I must have been Italian in a past life. Truly. Or maybe I should just chuck it in and move over there now.
We had our lovely friends Jamie and Jamie over this weekend for dinner - an Italian dinner. I made bruschetta with fresh tomatoes, soft mozzarella, red onion, olive oil and balsamic vinegar on toasted slices of bread. We started with the famous lentil soup with toasted fennel and andouille sausage from the recipe from our local Italian restaurant, Guiseppe's. (check out the pictures of Guiseppe's - it's so cool.) The entree was spinach and cheese calzone from the Moosewood cookbook. The salad was baby spinach and mixed greens with baby peas, sprinkled with lemon and olive oil. It was heaven, if I do say so myself. But I believe I enjoy the preparation even more than eating it.
I was in the kitchen, with onion and garlic sauteing on the stove, mincing fresh spinach leaves and basil, with the calzone dough rising in a bowl by the stove, and I stopped to just take in every single sense. Smell was easy - especially the freshly cut basil and the simmering onion and garlic. Sight was lovely - a countertop cluttered with fresh greens, a block of cheese on the cutting board, and a bowl of red tomatoes and purple onion. Sound was nice - the sizzling of the onions, and a good CD playing in the background. Touch was also easy - the feel of a heavy knife in one hand, and the cool spinach in the other. Taste would have been perfect if I'd had my normal glass of red wine whilst cooking, but I was holding back so I could have a glass (or two) with dinner. Ahhh. I tell you, I do think I am Italian somewhere in my past.
I am re-reading "Under the Tuscan Sun" and it's wonderful. I can feel the hot Tuscan sun, taste the fresh fruits and vegetables, see the huge old house with the long table outside under the trees filled with food and wine. I go there every time I open the book, and I can only read it in little chunks. Too much is like gorging on a good dinner.
I would have been a great chef...or at least a very happy one.
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