I realize I’m a bit spoiled–the first time I went to Italy, I was in 6th grade. We’d hosted an Italian exchange student for a year, and after that crazy period of misunderstandings, celebrations, disappointments, language barriers, & general enlightenment, he became an honorary member of the clan. So off to Italy we went for Christmas the next year, to celebrate with our new family. It was my first taste of international travel, and it was delicious.
I’ve since been back more times than I can count–when I was 16, my parents shipped me off for the entirety of spring break, and I’ve returned to the Lombardian town of Cremona annually since then. Over the passing years, it has become a sort of second (or third or fourth) home to me and when we are at home for a short weekend, life moves at a different pace. I didn’t even bother to bring my big camera, and when I arrived at the airport to fly back to Paris, I realized that I’d only taken 1 iphone picture that wasn’t of my 7-month old niece or my brother’s labrador. It was of this focaccia… this gorgeous, memorable, addictive focaccia.
The first time I went to Italy by myself, I was sitting at the kitchen table trying to recover from jet lag when my Italian brothers’ dad appeared. He travelled a lot to different Italian cities for business back then, and had just returned from Rome. This was back in the good ole’ days when one could simply carry liquid on the plane, thank the good lord, and Vincenzo appeared in the kitchen with a package– my first taste of Mozzarella di Bufala. A taste I will never forget. Cheese sent down from heaven, it was out of control. I never understood cheese people before that moment, and now I practice a lot of epic eye-rolling when people dare tell me that they ‘don’t really like cheese that much’. I’ve since come to love whenever a member of my Italian family appears in the kitchen holding a package. The package is always filled with a revelation. There have been pastries, homemade gnocchi, insane balsamic vinegar, & the best damn gelato in the world… so many food discoveries came from these surprise kitchen visitors.
True to form this past weekend, Vincenzo appeared in the kitchen mid-saturday morning holding a package. Big oily slices of focaccia alla genovese and focaccia di recco fresh from Liguria. The genovese was thinner, saltier and more oily than any focaccia I’d encountered, I already wanted this to be the only bread I’d ever eat again. But then came the first taste of focaccia di recco-a pure piece of heaven–it is essentially genovese with melted stracchino cheese. And we all ate far more than a reasonable person should, especially considering my sister-in-law was hard at work whipping up her equally insane pasta carbonara.
So I’m back in France today, back to the same old baguette & roast chicken routine… and yet I can’t help but wonder what next years’ mysterious kitchen package might contain. Something to look forward to, I suppose.
