RECIPE FOR 3 BEAN SALAD FULL
The chickpea, aubergine and couscous dish from two weeks ago, or the potato and roast pepper insalata palermitana from last year and this bean salad are all good examples of dishes that benefit from sitting 30 minutes, for two hours (although maybe not in full glare) while the ice is put in glasses. Fortunately, much summer food knows this, and will not only wait in some cases, it improves. Someone is in the shower, someone else has gone to buy a bag of ice because someone else forgot to refill the ice trays in the freezer and no one is doing anything before a gin and tonic. It is an unspoken rule of summer eating that it takes longer for people to gather and get to the table. The same with bean salad: I want to know what sort of beans your uncle used, if your grandma used her own extra-virgin olive oil or a squeeze of mayonnaise from a tube, how your neighbour nearly choked to death on a green bean.
Having said that, I will happily debate or hear a strong opinion about a rice or pasta salad, especially if the recipe and story has a childhood or relative dragged into it, even more so if the story isn’t a saccharine one. Full commitment to ice-creams from cold freezer chests, and watermelon, tomatoes with plaits of mozzarella, vegetables criss-crossed with char lines, oily fish or breadcrumbed chicken pressed between white rolls, and rice and pasta salads, about which I have no time for disdain. We fling ourselves into summer eating, too.
RECIPE FOR 3 BEAN SALAD FREE
Out of the sea we lay ourselves out on the hot pebbles to dry, bubbles of families under umbrellas dotted the beach doing much the same thing, the unselfconscious ease of a free pebble beach even more apparent after quarantena. Cold currents dance and tug in the stretch of coast between Santa Severa and Santa Marinella, and on good days a land breeze blows the water clear enough to see the pebbles wink and sea urchins spike from the seabed.
RECIPE FOR 3 BEAN SALAD SKIN
After months contained in small spaces in a sleeping city, there was no time to hover over anything – clothes, inhibition, the shoreline – we were in, submerged in the inky cool of the Tyrrhenian sea, flapping and flailing like liberated animals, our skin on cold fire. We were like pale limbs just out of plaster, or animals blinking on their exit from a dark hibernation cave. It is usually early July by the time I locate my sunglasses, or simply give up looking and buy another pair.īut this year, encouraged by my friend Alice and her suggestion of socially distanced time at the sea just north of Rome, I flung myself into the hottest season. And then, when I do, I am the person shuffling in, a bare toe here or shaved leg there, wiping six months of dust from the outside chairs and pulling the thermal bag from under the bed, looking at a dress. Normally I spend weeks standing on the shoreline of the hottest season, reluctant to change my clothes, habits or the arrangement of things.
0 kommentar(er)
