Fusion. Not Confusion.

Another food post I’m afraid.

This week I was wondering what to make for lunch and a quick look in the fridge revealed a cauliflower, chicken thighs and some caciocavallo cheese: Caciocavallo meaning ‘cheese on horseback’ is a sheep or cow’s milk cheese that is good for melting. I’m not keen on it melted on toast, I still prefer a mature Cheddar, but it’s good melted on pizza or as I’m about to find out, on cauliflower. I set the iPod to play and Poly Styrene’s album Translucence starts to play, the opening bars of Essence give me an idea so I grab a little packet of Moroccan spices I got a few months back and my mind starts to go into creation mode.

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First I separate the cauliflower florets and pop them into boiling water to blanch for 5 minutes. Next the chicken breasts are placed into an oven-proof dish and have a dusting of black pepper, cinnamon, Himalayan salt and garlic salt followed by a drizzle of olive oil. Next I make a spiced paste for the cauliflower. To a bowl I add a tablespoon of honey, 3 teaspoons of the Moroccan spice, 1 teaspoon of fennel seeds and the juice of half a lemon.

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The oven is set at 180 (fan) and the chicken breasts are covered with tin foil and popped inside. The cauliflower is drained and covered in the spice mix and then placed into an oven-proof dish and placed inside the oven to roast alongside the chicken. After 20 minutes I remove the chicken and drain off any juices and put these aside to freeze for a tasty base for a brodo, soup or risotto.

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The chicken needs just 7 minutes cooking uncovered to crisp up the skin, so I slice some of the cheese and place it on top of the cauliflower and return it to the oven.

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After resting the chicken for a couple of minutes the cheese has melted into the cauliflower so the final job is just plating up, sitting down and eating it. It made a great midweek lunch with enough cauliflower left over to freeze or to have the following day.

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Paloma Faith and the Inexpensive Cauliflower

Everyone who knows me, knows that music is an important part of my life. I’ve always liked to be surrounded by it, and as my taste is eclectic my iPod is constantly on shuffle. One minute a track by Linkin Park can be replaced by the electronic sound of Kraftwerk and that then by the operatic timbre of José Carreras. Occasionally though, as it shuffles its way from punk to pop and rock to reggae, it seems to favour one particular artist or band. Yesterday was a day like this. As the coffee machined bubbled, I opened the doors to a wonderful Italian morning,  before turning on my iPod. The last few bars of Doctor, Doctor by Thompson Twins faded out, to be replaced by the hauntingly, wonderful acoustic version of, Just Be, by, Paloma Faith, from her 2012 album Fall to Grace.

I’ve always been drawn to unusual artists; I mean that in a positive way, and probably unusual isn’t the right word, maybe I mean different: different as in interesting. There’s been a few women in the music business over the years who have caught my attention because of their individuality, Toyah Willcox, Kate Bush, Siouxsie Sioux and Poly Styrene are four that spring to mind. Each one was original, with a desire to project their personality rather than become music industry puppets. Image is imperative in music and each of these women had a strong, definite look, and Paloma Faith sits very well within this circle. Like Willcox, Bush et al, Faith, has that rare ability to write a lyric that stabs you where it matters, add to this her kookiness and intriguing voice and you have the perfect pop package.

After breakfast, I’m driving through Perano on my way to the builders merchants where the handsome Pietro works, unaware of the 51 year old school-boy crush, he serves me with my twelve sacks of cement, and as I drive off the iPod shuffles again and this time, Paloma sings Agony. Oh how apt, I think.

I drop into the small fruit and veg store before the roundabout on the Atessa road. Every day there are cars parked outside, often double-parked like today. I go inside, curious why it’s such a popular store considering it’s within a few minutes of three supermarkets. It doesn’t take long to see why the store is popular, the service is excellent, the assistant smiles and chats as she helps people with their purchases and the prices are low. I pick up a cauliflower, it’s almost half the price of those in the supermarket on the roundabout, As i do this the radio in the corner plays Stone Cold Sober, I smile as another Paloma Faith song enriches my day. I leave with a bag of vegetables complete with some freebies thrown in by the smiling assistant and climb into my car and drive home.

Back home I’m sitting in the sunshine as I free broad beans from their pods, the pizza eating cat turns up calling for food and the iPod does it’s job sat in its dock on the kitchen windowsill. This time a Jamie Cullum song begins to play, I then move the track on while making a mental note to remove Mr Cullum’s album from my collection, as his voice is monotony to the extreme. I’m happy again as another song by Paloma plays, This time it’s Do You Want the Truth or Something Better.

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Sorry, as I don’t own the copyright on any photos of the lovely Ms Faith, and a snap of a cauliflower would be just boring, here’s the rainbow over our valley this morning.

Evening update: It would appear my iPod really does favour Ms Faith today, as later as I pour a glass of wine on a warm Italian evening she shuffles to the fore again, this time with My Legs are Weak. I raise a glass to Paloma and say, “A couple more of these and mine will be the same.”

That Crazy Foreigner

At the bend in the lane, before our house, sits an ancient stone fountain. The fountain isn’t a decorative one but a practical one, it served the small community here before mains water was piped in. Sadly it now lies decommissioned and nature has started to claim back the space. An old elder grows to the left, it’s knotted branches shadowing the trough where women would stand washing the family’s clothes. The right side, the animal drinking trough is slowly becoming engulfed in brambles, the thorny, limbs providing green lizards with a safe haven from the feral cats that hunt them. I look at this structure with its weed covered façade and an idea surfaces. “I know,” I say to myself loudly: As I’m alone, no is going to think, who’s the nutter talking to himself. “I’ll clean it up.” So I set too with petrol powered brush cutter and I’m attacking the brambles like a man possessed, when out of no where appears a small Italian man. He’s no more than 5’3”,  leathery from years in the sun and nut brown. Now I may have said before that Italy has an omnipresence about it. You could believe you were alone in the countryside and feel the call of nature and pop behind a tree and I can guarantee that by the time you’ve got home two-thirds of the village know that you’ve not only peed behind a tree, but the grid reference and who owns aforementioned tree.

“What are you doing?” asks my companion, intrigued by my toil. I explain that I’m clearing the weeds around the fountain and he smiles, a broad smile revealing teeth as white as Italian plaster. “Why do this,” he says, “it doesn’t benefit you?” I try to explain that I’m doing it because it would look nice, but he doesn’t understand why I’d waste energy on such a task. “Pazzo,” he says, a phrase I’ve heard before, meaning, crazy: My friend Allessio calls me, il pazzo straniero, the crazy foreigner. I tell my new friend that I may be crazy but the fountain is a piece of history. He likes this and begins to tell me how this stone utility was an important part of village life. He explains how the women stood two abreast, chatting as they washed clothes, by hand and how the men would bring the family horse to drink water before it was harnessed up for a days labour in the fields.

IMGA0164The conversation changes and he tells me how the water was turned off when the village was connected to the mains water supply, “the community started to change, people didn’t spend time at the fountain discussing the important things anymore.” I ask him what the important things were that would be talked over. “ Who’s olives are first at the community press, who makes the best pasta orechiette, who’s ill and who’s died, All of these things are important in a small village.” He then points to where he appeared and tells me it’s his family’s land, I make out an Ape* camouflaged among the olives, he then tells me that since he had heart surgery he’s been unable to use a petrol strimmer, he laughs as he pretends the vibrations are causing him to suffer a heart attack and then with one more “pazzo.” he disappears back into the countryside.

I then set to with hedge clippers, I’m not going to trim the greenery within an inch of its life; just enough to neaten it without making it look artificial. I turn on my iPod and X-Ray Spex play Highly Inflammable, it’s hard to imagine that the charismatic, yet reclusive singer Poly Styrene past away a year ago, this month. Their single, The Day the World Turned Day-Glo, is still one of my all-time favourite songs and holds many memories of the emerging punk scene in Britain. I take a break from clipping and with a pair of secateurs begin cutting back the elder. Several hours later and the stone fountain is revealed in all its glory. Time to retreat from the midday heat and have that well earned cold beer.

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The following day I shift all the earth that has accumulated around the base, fight against the brambles and even come under attack from a gang of black ants, the size of golf balls: okay a slight exaggeration, maybe the size of half an Oxo cube. I beat the ants into submission and as a particularly sulky one waves its fist at me in anger as his comrades retreat I stand back to survey my work. I’m happy with the transformation from overgrown ruin to restored glory, and as the iPod shuffles and Kasabian play, Fire, I walk the few steps home.

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Later, after a trip into town I return to find the old guy standing with another looking at the fountain. I hear them say, “good work,” and “nice job.” They both spot me and give me the thumbs up and my friend from yesterday says, “Thank you, many memories.” I wait, but I don’t hear ‘pazzo straniero’.

*Ape, meaning bee (pronounced App-ay) is a three-wheeled hybrid of a scooter and pick-up, made by the vespa (meaning wasp) manufacturers, Piaggio.