Plate to Page Ireland

JUST A DASH OF CREATIVITY

Enthusiasm is excitement with inspiration, motivation and a pinch of creativity. 

– Bo Bennett 

It’s odd how different one group is from another. More or less bloggers, more or less professionals. They come from all over the world, every continent, but it isn’t that. Each group has its own distinct, unique personality, its own needs, its own dynamics. Each group brings something different to the table. Each Plate to Page workshop weekend begins much like a blind date: surreptitious, curious glances, trying not to appear as if staring; dancing around each other’s words, trying to understand the meaning; feeling each other out in an attempt to capture and understand each persona, each sense of humor, each level of shyness. Curiosity tainted with doubt fills the space, excitement mingled with self-consciousness. Like the first day of school. I often feel like a parent or a Scout leader trying to make everyone feel comfortable and at home, wanting this group, like the others, to form one happy, cohesive family.

By late morning of the first day, things start to click. The first set of exercises does that. One “I can’t write. I don’t write! I won’t write!” Another, arms crossed, slouched in the chair, refusal to make eye contact. Or worse: a brassy, fearless glare! “Make me, if you dare!” A “I came here only for the photography” is a sharp punch in the gut. A third releases her inner child, her inner, as she puts it, Gollum. “Impossible! I cannot! I will not! What am I doing here?” We have in some way asked them to bare their soul, show their true selves to a group of complete strangers, maybe try something they never have before dared or have convinced themselves they are not able to do; terrifying, indeed. We are all to be judged! Discomfort is inevitable. Yet we continue merrily around the group, (not giving in, not accepting any excuse not to participate) asking to hear everyone’s work, the result of an exercise done under pressure, under the constraints of time and limitations of subject. Then the second exercise is given, a mere quarter hour has passed and thick crusts are shed, embarrassment and angst give way to the spirit of the weekend and a warmth and bonhomie fill the room and we are off!

The imagination imitates. It is the critical spirit that creates. 

– Oscar Wilde 

 Sofiah jumps into both the photo and the writing work.

Laughing, joyful clapping, cheering each other on as one more funny story is read aloud. Or breath taken away, emotions raw as another reads out a stunningly beautiful piece. Critique given, discussion ensues, heads nodding in accord, another attempt, pushing oneself to move a step forward. We coax out talent, explain flaws, guide and instruct. Eyes light up in understanding, impish grins as foibles are admitted, self- satisfied blushes wash over cheeks, and rightfully so, when a piece of writing is simply, utterly superb.

Plate to Page workshops are nothing if not exciting. We watch as our students give the best of themselves. Each arrives with his or her own baggage: different levels of experience and talent, different interests and goals. Friday morning, barely the time to claim a bed and have a snack and they are plunged into a world of words and images, stories to tell visually and verbally. The photographers cringe at the writing exercises, the writers worry about their photography skills, yet very quickly they are swept up in the challenge, begin to understand the reasons behind the program we offer and are energized!

Ilva teaches advanced styling and photography.

Meeta discusses shooting white on white while...

Ilva works on another setup, another mood, a different light.

And as the weekend progresses, as the participants open up to so many personal and creative possibilities, the group grows closer, barriers are broken and masks – both personal and creative masks - are dropped. Prosecco and wine corks are popped, glasses filled and refilled, the endless abundance of food circulates and they are ready for the next set of exercises.

Plate to Page workshop is filled with the tapping of keyboards, the scratching of pens and pencils on paper (yes, the old fashioned way), the clicking of cameras. Plates of food, boxes of props, bottles of bubbly are carried throughout the houses and around the grounds of gorgeous Decoy Country Cottages outside of Dublin, Ireland. The sun plays tag with the rain, allowing for a change of light and ambiance for the photo shoots, as if on cue, as if part of the program.

 While the students work on their photography, the writing instructors improvise.

Challenges are accepted, worried looks, furrowed brows give way to grins and whispers between partners, a hurried dash towards props like on any episode of Top Chef, scurrying off to a corner to set up a shot. Or gathered around a long table, stories read aloud with confidence, with doubt. One topic, twelve visions. Jeanne and I push them to think outside of the box, forget their self-imposed limits, other peoples’ expectations. We show them how to follow their instincts, to find what works, to find their natural voice, to find inspiration.

White against white, violet on charcoal, bounces repositioned, cutlery shifted. Fingers fiddle with settings, moods varying from romantic to brooding to country to elegant, light to dark, busy to stark. Meeta and Ilva explain, discuss, point out, move back to allow for personal interpretation, to each his or her own style.

By the end of the weekend, each student has discovered something new about him or herself, his or her talents, what he or she is capable of. By the end of the weekend, each student has understood the synergy between writing and photography.

By the end of the weekend, we have formed one cohesive group, a family. Once again.

No great thing is created suddenly. 

- Epictetus 

What fascinating participants: Monica and Sofiah, Anne Marie and Karon, Susana and André, Kate and Samantha, Mafe and Sumayya, Lidija who came all the way from Ireland, Scotland, Portugal, the United States, South Africa, Guatemala, England, Singapore and Slovenia. Photographers, writers, authors, bloggers and those just starting off.

Read some of our P2P Ireland participants reviews:

Sumayya: A food inspiration to write and create
Susana and André: From food to friendship
Karon: Food photography and a dream come true

And how could one possibly eat – or drink – better than at Plate to Page? Thanks to Donald Russel Butchers, Ed Hick’s Bacon Jam and Love Moorish Smoked Humous (Lemon & Dill and Chilli Harissa !!!) – we could not get enough ! Prosseco in abundance from Nino Franco in Italy and gorgeous red wines from Brancott Estate in New Zealand. And artisinal jams from the wonderful Wendy at Sunchowder’s Emporia in Florida ! Always a treat !

David describing each stunning dish he prepared for lunch as Meeta photographs.

And P2P Weimar alum the super talented David came to cook for us on Sunday. His lunch and dinner literally left this noisy, boyant, joyous group…speechless. That is how good his food was.

And what goodie bags, thanks to amazing sponsors (visit our Sponsors page to discover more!). Incredible Better Zesters (Better? Nope! The best!) and knife sharpeners from Edgeware. Dukkah and Skinny Hot Chocolate from South African NoMu. Donegal Rapeseed Oil. A copy of one of my favorite cookbooks Heartbreak Recovery Kitchen by Jeanne Ambrose and Lindsey Ambrose. Artisinal chocolates from Rococo Chocolates. Patron Tequila.
 
But the food is for another post…

READ MORE: DISCOVER PAST PLATE TO PAGE WORKSHOPS

Plate to Page Weimar
Follow your heart, but be quiet for a while first. Ask questions, then feel the answer. Learn to trust your heart.
– Anonymous

Plate to Page Tuscany
And by the way, everything in life is writable about if you have the outgoing guts to do it, and the imagination to improvise. The worst enemy to creativity is self-doubt.
- Sylvia Plath

Plate to Page Somerset 
Creativity is a highfalutin word for the work I have to do between now and Tuesday.
- Ray Kroc

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GARLIC HERB BRAID: Homebaked Bread for the Holidays

LET IT SNOW, LET IT SNOW, LET IT SNOW!

Oh the weather outside is frightful,
But the fire is so delightful,
And since we’ve no place to go,
Let it snow! Let it snow! Let it snow!

It doesn’t show signs of stopping,
And I’ve bought some corn for popping,
The lights are turned way down low,
Let it snow! Let it snow! Let it snow!
- Sammy Cahn and Jules Styne, 1945

Will it snow this year? I find it extremely difficult to find that old holiday spirit while the rain beats against the windowpanes, as the hail clatters onto the balconies and the clouds hang low and menacing, the sky a steely gray. The lights glitter, diamonds in the shimmering black puddles, in the inky night, the branches crack and sway, the leaves spatter onto the sidewalk below as the wild wind whips the streaming rain cascading down in torrents across the square. Doors creak, we snuggle down deeper under the blankets; we love the coziness, the storms outside are romantic when one is safe inside, yet the approaching festivities call not for rain but snow! We awake to the gray, dismal morning, no sun appears at noon, and we search, alas, in vain, for that old holiday spirit.

Snow somehow adds the jolly to Christmas, the happy to Hanukkah. Slipping on the boots, buttoning up our warmest, snuggliest coats, burying our chins deep into mountains of scarf and, gloved hand in gloved hand, out we prance through the crunching white, the sun bright and cheerful and tip toe our way into town. Everything looks so sparkling clean, so lovely and festive to a backdrop of snow! The holiday songs carried to us on the wind and piped into every boutique somehow just sound merrier, the window displays more vibrant and playful, our fellow shoppers gleeful, convivial. Laden down with sacks and bags, boxes beribboned, we hurry home, noses red, cheeks rosy, giggling like children on Christmas morning, to curl up together in the corner of the sofa, hands cupped around steaming mugs to watch the snowflakes flurry in the Winter Wonderland on the other side of the icy, misty glass.


Last year furious snowstorms, tempêtes, raged across Europe; images of frenzied white splashed across our television screens for days and days on end, cars buried beneath mountains of immaculate white, families stranded on roads large and small across the continent in droves; hysteria set in as the blizzards seemed to go on forever. Europe, North America: one only had to look at the map to see just how far the fury of Mother Nature reached, every country, every city, every town. Except Nantes. It was if we were on some small, isolated island in the middle of the ocean with temperate breezes blowing gently over just our region. Around us swirled snow, snow and more snow, yet we had….nothing. Every single day all winter long I turned on the television and stared in envy and desperation, stared out the window in disappointment, begging the weather gods to bring me just a day or two of gorgeous, sparkling, glorious white flurries. And nothing. Nada. Niente. Rien.

So, this year I stare forlornly out the windows as the weather does flip flops, torrential rain gives way to a streak of milky sunshine, a flash of brilliance, then to a clatter of hail. The blue skies cloud over just as the shoes, coats and gloves are slipped on, the holiday excitement and the desire to shop flutters around us, then as quickly as it came * poof * the skies turn somber, moody, an obscure mask of grey, leaden, melancholy. This Florida girl dreams of great gusts of powdery snow, winter white that still has the power to charm. Holiday cheer is just not holiday cheer without it.


So, needless to say, we have been slow getting started on the decorating, the shopping, the meal planning. The Hanukkah and Christmas enthusiasm seems to hit us one at a time, the hearty glee overtaking our spirits like a revolving door. We hem and haw and can’t decide, one blathers on, trying to convince the others, infuse the conversation with excitement and mirth, while everyone else slides down into the cushions of the livingroom sofa and shrugs in indecision. Yet, the closer the holidays inch, as Simon’s homecoming draws nigh, as the occasional ray of light breaks through the heavy clouds illuminating our moods, the passion mounts, the holiday fervor begins to take hold, the excitement spreads little by little through the house. Like Santa’s little elves, we begin to draw up lists; like impatient children awaiting the coming of Jolly Old Saint Nick we huddle two by two behind bedroom doors, whispering frantically, getting suggestions and opinions… and I bake.

I spent a couple of days baking cookies for JP to bring to colleagues: Gingerbread Macarons, Chocolate Madeleines and Chocolate Chip Cookies, absolute piles of them. A fabulous Mile High Sponge Cake with Chocolate Whipped Topping from Abby Dodge for a review of her book The Weekend Baker on Huffington Post and a scrumptious Chocolate Meringue Pie from Nancie McDermott’s Southern Pies. And today, being once again in the mood to bake, as JP stood in the doorway, hands on hips, iron eye shifting from me to the pile of sweet baked treats piling up on the edge of the kitchen table, I decided that it was time to go savory. I pulled out my Taste of Home Baking book, which was so generously offered by Taste of Home for our From Plate to Page goodie bags, and found this Garlic Herb Bread. I knew that this would be delightful with soup for a rainy, cold winter evening meal.


And the bread was a stunner! It came together so quickly and easily – this is a wonderful bread for beginners and baking novices! And rising time was so fast I wondered if it would actually work! But the braided dough doubled in size faster than it takes to write a letter to Santa; I popped it into the hot oven and in 25 minutes I had an incredibly perfect, gorgeous braided loaf, filling the kitchen with the marvelous aroma of yeast, garlic and herbs. Slicing through the loaf revealed the perfect springy, light yet moist texture of a Challah or egg-enriched bread, a lovely pale yellow flecked with the jade of dried basil, dill and rosemary. One bite and I knew that this bread would be made over and over again, each time with a new combination of herbs or maybe chopped sun-dried tomatoes, bits of feta…or even dried fruits; the perfect loaf for either savory or sweet! Just the perfect homemade, freshly baked bread! Easy and fast, worry- and fuss-free – the ideal recipe for your holiday table!

And as you may already know, registrations are now open for From Plate to Page Spring 2012, the original, the only hands-on intensive food writing and styling/photography workshop, to be held in Somerset, UK, where I will once again be one of the presenters, leading workshops on food writing. Register now if you want to spend a weekend with us honing your skills and supercharging your creativity!

This month’s Bread Baking Day #45 – the monthly bread baking event created by Zorra, is being hosted by wonderful Cindystar and, of course, this month is the Christmas Edition. I would love to share this wonderful Garlic Herb Bread for Bread Baking Day #45! Everyone should have one or two beautiful braided loaves on their holiday table.

I am also sending it to my lovely, talented friend Susan of Wild Yeast for Yeastspotting.

And a warm and festive Thank You to Taste of Home for the kind and generous support and sponsorship of our Plate to Page Workshop – I love both this gorgeous cookbook and my red Taste of Home apron! To all of my readers: this Baking cookbook is a must have for every home baker and makes a wonderful holiday gift!


GARLIC HERB BRAID for the holidays
From Taste of Home Baking *

Yield: 1 loaf

* my changes are in italics

4 – 4 ½ cups (approximately 560 – 630 g) all-purpose flour (I only needed a total of about 3 ½ - 490 g flour)
3 Tbs sugar
2 packages (1/4-oz each / total 14 g) active/quick-rise (or traditional) dry yeast
2 tsps dried basil (I used a rounded 1 tsp)
1 ¾ tsp dried dill weed (I used 1 tsp)
¾ tsp dried rosemary, crushed
1 ½ tsp salt
¾ tsp garlic powder
¾ cup (200 ml) lowfat (2% fat) milk
½ cup (scant 125 ml) water
4 Tbs (57 g) unsalted butter, cubed
1 large egg
1 – ½ Tbs (15 – 22 g) butter, melted (I used salted butter)

In a large mixing bowl, combine 1 ½ cups (210 g) of the flour, the sugar, yeast and the seasonings (the dried basil, dill and rosemary, the garlic powder and the salt). Place the milk, water and cubes of butter in a small saucepan and heat gently to about 120° - 130°F (50° - 54°C) (I didn’t use a thermometer, just heated until the butter was just melted and the liquid was just hotter than body temperature – I could feel a comfortable heat on the back of my hand). Add the very warm liquid – not hot – to the dry ingredients in the large mixing bowl and stir or beat just until moistened and smooth. Beat in the egg (I used a wooden spoon for all the blending and beating) until smooth. Stir in enough of the remaining flour to form a soft dough.

Turn the dough out onto a floured work surface and knead until smooth and elastic, about 4 – 6 minutes, adding more flour little by little if the dough is sticky. Form the dough into a ball, cover with a clean kitchen towel and let rest for 10 minutes.

Lightly grease a large baking sheet – or line with parchment or oven paper. Evenly divide the dough into thirds. Shape each piece into a long rope – 15 – 18 inches (38 – 45.5 cm) long and places the ropes on the prepared baking sheet. Braid (rather tightly). Pinch the ends of the dough to seal and tuck them underneath the loaf. Cover loosely with a piece of plastic wrap and then the clean kitchen towel and let rise until doubled, 25 – 30 minutes.

Before rising

Preheat the oven to to 375°F (190°C). Remove the kitchen towel and the plastic wrap and bake the loaf in the preheated oven for 20 – 25 minutes until risen and the loaf is a deep golden brown. Melt the butter over low heat. Remove the braided loaf from the oven and quickly but thoroughly brush all over the top and sides with the melted butter. I allowed the bread to cool and brushed the loaf with melted butter a second time as well. Enjoy warm or at room temperature.

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RETURN TO MILAN

ROAD TRIP


“Road Trip!” he yelled, fists pumping the air as his foot pressed down on the accelerator and the car hit the open highway. “Road Trip!” they echoed gleefully, thrilled to be on the road and heading back to Italy, their home, their favorite place. Snuggled into their chosen seats, packed in amongst too many suitcases, umbrellas, rubber boots, crumpled, well-worn maps strewn around under seats and crammed down into side pockets and bags overflowing with boxes of cookies, bottles of water and bars of chocolate, they were on a great adventure, just the three of them, father, mother and son.

The long and winding road. Nantes, Angers, Clermont Ferrand, Lyon. Pull in quick quick to gas stations along the way, tank filled, dash in quick quick for a sandwich, a pop into the restroom then back into the car cradling cans of coke and tiny paper cups of steaming, bitter coffee, the better to stay awake during those long, tiring hours. Bursts of conversation punctuated by laughter, accompanied by the noisy crinkling of maps, chattering about their past life in that craziest of countries, Italy, trying to awaken memories of deep-dish pizza eaten da Marino, bustling Pace with the grilled swordfish, platters of antipasti and gooey crespelle eaten amid the noise of clattering cutlery, fussy waiters scurrying from table to table, clients loud and voluble as only Italians can be. Or schoolfriends, playmates, Ricky and Lorenzo, Fabio and Davide, Alessandro and Pietro; or their changing lives, moving out to the countryside, that rambling house nestled in the fields outside Villastanza and the tiny village school, or playing in the open spaces, free, with Kikka; Ettore, their adopted grandfather, Beppe and Nonna Anna, birthday parties outside with friends old and new. No, as much as he tries, those memories of days past, a young life, elude him, fly by quickly, blurry like the landscape swiftly rushing by now outside the car window.


The long and winding road. Lyon, Albertville, Torino, Genova. The rest of the time they are lost in their own worlds, their own thoughts; she dreaming of time past, the city she loved when the boys were small, dreaming of living there again among old friends, markets overflowing with lush produce, heady with the pungency of so many cheeses, heavy with breads and pasta, their own private manna. He, the son, possibly fearful of an uncertain future, not one memory of his early years to bolster and warm, a lost childhood haunting him; now stepping as a young man into the unknown, heavy with the weight of adult responsibility. And his father, joyful to be heading back to this much-beloved country, excited to visit his old stomping grounds, dine at favorite restaurants, stroll those streets they knew so well and spend time with still-dear friends, yet worried about the future and his own uncertainties, the questions it holds, unable to let go for even a week.

The long, interminably long and bumpy road. This exciting adventure, this pleasurable road trip turns into road trip from hell, pushing past Genova towards Pisa then Pistoia and news of flooding, a landslide, la frana, has them turning back, forced to retreat and head north, retracing their steps. Piacenza, Parma, Modena, Bologna, hour upon added hour, the time long and oppressive, exhaustion setting in, yet on they push, From Plate to Page waiting for her arrival. Bologna then news of roads closed due to the landslide, traffic jams on the autostrada down to Florence, so they cleverly turn down the Statale which will carry them straight to Pistoia, their final destination of the day, only to find that a mere 75 kilometers takes hours upon hours, traveling at a snail’s pace, and they arrive late, exhausted, bedraggled, struggling to recapture that lighthearted mood, yet relieved and excited to finally be there. And she flies into the waiting arms of Ilva, Meeta and Jeanne and finally, finally JP meets them face to face and all is well.


From Plate to Page come and gone, flown by all too fast, work done, friendships made and back in the car they go. Father and son had spent a glorious four days visiting, chatting, bonding, as hasn’t happened for a long, long time. Both passionate about history, together they trod on sacred Etruscan ground, stood in the shadow of towers and cathedrals, snaked up rocky passages into lost little villages perched atop stunning views, vines and trees spreading out forever at their feet. Pizza and pasta shared while talking of the past and the future, preparing the young man for his coming months immersed in this ancient, contemporary, vibrant culture.

Firenze to Milano, our old stomping grounds, a fast and breezy road trip and back in better spirits. The conversation flows, topics buzzing around our heads like bees on a summer afternoon, swatting one-liners and souvenirs back and forth, a verbal tennis game, punctuated by long, drowsy moments, each lost in our own thoughts, as the landscape flashes by and the cars dash madly around us. Milan looms larger than life, our eyes wide like children entering a fairgrounds, feeling our way forward from memory, pointing at sites and sights both familiar and new. The city has gone mad! Roadworks and construction projects trip us up at every corner, streets now closed off, only accessible by local residents; we get lost, find our way again only to be teased, entangled, tripped up once again until we finally make our way to our lovely little hotel in the center. And three days begin.


Settling Simon into his new home is top priority as is making a side trip to the grocery store. Then on to Pace, that bustling, family-style restaurant near our first apartment, where we would take the boys every Friday evening for dinner. Arriving just a smidgen too early, I peep in the window and excitedly announce that nothing has changed: the same waiters, albeit older, grayer, are setting up the tables and the trays of antipasti, the same old gentleman, the owner, stands guard, surveys, controls, while the other gentleman sitting behind the cash register counting out bills and making notes in a ledger is one and the same. We laugh, anticipating our meal even more, knowing that each plate of pasta, each serving of carpaccio will be just as it was almost fifteen years ago. And we are reminded that here, in Italy, nothing really ever changes, at least not the good things. Or politics.

And on and on goes the weekend: perfect slices of steaming pizza al trancio, by the slice, and thick squares of tender focaccia studded with olives eaten while standing on the sidewalk in front of our best takeaway Pizzeria da Gino; more pizza al trancio, this time dense, chewy, thick deep-dish slices dripping with gooey cheese slathered over spicy rich tomato sauce from da Giuliano; a wander through our favorite market on Piazza Wagner where nothing has changed except a few faces, yet there they are, my favorite men, Vittorio and Franco, behind the cheese counter and we greet each other noisily, happily, while Simon, grown now, tall and lanky, almost fifteen years later, stares on, bemused and embarrassed to be made much over! And they laugh and hand us heavy, pungent chunks of freshly cut Parmesan cheese, just like old times. Ah, the food of Italy, rich and warming, homey comfort food in every shape and form, clean, simple yet fragrant and flavorful, the best the Italian soil has to offer!


Movies! Let’s go to the movies! We press in among the crowd huddled together in the vast yet close plush lobby of the cinema after having pushed our way through the swarming throng around the Duomo and the Galleria on a gray Tuesday afternoon. Tin Tin! In Italian! We love going to the movies in Italy and Simon is pleased to prove to us that, yes indeed, he does understand every single word. And to complete the trip, a fabulous, steaming panzerotto around the corner da Luini, now gone upscale in their wild popularity. And a surprise visit to the old millinery studio where I trained, hugs and laughter and loads of chattering with Nadia and Laura. And I am so pleased to see that Gallia & Peter still remains.

With Jasmine

And we hug Simon arrivederci, addio… until we see each other in just a couple of weeks. And we climb in the car and drive home, back to Nantes, feeling just a little lost, just a tad homesick. Nostalgia for those wonderful times past spent in a city, a country we love pushing us through the mountain tunnel, the violent winds and the heavy rains. To each his or her own thoughts, dragging us on, hour after hour, as night settles upon us and darkness swallows us up. We feel so at home in Italy and wonder when we will be able to go back again…for good.

Where to eat in Milan, Italy:

Panificio da Luini via Santa Radegonda, 16 Milano panzerotti pugliese fritti e al forno

Ristorante Pace via Washington, 74 Milano ristorante toscano

Pizzeria da Giuliano via Paolo Sarpi, 60 Milano pizza al trancio

Pizzeria da Marino via Lodovico Castelvetro, 6 Milano pizza al trancio e cucina toscana

Pizzeria da Gino corso Vercelli, 9 Milano pizza e focaccia al taglio e cucina take away

Gelateria Grom 5 delicious locations in Milano

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