If I wasn’t careful when entering the cellar, I’d walk face-first into a thick leg of prosciutto curing as it dangled from the ceiling. And then, of course, there were the orderly rows of mason jars lining the bottom shelf, filled with last season’s tomatoes picked at their peak from the garden and promptly canned. More often than not, I’d spot a crate of potatoes on hand for gnocchi, occasionally a stray box of garlic cloves, too. Continue reading “the Italian narrative Hollywood loves may very well never change, but I can”
Caesar salad always came with a caveat.
No anchovies, please.
And if they were part of the dressing, well, there goes that. There’s always caprese.
So having not ever come within fork’s distance of an anchovy in my entire life, I nonetheless absorbed my mother’s strong aversion to the slimy, hairy fish and decided that I too would never, ever eat it. Because ew. So gross. Continue reading “anchovies and adulthood”
Mention Puglia to any Italian, and you’ll likely be greeted with an expression of sheer bewilderment — until, that is, they realize that what you’re actually trying to say (but butchering in exceptional fashion) is poo-lee-a.
But once it’s clear that you’re referencing the sun-drenched heel of Italy, you’ll be hard-pressed to get anyone to stop praising this relatively undiscovered region in the south. Continue reading “a taste of Puglia”