Last week it was in the 30s. Bournemouth beach was the scene of a national scandal. We were both in lockdown and not in lockdown. The frisson of something about to snap hung in the clammy air. Deluges and thunderstorms were promised, but never showed up. So I came to the rescue and wheeled out my sure fire, rain making, cloud busting box of tricks and made a granita.
Granita, which I wrote a different piece on last year, is painfully, indelibly linked to the sun and heat of Sicily in July. The month when only fools visit. It is served, melting before your eyes – an ice that is a drink, a breakfast. Fleeting. The brain freeze lasts longer than the thing itself. There is so much that I am missing about Sicily at the moment. But granita is the thing that makes me cry when I think of being there; I don’t know if it is the freeze shudder amid the heat, or the race to eat before you drink, or memories of piazzas and castles; rubbish and stale dog piss. Granita in the UK is not granita, for me. It is the same, but not. A granita needs the setting, the temperature, the Italian voices, to become itself. Here, even in the most authentic of venues, it is just flavoured ice, reminding me that I am not in Sicily.
But, I make it anyway. Because I am a sentimental fool. I live in hope of hot days and sticky nights. I remember a house on Alicudi and a theatre bar in Palermo. I never think to make it until the temperature rises, and then, once that whim has grabbed me, and the juice or the syrup is freezing and being forked to shards, the wind switches to the west, the clouds roll in, drizzle, usually settles for a week or so. The moment for a granita breakfast slips through my fingers. Again.
Last week was such a moment. And to make sure that I lost it, I went the whole hog and tinkered with two entirely Sicilian flavours, almond and jasmine; expensive and hard to source, this is a luxurious treat. But it doesn’t need to apologise for itself.
A jasmine syrup made with heated sugar water and fresh jasmine flowers, and an almond milk, from blanched and blitzed almonds soaked in water for 24 hours, with just a smidge of extra almond essence to compensate for the Californian blandness of the dried almonds. You freeze, fork over, creating crystals of pure white snow. Refreeze, refork – this is not a smooth sorbet, but something that, in its heartbeat of existence, should be gritty, like Sicily.
Done, your granita is ready. Imagine marzipan, crystallised and frozen. If you like marzipan, you will be in raptures over this. The jasmine perfumes it, raises the almond’s game. And it is gone.
Now imagine eating this in Piazza della vergogna in Palermo in 40 degrees. Feel free to have a little cry about not being there.
Almond and Jasmine Granita
The Jasmine syrup
For this you will need fresh white Jasmine flowers (the summer flowering, Jasmine officianalis, not the yellow, winter variety, which is poisonous). Some recipes say 50g, some say half a kilo. Frankly, half a kilo of jasmine flowers is a tall order in Birmingham, so I cut my cloth accordingly.
So, with as many flowers as you can muster, soak them over night in cold water, 750ml if you’ve somehow managed to find your half a kilo, considerably less if you live in Birmingham and have a small garden with a smaller jasmine plant. Meanwhile, make a sugar syrup by boiling 250 ml of water with 325g sugar until the sugar is dissolved (frozen things never taste as sweet as they do at room temperature). Again adjust the quantities according to the abundance of your jasmine.
In the morning, mix the cooled syrup and the strained jasmine water.
The Almond Milk
Most recipes you read will err towards a conservative amount of almonds – I up the anti – because it was drilled into me that British (imported from California) almonds are sad and flavourless things. That only Sicilian almonds truly taste of almonds. So ingrained is this now, that I go full on cyanide I’m afraid, so I would advise on tinkering until you get your preferred intensity and life expectancy.
Blanche 500g almonds (pour over boiling water, leave them to soak for ten minutes then slip them out of their brown skins). It’s a mindless job, but passes soon enough if you do it with the radio on or whilst chatting.
Rinse the almonds and then blitz them in a food processor.
Add them to one litre of water, with the juice of a lemon, a teaspoon of seriously good almond essence (bitter almonds if you can get it) and (if you like it) a cinnamon stick.
Leave everything to soak for 24 hours in the fridge, and then strain the milk.
(This can now just be drunk, like ambrosia, if the heat is really unbearable and you can’t wait for it to become an ice)
Unite your jasmine syrup and your almond milk.
If you’ve done the full recipe – you’ll have two litres.
A granita should be scratchy and crunchy, so don’t put this into an ice cream maker – which will give you that refined sorbet. Instead, put the mix into a container, freeze it, and come back every now and then to aggressively fork it over. You want shards and crystals – you want the water to freeze and split and sharpen.
When it’s completely frozen and broken, it’s ready. Wait for a hot, hot morning. Serve it in your daintiest, campest glasses. Watch the clouds roll in and the heavens open.