I’m back on the other side of holidays, facing the reality of everyday life at the office and in the city. Both me and the allotment are looking a bit spent. July was delicious, warm, fragrant, social and solitary in equal parts. Liguria treated us well — what a treat it was to return to our medieval village and see familiar faces again.

Cooking is easy when we’re there. The alimentari stocks fruit and vegetables from the surrounding terrace gardens of neighbours, and we take short trips down to the incredibly chaotic city of San Remo for the market every week. Tropea onions, tender shoots and greens of cucuzza, fresh borlotti beans, nutmeg-scented apricots, sweet and sour tomatoes, squeaky haricots verts, deep green Genovese basil.

We had many slices of torta verde with chard and zucchini, speckled with rice and peas, best enjoyed with a cold Ichnusa by the water between swims. An actual revelation was cooking Edouard de Pomiane’s tomatoes in cream, adding boiled green beans and tagliolini to it — a sublime dish of pasta.

One of the dishes we frequently cook in the summer on hot days is not Italian, but Greek — green beans and potatoes stewed in tomato sauce — fasolakia. People often ask me about the recipe, so here is an attempt at showing how easy it can be to make.

Mind you, it is worth making a big batch as it is one of those things that become even better the day after.

Fasolakia

Serves 4

1 large onion, sliced thinly

400 g potatoes, peeled and cut into chunks

400 g green beans

2 cans of whole, high-quality tomatoes (or 5-600 g fresh tomatoes, scalded in hot water and peeled, squeezed to remove seeds, if you can be bothered)

1 teaspoon sugar

1 teaspoon salt

Dried oregano or marjoram

Olive oil

Feta cheese

Warm a substantial amount of olive oil (4-5 tbsp) in a thick-bottomed pot or casserole, add the onions with a pinch of salt. Sauté until translucent, about 5-6 minutes.

Add the potatoes and stir. Leave for a minute or two, add the tomatoes along with the sugar, salt and oregano. Stir and bring to a confident simmer. Add the green beans. Honestly, pour some more olive oil over the whole thing — it really makes a difference.

Add 2-3 cups of water, so the sauce fully covers the potatoes and beans. Cover with a lid and simmer for a total of 45 minutes, until the potatoes are tender. Remove the lid for the last 10 minutes to reduce and thicken the sauce slightly.

Serve with a thick slice of feta, a drizzle of olive oil and a good pinch of dried oregano.

Odd bits

I have been reading like a maniac this summer. Some favourites have included The Vivisectors by Missouri Williams (wild cities, rot, bewitching!), Helen of Nowhere by Makenna Goodman (unhinged and funny, tragic academic, reckoning), and Grove by Esther Kinsky (Italian small town and landscape, minute observations, grief). Also loved John of John by Douglas Stuart, What Am I, A Deer? by Polly Barton, Pew by Catherine Lacey, Transcription by Ben Lerner and Repetition by Vigdis Hjort.

Next up for me is Doneen by Keith Ridgway, Twenty Minutes of Silence by Hélène Bessette and How To Make A Woman by Marie Darrieussecq. Fitzcarraldo Editions is on a roll at the moment…

Rarely have I been more excited about a book event than Louisiana Literature next week, where Anne Carson will make a performance of Autobiography of Red with Ben Whishaw, Kjartan Sveinsson and a vocal choir. Later that evening, Carson and Whishaw will be reading from Derek Jarman’s Modern Nature in the sculpture garden. Bliss.

Next week, I’ll let you in on all we’ve been cooking this month. There’s also a newsletter on herbal sodas coming up, for all my wild ferments people out there.

Until next time,

Alisa

Having had a mentally tough autumn, followed by a much happier but enormously busy winter and spring, I finally have my head above water and my mind keeps calling write, write, write. Simultaneously, the joy of cooking has reemerged. It is time to get my hands dirty again.

When I am busy, I still cook, but lean into things that will get me through the day with the maximum amount of pleasure. These past few months, that has meant dan dan noodles and Clare de Boer’s recipe for spinach stew, on repeat. Quick to prepare, generous in their use of veg, and in ability to calm and comfort, these are great friends in need.

Now, heading into 3 straight weeks of holidays in a medieval village in Liguria, the urge to cook — like, really cook — is back again. Enchanté. New ingredients, wild foods from the side of the road, ripe fruit, strange fishes, you name it.

I don’t subscribe to the idea that summer cooking is the best cooking. I love the frugal ways of winter. But there is an energy and spontaneity that comes with being physically (or spiritually) transported. A sense of possibility and eagerness to just jump into things, to make it nice for everybody, and to not think about it too much.

I like my summer cooking to come with a dose of intensity. Of spirit and of flavour. Getting up really early in the morning to catch the fisherman, taking in the salty, unctuous smells of fish and guts before they turn unbearable in the sun. Brininess. Acidity. Herbaceousness. Heat. Extremely cold beers or grainy almond granita to shock the languid brain into coherence.

Italian sweet and sour dishes really do it for me this time of year. Agrodolce relies on the natural sweetness of things like onions, peppers and tomatoes, or with a bit of help for sugar or honey, and the electric zing of lemon juice or vinegar. It’s an alchemical process that makes the sum of the two something truly magical. Also, for some reason — maybe it is the fact that it is particularly favoured by Sicilians — it feels totally right in 35 degree heat. One of the few things aside from a cold slice of melon that is tolerable, even worthy of cravings when everything feels scorching and sweaty.

My favourite is rabbit agrodolce. Finding ourselves in the mountainous region of Imperia again this summer, we lean into the sense of tradition and place: wild rabbits have historically been important sources of animal protein here and are commonly found in the butcher’s counter. Last year, we cooked this dish in a kitchen worthy of Patience Gray, overlooking green mountains, visiting our friends David, Alison and Theodora in their house a short drive away.

You start by salting and browning the rabbit (in pieces), setting it aside. Then sweating a surprising amount of onions in olive oil for a long time, adding a some briefly boiled chopped celery halfway through. Chopped tomatoes to that, maybe with a whole spoon of sugar. A bit of salt. Letting it all come into a nice sauce. Olives, rosemary and maybe capers added to make things nice in the pot. Then the rabbit. Stew until the rabbit is nice and soft, about an hour, checking to see that there is enough liquid. Finish with lemon juice to adjust to the right level of tart/sweet.

The recipe we started cooking from years ago is from Rachel Roddy’s classic book Two Kitchens, but now we know it by heart. David and I discuss/taste our way to an end result that feels right, which is why I won’t give you any exact measures — rather, I will ask you to be adventurous and feel your way forward. The only thing to remember is to keep things at a slow simmer, never boiling the rabbit, as it will turn tough and chewy.

With the agrodolce, we roasted a few potatoes and dressed wild arugula growing between the stone tiles with olive oil, salt and good vinegar — a sharp and spicy contrast that feels almost medicinal. There is no better companion than local dry Vermentino or Rosese, preferably from our friends at Testalonga in Dolceacqua. Aromatic, herbaceous wine that makes the heart sing.

If you’re still around, it’s good to see you back again. I’ll make sure to send some dispatches from Italy in the coming weeks. Let’s cook through this summer together.

Our little house has everything we need and nothing more: a table, a very modest kitchen, a patio and a bed. A mountain spring to bathe in every morning. For fruit, vegetables, cheeses and meats, we climb up to the medieval village perched on the hilltop, and visit Benedetta, Giovanna and Angelo at their establishments. The aperitivo of ice cold Peronis and a game of yatzy is had at 6 or 7 pm, in either of the town’s two bars.

An ancient beauty: Ceriana.

The landscape is strewn with wild chicory flowers in the morning — shining bright blue one minute, wilting the next. Mentuccia (lesser calamint), mallow, lemon balm, valerian, laurel. Steely eucalyptus trees give off a piercing, heavy scent. I’m in heaven.

Tomorrow is the big market day in Sanremo. I hope to find good apricots and tomatoes, small green beans, maybe even some cherries. Squid to stew or cook with rice, small, impractical fishes for fish soup with aioli. Fresh sheep’s milk cheeses, or good cream to make fig leaf panna cotta – the air here carries the perfume of fragrant fig trees.

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The prep for peperonata is simple, done while having a glass of wine with a friend or lover.

Yesterday, I picked up a couple of plump bell peppers the size of a cantaloupe and those flat, sweet white onions that give themselves to a sauce. As we are in Liguria, the basil is of the finest quality. I also bought some homemade sausages from Benedetta and set out to make a summertime staple: peperonata.

I make a big pot of this to have leftovers for crostinis with ricotta the day after – a perfect snack with a glass of cold rosé or a Campari soda in the shade, or as today, in front of the TV for a game of tennis. We had ours with a side of cold cucumber and ripe melon salad to fight the heat, dressed with olive oil, salt and a squeeze of lemon.

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Peperonata

Serves 4

4 garlic cloves (depending on the size), thinly sliced

2 onions, sliced in 0.5 cm slices

3 large bell peppers, a mix of red, yellow and orange is lovely, sliced in thin strips of 0,5 cm

1 good quality can of tomatoes, or if in season, 300 g of peeled fresh tomatoes, seeds removed

Plenty of olive oil

Salt

The juice of a lemon

Fresh basil or oregano

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Start by heating 2-3 tbsp of olive oil in a cast iron or other thick-bottomed pot on low-medium heat. Add garlic and fry gently for 3-4 minutes. Add the onions and a generous pinch of salt, stir to coat. Raise the heat to medium and let the onions soften for about 5-7 minutes.

Now add the peppers and stir. At this point, I cover it with a lid and stir every 5 or so minutes, until the peppers are quite soft. This will take about 20-25 minutes.

Add tomatoes, a couple of sprigs of basil, a good glug of olive oil and lower the heat. Let it simmer away gently for 40-60 minutes, until the peppers are velvety and covered in fragrant tomato sauce.

Take the peperonata off the stove. Fish out the basil sprigs, and replenish the sauce with fresh basil leaves and the juice of a lemon (it truly brightens it!). Add salt to taste.

I find that peperonata is a wonderful companion to grilled meats, roast potatoes or even polenta. Another delicious way of using it is on a crostini with fresh ricotta. It is as good served at room temperature or cold.

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The summertime adventures continue, back in your inbox soon!

x Alisa

A trusty dish I’ve continued to make throughout the years, slightly improving and improvising along the way, is pissaladière. It’s a true trademark of summer to me.

That almost-but-not-quite pizza-like dough - Elizabeth David calls it a bread dough, and I quite agree - spread with soft onions, olives, and anchovies in oil, served by the slice, claimed by the Provencal and Nicoise as their own, but equally adored and enjoyed by their Ligurian neighbours across the Italian border. It is highly portable, and just as nice when cool. In order words, a perfect picnic or enjoyed by the water, with a cold beer.

I wanted to share this recipe because it has brought so much joy to not only me, but lots of other people. Pissaladière makes people happy, it’s a fact. Also, we’re headed to Liguria for our summer holiday next week, and I feel it is the right way to get in the mood.

No olives, no problem. Last time we ran out, but had plenty of anchovies and great herbs.

After years of making this dish, I still rely on an old recipe for the dough that is extremely easy to put together. The most laborious part is, of course, peeling, finely slicing and slowly softening onions until they’ve released all of their liquid. But anyone that has bitten into a slice of pissaladière knows it is worth the work.

That salty–sweet, briny flavour is unmistakable, especially when combined with herbs that thrive this time of year — thyme, marjoram or savory. Honestly though, I’ve commited blasphemy plenty of times when out of anchovies or olives, and can tell you that it is almost as good with just onions and herbs. Do what you want with that information.

When I cooked pissaladière for the Norwegian magazine D2 - photographed by Jimmy Linus.

Let’s not waste any more time and get to it.

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Pissaladière

Serves 6

200 g flour
1 tsp salt
2 tsp active dried yeast
150 ml lukewarm water
1 tbsp olive oil
1 kg onions, peeled and finely sliced
4–6 tbsp olive oil
Salt
Thyme, marjoram or savory – a couple of fresh sprigs or a pinch of dried
2 tins anchovies in oil
A handful (approx. 14) good black olives with stones, preferably Nicoise style or Kalamata

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Mix the flour, salt, and dry yeast in a bowl, then add the tepid water and oil. Stir until a soft and cohesive dough forms, then knead for about five minutes, adding a bit more flour if needed. Cover with a tea towel and let it rest in a warm place for about an hour.

Preheat the oven to 220°C.

Meanwhile, prepare the onions. Heat 4 tablespoons of olive oil in a large, heavy-bottomed pot and add the onions. Sprinkle with a pinch of salt. Reduce to mid-heat and sweat the onions until they become meltingly soft and lightly golden. They are ready when all of the liquid from the onions has evaporated. This will take anywhere from 25 to 35 minutes and is the most important step in the recipe. Add the thyme, marjoram or savory, and stir.

Soft, glossy, pliable dough ready to be dressed.

Get out a large oven proof tray or sheet pan, and drizzle with olive oil. Turn the dough out onto the tray, and use your fingers to push the dough out to the sides, creating a pizza-like square.

Just olives missing before baking the pissaladière.

Crush the olives with the back of a knife to remove the stones. Spread the onions over the dough, all the way to the edges. Arrange the anchovies in a lattice pattern, as shown in the picture. Place one olive in the centre of each square. Sprinkle with more herbs, if you’d like.

Bake for 20–25 minutes, until the pissaladière is golden and nicely crisp around the edges.

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Here’s a playlist for your cooking, best enjoyed on shuffle.

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The next few weeks I’ll be reporting from the green hills of Liguria, where we’ll mostly be cooking, reading and swimming in cool gorges. Watch out for Summer Kitchen on the road — it’ll be delicious.

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Until next time,

x A

I hope you are enjoying the beginning of summer. I have been on a bit of an unintentional sabbatical from the newsletter for, as it turns out, getting married and arranging a big, big party takes a lot of work and time? Now the deed is done, and I’m back to fantasizing about food, books, gardens and writing again.

Lately, all kinds of summer meals have been occupying my mind (and fridge) — big! colourful! plates! of! lush! produce! — so I am here to introduce a weekly segment called Summer Kitchen. Once a week, you’ll get a recipe in your inbox that deals with all the things we want to eat right now: tomatoes, salads, green beans, waxy beans, herbs, strawberries, stone fruit, heck, even flowers. Saturation and bombastic flavour, here we come.

Before we begin, I’d like to say a huge thanks to all my paid subscribers. Your contributions have allowed me to plan some really exciting things for this space, as well as start work on a book proposal. A little goes a long way! It means the world to me.

So.

Let’s cook together. And why not start with a dish that found its way to our wedding lunch last weekend?

Photo by my darling friend and photographer extraordinaire, Maya Matsuura.

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The first time I ordered this dish was actually on a trip to London years ago with my now husband. At Rochelle Canteen on a rainy summer day, gem salad dressed with roast tomatoes, lovage and aioli. Could it have been when Anna Tobias (Café Deco) was in the kitchen? Would make sense. I love Anna’s cooking.

What an odd combo, I thought. Surprisingly, it became an instant favourite which we swore to replicate at home. And we did, over and over again.

Photo by Maya Matsuura.

There’s an alchemy to it — gem lettuce keeps its cool crunch even when dressed in an emulsion full of olive oil and egg yolk, roast tomatoes add a sweetness and tanginess while their juices slightly dilute and soften the aioli, lovage gives it character and a headiness, garlic contributes with an edge. It is, in many ways, a perfect plate.

There are, of course, variations. It is a flexible formula. When the bright, peppery salads such as rocket (ruccola), Wasabino, Osaka Purple and Scarlet Frills enter the scene in spring and autumn, a handful is added to the mix.

I prefer to keep the lovage a constant, as it gives a little something special, but I’ve also successfully added chives, chervil and tarragon. Some like to add capers, or even a few anchovies in oil for an extra twang.

Great on its own, or as a companion to roast potatoes or grilled meats and vegetables.

Bon appétit, mes amis!

Right kind of tomatoes for this dish: something with a skin that keeps together when roasted.

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Gem lettuce salad with roast tomatoes, lovage and aioli

Serves 4

2-3 heads of gem lettuce, washed and picked into leaves

About 200 g or a generous handful of ripe tomatoes such as cherry / datterini type or another larger variety, halved

A couple of sprigs of lovage, leaves picked and sliced, stems discarded (or saved for the next time you make broth)

1 egg yolk

1 tsp Dijon mustard

A splash of white wine vinegar

1 lemon

2 cloves of garlic (or more for the brave!)

Olive oil and neutral oil

Salt

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Set the oven to 185 C. Lay the halved tomatoes on an oven-proof tray and drizzle with olive oil. Add a sprinkle of salt. Mix with your hand. Roast for about 20-25 minutes, until tomatoes are visibly golden and wrinkly, but not brown. Let cool.

Meanwhile, prepare your aioli. Whisk together the egg yolk, Dijon mustard, a splash of wine vinegar and a sprinkle of salt in a large bowl. It’s a good idea to place the bowl on a damp cloth to stop it moving while you whisk.

I like to start off using a neutral oil such as sunflower oil, then when the emulsion starts thickening properly, continue with olive oil — this is because I find an aioli made with the kind of strong olive oil I have around too overpowering.

Slowly pour in the neutral oil in a very thin stream while whisking continuously. When the mixture starts to thicken, you're nearly there. Switch to olive oil and continue adding and whisking until the sauce feels thick and robust. Add lemon juice and salt to taste. I like the brightness lemon juice adds, and it makes the aioli less stodgy.

Finish by adding finely minced garlic. Give it a stir and a taste. Does it have the kick you want? Don’t be afraid of garlic. It will integrate nicely in the end.

Put the gem lettuce in a large salad bowl, add tomatoes and 3-4 tablespoons of aioli. Mix with your hands. Does it feel like it needs more aioli? Feel free to add more. Add the lovage and mix again.

There you have it.

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Many have asked for advice on books for the holidays — I’ll make a whole newsletter out of it very soon. Currently, I’m a promiscuous, shifty reader that veers between four books. Two of them, I love: Ali Smith’s Gliff and Sue Tilley’s biography of Leigh Bowery, which is wild and yummy. I can’t wait to read The Möbius Book by Catherine Lacey, as I swallowed Biography of X up whole.

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Until next week,

x Alisa

The way I travel has changed. First, lunch and dinner has become a much more fragmented experience when in Tokyo. Convenience store (onigiris, fresh fruit and ice tea, baby), bento box and soba noodle lunches are common, while evenings are spent perusing many small places and wine bars a night, perennially snacking. Therefore, this guide has less of a conventional restaurant focus—it looks more broadly on things to do throughout a day, or in a neighbourhood.

For those of you in need of further advice, look no further. I’ve set up a contact link below: Write to me about yourself, your travel days and needs, and I’ll gladly throw together an additional list based on preferences. Hotels, neighbourhoods, celebratory dinners, places suited to groups, good karaoke, book shops, you name it. Putting together personal recommendations for friends and family is a task I treasure, and I’d love to extend that to paid subscribers as well. Your support really means a lot to me.

I’ll leave a category open to all subscribers, a sample and a token of gratitude for all of the wonderful people who introduced me to new ways of drinking and seeing tea on this trip. It was one of the most meaningful parts of it, something I continue to enjoy and reflect upon with every cup I brew here at home.

Without further ado:

A personal guide to Tokyo

Five places for tea

To me, enjoying in Japan is a wonderful way of winding down, spending some quiet time alone or together, a ritual that can deepen understanding of culture, language, landscape, flavour, history, craftsmanship—in other words, a great place to begin your trip. It is a taste memory that also transports well, so bring a bag or two of your favourite finds home with you and extend the joy.

A teahouse called Norm, a relevation on this trip with an idiosyncratic selection of Japanese teas, thoughtful brewing and gentle atmosphere.

Norm (Kuramae) – My favourite teahouse in Tokyo, recommended by a friend. The opposite of stark, it is a soft, friendly place with a nice communal spirit to it. Somewhere to drink really, really beautiful teas brewed in a variety of ways along a shared counter, chatting to the proprietors and regulars. A friend said it best: ‘great, intellectual and hospitable in balance’.

My Kumamoto sencha at Norm was served with home made hoshigaki, dried persimmon.

Sakurai Tea Experience (Omotesando) – I visited Sakurai at its previous location ten years ago, and was happy to see that it is still very much alive and kicking on the quiet upper floor of a high-end department store. Feels like a luxurious yet genuinely down-to-earth tea ceremony experience. A ceremony includes multiple brews of carefully selected teas, paired with delicate wagashi sweets and the most exquisite teaware. Slightly indulgent, in the best way.

Ceremonial grade matcha to finish an hour and a half of tasting teas of different processing and brewing in the most concentrated and hospitable atmosphere at Sakurai.

Tea Bar Chokeikyo (Daikanyama) – Nestled inside The Conran Shop, it is a really interesting collaboration between the founder of Sakurai and the Japanese outpost of the British interior shop. Chokeikyo interprets the ritual of tea throughout the world in a relaxed ceremony style experience, applying an eclectic range of wares and techniques to create flavour infusions that highlight Japanese tea in a new way. A quiet spot ideal for a solo retreat from the crowds of Daikanyama.

Te Hong (Aoyama) – A more informal tea spot, but no less special. The owner is sweet, with a deep knowledge and selection of Chinese teas. I had a meditative hour here to myself, sipping a generous 13 brews of an aged pu-erh tea—a very different and welcome flavour experience to the rest I had throughout the trip. Feels nice to discover tea at your own pace here.

The umpteenth brew of a well-aged pu-erh tea at Te Hong, served in a lacquered paper cup used in the shop the last 18 years.

Leafmania (Yoyogi Uehara) – A hybrid of tea shop and ceramics gallery, with a really interesting programme of events that combine the ritual with craftsmanship and new ways of contextualising tea. The space and selection constantly evolves and is usually open only during exhibitions, so do check their schedule before visiting.

Access the rest of the guide and personal recommendations here (requires a paid subscription).

Until next time!

x Alisa

Read more

A month back, I was pleased to see an article (“Sandwiches from the Garage”) by Olivia Laing, one of my favourite writers, drop into my inbox via Vittles, an increasingly extraordinary magazine/newsletter on food and culture that includes work by anyone worth talking to about food in London and beyond these days. Do subscribe to Vittles, by the way, it brings joy to the most dreary days.

I could relate to Laing’s sentiment on so many levels. They make an argument for the need to eat simply, almost counterintuitively so, when get some real work done. Counterintuitive because a person who adores food might be expected to enjoy intriguing or elaborate food even on the most common of days. For me, that could not be further from the truth. I need something to rely on, and I need it fast.

Edouard de Pomiane’s tomates à la crème are, despite looking like the result of an elaborate process, ready in 15 minutes or less. The recipe can be found here.

When I write, which I do most weekdays, I need to be prepared for the imminent arrival of that fleeting feeling called flow. That kind of magic visits all too rarely. When it does, I still need to eat. More importantly though, I need food that a) does not take too much attention from the task, b) does not take too long to prepare (inherently tied to a)), c) that digests easily so you don’t end up needing a nap (blink and the flow is gone).

Visiting the superb Farmer’s Market @ unu in Shibuya, Tokyo, a few times in January, I had to stop and get a baked sweet potato from a stand that smelt divine. Roast in its own jacket, zipped up it revealed a steamy, sweet, individual portion that warmed and comforted.

I brought that sensation back home with me, to the desk. It turns out that a baked sweet potato requires minimum effort to make, feels filling in just the right way and is just enough of a treat to continue toiling away with stamina and courage.

Baked sweet potato with yesterdays roast purple sweet potato (meta!), leftover harira, rice, boiled spinach dressed with lemon juice and olive oil, and yuzu miso (a souvenir from Kyoto, which I use as a condiment).

I combine it with steamed short-grain rice, leftover stews or meats from yesterday’s dinner and some sautéed greens for a full lunch or dinner.

Playing around with variations is part of the fun, much like putting together a bento box. I can easily eat this way every day of the week without getting bored, but can also make it without paying too much attention. Win-win.

Baked sweet potato with crispy pork belly from yesterdays Chinese take away, my neighbour Alexa’s delicious giardiniera pickles, rice and yuzu miso.

Baked sweet potato

1 sweet potato (orange, purple or white, all work) or more, they’re great to keep in the fridge baked for an easily portable snack

Olive oil

Salt

Set the oven to 180 degrees celsius. Line an oven-proof form or tray with a piece of aluminium foil.

Wash and scrub the sweet potato to remove soil and such. Poke it with a fork, or score the skin in small x’s with a sharp knife, so the steam has somewhere to escape.

Rub with olive oil and salt, and lay on the aluminium foil.

Bake for about 35 minutes or until tender all the way through (test with a skewer after 30 minutes).

Let it rest for 10-15 minutes.

Music to play on repeat

Music is much like lunch when I’m working. Repetitive to make things easy and enjoyable. Usually, I play some of these records on repeat—mostly ambient-electronic—ambient enough to allow for thoughts to come and go, interesting enough to crave.

Brian Eno - Ambient 1: Music For Airports, Hiroshi Yoshimura - Green, Surround and Music for Nine Postcards, Susumu Yokota - Sakura, or just songs that feel good to linger in for hours, like Laurie Spiegel - The Unanswered Question. Often, I let this play the whole day:

I’m sending out my Tokyo guide newsletter for paid subscribers tomorrow - it’s been a treat working on it this past week. It’s a bit of a long one.

Additionally, I’m throwing in the option of writing me for a few personal recommendations too. I love to tailor to person! A wee concierge service, in other words.

See you all soon, and again—thank you so much for reading and cooking along.

x Alisa

I see many talking about the hungry gap this week, the month or so where there is little to none fresh produce from the vegetable patch to cook with. Paradoxically, it symbolises a period of culinary delight for me.

One of the first crops from the allotment last year, massively underrated leaves of borage - full of nutrients and a delicious addition to soups and stews.

Don’t get me wrong, nothing is better than that first radish from the allotment. A sigh of relief. But there is something satisfying about constraints and assembling from that. This is a great time to put the remains of last year’s dried legumes to work, adorning them with other pantry staples.

Stewed chickpeas, a force of life.

Home alone for the weekend and in need of a proper meal, I soaked a few chickpeas before going to see The Brutalist. A cinematic epic later, I threw them into our Crockpot (pressure cooker), set the timer to 20 minutes and prepped the rest of the ingredients for cigrons guisats, a Catalan dish of stewed chickpeas.

It relies on picada, a regionally varying blend of chopped ingredients, in this case almonds, garlic, parsley, pine nuts and salt to heighten the flavour in the last act of cooking. Pine nuts can be a revelation yet I rarely find good ones, nor can I truly afford those. I often lean on good almonds, blanched and light roasted, to replace them.

The original recipe called for flour to slightly thicken the stew—we were fresh out of it, so I threw in a tablespoon of almond flour, to great effect.

This is the kind of dish that makes a cool day warmer, a perfect lunch to have on your own or with friends, perhaps with a piece of torn bread and a glass of wine you like.

Cigrons guisats (stewed chickpeas)

For approximately 4 people

200 g chickpeas, soaked with a teaspoon of bicarbonate of soda, rinsed and cooked in plenty of water, salt, a bit of vinegar and a generous glug of olive oil until soft but whole (keep the cooking liquid)

1 onion, thinly sliced

A modest handful of parsley, chopped

Half a tin of tomatoes (around 200 g)

1 tbsp almond flour or 1 teaspoon of flour

Olive oil, salt and pepper

For the picada

10 blanched almonds

A handful of parsley

2 cloves of garlic

Flaky salt / sea salt

Finely chop the ingredients for the picada together and set aside.

Heat 2 tbsp or more of olive oil in a thick-bottomed, wide-ish pan to medium heat. Add the onion and parsley along with a pinch of salt. Sauté until the onions are soft, only slightly starting to take colour.

Add the tomatoes and crush them with a wooden spoon. Stir and cook for 5 minutes so it forms a sauce. Sprinkle in the almond flour, stir and cook for a minute, allowing it to thicken the sauce slightly. Add a cup of the chickpea cooking liquid. Stir.

Add the chickpeas, the picada and a large pinch of (roughly) ground black pepper. Cook for about 10 minutes, pour in a ladle or two of cooking liquid if needed to moisten the stew (there should be plenty of liquor to dip the bread in). Season to taste. Chickpeas should be very tender but whole at the end of it.

Serve with plenty of good olive oil and a squeeze of fresh lemon.

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A scene from The Brutalist filmed in Carrara. Coincidentally, I’ve been reading a lot about its history and cuisine the past few weeks. It felt strangely transporting.

After seeing The Brutalist, I’ve mostly listened back to its beautiful score by Daniel Blumberg, made alongside an extraordinary group of experimental musicians I love. I can’t get the promise and grandeur of the overture out of my head.

Another evocative soundtrack along those lines is that of Jackie (Pablo Larraín’s fictional portrait of Jackie Kennery), a decent film with an incredible score composed by Mica Levi. Vanity is my favourite track.

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My friend Agnes got me hooked on the classic Roman (Empire!) beverage of posca, water and good wine vinegar, often enjoyed by troops and peasants in absence of wine (reserved for the higher ups). I’ve elevated it to a tablespoon of Banyuls red wine vinegar and 200 ml sparkling water on ice, drunk as a refreshing alternative to alcohol or simply to quench the thirst after a day of digging in the garden.

—

Following a trip to Japan in January, I get around 10 requests about traveling advice a day on Instagram. To make it easier for you and me both, I’ve decided to publish a newsletter guide with Tokyo bars, restaurants, shops and more, out next week—available to paid subscribers only.

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Wishing you a great weekend ahead—I hope you eat well!

x Alisa

I’ve been thinking about this newsletter a lot, but haven’t seem to be able to translate thought into action.

Maybe you’re also fed up with waiting for spring (among many things to be fed up with, in all honesty). A blanket of all-consuming grey is laid across February as if to test our spirits. Regardless, we soldier on.

Something to grab at your attention. The recipe follows below.

In these times, I find that cooking usually suffers first. Giving into laziness, take-out, pragmatism. Yet, it is quite obviously the key to getting through it all with pleasure and style.

It reminds me of that important second part of the title of Tamar Adler’s indispensable An Everlasting Meal—cooking with economy and grace. That’s what I’m talking about. Surmounting dread in order to actually attempt to enjoy oneself, by whatever means available to you.

February has been a disastrous month financially, recovering from three weeks working across the world and a line of customers behind on their bills, which happen to be my invoices.

Tunisian fish couscous with chickpeas.

A weekly trip to the fishmonger has been a revelation of sorts, bringing my cooking back to its most resourceful essence. Each Saturday, we trot down to a fishmonger we know respects the material at hand and where it is from. Then, we fabulate. On what is available that day, what we could do with it, how it could turn into several meals that extend the deliciousness far into weekdays.

Said sole, sometimes flounder or plaice, turned in flour, fried in butter and finished with parsley and capers.

We let monkfish and halibut stay behind, and go for odd cut-offs of haddocks, pickled herrings, and simple flounder, that tastes like the epitome of luxury when filleted, fried in butter, capers and parsley, or topped with pil pil sauce of olive oil, vinegar, hot peppers and garlic.

Swedish pragmatism at its finest. A piece of salmon covered in a warm brine and left to sit under foil for 15 minutes, leaving it perfectly cooked. Pickled cucumber with dill, potatoes and crème fraîche.

Mussels always come home with us. They’re full of nutrition, easy to find sustainably farmed and often come at a good price. It has become a game of sorts figuring out new ways of transforming them into dinner. So far, opportunity seems infinite.

Mussels with XO sauce from our friend Wade, cooked with white beans.

Having recently finished Adam Federman’s biography of writer and artist Patience Gray, a regular on the newsletter with her book Honey From a Weed, I got hung up on a description of eating a Puglian dish of cozze al forno, oven-baked mussels, relaxed, al fresco, with friends and copious amounts of simple, satisfying wine at the right temperature.

Cozze al forno ready for the grill.

Since making it the first time, it has become a staple, taking no more than 15 minutes to get to the table after the mussels are scrubbed and bearded. Gratinated with breadcrumbs, parsley, garlic, olive oil and parmesan—perhaps even a pinch of hot pepper flakes—it is a finger-licking good dish to ward off even the worst of Tuesdays.

This deserves a glass of wine. Yesterday, all we could conjure up was a fridge-cold third-of-a-bottle of Italian red wine, and let me tell you, that worked splendidly. Throw the rules out.

Cozze al forno

A bag of mussels

A chunk of stale bread torn into pea-sized breadcrumbs, roasted in a pan until golden (a bit less than a cup of breadcrumbs in the end)

1-2 garlic cloves, depending on the size, finely chopped

A handful of flat leaf parsley, finely chopped

2 tablespoons of grated parmesan

Olive oil

Leave the mussels to roam free in a sinkful of cold water for about half an hour. Scrub and beard the mussels, discarding off-looking creatures.

Bring a large, thick-bottomed pan or dutch oven to medium-hot heat, add a splash of olive oil, then the mussels. Cover with a lid and shake every now and then for 3-4 minutes, until most of the mussels have opened. Take off the heat.

Prepare the topping while the mussels cool slightly. In a bowl, mix golden breadcrumbs, garlic, parsley, and parmesan.

Pre-warm the oven to 225 degrees celsius, selecting the grill function (radiant top heat only).

Get out a tray or oven-proof pan for the mussels, opening them and discarding the upper shell, spreading them out across the tray. Finally, pour the cooking juices from the pan through a fine sieve to catch sand and other bits, and moisten the breadcrumbs with half a cup of the liquid.

Top the mussels with the breadcrumb mix and drizzle liberally with good olive oil.

Transfer to the top rack in the oven and keep a watchful eye on the mussels until the breadcrumbs become golden and slightly crisp. It should only take a matter of minutes.

Enjoy as is, eaten with your fingers, or with a little squeeze of lemon.

If you’re looking to cook more fish and shellfish, do try to get a hold of Alan Davidson’s Mediterranean Seafood. A magical little book.

***

Until next time! Hang in there!

Being out about about squeezing out the last drops of summer can really take the fun out of cooking dinner. It’s a case of more pressing matters—last swim, last beer on a terrace in the sun, last call for this and that. 

I consider this a bit of a life hack all year round, when you don’t really feel like cooking, or even eating a substantial meal. It offers the same kind of satifaction as eating a peach over the sink for lunch. Always keep a bit of chickpea flour on hand. Get in from work, whisk together a batter, go out for a few hours, and come back feeling peckish and ready for a farinata. 

It’s crispy, salty, perfect eaten from a cutting board, with a Campari soda, with or without company. It can be topped with all kinds of things, Restaurant Babette in Stockholm tend do it really well, but I prefer mine as is, with some prosciutto to finish, or with a few slices of artichokes added to the pan when pouring the batter. 

Last year, we joined a few friends in commemorating the life of Swedish artist Staffan Nihlen—opening his house and studio for one last day before it being disassembled and sold. Staffan lived in Liguria in the sixties (and shared a studio with Cy Twombly in Rome!). Our homage to that era was to make about 60 farinatas for guests throughout the day. Great success. Life-saving farinata indeed, it was a bit of a trek out there.

Life-saving farinata for the last days of summer

150 g chickpea flour

500 ml warm (not hot!) water

1 heaped teaspoon of flaky salt

3 tbsp good olive oil + more for frying

A sprig or two of fresh rosemary

Start by making the batter. Pour the water into a bowl, whisk in the chickpea flour so there’s as few lumps as possible. Add salt, stir, and cover with a towel. Let it stand in a warm place and forget about it for an hour or two. 

Heat the oven to a really high temperature. I set mine to 250-275 degrees (celcius). 

Remove any foam that might have formed on top of the batter, and stir in 3 tablespoons olive oil. 

Find a frying pan that works in the oven—I use a cast iron one. Pour in a tablespoon of olive oil, place in oven, and heat until the oil just begins to smoke. Pour in a ladle or less of batter and swirl. The farinata should be really thin. 

Sprinkle with a few rosemary leaves and return to the oven. Bake until golden brown and crisp at the edges, about 10 minutes. Sprinkle with salt.

Cut into 6 pieces, savour with a glass of cold wine, and repeat. 

Currently cooking 

These weeks have been…distracting. The onset of autumn was delayed by two delirious weeks of 30 degree heat, restlessness and sweat. It messed with an appetite for the season, the newly arrived mushrooms giving way to another wave of late summer tomatoes and basil.

Rain finally broke today, cutting the temperatures by a third. I’m ready for a change. 

Got around to seasoning a donabe that I received as a birthday gift from my dear friend Mimmi. It’s a beautiful, heavy, porous clay pot. Made for simmering hot pots, light and heavy alike, with miso, the first kabocha squash, or freshly made udon. KILN’s clay pot noodles (swoon!). Rice steamed and flecked with fragrant dried mushrooms, or maze gohan, Japanese style mixed rice. 

Those of you in or close to Malmö will be thrilled to hear that my mates Emi and Junko aka Malmö Udon were recently able to acquire an old fashioned noodle machine from Yoshiki Aihara’s (aka Mr. Rue Saint-Anne) former restaurant in Belgium. It now lives in Mygel’s attic, where they make fresh udon noodles every Monday. Soon, these will be for sale to take home via their Instagram profile. Keep an eye out for a Japanese home cooking pop up at Sauvage in October too. 

Talking about Japanese home cooking, Miho (pictured above, cooking dashimaki for lucky us) is continuing her Friday and Saturday evenings at Copenhagen’s finest establishment, Dzidra, until the end of September. Her tamagodon, potato croquettes, and rhume-shiso onigiri are heaven-sent. 

Currently listening/watching

Slightly moodier stuff playing at home these days. Lots of Tara Clerkin Trio, which always hits the spot. 

Late August and September means TIFF and Venice Film Festival to me—from a distance—I try to keep an eye on what to watch in the coming year. Podcasts are great way of keeping up with the best (and the worst). My favourite the past decade has been Filmfrelst (in Norwegian) and their nothing short of brilliant reports from Venice. A cross-section of The Guardian, New Yorker and Variety reviews usually gives you a sense of what to make of it all. I’m excited for the beautifully shot Vermiglio by Maura Delpero, and to see if I can tolerate the 3 hour post-war architect epic that is The Brutalist by Brady Corbet.  

Currently reading

I tend to haunt the city’s second hand book shop, no matter which city I am in. I used be intimidated by its characters, now I find it is a good occasion for banter about books and life in general. 

A recently haul consisted of an early (and very raunchy) Henry Miller novel, Lucy by Jamaica Kincaid, Art by Bloomsbury Group art critic Clive Bell, Please Miss: A Heartbreaking Work of Staggering Penis by Grace Lavery, and William Morris’ utopian works of fiction imagining what a better/different world might actually look, feel, smell, sound, and taste like, News from Nowhere and The Wood Beyond the World. Olivia Laing’s The Garden Against Time brought my attention to Morris’ writing, another relatively recent book definitely worth your while.

I think that mix has something to say for the tiny but eccentric book scene in Malmö. I recommend stopping by Anti (both second hand and new books in Swedish and English), Andy’s Corner (a really great selection of second hand English language books!), and Bokfinken next door (their arts and crafts section is top). 

Last bits

First: how good is the new season of Industry! I love great shows that crest around in their third season—I’m looking at you, Hacks.

I’m headed to Warsaw later this week for a story, and am feeling extremely excited about it. A top of my list is to eat as much traditional season food as possible—cold beetroot soup, smoked Kielbasa with sourdough bread and a little beer, Polish baked goods, the list goes on. To see the farmer’s markets that have been around for years and others that have sprouted back up. Milk bars and natural wine haunts. Bookshops and makers’ workshops. I have a feeling that this is the first of many trips to Warsaw... Let’s debrief in next week’s newsletter!

In other news, I will open the newsletter to paid subscriptions as of mid-September, at a 4-5 euros a month for additional access to recipes, guides, and more. It allows those who enjoy what you’ve read so far to support the work, and enables me to continue focusing on developing the newsletter. I’m looking forward to adding interviews to the mix, nothing better than speaking to interesting people about what they do over lunch.

Until next week!

Alisa

My most frequent saviour? Pies. A stew baked into a pie. Leftover ratatouille with some fresh cheese and herbs spread on puff pastry. Sad-looking onions into an onions tart. I make a torta salata at least once a month, stuffing it with a varying spread of recently harvested turnip leaves and flowering broccoli or slightly tired and wilted parsley, salads and green leaves. Some sautéed onions, a chunk of feta cheese and a few eggs make it all come together. Do you have half a cup of yogurt, creme fraiche or sour cream? Throw it in there, there’s no need to waste anything that delicious. 

For a while now, I have been looking for the perfect vessel, reliable pastry that is fast to put together and easy to roll out—-ones that fall apart at any sign of transfer…my temper and life’s too short for that. I have used this Nicola Lamb recipe with great success for almost two years now, but somehow, these past few months, I’ve been screwing it up over and over again. Bad mojo. 

A few weeks back, I pulled out Susie Jacob’s underrated classic Recipes from a Greek Island, finding this recipe for hortópita which offered a wholly new perspective on the matter. 

Zucchini, green beans, peas, artichokes, brassicas, kale, chards, and other green stuff—all boiled in salty water until tender and chopped!—are all great in this pie, though always in combination with a few fresh herbs. My favourite is dill (it gives a really nice green flavour!) and parsley, maybe a bit of mint. Chopped green onions can remain uncooked, while white onions or leeks are best if sautéed till soft prior to being baked into the pastry. Why not add a few boiled potatoes? 

But really, what couldn’t you bake into this? There’s a recipe for lamb pie with curly endive and herbs in the book. In a month or so, I’ll make one with baked pumpkin, sage/thyme and caramelised onions. Maybe some proper cheddar with that? Sky's the limit, friends. 

Hortópita

125 ml water

125 ml olive oil

250 g flour (more if needed)

1 tsp baking powder

A pinch of salt 

2 medium-sized zucchinis or 1 large, cut into 2-3 pieces

200 g green beans

A bunch of chard, split into stems and leaves

A bunch of parsley, finely chopped

A bunch of dill, finely chopped

4-5 spring onions, thinly sliced 

2-3 boiled potatoes, cut into chunks

200-300 g of good quality feta, depending on what you can afford atm 

50 g of grated parmesan or other dryish cheese that tastes nice

3 tbsp olive oil 

4 eggs

Sesame seeds

Mix flour and baking powder. Heat water, olive oil and salt to a boil, remove from stove. Gradually beat the flour into the liquid , so it is thoroughly incorporated and forms a cohesive dough. 

Here comes the boring part. Turn the dough onto a lightly floured surface and knead for ten minutes. It really does make a difference. Put on the radio or a podcast and just go at it. Cover with a towel and leave to rest for an hour or so. 

Meanwhile, bring a big pot of salted water (it should be proper salty!) to a boil. Throw the zucchinis in, let them hang around for about 10 minutes. 7 minutes in, throw in the green beans. Transfer from pan to a bowl and leave to cool down. Keep the water boiling. 

Add the chard, stems first, then leaves a few minutes after. Boil for 5 minutes or so. Transfer to a bowl to cool down. 

If the zucchinis are hefty, remove the seeds. Chop zucchinis and green beans into 1 cm cubes. Squeeze as much liquid out of the chard and chop slightly rougher than finely. Combine in a big bowl. Add chopped herbs, spring onions, feta, parmesan, olive oil and 3 eggs. Mix well—I do this with my hands. It should all come together well, if too loose, add another egg. 

Set the oven to 190 degrees celsius. 

Divide dough into larger chunk and a slightly smaller, 3:2. Roll out the large part (either directly on baking paper or on a lightly floured surface) to fit your form + 2-3 cm. Transfer to your oven-proof pan (oiled if not using baking paper) with a tall edge. 

Fill with greens. Roll out the remaining dough so it fits perfectly on top, and fold over the edges. 

Brush with 1 whisked egg, and sprinkle with sesame seeds. 

Bake for 35 minutes, till golden brown. 

Currently reading/listening/watching

An Oral Story of Sally Potter’s “Orlando”, a kaleidoscope of memories from the making of the now iconic adaptation of the Virginia Woolf novel. Its difficult birth, Vita Sackville-West, Tilda Swinton, bits by Richard Brody, the historically anarchistic costumes and music (find a sample in this week’s playlist), some very good stories by some very legendary people, in particular those from the semi-chaotic days filming in the USSR and Uzbekistan. 

If you love great interviews, The Gentlewoman’s archives are a treasure trove. Some of my favourites include Leila McAlister of Leila’s Shop (what a fascinating life!), Japanese author Sayaka Murata and the one and only Nan Goldin. 

Talking about great interviews, those who adore Desert Island Discs (a literally infinite source of good conversations) and its best-ever host, Kirsty Young, will be delighted to hear that Kirsty’s back with her own show Young Again on BBC. It’s beautiful. The episodes with Philip Pullman and Peter Capaldi are my favourites so far. 

Here’s a playlist to usher in the weekend:

Someone recommended Rombo by German author and translator Esther Kinsky, out on Fitzcarraldo Press, almost a year back. It’s been sitting in the bookshelf ever since, till I pulled it out a week ago.

Following six characters and their memories of living in remote Friulian villages before, during, and after the 1976 earthquakes, Kinsky describes in fine detail the people, way of life, the beauty, and tension of the landscape and its sudden movements. It is about both the grief and ambivalence of never being able to go back to what was, in the matter of a few days. Of suddenly being trapped at the mercy of the unrelenting pace of modern life, seeing one’s own history wither away. 

It was curious to watch Alice Rohrwacher’s film Lazzaro Felice (2018) while reading it, as it felt as if it was of the same universe, parallel characters, places, scenery. The same eerie sense of not being able to know what’s real and not. It might be one of the best things I’ve seen in a long time. 

I recently discovered that Scandinavian libraries have their own streaming services where you can rent a certain amount of movies for free every month. Genius. And the selection is far superior to any streaming platform I’ve ever come across. It’s called Cineasterna in Sweden, Filmoteket in Norway and Filmstriben in Denmark. I’m sure there are similar sites in countries across the globe? Let’s share those in the Substack chat, for the love of making great cinema available to as many as possible! 

Additional thoughts

My friend Nellie, who I met when harvesting wine in Lazio, is a herbalist, among many things, often wielding her knowledge to make delicious things. Her recipe for herbal soda (developed with Lærke Lyhne, another extraordinary thinker in that realm) is easy, intuitive, and flexible, making it the ideal thing to have brewing at home as long as there are leaves, flowers, berries, and other edible things still around. I’m making her plum vinegar this weekend - it’s the perfect time to go picking mirabelles and damsons. 

If and when you are in Turin, stop by Sharon Baghai and an extraordinary shop of his own designs made of the finest fabrics, antique jewellery and objects. My friend Petra and I stumbled upon it by chance, and ended up spending two hours digging, discovering, and trying on things in conversation with the amiable Baghai. A wonderful chaos, the more you look, the more you find. Magical. We’re still talking about it all the time, and I am constantly fantasizing about going back.

That’s all for now. Until next week!

Alisa

Planting more than a couple plants at the allotment is a rookie mistake that we seem to make every year. We have learned the hard way that one courgette can grow to a mammoth size in the span of a week if forgotten. Now we have to suffer the consequences, zucchini at every meal, at least one way.

For those suffering from zucchini excess, I am sharing my favourite zucchini-based recipe this week.

Welcome to week 2 of Annotations, and thank you for reading along. I’d love to hear from you at hello@alisalarsen.se.

With love,

Alisa

Currently cooking 

One May morning a few years ago, we travelled to the rocky, wind-swept island of Tinos, Greece, and instantly fell in love with it. Fragrant clouds of gorse, flowering thyme, and wild fennel covered the landscape, with white-chalked dove cots dotting its expanse. Capers grew everywhere, ready to be picked and salted. The food reflected the season’s abundance of wild foods and the first artichokes and zucchinis.  

My friend Alex’s (hey Alex!) list brought us to the taverna Kounaria, over the hills, down a valley and up, up, up. As the sun went down, the feral cats and the mosquitos came out to play.

An extraordinary meal ensued—of little moon-shaped pies filled with homemade cheese and sweet pumpkin, caper flower salad with a lethal amount of garlic (delicious!), lemon-tinged goat stew, and fatty yoghurt with quince jam, wolfed down with enthusiasm, while the chef and her daughter chatted along. Cold beers and raki were poured. We were the only guests, being off season, which provided plenty of time to enquire about cooking methods and recipes. 

Best of it all, all though a variation of the dish appears on almost every Greek menu, were the kolokithokeftedes, zucchini fritters. 

The simple genius of Kounaria’s kolokithokeftedes is the use of semi-dried tomatoes and the wild fennel that grows liberally around the island. I find it most delectable, but have replaced it with mint or basil with great success. 

Zucchini fritters from Tinos

10-12 cherry tomatoes

600 g of zucchini

¼ cup flour

¼ cup breadcrumbs

1 tsp baking powder

1 egg

2 spring onions, finely chopped

100 g of feta, crumbed

Wild fennel fronds, mint or basil, coarsely chopped or torn

Salt

Neutral oil fit for frying, I use sunflower

Set the oven to 175 degrees. Halve the cherry tomatoes and transfer to an oven-proof pan. Drizzle with a bit of olive oil. Bake for 25-30 minutes, till wrinkly and sweet.

Coarsely grate the zucchini. Transfer to a colander and sprinkle with a couple pinches of salt. Mix and let stand for 20-30 minutes. 

Squeeze the liquid out of the zucchini - try to get as much as possible out of it, as excessive liquid waters out the batter and makes it hard for the fritters to hold their shape. 

Mix the zucchini, flour, breadcrumbs, baking powder, egg, spring onions, feta, and a pinch of salt - I like to do this with my hands to get a sense of the texture. It should feel like a cohesive batter, not too runny. Add the tomatoes and carefully turn into the batter. 

Heat 1-2 cm worth of neutral oil to 185 degrees in a frying pan or similar. Test fry a fritter to get a sense of how quickly it browns. Adjust the temperature accordingly - the outer part should be deep golden brown, while the inside is pillowy with no trace of raw batter. 

Sprinkle with salt. Serve on its own, or (apologies for the blasphemy) with a dollop of aioli.

Currently listening

Lately, I am mostly kicking back with Gigi Masin’s classic Wind (1986), an extraordinary piece of ambient electronic music that feels like a cooling dip into the ocean. 

Soft late summer evenings are spent in the kitchen, frying things, and dancing to lighter, brighter sounds. Strictly disco, soul and funk.

Annotations: Week 2

Currently reading

Barbara Pym, as recommended by Hanya Yanagihara (start with Some Tame Gazelle or Quartet in Autumn), Natalia Ginzburg’s Family and Borghesia with its depictions of family and social life, transition and belonging in 70s Rome and beyond, and Biography of X by Catherine Lacey, a wild dystopian mystery ride playing out in an alternate America, fiction posing as the biography of the artist and musician X, as written by her wife.

Perusing upcoming releases and eagerly anticipating A Garden Manifesto, edited by Olivia Laing and Richard Porter with contributions by an extraordinary roster of writers and thinkers, Lucia Odoom’s novel Cosmos and Thom Eagle’s The Philosophy of Pickles and Fermented Foods.

London!

Many, many inquiries about where to eat and drink and look for books in London in my DMs these days. For those who read Swedish or another Scandinavian language, I wrote a whole book on the matter. For the rest, here is a list of some favourites from a few weeks ago.

Start the day at Anna Higham’s brilliant bakery Quince. Her approach to seasonal fruit and flavours blows my mind, as readers of her cookbook The Last Bite will know. Last time I went, I got a hand pie filled with red gooseberries—it was tart, sensuous, delightful. 

Have a look at books at Skoob Books or Oxfam Bookstore (both second hand with a great selection), Judd Books (used and bargain books) or London Review Bookshop, all within walking distance of each other, and even better….

…close to Café Deco for lunch. To me, there’s no better place to start a visit to London. The food is simple and always delicious, the staff really lovely, and the wine list compact, but exciting and ever-changing. I have had some of my best meals in London here. If you’re dining alone, I recommend sitting at the window or outside, watching the crowds drift by.

Great pubs within an arm's reach and a bit are among others The Duke in Bloomsbury, where you can get a bit of peace and quiet in the early afternoon, while the barmaid plays the Ronettes. Another favourite is the independent pub the Sutton Arms in Farringdon, with an excellent selection of craft beers from England and beyond, and a selection of pies for when the hunger kicks in again.

Another way of going about it all together is going for tea and a Milanese sandwich at Scotti’s Snack Bar or the cottoletta at Italia Uno. Bring a book, enjoy the place and the people.

Some wine at Hector’s, always, or Yuki Bar, a recent addition that serves the coldest, neatest, most dangerous martini, and really good, refined Japanese home cooking. A fantastic list of wine and great records playing all night long.  

Pick up a bottle of wine at either of those (God bless corkage!), and head for mangal at Umut 2000 (bring cash! Last time we went looking for an ATM for miles, sans success) or Mangal 1 (it takes card)—the jury is out on which one is best, and everyone prefers either or. Grilled chicken hearts, livers, quails, adana, onion salad, ezme, are some of my regular orders. Bring friends.

A late night pint of Guinness at the Auld Shillelagh in Stoke Newington, or the simple choice of pale ale or bitter on cask at Macintosh Ales, if it is open.

If you find yourself on the other side of town, as I often do, there’s no place like 40 Maltby St, the finest hospitality and food around.

That’s all for now. See you next week for a chat about greens, and a recipe for a great way to eat them—in Greek hortopita. 

A short introduction. I started writing eighteen years ago now, and it has taken me to places I never expected. More than a decade as a music critic and writer allowed me to centre my work on the things that matter the most to me—literature, cooking, music, gardening, art, design, architecture. 

For a while now I have missed having a more eclectic platform that connects those interests with each other, or simply lets them co-exist in the same space. Hence, the newsletter. 

Let’s rip the bandaid. 

I’d love to hear from you at hello@alisalarsen.se 

With love, 

Alisa 

Currently cooking 

Someone asked me to describe my style of cooking the other day. All I could think of was aromatic. The olfactory element of it is really essential. Now that the tomatoes are plump and fragrant, and Mediterranean herbs such as basil, marjoram and wild fennel at their most heady, it feels like the right time to cook this relatively simple but sublime rice dish. It is a thoroughly satisfactory process, melting tomatoes into sauce (sweating over the stovetop, windows flung open) and infusing it with herbs—a joy of the senses. 

When tomatoes are ripe and sweet like this, broth feels superfluous. That is why I make a lighter ‘flavourful water’ to cook the rice with. Let the discarded herb stems and flowers flavour the water, and salt. Nothing more, nothing less. 

Tomato rice

500 g ripe cherry tomatoes (a mix of yellow and reds is nice) - more if you have an abundance of garden tomatoes starting to burst at their seams 

2 cloves of garlic, sliced

3 tbsp olive oil

250 g short grain rice such as Bomba 

Water 

Salt

Basil (and/or a mix of wild fennel fronds or fresh marjoram)

Peel the tomatoes by throwing the tomatoes in a pot of boiling water for a minute. Transfer to ice cold water, and gently peel off the skins. 

Warm the olive oil in a broad, heavy bottom pan on medium heat. Add the sliced garlic. Let it get fragrant for a minute or two. Add the tomatoes and stir. Cover with a lid and let them get soft for 5 minutes.

Separate leaves of the herbs from the stems. Heat 500-750 ml of water in a pan, add 1 tsp of salt and the discarded stems. Let infuse for a minute or two. 

Check the tomato sauce. It is ready for the rice when the tomatoes have melted into a sauce with soft chunks of tomato. Add the rice and stir. Add a few leaves of basil. Pour in 250 ml of the flavourful water. Stir. 

Keep adding a bit of liquid at a time, every 3 minutes or so, or if the sauce is starting to feel dry. The total cooking process will take about 15 minutes, and is done when the rice is al dente - not chewy, but soft with a bite to it. 

Fish out the basil leaves. Finish with a bit of olive oil and salt to taste, as well as fresh basil, wild fennel and marjoram, torn into pieces rather than chopped.

Any leftovers make for delicious arancini the day after. 

Currently listening to 

Having spent the better half of July in the countryside and wild nature, coming back home to the city felt a bit too much. I swapped the midsummer disco for late summer quietude, listening to it with a sleeping pooch wrapped up next to me. 

Annotations: Week 1

Currently reading 

A relatively low key summer led me to seek adventure elsewhere. Travelogues in particular, have been a source of great joy. First, I read Jamaica Kincaid’s ‘Among Flowers: A Walk in the Himalaya’ (2005). Anyone who has read her phenomenal ‘My Garden (Book)’ (1991) is familiar with the author’s obsessive relationship to gardening, and travels to China and Nepal to collect seeds to plant in her Vermont garden. 

Travelling with a small group of botanist friends, she treks the slopes of the Himalaya, wandering between crevices, paradisiacal plains and remote villages. As they climb, the climate attunes to that of New Hampshire or Pennsylvania, then finding the familiar primroses, marigolds, and junipers as they move through the most extreme of landscapes. It is a book about the strangeness of travelling, alone and together, of otherness, the history and politics of botany and trade, of humility and vanity, of letting go and of enduring. 

Second, I finally dove into the work of Irish travel writer Dervla Murphy, who passed away two years ago. In ‘Full Tilt: From Ireland to India with a Bicycle’ (1965), she records her travels by bike through Italy and Yugoslavia through Iran, Afghanistan to Pakistan and India in 1963-4. Witty and dry, but clever, open-minded, and insightful, her diary records bygone times of tradition, transition and most extraordinarily, friendship, tolerance, and understanding beyond borders, language, and religion. The way in which conversations, kindness, random details, life in remote areas and wild adventures intertwine are superb. I cannot wait to dive into her books ‘In Ethiopia With A Mule’ (1968),  and ‘Between River and Sea’ (2015), on her (an avid anti-Zionist) extended time spent in Israel and Palestine. 

Quick thoughts 

It is time to dry herbs. Right now, they are at their most aromatic and wonderful. Whether that means bringing home a sprig or two of fresh bay leaves or thyme from your vacation to the South, or picking whatever grows wild close to you (here it is wild oregano and chamomile) — you’ll be happy you did it in a few months. Every year, I try to dry a bouquet of marjoram, my favourite herb, to flavour soups and beans in the winter. Right now, we have coriander seeds, shiso, and wormwood (for booze and tisanes!) drying hung among the bookshelves.

Talking about tomatoes. A go-to recipe of mine is Edouard de Pomiane’s tomatoes in cream, a genius piece of alchemy done in the simplest of ways. First introduced to me through the writing of Simon Hopkinson, I have made this dish countless times, usually served with a simple rice pilaf. Have a go, I promise you will not regret it. 

I’ve been relishing Naz Deravian’s recipe for cucumber agua fresca this week, as we are currently struggling to get through all of the cukes the allotment churns out and the temperature out is hot-hot. It says large cucumbers, but honestly, I have found that even slightly sad-looking pickling ones work really well. Keep just a bit of the skin on for a lush green tone. Another note on cucumbers - Café Deco (my favourite London restaurant) recently launched their newsletter including a delicious recipe for cold cucumber soup with lovage.

I could listen to this episode of Time Is Away forever. 

That concludes this week’s Annotations. See you next week! 

x A

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