The news makes the echo the things that happen, that does not happen, leaving everything as it is, in a paroxysm of mud which is now. The same news I go once again through a bla bla chewed and chewed, consumed more than the soles of a pair of shoes worn. Internally, I rebel.
And the thoughts immediately move to the periphery of these platitudes, slipping between the head of a hot bath, releasing a metaphorical tie, just listening to the lapping water and the murmur of something that is deeper and longer mine. And then let me welcome in the bright orange of a bathrobe, in Luke's voice urges me to do soon, which gives me half an hour of time and then go out and go the cinema.
"You do not you forget it?" I question, leave for a moment doubt the cross.
"Of course not," I reply.
often simply forget the time when I slide into the tub because the water is smooth, round, without angles and all that hot steam that fogs up the glass and the mirror is an insulator with the rest of the world, seals the sensations and softens everything.
Each week we choose a movie to go see and this time we both voted for the woman who sings, a film by Villeneuve. I admit to have him and that he said called for a couple of times that I think would be the choice right, I admit that he had said I wanted to see it, but at the moment to decide, in turn, Luke was convinced and ruled that we would go to the Rialto cinema, to the vision of the three. I love the small cinema, I find that the best films pass from there, compared to the boundless commercial multiplex usually more ably.
The first surprise, once pushed the heavy red velvet curtain, you find that the film is almost complete. To sit in the first two files do not even mentioned, I'd go with the neck in plaster, as happened when we went to see Barney's Version, but we are fortunate that discovered two vacancies in top of the room and even if they are not central to make our own without a moment's delay. We allow ourselves to sink into his chair.
From then on, for half an hour later, everything is a succession of people entering, you are way in the darkness, become sadly aware that the cinema is full and there are only few places scattered here and there, between the first two rows. At this point ask themselves before sitting down, linger, are seats, then get up and cast a last look hopefully to the rest of the room, hoping to spot a hole in any of heads and coats. None.
Luckily we sat, luckily we got a moment before them.
The woman singing is an intense movie, hard, exciting from the beginning until the epilogue, shocking. E 'built almost like a detective story, because it reveals little at a time, opening up possibilities, twists and scenarios. It 's the story of a Lebanese woman who relies on his twin sons died two letters to be delivered respectively to the father they never knew and who knew his brother had. Around this story unfolds a dramatic story that first sees his daughter, then his brother, set out in search of their roots, looking for fragments of the life of their mother, retracing his steps in a land devastated by the ferocity of the war, from the blood, condizione di sottomissione in cui sono costrette a vivere le donne. Inizia un viaggio segreto, un percorso sotterraneo, un'esplorazione, tra mille voci e altrettanti silenzi. E piano piano, senza compromessi né protezione, un puzzle comincia a prendere forma e la verità sta per affiorare, per quanto terribile, quasi insopportabile.
A fare da colonna sonora, tra gli altri, ci sono brani dei Radiohead, che da soli, insieme alla forza delle immagini riescono a trasferire sensazioni molto forti, la separazione, l'amore ucciso, la prigionia, l'alienazione, il senso di abbandono e altro non voglio svelare di questo film che mi ha accompagnato anche una volta usciti dalla sala.
Mi aspettavo tanto by this film and I was rewarded my expectations and the thing I was pleased to know that Luke was the loved, perhaps as I do. And as we move towards the car parked far away, walking hastily to win the indigestible cold, can still see glimpses of these bitter and barren landscapes and I seem to hear a smoky odor, like that of black tea, while the voice of Thom Yorke, fragile as a porcelain, embroider his emotional hurricane, between light and shadow.
Anche se il Carnevale non è ancora arrivato, abbiamo deciso di preparare le prime sfrappole dell'anno e il risultato è stata una parentesi golosa più che soddisfacente.
In a large bowl Beat egg yolks with sugar, liqueur, lemon zest and melted butter cold. Gradually add the flour and add milk (if the mixture should be soft enough, add more milk, but we have abided by the family recipe). Impastato and transfer the dough on a cutting board. I continue to work until it is smooth and compact.
At this point it is just stretch the dough with a rolling pin or possibly with the pasta machine. We used our Marcato per fare prima. Abbiamo tirato delle strisce di pasta dello spessore di 1mm circa e via via siamo andati a tagliarle in losanghe e triangoli, utilizzando una rotella dentata.
In un tegame abbiamo scaldato abbondante olio e raggiunta la temperatura (basta immergervi una briciolina di pasta, se sfrigola significa che è stata raggiunta la temperatura ideale) abbiamo cominciato a friggere, poche sfrappole alla volta. Appena hanno cominciato a diventare dorate le abbiamo sgocciolate e posate in un vassoio su carta assorbente.
Le abbiamo lasciate raffreddare e poi spolverizzate con zucchero a velo. Noi personalmente abbiamo spruzzato le sfrappole anche con un goccio di anice, che conferisce loro profumo e freschezza. Deliziose!
In a large bowl combine yolks, anise liqueur, butter, grated lemon rind and sugar. Add the flour and mix well to form a dough. Set aside, covered, for a while.
Turn the dough out onto a floured work surface and cut it into pieces.
Roll each piece out (using a pasta machine) until 1mm thick, then using a pastry wheel cut the dough into strips.
In a tall-sided pot, heat the oil to 375 degrees F. Carefully drop the sfrappole into the oil and cook until golden brown. Remove them carefully with a slotted spoon and drain on paper towels. Sprinkle with confectioners' sugar (and anise liqueur if you like) and serve.
And the thoughts immediately move to the periphery of these platitudes, slipping between the head of a hot bath, releasing a metaphorical tie, just listening to the lapping water and the murmur of something that is deeper and longer mine. And then let me welcome in the bright orange of a bathrobe, in Luke's voice urges me to do soon, which gives me half an hour of time and then go out and go the cinema.
"You do not you forget it?" I question, leave for a moment doubt the cross.
"Of course not," I reply.
often simply forget the time when I slide into the tub because the water is smooth, round, without angles and all that hot steam that fogs up the glass and the mirror is an insulator with the rest of the world, seals the sensations and softens everything.
Each week we choose a movie to go see and this time we both voted for the woman who sings, a film by Villeneuve. I admit to have him and that he said called for a couple of times that I think would be the choice right, I admit that he had said I wanted to see it, but at the moment to decide, in turn, Luke was convinced and ruled that we would go to the Rialto cinema, to the vision of the three. I love the small cinema, I find that the best films pass from there, compared to the boundless commercial multiplex usually more ably.
The first surprise, once pushed the heavy red velvet curtain, you find that the film is almost complete. To sit in the first two files do not even mentioned, I'd go with the neck in plaster, as happened when we went to see Barney's Version, but we are fortunate that discovered two vacancies in top of the room and even if they are not central to make our own without a moment's delay. We allow ourselves to sink into his chair.
From then on, for half an hour later, everything is a succession of people entering, you are way in the darkness, become sadly aware that the cinema is full and there are only few places scattered here and there, between the first two rows. At this point ask themselves before sitting down, linger, are seats, then get up and cast a last look hopefully to the rest of the room, hoping to spot a hole in any of heads and coats. None.
Luckily we sat, luckily we got a moment before them.
The woman singing is an intense movie, hard, exciting from the beginning until the epilogue, shocking. E 'built almost like a detective story, because it reveals little at a time, opening up possibilities, twists and scenarios. It 's the story of a Lebanese woman who relies on his twin sons died two letters to be delivered respectively to the father they never knew and who knew his brother had. Around this story unfolds a dramatic story that first sees his daughter, then his brother, set out in search of their roots, looking for fragments of the life of their mother, retracing his steps in a land devastated by the ferocity of the war, from the blood, condizione di sottomissione in cui sono costrette a vivere le donne. Inizia un viaggio segreto, un percorso sotterraneo, un'esplorazione, tra mille voci e altrettanti silenzi. E piano piano, senza compromessi né protezione, un puzzle comincia a prendere forma e la verità sta per affiorare, per quanto terribile, quasi insopportabile.
A fare da colonna sonora, tra gli altri, ci sono brani dei Radiohead, che da soli, insieme alla forza delle immagini riescono a trasferire sensazioni molto forti, la separazione, l'amore ucciso, la prigionia, l'alienazione, il senso di abbandono e altro non voglio svelare di questo film che mi ha accompagnato anche una volta usciti dalla sala.
Mi aspettavo tanto by this film and I was rewarded my expectations and the thing I was pleased to know that Luke was the loved, perhaps as I do. And as we move towards the car parked far away, walking hastily to win the indigestible cold, can still see glimpses of these bitter and barren landscapes and I seem to hear a smoky odor, like that of black tea, while the voice of Thom Yorke, fragile as a porcelain, embroider his emotional hurricane, between light and shadow.
*****___*****___*****___*****
SFRAPPOLE DI CARNEVALE DI SABRINA E LUCA
Anche se il Carnevale non è ancora arrivato, abbiamo deciso di preparare le prime sfrappole dell'anno e il risultato è stata una parentesi golosa più che soddisfacente.
Ingredienti:
3 tuorli d'uovo
3 cucchiai colmi di zucchero
2 cucchiai di liquore all'anice
la scorza di un limone non trattato
100 gr di burro
500 gr di farina 00
1 dl di latte (corrispondono a 103 gr)
abbondante olio di semi d'arachidi per friggere
icing sugar for dusting
3 tuorli d'uovo
3 cucchiai colmi di zucchero
2 cucchiai di liquore all'anice
la scorza di un limone non trattato
100 gr di burro
500 gr di farina 00
1 dl di latte (corrispondono a 103 gr)
abbondante olio di semi d'arachidi per friggere
icing sugar for dusting
In a large bowl Beat egg yolks with sugar, liqueur, lemon zest and melted butter cold. Gradually add the flour and add milk (if the mixture should be soft enough, add more milk, but we have abided by the family recipe). Impastato and transfer the dough on a cutting board. I continue to work until it is smooth and compact.
At this point it is just stretch the dough with a rolling pin or possibly with the pasta machine. We used our Marcato per fare prima. Abbiamo tirato delle strisce di pasta dello spessore di 1mm circa e via via siamo andati a tagliarle in losanghe e triangoli, utilizzando una rotella dentata.
In un tegame abbiamo scaldato abbondante olio e raggiunta la temperatura (basta immergervi una briciolina di pasta, se sfrigola significa che è stata raggiunta la temperatura ideale) abbiamo cominciato a friggere, poche sfrappole alla volta. Appena hanno cominciato a diventare dorate le abbiamo sgocciolate e posate in un vassoio su carta assorbente.
Le abbiamo lasciate raffreddare e poi spolverizzate con zucchero a velo. Noi personalmente abbiamo spruzzato le sfrappole anche con un goccio di anice, che conferisce loro profumo e freschezza. Deliziose!
A CARNIVAL DESSERT : THE ITALIAN SFRAPPOLE
Ingredients:
3 egg yolks
3 tbs sugar
2 tbs anise liqueur
a fresh lemon grated rind
100 g butter, softened
500 g flour
1 dl milk (103 g milk)
1 liter oil, for frying
confectioners' sugar
Ingredients:
3 egg yolks
3 tbs sugar
2 tbs anise liqueur
a fresh lemon grated rind
100 g butter, softened
500 g flour
1 dl milk (103 g milk)
1 liter oil, for frying
confectioners' sugar
In a large bowl combine yolks, anise liqueur, butter, grated lemon rind and sugar. Add the flour and mix well to form a dough. Set aside, covered, for a while.
Turn the dough out onto a floured work surface and cut it into pieces.
Roll each piece out (using a pasta machine) until 1mm thick, then using a pastry wheel cut the dough into strips.
In a tall-sided pot, heat the oil to 375 degrees F. Carefully drop the sfrappole into the oil and cook until golden brown. Remove them carefully with a slotted spoon and drain on paper towels. Sprinkle with confectioners' sugar (and anise liqueur if you like) and serve.
