Cinque Terre

Pesto pesto quando?

Hello fellow wannabe chefs, before you think to yourself – ‘dunnit before, too easy’  as I verbally did or – ‘that’s what a deli’s for’ which I secretly did, try this recipe. Fellow ponces you’ll love the tactile pleasure of plucking leaves one by one, the sensory immersion in the heady fragrances of fresh basil and Pecorino and the simple pleasure of saying ‘Oh yes darling, I made it from scratch, a recipe I secured from a dear little Cucina in Liguria, Genovese you understand’, accompanied by a well deserved discreetly smug smile. The recipe beats store bought hands down and it doesn’t separate.

Need:
• 100 g fresh basil
• 50 g Parmesan (or Pecorino)
• 30 g pine nuts (or walnuts)
• 1/2 cup good quality olive oil
• 1 clove of garlic
• Healthy dose of salt

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Do:
• Pluck the basil leaves one by one onto a board taking care to remove the stalks from the bigger leaves.
• Rinse and spin dry in a lettuce spinner
• Roughly chop the leaves
• Peel and roughly chop the garlic clove
• Grate the cheese using a fine plain

Then:
• Throw half the basil, half the parmesan, a little oil, the garlic, pine nuts and the salt into a food processor.
• Turn on and slowly drizzle half the oil into the mix via the Shute as the mix macerates
• Stop, scrape down the sides, throw the remaining basil leaves and Parmesan in and continue blending while drizzling the remaining oil until a smooth paste forms
• Stop taste for salt, add if necessary and finish blending until creamy

Assemble:
• Stir through freshly cooked al dente pasta, garnish with a basil sprig and serve immediately
N.B: I love ‘Trofiette’, a short tight little twist of pasta for this dish as it ‘grabs’ the sauce and lends a certain authenticity to the dish however any curvy pasta will do.

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Or
• Smear on crisp bruschetta

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Or
• Pop in a cute jar, label it ‘Pesto made by me’ or whatever, top the lid with a small square of fabric held in place with an elastic band (just because it lends a certain panache to your creation) and give as treats to Auntie Bertha, that nice Neighbor or simply squirrel away for yourself. Lasts well in the fridge, you be the judge of expiration date.

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Recipe kindly provided by:
Restaurant Il Ciliegio, Monterosso
Cinque Terre

DT’s and a few other disturbances…

Uh oh! lovely readers, I’m a tad disturbed! Male tourists are strolling through the Villages wearing just their DTs.* Here I am I’m sitting in a breezy little beachside restaurant sipping my Aperol when I hear the Scot at the adjoining table muttering ‘Walk doon beach leck dat e’ oome’nye’d be knifed ye wooud!’ to the back of his girlfriend’s head. She didn’t hear; too busy eyeing up a package in a pink pair, her expression vacillating between repulsion, curiosity and lust. Oh! and hey you! Yes you, stud over there proudly sporting the white ones? It’s not cold today my friend, not cold at all.

I’m also disturbed to see every female on the beach regardless of nationality, shape, size, age or original gender sporting a bikini. The ones that don’t entirely cover the butt cheeks. Clearly ‘de rigueur’ on the Italian Riviera. My elegant one-piece suddenly non ‘de-rigueur’  – my butt screaming otherwise.

And I’m particularly disturbed that, aside from the harsh disregard for ‘slip, slop, slap,’** I’ll need to hand over €20 for a ragged deck chair, a folded umbrella and the privilege of sitting on the grey pebbly beach in very close proximity to all that DT/bikini clad slow roasting flesh. Too cosy by far.

It’s all just too disturbing so I’ve poured another wine. Today I will think about the prospect of Australia clearing the national deficit in just one week by adopting a similar ‘pay for privilege’ beach plan. Tomorrow I will start a diet consisting of a single strand of pasta and an expresso. Needs must if I’m to ‘fit in’. Meanwhile, a few snaps to put you in this distressing moment (‘cept for the DT loving men – privacy and all that)

20130704-101419.jpg(Monterosso main beach)

20130704-101135.jpg(Taken in Nice, the same scene in Monterosso – uncomfortable pebbles)

* Speedo swimming trunks, commonly known as ‘Dick Togs’ ‘budgie smugglers’, ‘junk trunks’ and ‘Tonys’. (in honour of Tony Abbot, leader of the AU opposition party, who has a propensity for red ones)

**Slip on a shirt, Slop on sunscreen and Slap on a hat – an Australian anti-skin cancer campaign.

Sneaky damn Bidet…

As you’re probably aware the Bidet features in a large portion of bathrooms in Europe. No matter how small the room, one of them will have managed to squeeze itself in. And there’s one in my tiny little studio in Monterosso. I’m rather fond of it.

You see, if your clever and smart like I am, you can fill them with sudsy water, pop the lid down on the adjoining loo, sit sideways and pop your feet in for a nice little soak to ease fatigue or prepare for pedicure. Handy. Heck you can even throw undies and socks in and do a little dance at the same time. I’ve been doing both. And then the real washing machine arrived.

After much gabble in speedy Italian the installer identified the outlet hose needed something extra to make it fit the actual outlet…meanwhile would the bidet do? Sure no probs said I! A demonstration later, looking good, pat on the back and off he went, two further washes proving this was indeed a reliable option. And that’s when the trouble started.

Yesterday, while I was busy willing breath into the dead PC, clutched in my lap on the bed; battery out, fingers buried in its inner workings according to google suggestions for rebooting, the washing machine and the bidet were busy too. Conspiring.

In an effort to seek tissues to staunch the tears of frustration dripping into the computer’s nether regions, threw the damn thing on the bed, swung my feet to the floor and… Splot! Sneaky water quietly slinking out of the bidet from the latest wash had turned my little home into one massive great bloody lake! Shit!

Quickly grabbed mop and bucket and, while proceeding to push the water all around the room in a desperate attempt to prevent it from seeping under the front door where the owner would most certainly see disaster and up the rent, another earthquake occurred. The water shimmied and danced, that’s how I knew.

Well accustomed to earthquakes by now, pointed my snivelling nose to the sky and screamed in defiance ‘Yeah bring it on Louie!’ My downstairs neighbour, on whose head I’d recently released a cluster of his very own peaches, was back on his terrace. I know this because I heard a very loud mutter, ‘Pazzo Cagna’! ‘Crazy Bitch’ I know this too because I typed his words into my trusty Translate. Perhaps his name is Louie.

Finally averting disaster on all fronts, popped down to the village to get a few essentials including a fresh box of tissues. Packed with tourists being a Sunday, I couldn’t help overhearing a number of folk snickering behind me. Was it my hair? Did I have gum in it? A nest? Perhaps they’re just humouring my poor command on Italian? No. Three long white tags stitched to the back seam of my gym pants were fluttering gaily in my breezy wake, glaringly obvious, slap dab in the middle of my butt. I had my pants on inside out.

I think my neighbour has a point.

Meanwhile, enjoy my latest photo. It has nothing to do with this story

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