When Lunchtime Tastes of Sunshine...

Bruschetta. It's not as di moda as it once was.
Australian cafes had a love-affair with all things Italian for a decade or so, but then they got bored and decided de-constructed something-or-other with smashed avocado (always with smashed avocado) was tante meglio, meglio cosi (so much the better). I clearly remember the gastronomical snobbery of the 'bruschetta' pronounciation days. It was right up there with the correct preparation of affogato. Hint: 'ch' is a hard sound, so it's 'Broo-sketta'. Apologies if I just ruined your millenium. Anyway...

It's fair enough too. Like so many things, the true heart of excellent Italian food isn't the recipe (although the centuries old flavour combos are pretty stonkingly amazing) -it's the produce. Bruschetta should be a riot of flavour. It should be all the sultry heat of summer soaking into a crusty piatto (plate/trencher) that is itself toothsome, tangy, and something your teeth can rip into voraciously.

Perhaps this beloved Italian summer staple fell from popular cafe favour because it was...well, a little disappointing most of the time? Supermarket tomatoes, commercial white bread, packaged parmesan, basil grown en masse, indoors, that had never even glimpsed the baking summer sun...there's a recipe for yawn right there.
I know I bang on about this, but the joy, the relish and the ultimate satiety/satisfaction doesn't actually come from the produce or recipe alone. It comes from consuming a story. it's the reason Andy Bowdy's cakes became a crazy sensation. The clever bugger made awesome, beautiful cakes -sure...but he gave each one a story and a name. Love me a good visionary :-)

The story of the Broo-sketta

In the dead of winter, a woman sits at her computer, swathed in multiple layers and scarves. She's perusing seed-catalogues and dreaming. In front of her -hundreds of enticing heirloom tomatoes whisper enticingly. Some are a thrill of unusual colour, some a perfect combination of ugly-beautiful shapes, some come with testimonials of flavour. The woman is greedy and would like them all, but she settles on 5 or 6 new options and waits by the mail-box hopefully.
When the packets arrive, even her small son is enchanted. "Can I take these to school for news Mummy?". Mummy is pleased, and allows her precious seeds to be shoved into a backpack. She sets aside a vaguely unsettled feeling.

That afternoon, a very hang-dog 6yr old comes through the back door - a scruffy harbinger of doom. Daddy looks stormy too...because he already knows. Mummy reads all the signals and steels herself.  For reasons known only to the logic of a kindergarten student, he has opened and emptied out the packets on the bus. Apparently he was "showing" people the seeds and they just kinda "fell out". She tries not to cry and fails.
Weeping complete, she peers into the packets mournfully -their bright pictures of promise holding nothing now...wait...what's that? In the tight envelope corners a few survivors! Four to be exact. 2 in each corner.They are whisked into seed-raising pots with the urgency and care of a delicate ER operation.

A few weeks later, with imperfect germination -she has two plants. TWO! They are babied and molly-coddled with that strange gardener's combination of gentleness and steely determination. The 6 yr old watches the process with some trepidation. It is lovingly dressed with wood-ash, egg-shells, sifted manures, and even decorated stones (6yr old's version of helping/penance). It is nurtured through a terrible heat-wave, and hand-watered daily. The stones are gaudy, but sweet. Mummy is reminded that he may be irresponsible, but he does try so hard to fix things when they're broken.

Finally, it is time to harvest. She plucks any fruits starting to colour and ripens them on a sunny windowsill to avoid the possibility of splitting due to intense heat and storms. These much-anticipated Brad's atomic grapes blush slowly next to volunteer cherries and the firm-fleshed Sungrape. The anticipation so much part of the coming delight.

One uncomfortably warm morning, they're ready. Brilliantly coloured and with just a tiny amount of 'give' when gently squeezed. Home-made sourdough is sliced thinly, fragrant basil is plucked from amongst sister tomato plantings, garlic pulled gently from the twisted braid. The pantry offers a local chilli & lime olive oil and a caramelised balsamic from Mudgee. A sharp parmesan from Orange is grated finely. Every ingredient has a story. Everything on this plate has been created or nurtured with passion and care. Every producer has been chatted with, laughed with. We have shared our stories.

Today, all of our tales are woven into my lunch :-) It is simplicity itself, but as rich flavour and story fire up all my neural pleasure and reward pathways, biochemical magic twinkles. Quantity is not necessary. Satiety is not signalled by the stomach's stretch receptors, but by ghrelin levels falling fast and leptin levels surging. Neurogastronomy at its finest. The story of the flavours, the pleasure, the hedonism of my immense enjoyment ensure that a small energy offering is enough...well enough. Over-eating would be...I dunno, somehow wrong. This is not to be gobbled, but savoured. This is the pleasure of the gardener.