A hatbox of a life

At this time of year, the small, sweet purple artichokes – carciofi – are available in the country markets in Italy. In fact, the vegetables and fruit displayed on the stalls in the weekly market in Salo, Lake Garda last weekend were the first signs of summer after the long cold northern winter. It was worth the early rise to wander through the stalls, checking out the mountain cheeses, the salamis, the cured hams, the fresh bread and to share coffee and delicious warm apricot croissants with the local housewives and stallholders.

The carciofi were 3Euros / kg, and the asparagus 2 Euros / kg, so for a small amount I had good souvenirs of a successful meeting. A slight moment at check in on the way back, when the ridiculously small allowed weight was exceeded, but my handbag took the extra things and the veg stayed in the suitcase. No time for other souvenirs, but these will do well.

The asparagus were simply steamed and served with a hollandaise – egg yolk, whisked over hot water, butter whisked in (keep whisking, otherwise it will split) and lemon juice to taste at the end.

The carciofi have been gently poached in white wine vinegar and olive oil, with a couple of cloves of garlic added. They need to have the tops cut off and the outer leaves removed, as these get tough when poached. The choke is tiny, but easily removed with a spoon. I cut the larger ones in half to do this, but the tiny ones stay whole. The poached artichokes are drained and then stored in a sterile Kilner jar, covered in fresh oil, with some bay leaves and garlic cloves for flavour.

The jar looks really pretty, and they will be delicious with salads over the summer. A little taste of Lombardy.

One thing about tasting unusual food is that you can then make sure you never have to taste it ever again. There is very little that falls into this category, but preserved shark, an Icelandic delicacy, has just been added to the list. The official Icelandic name for the dish – Rot-cured shark – does not bode well, and the description of the beast being skinned, having the intestines removed, then the meat being cut into strips and buried for several months on the sea shore to ferment before being dried when it can be penetrated by a finger, doesn’t add any encouragement. The taste is reminiscent of urine, and the Icelanders are keen to reassure us that urination has no place in the curing process. Whatever the method of preparation, it needed the local schnapps to get rid of the taste, and it will not be on the list at Waitrose any time soon.

A pleasant evening with colleagues produced other more acceptable dishes, including puffin, which looks and tastes similar to pidgeon, and cured lamb, served with berries and a delicate herb sorbet, infused with thyme. My dinner companion, a fellow food lover, tells me that it is difficult to get fresh fish, unless you know a fisherman. Most is frozen at sea, and turns up in the supermarket rather than in a local fishmonger. There was such a thing once, but the shopping mall is now the only outlet.

How sad to think that this fascinating country, perched on the edge of the arctic circle like a cloud, has lost the local shops and direct access to resources that ensure our cooking traditions last. I am sure we could find innovative cooking if we had stayed longer, sought out the up-market restaurants, not been in the northern smaller town. It fascinated me that with little chance of arable farming, having to import most of the things we take for granted, the culinary style must be meat and fish based. The ubiquitous “meat soup”, which was the mainstay of the rural life here, was just as I would make “bottom of the fridge” soup, tasty, interesting and using things that are to hand.

I don’t think I’ll be making the rams’ testicle terrine any time soon, but Icelandic food might make an appearance in a Scottish kitchen.

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