An ode to Italian hospitality

Italian hospitality is something else. I thought I was a relatively good host. I make sure my guests are fed and watered, and they all seem to leave happy. In Italy, to simply feed a guest and provide them with a drink is selling yourself short: they should leave bursting at the seems, lethargic and with a serious case of the meat sweats (it's both as awful and wonderful as it sounds).

Pappardelle with slow roasted tomato sauce

My friend Jacquie recently made her first batch of pasta - it looked amazing. She let it dry on her clothes rack with the rest of her washing. Around the same time, Nadia mentioned she had noticed I hadn't included any pasta recipes on the blog yet. I felt the universe was trying to tell me something, the gods were speaking to me, I felt it in my waters: it was time to drag out the pasta machine.

Bocce Town

Bocce rocks. When Matty and I visited his uncle Pebe in the north of Italy, every night we would watch him play at the local club. People compare it to lawn bowls, but I think that's a long bow to draw. As far as I'm concerned, lawn bowls can go take a long jump. Bocce's where it's at. Have you ever heard someone so defensive about a mature adult's ballgame?