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Prosecco

First, a word of warning for anybody planning to visit Venice. There is a drink here that they call Prosecco. It is bubbly, ever so slightly sweet (oh, let's face it, it tastes fantastic), but here is the warning: after intensive study, I have discovered the secret of Prosecco. Don't get tricked. It is not an alcoholic drink at all.

If it was an alcolholic beverage, there is no way that you could just have glass after glass without any side-effects, just finding your companions getting more and more attractive, and yourself, apparently, more and more attractive to them....

No, this is a drink that you can just enjoy, without the usual worries about getting a headache, or losing you exhibitions, or losing your shirt. How can they sell this as a wine, when it is clearly just lovely Venetian water? They should be giving it away for free.

Working from imagination.

I have spent the first week just absorbing the atmosphere of the place; scared that by grasping at any aspect of the beauty might destroy its fragility.

This sketch is an early study for one figure in a large group. I have been sketching on the Vaporetto and at cafes, and then developed some these sketches into fantasy women (is that very bad?), and placing them in atmospheric locations around Venice. This low passsageway is on my route to the Vaporetto at San Silvestro, very close to home. She is not finished, this Venetian young lady, as I still mean to glaze over the white impastos once it is dry... The violin? Sound is a major aspect of Venice, in real life and on a more subconscious level.

Italian cooking.

The definitive cookbook for men does not exist. The following could be chapter one.

We cook, it appears, like we paint. So lesson one is: If a lone man (bachelor or abandoned or divorced or just stubborn alone) should ever invite you to dinner, turn him down; at least until you have seen him help out in a woman's kitchen (not very likely!).

The reason is this: at least one third of the ingredients in my stew arrived in the pot by way of the floor, and I found a large amount of beans in the hollow handle of my fridge. They went in, of course.

A home, you can always ask your wife, or the maid, or in serious cases, your teenage child.

Anne did tell me what goes in first, onions I think, and then meat, but I have mislaid her Skype message. At some stage water has to be added, but when? I added it in at this point, at the same time as some beans, stringbeans (aren't you supposed to pull the string off the sides, I remember from chilhhood?) Too bad - they are in. Now it boils, Italian style, or does it stew? I also added some carrots, the ones I could separate from the potatoes which I peeled and cut into smaller bits two or three days ago and then put in the fridge until I could find some meat and some courage to go on. And what about salt? Like most men, I don't like it when I add salt on the plate, because it just seems to lie there on the surface, ready to slide of, like an adult off a skateboard. So I added some. Then I added some more , and soon I'll probably add some more again.

Right, that is a lot of typing, so I think it's time to add the rest of the carrots and half the potatoes. Half, because I think it might be a bit too soon, so I'll add the other half in about two hours. Is that too long? Who knows. It is a work in progress. It is a painting in taste.

I know I need some stock, but what is stock in Italian? Also, I want something to thicken it, but I can't remember if it is flour I add or baking powder, or what, and I don't think Anne really approves of this thickening stuff that I like so much. (Remember that this recipe was taught to me by a builder in Vieussan in 1967. It may be a man thing.)

This plate, it is a gas cooker, also seems to me to be too hot, so I have just moved the pot to a smaller gas ring. It makes sense to me: smaller ring, fewer jets, less heat.

It is boilng, or stewing, away. The trouble is that this has made me very hungry, and what do I do now? Surely the point of cooking is to eat, and I think this stew of mine might only be ready tonight, or maybe even tomorrow..! And there is no way I am stepping out of this apartment with the oven on, not even to look for some azione ("azione" is stock in Italian - I looked it up). But my guts tell me that "azione" is "action" and there is no way I am going to ask the young woman at the supermarket for some "action", or worse for some "chicken action"!

I admit: I just added some more salt. With the second half of the potatoes. And I went to the shop. As I had feared, the young woman at the supermercado gave me a really withering look when i asked her where I could find some azione (Sergio, where are you when I need you!) Fortunately some kind man explained to me that I am really looking for "dadi". Now I gave him a weird look... "It means 'dice'", he explained, "You know, like the dice you use in backgammon."

O.K, as my Italian teacher likes to say.

After I chucked in some dry flour, I let the stew boil, but it really did not look attractive. All lumpy. Then I started on the rice. I'll spare you the details, but the result was an enormous, solid, lump of salt. I was lucky to get it out of the pot, but at least it tasted better than my stew.

Since then, I made the same stew twice, and now I am pretty good at it. So If I should invite you to dinner, you can accept, but only if you like enormous helpings of sweet runny meaty goo over a mound of rice that more resembles mash potato, served in a bowl with a spoon as well as a fork and a knife; in other words, if you are a guy, you might actually enjoy it; or else, if you can suspend all critical faculty. Much like painting, as I say.

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