english version at the end

Un’aria leggera e profumata di limone scuote l’insolita umidità di questi giorni e riempie l’aria proprio adesso, mentre scrivo all’ ombra degli oleandri in giardino. Oggi questo é il mio ufficio e tutto quello che mi occorre é qui vicino a me: il computer sulle gambe, un vecchio lenzuolo a fiori steso sul prato e il solito viavai di coleotteri. A volte penso che dovrei creare un vero angolo di lavoro, il mio, in un qualche angolo o stanza della casa. Uno spazio privato, per scrivere e pensare. Ma in giornate come queste, mi basta l’oleandro. Continue reading →

the english version coming soon

Quando avevo nove anni mi regalarono il libro di Pollyanna, di Eleanor Porter  e da li cominciai la mia prima collana di racconti. La storia di Pollyanna é quella di una bambina orfana e infelice che riusce a costruire intorno a se (ma soprattutto dentro di se) un mondo rosa e gioioso, grazie al gioco della felicità insegantole dal padre. Continue reading →

“Hunted by the need of dance”, Anna Pavlova

The Pavlova has a special place in that part of my heart where sweet food is hidden. The preparation of the Pavlova is a perfect, relaxing pleasure, it is like seating in an armchair enjoying the snow falling, where the snow has the form of fluffy, white eggs that slowly become stiff and shine like satin. Working to give the meringue its classic form with the slight depression at the center, a pocket to be filled with whipped cream, is like playing and building a snowman, the hands full of fluffy white surrended at the spatula movement. The slowly baking and the easy decoration is an indulge with asmooth, soft and relaxing moment. Did I tell you about my fascination for things with women’s name? Flowers, rivers (my daughter Neva has the name of a river), ships and desserts. Continue reading →

We were for a while without the oven and that for me was a culinary disaster. To be in the kitchen and cannot play with the infinite possibilities of the bakery world, is like going to shopping without money, it is like a party without music, it is like a sleeping time without the goodnight kiss. It was the perfect moment to refresh my variety of spoon desserts, but, to be honest, before getting asleep I had visions about sweet food: lines of perfect french macarons colored like my daughter’s pencils, little golden brioches rised like the sun at sunrise, pies with puffy pastry like an embroidered linen’s napkin. My freezer is full of  dough, prepared when frustration arrived and the boredom catched me. Now we have a new oven. My hands are happy and busy! I’m sat near the kitchen table writing and nibbling the crumbs of a chocolate bread baked last night, two hours after the oven arrived. I used my favorite cake pan, my mom offered me last time we shopped together:  it is small enough to let the cake go up, with a pattern on the base. I like to call it bread. It is perfect to spread your favorite cream on, or marmalade if you replace the chocolate with berries. Continue reading →

I grew up in a seaside city, however the sea is an image unrelated to the daily life in my childhood memories. I looked at the sea from the house’s terrace, I followed the profile with the finger on the car window, it chased me while I was biking on the promenade. It  always kept aside, like a voice in a choral waiting for his solo: the solo was the summer vacations, but that sea was a different one: it was a sea to attempt after a long car trip filled with “when will we arrive ?” and finally we arrived. The sea in not my dimension. I am a city and a river woman. I like the streets and the bridges. Now that I am surrounded by the ocean I am perplexed. The girls love it, they are looking for it. So I’m making friend with it. When I cannot say no to a beach afternoon, I do what Greta does: we seat far from the water in the shade of an umbrella smaller than her and we watch the sisters and the seagulls  dancing and gliding, both. Probably in their childhood memories, the sea will be more impressive than mine, certainly the route for it will be shorter.  Continue reading →

Eccomi, seduta nel bel mezzo di una domenica pomeriggio a scrivere sul blog, riannodare i fili, riprendere da dove avevo sospeso. Parigi é li, distante 9 ore di fuso orario e 9188.5 Kilometri. E in mezzo una lunga fila di puntini sospensivi, ognuno denso e intenso, come un album di ricordi che non sai se vuoi chiudere o aprire. Casa nostra é ancora li, temporaneamente riempita da altri visi e altre voci e un altro bimbo nato da poco. Ma  casa nostra adesso é anche un’altra, questa, silenziosa fuori e rumorosa dentro, verde fuori e bianca dentro come dicono le bambine, che adesso non vogliono essere più chiamate filles ma girls. L’essenziale é nei dettagli! 🙂 Continue reading →