Have you witnessed the remarkable perseverance, the pep-in-the-step, the joie de vivre of the basil plant? Perhaps you have watched basil growing precariously by the curbside resembling a hardy bushy moss, undisturbed by time and traffic and the torment of water deprivation, while its leaves sway by the breeze and swell with peppery bite, advertising the time that is ripe for the plucking, its flowers ready to be taken at the whim of the winds or by the tender gathering of the worker bee. Being something of the hopelessly romantic gardener that I am, I admit to being witness to the dehydration and death of even the hardiest, most woody of basil plant to a return to infancy. It is truly remarkable to witness the cycle of basil from seeding to hanging seed, dusty branch to succulent soil, the idle dried flowers laden with the promise of re-growth in the new season…
I dropped over to visit my grandmother one summer afternoon in blistering heat. After the expected hug and kiss and pull of the skin around the belly (yes, she was satisfied that I am eating well), I kindly denied her request to make a sandwich of some cold meats and lettuce. We sat down to an espresso and some biscotti dusted with icing sugar, and we chat for a while, with many questions primed to be sure of her wellbeing, her health and outlook, and of course, to feign interest in her stories about the rascal I was a child for the sake of musing an elderly lady. After a lengthy discussion about the state of affairs of the family, of the world and the government, I excused myself from the table and made leisurely pace to the backyard. My grandmother made little effort to hide her cheeky cackle as she watched me from the kitchen window and followed behind me like a second shadow as I stood filling a plastic bag with the ripest of her garden produce. I reached for a tee-pee shaped structure that was holding many spiral tendrils, still dewy from the morning and the afternoon.
“That’ssa snake beans,” She said gently. My arm was pulled and my body directed to her other thriving plants; zucchini flowers ready for the frying, lemons weighing down their branches as sickly sweet on the air as a mist spray of fairy floss, bitter shoots of off-green endive, crisp iceberg lettuce and an odd variety of vine tomato. “What’s that one, Nonna?” I ask as I tug one of the beastly, fleshy orbs from the stalk and bring it to my nose to breathe in the scent. She takes it from my hand, examines it as a jeweler might inspect the facets of a diamond and brushes the pest-dust from its surface by rubbing it on her apron. “Well, this’ssa one is called the oxheart, very nice in salad with a pinch of salt.”
Needless to say, after one bite my concept of love was completely redefined (no offence, Jasmin).
If cleanliness is next to godliness, oxymoron to antithesis, heaven next to earth, then by such a logic the next best thing to sliced bread would have to be pane di casa. Transliterating to mean ‘bread of home’, this hearty and crusty loaf is beaming with the delicacy involved in its making and the residual elements of the oven it is baked within. Only prime, dense flour goes into making the loaf, using a carefully select amount of yeast, a secret serving of sugar and salt and most importantly, the right kind of oven which can deliver the intense heat needed to make a fibrous centre and a toasted top. With time racing away from us and the heart of summer finally reached in Sydney, it seemed only appropriate to bring out a family favourite summer recipe that has never been shy about boasting the best and most flavoursome the season has to offer. Each bite is like ecstacy escaped from heaven; such a perfect accompaniment as an entree and the best introduction to a host of antipasto cold meats and olives. Bruschetta was introduced to me by my grandmother back as a wee lad on one of those picturesque summer afternoons that we, sadly, see so infrequently. I was helping to gather the garden yields of heavy and succulent red Roma tomatoes, a sickle-worth of parsley torn from the partially shady corner, fresh sprigs of oregano and rosemary and copious quantities of vibrant green basil leaves (almost as large as my hand). It was already decided that dinner would be a wonderful cooling pasta with a variety of sweet vegetables, but what about lunch? What would we serve ourselves as a special treat? Little did we know how effectively our end product would attract the masses of family, who were otherwise occupied in admiring the garden. We quickly assembled the citizens of summer (our family) to meet the other citizens (the fresh produce) in a merry rapture that nobody has been able to forget.
Admittedly, I was horrified to learn that my grandmother kept loaves of pane di casa stored in her pantry for days at a time and would serve us slices from that stale loaf for soups and for eating with piquant and dry cheeses and wine. The best loaf, she would say, is discovered by testing the tension of the surface of the loaf; if it crumbles and crackles beneath your very light grip, then you have a top quality and fresh loaf that has not been sitting dormant in a bakery for several weeks at a time. Rubbery and soft loaves are a sign of age (and also a sign of a lack of using artificial preservatives, which is always good) and are best not used for this recipe. Insist on a crisp loaf that crumbles as you cut it with a gilded knife, preparing each slice in a certain special method. Shell a garlic clove, cut off its ends and squeeze it in the centre to release its fragrant juices. With the clove in your hand, vigorously rub the slice of bread until the garlic disintegrates in your hand – the work of body heat and friction together almost ‘cook’ the clove and allow its enzymes to work at giving extra flavour to the slice. With this slice as it is, toast it over a low heat barbeque, griller or the low setting of a toaster to allow the bread to crispen and retain its shape for the wet ingredients to come.
We sweated in contemplation, salivated in desire and strained our eyes to envision a feast of succulent fruits, thinking long and hard about the sweet things on offer during the summer season in our previous post. Thus, it seemed only right to introduce the more dominant and exciting flavours and colours of the warmer weather, with a herald offering of boastful bites in a recipe for an ostentatious, delicious and decorarative antipasto. For a starter that is so appealing and so wonderfully diverse, the best methods in making a mouthful involves more than just good style; you’ll notice first upon this post the antipasto pictured above, in a setting more picturesque than the one beneath. It’s not an eye-test nor a game of spot the difference, but rather a demonstration of the versatility of this starter in providing what your guests crave most of all.
It all started one stinking hot summer day, during the birthday of a relative celebrated at our grandmother’s home. Amidst the plethora of dishes on offer from chilled and cooked seafoods, scintillating salads with grilled meats and warm potato salad with a drizzle of virgin oil and freshly churned cream and chives, I made a decision that would change my life… for a few minutes. A giant antipasto dish occupied the centre of the table and put on offer some of the most exotic-looking meats and most pungent smelling olives I have ever encountered. Being young and thus impetuous as I was, I decided that waiting for the communal dinner time was not worth it; who wouldn’t be tempted to reach for a small sample of that mysteriously tasty looking selection? In what I suspected to be a bundle of fennel (aniseed) layers, which I chewed greedily, actually turned out to be a bundle of coarsely cut uncooked brown onion. My eyes watered, my mouth burned, my fingers tingled. Reaching for water or soft drink seemed to be my only option, but it didn’t help. So in my desperation, I decided to fill my mouth with even more of the offerings on the platter regardless of what it was. And in a moment reminiscent of Lady and The Tramp, the combination of subtle and strong flavours counterbalanced the bitter, biting attack of the onion and made for a miniature barbecue in my mouth instead. Come to think of it, you could call that unusual taste combination a kind of gourmet delight, where the mushiness resembled a spicy olive tapenade and the counterbalancing agents acting through the Swiss cheese and cured pork sausage.
Now, not to get the wrong idea here. Antipasto is there to be savoured and enjoyed, nor devoured as I have shown myself incapable of resisting. But when the antipasto is as tempting as the first platter (the foremost photograph of this post), arranged and prepared with ingredients that seethed, marinated, bubbled over the chilly winter months, some depths beneath my grandmothers’ house… there’s little resistance left over. It put on offer some juicy, freshly plucked vine-ripened tomato, tender, thin slices of prosciutto ham, seasoned chicken breast, Jarlsberg cheese, homemade cacciatore salami and home-made bottle-aged green olives. The latter was prepared in my kitchen with a focus on supermarket provided goods and an obvious departure from the traditional roots of the dish with a continental array of fresh vegetables. Essentially, it doesn’t matter so much how closely you stick to the “original” recipe, for after all the concept of antipasto means for a few appetizing bites before proceeding to the next course. Various regions of Italy (and even countries around the world) will mention their own variations by including artichoke hearts, anchovies and even a few spicy pieces of whole garlic cloves. So whatever your taste, whatever your desire, an antipasto dish can cater perfectly to your ‘appetizing’ needs.
Chilli paste. Humble but mighty, fragrant but feisty. It’s strong enough to peel the chemicals off a stainless steel knife, it can tingle your tastebuds until they can tango no longer, it will make your mouth water and your eyes sting and swelter like a gaudy neon sign. It is a force to be reckoned with, a force capable of causing an 8.8 on the Richter Scale and sending your heart into hyperdrive. But most surprising of all is that everything I have just mentioned has been blatantly disregarded in the past as though it were a practice fire drill. Of all people on the suspect list, my grandfather admitted readily to the crime of contradicting the urban legend of this fiery paste, stating his alibi as a man who habitually reaches for teaspoon after teaspoon of his chilli paste to spread through his soups and steaks as though it were a mere trifle to his defiant will for spiciness. Perhaps the man is more a legend than the recipe itself, for he is well-known in my family for his iron stomach that has survived all known attacks of food poisoning and a palate so strong even the fieriest of dishes are a mere tickle to his incredible heat threshold. On several occasions, he would leave plates of cooked food out and forget to put it into the fridge. His profile? He has been confronted about this terrible habit on many accounts, and his excuse is always the same: “It’s a cold day, why does it need to go into the fridge so quickly?”. Other times it was that lovable forgetfulness that had him stow away a plate of canned mackarel into the cupboard for days without cling wrap, leave the gas stove running while bargaining in the delicatessen about the rising price of salami or even pouring in so much red wine into his pasta sauces, the colour would shift unevenly to an eerie, glowing purple.
Amidst all the commotion I have made about a seemingly simple recipe for chilli paste, two questions are probably stinging you right now: ‘is it really that hot?’ and ‘is it really worth trying?’ To tell you the truth, I could never understand why he would boast about the large plastic bags he collected and filled to the brim with dried chilli seeds, until they were made into paste, jarred for a few months and applied liberally to his spaghetti al’olio. It was an experience my tongue has not forgiven me for. Even to this very day, his outside office is stocked with recycled jars of chilli so dense and so hot that the liquid will stain your spoon and holds a vivid brown consistency when held to the light. This is a tribute to his art for the spiciest meal that somehow retains an intoxicating flavour. One day, if I can sneak through the mess of his backyard patio, I might take a photograph or two of that syrupy stuff that the Devil himself would advocate. Perhaps only then will you, the reader, truly believe me when I say that this recipe is an inspiration of the original, but by no means will ever reach that same zenith of perfect product.
The Wild Thyme and Sweet Pea project found its roots when it was plucked excitedly from the garden, washed briskly in a basin of water and lovingly left out to dry in a soothing marinade of vision and ambition ... More »
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