The Spinaccio

My Italian is merely basic, I can order cappuccino when in Rome or Florence and una altra bottiglia di vino rosso e panna cotta per tutti at dinner, but that’s it more or less, so I’m not sure if the Italian name for my newly invented dish is even correct: ravioli in brodo all’olio di olive con spinaci e mozzarella—therefore I named it “The Spinaccio!”. But correct or not, it describes very well how it is prepared. Go ahead and try for yourselves, you won’t regret it. At least, I hope so… nulla è garantito, as they say in Italy.

Dinner at eight (y-eight)

88 degrees Fahrenheit in May, or wait, it’s June now, anyway, 88 degrees Fahrenheit this time of year are, well, what are they? My mind has gone blank, that’s for sure. I can’t think straight. This heat is killing me. Totally. Gotta face the facts. So, for my last supper before extinction I decided to have insalata caprese, my own version of it at least, it’s kind of a messy version, very messy, I mix it all up, the mozzarella, the basil, the tomatoes, il Tricolore in a bowl, so to say. With some olive oil from Sicily and crushed pepper from some place else. Anyway, as you can’t have water with an Italian dinner—food iconoclasm, I say!—I opened a bottle of wine, a fine wine at that, admittedly not from Italy, no Chianti or Brunello di Montalcino, but a fine wine from Bordeaux, a claret as the Brits say, a 2005 St.Émilion Grand Cru, some Château Peyreau—or was it Peyraux, or Peyreaux? Who knows, it’s pronounced all the same anyway—just to cherish summer in spring, high spirits for high temperatures—I’ve told you, my brain has gone soft. Anyway, cheers and buon appetito for now, and as soon as temperatures drop, I’m back. Promise.