Teriyaki chicken recipe

Image © Elle_Bee

Teriyaki is a Japanese cooking technique in which fish or meats are broiled or grilled in a sweet soy sauce marinade.

I made this the other night and am still dreaming about it. The tangy, sweet first bite, the crisp skin coated with velvety glaze, the moist and delicate meat...

But I can't claim ownership of this wonderful slow-roasted Teriyaki dish. James gets all the glory, and I am forever thankful for his generosity in sharing his mom's sublime recipe.

1 whole broiler chicken, eviscerated, rinsed and dried

for the Teriyaki marinade:

1/2 cup of soy sauce
1/4 cup of sake
1 Tablespoon of sugar
1 Tablespoon of freshly grated ginger
2 cloves of garlic, crushed


Chop the chicken into classic 8 pieces: 2 drumsticks, 2 thighs, 2 breasts, 2 wings. For a lower fat content, better to skin the pieces. But why miss on such a flavoursome ingredient?

Next mix together the soy sauce, sake and sugar in a bowl until the sugar is completely dissolved. Grate in the ginger and add the crushed garlic cloves.

Using a plastic bag big enough to hold all the pieces, slowly pour in all of the marinade, seal it with a twist tie and place it into a bowl. Refrigerate and allow it to marinate overnight. That would be easy if you didn't have to shake and turn the bag every 5-6 hours or so, to marinate evenly.

The next day, preheat oven at 125° C (257° F).

Line a baking dish with aluminum foil. Make sure to lift up the edges to catch the juice (edges should be about 1-inch high). Lay the chicken pieces onto the foil and brush with the leftover marinade.

Place the baking dish in the oven and roast, basting after about 50 minutes. Cook slowly for about 2 hours, checking every 30 minutes (this may vary according to individual ovens). The baked Teriyaki chicken should be a nice golden brown color, slightly crisp on the edges, but not too dry. When the drumstick is poked, juices should run clear.

Sprinkle with toasted sesame seeds, serve with warm sake and white rice. And thank James.

Book review "Breaking Bread in L'Aquila"

"When a project is conceived out of passion, its roots show."
This is the case with the new Italian trattoria-style cookbook, Breaking Bread in L'Aquila



A collection of recipes? Hardly just that.

Maria Filice is an ardent fan of the city and traveled many times to L'Aquila, the hometown of her late husband, Paul Piccone. On their numerous travels there, Paul introduced Maria to San Biagio, a small and charming homestyle restaurant, owned by two brothers–Andrea and Luciano Carlofelice–experts in making customers happy with their warm smiles and their fresh, local, and incredibly tasty dishes.

Breaking Bread in L'Aquila is inspired in part by those memorable meals, but even more so by a deep love for the joviality and warmth of shared hospitality. But above all, the book is inspired by the enduring love for Paul, the man who transformed Maria's life. Breaking Bread in L'Aquila is, essentially, a delicious love letter.

Maria was prompted to write her book when she visited L'Aquila a few months after her husband Paul passed away. As the book shaped itself, her visits intensified and in the aftermath of the April 2009 earthquake, Maria reports:

"When I was leaving L'Aquila on my short visit in September 2009, in the lobby sitting next to me was an older woman, relocated there from her crumbled home in the city. We made eye contact. I smiled, and she asked me what I was doing in L'Aquila. I told her that I was finishing my book and that I had wished to see L'Aquila once more before I could put closure on my book's introduction. She looked at me and gripping my hand, said, "Don't forget about us." I was moved. This deepened my resolve to complete the book, and release it on April 6th 2010–the anniversary of the earthquake–as a reminder to readers of the Abruzzo region's suffering. I promised the elderly lady that I would help by donating the net profits of my book to L'Aquila."

Breaking Bread in L'Aquila, whose recipes are inspired by those sampled over the years at trattoria San Biagio, includes Maria's favorite appetizers, main courses, side dishes, desserts and regional wines.

Bold, colorful, and easy to make, Breaking Bread in L'Aquila's Abruzzo-inspired dishes are as gorgeous to look at as they are to savor. The 49+ recipes, which are organized according to the days of the week, are made with ingredients available in anyone's local market.

In her practical and entertaining cookbook, Maria guides readers on a personal journey, complete with charming storytelling and tasty tips, to one of the most beautiful areas of Italy's countryside.

The net proceeds of this book will be donated to the earthquake restoration efforts of L'Aquila.

About the author: Maria Filice, a first-time author, food stylist and food blogger, is a first-generation Canadian-American Italian. Born and raised by immigrant parents from Calabria, Maria grew up following her family's Old World, old-school values. She learned her cooking skills from the best: her mother, grandmother, and aunts, whom she carefully studied from the time she could barely walk.

Join us in celebrating Abruzzo's fine food, wine and music at the "Breaking Bread in L'Aquila" Italy book launch with author Maria Filice

Saturday, May 15th 2010 at 5 p.m.
Sextantio albergo diffuso
Via Principe Umberto – 67020 Santo Stefano di Sessanio (AQ) Italy

Contacts for further accommodation info:
Tel. +39 0862 899 112

20 things that nurture me, an exercise

20 things that nurture me
(thank you Robyn for showing me this exercise some time ago)

1. My son: You are my universe.
2. Friends: I love you. You pull me out of dark spots, and throw sunlight at me. Every day.
3. Love: All-inclusive nourishment.
4. Instinct: A part of me I have never disliked. My sixth sense has never failed me.
5. Trees: Important creatures in my life.
6. Writing: Therapy in expression.
7. Art: I am moved by it, nurtured by it, humbled by it.
8. Nature: My deepest respect.
9. Laughter: Above all, my son's belly laugh.
10. Compassion: The only way to live.
11. Spirituality: A safe place.
12. Imagination: Powerful self-preservation tool.
13. Touch: My child's gentle touch, hugging people, trees and animals, and a nice deep-tissue massage.
14. Oceans, Seas: Where I naturally rejuvenate.
15. Chiming tubular bells: Instant inner peace.
16. Music: I can't imagine life without it.
17. Smell: Freshly baked bread, mowed grass, my son'r hair.
18. Poetry, Literature: I can never get enough of them.
19. Water: Drinking a perfect glass of water when I'm thirsty is the best. I am among the lucky few who can open any faucet and drink from it freely.
20. Sleep: When I sleep well I dream. I had my first dream in a long time early this morning.

Like Robyn says, all the above are connected and wouldn't really mean much without each other. Please forgive this non-cuisine digression in the more personal sphere. I am in that place right now, not in the kitchen. This is a good thing.

A prayer for 2010

The new year begins.

I am borrowing the poem/prayer below and offering it to you as a sign of gratitude. As a gesture of love. As a symbol of where I am right now. My new year's resolution is to repeat this prayer and reap its deep beneficial effects. I hope you will too.

This is a perfect moment. It’s a perfect moment because I have been inspired to say a gigantic prayer. I’ve been roused to unleash a divinely greedy, apocalyptically healing prayer for each and every one of us—even those of us who ­don’t believe in the power of prayer.

And so I am starting to pray right now to the God of Gods, the God beyond all Gods... the Girlfriend of God... the Teacher of God... the Goddess who invented God.





DEAR GODDESS, you who always answer our very best questions, even if we ignore you:

Please be here with us right now. Come inside us with your sly slippery slaphappy mojo. Invade us with your silky succulent salty sweet haha.

Hear with our ears, Goddess. Breathe with our lungs. See through our eyes.


DEAR GODDESS, you who never kill but only change:

I pray that my exuberant, suave, and accidental words will move you to shower ferocious blessings down on everyone who reads or hears this benediction.

I pray that you will give us what we ­don’t even know we need—not just the boons we think we want, but everything we’ve always been afraid to even imagine or ask for.






DEAR GODDESS, you wealthy anarchist burning heaven to the ground:

Many of us don’t even know who we really are.

We’ve forgotten that our souls live forever.

We’re blind to the fact that every little move we make sends ripples through eternity. Some of us are even ignorant of how extravagant, relentless, and practical your love for us is.

Please wake us up to the shocking truths. Use your brash magic to help us see that we are completely different from we’ve been led to believe, and more exciting than we can possibly imagine.

Guide us to realize that we are all unwitting messiahs who are much too big and ancient to fit inside our personalities.


DEAR GODDESS, you sly universal virus with no fucking opinion:

Help us to be disciplined enough to go crazy in the name of creation, not destruction.

Teach us to know the distinction between oppressive self-­control and liberating self-control.

Awaken in us the power to do the half-­right thing when it is impossible to do the totally right thing.

And arouse the Wild Woman within us—even if we are men.



DEAR GODDESS, you who give us so much love and pain mixed together that our morality is always on the verge of collapsing:

I beg you to cast a boisterous love spell that will nullify all the dumb ideas, bad decisions, and nasty conditioning that have ever cursed all of us wise and sexy virtuosos.

Remove, banish, annihilate, and laugh into oblivion any jinx that has clung to us, no matter how long we have suffered from it, and even if we have become accustomed or addicted to its ugly companionship.

Conjure an aura of protection around us so that we will receive an early warning if we are ever about to act in such a way as to bring another hex or plague into our lives in the future.

DEAR GODDESS, you psychedelic mushroom cloud at the center of all our brains:

I pray that you will inspire us to kick our own asses with abandon and regularity.

Give us bigger, better, more original sins and wilder, wetter, more interesting problems.

Help us learn the difference between stupid suffering and smart suffering.

Provoke us to throw away or give away everything we own that encourages us to believe we’re better than anyone else.

Brainwash us with your compassion so that we never love our own freedom more than anyone else’s freedom.

And make it illegal, immoral, irrelevant, unpatriotic, and totally tasteless for us to be in love with anyone or anything that’s no good for us.




DEAR GODDESS, you riotously tender, hauntingly reassuring, orgiastically sacred feeling that is even now running through all of our soft, warm animal bodies:

I pray that you provide us with a license to bend and even break all rules, laws, and traditions that hinder us from loving the world the way you do.

Show us how to purge the wishy-­washy wishes that distract us from our daring, dramatic, divine desires.

And teach us that we can have anything we want if we will only ask for it in an unselfish way.

DEAR GODDESS, you who just pretend to be crazy so you can get away with doing what's right:

Help us to be like you—wildly disciplined, voraciously curious, exuberantly elegant, shockingly friendly, fanatically balanced, blasphemously reverent, mysteriously truthful, teasingly healing, lyrically logical, and blissfully rowdy.



And now dear God of Gods, God beyond all Gods, Girlfriend of God, Teacher of God, Goddess who invented God, I bring this prayer to a close, trusting that in these pregnant moments you have begun to change all of us in the exact way we needed to change in order to become the gorgeous geniuses we were born to be.





Amen


Om


Hallelujah


Shalom


Namaste


More power to you




Oh, but one more thing DEAR GODDESS, you pregnant slut who scorns all mediocre longing:

Please give us donkey clown piñatas full of chirping crickets,

ceramic spice jars containing 10 million-­year-old salt from the Himalayas,

gargoyle statues guaranteed to scare away the demons,

lucid dreams while we’re wide awake,

enough organic soup and ice cream to feed all the refugees,

emerald parachutes and purple velvet gloves and ladders made of melted-down guns,

a knack for avoiding other people’s personal hells,

radio-controlled, helium-filled flying rubber sharks to play with,

magic red slippers to contribute to the hopeless,

bathtubs full of holy water to wash away our greed,

secret admirers who are not psychotic stalkers,

mousse cakes baked in the shapes of giant question marks,

stories about lightning strikes that burn down towers where megalomaniacal kings live,

solar-powered sex toys that work even in the dark,

knowledge of secret underground rivers,

mirrors that the Dalai Lama has gazed into,

and red wagons carrying the treats we were deprived of in childhood.

~Rob Brezsny

Happy 2010!

Autunno - harvest season in Italy

Don't you just love autumn? During the third season of the year, when plentiful crops and fruits are gathered and brown leaves fall, the first showers replenish the soil and I am comforted by the thought that I'll be soon feasting on porcini mushrooms, truffles, hearty soups, ruby red wine and cloudy green, freshly pressed olive oil. In the Northern hemisphere the Italian countryside will soon be ablaze with color, and tables laden with gorgeous foods.


The first item on the autumn agenda is the annual appointment with la vendemmia, the grape harvest. The earliest frost peeks out and the first woolly jumpers appear, still itchy against remnants of tanned skin. Wellington boots afoot and crisp morning air tickling nostrils, the shearing begins. Whites first, then onto burgundy clusters which fall into crates ready for the press. Although the folkloristic image of Italian peasants stomping grapes with their bare feet is charming, the wine-making procedure here is professional, environmentally sane and clean.

The meal that usually follows the hard day's grape picking work (and subsequent turning them into must) is always a gargantuan pot-luck banquet: chicken liver crostini, pasta e ceci and typical Tuscan ribollita soups, roasted meats, fagioli all'uccelletto, sausage, 700 side dishes and as many homemade desserts. Washed down by the previous year's vintage and lazy nibbling of aged Pecorino, honey and vin santo with cantucci to finish off the repast. Rosy cheeks, protruding bellies and shiny red noses, we all—expert vineyard tenders and untrained out-of-towners—exchange double-sided kisses and say our mutual arrivederci 'til next year's harvest.

Next on the fall calendar is the Frantoio, the oil pressing days. The extraction of oil is a fascinating procedure. My friends in Tuscany whom I always spend the month of August with, own and manage an oil press, serving their small rural community. Olive growers from all over the area migrate to my friends’ estate in late fall with their precious load of olives and go back home with demijohns filled with ambrosia after exhaustive all-night pressing marathons. The mill works incessantly day and night for six intense weeks. The family takes turns at working the machinery, cleaning the hardware, keeping track of production, sales, bureaucratic paperwork, public relations and entertaining guests.

The oil press here is of the traditional kind, where oil is obtained by grinding the olives. Green olives produce bitter oil, and overripe olives give a bigger yield, but produce rancid oil, so huge care is taken to make sure the olives are picked when perfectly ripened. First the olives are ground into paste using huge millstones. The olive paste generally stays under the stones for 30–40 minutes. After grinding, the olive paste is spread on large 2ft woven fiber disks, which are stacked on top of each other, then placed into the press. Pressure is then applied onto the disks to separate the oil from the paste. The oil collected during this part of the process is the virgin oil. Further pressing of the paste produces a lower grade of oil.

Image courtesy of Florablog

The first drops of cold-pressed oil to spout out of the press on opening night are welcomed with a round of applause and a festive food and wine extravaganza. Considering jobs and other daytime duties on the farm, oil pressing is usually a sensual evening to late-night activity. Upon retiring to bed, drained of all energy and satiated by the heavenly fumes and spectacular food, I close my eyes cradled by the rumble of the machinery working away in the mill several floors beneath my bedroom. The entire villa vibrates and is a living part of the magical operation. I always return home laden with gallons (actually oil is measured in weight units, so kilos) of oil that I stock up for the entire year and also distribute as Christmas gifts.

The last food-fest rendezvous before winter is the joyous celebratory event held for friends and aficionados at the official closing of the summer season at Positano's glorious Buca di Bacco Hotel and Restaurant. My family has sojourned at La Buca ever since I can remember. I must have been my son's age when my grandparents first took me there with my mother. Over the years our unfailing loyalty to the place and the solid friendships formed with the owners and staff have made our stays at Buca di Bacco more of a family gathering than a vacation. All our beach paraphernalia, towels, bathing suits and my son's shovels and toys are stowed in the hotel's storage room, ready for next year's summer vacation in one of the many domed rooms overlooking the crystal Mediterranean waters.


The yearly end of autumn seasonal closure for winter event has since the last ten years been a steadfast yearly appointment with the gorgeous coastal location and the wonders of the Buca di Bacco's fantastical kitchen. This year, our California trip substituted the usual summer Positano vacation, so this year's closing Festa di Fine Stagione is an absolute must. I am craving the smell of cascading wisteria and trumpet-shaped datura flowers, the glimmering sunlight on the wind-ruffled sea surface at noon, and the amazing taste of Buca di Bacco's cuisine.

The summer I could not afford to pay for my room, I worked in the kitchen as commis chef. It was a wonderful experience and the cooking knowledge and expert tricks I learned that summer are equal only to the weight I gained. I just had to taste everything we made!

Like every year, my family and I will not be trick-or-treating or carving jack-o-lanterns. On October 31st this year we'll be here, like every Halloween, feasting on delightful seafood, marvelous wines and laughing among friends.

Summer escape - Villa Rucellai in Tuscany

We escaped. It was too hot and lonely in Rome.
I packed a light tote for Mr.E and myself, and we made for the country. As in Tuscany, where "pastoral" is as pretty as it gets.

Right now, as I finish posting this, friends are setting the table for dinner. The barbecue is on...


Rebecca is toasting bread for bruschetta (pronounced with a K)

The menu this evening will be: rosticciana - which is a lovely Tuscan word for 'pork spare ribs' - herb-rubbed chicken skewers, garden salad and homemade gelato.


I can't get enough of these scallions and vine-ripened tomatoes picked warm this morning in the vegetable garden.

So I halved and scooped-out some Roma tomatoes, and stuffed them with a little crushed tuna; the chopped pulp; and some diced celery, which I tossed with mayonnaise, before divvying up the mixture back in the tomato halves for our antipasto.

The air smells like burning firewood.
The swallows dance vast circles above our heads, and our swimming costumes are still dripping pool water, over there on the west-facing hedge.

Mr.E is in seventh heaven. He spends most of his time playing in the garden, digging up dirt, or climbing trees and plucking the juicy pears.


Look at that sunset...



...and the olive trees beneath the forest...

And what about this view of the main entrance?
Isn't it lovely?


Ducks paddling in their little spa pond...

...Geraniums sheltered by the shade of a cherry tree...

...and beauty as far as the eye can see...

Speaking of tomatoes, tomorrow my friends Selena, Rebecca, Lorenzo, with Mr.E and I (and the supervision of my mother) will begin the summer's production by cooking the first 5 gallons of Pommarola tomato preserves.
The following day, it will be fig marmalade. Depending on the yield, perhaps plum jam too.

Aperitivo is ready, I'm being summoned outside.
I have to go now...



...and I need to slip on a jumper, because it's getting chilly...

Butterflies in my stomach

Image © unaformichinaincucina.blogspot.it

My guests just left. There are red wine rings all over the wooden Ikea table and the house still smells like sautéed onions and snuffed candles. Tom Waits is growling a ballad in the background, and I'm putting off doing the dishes 'til tomorrow.

Cooking in this little kitchen is like juggling in a phone booth. I've managed to make a complete mess, but I'll deal with it in daylight, not now. Now I just want to wind down, write a little and read a few pages of my book before slipping into Morpheus' arms.

Friends showed up early in order to hang out with E. before his bedtime, and kept me company while I cooked dinner for them. We dished and laughed and simply enjoying each other's company, unbuttoning inhibitions and restraining garments as our tummies filled, pledging our reciprocal affection as the wine flowed in our goblets. We ate like sharks and solemnly vowed to make it a weekly appointment. Our different stories, generations, backgrounds and nationalities made the conversation simmer with variety and sexy accents.

Before dozing off to the light chatter of our conversation, E. bounced on 4 different sets of knees and even got to taste this evening's Barolo, the lucky little brat. His snoring is louder than usual, I wonder if the nip of wine he got has anything to do with it.

500 g (1.1 lb) Farfalle type pasta
1 bunch of radicchio Trevigiano (the more tapered head), trimmed and cut into thin slivers
150 g (3/4 of a cup) Caprino or any mild goat cheese
2 shallots, finely sliced
Extra virgin olive oil
150 ml (3/4 of a cup) beer
2 tbsp milk
Salt and freshly ground black pepper

Sauté the shallots in 3 tablespoons of olive oil until translucent. Add the radicchio and season with salt and pepper.
Simmer over a mild flame for a few minutes, wetting with the beer. Let the beer evaporate, add the crumbled cheese and stir in the milk gradually.

In the meantime, bring a large pot of lightly salted water to a rolling boil, cook the farfalle al dente (springy yet opposing somewhat of a bite), drain and add them to the sauce. Toss well to blend flavors and coat the pasta, adjust seasoning and drizzle with a wee bit more olive oil.
Buon appetito, ragazze.

Forkfuls of bliss

After two consecutive weeks of rain, chill and gray skies, this morning’s sun came as a godsend. As did J’s impromptu invitation.

After picking up E from daycare and dropping him off in his nanny's loving arms, I dashed off to Trastevere where lunch among old friends on a dazzling sunlit terrace overlooking rooftops was waiting to happen.

J, F and I spent our matchless midday meal catching up on our cluttered lives, making merry in the blazing sunshine while downing copious amounts of fruity Pignoletto and devouring J's delicious swordfish and fresh tomato spaghetti.

The conversation swerved between film sets, script notes, exotic weddings, acting lessons, our mutual colorless sex lives, books, religion, private jets, friendship, wealth, home improvement injuries, supermarket prices and grand plans for the Future.

For dessert we pounced on the sugar coated zeppole and the fried bigné di S. Giuseppe F had picked up on his way over, and J brewed a gallon of espresso in his 15 demitasse-capacity stovetop moka. As Jimi Hendrix sensually licked and bit the strings of his Fender Stratocaster in the background, the afternoon waned into an orange sunset.

I love my friends.