September Peels

coming together as seasons cross paths, swimming, some books and recipes from tuscany

Bonjour, you. If you’re new to The Onion Papers, Peels are a round-up feature at TOP, a retrospective and writer’s almanac which comes out on the first Monday of each month. Happy reading and clicking,
Margaux

Dear world, it’s been a month. There are days when I tell myself that we must acknowledge the joys we meet – find and enhance every spark of light. And there are hours when I grow convinced that we must purge. That we’ve disappointed the matriarchs welfare of Earth, bruising them by consuming every inch of them with want instead of desires, with blood instead of water. And I drive myself hopeless, either pacing like a caged animal inside my flat, solely moving dust, or paralysed, and, as I do, love fades behind the offing and the world around me becomes soulless and, as the sun sets, I’m sleepless. What was the point? I ask and ask and ask – and the sun rises again, on the other side of the Autumn Equinox, when I find another glimpse of light. I celebrate the small things — leaves turning to gold and delayed sunrise, mauve skies and pink cheeks from the extra hour of sleep — and, again, I ask, dear world, am I seeing this to justify another piece of my cake? I do not know but this month has shown me that we must continue to organise and to look out for each others. And to tell each other about what we see, whatever that revolts us, whatever that brings us joy, small and big and in between. Perhaps I’m a worrier but I do worry that we’ll only appreciate the birds singing at sunrise once they’ll have gone. The state thrives on silence; the wild world is never quiet.

What a chaos of lunatic water, 
nocturnal ferocity, what ravening
troughs for the light, unregenerate yet, what
crazed fermentation of lives and destructions, what bran
of fertility, before the decorum could come: 
the orders of plants and of clans, 
the cut stone disposed on the stone, 
the smoke of the ritual lamps, 
soil firm for the stance of a man, 
disposition of tribes
and tribunes of terrestrial gods!
– Pablo Neruda, ‘Soldier Asleep’

September was elevated by checking in and catching up with friends, old and new, as we travelled back to Italy with L. and my best friend. It culminated with a return to Scotland for the gentlest of bookish events, on the last Saturday of the month, when I met with writer Freya Bromley and readers at The Portobello Bookshop in Edinburgh. We headed to the beach around the corner, read extracts from The Tidal Year and Breaststrokes, the brisk wind chatted back at us, and we went into the water for a swim.

On Portobello Beach, I heard myself say that no-one is as free as water. And that I wish everyone could be as free as water. It certainly felt like we could be when we walked, a group of strangers, towards the water two weeks ago – and it was like that as we entered the water, some chatting and others confidently swimming towards the deeper water. I loved this shared experience and afterwards the most. We all changed into dry clothes at our own pace, settling back on land, our blood slowly releasing from the pressure of keeping us warm in the cold water, pumping and flowing, resetting. 

This winter I’d like to swim more often with people, so consider this an invitation to join me. I’m still figuring out how to set this up, so this is step one: if you’d be interested to come swim with strangers to be known, somewhere around the Glasgow/Loch Lomond/western Scottish coast area, please drop me a line. I’ll follow up with an email in due course to arrange times and days. The plan is to carpool (if/when necessary), swim and share potluck meals. As always, you don’t need to be swimming to join us; hanging out on the shore, heating up the stove for coffees and teas, is most welcome. 

(you can order a signed copy of Breaststrokes from the Portobello Bookshop here, until stocks last, or unsigned still at Portobello or Bookshop.Org.)

bread update

A September spent in Tuscany meant that I was reunited with one of my favourite breads, stale and rejuvenated in a mishmash with vegetables in the form of a ribollita, or a perfect bowl of Tuscan cucina povera. I prefer mine with celery, carrots, cavolo nero and borlotti beans.

reading, listening

I had picked a copy of Jen Hadfield’s Storm Pegs at The Shetland Times Bookshop on commercial street in Lerwick back in July, and I read it slowly before bed. I didn’t take it anywhere with me, which I rarely don’t do as I love to read on the go, but there was something about the poetry of Hadfield’s prose and the landscapes she let in and spread over the pages of her memoir. It felt like a treason if I had allowed anything else to interfere with them. A celebrated poet, Jen Hadfield, moved to the Shetland archipelago in her late twenties, and Storm Pegs retraces seventeen years of building a life new. It’s a moving reflection about home and time, and the people who mark them both. 

Still in non-fiction, I listened to Seven Brief Lessons on Physics by Carlo Rovelli. It’s short and comprehensive and freeing as Rovelli makes it make sense for his readers – Einstein’s theory of general relativity, quantum mechanics, black holes, gravity etc. I have been recommending it to the writers around me, as such a read always reminds me how physics and philosophy are interconnected. 

Then, in fiction, one horrifying book as Mariana Enríquez returns in the English language with a new short story collection: A Sunny Place for Shady People, which is translated from the Spanish by Megan McDowell. Our Share of Night is one of my favourite novels, so I felt both thrill and fear when I opened the collection. If, like me, you thought the title was good, wait for the stories. It’s macabre and full of spirits, and very few people capture humanity the way Enríquez does. 

‘Rivers have personalities. Some calm down with age, winding ponderously across fertile plains and meadows; others become bitter, surging with rage, tumbling through steep gorges; while yet others remain agitated and confused till the end. No two rivers are alike. The Tigris is, and has always been, ‘the mad one’, ‘the swift one’. Not like its twin, the Euphrates, which, having a gentler disposition, courses at a slower pace, taking its time, absorbing its surroundings as it passes by. These two mighty currents – though both spring from the womb of the Taurus Mountains in Turkey and run parallel for most of their lengthy peregrinations until they perish together in the Persian Gulf – are strikingly dissimilar – much as two siblings can be very different, despite sharing the same parents.’
– There are Rivers in the Sky by Elif Shafak

Continuing with the theme of water this month, I also read Elif Shafak’s There are Rivers in the Sky, a novel that spans centuries, continents and cultures, entwined by rivers and rains. This one is a love letter to storytelling, taking us from the Epic of Gilgamesh and Victorian London to contemporary Turkey, Iraq and London. It’s a story about finding your path that also asks who gets to choose an to follow their path safely. If you’re in the mood for a long and sweeping read, then that’s the one.

in the kitchen

It’s been a salty month, snacking on crispy torte di ceci, topping salads with capers and anything else with anchovies, olives for aperitivo and baccalà on repeat for dinner. Some highlights and a recipe for my red baccalà: 

• Cinque e cinque from Gagarin di Chiappa in livorno. Torta di ceci and a grilled aubergine, held between two slices of schiacciata, which is the Tuscan flatbread; that is, three crunchy and salty layers and a fleshy heart, aka a very good sandwich. 

• Grapes, eaten on the go and spitting seeds, flavoursome and juicy.

• Bietole in padella, roughly chopped and cooked in olive oil, with a white onion (finely chopped) and sea salt. One ingredient and plenty of bitterness; a trickster’s dish. Good, follow-up news: Swiss chard is in season. 

• Figs and coffee yoghurt for breakfast. With a side of coffee. No notes. 

• Moscardini in thick and spicy tomato sauce is one of my favourite port meals, or one to spoon as summer ends. 

• Schiacciata con l’uva, or the Tuscan equivalent of a clafoutis, and one of the perks of visiting Florence at this time of the year. My favourite is baked at Le Botteghe De Il Fornaio, around the corner of Santo Spirito. And, if you’re lucky, you’ll get the end bit which has a toasty crust as the baker there is a patient soul; the longer baking time also makes for a snack on the sour side, as I like mine. 

• Baccalà baccalà baccalà, or salted cod: served red, alla Livornese; cooked with leeks in Florence; lightly fried in a pan, topped with olives taggiasche, still in Florence.

As I return to my routine in Glasgow, I’m also finding myself in the middle of a house move. There has been little time to cook and the kitchen is getting emptier on one side, while being filled with boxes on the other, a juggle for the mind I’ve escaped with the vision of what I’ll be cooking in the future. I want it to be red and spoonable, rich in taste and warm inside my mouth, so here comes my baccalà with chickpeas and leek, which is an alliance between a few recipes for salted cod I’ve been taught along the years. 

If you’ve been reading this newsletter for a while, you’ll know that I dedicate this one to the families we hold in our thoughts and originally shared it from Florence, two winters ago, for Three Tokens of Time.

Ingredients
baccalà: you should start desalting the cod three days before cooking it. Slice the fish in rough chunks and put them into a bowl filled cold water. Leave aside but change the water once a day. Or, you can use fresh cod and simply use it on the day, which will be just fine too.
250g chickpeas, soaked in water overnight if used dry (canned beans work as well)
1 celery, halved
1 carrot, halved and peeled
1 leek, sliced
1 bunch of parsley, chopped
2 cans of tomato sauce

Method

If you’re using dried chickpeas, bring water to the boil in a pot, together with the celery and the carrot. Pour in the chickpeas and cook them for 45 minutes. Otherwise, skip this step.

In the meantime, in a large pan, fry up the leek and parsley with some olive oil. Cook until tender and add the tomato sauce. Swirl around, bring to the boil, then lower the heat and add the cooked chickpeas (or the the drained, canned chickpeas). Spread the fish chunks around the pan (you want them to be covered in tomato sauce) and slow cook for approx. two hours. 

(If you’re using canned chickpeas, you could add half of a veggie stock cube to replace the carrot and celery. Something light as you don’t want it to overtake the tomato sauce either.)

Taste, serve warm. 

The real deal will come tomorrow though. Keep leftovers inside the pan, cover with a lid and leave it aside overnight. Gently reheat the pan the next day and eat again. The tomato sauce will have macerated, becoming even saltier and thicker. 

It’s generous and tasty. Good things do come with time.

from the onion papers

The noise alerts us first. A throaty chirping echoes, the deep noise of heavy diving gives the song a rhythm – like living shouting stars – and we grow hopeful for a frenzy. Sun streams cut through the clouds, the ocean has the colour of foil. Then, there is a rock. One rock, perhaps 50 metres away from the shore, although my sight isn’t good enough to make this a reliable information. And, on that one rock, there are thousands of birds.

— As the Crow Flies: on belonging (and a pasta bake)

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This newsletter turned two years old on 1st September this year — and a recipe for a celebratory, whisky tiramisù.

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Irene’s risotto with trombetta courgettes and figs, or a dispatch from a family kitchen in Liguria for the Monday annotated recipes series.

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As I was writing this, heavy and warm raindrops were beating the pavement outside my window in Livorno, evaporating as soon as they touched ground before condensation dollops climbed back towards the sky, and through my nostrils. Summer rain smells promising, like a collection of old stamps in an antique shop, a flood after the drought. If it weren’t for the squalls, the storming trees and the blowing blinds, we’d be breathless; it’s a hot September, Tuscany becomes red again, ‘Severe Weather Alert’ notifications pop, and lightning struck Livorno last Sunday.   

— Marie e Monti: 72 hours of Thunderstorms in Livorno (Tuscan ratatouille; tuna panino; chanterelles and lupini clams)

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One from the archive, since the bells of Florence served as background for this newsletter: Florence, mostly Oltrarno.

looking ahead (Glasgow, GMT)

27th September, 19:21

It’s a harsh month for sensory overload as days become spooky at the supermarket, walking down aisles filled with Halloween decorations and loud props, yet evenings can be turned velvety in the kitchen. It’s a fantastic month for soups: broccoli, cavolo nero, leeks, pumpkin, squash are all in season. Plums are easing towards the end of their prime time, and there are still a few mornings ahead of us to top up a warm bowl of porridge with them. Dates are entering the show for the sweet tooth as well.

Margaux

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