Have you ever made a blender explode? I have a particular knack for producing tomato stains at a rate unfathomable to man, and to my mother most importantly. She has taught me a little trick to get them out – dishwashing liquid, cold water ONLY. Then, and only then, machine wash.

I’ve made a host of sugo-based recipies these last few weeks, in memory of Italy – which has not died and is very much still alive and thriving. But everyone mourns in their own ways. Mine is tomato soup, pasta fagioli, and lasagna. For boxing day I prepared a sort of parmigiana lasagna concoction, taking care to consult Tucci’s thoughts on the subject.

His mother taught his late wife Kate how to cook lasagna. It’s the kind of dish that takes years to perfect, hard to mess up completely, but even harder to nail. It’s a balance – which without the Libra traits of one Megan (Emma), I am unable to achieve. The pasta must be cooked so as to retain structure, but they must also melt upon contact with the tongue. Let me tell you, M&S spinach lasagna sheets – don’t do it for me. Balance is tough. Balance: It must be flavourful, sweet with a little spicy, acidic kick. Balance. Libras.

Balance can be greatly helped with a Parmigiano stock. Many recipes can. But you have to get your hands on some cheese rinds – luckily, I have a lifetime supply. Bay leaves are a little trickier. Expensive, fiddly little creatures, but if you can wrangle them, they truly add an extra fresh garden smell, without tasting like that pre-made oregano and basil mix that every English sauce-making company has decided to chuck in their jars by the tonne. It’s rinds, water, and bay leaves, simple as, boiled and added to a sauce of your choosing – use at your own discretion.

Tucci writes so softly about Kate. With great attention and a calm nostalgia. It’s the height of Italian connection, to recreate a family dish to perfection. A partner, a friend, feels like they belong to something so impenetrable as the family (whatever your family may look like), and you in turn, are the proud watcher of a lovely kinship.  But he writes so plainly and carefully about the interaction, like he doesn’t need to over-explain its weight. I appreciate that, the trust in his reader.

I truly enjoy Tucci’s writing style. It’s unelaborate. Very direct. Article-like in some ways. It’s, inclusive, in the basic sense. I am included. It’s the way he writes his recipes – the preamble is part of a larger story you have real attachment to. It’s a lovely format. And they’re written, so plainly. His recepies feel like receiving instructions by text from your busy aunt on how to make something.  You could have written it down by now, you’ve asked her countless times how to make it. But maybe you like calling and hearing it from the source.  Or, they feel like he scribbled the instructions on an old sticky note. And now the note serves as your bookmark, and every time you dig it out, you fear you’ll lose your page.  

I even feel part of his writing process. He footnotes like a friend tapping on your shoulder and giving you a heads up. You’re reading a pretty wholesome book about Italian cuisine, and he taps you on the shoulder and says: “That sounds like something Colin Firth would say” or, “I swear there was butter in this recipe!” or, “Hey – I know the author’s just been talking about some restaurant in New York, but it’s since closed, tragic.” And so I imagine him, waddling around the streets of the city, young, going to his favourite Jewish delis*, and then old again, disappointed but unsurprised by their absence.

There are some restaurants and cafés I would be devastated to lose. I usually don’t get any notice. I’ll just turn around one day and a spot that used to provide me a regular treat will just be sort of missing. A few months ago, the bookshop I used to visit daily on the corner of my street in Milan removed their sit-in café. Everyone immediately noticed. Everyone immediately complained. I almost lead a nation-wide riot against it. 

☆☆☆

In a few days, I am meant to meet Stanley himself. I have to say, his and my timing rarely align. He’s done plenty a book signing, always hours after I’m set to leave the country, or when it’s just plain impossible for me to make my way to a bookstore that evening. This time I plan to be there, to tell him what a marvellous actor and food writer he is, and that if anything, he has made me,  a far far happier cook.