Today is the day of Sweetness and how could I celebrate if not by preparing one of the best desserts that exist: chocolate brownies. Soft and with a flavor that overwhelms you every time I see a piece of it, I become like Homer Simpson when he thinks about donuts and the bib comes out of his mouth. The brownies certainly does not belong to our culinary tradition and in fact it took me a long time to make my family accept it, a dessert that does not rise in the oven, it was not to be considered as such for them. But then they tasted it and changed their minds very quickly and my father, when he was still alive, ate several pieces. It is a simple dessert that I do not often make because it is a special dessert that is used to give yourself a boost of life and also to treat yourself better in moments that are a little bit off.
Yes, I burned the cookies this time too. Pastry, they say, is a matter of precision. They say, math. But I can’t get rid of the habit of overturning the recipes and not only by changing the doses of the ingredients, in a “scientific” way, that is by calculating the doses, but also during the execution phase, with real head shots of the last minute. And so also my latest cookies, very good, were born from my madness.
Apple pie is the traditional Anglo-Saxon apple pie made with an outer shell of “pie crust”, a dough similar to that of brisé, but I make it my way and I use shortcrust pastry. It is a cake to be eaten warm, perhaps with a scoop of ice cream or a little vanilla custard, and is spectacular for the first cold ones. Good sweetness and good appetite!
I don’t even know how to cook: there was some ragù, some chicken curry; there was the healthy period of past and velvety soups, and that of online shopping at Tesco, with over-priced basil and Italian recipes hanging from the refrigerator. But none of these “periods” has ever turned into a habit of life, into that simple routine of making food every day in a dignified, varied way, and with a minimum of pleasure in doing it (and eating it).
The kitchen, for us women in their thirties, is the place where we have seen our mothers forced, in perennial anxiety about “what am I doing tonight?”, Having to “do” for the whole family. Adhering to the anonymous and universal role of those who prepare food. Who cooked the last supper? asks Rosalind Miles’ female history of the world. Who cooked our little girls dinners?

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