate. Then her big eyes would travel up to my scrawny elbows and then to my face which was busy getting right down to it, to the meal at hand. Then she would say, “You know, you don’t have to eat all that”. And I would say, while happily savoring, “Ya, I know”, and lick my plate.

I love food. I love real, Italian food. Whenever I’m hungry, I have waking dreams of sitting in an Italian restaurant in Rome, luxuriously eating and drinking wine for four hours over good conversation. I think the Italians have got it right. When I hear mothers complain about slaving away in the kitchen for hours and the family sits down at the table, gulps, and dashes, I want to cry.

But lately, I haven’t been able to eat. I haven’t been able to savor. Indeed, I have lost my apetite. Every time I’m hungry, I sit down to a delicious meal in anticipation. Now this will be it, I say. I will relish this, it will be satisfying, my heart and my stomach will be content and my plate empty. I take two bites, and I’m full, and I can’t taste a thing.

I know what this is. It’s called ‘Stress’. But it’s not the Stress that I’m stressing about, it’s the inability to enjoy a meal that’s got me worried and a bit out of wack. This morning, after a cozy read in bed during a thunderstorm, I thought, what could be a better idea than cooking up a plate of soft, silky, pale yellow scrambled eggs? (With a couple slices of tomatoes, a drizzle of olive oil and a sprinkle of salt and pepper, toast, and lots of butter, of course. Oh, and a mug of rich, dark coffee). I took my time with the eggs, as one is supposed to. Eggs are un-born babies and need to be treated delicately in any form of cooking.  Folding, stiring, with the lightest of touches. I turned them on to my plate, and licked my fingers. I slowly brought the fork to my mouth, and sighed. Now these eggs, I said, are LOVE. They were delicious.

Two bites more, and I was done. Sigh.

I am currently reading ‘Eat, Pray, Love’ for the second time. I figure it will help me remember how to de-stress, stretch, meditate, find my place again, and enjoy a meal. Elizabeth Gilbert has now taken me to Rome, and I am eating up the words, if not my scrambled eggs. For now, she is reminding me to take care of myself.