This came from a birthday surprise and a challenge.
Last month, my locked down, low key birthday rolled around. Expectations were necessarily watered down. The plan had been to go to see the new James Bond at The Electric, and drink cocktails delivered to out seats. Instead I zoomed and made a cassatina. You can call this taking pleasure from the small things, or clutching at straws. Take your pick.
Then, like a foundling on the doorstep, a bag of bread flour turned up, a gift from my oldest friend. Wrapped in a translucent, blue plastic bag, it was the best present I had could have imagined, a thing of near mythic status, there, in my kitchen, promising me carbohydrates and joy.
It felt sinful to use, as though squandering a precious resource. I dithered about what to make. How to celebrate my new found wealth?
A suggestion was given, the enabler of my 2nd hand cook book obsession, thepastrysuffragette, invited me, perhaps challenged me is better, to turn my hand to a Torta Angelica – the angelic cake. He had seen my efforts in candying my allotment Angelica – and although not a component of the original recipe – the word play made it a natural fit, and not so far from the spirit of the thing as to be total blasphemy.
The recipe is in Pane e roba dolce, by Margerita Simili (Bread and sweet stuff, literally), it sounds and looks fiendishly complicated, but isn’t. This is a celebratory cake, so Christmas and birthdays, or just because. And it’s yeasted, so think panettone or brioche. And I have to say, it looks amazing, I was astounded that I managed to pull if off, first attempt, baking blind.
In the oven, it bloomed and blossomed, after the hours of cosseting, proving, rising, and plaiting I was rewarded by something wonderful, the size of a baby, golden and fluffy; the house filled with the incomparable scent of cooking, melting chocolate and those nibs of Angelica winked through the folds like emeralds. This was one of those bakes that make you clap with joy, and thank the gods for wonderful recipe writers, who guide you perfectly through uncharted territory.
Make up a Biga.
This is a yeast culture used in Italian baking that adds more nuance to the the final bake, and opens up the texture.
80g bread flour
1 teaspoon sugar or honey
I teaspoon of dry yeast ( I used an osmatolerant yeast, another gift from Italianhomecooking – which is ideal for sweet breads, but given the state of yeast in the UK at the moment – use whatever you can get)
Mix this together as any dough, kneading for five minutes and then letting it prove for two hours.
The sweet dough
220g Bread flour
1/2 teaspoon salt
120ml full fat milk (at room temperature)
2 large egg yolks (also at room temperature)
45g caster sugar
50g butter (at room temperature)
Mix all the ingredients except the butter (I used my food mixer with the dough hook attachment)
Once combined, add the butter, a little at a time.
Then repeat this process with your biga mix and knead everything for 5 minutes.
Cover the bowl with a damp cloth or cling film, and leave the dough to prove for 3 hours, until it has doubled in size.
Assemble the Torta
Turn out the dough onto a floured surface and roll it out into a rough rectangle shaped – approx 50cm x 30cm. Brush freely with 20g melted butter. And scatter over 120g chocolate chips (add Angelica if you like, or sultanas and chopped nuts.
Roll this up like a Swiss roll.
Then, with a sharp knife and a lot of confidence, slice the whole thing in half down its length.
You’ll have two layered strips now, which you plait together to form your braid, joining the ends together to form a circle.
Cover again, and leave this to prove again for at least an hour.
Bake in the oven at 180C / Gas mark 4 for 20-30 minutes – keep an eye on it, as the high sugar content may make it scorch (as mine did), so be prepared to add a tin foil hat half way through the bake, if you have a ‘hot’ oven. It will double in size – become a cake behemoth – don’t be alarmed, that’s your biga magic.
Whisk it out of the oven when it’s cooked (tap the base to see if it sounds hollow, and cool it on a rack.
I then made up a lemon icing (icing sugar, lemon juice) to drizzle over. This is just my preference, as I find plain icing too sweet, but you could also do a non lemon, vanilla flavoured drizzle.
The finished thing is massive – too much for one stay at home baker (half went to the next door neighbours). But save this recipe for more sociable days and give it a go. People will think you are a genius, which is never a bad thing.
You may have read my account of a weekend in Rome last October. The weather was apocalyptic, I had a full on head cold, but the day of artichokes at Latteria Studio learning so much from Carla Tomesi and Rachel Roddy, was an antidote to everything. A feast of knowledge and a bloody good lunch to boot. I have written at length and often about my unseemly love of artichokes, so I shall spare you a repeat here.
In some ways, it was a kind of a torture – spending that weekend surrounded by most loved vegetable flowers; everywhere I looked, they were on offer. And knowing that when I came back to Birmingham, it would be to an artichoke drought, broken only when (and as it turns out, if) I could get down to London’s markets, or when my young allotment plants decide to throw up their own flower buds (I’m still waiting for anything that you could tentatively call a ‘glut’).
I went to be shown a myriad ways to cook with artichokes, in the full knowledge that buying the quantities needed for some the recipes would bankrupt me, especially if I had to get them singly and cellophane wrapped from Sainsbury’s.
One dish in particular stuck in my food brain, niggling away with thoughts of “will I ever have this again?” Artichoke lasagna. A vegetarian layering of pasta, cheese and artichokes. Spanking hot and with a glass of teeth achingly cold white wine, this will be my death row meal (well, one of them). Whilst it’s a dish for winter and early spring in Rome, here, if you’re reliant on your own crop, it’ll be a summer treat. I have been missing this dish since October, dreaming of a day when I am rich enough to not care how many artichokes I have just bought, or somehow, have managed to persuade someone to give me gainful employment in Italy, so I can move there, just for the artichokes.
But then in the perverse way of the world, the UK want into lockdown, the panic buying stripped the shops, and bafflingly, this provided me with the wherewithal to finally break my lasagna fast. I was told of delitalia, an Italian catering supplier that a) had flour, a lot of flour and b) was now doing domestic deliveries to Birmingham. Of course there was a small catch, just a minor detail; you still had to place catering size orders. My cupboards and freezers are already overflowing with food from the allotment and ingredients I thought I ‘needed’ at some point. And it’s not that I’m a hoarder, just that I’ve always regarded Best Before dates as mere guidance for the wise. So, whilst the product list was temptingly extensive, I had to restrict myself to things that I really would use, and would buy anyway over the next year. Flour yes, I’m already a third of the way through it (and have turned into the go to ‘flour man’ for my isolating neighbours), oil yes – 5 litres of olive oil will see me through the next year. And then there they were, jumping out at me as though lit in neon; frozen artichokes, prepared and raring to go. Minimum order, 5kg. Yes, I am that much of an idiot.
A freezer drawer was cleared (I had to eat a lot of ice cream that week, a hardship) and now I have what should be a year’s worth of my favourite vegetable, but realistically, I don’t think they’ll see out lockdown.
As they arrived, my first artichoke flower formed on one of the allotment plants. This I prepped, battered and fried – I wanted to memorialise its perfection. It was literally a taster, for the main, the lasagna.
I urge you to find a way to make this (even if it means having to buy catering quantities of flour and olive oil). The version I ate in Rome was Rachel’s, and my memory of the details is not perfect. So when I get hold of the real thing, I may come back and do an update. The potatoes were an addition suggested by Italianhomecooking – and he is right, the additional texture brings another bauble to this dish.
As I write this, I am reheating the half I did not eat last night, for my lunch. There will be some bread too (I have to get through that flour after all) . It will be just as good second time round I know. All sweet anaesthetic on the tongue artichoke, cheese and carbs. Un buon pranzo.
(This made enough for two large portions)
The recipe will get refined over time – as I was making this up as I went along. If you are lucky enough to have access to abundant and affordable fresh artichokes, substitute those for the frozen ones, prepped into quarters, as shown in the photos below. If using frozen ones, check them, some may still have a few tough petals attached, which can take all the fun out of them.
A cereal bowl’s worth of prepared artichoke hearts (defrosted)
One small onion, chopped.
1 garlic clove
Salt and pepper
Glug of white wine.
Put the oil into a large frying pan (which has a tight-fitting lid) and as it warms, add your artichokes, onion and crushed garlic, and once they start to fry, throw in the wine, quickly turning down the heat, and slipping the lid on. These need to cook until the hearts are tender and yield easily when stabbed with a knife.
Remove from the heat and blitz 2/3 of the artichokes into a puree with blender (check the seasoning), keep the remaining third whole.
Milk (I used 700ml)
Salt and pepper
Melt the butter, and then add the flour, cooking it, but not allowing it to brown.
Gently, very gently, add milk. A tiny bit at a time to begin with.
The starch in the flour will suck upon the milk and swell like something from a sci fi film. If you add too much milk, it’ll be impossible to get rid of any lumps.
When all the milk is absorbed and and you’ve beaten the flour paste into smooth submission, add a spot more milk. Repeat the process patiently, and you’ll end up up a smooth, glossy white sauce the consistency of expensive emulsion paint. Seaso again, this is vital, as this sauce, together with the ricotta, could make a bland filling if you’re not brave with the salt here.
Lasagna sheets (I used premade, dry, as I had some in the cupboard, left by a former lodger (the wonderful Simon, who named his son for me), but if you prefer to make your own fresh, go ahead).
3 floury potatoes (peeled, boiled and sliced)
Ricotta (one tub)
50-75g (or as much as you like) Parmesan or Pecorino if you can get it.
Assemble your Lasagna
In a deep pie dish, place a third of your potatoes, artichoke hearts, and the puree. To this add a third of the ricotta and grated parmesan. Pour over a quarter of the bechemel, season. Add a layer of lasagna sheets.
Repeat another layer of vegetables, cheese and sauce, top with more lasagna sheets.
One final layer, and then pour the last of the béchamel over the lasagna sheets. You can grate some more parmesan over this if you like.
Into the oven at gas mark 4, for 30-40 minutes, until it is bubbling and golden. Ideally some of the lasagna sheets will have started to curl and crisp up, for another layer of crunchy texture.
Eat straight from the oven, or reheat the next day (assuming you have leftovers).
I last wrote anything on here in January (the 15th) – nearly three months ago. Writing is a craft I am learning. To become a good writer, you have to write, write some more, keep writing. “Write every day” my friend Rachel tells me. But I stopped. The words dried up. Or rather they bottle necked. I had plenty of words. Too many words, but there was no sense or reason to them.
The Sicilian and I finished. After nearly four years. On the shortest day of the year.
It was something that had been approaching for months. I thought that watching its slow and steady approach towards us would shield me from a Titanic moment. It turns out I was wrong. I may not be Leonardo di Caprio in this version, but I had a damn good go at being Kate Winslet.
For three weeks, I was fine. I stumbled through the horror of my dysfunctional family Christmas, I hosted New Year. There was sadness. Relief.
On the 16 January, I found myself at work, in front of the computer. Crying. Crying uncontrollably. Overwhelmed by loss, regret, coulda woulda shoulda, self loathing and doubt, emptiness. Hating my job, my life, myself.
I spent a week on the sofa. Sometimes in foetal position. Sometimes not. I wrote furious, vitriolic, crazed messages that helped no one and produced no answers. The GP ordered therapy and told me to call urgently if I had any suicidal thoughts. Dark days. One night I sat crying on a wall for an hour. I stopped eating and lost 8 kilos. The dogs got edgy and clingy.
And for three months nearly, I was off work. I thought that I would use my time to be productive. To make the allotment the best in the country. Become fluent in Italian. Visit Florence and Rome. Finish the book. Decorate the house. But I did none of these. I sat. I gardened a little. I walked the dogs. Every week I would meet my boss for a coffee and try not to cry. The thing that was furthest from and closest to my mind was writing.
I discovered that depression is exhausting and jealous. It demands all your energy, it allows no room for anything else.
Fortunately grief and madness faded. Time did its cliched work. There are still scabs that I mustn’t pick at and I will have scars, that I shall wear stoically, if not proudly. And I am left with the need to write, but without the knowledge of what to write about. Who wants to read the guesswork of some guy from Nuneaton fumbling his way through another culture’s food? Remember that self doubt I mentioned?
Friends reminded me to cook. To keep up the journey. To claim it as wholly mine. Rebrand it if you like. It was difficult. I had to stop reading Anna del Conte’s biography, there was too much to remind me of another life. There were many books I couldn’t finish. Couldn’t start. Recipes I couldn’t cook.
Just as Lombardy was starting the most localised of lockdowns, I went to visit my friend Stefano in London. I went to Borough Market and, as citrus season was in full swing, bought bergamots and citron. Something began to tilt. These were wholly mine, and what I did with them was down to me and to no one and nowhere else. I cooked more, I made the boobs of St Agata, blood orange curd, bergamot marmalade, candied citron, Agra dolce everything, polpette. I cooked English food, French food, Sicilian food. I had a few dates, I met a guy for one evening who’s great (apart from living in Amsterdam, damn this lockdown!).
As we know, the world then went to pot. On a Friday (the morning after my date with Mr Amsterdam), my GP and I decided I was well enough to return to work. On the Monday, the University where I work shut itself down and physically locked the gates. Officially I work from home, but it’s hard to operate a laboratory remotely.
And then I became ill. The worst flu I’ve ever had. Temperature, coughing, fatigue; began to get better and then 8 days in relapsed and spent nearly 48 hours asleep. This being Britain, I shan’t find out if this was just flu, or the new thing. I kept out of circulation, a friend walked the dogs.
This was a month ago now. Through it I cooked only with what I had in the house. Things grown on the allotment from the freezer, or pickled or jammed. Despite the illness, it was a fun experience. On the days that I had the energy, I had the time and the resources to eat wonderfully; alone, yes, but wonderfully. When I emerged from my isolation, I found the shops stripped bare. No eggs, no flour, but thankfully, still gin. So I carried on cooking from my reserves, and kept returning to Italian and Sicilian things of three or four ingredients. Beans and vegetables, pasta and tinned sardines, stale bread turned into bruschetta with peas and broad beans. I found cherries bottled in vodka and orange wine. I made a crostata with marmalade. Risotto got deep fried as little not arancine. I found a magnificent sacred heart of a cotagnata from last November. And I started to plant seeds – this year’s crops for next year’s stores. My peach tree had two flowers on it.
The world today is one of sadness, loneliness and strangeness. But these things in my freezer and cupboards have at least given me some hope again. The remind me that my past is not all waste and loss. With hope comes a voice. The bottlenecked words might have found a release.
So this is not a blog about Sicilian food written by the partner of a Sicilian, rather it is a blog about mostly Sicilian food – the growing and cooking of it, written by a single, adopted-Brummie, because he is greedy, loves the sun, and likes to grow and cook things.
Today (Good Friday), I made an utterly English Simnel Cake. It has some of that Borough Market candied citron in it (very Elizabeth David), candied ginger (for extra medieval). I ballsed up the crystallised flowers, because there is no caster sugar in the shops. They cracked and shattered, but now is not the time to be wasting eggs to have another go. I also made the marzipan lamb of Sicily, one of the campest, most delirious things in the world – Jesus as marzipan; my middle aged long sightedness means he ended up all googly eyed, with a distinctly home made look. My kitchen was both English and Sicilian today. Two places that my healing Irish heart is very attached to. Suddenly there were words again.
This was a year of a BIG birthday, with all the accompanying pressures to throw a party. But, I’m not a party kind of persona. Posh frocks and loud music aren’t my style. Plus the birthday was back in April, around Easter, with a strong likelihood of bluster and downpours. So despite demurring and equivocating, I was eventually pursuaded that I could hold a summer party, an official, Queen’s birthday, if you like.
My allotment site is tucked away on a hillside in Birmingham. The entrances are out of the way and hidden. You have to find your way down unadopted roads, or have a key for a gate in the woodland known only to dog walkers and spliff smoking kids. These semi-concealed gateways conceal the size and beauty of the space. They lead you to unexpected views over rolling valleys of trees; an incongruously bucolic setting, in the middle of a sprawling conurbation. There are plots of enviable order and control, where pristine sheds are equipped with wood burners and bunting flutters on verandas. There are plots given over entirely to callaloo and spuds. And there is mine, given over mostly to weeds and dahlias. Most importantly though, aside from all this controlled and shambolic verdancy, there is a clubhouse, complete with bar, pool tables and a glitterball. It seemed the natural place to throw a party; remote and low key, when the idea of throwing a party induces waves of social anxiety.
I decided to do the food. I was on a budget, and thought it better to stick money behind the bar than throw it the way of sagged microwaved samosas. I thought it a no brainer. Just because the oven was still on the fritz, the freezer was full up with beans and raspberries, and there was the small matter of a full time job, none of these needed to be an obstacle to cooking for 60.
But for the main, I needed something that could be made in advance and reheated on the day. Something vegetarian, but with enough umph to fool the carnivores. Also, something allotment appropriate – allowing me to show off, and say ‘of course, I grew the ingredients’ (well, some of them).
It seemed, therefore, a parmigiana appropriate event. I cleared out the freezer, co-opted a friend’s cooker and raided Poundland for their entire stock of foil roasting trays.
If you’re new to this dish, it is a staple of the south (disregard the name, it’s not from Parma) If there’s such a thing as a Sicilian pot luck supper, this is what you take. You see it for sale in cafes to take away with you, but equally, it’s a surefire way of wrestling the aubergines and tomatoes under control, as they start to overwhelm you in August. At the end, you get a rib sticker of a dish, that can be frozen for darker days.
It’s a laborious process – involving a fry-a-thon, with all the accompanying smoke and splatters and grease spots. It’s an extractor full on, windows flung wide and back door open type of recipe, but I promise you, it’s worth it.
Sliced aubergine is plunged into hot, deep olive oil and cooked to a roast chicken skin brown on both sides. Drain the slices on kitchen roll and then layer, in a deep oven dish, with passata, basil and mozzarella When you’ve filled the house with haze, and the dish with aubergine, grate namesake Parmesan over the top and bake until bubbling and brown.
Now, you can eat it straight away, or you can let it cool, then refrigerate and have it cold (or reheated) the next day. When it will be better by miles! It is best with hunks of crunchy bread that you use to wipe up the carnelian-red sauce and wrap with strings of elastic mozzarella.
Parmigiana di melanzane. (4 greedy people, 6 at a push).
There are some very complicated versions of this recipe around, with added herbs, red wine, nuts. Feel free to try them, but I think that the success of this dish is its simplicity. It is typical of much of the food of Sicily, in that it is home cooking, making use of the best of whatever is available,. The more flavours and textures you add, ironically, the more you lose. Like so many Italian recipes, especially in the south, you are actually only relying on three or four main ingredients to get the end effect.
- 6 big, purple aubergines. Sliced lengthways, just over 0.5 cm thick.
- Olive oil (be generous)
- 300g mozarella (ideally buffalo)
- Fresh basil
- 100g Parmesan, grated
- Black pepper
- 2 cloves of garlic
- 1 litre passata
- Salt the sliced aubergines, leaving them to drip for an hour, then rinse and pat dry (this is not to remove bitterness, but moisture, so that they are firmer when fried).
Now start frying the slices, a few at a time, in enough oil to almost submerge the slices. They will absorb a lot of the oil, which is part of the end flavour, and texture. You can, for economy or health, grill or oven bake, but it will be an entirely different dish at the end.
Into a little cold olive oil, add crushed garlic, and gently heat it up until the garlic is on the edge of golden brown. Add the passata and bring to a simmer for up to 30 minutes, reducing it down by about a third.
Next is the easy bit, Blue Peter cooking.
Put a layer of aubergine slices on the bottom of your oven dish, then add torn blobs of mozarella, basil leaves, about a fifth of the parmesan, black pepper and enough tomato sauce to smooth over and cover everything. Add another layer of aubergines, and repeat the cheese sauce process.
Keep doing this until you have filled you dish (probably 4-5 layers), and finish with a generous helping of parmesan and black pepper.
Bake at 200 degrees C/ Gas mark 6 for 30-45 minutes (you want a browned top and bubbling edges)
Leave for at least ten minutes before serving – longer if you can; overnight ideally. And before you serve, throw some more fresh basil over the top.
Summer is struggling. There are rumours that it will make a break for it later this week and hit 30 degrees. But today is ‘muggy’ (try saying that with a Brummie accent, the Sicilian finds it comedy gold), windy, cloudy. A good day to dry your washing, but definitely not a day that could pass for Mediterranean. That said, it is good enough to eat outside. Later we are cooking rabbit, marinated in herbs, wine and oil for six hours before the barbecue. But lunch is simpler, as little cooking as possible. I leave him to it whilst I take the spaniels out.
Although it’s nearly August, the allotment tomatoes are slow this year, still green and embryonic but the basil is going great guns. So this is a mix of bought (tomatoes, almonds, parmesan, olive oil) and homegrown (albeit a small contribution from the basil and some garlic).
This isn’t a pesto, bashed and tormented to destruction, but the ingredients that you would use to make pesto Trapanese (named after its supposed home town of Trapani, on Sicily’s west coast); the flavours are all there, but more distinct and less gritty. It is not as overwhelming as the jars of basil pesto most of us are more familiar with in the UK, I prefer it. This is the favourite summer dish of Giovanna, Ale’s cousin, who’s pleas to Eat! Eat! give this blog its name. He has memories of her making this continuously throughout the Sicilian summer. So, what for me was a first encounter, was for him a summer norm, familial, so we’re back to that dichotomy of Sicily in Brum again.
We ate this for Sunday lunch with a cold beer and a watchful, expectant audience of spaniels, apparently uncaring that it was vegetarian. That it is good enough to fool the spaniels indicates just how exceptional it is. Definitely a summer meal, imagine what it’ll be like when the homegrown tomatoes are ready!
Pasta alla Trapanse
Amounts aren’t set in stone, change them as you prefer – for oiliness, strength of basil or saltiness from the parmesan.
50g flaked almonds
4 very ripe tomatoes
1 clove of garlic
50g parmesan (grated)
25g fresh basil
4 tbsps Olive oil
400g dried penne or rigatoni
Put a large pan of water on to boil, and once it is, added enough salt to make it taste briney.
Whilst you’re waiting for this, chop your tomatoes into small 20p size chunks, mix with the olive oil, crushed garlic and a generous pinch of salt in bowl. Leave them be for a while, as you get everything else ready, the oil and salt will do something to the tomatoes, making them taste stronger, richer, more of summer.
Dry fry your chopped almonds in a heavy frying pan until they are the brown of a Sicilian who has spent the day on the beach, but keep a beady eye on them, as this is perilously close to burning them. Take them out of the pan as soon as they are done, to stop them cooking any further.
Roughly tear up your basil leaves
Once the water is ready and salted, add you pasta, and cook it for 6-7 minutes. Check the packet, don’t pay too much attention to it though if it’s telling you 12 minutes. Although we used Penne today, the Sicilian thinks Rigatoni is better, as it’s larger, and hides more of the ‘not pesto’ chunks inside to surprise and delight.
Once cooked, drain the pasta, then stir through the parmesan, oily tomatoes and basil, along with black pepper. Serve with a generous crunch of the toasted almonds over the top.
What starts as a steaming, mouth-scalding dish of pasta in sauce shifts to become a cooling pasta salad as you eat and chat and fend off spaniels, like some sort of Willy Wonker meal that transforms as you chew. Textures and flavours dance around each other and alter, the pasta stiffens, the oil is less strident, sweet tomatoes and crunchy almonds come to dominate after the first blast of hot fruity garlic. If that hasn’t sold it to you, then the spaniels will have your plate.
June 2019 is reminding me that I don’t live in Sicily. I live in Birmingham. High latitude, rain catching Birmingham. This is turning into one of those summers where the temperature lingers around 20 degrees, and it rains, and it rains, and it rains. This time last year we were about to leave for Alicudi and the embrace of Mediterranean heat: it was all geckos, seafood, swimming and unrelenting sun. But even in Birmingham, the sun shone kindly, cherries ripened, oyster festivals were visited, grass withered. But holidays and summer are delayed this year; instead there is rain and grey and depression.
Britain offers some consolation in one of what the Sicilian calls ‘the northern fruit’; strawberries, bringing the first of the major battles with the local pigeons and squirrels. Even in the gloom, still they ripen, needing only a few hints of blue sky to suddenly swell and blush to a deeply, sensual scarlet.
They are the most luxurious of fruits to grow. So extravagant in terms of space, maintenance and protection, offering a repayment of a fleeting two weeks of glut and gorging. The downside of last year’s holiday in the sun meant that we missed the strawberries, they came and went in the time we were away. I imagine they were incomparable last year, ripened to perfection by that mythically hot summer.
It is a sadness that strawberries have now become ubiquitous and eternal. The strawberries of shops are a poor and tortured thing, to the extent that so many people have forgotten, or worse, never tasted, the intensity of a freshly picked, perfume leaking free range strawberry; its intense blood redness is the difference between oil paints and crayons.
The downsides; to achieve fourteen days of life affirmation they need space to sprawl, and nets to ward off rapacious birds and mammals. But even nets will be stomped on and nibbled through, so accept that some will be lost. Slugs and snails adore them too, so here you must decide which preventative measure (if any) your conscience will allow. The plants, although easy to look after, don’t like to be disturbed too often, which means your strawberry patch can turn into a weed patch the moment you turn your head, but weeds can also hide some of the fruit from eagle-eyed pigeons.
I asked the Sicilian how they use strawberries at home, because I could only think of Italian gelato, granita and a little tart of custard and glazed alpine strawberries. You see punnets of these alpine berries for sale there – tiny, intense things (so, typically Sicilian), they call them Fragoline di bosco; strawberries of the forest. But he drew a blank. I asked another friend from Milan, and one from Rome, with a Sicilian partner – they too came up with the triumvirate, along with a Roman standard of strawberries, lemon juice and sugar. So perhaps then, when he calls them ‘a northern fruit’, he’s right, perhaps they thrive in our dampness, our scudding leaden skies and disappointment of British summers; they exist to guarantee us wan northerners some unqualified joy during their constrained window.
Last year I tried to bring back some of those strawberries of the forest, knowing that I would have missed my own fat Brummie versions. But they didn’t travel well. A delayed flight and three hours in the car from Stansted, turned them to mush and mould. They were a reminder that of all the crops, the strawberries are the worst to be away for, there will be no other chances until next year. They were also a reminder to make the most of the glut, to capture its essence in jams and ices, so that a spoonful can whisk you back to a moment when you were squatting, with stained fingers, searching for the stab of red beneath green, and loading up bowl after bowl with your rewards.
Strawberry and Lemon Granita (for 8-ish)
Granita in Sicily and Granita in the UK are different creatures. Both should be intensely flavoured – the essence of their ingredients. In Sicily they are fleeting and transient, melting to chilly cordial before your eyes in the summer heat. They are a shot of their parts, like a fruit espresso (or in the case of coffee granita, an actual espresso), refreshing and restorative. In the UK, particular in this summer, they retain their form for longer, but rarely is there heat strong enough to demand granita. In the heat of Sicily granita invokes an emotional as well as a physical response. Save it for sunny, warm days. It is too easy to catch a chill in this country and anyway, it works so much better when the air is a little sticky and the sun too hot, and you’re not in a grey British summer.
500g ripe as you can Strawberries
Juice of one lemon
75ml (or less of water)
Remove any leaves from the strawberries, halve and cook them in a splash of water. Once they’ve disintegrated, liquidise them.
Bring the water to the boil, then add the sugar and stir until it’s all dissolved.
Take off the heat and leave to cool.
Push the liquidised fruit through a very fine sieve – fine enough to take the seeds out, and then stir your strawberries into the sugar and water. Finally add the lemon juice and stir.
Taste it. It should be Type 2 Diabetes sweet, as frozen things never taste as sweet as they do at room temperature
Now chill the mixture for a few hours and then put it in a freezer in whatever container you plan to store it in.
If you were to use an ice cream maker her, you’d get a smooth sorbet. Granita should be gritty and crystalline.
So every hour or so, take the container out of the freezer and scratch it with a fork, to get your icy grit. One frozen, it’ll keep indefinitely, but I try to make small batches for almost immediate
Once it’s ready, serve it in tiny glasses, the camper the better.