Dreamy Sundays, Beloved Old Books & A Lavender Pannacotta

IMG_2337 IMG_3050

There is something comforting about old books – books written decades ago, before twitter, mobile phones, or the twenty-four hour news cycle. I’m not old – not, really – but I have never lived in a world without telephones or television. Yet that world – the one depicted in stories before my time - feels oddly familiar. Somehow it all resonates: the hats and the diamond pins, the kid gloves and the afternoon tea, the handwritten letters on embossed writing paper and the swishing skirts. Maybe because I grew up devouring Agatha Christie murder mysteries – and when I had read them all, I went back to the beginning and read them once again. Or maybe I have some sort of a spiritual connection with that era - from another life that I no longer remember, but recognise intuitively on some level of my subconscious. But there is something about that world - the glamorous thirties, forties and fifties – that feels inexplicably nostalgic and deeply soothing.


Dreamy Sundays & Lavender Pannacotta - From My Dining Table Dreamy Sundays & Lavender Pannacotta - From My Dining Table [Continue reading...]

Share This:Share on FacebookPin on PinterestTweet about this on TwitterEmail to someone

Gelato with Grappa Drenched Raisins & Whipped Ricotta Sfogliatine with Figs

Gelato with Grappa Drenched Raisins & Whipped Ricotta Sfogliatine with Figs

This is the Lost Summer. The summer that never was - it's  drifting around somewhere in Neverland; with Peter Pan and the Lost Boys. You know - the little boys who fall out of their prams, while their nanny is looking the other way, and are spirited off to Neverland.  It's as if I blinked and it passed us by. The summer, that is. The weather has been all crazy storms at sunrise and bouts of raging hot sunshine at sunset. Unpredictable and unreliable. The lagoon here in Venice ominously grey one minute, and clear, clear blue the next. I've heard rumours of an apocalypse of sorts. Some remember the summer of 1984 - apparently that was a stormy one too. Others say that they have never been a July like it - not in living memory. Yet still the air is hot. Heavy and muggy - like a thick wooly blanket wrapped around you, that you simply can't shake off. And even when it storms - there's a moment, fleeting, a gust of fresh air that blows through - but then it's gone, the heavy heat reigns once again. … [Continue reading...]

The Feast of the Holy Redeemer & a Recipe for Sea Bass ‘Al Sale’

The Feast of the Holy Redeemer & a Recipe for Sea Bass 'Al Sale'

Venice is a sleepy town. Entertainment is neighbourhood gossip or maybe a sudden twist in weather patterns; flooding in July, say, or heavy fog in September. By ten o'clock at night the streets are empty, in an eerie ghost-like kind of a way. Everyone is in bed. I love that about the city. Secretly, I too love nothing more than an early night, with a gripping novel and a mug of hot, sugary tea. That said, one night a year - for one night only - Venice parties. And, hell -  it parties like there's no tomorrow. I party with it too. Naturally. It would be rude not to. … [Continue reading...]

Paolo’s Black Truffle, Mascarpone & Sage Pizza

Black Truffle, Mascarpone & Sage Pizza - From My Dining Table

Think soap opera. But set among crumbling brickwork and evocative frescoes: the story of the squares of Venice. And of the characters who live in them. You see, at the very heart of all that is truly Venetian is the campo - an open square, a patch of flagstones, kind of like a piazza but on a miniature scale. If you know Venice, you'll know what I mean: the city is a maze of tiny alleyways and campi.  Every Venetian grows up and lives out his life in his campo. That's where he plays hide and seek as a child, and dries his laundry as a grown up. Were he to move house, he might find a new campo to live in - one that's no more than a few steps from his newfound home address. And over time, he might grow to love that campo too. But the campo where he grew up forever holds him tight - that's where the church he married in is, where his butcher and his baker are, where his heart lies.  … [Continue reading...]

Sweet Peach and Basil Sgroppino & Venice for the Summer

Sweet Peach and Basil Sgroppino - From My Dining Table

This morning I woke up in Venice. Birds singing softly in the garden that I look on to from my bedroom window; the birds like to settle on the lemon tree right by my window. A gentle breeze blowing through the white linen curtains which screen that same little window. And the sound of the water lapping gently in the canal that runs just alongside our house. I woke up in Venice yesterday morning too, and the morning before that. But this morning it really sunk in. It felt like home - nostalgically so. And it felt like summer. It's a strange thing that 'home' feeling - tricky to pin down and impossible to label. Home is something that you sense, not something that you see. It smells and it tastes. It's in the minutiae, those details imperceptible to others - and so all lifechanging-ly important to you. A plate of pasta cooked with a sugo al pomodoro  just so - not any other which way; or the ritual of buying ice cream - gelato alla nocciola - from a specific shop at four in the afternoon - not at any other time of the day.  It's everything that you long for when you're gone and everything that you relish upon your return.  … [Continue reading...]

Summer Berry Meringue Folly & A Trip to Russia

Summer Berry & Thyme Meringue Folly & A Trip to Russia - From My Dining Table

The middle of the night - twenty past midnight, to be exact - but look out of the window and it's mid afternoon. The sun is shining bright, people strolling through the streets. You know - nonchalantly going about their day to day business. The world is upside down: topsy turvy. I am Alice and I have stepped through the looking glass. And these are the Russian white nights, when the sun seemingly never sets.  Last week I travelled to Russia. Two nights in Moscow - just long enough to walk through Red Square, take in the Kremlin, indulge in a bowl of chilled summer borsch and cheer from the stalls at The Bolshoi. Then on and up north - across the flat lands of the Russian countryside - to St Petersburg. By train - all very Anna Karenina. Minus the luxuriant furs. … [Continue reading...]

Baby Spinach, Tarragon and Walnut Burek & a Trip to Portugal

Baby Spinach, Tarragon and Walnut Borek - From My Dining Table

Inspiration. From the Latin 'inspirare'. Literally: to breathe in. To breathe deeply of the beautiful, of the otherworldly. Many moons ago the world believed that inspiration came from Muses - sweet poetry, the most famous of myths, and masterpieces alike, all the work of slender maidens draped in silk, with gold leaf belts and tight ringlets artfully coifed atop their dainty little heads. Legend has it that they lived on top of Mt Helicon - in the very heart of the Greek peninsula. If you ask me, though, inspiration - the kind that you get really excited about, the kind that never dates - occurs when you witness worlds colliding. That moment when minds come together. The more diverse the minds, the greater the impact. Like rainbow coloured fireworks in a cold, silent winter sky. I travelled to Portugal last month to take part in a workshop. There I found inspiration. My muses - minus the stylised ringlets - were Beth and Sanda (who led the group and whose work on their sites - Local Milk and Little Upside Down Cake - I adore), and the other ladies taking part - Leslie, Sif, Olaiya, Lisa, Eve, Alice and Nathalie. Talent, wisdom, imagination, style, drive, energy, vision, languages, discussion, traditions - they all abounded. Rare to find so much shared and so much distinctiveness all in the one place. In the space of three days, I learnt so much. It was ostensibly a … [Continue reading...]

Honey, Ginger and Salted Almond Semifreddo

Honey, Ginger & Salted Almond Semifreddo - From My Dining Table

How long can you stare at a blank page? When there is an infinity that you want to say, but your head is filled with muted silence, when your thoughts flit around like butterflies, colourful, but chaotic and elusive - what do you do? Say nothing at all? I'm staring at a blank page right now. Trying to find a way to say all that I want to say. I want to say that this semifreddo is sublime. That you must make it and you must try it. Tonight. That each bite - honeyed and sweet - reminds me of this honeycomb ice cream my mother used to make when I was a child. When we lived in a sleepy town in Northwestern Australia, a town called Broome. There, the earth is red like blood - they call it pindan - and the sky is as clear as water. On hot days - really hot days - she would make ice cream in this ancient little ice cream maker, that whirred slowly, steadily, churning in our kitchen. The kitchen with a fly screen door and a big wooden table. I used to eat it - two scoops - in those cones with the flat bottoms, the kind that you can stand on the table. Do you remember those? … [Continue reading...]

Baby New Potato Salad with Fresh Parsley, Lemon and Samphire

New Potato, Lemon and Samphire Salad - From My Dining Table

June 20th is the summer solstice. That means the sun poised at the highest point of the sky, and the longest day of the year: but is it also a harbinger of impending autumn? Are we going glass half full with this one? Or half empty? I'm a half glass full kind of a person. I'll lay all my cards on the table now. So yes, technically speaking, the longest day of the year means that as of June 20th the days are only going to get shorter. I'll give you that one. I won't even try to fight it. But I'll also tell you that between me and my heavy winter boots stand the Wimbledon season, some beach time on the Venice Lido, white peaches and a hell of a lot of gelato. Fact. Right now, today: it's all about the  bunch of peonies perched on our piano, the dawn chorus waking me up in the mornings, and the garden strawberries. And the clotted cream - not technically seasonal fare, but oh so very good with the strawberries. Today, it feels like full blown, deep summer. With the whisper of more to come. Glass very much half full. Frankly - glass outright brimming. With metaphorical Pimms and lemonade. … [Continue reading...]

Rose Petal and Crushed Raspberry Lemonade

Rose Petal and Crushed Raspberry Lemonade - From My Dining Table

This could be a tale of a faraway and exotic land. The story of how once I travelled across the seas from London to the Syrian desert - of how we strolled through the ruins of Palmyra; of how the soles of our feet pounded the ancient flagstones of Apamea; and we perched on the walls of Crac de Chevalier; of how we bought saffron and gold in the market at Aleppo. To think that only shadows of these places - places so steeped in spellbinding history - now survive, adds to the pathos of that tale.  In Damascus I bought a pound of dried rosebuds. They came wrapped in crinkly white paper and travelled in my handbag, through Heathrow customs, all the way back to South London. There I stored them in a jar on my kitchen shelf. For months. Then years. Eventually I binned the lot. Somehow too precious to cook with, they never made it to being more than a dusty reminder of a holiday.  Had I steeped the pretty pink rosebuds in water and sugar to make a syrup, a delicate ambrosia to sweeten freshly pressed lemonade on hot summers' days, I could have told you a tale of Syrian roses and romance. But I didn't. C'est la vie.   The fact is that holiday souvenirs don't travel well. It's as if the magic is rubbed off them in transit. Sangria tastes best on holiday in Spain, drunk late at night in a crowded bar. Straw baskets look chic in the souks of Marrakech - … [Continue reading...]

Chewy Walnut Biscuits

Chewy Walnut Biscuits (Gluten Free) - From My Dining Table

There are these biscuits that I always buy when I'm in Venice. They're small, crunchy, with chunks of hazelnut and a sugary crust. They sell them at the pastry shop around the corner from our house. They're called Brutti Ma Buoni. Literal translation: 'Ugly But Good'. Were I to try and give you an idiomatic translation, I might go for something like 'Ugly Duckling Biscuits'. I quite like that. And I really like them. As I place my order over the counter, I consistently delight in how the storekeeper pronounces their name: there's an insistance on the ma, on that 'but' - the 'm' rolls off his tongue emphatically and then there's a pause for effect, a wait-for-it moment just before the buoni. It's almost tentative, ever justifying that - in spite of appearances - these biscuits really do taste good. Of course, he's preaching to the converted. But it tickles me pink none the less. Every time. … [Continue reading...]

Asparagus, Pecorino and Mint Tart with a Flaky Spelt Pastry Crust

Asparagus, Pecorino & Mint Tart with a Flaky Spelt Pastry Crust - From My Dining Table

'What's in a name?' Rhetorical question. Shakespearean rhetorical question, no less. But I'll answer anyway. You see, there's more in a name than you might think. We to-ed and fro-ed for months over our son's name: every name that one of us liked had some prior association with a person that the other one - for reasons sometimes rational, sometimes totally irrational - disliked. As you choose another human being's name, you feel the hefty weight of responsibility in your hands. You feel like a name defines a person. Think Dickens: Scrooge - grumpy old man with a grumpy sounding name; Pip - charming boy with suitably adorable name. You can see our dilemma. So, by default, Aeneas - that's what we settled on in the end - went by Monkey for the first few weeks of his life. Because we could not agree on a name. And because he bore an uncanny physical resemblance to a marmoset. In an endearing kind of way. … [Continue reading...]