Tag Archives: farmers’ market

Yellow and Green/ Run, Don’t walk.

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It was a sunny morning in Rome yesterday, and I woke up before the alarm went off. I opened the shutters onto the street, looked at the day, and I heard myself say to my six year old son: “Time to get uuUP! It’s a beautiful sunny day!” My voice was false, with a thin veneer of cheer,  but I think I tricked him. In reality I was a flat plane of arid land, nothing growing on it, nothing on the horizon. What was I looking forward to- what did I care about that day? This sunshine was better than the grey clouds of the day before, but I felt nothing.

After dropping my son at the school busstop on the edge of the Tiber river, I walked the round about way into Trastevere by going uphill on via Garibaldi and looping back down into the piazza san Cosimato. It’s a good little wake-up walk and helps me process my thoughts. Also, this is the most quiet route and I couldn’t bear the nuisance of having cars driving up behind me on narrow streets.  At the piazza I looked briefly at the market stalls without stepping close enough for anyone to speak to me.  I saw the gorgeous artichokes and thought about how much work would be involved in trimming them, and how I ought to feel inspired but instead I just felt dull, stupid and hopeless. I went into a pasticceria and drank a blood orange spremuta at the bar- it wasn’t as good as usual. I began walking home-  I passed my husband, G, outside the Settimiano arch as he was on his way to scout a location to show his architecture students and I noticed he was scowling a little, and had bags under his eyes. I wondered what I looked like to him, caught off-guard as I had been, out in the neighborhood with my morning face on, brewing my own inner storm. Ten minutes later I was in our apartment and in bed. It was not yet nine o’clock. I curled up into a ball and thought about how miserable I was, how exhausted.  I fell asleep.

I woke up and I thought: please don’t let it be really, really late. But when I looked at my phone it said 11:48.  I made tea and sat at my desk, and tried to look busy when G opened the door at 12, saying: do you want to go have lunch? I’m hungry! I didn’t tell him I hadn’t eaten breakfast yet. I said yes, and stalled him until the dizziness of excessive sleep had cleared.  I knew going out for lunch when I was still half asleep was better than staying home alone. I’m familiar enough with this state, and it scares me; I’m not sure I can trust myself to stay floating above its slimy, black depths. So even if I ‘m not ready for lunch right now, lunch is where I’ll go. Call it self-preservation, a survival instinct-  after all, it has been shown that I’ve got one.  Didn’t I outrun that car, make a split-second switch of direction, too close to call, too rapid to pull my boys with me?  What would have happened had I been quick-witted enough to yank Lucian’s hand, and he had run with me, stayed with me? His little brother would have followed him, as always, and they’d both be fine.  RUN!

But I didn’t. And now here we are, limping along, like a three-legged dog.

So I went out for lunch yesterday at a place I should have known better than to go to; my judgement was impaired.  After eating we couldn’t wait to escape, to get away from all the tourists who surrounded us.  But before I went home I had to pick up something for dinner, so I retraced my steps… The market vendors were packing up, but a few crates of produce remained. Young zucchini with their flowers attached looked fresh, and I was suddenly decisive. Then I asked for a lemon: un bel, said the lemon man, tossing a plump one onto his scale.  I bought loose eggs from a basket too. After that it was clear to me what to do: I turned around and walked to the cheese counter, where I bought fresh, creamy ricotta.

Just the thought of lemon zest, ricotta, eggs, and zucchini made me smile inside.  Something bright and cheery would be good.  A frittata for dinner … I know the one who’s gone wouldn’t have eaten it, but I think his brother will.  It won’t ask too much of me and it will feed us well.

This is what I think about while I watch slices of zucchini sizzle in the sauté pan:

What do I say to my little boy if he asks again at bedtime: can you please bring Lucian home so I can give him a hug? Will his eyes be closed?  Will he look like himself? I just want to give him a hug.

I toss the zucchini just a bit before adding their flowers and pouring in the eggs and ricotta. I use the cheese grater for lemon zest and parmesan and scatter them straight into the pan- it all smells so good. I don’t have a broiler to finish this so I have to flip the frittata, sliding it back into the skillet to cook the runny underside.

And how to serve this? Our fourth plate is chipped- it looks like a large bite was taken out by a recent fall on the counter. Is it dangerous? I think the tiny shards of china are gone. Maybe I’m being careless, but I can’t let a little thing like that deter me. We’re making do with what we’ve got here. It’s not perfect, and certainly not what we ever could have wanted- but it’s what we’ve got.

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Cardoons on the Caelian Hill

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CardoonsI came home to write and focus my thoughts, in between a trip to the market and my next outing in the afternoon. My head was full of musings and memories, perhaps a beginning…

But when I walked into our little apartment I heard the neighbor yelling at his wife, in his husky, brutish Italian. I hear him often, repeating one staccato phrase after another. Sometimes the two of them stand right outside our door and let the tirades fly; then one of them slams the door until their brass knocker clatters to the tile floor.  I feel like I’m on the set of an Anna Magnani film. And now I can’t write. Oh, another excuse… Looking on the bright side, though, I am certainly picking up a bit of Italian, tuning my ear to the cadences and structure of his repetitions.

Allora! Cardoons:

I’ve been feeling like an outsider here in Rome. It’s hard for me when I can’t find the words I need.  I feel so pathetic when I don’t know how to respond to simple questions, so rather than be caught off guard, I find I’ve been closing myself off from many casual interactions.

On one recent morning I walked to the outdoor market in Piazza san Cosimato just to have a look. It’s not a famous market, nor is it picturesque, but it’s our local, and it’s time I get to know it. I wasn’t planning on buying anything, and as usual I was reluctant to engage with anyone. Most of the seven or so produce vendors sell the same vegetables, although slight differences in quality and diversity are evident. In winter I’m seeing a lot of chicories, including loose leaf mixes; cabbages, onions, fennel and large, purple-tinged artichokes- and citrus, citrus, citrus. Even the run-of-the-mill clementines have leaves attached, and look so much more vibrant than what I’m used to seeing at home.

Many vendors called out to draw me in. A middle aged woman cleaved a winter squash on a wooden crate with ferocity, causing some snickers amongst the young assistants at the neighboring stalls. I decided I was her ally; in my mind I came to her defense: “What do you guys think is so funny? Life seems simple to you now, doesn’t it? Well it isn’t, and this woman knows it- she’s seen a thing or two.”   Take that, pumpkin!  Another vendor, whose brown eggs filled a large bowl caught my attention. Purple spring onions were pretty, but not so fresh- and I wondered about the little boxes of new potatoes, each sold with a sprig of rosemary.  I wished I were invisible; I wanted to stare and get up close, to hold the eggs in my hand and inspect each bunch of rughetta. If I were invisible I could go to the cheese counter and lift each pecorino to feel its density, and inhale the scent of the robiola without having to speak a word.

As I inched closer to the vegetables a vendor spoke to me. I was so near the cardoons. His was the only stall who had them that day, and I was intrigued. Here was something I hadn’t cooked in many years, something I loved: “Cardo!” I spoke, using the incorrect singular form.  I wondered (to myself) why I hadn’t seen them more often, and whether it might be the end of the season.  But, no-  I recalled seeing rows of cardoons growing beautifully just two weeks earlier.  That day I had been standing outside the vegetable garden of the convent next to San Gregorio Al Celio on Rome’s Caelian Hill, peeking in through an old iron fence. The sight of the carciofi-like leaves, dusty, pale green and standing tall in their rows, had spoken to me. When I looked at them I saw myself walking from the garden with arms full of cardoons, and a serene smile. Funny; next I envisioned taking the cardoons into a spacious, quiet kitchen just off the garden, where I cooked them until they were tender, and they glistened with olive oil and lemon juice. I imagined also that there were friends in that kitchen, and I felt calm and content.  In that fleeting moment outside the convent garden, I had whispered to a leaf in the sunshine, without saying a word…  I want to be at peace.

I brought the cardoons home with me from the market- and they brought with them so much possibility.

 

 

 

 

Get your Early Glow(s) on

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Early Glow Strawberry Oven Preserves with Yogurt

Early Glow Strawberry Oven-Preserves with Yogurt

This is it: the moment when our late Spring fantasies finally come to fruition  We’ve been seeing those big, sour Driscoll strawberries in the grocery stores for months, and pretending Spring is strawberry season. But this ain’t California, and I’ve learned to be patient. And finally: real, red, pretty, strawberries are in the local farmers’ markets. I fell victim to their charms last week. I saw, I tasted, and I bought one 6 dollar quart of them without even batting an eye.  Then I walked around the corner of the market and spotted a table of even redder, riper, sweeter (I tasted again) strawberries. Oh, I bought those too. Early Glows, I was told- a super sweet and juicy variety. Get them while you can.  Based on my rudimentary research, only Sycamore Farms from Middletown, NY is selling these super-sweet berries at the Union Square greenmarket right now.

For three mornings I rinsed a few lovelies and served them up, judiciously selecting only the amount I thought we’d eat, so none would be waterlogged and go to waste. But my children are odd and even though the first words out of my 9 year old son’s mouth were: “Those are some Sweeeeet strawberries!”, neither he nor his little brother ate more than two. I did my part, but come Sunday, I still had more than a quart of strawberries, now somewhat over-ripe, sitting around.

Wanting to bake a treat I knew would get eaten, I made this:

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                                         Strawberry-Pistachio Crumb Cake

This lovely, tender cake is a simple thing to make and you do NOT need a mixer.

Pistachio Crumb Topping: Stir together 3/4 cup four, 1/2 cup sugar ( I used some brown and some white), 11/4 cup coarsely chopped toasted pistachios, 1/4 teaspoon salt, 1/4 teaspoon ground cardamom (if you have it), 4 tablespoons unsalted butter, melted.

Cake: Preheat oven to 350 with rack in the center. Butter and flour a 9-inch square baking pan, tapping out excess flour.

Whisk together the dry ingredients in a medium bowl: 1 1/2 cup flour, 1 teaspoon baking powder, 1/4 teaspoon baking soda, 1/4 teaspoon salt.

Cream together: 1 stick room temperature unsalted butter and 2/3 cup sugar until light and fluffy- give it some elbow grease. Add 2 large eggs, beating well after each addition. Stir in 1 teaspoon pure vanilla extract.

Mix in, alternating: the flour mixture and 1/4 cup buttermilk, beginning and ending with the flour mixture. Spread into prepared pan and smooth top so it’s even. Dot with halved or quartered strawberries, to lightly cover the surface (about 2 cups). Sprinkle pistachio crumb topping over strawberries, and bake until cake is golden and a skewer or thin knife comes out clean when inserted in center, 55-60 minutes.  Cook on a rack for 10 minutes, and then invert quickly onto a tray- place rack on bottom and invert again, so crumb is on top. Let cool before cutting.

 

Ever the home economist, I decided to save gas and cook off the remaining over-ripe strawberries while the oven was on, so I made this: Early Glow Strawberry Oven-Preserves for spooning onto yogurt, ice cream, anything.

Toss: 2 cups halved or quartered strawberries with about 2 tablespoons sugar and 1/4 cup water in a deep-sided baking dish. Bake at 350 until tender and lightly syrupy, abut 1 hour. Let cool, transfer to a jar, and store in the refrigerator at least 2 weeks- if they last that long.

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no strawberry shall
      go unused