We’re talking tomato. Banish the can (or jar). Well, not entirely. But almost. You can and might and should make the red gold yourself. We buy a pizza dough from time to time. Flatten it. Stretch it. Roll it. You know where this is going. In my wife’s region of Italy (San Marino, Romagna, Marche) you get something pizza-like or foccaccia-like. Called variously spianata, fornarina, ciclista, schiacciatina. Okay, it’s a white pizza. Some of them thin thin thin, with a […]
For dinner one night we find our way to Casa del Sole. It’s a country house outside of Pesaro. We’re 15-20 miles inland, where the gentle hills rising to Urbino begin, far enough from the sea to know we’ll be eating meat. “We haven’t been to this place before,” my wife’s cousin says. “But my sister has,” his wife adds. “Si mangia bene.” That’s good enough for us.