Nettle fritters and Rosalia

And how I never went to the Zecchino d'Oro

A few weeks ago one of my clients asked me if I could choose the songs to pair with the Instagram posts I was going to create for them.

I panicked.

I frantically started to think of how I could steer clear of this much dreaded task, the excuses piling up as I was typing a response.

My approach to adding music to Instagram posts is either non existent or a silly one: if I do it, it’s to have fun, not to take myself too seriously; for example, last week I made a little reel using Rosalia’s Bizcochito just to sell some biscuits. I doubt this approach would match my client’s vibe.

Anyway, I ended up saying it wasn’t part of the agreed tasks in my contract. Which is true, but if I had to be completely honest I should have probably sent them this piece.

Bussolà, traditional biscuits from the island of Burano and typically baked around Easter time.

If you know me well, you might also know that my relationship with music is a peculiar one. I love it, but I also get overwhelmed by it very easily. I might struggle to recall the title of a song or who’s singing it, but rest assured I’ll immediately know if that tune makes me cry or it makes me want to stop doing what I am doing and start moving my body to the rhythm of said song; even if sometimes that means dancing down the aisle in the supermarket or crying as I pay the bill.

Growing up I had to deal with 3 older siblings who could all sing well — my brother Alberto was even in a band! I was (and still am) so envious of their talent.

As far as I can remember I’ve always been told I can’t sing, I am stonata.

When I was 4 or 5, I announced to my family that I wanted to become a contestant in the Zecchino d’Oro, an annual Italian competition established in 1959 and dedicated to children's music. Everyone laughed at me. I bet they are still laughing now as they read this piece!

You can then imagine my face when I started working at Windmill and I was told that, at the end of each session, we’d have to sing to (and with) the children. My heart sank deep. Singing…and in English — great!

For the love of my job I learnt a few songs and currently my favourite one is “Hop Little Bunnies”; although I only like it the first 9 or 10 times, then it’s not my favourite anymore. “Bananas United” is also fun, especially when you realise you’re all looking quite ridiculous singing it.

Thankfully, my wonderful colleague Steph steps in most of the time and leads the singing, saving me from the painful feeling of having to perform in front of a crowd.

Where the singing happens. I love setting up cosy spaces and nooks around the Gardens. Look at the colours!

A couple of years ago in an attempt to make new friends in a town where I knew very few people and where I was struggling to fit in, I joined a local social singing choir.

It was a disaster.

I don’t know what I was expecting but, although I can now see the charm and the beauty of the project, it wasn’t for me at the time. I think I was feeling too vulnerable in that particular moment of my life and couldn’t bear the emotional rollercoaster of joy and sadness I experience every time I sing or listen to music.

All I remember from those weeks, is a verse that went like “Be there” repeated several times, and in my mind it sounded like we were saying “Bidet”; so there I was, singing “BIIIIIDEEET” at the top of my lungs in a room full of strangers. Maybe it was my brain protesting for the lack of bidets in this country!

But it’s not just the singing, it’s the way I relate to music in general that sometimes can be challenging for me.

I was thinking about it as Thom and I were cooking together this week. We mostly agree on the genre we like to play as we cook and wash up; although I can’t help but notice that most of the time it’s me asking to turn the volume a notch down because “I can’t hear the food”.

For me, when I’m cooking, hearing is as important as the other senses, especially when preparing something new or that requires more concentration. Yes, I can see the onions softening in the olive oil but I want to hear them sizzling as well. I need to hear the knife chopping parsley or the pot full of beans simmering because I know it will sound different when the water has evaporated.

So when Thom chose to play some Georgian polyphonic singing while I was getting ready to fry some starters for our Easter Monday lunch with his family, I found myself thinking again — why can't I just enjoy music without feeling it so much? I was getting uncomfortable, again.

Anyway, while the music was playing I realised I should have checked for a batter recipe for my nettle fritters a bit earlier than that, so I had to improvise. When will I learn?

I whisked one egg plus some extra egg white (yes, that egg white you decided to keep in the fridge, now it’s the time for it to shine!), a splash of milk and a splash of sparkling water, which I’m not entirely sure is necessary, a pinch of salt and a pinch of baking powder, some plain flour mixed through until you obtain something similar to the consistency of double cream. I want to try make it with whipped aquafaba instead of eggs next time.

You should let the batter rest, ideally for 30 mins, but if you’re like me and forgot to make it ahead, 5 or 10 minutes will be fine.

A couple of days before Thom had foraged a bunch of nettles from his allotment, he then blanched them in salted boiling water for a couple of minutes. Once drained I chopped them roughly, mixed them with some finely chopped spring onions, salt and Aleppo chilli. I started adding the batter to the greens until I was pleased with the ratio (more greens than batter).

At that point I think I asked him to turn the music volume down, I wanted to hear if the frying oil was ready to welcome the fritters! In they went, one spoon at the time, floating in the oil while puffing up and becoming nice and plump.

We ate them warm with a wild garlic mayo that Thom had made earlier while he was listening to Rosalia and I was dancing.

Nettle fritters served on Minnie-Mae’s gorgeous cabbage leaf plate. Thom hand modelling while our guests patiently waited to eat the fritters.

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