0 Orecchiette with Cime di Rapa

We landed in Bari on a Saturday in September, past dinner time. We had spent the day - the week even - in anticipation, thinking about our first meal in Puglia, perhaps outside on a terrace, with the air still balmy and the white wine well chilled. We both needed this weekend away so desperately. Not because of London per se. The city had been particularly generous with us throughout the early fall - warm and sunny, with very little rain - and we loved how we could always pick and choose something different to do every weekend. But we were restless, and exhausted. We needed a few days of that lifestyle we both adore and miss so much: easy, inexpensive, next to the sea, and most of all, slow. A lifestyle that only belongs to holiday time now, and that we seem to find only in Mediterranean coastal areas - like Puglia.

When did it happen that Italy became the idyllic place to spend one's holidays? When did I stop calling it home, or hoping it would be one anytime soon? When did I end bragging about how much better the (insert: lifestyle, food, wine, weather, landscape, culture...) is, and started realising that all these things are available to me only if I choose to spend my vacation time (and hard-earned money) there? I think I hadn't completely realised it until the end of this trip.

 We booked a small apartment in Polignano for the whole length of our stay. The listing didn't have any reviews yet, but it was very inexpensive and looked promising, clean and bright - we decided to go for it. Our host had even agreed to pick us up at the airport for a small fee, so that we could avoid renting a car in case we didn't need one. We accepted, ready to drop any responsibility, any scheduling, any 'must see'; ready to embrace the aimless wandering, the idle contemplation, the slow pace of whom have no clear plan. His name was Paolo. When I first saw him, waiting for us at the arrivals hall, I immediately thought he resembled my roommate Paolo from University: thirty-ish,  very tall, with short jeans above his bony knees, an almost-bold head, and a warming smile. For some reasons, this connection, this similarity with a person I love and trust made me like him at first sight. He was kind, and helped me with my little carry-on. 

A fifty-minute drive separates Bari airport from the little, hidden, stunning gem of a town that is Polignano a Mare. Paolo was chatty enough to make the drive extremely pleasant, and quick. In his broken English, he asked us a lot of innocent yet personal questions, of the kind a stranger would never ask in London. "Ok, so let me ask you this - why Polignano?" he said at one point, accompanying his question with a very Italian, inquisitive hand gesture. It took us off guard. Why not Polignano? Wasn't it the most beautiful corner of Eden on earth - peaceful, dramatic, with its beautiful sea and its panoramic views? We tried to give him some good reasons - we said that it all started when we stopped in Polignano during our Master's study trip around Puglia, that we only had half-day to wonder and enjoy, and that we felt we needed to be back ever since. He nodded, but still didn't quite understand - to him, it was probably just a boring, small, provincial town that held some fun only during the busiest summer months.

He escorted us inside the newly renovated apartment his family owned just outside the old town. A house on three floors, he explained - with steep stairs between them - like they used to build at the beginning of the last century. He showed us around, set up the wi-fi and checked on the clean towels, then headed to the kitchen, speaded a map of Polignano on the table, and started drawing points and arrows. "This spot is great for drinks, good Mojitos; this makes the best focaccia, it stays open until late; here you get good seafood, and here good pizza, but small, order antipasti as well; oh, and here they have great cornetti for breakfast, but go early 'cause they run out fast". Then he picked up his stuff and left, promising to come back on the Tuesday at 6 to drive us back to the airport, leaving his contacts for any necessity. As he closed the door, I was invaded by these thoughts of gratitude, of empathy even, toward this young Italian man who was so generous with us, and so open. I love traveling this way, knowing the locals, getting the insider's tips. I love meeting these people.

We couldn't ask for more from our stay - it was everything we wanted and needed. Polignano was as stunning as we remembered it: the weather was sunny, albeit very windy. The food was unbelievably good - oh, the burrata... The apartment was lovely, with a sunny roof terrace for lazy late breakfasts and sunset-kissed glasses of Fiano. We had the quiet time we had been craving, simply wondering around or reading at the beach. J had a nice birthday filled with iodine, food and great wine. We even got to experience those bits and pieces of local folklore that make a stay a whole lot more real: a religious procession, advertised by every shop; ridiculous retail opening hours; old men spending their whole day sitting on the benches in the square, chatting lively, having an opinion about everything; a loud, lightly-trashy fashion show, to which the whole town assisted.

Tuesday came way too fast. Paolo was punctual, and waved at us from down the road. We descended the steep stairs slowly and a tad unwillingly, carry-on in hand. The ride seemed a bit slower, and words were fewer this time. The landscape of olive trees, prickly pear cactus and white houses had become a series of black outlines against the sky on fire - Puglia was giving us its very own farewell with the most breathtaking sunset. J broke the silence at one point, asking Paolo about himself this time.  He was reluctant. "Me? Well, how do I say this. I had a job in an office - it was an import-export company, food mainly. I was very happy about it, you know, 'cause it was in Polignano and I could live with my parents and save a bit of money, and still be independent with my expenses. But then the niece of the owner finished school and she needed a job, so they called me saying that they were going to give her mine, and if I wanted I could have a job in the fields, picking vegetables. I decided to decline. So I lost my job, but I was OK - I saw it as an opportunity. I had dropped my engineering degree for it because I couldn't manage to pass exams and work full time at the same time. When I left, I thought I could go back to school and get my degree. I don't like to depend on my parents, but at least I can help them with these things - renting out the apartment to tourists. We had a permanent tenant until a few months ago, but they bought a house and left, so we thought we could try this way. "

How many stories like Paolo's have I heard before hearing his? Dozens? Hundreds? How many did I read, on international newspapers or Facebook status? Did I really need to hear his to be awaken from my childish, hopeless dream of going back to Italy to set up a life in the next future? The lifestyle we love and cherish so much doesn't even exist anymore, not for young generations anyway. What is left, for a handful of them, of us, is the hope of surviving the tempest, of making it to the end of the tunnel. Italy is a place to go back on holiday to, to enjoy the best of it and forget its unsolvable problems. Where to buy the best local food, drink the best wine, and fight the break of dawn and the next departure. There is so much waste, and so much beauty. It breaks your heart.

Orecchiette with Cime di Rapa

A pugliese classic, made in the cold months, when cime di rapa (turnip tops) grow. You can use both fresh or dry orecchiette here, simply adjust the cooking time accordingly.  

Serves 4

1 bunch cime di rapa (about 400-500gr)

4 tbsp virgin olive oil 

2 cloves garlic 

Pinch of red chili flakes 

3 anchovy fillets in oil 

400g dry orecchiette 

Freshly ground black pepper 

Sea salt

Grated Pecorino cheese

Wash and chop the turnip tops, discarding the thickest part of the stalk. In a large pot of salted boiling water, blanch the leaves for two minutes, drain and set aside. In the same water, boil the orecchiette until they are al dente. Meanwhile, heat olive oil in a large frying pan. Add the crushed garlic, the anchovies and the chilli flakes. Cook over medium-low heat until the anchovies are melted. Add the turnip tops, season with freshly ground pepper and sea salt, and stir fry for a few minutes, until well seasoned and soft. Once the pasta is done, drain and add it to the skillet with the turnip tops. Stir well, letting it cook for one more minute so that the pasta can absorb some of the seasoning. Serve, with a drizzle of good olive oil and a sprinkling of grated Pecorino cheese on top.

Credit: all the landscape photos are scans of film shots taken by my talented husband Jesse. 

Detail: Orecchiette with Cime di Rapa

0 Fig Pecorino Risotto

From my Iphone

How many things have I taken for granted in my life? Things that were just there, without shouting their presence, but whose absence I would have immediately noticed. Things that now are not here, and I miss, or simply, I see from a different perspective.

Take parents, for example. I lived with them for 19 years, and even after I left, I was seeing them regularly, every two weeks. It took a good dose of miles and one-hour time difference to make me feel distant, and achy for more of their presence in my life. Take, as a second example, walking to class, or to work. Seeing it in retrospective, it was such a luxury! If I knew what was awaiting me in terms of commute, I would have savoured every step from my little apartment in Bra to the office, or from my room in Padova to the various class locations.

Take free food. I grew up spoilt with a bounty of home-grown food, from vegetables of all sorts depending on the season, to truly free-range eggs and poultry, to fruits in the summer and fall months. I am thinking of those gifted fruits now, more than anything else. Starting with strawberries in late May, then cherries in June, and plums, grapes and tiny green, soft, jammy figs later on in the summer. The bounty decreasing a bit afterwords, giving us some pomegranates and nespole in the fall, with persimmons closing the dances in December. All free, all there for us to pick.

Figs. Those figs are so stuck in my memory. There were two fig trees in grandma's garden, one by the barn hosting the farming tools, and one in the middle of the hens' patch. I would climb those trees with a latter, a little plastic bowl in one hand. I knew what to do since an early age, not quite sure if someone taught me or if it was somehow ingrained in my genes. I would test the fruits carefully, pressing them to feel the ripeness, and gently detach only the soft ones. I would descend the latter only when the bowl was full, and most of the time, there were many more left on the branches.

Another fig tree was located on my usual bike path. It was planted in someones yard, but it was so big that many of its branches leaned onto 'no one's land'. I knew it was there, and I knew there would be figs to pick, so I was always biking there prepared, with a little plastic bag and a bowl inside my basket. The figs were of a different variety from grandma's. Hers were small, with a thin green skin that was almost impossible to remove, and an almost melting heart of pulp and tiny seeds. Those others, instead, were purple-green, bigger in size, and with a thicker outer skin.

I used to eat so many in the evening, after dinner, like they were the sweetest treat - the last with the skin still on, tired of the laborious peeling and eager to pop just one more into my mouth. If there were any left, I would make a cake, something uncomplicated. On occasions, I even made jam, although it has rarely been my first choice when it comes to fruit.

From my Iphone

Here in London, figs are a luxury. Local figs are a dream. The few trees I eyed in the neighborhood host fruits that never arrive to the stage of maturity, hit by the cold, premature fall when still young and hard. The little green ones travel very badly, I heard, and arrive all smashed up in a messy blob of sticky flesh. We have better chances with the purple ones, as they are a bit sturdier. However, imported figs can be really bad, and the OK ones cost a fortune. A fortune. £20/kg on average if you want some good ones from France, or a bit less for those from the Middle East. Seen from someone who used to have free figs at her mercy, this sort of prices seem just out of this world. Yet, I suffer in (almost) silence, and, unable to resist, last week I bought a spare amount. I am addicted to that sweetness, that pulpy flesh hiding a sexy explosion of crunchy, tiny seeds. I miss the feeling - a lot.
The figs I bought felt so precious I wanted to make something unique with them. Not the same old goat cheese salad, which I don't love particularly; not the same old focaccia with ham - although very tempting. Not one more cake, for much that I love fig cake. It had to be a primo piatto, something either with pasta or rice, something unusual but with a clear Italian soul. Something savoury that would enhance the natural sweetness of the fruit without tasting weird. Trusting my flavour memory, I made combinations of ingredients and techniques in my mind, until one rang the right bell. I am always looking for contrasts and harmony, so the winner was a matching of fig sweetness with pecorino cheese sharpness. A good dose of black pepper and some hazelnuts for a whim. That was it.

I can say without further ado that it was a winner, approved by everybody - aka, the two of us. I didn't plan to share the recipe on this pages (that is why the photos, for once, come from my phone), but then I thought it would be a shame not to.

Fig Pecorino Risotto

I used Solliès figs here, as I had access to these (the pic doesn't make them much justice) and they are indeed the best you can find around in the UK. I am sure, though, that any ripe, sweet fig will do an excellent job in this recipe. On another note, I highly recommend using red wine instead of white: it cuts the sweetness more efficiently and gives the risotto more depth. The rice: carnaroli here is a winner. I use Acquerello as I think is a wonderful rice, but go with your heart and pick your favourite. Finally, as we are going for a sharp, salty pecorino romano for this dish, wait until the end for the final salting. In my experience, it won't need much extra.

Serves 2-3

2 tbsp extra virgin olive oil

1 small red onion, chopped very very finely

1 cup quality carnaroli rice 

2/3 cup full-bodied red wine

plenty of boiling hot water, for cooking

6 black figs, quartered 

1 tbsp quality salted butter, cold

1/3 cup grated pecorino romano

1/3 cup grated Parmigiano

2 tbsp whole hazelnuts, roughly chopped, toasted

 freshly ground black pepper (optional), to taste

Place a large pot with the oil over medium heat. Once the oil is hot, add the chopped onion and start to stir using a wooden spoon. Cook the onion until translucent, stirring it frequently to avoid burning or sticking to the bottom. Once the onion is soft, add the rice and stir to coat the kernels with onion and fat. Toast the rice for 2-3 minutes, making sure you stir it often to prevent it from getting too brown.

Pour the wine over the rice and increase the heat a little. Let the liquid evaporate while stirring well so that all the rice kernels absorb some of the wine. At this point, start cooking the rice by adding a ladle of the boiling water. During the whole cooking process, you'll have to keep stirring your rice to avoid sticking and burning. Avoid falling into the temptation of adding more than one ladle at a time. Less liquid will give you more control over the cooking process and save you from having too much liquid toward the end of the cooking time. Once the water is almost all absorbed, add one more ladle, stir, let the rice absorb the water, add more and so on.

Half way trough, at about 8 minutes from when you added the wine, add the fig slices, keeping a few aside for serving. Stir well to combine, add more water and keep going. Taste your rice: if it is close to being done, add even less water at a time. When your rice is almost done, turn the heat off. Add the cold butter and stir energetically to distribute the fat evenly. Now, add the cheese, and keep stirring. At this point, taste and see if it needs more salt. Season accordingly with salt and pepper. Finally, check the texture: if your risotto had got too thick, add the last little bit of hot water to bring it back to a creamy, loose state - that's the texture you should aim at.

Serve immediately, with the toasted hazelnuts and the extra fig slices.

Detail: Fig Pecorino Risotto