January Peels
plotting, pottering; procrastination doughs, stormy pasta bake; paperbacks, waiting rooms' playlist
Bonjour, you. If you’re new to The Onion Papers, Peels are a round-up feature at TOP, a writer’s almanac that comes out on the first Monday of each month. Happy reading and clicking,
Margaux
Tell me, I’m curious to know, would you sit at my table if the bread was turned upside down? Would you think that I’m fearless, reckless, or simply teasing you? Testing you, showing off even, so I can tell you about Medieval France, when the belief originated and, maybe, drop a crumb from where I’ve come, in passing but earnestly, if we’re to break bread here together. You may think that I’m clueless, giving you the honour of pointing out an honest mistake of mine. Would you though? Would you want to be the superstitious one between the two of us? This comes with responsibility, so does memory. You overthinker, you tell me, I tell you, but, if I’m being honest, January and all these talks about new beginnings has seen me question my own rules. I convinced myself that they were rituals to give these principled habits more importance, more value if I ought to choose my words carefully, and to feel grounded. Grounded in theories and concepts of how a person should be, therefore how I should live my life. Then storm Éowyn hit the UK on the 24th day of January and a red alert was issued where I live, for the first time in 14 years, only to remind us change is a featherlike word when nothing has to be forever, ever. On that Friday, the shops closed and we retrieved indoor with my partner, lucky enough to have a roof, swearing at the unreliable internet connection, being jumpy as if we had sea legs, drowning in our own worries. ‘Let it not be 2020’, I said to L., who reminded me a storm isn’t a virus; this, too, shall pass. They are airborne, though, and they are out of our control, too. But, as you know, the sun rose the next day, so I headed out with the puppy. What a playground the city had become for Leopoldo: garbage and branches everywhere! Freedom, again! And he ran and ran and jumped and rolled. He grabbed another piece of wood for the way home, and I found myself mourning, counting the unrooted trees, thinking about the people on the other side of the fallen garden walls. Picking up garbage, one bit after the other, finding every single public bin full, still. If the fences had fallen, I thought, then we ought to reunite. The thunder of loneliness always dissolves when I’m outdoor. It might take a few minutes for my body to stretch my mind outward, over a kilometre, a while, but then I see them: students walking to school and pedestrians clogging the pavement as they send voice notes; chanting birds and folks queuing outside the pharmacy around the corner, the one where the chap is generous with tips and tricks; the elderly woman with her beige beret and limping, brown springer spaniel, power walking and smiling with her airpods tucked in; the two friends I can smell from far away, with matching yellow raincoats and the sprats they keep in their pockets for Leopoldo; the grumpy one with his corduroy cap by the bookshop and the retired military officer who likes to comment on the weather; them, us.
As another crow landed on the grass, just a few steps ahead of me, I was reminded of Max Porter’s words, from Grief is the Thing with Feathers:
‘Moving on, as a concept, is for stupid people, because any sensible person knows grief is a long-term project.’
February awakes, and I’m excited to say that my second novel, Breaststrokes, is publishing in paperback on 13th February. Your French author loves a paperback format: books that fit in pockets, stories to carry in the métro and bookmarks to leave behind on museum benches. It’s a soft one, pages to earmark and an annotated copy to share with friends; it’s cheaper, too. The magic happens in all good bookshops, or here at Bookshop.org, if you fancy a pre-order drop on your doorstep. Thank you <3
bread update
This month, I’ve been using sourdough discards to make schiacciata, the Tuscan equivalent of a focaccia but prepared with less hydration when it comes to the dough. Schiacciata being from the land of cucina povera, it is also about half the size of a focaccia in height and, overall, sturdier. It is crunchier too, which leads to fantastic sandwiches that fit in pockets.
I like to use sourdough starter instead of active yeast as it gives the schiacciata a crustier texture. I also combine white and spelt flours, where it would usually be white only, for a nuttier taste. This one is quick and low commitment when it comes to kneading, and it will preserve for days on the counter (wrapped in a kitchen towel).
1 generous tbsp of sourdough starter (alternatively you can use dried active yeast)
300ml lukewarm water
300g white bread flour
200g spelt flour
2 tsps of rock salt
60ml of extra virgin oil, plus extra for brushing
Optional rosemary or sage leaves for topping
In a bowl, mix the water and the sourdough starter. Use your fingers to break and dissolve the starter. Or, if you are using dried yeast, mix well. Let it rest for 10-15 minutes.
In a separate bowl, combine the flours with 1 tsp of salt and the olive oil. Stir in the water and knead until you will obtain a homogeneous dough. It should be elastic and not sticky – glossy. Form a ball and let it rest inside the bowl (covered with a lightly wet kitchen towel) for one hour. Knead for another 7-10 minutes and rest for another hour. The dough should double in size. Yours may require less time; my kitchen is cold.
Preheat the oven to 200C. Prepare a rectangular baking tray with a drizzle of olive oil and some corn flour, then flatten the focaccia over a wooden surface, with the help of a rolling pin. You are looking at about 3 mm for the thickness. Spread some salt, sage or rosemary leaves (if you’re using any) and brush some olive oil on top. Bake for 15-20 minutes, until golden.
reading, listening
In January, I spent a silly amount of time in waiting rooms where reading is rendered impossible by that stubborn, flicking neon light, so a playlist:
Some reading as well, too, in the end:
If you’ve read The Onion Papers this month, you’ll know that I’ve been reading Vincent van Gogh’s letters. I also picked Leonora Carrington’s The Debutante and Other Stories, which I highly recommend for anyone in need to shake off a sentence, or a worry. Horses spy on cooks, vegetables dance in a boil, a hyena takes a girl’s place at a debutante gala, a mountain of cats – this one is wild and eye-opening at the same time, marvellous and generous; surrealist, as Leonora Carrington was.
Still in fiction but much denser, I also read Hisham Matar’s novel, My Friends, which is now available in paperback. This is the story of two Libyan friends, Khaled and Mustafa, who met at university in Edinburgh and join a protest in London, in front of the Libyan embassy. When the government officials open fire, they are wounded and, what follows, is a life changed by the event, bound together. It is one of those long novels made to swallow, a story of innocence and growing up in exile.
On the non-fiction shelf, I devoured Robin Wall Kimmerer’s The Serviceberry. We live at a time when every decision matters, Robin Wall Kimmerer reminds us, and, for an enticing change, I wasn’t scared to read the sentence. I received it as a call instead, drawing energy from the words to look outwards, searching for gratitude and inciting reciprocity, which are, Robin Wall Kimmerer explains, the currency of gift economy. I quote:
The question that’s often asked is how do we take gift economies from individual relationships and scale them up? I have to say that I’m not sure that’s the right question. Why does everything have to be expanded? It is the small scale and context that make the flow of gifts meaningful. But if gift economies are to have impact, I’m willing to think about what that might look like on a community scale.
PS. I’d welcome the gift of getting lost in a novel inside February’s waiting rooms, so recommendations welcome, friends. Merci!
in the kitchen
Talking of Éowyn, a stormy pasta bake or neighbour’s potluck, for which we gathered spinach pasta, cavolo nero, mushrooms, leeks and asparagus; basa filets from the freezer; oat cream for texture, though we didn’t have enough, so we topped it up with almond milk (used to poach the fish too); mozzarella.
In a pot, warm up some almond milk, reduce the heat, and poach the fish. In a second pot, bring water to the boil and cook the pasta, only for a few minutes, as the pasta will cook further in the oven.
In a pan, gently fry the leeks and cavolo nero until they are tender. Add the asparagus and cook further. Preheat the oven in the meantime.
In a baking tray, stir in the drained and cooked pasta. Add the cooked vegetables, mixing well, then add the mushrooms (left raw for now). Stir in the oat cream and the poached fish, including the almond milk. Mix well. Crumb the mozzarella on top. Season to taste (nutmeg and black pepper?). Bake until it starts bubbling and the mozzarella is golden.
If you get around making the schiacciata, or find yourselves in the company of a good piece of bread, some sandwich inspirations to take outside on a walk with you: grilled courgettes and pesto; sundried tomatoes, mozzarella and capers and/or basil; smoked salmon, mascarpone and rocket; cecina and black pepper (recipe here). Schiacciata also does a brilliant, mopping job if the leftovers are saucy enough (a shakshuka, maybe?)
And, if you’re in the mood for summer, you could whip some ‘whippable’ oat cream with a tablespoon of rose water, transfer it in a recipient, seal it and put it in the freezer for at least one hour. You’d then find yourself with oaty ice-cream to dress a slice of cake. Kitchens do hold multitudes — and I’m a broken record.
from The Onion Papers
Active Melancholy: Four Chairs — A dive into Vincent van Gogh’s letters, some chairs in the arts, including Alice Neel’s paintings of souls, and a topic I love: the misconceptions around melancholy.
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If a draft is giving you a headache, I have come on the other side of it (until the next crisis) to tell you that remaking your favourite sandwich is a fantastic exercise in procrastination. I present you with my Glaswegian version of the Cinque e Cinque Livornese. (This one is available via the annotated recipes series, to paid subscribers.)
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Something different too, which I had great fun writing, or an exercise on form, after Leonora Carrington’s dancing vegetables: Kitchen Alphabet.
looking ahead, Glasgow (GMT)
The sun keeps rising further north, making its way towards the spring equinox, the days lengthen, allowing the light in. The soil is wet, trunks are crowded with jelly ears and other caps, and snowdrops are flowering in patches. I hear the birds louder than the week before, worms hunting, a brave magpie landed outside the kitchen window; the river down the road high and higher again, threatening and pungent. The sky awakes orange and there are little fires everywhere, new shoots pushing through the ground, teasing us with grand, springtime hopes as yellow petals show up. February is a short month, a connecting couple of weeks, from seeds to stems, still frosty and drizzling. Not too fast: the February full moon is nicknamed Storm Moon. It is expected to arrive on the 12th day of this month but, for what I know, there are plenty I don’t know. And, superstitious friends, Venus will continue to be bright this month, hanging out at her highest point in the sky, Jupiter and Mars still visible as well. Keep looking up.
margaux
thank you for reading. i’m margaux, a writer and cook, and this is my hybrid newsletter. you can subscribe and come back for seconds (thursdays are for long reads and mondays for annotated recipes, both come out every other weeks) <3
