Dad's favorite dishes

I need to write. Writing is my preferred form of therapy. My father has flown away, and I still can't believe it's true.

I'm grieving and I have no idea how to do it. My emotions overlap and my heart aches. I can't make any sense of what's happening. FYI You're in the wrong place if you're expecting to read a cheerful post.

What follows is a moment of intimate reflection, of deep therapeutic writing that I'm putting out there in the universe (secretly, I'm hoping Dad will read it and smile, from wherever he is right now).

Although we did have time for our goodbyes, for whispered I love yous, and no remorse of anything left unsaid, there are so many other moments that I would have wanted to share with you, Dad.

I would have wanted to see the look on your face when reading the dedication of my first book to you.

Your reaction to the wink in the camera I gave as I joked about eating blue cheese (which you hated) on the gorgonzola segment of my show.

I would have loved E. to hang out with you more, and finally play that golf match you two have been talking about for years.

I so wanted to take you to the Navy museum in Anguillara on lake Bracciano, you would have loved it!

I wanted one more walk on the beach together. One more granita di caffè at Tazza D'Oro. One more impromptu softball game in Santo Stefano di Sessanio together. One more.

Just like this blog started eight years ago as a journal of thoughts followed by recipes, today I'm honoring the memory and the greatness of my Dad by assembling an ideal menu made up of all the dishes he loved, the majority of which were Italian––or so I like to think. I'm going to cook them all for him.

So here goes, Dad, I hope you enjoy it.

Antipasto
Prosciutto e Melone – Dad, you loved this classic Italian hors d'oeuvre. If prosciutto was unavailable, you'd sprinkle salt on your cantaloupe. This created the same perfect umami contrast. You often told a story of your Navy days in the Philippines. One of these memories was of you and a fellow officer riding on a boat to a local's house. It was a sweltering hot day. In the distance you saw the woman whose house you were headed to standing on the jetty, holding a jug of what looked like pulpy orange juice. You hated pulpy orange juice more than you hated blue cheese. A mix of disgust and fear of being impolite when declining to drink the beverage washed over you. Imagine your surprise when you soon realized the contents of the jug was crushed cantaloupe melon! You said you didn't let anyone else have much of it. Eating melon will never be the same for me. I will always smile and think of you with every bite.

Primo piatto
Anything al Pesto – You had this thing with pesto sauce. When you'd come visit us in Rome, this was always your first pasta choice. I remember this one time you came to visit when E. was 2 and for the welcome dinner I made gnocchi al pesto for you, a classic go-to and, modestly, a personal showpiece. Well, that night the gnocchi turned out to be a disaster: a collapsed, sticky mass sunken at the bottom of the pot. I fished it out and attempted dressing it with my homemade pesto sauce, which somehow had oxidized and looked dark gray instead of bright green. You ate a full helping of it and feigned appreciation, but I could sense the effort each time you swallowed a bite. Maybe you would have rather eaten my pesto lasagna. Damn, I wish I had baked that for you instead.

Secondo piatto
Scaloppine al limone – I think these were your favorite over saltimbocca alla romana. Whichever veal cutlet recipe it was, the competition was close. I remember how you savored each bite, carefully cutting small portions with your knife and fork, eating them slowly in order to make the joy last.



Remember that great Christmas we all celebrated together in Rome, when Amy and the Anderson gang came over, and we celebrated Christmas Day all together ice skating and then dining in my small apartment? Well, the day you arrived from the airport we went out to eat at La Scala. I'm pretty sure your entree was scaloppine al limone that night.

Contorno
Insalata di finocchi e rucola – You taught me to enjoy shaved fennel bulb and arugula salad. You'd order this side dish at the restaurant, or enjoy eating it at home when you lived in Italy while married to Mamma. The simple condiment, a thread of extra virgin olive oil, a pinch of sea salt and a few turns of the peppermill was all it needed. One side dish we would never dream of serving with lunch when you were in town was broccoli. In a later time of your life you actually did come around to eating broccoli, but as long as I can remember, you hated the stuff as much as you loved mangling its name, "brrrahcklee!"

How I loved your voice, Dad. It was deep and melodious. When I'd curl up on your chest as a little girl, scared or crying for some reason, you'd breathe out with a deep, vibrating hum. That sound was so soothing and calming. It was like Om, but better.


Bread
Focaccia – I'm so bummed that the restaurant Cesarina is no longer what it used to be in the Seventies. You always said how amazing the food was: authentic dishes from Bologna (a sad lack of which we suffer in Rome), courteous service, a legendary Felliniesque host and the balloon focaccia.

You loved that flatbread! Maybe more for the show than the actual taste. The large rolled out dough was baked so that it would puff up into beach-ball size and then swiftly sliced horizontally to obtain two large discs. What I'd give to see you working your way through one of those again.

Dolce
Ricotta e caffè – I don't know how you learned about this typical Roman dessert. It's not really a dessert, it's more of a snack for mid-afternoon merenda, but you loved to eat it at the end of the meal. You'd scoop a couple spoonfuls of fresh sheep's milk ricotta – a Rome specialty – and use a fork to mix it with powdered coffee and sugar. I have a image of you flattening out the resulting beige paste and leaving fork marks all over the surface, and then slowly lifting small bites of it. Sometimes there'd be bread involved too. Or cacao powder.

One thing you were on the other hand very swift at eating was gelato. You adored your Italian frozen delight, and in particular tartufo. Given the amount of tartufo you ingested during your time living in Italy made you a virtual shareholder at Tre Scalini. You ate gelato so quickly that you'd get terrible brain freeze and would moan in pain holding your temple with one hand while wolfing it all down with the other.

Vino
You were never a drinker. I remember you sometimes ordered non-alcoholic beer, but that fad didn't last very long. I don't think you ever drank liquor regularly. There's a story told in the family of when you went to ask my Grandfather for my mother's hand in a Paris restaurant. Waiting to approach the subject during the meal, table manners included sipping some wine. You were in France, what did you expect? When the waiter arrived carrying a 1955 bottle of Château Haut-Brion swaddled like an infant, you accepted a glass but before toasting poured half a pint of Evian in it to water it down. The waiter nearly fainted and I don't know how Nonno reacted. Mom may have kicked you under the table.

I'll end this meal with a treat I know you loved. I made it myself and E. whipped the cream, so there's snow-white spatterings everywhere, including on the kitchen ceiling. We froze the espresso coffee in a shallow tray and scraped it several times to the desired texture. It's not summer, but in heaven there are no seasons, so enjoy. Don't rush it, though.

Those interested in learning more about my Dad's amazing career, can read this beautiful obituary published on the Hollywood Reporter.

Buon appetito, Dad
your Doodah

Abruzzo for the weekend

Santa Maria della Pietà, 17th century church, half way up the hike to Rocca Calascio

My dad, stepmother and friends came to visit us last week, and we were very excited to have them over. Without much planning, we decided to go to Abruzzo for the weekend. Here are just a few images of those two magical days.

the Rocca Calascio fortress

panorama from Rocca Calascio, 1460 m elevation (Castel del Monte in the distance) 

View from my room ~ Sextantio Albergo Diffuso

our room is called "Camera sul campanile" – room overlooking the belfry 

Sunset at Santo Stefano di Sessanio

After dinner the restaurant serves homemade digestive bitters

Smiles. Plenty of them.

Ricotta and cacao recipe

After snuggly morning wishes, a sloppy kiss and a wonderful drawing of the two of us, my son informed me that, "Mother's Day is also Childrens' Day."

I wouldn't be a mother if it weren't for him, so the kid did have a point.

I'm assuming the battery operated dump truck he's been coveting for the past week had something to do with his statement.

With the lovely Mother's Day celebrations behind us, I'm making a treat for my dad. He's not been feeling well lately, and there's always a sense of helplessness that comes with living on the other side of the world from him.

So tonight I'm making him virtual dessert. He never says no to the meal's sweet endings, and ricotta and cacao is one of his favorites.

Image © lacucinadicalycanthus.net

This dessert is refreshing and chocolaty, not too fattening, and essentially one that can be easily made at home, in a moment.


250 g (1 cup) fresh sheep's ricotta
5 tbsp. Dutch cocoa powder
2 tbsp. sugar
A pinch of ground cinnamon (optional)

Work the cocoa powder and sugar into the ricotta with a fork to obtain an even blend. The provided quantities depend greatly on individual taste, so go ahead and tweak as you wish.

Fill dessert goblets, champagne flutes or Martini glasses with the flavored cheese, dust the surface with more cocoa powder or chocolate sprinkles, add a dash of cinnamon, or garnish with finger biscuits, if you like.

If at all possible, use genuine, fresh sheep's ricotta. It's not always easy to find, but the natural flavor, aroma and softness of this product, paired with the bitter cocoa, is una meraviglia.

Get well soon, daddy.

Happy Birthday, Dad!

DISCLAIMER | This post has nothing to do with food or Italian lifestyle, so it doesn't fit Aglio, Olio & Peperoncino proper. If a mouthwatering recipe or a traditional Roman custom is what you came for, be prepared to find out about something completely different. Today I want to talk about a place I found out about a few days ago. And tell my dad about it.

My dad is a golfer. Ever since I can remember, he has loved the sport. He not only plays once a week, lives in the Monterey Bay–which is golfers' heaven–but he goes as far as enjoying golf on TV (which to me is a mystery, why do the announcers whisper as someone is taking a putt or a drive, when they are actually secluded in a media box somewhere far, far away from the golfer?). One of my father's earliest parent-proudness moments came when aged 10, I hit a Par 2 Birdie in a children's tournament in L.A.

So since today is his birthday–and this post is about a mind-blowing golf course in South Africa, which I am sure he'll appreciate learning about–I want to share it here and dedicate it to him.

I've noticed that over the years, golf has conquered some pretty treacherous terrain, from the sheer cliffs of Scotland, to the portable slabs of grass from hole to hole in an Australian desert town, to the moving ice floes on an island in Northern Greenland—but I may have found the most gobsmacking setting of them all.

Here's a hint: your golf cart is a helicopter...

Introducing the world's steepest Par 3 golf hole: The Extreme 19th at Legend Golf & Safari Resort in South Africa, teeing off now from Hanglip Mountain.

Think of it as a piece of Pebble Beach dropped onto the African plains and then perched on the edge of a skyscraper-sized cliff. To get to the tee box, golfers take a six-seat chopper to a peak roughly the height of the Empire State Building. That puts the ground-level green more than 1,200 feet away and adds a much needed dose of danger to the game—if you slice, you may have to tussle with a rhino to get your ball back.


When you get down to the green (again via the chopper), you'll notice it looks familiar: it's a map of Africa, outfitted with the Continent's exact peaks and valleys, which raises the possibility of banking a putt off Kilimanjaro—or leaving a divot where the Sphinx quietly guards the pyramids.

After you've finished off the full course, you'll have a whole wildlife preserve at your disposal, not to mention a luxury resort complete with lakeside cottages, villas on stilts, spa, photo safari jaunts and a fire-walking workshop that will take you tiptoeing over real live 200-degree coals (still less painful than hitting a bunker).

And finally here's the video that made me want to pack my 9-iron and leave today. Look at what it feels like to tee off the 19th hole at Legends.

I hope all my other readers won't mind this small digression from the usual pots and pans.

I'm having fantasies of us playing this course together soon.

Happy birthday, Dad.

♥E.


The Extreme 19th at Legend Golf & Safari Resort
Entabeni Safari Conservancy, Mookgophong, Waterberg Region
Lompopo, South Africa
+27 (0) 11 729 6700
for more Extreme 19th information click HERE

The sky's on fire!

I must have been 4 years old. My dad held me tightly as the sky lit up in technicolor explosions. I was terrified, but his firm grip and familiar smell of Old Spice comforted me and made me feel safe in his capacious arms.

Me and Dad, 1976

The 4th of July evening celebrations catered by the American Embassy in Rome that year featured a barbecue and a firework show to which Rome was not accustomed to. We were among the hundreds of US citizens in the Eternal City, invited guests of the Ambassador that evening. An informal gathering, open house, they called it. All sprawled on the vast grassy expanse of the designated bucolic venue, everyone enjoyed the pyrotechnic performance. All but me. I wasn't having any fun. Those fireworks were scaring the hell out of me, I didn't understand their loudness, and I kept thinking the burning streaks would land on us, burning us alive. I had never seen such a fiery sight before.

I hid my face and curled up against my father's chest, damp grass underass and chilled toes in hand. If I shut my eyes, it'll stop, I kept mumbling, as my dad kept repeating, "don't worry," Easy for you to say. The apocalypse is ablast, and I'm not even potty trained.

I have patchwork memories of that otherwise festive night. I remember my mother not being there. She probably felt this had to be a father-daughter moment, us being the Americani in the family, and all. Or perhaps for another reason, the nature of which I know not. My assumption is that this was to be my dad's day with me, and she just backed out elegantly. I don't remember how long we stayed after, nor the food we ate before. I just have the recollection of that loud open night sky, alight with chrysanthemums of sparks and artificial stars.

It is an event that my father often reminds me of. I believe it was one of those bonding moments that inevitably happen between parent and offspring. Perhaps there, on that freshly mowed lawn that night, is where my father first felt the full weight of my child vulnerability. As he held my scared little being in his warm embrace, he probably understood how much a defenseless child is dependent on a father, on a pair of two strong arms and a soothing baritone voice. Maybe it made him feel good to calm me. And the relief was mutual. I was tiny and seeing the sky detonate in colors was a scary first for me. My dad's presence and his soft words of comfort made it all OK.

My dad's not too keen on emails. Until very recently, my father and I exchanged handwritten letters. He usually writes his on yellow lined notepad paper. His words are written in loopy rounded, large swooping characters. I have saved many of his letters in a special velvet folder, and I treasure them more than he can imagine. I keep one special one in my wallet. When my apartment got burgled (with me in the house: THAT'S something to be scared of, not fireworks!) and my handbag pillaged, I went straight to check not the monetary damage, but that the letter had not been dislodged from its space between the checkbook and the lottery stubs. It was still there. Here is an excerpt from that letter:

"The other day, July 4th, as we were finishing our phone call - I reminded you of that one time - years ago - when you had been afraid of the fireworks - and you replied 'yeah, but you held me in your arms, and you made it all OK.' Oh, Eleonora you don't know how happy I was that you remembered, and that you said that the other day. I love you so much, with all my heart - and I am so proud of you and of your life... (I'm crying now)..."

Every Sunday dad and I have an appointment. We talk on the phone. It's something we've done ever since I can remember. Sometimes it's a brief chat, sometimes it's a long marathon that lasts hours. We hardly ever exchange handwritten letters anymore, but that's alright. He is a loving father and a dedicated Grandfather for my son. He sends packaged boxes addressed to him filled with wonderful books in English, and toys, clothes and trinkets always accompanied by a sweet note and a few loving words for me too.

This summer my son and I will be visiting my dad in California. It will be my boy's first time on an airplane, his first time out of Italy, and my first intercontinental flight with toddler. We're both very excited and can't wait for our departure date. My dad though, seems to be the one who's the most anxious and giggly with anticipation for this trip. Phone calls and emails have doubled in these last few weeks. Sometimes we talk every day, exchanging short news updates or just for no reason at all other than hearing our voices. It will be a very important time for us, all together. My son's first encounter with his full American side of the family, and my first time back in the States as a mother. The new me in the New World. He is four and we'll be watching fireworks. History repeats itself.

I had forgotten that today is Father's Day there. We celebrate ours on March 19th, and it is a religious festivity besides being a family one. Reading a friend's post today reminded me that on the 3rd Sunday in June, in America, United Kingdom, France, India, Greece, Canada, Ireland, Japan, South Africa, Mexico and many other countries, daddies are honored and commemorated. We will be having our Father's Day barbecue later this year, on a sandy California beach somewhere, and it will include 3 generations.

Happy Father's Day, Dad. I'm shooting fireworks for you here today. And my arms are open wide. It's all OK.

Me and Dad, 1976