Tag Archives: veal

Ossobuco alla Milanese (à la Anna Del Conte)

ossobuco alla milanese - life love foodossobuco alla milanese - life love food ossobuco alla milanese - life love foodossobuco alla milanese - life love food

“The main lesson you have to learn is simplicity,” is Anna del Conte’s warning to whoever wants to approach Italian food. “For what you leave out is just as important as what you put in”.

These few words have been resounding in my head for days. I have surprised myself thinking about them a lot. Not just in relation to food, mind, but to other aspects of living, too. What we leave out of our kitchen, of our home, of our lives matters as much as what we put in. Aren’t we who ultimately decide what to include and what to leave out, just like in a recipe? We choose which flavour our life is going to have at any given time. Except, perhaps starting over isn’t as easy as a round of washing up. Or is it?

Anyway, my cooking (and, consequently, this blog) went through a similar scrutiny lately. Some things went in, many others were stripped back. It’s now clear to me, at the dawn of my thirties, what it is that I just don’t care to eat, cook, or write about. Likewise, I’ve finally learnt what keeps me inspired, happily glued to the stove, and, well, hungry. This ossobuco alla milanese from Anna del Conte is one of these things. Not just because I love to eat it, but because it envelopes many of the traits that I find attractive in a recipe: culture-richness, humbleness, sustainability and straightforwardness. It just makes sense.

Yes, this ossobuco is here to stay, at least for as long as winter lasts. And I’m thinking now, as I type, as I spy a shy spring-like sun shining through my windowpane, that I better drop the chatter and tell you more about it, for winter doesn’t have much time left under its belt. So let’s.

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Ossobuco with Gremolata

Ossobuco with GremolataOssobuco with Gremolata Ossobuco with Gremolata

There were a couple of nights a few weeks ago, before the heat decided to come and make itself comfortable, in which the air sweeping from the harbour carried an unusual chill. One night, on our usual evening walk along the water  – the ritual that separates the working part of the day from that of leisure, contemplation and unrushed time in the kitchen – we had to put an extra layer over our t-shirts. We walked hugging ourselves the whole way, wondering where such breeze was coming from, dark clouds gathering swiftly over our heads.

We rushed home just in time before the first downpour started. Another followed shortly, and then another, at seemingly regular intervals, as if the sky was emptying itself by the bucketload, taking a break between each. We thought it a good night for a robust bottle of red and for lingering in the kitchen and around the table while waiting for a warming dinner.

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