Pimp your Gin

Having drunk nothing but great Chianti and Limoncello all year whilst out in Italy, I wasn't in a tearing hurry to lower my standards again on my return to university in Swansea. However, whilst the reasonably good stuff was very affordable in Tuscan shops, over here it is top shelf gold dust. So, with an abundance of free fruit at my fingertips every time I walked the dog, I decided that the best solution was to have a stab at making my own drinks using cheap gin or vodka as a base. The recipes are foolproof, requiring solely fruit, alcohol and sugar and there are countless articles online giving ratios and how best to go about it. So far I've made raspberry vodka and sloe gin, rowan berry schnapps, rose hip syrup and Crema di Limoncello.

Vines growing in the 'Orto di Pecci', Siena

Not only was making these naughty beverages an economical triumph, but it was an interesting activity in itself. Everyone I spoke to had their own family recipes and memories to share with me. When I showed my Granny the rose hips that I had gathered, she smiled, remembering being sent out in groups as children to scour the hedgerows for them during the war. The hips were then sent to the government and given back as a syrup for families to use as a source of vitamin C when there were no oranges to be had in times of rationing. Reflecting on this, the use I have in mind for my rose hip syrup seems rather a decadent adulteration in comparison, destined to be combined with prosecco as a twist on the old Bellini. Anyhow, for a good recipe try this link: Hugh Fearnley-Whittingstall's Rose hip syrup recipe

The abundance of sloes this autumn

One of the recipes I used was given to my mother at a New Year's Eve party. One of her fellow guests had brought along his home-made tipples as a gift to share:

Trevor's Raspberry Vodka

2 lb raspberries
1 lb sugar
1 pt vodka

Mix the berries with the sugar.
Steep the mixture in the vodka.
Leave alone in an airtight container for a few months, upturning from time to time.

Sugar and raspberries pre-vodka

I was inspired to make the limoncello by my unforgettable stay in Sicily with the Pellegrino family, who served me some of their homemade liqueur frozen so that it became like a shot of sorbet; as delicious as it was potent. Obviously I always knew that it wouldn't taste quite the same using British-bought lemons, but I am pleased to say that the result is still absolutely gorgeous. To try this yourself go to: Rosetta's crema di limoncello recipe *top tip: if you can't find any cheese cloth to strain your limoncello through, buy a pair of tights instead - they will do the job nicely!

Sunflowers and Limoncello: making Swansea feel like home

Gentle lentil Soup

I have been putting off my food shopping for too long. Not because I don't enjoy it (I'm in love with the reduced section, spontaneity gets me every time) but because I inevitably buy too many heavy things and then the walk home is literally, a drag. Luckily for me, the lack of ingredients is a great cultivator of the imagination, and as a result I came up with this new soup recipe for lunch:

Serves two (or one extremely greedy person)

Ingredients

Olive oil 

2 onions

Rose/white wine

Dark soy sauce

 500ml chicken stock

salt

pepper

nutmeg

1 tin of green lentils

1 sachet of creamed coconut 

fresh coriander

Finely chop the onions and sweat in the olive oil (I used my lovely new wok to do this, what can you do in a frying pan that you can't do in a wok?). Once they have coloured a little, add a good glass or two of wine that you don't particularly care for (if you can afford to put nice stuff in, great, but I just had this Mateus rubbish to hand) and evaporate the alcohol from it. Now add the soy sauce, so that the colour turns from pink to light brown. The most important thing to remember when making soup is to SMELL and TASTE as you go. We do not want the soy flavour to be overpowering so add it little by little until you like how it tastes. Now add about 500ml of chicken stock (all the better if homemade), the tin of lentils (rinsed) and simmer. Whilst this is bubbling away, chop the creamed coconut as finely as you can so that when you add it in, it dissolves well. Now season it to taste with salt, pepper and a generous amount of nutmeg. Cook until it reaches your preferred consistency and then decide whether you want to blitz it in a food processor for a smooth soup or leave it lumpy. Garnish with fresh chopped coriander to serve.

Melplash Show

Having grown up breeding Portland Sheep, a local rare breed in Dorset, the Melplash Show near Bridport is one of mine and my mother's annual events. Every year we select the best of our young stock to take to the show, exhibiting them to the crowds in order to promote the breed and ensure their continuation. Whilst most of our time is spent in the ring as the sheep are judged, we always manage to sneak off to other parts of the show too, having a tradition of spending our winnings on a pot of local honey. For me though, there are two main attractions; the horse section and the food hall.

I always enjoy watching the skill and nerve shown by the show-jumpers as they fight it out for the fastest clear round, and there are endless debates to be had on which horse is the best regardless of it's rider. This year however, I was drawn over to the showing rings as a friend was competing in the 'Retrained Racehorse' Class which I thought was particularly testing seeing as they were doing a motorbike display in the next door ring. These sorts of places are the best if you like people-watching,  as well as the great friends you stumble upon, there are the proud owners and breeders, dodgy dealers, tweedy judges, pony club kids and a good few women who seemed to think it was a good idea to wear heels in a  muddy field.

These are probably the same women that actually buy the ridiculously overpriced artisan smoked meats on sale in the food hall, drawn in by the area's 'foodie status' as Hugh Fearnley-Whittingstall's hunting ground. Nonetheless, there are stacks of stalls with more affordable and equally mouthwatering products on offer to take home or just scoff straight away which I would definitely recommend; I plumped for a delicious duckburger with plum sauce from the 'Somerset Ducks' Company as my lunch of choice.

Naturally, the place is awash with every variety of cider imaginable and there is a substantial choice of dessert available too from local ice cream and frozen yoghurt to chocolate coated strawberries and homemade fudge in delectable flavours. The home produce tent is always worth a look as well; whether you find it's contents inspiring or amusing is up to you! There are competitions for the largest onions, most uniform trio of beetroot, most original edible objets d'art and the very best of local home brewing. The diversity of different infusions presented here amazed me in all their amber and ruby tones and I went home with a seed planted in my mind to make some of my own. I've collected a lot of berries and bought a lot of sugar, so watch this space...

The Transition

During my last 48 hours in Italy, I went from rags to riches as far as accomodation was concerned. My flight from Sicily arrived in Rome at 8pm so I was forced to stay there overnight, travelling on to Siena and then Pisa for my flight back to England the next day. Naively I had chosen the cheapest hostel I could find in close proximity to Termini train station, a mistake. I was a little too warmly welcomed into a grotty reception room by a man who seemed to think I was interested in paying for my room by other means. Having firmly established that I wasn't going to do so, I only felt slightly reassured to see other smiling twenty-somethings hanging around as I was shown to my room. Under the circumstances I would have preferred a dorm room, however I had to have a single seeing as I would unsociably be rising at five a.m the next day to catch the bus to Siena. The room itself smelt rotten and was full of mosquitos. I didn't want to be in there let alone sleep there. Luckily, a knock came at the door and it was a Dutch girl inviting me to spend the evening with her and a group of friends she had made whilst travelling in Italy. She swiftly introduced me to almost everyone else staying in the hostel, lent me some midge repellent and off we went for the Fontana di Trevi. There we shared a bottle of cheap white with two slovenian friends of hers whilst people-watching and sharing the similarities and differences between our lives and languages. As the evening deepened, the fountain was cleared for cleaning and we moved on to the Spanish Steps, mirthfully watching shiny great Mercs glide past Dolce & Gabbana. Two a.m stole up and we trudged back to our rooms, where I still couldn't sleep despite my tiredness.

Two and a half hours later I woke to the two alarms I had set, and crept out of the building to odd looks from the bin men. A taxi to the bus station and an awkward wait amongst the other lone early risers followed, I was asleep on my sore old feet but at least I had spent my last night of the year in Rome at two of it's most iconic places to sit and ponder. 

I slept for most of the journey, waking only for hazy glimpses of sunflowers and arriving back to my house for half past nine.

After a tearful day of stress, Violetta and Linda helped me lug my heavy cases down to the street but even so I managed to be late for the train and had to hurl myself and my bags down the platform at top speed, begging a family to help me lift them onto the train as stuff fell out of my handbag left, right and centre. I resigned myself to sitting on my suitcase by the doorway at all times as I couldn't move them any further, unfortunately these parts of the carriages were not air conditioned. 

So after three changes, it is fair to say that I arrived at Pisa Aeroporto looking slightly dishevelled and I didn't exactly fit in when I showed up at the VIP Lounge, my mother having treated me to a business class flight home courtesy of  an avios freebie. Still, the trick is to look as if you don't care, so I toddled over to the bar and made myself a Bellini, sat back and relaxed, finally.

The 'plane-food' was agreeable enough; a very British tray of beef stew, a selection of cheeses with quince jelly and some chocolate truffles served with an even more British amount of politeness. I slept soundly for the remainder of the flight, waking only for the captain's announcement that we had landed. However smoothly we had done so though, it always going to be a jolt for me mentally.

Having arrived, I set to comforting myself with the things that, strangely, I had missed from home during my year abroad. I drowned myself in golden syrup covered porridge, dripping lardy cake and honey - covered soda bread. The most quintessential thing ever was the afternoon tea we had with a friend, of clotted cream on home-made scones (from Mary Berry's 'Baking Bible') and strawberry jam, swapping stories of our european adventures over a pot of tea. The old french house was apparently coming along nicely and she had adopted a lost stone-marten kit for a short time.

I noticed the things I had previously taken for granted that one just doesn't see anywhere else. The rounded trees and hedges of our fields were in such contrast with the striking  cypresses that had shaped the tuscan landscapes. The un-embellished bones of English history such as Maiden castle, Hambledon Hill and Stonehenge were once again new to my eyes and our livestock brought fresh fascination as they peacefully grazed in the mist each morning.

While the sun has been out though, and we've had birthdays to celebrate, we've lived in the most mediterranean way that we can find time for. Granny has grown lots of zucchini whose flowers are my favourite antipasto of late, and we're holding out hopes for the cavolo nero she planted too, which is almost recovering from it's earlier caterpillar attack. Lunch in the garden is much encouraged by the cat  who adores it when we are outside, where Mum prepares lots of Italian specialities that she brought back from her last trip to Siena. For my birthday lunch we eat prosciutto and pecorino from the man in the funny hat at the Sienese market, bringing back fond memories, and we imitate as much else as we can with mozzarella, olives and basil bought here at home.

For my Mum's birthday dinner, I go to two brilliant books for inspiration.
Local Italian Anna del Conte's book on the 'Classic Food of Northern Italy' teaches me a failsafe summer dessert of nectarines stuffed with amaretti biscuits and baked. Then 'Polpo' gives me an amazing recipe for beet cured salmon on focaccia,  another for Campari cake with vanilla ice cream (which we wash down with the first spritzes that I have ever made myself), and another for lamb chump chops with caponata.

But here is one of my own everyday recipes, easily thrown together (especially if you happen to have a glut of these things in your garden) and instantly Italian, it can be eaten alone or tossed into pasta:

Pan-fried Zucchini with tomatoes and mint (for one)

2 tbsp extra virgin olive oil
2 shallots/1 onion
1 courgette
a handful of cherry tomatoes
a handful of fresh mint
1 lemon/orange
salt and pepper to season


heat the olive oil in a frying pan and sweat the shallots over a medium heat. chop the courgettes into thin rounds while this is happening, and add them to the pan when the shallots are getting soft. When you find that the courgettes have swallowed up all of the oil and are sticking uncomfortably to the pan, add the juice of your lemon or orange and the halved tomatoes to remedy the situation and ensure nothing gets burnt. When the skins of the tomatoes are just beginning to wrinkle, take the pan off the heat and stir in your seasoning if needed and a handful of chopped mint which will wilt with the heat of the vegetables alone.

The length and depth of Italy

Going to Trento was the beginning of the end. Once I was there, racing my last Italian 800m of the year, I knew that I wouldn't really stop travelling until I was back in Dorset, England. As I looked out of the car window, Tuscany's soft cloud like mountains vanished and became dramatically green and vertiginous on either side of the motorway, like raw emeralds jutting from the uniform rows of vines that clothed the valley floor. The roofs of the houses were different, to cope with the snow and there was a northern simplicity to the architecture. Most people that didn't speak Italian spoke German instead, and 'speck' featured heavily on the menus. Post-race, Trento's historical centre was almost deserted as we wandered the pretty streets looking for a bar in which to console ourselves with a negroni or two, laughing off our tactical blunders. The next day we were back in Siena, and all of a sudden I found myself having to say  goodbye to my companions, and it seemed the cat had got my tongue.

My next stop was Rome where I met up with some great friends of mine and in turn, their great friends. We ate a casual supper of biscuits, cheese and salami with a good slug of Campari to accompany it; the perfect partner to our lengthy evening's conversations. It was all over too quickly as we wolfed a pitstop farewell lunch the next day in Trastevere. At the Osteria ditta Trinchetti we gorged ourselves on figs with hot stringy scamorza and crispy prosciutto accompanied by a very refreshing glass of house white that really merited more time than we were able to give to it. Sad but sated, I scurried off to the airport in search of Sicily.

As I flew further  and further south, the heat of the sun became visible on the water and my smile broadened by the second. I was welcomed at first by a gelato at the side of the road from Marta's father who had just the same youthful good  humour as Marta herself. Then by Briciola the terrier's kisses, and then again by a huge dinner prepared by Mamma Pellegrino including the most wonderful parmigiana di melanzane that concealed boiled eggs amongst it's rich layers. That night, Gianpiero insisted on picking us up in his truck after dinner, and carted us off to his friend Fausto's house where we drank salted coronas with green lemons picked straight from a tree that hung over our shoulders. After a swift introduction to the Sicilian dialect by the 'picciotti' (boys), we headed off to an unknown destination, down a long and uneven dirt track. Eventually we arrived into a moonlike landscape, isolated and illuminated only  by the plethora of stars carpeting the sky; the 'Punta Bianca'. Out we clambered and flopped down onto the undulating white clay, where we rested for hours trailing our feet in the translucent black water and absorbing the silence.

The following days passed in an equally beautiful and typically Sicilian manner. Taking lunch with us from the bakery across the road, we would go off exploring on the moped taking care to park it in the shade so as not to grill ourselves on our return. Thus we spent afternoons at the beach, watching through the cut glass waves as fish swam about our feet, falling asleep to summer songs and daubing our bodies with the recurring white clay, this time found at the Scala dei Turchi. We ate out at a local pizzeria with friends, where I chose the delectable combination of pesto, sun dried tomatoes and rocket as my topping to be followed by a palate-cleansing lemon sorbet.

A family dinner on the balcony one evening provided me with ample opportunity to practise my Sicilian to raucous laughter as we feasted like kings. Barbecued meats were piled high onto the plates and we painted on  the dressing with a sprig of rosemary. Grilled zucchini, roasted balsamic peppers and stuffed tomatoes complimented it perfectly. Watermelon and ice cream followed, with the grand finale being produced from the freezer in a slim, frosted bottle. Pale yellow and with a hand-written label, I knew that this was something special; home-made frozen limoncello cream to be poured into shot glasses as soon as we could manage to unplug the ice from the neck. I am hoping to recreate my own one day at home having been lucky enough to be told the family recipe.

Another time, grinning mischievously, Marta's father brought home a roasted chicken and a beautifully wrapped square parcel which he quietly slipped into the fridge. Dolci! The famous cannoli stuffed with fresh ricotta, dipped in pistachio and cherries and every other confection possibly able to be constructed with ricotta, pastry and almonds were set before me as the family regarded my every mouthful with satisfaction and insisted that I try everything.

Having been shown around the old Agrigento, seeing the schools, piazzas and churches so familiar to my friend, and the offices of the carabinieri where her father works, I was taken to the best Gelateria in town, 'Le Cuspidi'. There I went against all of my purist notions about ice cream flavours and plumped for a decadently creamy  and over the top scoop of 'cheesecake'. This fuelled us for an evening stroll at the Valle dei Templi, whose ancient floodlit pillars stand out from afar but grow ever more breathtaking with every stride taken towards them. At dusk is the very best time that one can go to see the temples of Giunone and Concordia as the view from the hills, the dramatic sun setting and the balmy temperature combine to make a truly incredible atmosphere. The addition of a huge bronze torso in the classical style of polish sculptor, Igor Mitoraj, only enhances the scene.

That evening we drove shorewards on the 'motorino', our dresses fluttering in the warm breeze, to San Leone, the hub of local nightlife. Dinner was the first stop, at the best fish restaurant there is, 'Trattoria Il Pescatore' where a friend of Marta's works and personalised our platters with balsamic names. Never have I tasted fresher seafood and so I savoured every mouthful of tender squid and nut-encrusted bass. When we arrived at the bar quarter, the car park was alive with lights, music, chatter with parked vespas being used as seating. Extravagant greetings were given every few paces as we twisted through the throngs and over to the bar, everybody appearing to know everybody somehow or other. Later on, the party moved onto the beach where people danced and sang at the kiosks to well known Italian songs that I had never heard before.

Marta would catch me at times, knowing that I was contemplating my departure, and smile sympathetically. On the last day, the smell of freshly crushed basil and pine nuts greeting us as we returned home for lunch didn't make my leaving any easier and it was with a heavy heart that I boarded the bus back to the airport at Trapani. Marta's family had been the most welcoming and generous hosts and shown me so many beautiful things, I sincerely hope to be able to return the favour one day and also to keep on returning to Italy. I am thoroughly addicted and now I am going to have to go cold turkey for quite a while.

Life on balconies and windowsills

These days I'm waking up late to slatted light streaming in through the grey blue shutters in the morning, staccato sounds of engines and voices rising from the streets below rattle me into being. A long lost friend is often found silhouetted on the windowsill smoking calmly six floors high.

Coffee becomes our only routine and we sample different cafes daily. We perch among the pigeons on a thin balcony in the Piazza with sugared fingers and cocoa-covered legs as the inevitable result of a good cornetto. A Gatsby fueled whim is then indulged at the Caffe' Le Logge where peacock feathers gleam doubly in gilded mirrors and chandeliers, and our coffee is accompanied with black chocolate and almonds. We return there one evening with friends for an aperitivo. Skewering green olives, the Italians follow an unusually strong Spritz with an equally heavy Negroni and Erika takes Talisker, neither of which do much to relieve the suffocating humidity of the night into which we wander afterwards.

photo by Erika Lewis

On other nights we cook together at home, over stuffing ourselves with Italian classics taken from a beautiful book of Erika's called 'POLPO' and mulling over future business ventures. We eat anchovy stuffed courgette flowers and divinely fresh buffalo mozzarella with basil and tomatoes. We roll thyme-scented Arancini and blitz rocket and walnuts in preparation for the party we are hosting later that evening. Chianti in hand,  we attempt pizzette which burst with flavour but are let down by my cursed inability to get on with yeast. This is followed by a dessert of  tiny saffron infused pears drizzled in amber moscato with whipped cream and pillows of meringue; all are defeated by it so it lingers sunken and sticky until breakfast the next day. The pears we had bought from a favourite character of mine at the Wednesday market, the beekeeper Luigi. Brown and stooped with quiet movements, he has always appeared suspicious of my foreignness, smiling a wise and closed smile, usually wordless. As usual he was selling a small selection of other things aside from honey, and the wooden crate of pears none larger than a wren in size caught both mine and Erika's eyes. I tentatively questioned Luigi about these and he gave us one each to try, telling me they were called 'uccellini' (little birds) by the locals, weighing out a kilo of them as he spoke, for which I paid next to nothing. Perhaps we gilded the lily, drowning them so in unctuous liquor, but it was delicious nonetheless.

photo by Erika Lewis

Lazy Sundays are spent basking above the terracotta  rooftops squinting out towards the mountains, listening to Paul Simon and dunking cantuccini in our coffee. A hummingbird moth flirts briefly with us and we talk of Dali and skulls and how some moths have no mouths. Idly, I paint my nails with iridescent rust. Later, we strike out for an ice cream at my preferred gelateria around the corner, where I usually choose strawberry and dark chocolate. Then, in a more energetic mood we go to feed the goats and the donkey at the old Orto where the enthusiastic goat warden's hearty laugh as he hands you crusts and looks on delightedly is infectious.

Another of our strolls, after not quite perfecting pizza at home, is with the sole intent of sampling what the local pizzerias have to offer. After stopping at various locations, seeking out fountains and retreating greedily to the shade with numerous paper bags, we conclude that Menchetti's is the best. This is closely followed however by our last buy which we were truthfully too full to appreciate, a spicy artichoke and spinach stuffed spiral at an unassuming sort of place on the way home. Soon, I'll be in Sicily with Marta and her family where I know that all such ideas of pizza will be usurped, more lazy days will be spent in the sun, on the beach, on boats and on mopeds. Even after a year has passed, I still can't quite fathom that I am here in Siena at all and it is tugging at my mind while I sleep and while I talk and say goodbyes as everyone leaves except me.

"Pizzette croccante" di casa nostra

Menchetti's (photo by Erika Lewis)

Summer in Siena

Summer is my favourite season, on a culinary level , due to the ease with which it lends itself to deliciously quick puddings, such as those in the style of Nigel Slater whose book on the subject, I worship. Unaccustomed to the heat of Siena in July, I have fast developed an aversion to slaving over the stove for excessively long periods of time and am now appreciating the value of these types of recipes even more for their reliance on raw ingredients. Easy, refreshing recipes like these, equivalent to the English classic of strawberries and cream at Wimbledon, have been my saviour whether I have been on my own after a hard training session under the sweltering sun or hosting dinners for family and friends over the days of the Palio where routine goes out of the window in all of the frenzy.

All one needs is some great seasonal fruit, particularly abundant in Italy, and a bit of imagination. Here, I bought some peaches that unfortunately were not ripening as quickly as I would have liked so I resigned myself to cooking them lightly just to soften them a little. What I deigned to cook them in was determined purely by a recent obsession of mine and could easily be substituted with whatever you fancy (within reason clearly, I'm not advocating peaches in Guinness for example):

Dessert For One

2 peaches
1 cup almond milk
1tbsp honey
Ground cinnamon

Slice the peaches thinly, whether or not you remove the skins is up to you (I prefer to retain them for their nutritional value). Put them in a pan with the milk and honey over a medium heat until they are soft and the liquid has reduced slightly and taken on a pinkish hue from the peaches. Serve with a sprinkling of cinnamon.

Another recently installed staple into my mental catalogue of instantly gratifying desserts is anything that revolves around figs. At our local greengrocers you can choose between the bruised-looking black figs which are soft and sweet or their white alternative which taste less intense but have a clean freshness to them. For an impulsive farewell dessert, I bought a mixture, quartered them and and piled them atop a marscapone mountain drizzled generously in runny acacia honey - a classic flavour combination. Figs also work brilliantly for quick savoury dishes though, for example, scattered among slices of soft pecorino with a smattering of rocket leaves and again, a drizzle of honey.

 Figgy Salad (adapted from the Bible of Caldesi cooking)

Serves 4

This is a salad best created in layers rather than tossed together as it becomes rather messy otherwise and loses the contrast of flavours and colours a little.

400g goat's cheese cut into chunks
50g toasted chopped hazelnuts
4 figs
100g rocket leaves
The outer leaves of a lettuce
1 punnet of rasperries
2 tablespoons of runny acacia honey
2 tablespoons of olive oil
Black pepper

Fan the lettuce leaves out on a plate as a base for the salad, then place a layer of rocket on the top. Roll the chunks of goats cheese in the hazelnuts so that they are well coated, quarter the figs and gently break the raspberries up taking care not to squash them. Arrange these ingredients how you see fit on the greenery and then drizzle with oil, honey and a twist of freshly ground black pepper.

Recipe: Pea Sformato with Prawns

Ingredients for One

For the Pea Sformato:

1 cup of  pureed peas (from frozen, canned or fresh peas)  

1 cup of milk

some plain flour

10g butter
20g grated Parmesan

some breadcrumbs

1 beaten egg white

a pinch of nutmeg

salt and pepper

For the prawns:

a handful of whole un-shelled prawns

2 shallots

a drizzle of olive oil

1 cup of Marsala

Preheat the oven to 180 or gas mark 4. Butter the inside of your smallest oven dish (about 10 by 15 cm) or a couple of ramekins if you have them and then coat the buttered sides with breadcrumbs. 

Make some béchamel by heating the milk with the nutmeg, salt and pepper. Whilst this is heating up, melt the butter in another saucepan adding little bits of  flour gradually until you have just about formed a paste. Then combine it with the milk and stir it very well until there are no lumps and it is nicely thickened.

Next, add the pea puree ( this can be flavoured with other things too if you like, for example, I put anchovies in mine and heated them together so that the small fillets had dissolved into the puree) and the grated Parmesan to the béchamel and stir. Gently fold in the beaten egg white ensuring that it doesn't lose any air in the process and then pour it into the dish or ramekin you have prepared. Top with a sparse layer of breadcrumbs and bake for about half an hour until the breadcrumbs are beginning to look slightly golden. 

During the final 10 minutes in which the sformato is cooking, heat the olive oil in a frying pan whilst you finely chop the two shallots. Fry the shallots and then add the prawns along with the Marsala with about 5 minutes to go so that the alcohol reduces and the prawns are cooked.

Turn out the sformato whole or cut into slices and serve with the prawns immediately. 

* Note: to give the prawns a bit of a kick, add a chopped fresh chilli when you fry the shallots.

Prima Paella Ockenden

After cramming a length of brick-red chorizo and a conveniently space-efficient wad of saffron into my already bulging backpack on the way home from Alicante (and having learnt it's correct pronunciation), I was  understandably desperate to have a go at making the first paella of my life on my return.

All of my memories of eating paella, from the takeaway delight shared with my boyfriend among the daisies in Greenwich Park to the veritable feast that Miguel rustled up for us in Spain, are full of friends and smiles. Eager to continue with the social nature of Spanish food, I wanted to make my first venture into its cuisine with my housemates as my guinea pigs. In all honesty though, I couldn't handle waiting for a formal occasion at which to ceremoniously open the hallowed chorizo together, my re-awakened taste buds were already gasping for salvation from the somewhat limited repertoire of spices to be found in Italy and so I ate about half of it in various different fridge raids.

How Jamie's Paella looks

Although I was loosely following Jamie Oliver's interpretation of paella ( to be found here: http://www.jamieoliver.com/recipes/seafood-recipes/paella), I was reassured to have the assistance of my Chilean friend Josefa in the kitchen whilst the rice bubbled away in it's saffron-infused stock. Josefa advised me on suitable pans and expected colour and consistency but maintained that as long as you follow the basic principles, almost anything goes when making this Spanish staple. A must though, is the garlic and lemon mayonnaise that she generously whipped up to her grandmother's recipe as the final touch to garnish our plates. Overflowing with chorizo, prawns, pancetta and chicken, the yellowed rice was smokey, salty and spicy, making a great contrast with the fresh tang of the mayonnaise. Unfortunately this is a flavour combination that I probably won't be tasting much more of here in Tuscany due to the conservative nature of our local stores (although I'm sure these types of ingredients can be found in more cosmopolitan cities like Milan), so I will have to wait until my return to England where our national 'palate' is more open-minded  and where my paella will also benefit from fresher seafood!

How our Paella looks

Blumenthal Blues

Recently, my attention has been drawn to the release of Heston Blumenthal's high-tech range of 'Sage' kitchen appliances, in stock at John Lewis and Lakeland (peruse here at Lakeland). Clearly, as a student, I can only dream of any of these products ever belonging to a kitchen of mine, the least bank-bashing item being a 'Multi-cooker' at £99.99 and the most being a 'Barista Express' at £549.99. Imagining for a moment though, that I was oddly, a very a rich student; would I choose to spend countless hundreds on such culinary gadgetry? After repressing my egoistic visions of the Roux-standard patisserie suddenly within my grasp thanks to the magically transformative powers of Blumenthal's devices, I have decided perhaps not. Why?

 I'm all for an electric whisk, a spice-grinder and even a commercial standard onion-chopper (as owned by my curry-making father) to reduce the sweat and tears element of cooking but I think that the introduction of all this extra apparatus takes something of the enjoyment out of cooking. Is there not something to be said for the timeless immediacy of a pestle and mortar and the pleasure it gives (alongside the pain) when crushing woody herbs or pungent spices, releasing more aroma with each grind of the pestle and colouring it's stone surface so brightly? Or the love imbued with the effort of whisking eggs by hand for the cake of a friend or family member? Perhaps it is youth speaking, for with age I might weary and be contented to sit back and let a machine of six pre-set cooking functions turn out a perfect risotto before my eyes. Currently though, I take rather a lot of pleasure in stirring my own risotto affectionately over the stove. 

I also like to cook simply, and thus far have not acquired the knowledge or skill to do otherwise. This eliminates all need for fancy contraptions, and I fear I would not know what to do with them even if they were to be at my disposal. Take, for example, the microwave, which I rarely use and when I do, blindly push all of the buttons at once and hope that whatever went in comes out still intact. That one cannot see the cooking actually happening with this sort of technology unnerves me yet also bores me. What fascinates me about cooking is the process rather than the end product; I like to be able to watch and taste as a dish develops. I like to feel the satisfaction of having physically made something, rather than just constructed it like some kind of edible Ikea assembly kit. In fact, I would summarise my feelings by saying that although very clever, very stylish and extremely useful, the 'Sage' range is just far too professional for me. Particularly, the £399.99 'Scrape-mixer Pro' which is so efficient at cleaving cake mix from the sides of it's bowl that it would leave none for me afterwards.

For laid-back or luxury: two great restaurants

Boccon del Prete is a restaurant just around the corner from where I live. I was first introduced to it by a local from Sovicille who dines there frequently as her restaurant of choice for a relaxing, casual lunch with friends. It was autumn, and excitement was rising among those in the know about the arrival of the first freshly pressed olive oil. This precious green elixir was a world away from any olive oil I had ever known, smelling and tasting intensely of freshly cut grass as we were to discover at Boccon del Prete. There, they served what has to be one of the simplest of dishes ever, with pride, as an antipasto. It was called 'fett'unta' and consisted solely of grilled slices of bread rubbed with garlic, dripping with olive oil and seasoned generously with good salt. As my mother can confirm, it was delicious. This confidence in the quality of one ingredient to make a dish shine is a fundamental basis of Italian cooking and it became even more evident as our meal went on, as demonstrated by the carpaccio of beef with an understated dressing and salad that I had, which was beautifully succulent and flavoursome.

Olive trees in the Chianti hills

Having enjoyed my first experience of the osteria, I went there again with my father and stepmother this weekend for a low-key dinner on their first night in Siena. Both of them plumped immediately for the pork with balsamic vinegar, which was a great choice; bravely, the pork was served rare and was complimented by the unctuous balsamic perfectly. In the spirit of adventure, I chose something a little less traditional to Siena than pork, and had a cold selection of smoked swordfish and salmon. True to expectation, it was a light and well balanced combination. All was accompanied by a very respectable house wine which is always a good, inexpensive option in Italy as they take so much pride in their wine selection.

Chianti Classico being aged

As far as dessert menus go however, I am yet to be seriously impressed in Italy. The combination of Sienese cantucci (a type of biscuit) with a glass of the sweet Vin Santo is a wonderful classic but it gets rather tiresome when it features on every single restaurant's list. I'll admit that the nougat semifreddo with chocolate and caramel sauce I had at Boccon del Prete was a nice finish to my meal, but disappointingly my stepmother's pear cake with vanilla and vin santo infused cream was rather blander than it should have been. 

Personally I don't blame the individual restaurants for their uninspiring sweet selections, as it seems to be a universal phenomenon across Italy. This is probably due to a cultural preference for sweet creations at breakfast rather than in the evening, when your typical Italian would rather go for a stroll and a gelato than order any of the coronary-inducing concoctions we British dream up at a restaurant.

The next day, we booked a table at one of Siena's more luxurious restaurants for a celebratory dinner. An inconspicuous place from the outside, the Antica Osteria da Divo hides inside it an unusual labyrinth of underground Etruscan grottoes which, along with the subtle lighting and soft notes of jazz drifting from cavern to cavern, makes for an unforgettable experience. We were greeted with delicate parcels of rice and salmon whilst we pored over the creative and well-thought out menu, delivered by attentive yet discreet staff. Of the dishes we sampled, each one was breathtaking. My father had the steamed lobster with boiled potatoes and asparagus with a balsamic reduction, followed by the most elegant egg lasagna 'au gratin' with beef, fennel seeds and Tuscan sausage ragu I have ever seen. Kate then had the rolled pork filled with spinach, mushrooms and fresh pecorino, truffle sauce and potato puree and I a breast of guinea fowl with balsamic vinegar and spinach with pine nuts and raisins. Although already quite satisfied enough, we were unable to resist the temptation of a dessert to finish our evening and were pleased to find a rather more sophisticated selection than had been offered the previous night. Again this course was anticipated with a delicious Neapolitan rum baba each. Both my father and Kate singled out a sumptuous chocolate semifreddo served in a macaroon basket with crunchy almonds whilst I chose a sweet pastry stack with lemon scented cream and fresh berries which was taken to another level by a light garnish of mint leaves. The only grievance we found was the overrated selection of digestifs which would have suitably rounded off a glorious dinner, had the grappa we were after been of the quality my father was hoping for. Despite this small criticism, I am already inventing excuses to return and taste the rest of their seasonal spring menu, which I readily assume must be equally as exquisite.

Lasagna 'da Divo' style

A Spanish Escapade

On Saturday morning, I arrived alone in Bologna with my backpack and seven hours to kill before jetting off to Alicante in the evening. Fortunately for me, I  quickly stumbled upon one of Bologna's famous food markets, Mercato di Mezzo, in the old medieval town where I lingered gawping and ruing the lack of space in my luggage. Each shop, with laden trestle tables sprawling out into the narrow street, was a specialist in it's wares. From Pescheria to Pasticceria, Salumeria to Formaggeria, there was everything you could possibly dream of to the highest of Italian standards. Next time I go back, I'm taking a large empty suitcase. From my point of view, filling that suitcase with Bolognese edible goods will be a sensible investment for my larder as many of their best specialities keep well and even improve with age.

A short hop across the Mediterranean Sea later, and I was sitting in the flat of my old friend Miss Jones eating hot bruschetta topped with  tomato salsa, prosciutto, rocket leaves and goat's cheese. We spent  much of our time eating as becomes necessary when you have a lot to catch up on and it's raining. As a testimony to the wise words of the local Spanish students, we found that by far the best meals that we ate were those cooked at  home, like those by Miguel, who would knock up a paella at the drop of a hat. I  soon realised why this was when we went to Mercadona to buy for the dinner I was cooking. It is a sad result of the economic crisis, but you can buy such  varied and great ingredients for an absolute pittance, that it isn't surprising that  people are making their own rather than splashing out on restaurants. Needless to say, I made sure to squeeze some chorizo, vanilla pods and saffron into my backpack to bring back!

Nevertheless, we did sniff out a few gems on our wanders around the streets of Alicante. One particularly irresistible stop was at the Borgonesse Icecream Parlour on the Rambla where the elegantly sculpted mountains of 'helado' topped with jaunty cinnamon sticks and large chunks of nougat hooked us in despite the drizzle outside.

 Another sweet spot we found was a nearby Creperia called Yog&Bluffin where we sated our sugar cravings with first one crepe, and then a second. We gorged ourselves on strawberries submerged in Nutella, and then walnuts drenched in salty caramel; not quintessentially Spanish but extremely satisfying.

To round off the day, we headed into El Barrio, the old town which is the most picturesque part of Alicante, where the beauty of the traditional architecture remains unspoiled by the jumble of concrete flats that plague the rest of the city. Here, there were many small, boutique bars so we sat down for a couple of Mojitos in a casually retro place sporting battered old petrol station signs and a buffalo head mounted on the wall. The inhabitants of this bar were certainly interesting; we met a Parisian eye surgeon, a bearded old rocker who barely masked his affection for his friends with his rough-edged insults, and a half-Irish, half Pakistani Londoner who made his living in Spain playing poker.

The next day, we climbed up Santa Barbera, the castle that dominates the coastal skyline of Alicante, and refueled ourselves afterwards with a couple of small beers and a selection of traditional tapas in an unassuming bar along the road. For all it's shabby appearance, and it's even more questionable characters, the tapas we were brought out was very good. Making the most of being by the sea, I was delighted by the various morsels of whitebait, prawns, fried squid and crab meat. Megan was even tempted enough to eat some of whitebait, bones 'n' all...

I was very sad to leave, having absorbed a bit of the laid-back Spanish attitude to life and wanting to explore more of this new and intriguing country in which my friend was having such fun on the last stretch of her Erasmus year. However, the call of a hearty bolognese ragu with Cecily on my return to Bologna  and the promise of making my very own paella on arriving home in Siena sweetened the departure somewhat.