Let’s talk about lunch: Sunday lunch. We had roast veal and crispy rosemary potatoes. I made a spring vegetable tart – which depending on where in the world you’re from, you might prefer to call a ‘quiche’, but basically is buttery pastry with a comforting egg-y, creamy filling. Threw together a cold salad of garden peas, barely blanched and drenched in grassy olive oil, then tossed with sprigs of fresh mint, tarragon and chunks of roughly chopped almonds. We had bread from the baker – a soft, pillowy, salty focaccia, covered in caramelised fennel, and a second loaf topped with finely sliced potatoes and heaps of rosemary (one of those odd Italian breads that you feel shouldn’t work but somehow really do). And then, of course, we had pudding: a simple ricotta cake, and a plate of frozen summer berries smothered in white chocolate sauce laced with golden saffron. We lingered on at the dining table into what you might charitably call late afternoon but really qualified as something closer to early evening – and it was bliss. In that way that somehow only Sunday lunches, spent in the company of good friends, can be.
There is so much we need to catch up on, so much to tell; and it is so very long since I wrote last, that I bow my head in an uncomfortable mingling of shame and guilt. I have many excuses and yet I have no excuse. But I’m sorry it’s been such a while, I miss it here and I will write more. All of which leads me to: let’s talk about lunch. [Read more…]