Foodie Tuesday: Venetian Sunsets

Thanks to recent heavy rains and a storm surge (which seem to be going around, these days), more than half of Venice is under water.  I thought today would be a good time to revisit and celebrate La Serenissima and her many culinary wonders.

My first visit to Venezia was on a misty November day in 1995, with a group of girlfriends from the Italian high school I was attending at the time.  I fell in love with Venice immediately and eternally, although I am embarrassed to say that my first meal in Venice as a seventeen year old exchange student probably consisted of pizza and Coca-Cola.

A couple of years later, I escaped the tedium of my college life and returned to Venice on winter break.  My American friend and I were tired, cranky, and hopelessly lost in the Dorsoduro.  I had nearly fallen into a canal earlier that day, and both my ego and right hip were badly bruised.  Rain began to fall as we found ourselves surrounded by schoolchildren on their way home.  A girl of about ten was walking close by my side in the narrow calle, and I was surreptitiously taking advantage of the shelter of her umbrella.  As my friend tried to (not so gently) pull me out of the girl’s way, the girl admonished him, “No, no, la tenevo proprio sotto! (No, no–I was keeping her under my umbrella on purpose!)”

The view from our suite on the Grand Canal.

I returned to Venice this February with my husband for the second leg of our European honeymoon, my heart nearly bursting during our ride, via water taxi, to our hotel.  We stayed in a nine-room palazzo on the Grand Canal, and upon learning that E. and I were on our viaggi di nozze, the proprietors upgraded us from our small interior room to a suite–a suite!–overlooking the Grand Canal.  Every day we’d throw open our shutters and gaze in awe at the sun glinting on the water as Venice began her day.

Fish fry at the Rialto Market.

We spent many hours happily perusing the Rialto Market, wishing we had a kitchen so that we could cook some of the bounty we admired: silvery fish, purple-tipped artichokes, and overflowing baskets of lettuces and radicchio.  One sunny morning, we were fortunate to discover an Italian fish fry about to take place in the market’s adjoining piazza.  Fritto misto and white wine at 11:00 am?  Yes, please!

Every day we’d get happily lost for hours in Venezia’s dreamlike, labyrinthine calle.  No matter how many museums we visited, however, or how many times we stopped for cicheti, E. and I always made it a point to return to our hotel before sunset.  We’d sit on the terrace, sip a cocktail, and watch the sun set over the Rialto bridge. Ladies and Gentlemen, may I present to you the Aperol Spritz?

Like so many Italian inventions, the Aperol Spritz (or just “spritz,” if you’re Venetian) is simple, elegant, and unlikely to ever go out of style. Aperol is a lower-alcohol cousin of Campari, tasting of bitter and sweet oranges mingled with rhubarb and various herbs.  Some might argue that the Aperol Spritz is a decidedly summertime cocktail, but oranges are a winter fruit, after all, and Prosecco is never out of season.

My heart is never far away from La Serenissima.  As these autumn days grow shorter and we lean ever more sharply into what portends to be a harsh winter, I will continue our honeymoon tradition of an Aperol Spritz before dinner.  And I will dream of Venice and her sunsets.

Aperol Spritz
3 parts Prosecco
2 parts Aperol
1 splash club soda
Pour over ice, garnish with a slice of orange, and let yourself be transported to Venice at dusk.

Foodie Tuesday: Veni, Vidi, VINO

As many of you know, I had the immense good fortune to spend nearly a year living in northern Italy when I was 17.  I fell completely, irrevocably in love with la bella Italia, learning to speak Italian, forging lifelong friendships, and eating and drinking with (occasionally too much) abandon.

One of my Italian host sisters, Cristina, is a sommelier.  Her dual citizenship means she’s living the dream of splitting her time between the U.S. and Italy with her husband and young son.  Cristina was kind enough to offer some tips and insight into exploring the varied and wonderful world of vino Italiano.  

What makes Italy’s wine and winemaking philosophy unique?

 As [is true of] most of the Old World wine philosophy, Italian wine is made to be enjoyed with food.  The whole experience of wine is never meant to be by itself; there is always food with wine, and this food has to be specific to the region and type of wine.

To give you an example, last year I went to a Wine festival in Valtellina, north of Lake Como.  For something like $15 we had access to 20+ wineries, each serving at least 4 different types of local wines in these Roman-era cellars, which you could only reach by walking down several flights of stairs.  Everywhere there was free food served to accompany the wine: salami, prosciutto, cheese, bread, etc.

Many Italians keep “house wine” on hand, often traveling to wineries to bottle their own sfuso.  When it comes to everyday wine drinking, what are your favorite red and white varietals, and why?

My answer depends on the season.  This summer all we had in the house was Vinho Verde from Portugal. It’s a wonderful light, crisp, and slightly sparkling white wine. It goes great with almost anything you eat, especially BBQ and spicier summer foods.  Now that the seasons are changing I am finding myself drawn to light-bodied Pinot Noirs from various regions. As the weather gets colder I will try to get some good Tuscan wines on sale, as well as Argentinian and Spanish wines.  All under $12 of course.

Brooklyn Wine Exchange; Photo from the Village Voice

Unfortunately, nothing compares to vino della casa (house wine) that you can get sfuso directly from the local vineyards, so I just resort to buying great wines at affordable prices.  Fortunately, there are a lot hidden treasures in the best wine shops.
*A word from Hilary: If you happen to live in Brooklyn, you will find no better resource for wines both exotic and familiar than Brooklyn Wine Exchange on Court Street. They even have a “$12 & Under” table of affordable, delicious wines from around the globe.

Are there any Italian grape varietals that are perhaps not well known but deserve wider appreciation?

I would say there are a lot of varietals that are not well known outside of Italy and definitely deserve attention.  Some of these are not necessarily grape varietals, as much as location-based varietals.  To name a few: Tocai Friulano from Friuli, Lugana from Lake Garda region, once again Franciacorta wines,  Sauvignon from Italy (known as Sauvignon Blanc in other regions), Muller Thurgau, Pinot Bianco (much better and much more interesting than Pinot Grigio in my opinion), Lagrein and so many more….

Autumn is here; what are your favorite varietals for fall’s heartier braises, stews, and pastas?

Fall is a great season for wine drinking (not that the other three are bad) because it is warm enough to still enjoy whites and rosés, while it is already cold enough to open up those mouth-filling reds.  Of course, I can never go without a nice Prosecco for all those holiday gatherings with lots of appetizers.  I also enjoy Pinot Noirs in the fall because they can be light but comforting at the same time, while pairing very well with all the roasted turkey and poultry of the season.  I also like to change things up a bit sometime with a nice rosé.  I can also assure you that bottles of Rioja will be always present in my house, along with Valpolicella, Montepulciano D’Abruzzo and Tuscan reds.

Cristina, grazie mille for your time and expertise!  Now, let’s all raise a glass of Italian wine and toast autumn’s arrival!

Words & Music #4

If, as the flaneurs claimed, walking around Paris is an art, then the city itself is the surface on which they create.  And since Paris is ancient, that surface is not blank.  Artists paint over their old work or that of others, just as medieval scholars scraped back the surface of vellum or parchment to use it again.  Such a sheet, called a palimpsest, bears faintly, however often it’s reused, the words of earlier hands.  And we who walk in Paris write a new history with each step.  The city we leave behind will never be quite the same again.

–John Baxter, The Most Beautiful Walk in the World

Foodie Tuesday: Pasta & Pops

I woke up one recent morning feeling dull and heavy, as though my body had been filled with sand.  The skies were clear and I’d certainly gotten enough sleep, but disorienting dreams had dogged me all night and I was riddled with the sensation that something was just…off.  Clouds rolled in and the sunny day gave way to a summer squall.  As evening drew near, I was decidedly blue, not to mention hungry.

I pulled a half-empty box of pasta from the shelf and, noting the relative emptiness of the refrigerator, decided to make spaghetti aglio e olio.  While the pasta was cooking, I softened thin slices of garlic and a pinch of red chili flakes in a glassy pool of olive oil.  When the pasta was cooked al dente, I added it to the heady blend of olive oil, garlic, and chili, then tossed in a handful of almost-wilted parsley.

I placed a long-neglected CD in the stereo.  Louis Armstrong’s West End Blues filled the room and I felt my own blues begin to lift.  Yet again, I became sure of two things:

1. a big plate of pasta never fails to soothe, and

2. the best remedy for the blues is…the sound of the blues.

While Pops played on the stereo, I twirled the spaghetti on my fork and took a bite, savoring the taste–and sound–of comfort.

Foodie Tuesday: Let them eat (wedding) cake

Okay, friends…super-short Foodie Tuesday post this week. I have my reasons:

1. I am boarding a plane tomorrow. Early. Said plane will wing its way to Sonoma, California, where I am getting married. I’ve been more than a little swamped with details, and while I have cooked some meals and watched some cooking shows, I’ve mostly been dotting i’s and crossing t’s in preparation for my wedding.

2. I am now officially contributing to a couple of food blogs. Remember a few weeks ago, when I wrote my inaugural Foodie Tuesday post on “Extra Virgin”? Well, I sent it to Gabriele, who in turn invited me to contribute to his blog, Under the Tuscan Gun. UTTG is a great resource for down-home Tuscan recipes, Italian food lore, and guest posts from a variety of authors. I’m honored to be a part of the Under the Tuscan Gun community. My author page is here, but I highly recommend looking around the whole site; you might wind up with a great dinner recipe for tonight!

And with that, Dear Reader, I bid you a fond “Peace out.” I’m goin’ back to Cali, yo. See you in a couple of weeks!

Wine country, here I come!

Foodie Tuesday: Constant Craving(s)

I’m preoccupied with spring. It’s entirely likely that my obsessive fixation on sunshine and 70-degree weather is rooted in the fact that both seem to have RSVP’d “No” to April. Ah, well. Until the Brooklyn Heights Promenade is fully bedecked with blooming tulips, I’ll continue to summon spring as best I can in my kitchen. Below is a list of some epicurean delights I’ve been craving (and savoring!) lately, all of which evoke spring’s lush, temporal beauty.

1. Fava Beans
I can’t stop with the favas! This early in the spring, fava beans taste mild and, well–green–with a pleasantly subtle bitterness. There’s something bucolic and picturesque about fava beans, despite (because of?) the rather protracted shelling, blanching, shocking, and re-shelling process. A couple of glasses of wine into a Sunday afternoon, with Italian canzoni emanating from my stereo, I can imagine myself returned to a life I’ve never lived: I may be shelling fava beans in my Brooklyn apartment, but in my mind I’m at home in the Tuscan countryside, watching the rolling brown hills turn green and preparing for Pasqua. I told you, this is after a couple (oh, fine…a few) glasses of wine. Hannibal Lecter was on to something: fava beans do go beautifully with a nice Chianti.

2. Peas
Since my parents are reading this blog (and, let’s face it, they may very well be the only people reading this blog), the inclusion of peas on my list of spring cravings will doubtless come as a shock. I’ve never been a fan of peas. In fact, there are pictures of me as a baby, grimacing as I spit peas out of my mouth. But. Around ten years ago (Jesus), I worked at a French restaurant in Seattle, and one spring our chef introduced a salad of watercress with barely blanched, tiny, sweet peas tossed throughout. The whole business was finished with a medallion of goat cheese and a dressing that I couldn’t replicate if my very life depended on it. Remembering that salad, I’ve started introducing petites pois into my gastronomic forays. They’re even part of the menu for my upcoming wedding. And don’t even get me started on the pairing of sugar snaps with Sahadi’s hummus. Sweet(pea) mystery of life, at last I’ve found you!

3. Roast Chicken
Roast chicken was one of the first things I learned how to make. Lucky thing, too. The dish immediately calls forth images of home, comfort, and effortless sophistication, yet it’s almost laughably easy to prepare. Salt, pepper, and a little olive oil will result in a moist, tender bird with crispy skin. Fresh parsley and thyme, along with lemon zest and copious amounts of butter, will result in a brush with nirvana. When I was 22, I was seduced by a very romantic and very complicated chef. Using his roast chicken and impossibly long eyelashes, he lured me down a rabbit hole of bad decisions and emotional turmoil. Had I known at the time that a perfect roast chicken was a decidedly unromantic, uncomplicated proposition, I doubt I would have been as easily duped.

4. Rosé
I don’t really have to elaborate on this, do I? Nothing bespeaks indulgence, elegance, and frivolity (springtime’s daughters, all of them) more than pink wine. A glass of Bandol rosé is a Provençal sunset in liquid form. And if God made anything more luxurious and enchanting than a flute of Billecart-Salmon brut rosé, She kept that shit for Herself.

5. Asparagus (and Eggs)
Eggs, whether poached, hard-boiled, fried, or scrambled, are the perfect dance partners for asparagus. The woodsy pungency of steamed young asparagus fairly cries out for a baptism of molten, silky egg yolk and a sprinkling of sea salt. And on my more motivated mornings, I revel in asparagus and goat cheese scrambles. Something about seeing a bunch of asparagus stalks in my fridge, standing up like so many soldiers, fills me with good cheer.

I could go on, I really could. Mint, fennel, rhubarb, lamb, and countless other springtime delights each merit rhapsodic praise. But I have to go be a singer today, then I’m meeting up with my fiancé and his family for Passover seder at Sammy’s Roumanian. Who would have ever believed it? This German-Norwegian-Anglo-Saxon Catholic girl (from Alaska, no less), is celebrating Passover. Stay tuned, as the Sammy’s Seder is sure to figure prominently in an upcoming Foodie Tuesday post. Until then, may all the delights of spring–however belated her arrival–be yours.

Foodie Tuesday: Benvenuti!

Welcome to the very first Foodie Tuesday here at Ad Alta Voce. From here on out, Tuesdays will celebrate all things food-related, including (but not limited to!) recipes, restaurants, markets and specialty stores, chefs and food personalities, cooking shows, and perhaps even the occasional guest post.

Since my own wedding is only about a month away, it seems fitting to begin Foodie Tuesdays with a post about a happily married pair of food-lovers: actress Debi Mazar and musician/buon gustaio Gabriele Corcos, hosts of the Cooking Channel’s new series, “Extra Virgin.”  With no small amount of playful banter and genuine affection, Debi and Gabriele spend each episode creating rustic, Tuscan-inspired meals for their children, friends, and each other.

Given my affinity for smart, lippy dames and 1940s-inspired attire, it’s no surprise that I am a wee bit smitten with the tart-tongued Debi Mazar. Pairing vintage elegance with a Queens accent, Debi is both fabulous and down-to-earth.  Sure, she hangs out with Madonna and attends Hollywood premieres, but she’s also a relatable working mother.  Debi’s love of at-home entertaining is rooted in practicality: “…if we go out to dinner, then it means we’ll probably also go to the movies. And between dinner and the movies and getting a babysitter, it’s about $400 for the night. So we have people over for a great meal. It’s been our way of having a social life.”

It’s fitting, then, that Debi married Gabriele, who hails from the olive-growing countryside of Fiesole, in Tuscany.  He describes himself as “a very hungry guy” who “cook(s) to feed my kids right, and to possibly get laid at least twice a week…to keep traditions alive, and because my kitchen is the warmest place in my house…”  Gabriele is quintessentially Italian: he not only understands how to cook and eat well, he understands why doing so is of the utmost importance.


There are lots of good reasons to watch “Extra Virgin.”  The recipes are back-to-basics Italian soul food, eschewing esoteric ingredients and complicated techniques in favor of wholesome, seasonal flavors.  And it’s fun to live vicariously through Debi and Gabriele, whether they’re raising chickens in their Los Angeles backyard or grilling porterhouses in their Tuscan kitchen.

The best reason to tune in to “Extra Virgin,” though, is to be reminded that the main ingredients for la dolce vita—the sweet life—are simple and readily available.  We just need a kitchen, a sense of humor, and most of all, the people we love. Buon appetito!

“Extra Virgin” airs on The Cooking Channel every Wednesday at 10:30 pm ET.

…to ensure domestic tranquility…

In my daydreams, I am one of those women who effortlessly accessorize with only a scarf and red lipstick. Those women, I imagine, shop at farmer’s markets regularly, radiate unflappability, and are almost certainly European. In actuality, I am a frequently harried New Yorker wearing yesterday’s jeans-and-tee combo, clutching a sack lunch and cursing under my breath as I elbow my way through Times Square on my way to work.

Small wonder, then, that Monday, my sole day of rest, found me craving domestic tranquility, two words—not to mention concepts—that don’t coexist often enough in my day-to-day life.

I had been fully prepared to spend my day off lounging on the sofa, watching cooking shows, and reveling in idleness. But the lilies on my kitchen table (a post-performance gift from my friend C.) were perfuming the whole apartment with their heady fragrance and I found myself contemplating how the elegant women of my daydreams would spend their day off. Watching an all-day marathon of the Food Network? Doubtful.

I began cataloguing household tasks I could tackle that involved neither cleaning nor leaving the apartment. Gazing absentmindedly at a slightly overripe peach on the kitchen counter, I remembered a store-bought piecrust that was languishing in the freezer. While Stacey Kent cooed French chansons on the stereo, I improvised a summer peach and cherry crostata, which emerged golden and bubbling from the oven a mere 35 minutes later. Victory!

Store-bought piecrust notwithstanding (for the love of God, sometimes we just need a shortcut!), I was rather proud of my foray into elegant domesticity. Puttering in the kitchen was smoothing my frayed nerves quite nicely, and with lunchtime looming, I decided to embark on another culinary experiment.

With a little guidance from the great Mark Bittman, I made a daal-like lunch that will carry over quite nicely into tomorrow. (True, split green peas and yams simmered in a hodge-podge of spices and chicken stock isn’t exactly the most refined of repasts, but I did add a dollop of cinnamon-scented crème fraîche as a garnish.)

Much to my chagrin, I will likely never learn how to casually drape a scarf just so. Tomorrow will not find me bedecked in a fetching shade of red lipstick, leisurely perusing the stands at a farmer’s market. No, once again I’ll be elbowing my way through Times Square, suppressing expletives as I dodge tourists and traffic, sack lunch in hand. But tomorrow’s sack lunch will contain my daal-inspired creation and a piece of crostata, reminding me that a bit of domestic tranquility is within the grasp of even the most harried New Yorkers.

Summer Peach & Cherry Crostata
*1 slightly overripe peach, skin removed, halved, and sliced very thinly
*Several generous spoonfuls of cherry preserves
*9-inch store-bought piecrust, or if you’re feeling ambitious, one you’ve made yourself
*1 egg white, lightly beaten
*finely chopped toasted almonds mixed with coarse raw sugar, for sprinkling on the crostata for the last 5 minutes or so of baking (optional)

Preheat oven to 400ºF and line a baking sheet with parchment paper. On a lightly floured surface, roll the piecrust into something resembling a larger circle. Don’t be too precise and don’t worry if there are wildly uneven edges.

Spread the center of the piecrust with a generous amount of cherry preserves, leaving a border of approx. 1 & 1/2 – 2 inches around the outer edge. Layer the peaches in the center atop the cherry preserves.

Fold the outer edge of the dough inward, making pleats as you go. This is not supposed to look fancy, which is a huge saving grace and takes the pressure off. Brush the dough with egg white. Bake for about 30-35 minutes, until the crostata is bubbly and golden-brown. Sprinkle the almond/sugar mixture on the crust for the last 5 minutes of baking for added crunch and sweetness.

It goes without saying that you could use fresh cherries, plums, nectarines, apricots, or just about any other fruit you can think of, as well as other flavors of jam, for endless variations on this very simple dessert. This summer crostata tastes even better the following afternoon, accompanied by a strong cup of stovetop espresso and optimism.

Fish are jumpin’, and the cotton is high…

Every summer, I am seduced by the scent of sunscreen and the promise of languid afternoons spent at the beach. But every year, despite my best intentions to wear cute sundresses, shop at farmer’s markets, and be all dewy and cheery in the heat, I seem to wind up cranky and sweaty on a subway platform, cursing the convection oven that once was Manhattan.

This summer has been unremarkable, save the bomb scare in Times Square and a relentless heat wave, neither of which were particularly enjoyable. So I suppose it makes sense that I’ve been reminiscing about a few, more voluptuous, summers of yore. To wit:

The summer I turned 17, I moved to Italy. The honeyed late-August sun poured itself on everything and the world and I were very, very young. I swooned daily over fresh basil, fresh boys and the lushness of life lived in a foreign language.

One Seattle summer was all faux-sophistication at sidewalk cafés and drinking rosé as twilight whispered across Puget Sound. I remember goat cheese and asparagus omelets in the morning and garden parties at dusk. I was free in the way that is only possible when one is 23 and unfettered by ambition or obligation.

And recently, I found a journal entry from the summer I lived in Spanish Harlem:

In the absence of a working air conditioner, an ancient fan hums in front of my open window. My rigid and long-standing habit of falling to sleep in total silence has been broken. The noise from the street has become a lullaby of sorts. The shouts of neighbor children and the Spanish admonitions of their mothers are accompanied by the alto saxophone sighing on my stereo as I drift off to sleep. That the saxophonist in question has broken my heart seems vital.

I have always slept on my stomach, a straight line, arms folded above my head. My sleep has always been deep and long and still. July finds me splayed across the whole of my bed, stirring throughout the night. I sleep in satin slips, occasionally with a sheet for cover. My sleep has become light and I rise earlier, perhaps to clear space in the cooler morning for writing, thinking, tea. Perhaps to clear space for the afternoon siesta that has become routine.

I cannot get enough quenepas, the peculiar fruit that was foreign to me until a brief liaison with a Cuban guitarist. He called them mamoncillos. The fruits resemble tiny limes and they hang in a bunch, like grapes. When I crack the peel with my teeth, the taste is bitter and the fruit inside, a pulpy pit, comes out easily. I keep the quenepas in the refrigerator and suck on the cold tart fruit until my mouth is sore.

When my errands are finished, I am anxious to leave midtown Manhattan, with its stodgy businessmen and ladies who lunch. I see blonde Amazons with Coach bags and Banana Republic khaki skirts and I imagine that their lives are as immaculate and crisp as the white cotton blouses they wear. The 6 train can never come soon enough.

I look forward to leaving the stark chill of the subway and ascending the stairs into the enveloping heat of the barrio. I let my hair curl in the humidity. I feel my hips circling in figure eights as I walk. I no longer hurry. Sometimes I stop and buy an horchata, the Mexican drink of rice milk and almond, sold by a young woman who speaks no English, from a sidewalk stand.

Tito Puente and Arturo Sandoval follow me everywhere; when their mambos are not playing on my iPod, their paint-peeling trumpet sections squeal from shop windows and passing cars. My heart has begun beating clave rhythms, although clapping them is still tricky.


Much has changed since my halcyon summers in Italy, Seattle, and Spanish Harlem. I’ve long since traded the barrio for Brooklyn, and I’m happy to report that both my air conditioner and my relationship are highly functional. The beach awaits, Tito Puente is still on my iPod, and today a farmer’s market is bustling a mere block from my home. Even as I type, August is leaning into the sun, beckoning me to follow, suggesting that perhaps this summer is not unremarkable, after all.

Our Daily Bread

One of my earliest sense memories is that of bread baking in the oven, its aroma filling the house with an almost primal comfort. My mother’s homemade bread, occasionally made crunchy with the addition of sunflower seeds or sweetened with a drizzle of honey, found its way into many of my school lunches. And every day at school, when I looked at my hearty, golden-brown sandwich, I longed for a sandwich made with blindingly white Wonder Bread.

Mortifying, but true: my mother sweated and toiled (hand-grinding flour, for the love of God!) to make dense, chewy homemade bread full of whole-grain goodness. Meanwhile, I craved store-bought bread with the texture (and flavor) of Kleenex. Wonder Bread, thankfully, never was served in our house, and I grew to appreciate the humble beauty of a homemade loaf of bread.

Some years later, my mother came to visit me while I was on foreign exchange in Italy. During the two weeks we spent traveling together, my mother and I wore out our shoes in Rome, thrilled and horrified by the Vatican’s opulence. We lost ourselves in the labyrinthine vicoli of Venice on an unseasonably warm February day. And in a Bergamo museum, we nearly collapsed in giggles when we saw yet another Madonna and child painting in which Jesus looked more like a little old man ready for a Palm Beach retirement than a newly arrived infant, sent to redeem the world.

But it was at table that we really experienced Italy together. While I delighted in an endless array of formaggi and gelati, my mother reveled in Italian bread: focaccia, ciabatta, and biscottini with her cappuccino in the mornings. To this day, whenever we fondly reminisce about our Italian sojourn, my mother is wont to remark, “And, oh! That good Italian bread!”

Ready for the oven.

Yesterday, missing my mother and longing for la dolce vita, I decided to bake a schiacciata Toscana, a Tuscan bread scented with rosemary and dusted with sea salt. Borrowing a recipe from Marlena de Blasi, I activated yeast in water with a little sugar. I kneaded cornmeal into the pungent dough on a cool marble countertop while Claudio Villa sang a stornello on the stereo.

The finished product.

And I waited. I waited for the dough to rise. I waited for it to rise a second time. I waited for the schiacciata, my first bread, to become golden in the oven. Flour, water, salt, yeast, and patience did exactly what they’ve done for millennia; ancient alchemy, simple and profound. Give us this day, our daily bread.

That night, while washing my face, I looked at my reflection in the mirror. For a split second, I saw my mother’s face looking back at me. I smiled.