40 in forty: Take time, especially when time has been spent

After a perfect day that included a visit to Cinecittà, the Hollywood of Italy where Felini filmed his movies, Audrey Hepburn took a Roman Holiday, Gangs of New York battled each other, my sister now films her Italian TV show, and Oliver began to conjure grand plans of epic set design, we met my brother-in-law's parents for dinner at Checcino dal 1887, a generations-old restaurant in the Testaccio neighborhood.

scenes from lunch

Let me first add that our luggage finally arrived tonight at 6pm, and the joy of showering and then changing into fresh clothes was tremendous. 

Anyway, upon ordering our first bottle of wine tonight, one of the owners wheeled a marble-topped cart with six glasses and the wine to our table and proceeded to fully rinse the inside of each goblet with a bit of the wine.

We asked why. Was it just a lovely tradition, or did his efforts serve more of a purpose?

"The vintner spent at least a year crafting this wine. Why would I, in mere seconds, pour it into unready glasses? The glasses might have residue from being washed: calcium from the water, a faint bit of soap. By rinsing them fully with the wine, I'm pairing each glass with the wine you chose. It slows the service, but why hurry?"

Now really, y'all. Even if each glass gains nothing from such an artful method of pairing, isn't the feeling behind the practice lovely? Can we not all benefit from slowing the service, so to speak?

Italians and Louisianians have a fair amount in common, not least because there are so many Italians in Louisiana. But I think the commonalities are one reason I feel at home in this country. Meals should take time, preferably hours. You should enjoy every bite and all the pomp and circumstance that goes along with each element of the experience. No rush, sit, eat, laugh, make memories. 

There is little to push to slow anything in DC and many other cities across America. What do we miss by slurping meals on the go? Far more than truly tasting the food. That I know for sure. Isn't it lovely to bring out new glasses for each type of wine? To know why you're doing so? To want to share that with others?

Why is this dish specifically Roman? Why can't the boys eat pesto ad nauseam here like they can closer to Liguria? Because place matters. Source matters. Timing and seasonality and tradition matter.

Sometimes they shouldn't, but sometimes attention to those things makes a world of difference. To take time to understand and appreciate, honor and simply enjoy, adds a depth to life that is too easily stripped these days. La bella figura, la dolce vita, and all that jazz. Except that it's so very true and not just romantic.

My sister ordered a cake yesterday and had it delivered to the restaurant where we ate last night. It came wrapped in a beautiful box with handles (I always appreciate the attention to beautiful packaging in Italy!). Ol fell asleep at dinner though, so we simply brought the cake home and then took it to Checcino tonight.

The owners tenderly placed it in their fridge and then, when time, turned out all the lights in the restaurant, every single person sang and cheered "Auguri!" as Ol blew out his candle, and then our waiter served it so graciously. No one was put out. There was no fee for having brought a dessert rather than ordering one there. Time is taken to celebrate and honor the time and energy already invested.

So remarkable and something so worth trying to bring into our own lives.

A morning cappuccino at Brassai.

Spghetti with artichoke cream and mint. Bellissima! My dinner tonight.

Pasta e ceci (ditali with chickpeas and a lot of fresh rosemary; amazing)

Ol chose the five-cheese tasting plate for dinner. 

Jack and I are enormous fans of borlotti beans and so ordered a side in olive oil tonight. He loved them so much that he asked for another order to go. Checcino doesn't have take-away dishes and so prepared this adorable sealed bag o' borlotti for J. He was thrilled.

Such a splendid Sunday

The gramps picked Jack and Ol up at 10 this morning and headed off to the Nationals' last home game of regular season. The boys were dressed in the "official Nats uniforms" they got at Nats camp this past summer and the plan was to go early in the hopes of getting an autograph voucher. They missed that but romped delightedly on the stadium playground for hours and ate a wide array of ballpark food. So much in fact that pretty much as soon as Jack stepped in tonight, just after 6p, he threw up everywhere. Horrid, stinky piles of what looked like upchucked chili. Maternal adrenaline is a good thing because that was disgusting. After the first hurl -on our bedroom floor- he managed to get his pants off. Then, rolling around the carpeted hall, moaning about how he would NEVER eat junk food again unless it was a holiday, he booted for the second time. Between that one and finally taking his shirt off and making it to the toilet, he asserted that birthdays do not count as holidays, a declaration I found baffling.

Poor kid. I drew him a hot bath and got him some seltzer and a couple Tums. When I asked him what he'd eaten he replied, "two hot dogs, Dippin Dots, cotton candy, Orange Crush..." It was revolting, but I dare say he's learned his lesson. He actually learned it once before, during his 100th-day-of-school celebration when he was three. He ate about 400 chocolate chips. When I picked him he said he felt awful and furious and would never overeat dessert again. He hasn't even come close, until today, which I think was really just way too much crap in way too short a time. Like I said, I think he's learned.

In the meantime, I went to the farmers market and then spent several hours cooking and having a solo dance party/concert as T had to work. It was great. I made a double batch of spiced rhubarb-apple butter and some roasted tomato jam, froze a bunch of fresh raspberries and shelled a ton of borlotti beans. I can never get over just how pretty they are.

Peach cobbler has been calling my name, and since I had to use up a half-dozen from last week's market, I decided to get right to it. That'd make a fine dessert for dinner. We had some King salmon I needed to use, and I'd bought some gorgeous okra and arugula this morning too. An embarrassment of riches, really. And the foundation for quite a fine meal.

I love grilled okra, especially when you've got a steel bin full of good wood chips adding a bit of smokey flavor to the chopped pods. I'd tossed these with olive oil, garlic, red pepper flakes, lemon juice and salt, and then later, T made a drizzling oil spiked with chili powder and champagne vinegar that was awfully nice.

I oven-roasted the salmon but first spread some fresh rhubarb-apple butter on top as salmon and apples go so very well together. Sa.tis.fying!

Cranberry beans

Here are the shelled beans from the mess of magenta-specked pods I posted about earlier. Aren't they striking? I often imagine them to be tiny birds' eggs, some relative of the robin as these as lovely as are the Tiffany blue of Mr. Red Breast's eggshells. As I mentioned, they do turn an unfortunate, uniform shade of gray when cooked, but they hold up well and have a terrifically firm yet smooth and creamy texture.

The cranberry bean originated in Colombia, there known as the cargamanto. Italians bred a form of this, the borlotti, that has a thicker skin. Neato food history, eh?