Exchanging Pheasantries

One afternoon driving along a narrow village lane between fields of sheep to be counted, we spied an old family friend strolling towards us, swinging a tan hessian sack as he walked. We stopped, wound down the window, and caught up on life.
After a while, our friend held up the sack with a wry smile and said "You wouldn't like a brace of pheasant would you?" 

Now, this is an offer not to be taken lightly. Any bumpkin worth her salt knows what the acceptance of a brace of pheasant entails. I had had plans for the evening; nice, clean, comfortable plans. But we couldn't resist the thought of fresh game to be cooked, and for free! So we thanked our friend, stowed the bundle safely and were on our way.

I know many a millennial like me, who would squirm at the thought of plucking a dead bird to eat, but I believe that doing things like this is an important part of my relationship with food. It teaches me to appreciate the animal, to understand where it has come from, and to respect it in the way that I cook it. Unrecognisably processed meats in plastic packaging allow people to remain in denial of what they are doing, by distancing them from the reality of what life and death truly looks like.

The birds have beautiful plumage. I am vandalising a work of art. Every iridescent feather stuns, yet layered in their thousands they create even more perfect symphonies on the wing of the hen, and rioting colour on the breast of her partner. As I pluck the birds, which to be done well cannot be done gently, I conclude that the only way that I can atone for this destruction, is to create. They are not to be cooked irreverently. 

It has long been argued that cooking is indeed an art form. And so, back to the backbone of this long-neglected blog I must go. The only tome of a cookbook I took with me in my weight-restricted Easy-jet luggage for a year in Siena: Katie Caldesi's The Italian Cookery Course. The Italians have always been keen cacciatore (hunters), particularly when it comes to birds. Even small birds somewhat controversially. 

Lo and behold, a gorgeously seasonal recipe for a brace of pheasant:  'Fagiano in umido all'arancia con castagne e uva secca' credited to the Borella family from Parma. 

This translates as Pot roasted pheasant with orange, chestnuts and sultanas. The recipe begins leisurely, by briefly roasting some chestnuts in the Rayburn. The pheasants trussed up with bacon, bay and string and browned,I swap the white wine for cider - we're in Dorset not Le Borelle after all. It is a very simple recipe really, that just relies on a few good ingredients and time. Given an hour and a half in the steaming pot, the pheasant absorbs the flavours of the orange, chestnuts, wine and sultanas and emerges tender rather than tough. Although Katie advises that the sauce may need thickening with flour, mine comes out silkily sticky all by itself. 

Served up with some sweet bashed neeps leftover from Burn's Night and steamed kale, I let the pheasant do the talking. I loved the simple decadence of the recipe. It was sweet, tender, subtle and yet rich. Sometimes people drown their game in thick, heavy tomato based sauces which I think are designed in part to disguise any overly gamey flavours. This is not to dismiss the wonders of a warming winter ragù which I have been a huge fan of ever since I ate a wild boar version with thick ribbons of pappardelle and juniper berries at a restaurant in Siena. The difference that I enjoyed here however was the relative lightness of the dish, lifted by the citrus. Winter doesn't have to mean heavy, and the flavour of the birds were celebrated and complimented rather than used as a hidden base layer to something else. 

Where I will find my next inspiration remains to be seen... but pheasants are £3.99 at the local butcher's shop. 

Through Bullion Glass

[“Do you want the truth or something beautiful?” — Paloma Faith]

March 12th

I blushed as I listened to the olive-skinned pair get to know each other in an easy exchange of colloquialisms, my words faltered before they had even been formed. “Piacere”, I said, and immediately regretted it. Their expectations would be high now, I had once called myself fluent but now felt vulnerable. It had been too long since that language last left my tongue. Smiles and torrents of words poured forth from the two Italians as they generously brought me into their conversation and I wanted so badly to answer but the vowels all came out misshapen.  He was a northerner, and I couldn't fathom his vernacular. I bowed my head and resumed an embarrassed silence.

I yearn for that language, the key that unlocks so many memories of the place where I felt complete. That year, the Sienese had truly taken me under their wing. As if connected straight to my heart, my ears swam happily as I listened. It couldn’t last, though, and as the other boy left, a great wave of nostalgia rushed over me, swallowing my sad heart whole. Take me back, portami via.

March 15th

A long, lethargic run in the sun, stopping at intervals to drink in this new landscape with a quick toe dip and splash in the lake. I still harbour that longing for the familiarly worn, red stones criss-crossing the piazza, either scalding or cool as shadows tick across the shell-shaped square like a sundial. Yet, I am contented here now, too. Lake Travis.

Today, we’re going to see Hamilton’s pool. I sleep until we take an off road detour to avoid a traffic jam.  Our short cut took us straight to the cause of the jam. Police cars peppered the highway, left unoccupied at odd angles as their drivers had pulled up hurriedly and leapt from them. I swallowed as my sleepy eyes took in the scene beyond them. Everything seemed paused as a helicopter buzzed in the hot air overhead, also surveying the wreckage. Cars, crumpled like empty soda cans were strewn everywhere, unrecognisable. No survivors, I concluded: there could not be.

March 15th

Hamilton Pool was an alter world, with the dripping overhang stretching on as though my eyes were of bullion glass. I took a long gulp of damp air and discarded my shirt and shorts, discarding my insecurities along with them. I needed to feel alive, for those who were not, as well as myself. I dug my toes into the chalky mud, my soles gripping the stone as I clambered my way under the pelting water. Bowing my head to it, I sat foetally until I felt new again and the others joined me.

March 16th

In San Antonio we booked a cheap hotel room between the five of us. The stale air of the room reminded me of that night alone in Rome, my last night in Italy. The man had asked me how I wanted to pay, and then I couldn’t lock the door so I spent the night sitting on the Spanish Steps and sharing a bottle of wine with strangers. Gini had called them “socks-on hotels”; that was another person who had died too soon… I’m back at Emmett’s Grange, a child clinging to her jacket as the wind tore at my hair, bumping across the moors on her faded red quad bike. Mossy limping along beside us and the Scottish Blackface ewes stamping at the old dog with defiant eyes. Then I’m at number 35, home alone after school having excitedly opened an appealing-looking letter addressed not only to my mother but also to me! My jaw ached as my face contorted and great sobs shook my body, hot and cold: An invitation to her funeral.

As the evening draws in, we go downtown. Sleeping horses plod the streets with their cinderella carriages dripping in neon fairy lights and fake flowers. Perusing the River Walk, we finally settle down at a table outside at The Iron Cactus. Conversation flows and we are all at ease again, enjoying ourselves. I savoured a very good martini that slid up to the salted rim like an oil slick with every sip. Laughter cures everything.

The Anemone

The Anemone

My anemone heart is closed to the dusty, bloodlust desert, 

It’s tendrils tightly furled. 

 ‘Don’t breathe that dead air’, it whispers, 

Shrinking from a toxic touch.

 I feel it swim in the

Reservoirs of my eyes, windows so damned dull,

Opaque still nobody knows it’s there

For all to see. Paned with iron.

My soul’s clamped in, clammed up,

I shrink away from a clammy hot touch. 

It buries itself in itself, 

Bares itself only

With a laugh

 So hearty

That the meaning is stifled. 

An ocean lies over me, one great droplet,

Magnifying and distorting 

The sky that is so dry

On the other side.

Under here,

Looking up at everything

There’s oxygen that can’t be found in air. 

I watch as,

Drifting through oil smoke clouds,

The moon hangs upside down,

Too large,

Kissing the horizon. 

Preserved in my watery paperweight,

Those crimsoned tendrils wave mockingly, 

 And recoil

As the hands and hearts of others

Reach through and puncture that perfect surface,

Leaving trails of grit

And other places

On the doorstep of my world. 

The Lost Art

Food is like art, and recently I have been an artist without a muse.

In Italy, England and Wales, I found inspiration in my environment, my friends and my family.

In Texas however, I remain completely uninspired culinarily and anyway, I have only a fridge and a microwave in my dormitory and I am fed at the university dining hall. Fortunately, when the team I am part of travels for competition, we eat out on university expenses. Despite what would at first appear to be a saving grace, I have not been impressed with the quality of the American restaurants that I have been to. Most of the places that we go to are chains; in four months I have only been to one restaurant that was individual and did not assimilate another.  That restaurant was Crown Pizza in Beaumont. An intimate place, Crown Pizza serve pleasingly fresh Italian food in an old shipping container. 

Otherwise, all of the steakhouses and “Italian” restaurants have been disappointing. Famed for their steaks, the Texans certainly won’t be beaten on size but there is nothing special about their flavour. I have also learnt never to order the popular accompaniment to them, the loaded, baked sweet potato. Although my expectations of Italian food here were not as high as those I had of Texan steaks, I was equally as dismayed with it. Every pasta dish that I have been served so far, claiming on the plastic menu to be ‘authentic’ , has been bastardised. The lily has been gilded in suffocatingly sweet or rich sauces that have far too many ingredients.

Perhaps this was why I was so enamoured of a pocket-sized cocktail bar that my old friend Erika introduced me to in Cambridge on my return home at Christmas. The menu was handwritten on good paper whose stains added romance, the inky letters in an elegant scrawl. Artful candlelight, beautiful glassware, provocative photography and fantastic classic cocktails were the perfect accompaniment to such a long-awaited reunion. I drank a smooth sidecar.  The gentle warmth of the cognac and cointreau was a wonderful antidote to the cold night. Having blushingly reprimanded the barman for attempting to remove my glass without my having completely drained it of its dregs, I followed my sidecar with a whisky mac as one last guard against the frosty walk home. 

The next day, we drank another luxurious thing; very good coffee. This was made properly, not “l’acqua sporca”  that I had come across in the States. This was taken both at Erika's house and in Limoncello, an excellent Italian deli down the road. Continuing my indulgence at home, my mother and I giggled every time she brought out her “Rich Italian” blend. If only….

During my stay, Erika also demonstrated just how easy it is to make wonderful food when she smudged some avocado onto slices of bread for lunch putting a poached egg on the top and smattering it with a little salt and pepper. Another example of the wonders of a simple combination of ingredients whose flavours just compliment each other was the bruschetta of goat’s cheese, roasted grapes and walnuts that I made for our solstice party at home. Why is it so difficult to find such classic combinations in America without them having been meddled with and overelaborated? As the Italian saying goes, “Don’t tell the peasants how good fruit and cheese tastes together”.

To give an overview of my culinary homecoming, I cooked and cooked over Christmas and New Year and almost everything was Italian. Venison ragù made with the pici that Mum had stashed away from her last trip, Gennaro Contaldo’s tiramisu al limone, the youtube recipe for which I watch every time I make it even though I have it written down. I just enjoy the way he says “eaps” of sugar and the part at the end when we exclaims incredulously “sometimes, I can’t believe I cook so good!”. Me neither Gennaro, me neither… 

 I can’t believe how much I have longed for the most basic of dishes that I used to cook regularly for myself, that both of my parents always cooked for me and that somehow just tastes better when they cook  it. That dish is pasta with tuna, garlic and anchovies. It is my ultimate comfort food and was probably the most satisfying meal of my entire christmas holidays. 

Not absolutely everything was Italian however. At New Year, staying with my Grandma, Dad and Stepmother, I touched upon some French cuisine. Dad and Kate had presented me with two beautiful cookbooks for Christmas, and as they are now living in France, one was of course, a French one by Rachel Khoo. To treat my Grandma, we cooked a masterpiece each to conclude the three courses of our New Year’s Eve meal. My father created the starter, inspired by Rachel Khoo, of scallops and brown shrimps in filo pastry. As usual it was pure wizardry from the boyish old man in the cowboy hat and the chocolate cigar. Kate served up a fabulous piece of roasted pork with the most moreish of crackling around. And as if we weren’t all gluttoned out already, I really went for the sucker punch with the darkest of chocolate cakes you could ever imagine for pudding. One of Rachel Khoo’s, it was called “The Black Beret” and the cointreau that we drank with it cut it better than a knife. 

Yes, I unapologetically prefer Europe to the United States based on the food alone. It makes me feel homesick and my heart (which would appear to be in cahoots with my stomach) simultaneously longs to be taken back to my beloved Italia. I won't even start on the other things that depress me about America. Yet I feel that I am being hard on the stars and stripes. I am sure that somewhere there is good food hiding away waiting to be found. We shall see...

On the plane I read some F. Scott Fitzgerald and I was struck by a line which read “It was not an American bar anymore - he felt polite in it, and not as if he owned it.” Kinda says it all. 

On my arrival back in Texas, I had to pass my lunchtime in Houston IAH airport while waiting for the shuttle bus. Dehydrated, I was shocked to find that water was more expensive than soda. Welcome to America. 

Nostalgia

Walk the streets at two a.m., 

Looking through a moonlight lens,  

Feel the stones caress my feet,

Somehow here my conscience sleeps,

Teach me things I don't understand, 

Words run through my hands like sand. 

Drown my thoughts with your melodies, 

Test me intellectually. 

Cleanse my heart and soothe my mind,

Memories swim in a glass of wine.

Lead me blindfold,

Feed my soul,

Show me that I'm not alone.

            

Christmas and New Year back in Britain

Mum came to stay with me in Swansea the weekend before Christmas ahead of my departure for Hertfordshire for Christmas with my Dad. She brought with her the new sheepdog Dusk, who initially breezed in,  ignoring me totally in true working collie style. It was all about Mum, an incredible bond having been forged between shepherdess and sheepdog already. She soon softened though as we started cooking dinner, the smell of a pair of tiny teal I had bought from the market that morning browning with mushrooms and onion teasing her dreadfully.  It was another amazing deal from the guy at 'Fish Matters' who I regularly get duck, wild boar and braces of pheasant from. The two teal were a real rarity though so I snapped them up before anyone else could , knowing that the Italian grandmother that frequents the market would know a good thing when she saw it too. He said it had seemed a shame to shoot the pretty little things and Mum noted how good a shot he must be when I revealed our dinner menu to her, being extremely surprised that he had deigned to sell them at all.  I got the recipe from this great website that I have recently discovered: www.gametoeat.co.uk 

 We cooked leisurely over a glass of Australian white, with simple vegetables to compliment the richly cream-smothered birds. It was divine. This was followed up in extravagant style with the last of a bottle of artisan amaretto, cheekily dipping a couple of the orange and pistachio cantuccini I had made for granny's Christmas present into the sweet liqueur as the Italians do.

Mum's new iPod blasting out classics from my childhood, evoking different yet converging memories from both of us, we set to straining and bottling the many different jars of berry-filled spirits I had made in September. A song by the Celtic  folk rock band, Runrig, transported me back to that epic journey in a small red metro up to Scotland for my aunt's first wedding back when I was still little enough to be worrying about the safety of my teddy bear when stranded on the hard shoulder, the breathtaking melodies mirroring the dramatic outline of the mountains flanking the motorway on either side of us. The Corrs took me back to a large New Year's Eve party spent at my godmother's house where I first heard it playing during the millenium countdown on T.V. For Mum it is the soundtrack of our old cottage, as I played them again and again with childish obsession.  I was ecstatic to unwrap an early Christmas present from her, which any fan of Italian food ought to be massively jealous of me for: 

 The next day we drove out onto the Gower despite the gales and walked down to Three Cliffs Bay with Dusk, leaping with anticipation and joy  and howling into the wind as it whipped up the waves, each sharp crest catching the bright sunlight and fragmenting into jewel-like shards of spray. We made dark shadows on the shining, wet sand and pocketed gleaming, rainbow shells.

After having  worked up a grand appetite, we headed to a dog friendly pub that we had found on this handy website: www.doggiepubs.org.uk.  It was the King's Head at the picturesque village of Llangennith which was indeed friendly, the Sunday congregation having wandered  across the road from the church to carry on their conversation with the dog-collared vicar, pint in hand.  The food was hearty, Mum having a freshly caught hake beer-battered with a local Gower ale and Myself continuing the theme with a Gower ale and steak pie. Dessert was the real business though, with a mean sticky toffee pudding and a whiskey-laced dark chocolate brownie complete with jaunty cigar and tart coulis.

 

 We soon burnt that off too though with an even brisker walk at Rhossili bay, where the wind was tearing straight in off the Atlantic creating feathery ripples of foam that gusted towards us  frantically.

 

At Grandma's, I received  a fantastically well balanced cook's knife from my Dad and Kate, another amazing present that is a real joy to use.  It was a much needed visit to the Ockenden side of my family and I very much enjoyed having my boyfriend Josh spend it with us too, experiencing one of my favourite Ockenden traditions - champagne at breakfast on Christmas morning with scrambled eggs and salmon on toast. Needless to say we rather wobbled off on our run afterwards...as I ended up doing on countless occasions over the festive period, particularly when staying with Josh's family where I was fed endless rich puddings. Not that I am complaining in the slightest. 

New Year's Eve and it was my turn to cook again.  I composed an easy yet punchy menu with a classic starter and dessert, read Italian - Bruschetta al pomodoro and tiramisù al limone. The twist came with the seasonal main, another recipe from game-to-eat of spiced grilled pheasant with mango and mint dressing. Stress-free deliciousness. Sustained by 'the stickies' as the clock ticked on whilst playing old-school games and listening to the hootenanny until the fireworks burst over the Thames, it was the perfect to end to the year. Buon 2014!

 

 

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.