Ciao Italophile friends! Today I will share with you a typical lazy Sunday in my Italian home. If you’d like to live like an Italian for a day, perhaps you can get some inspiration!
how to spend a lazy Sunday at home, Italian style!
Still in bed, while your husband goes to the neighborhood “bar”, coffee shop, to buy Cornetti for breakfast, you plan lunch.
You forgot to buy the oranges for the “spremuta” (freshly squeezed orange juice), so you make some tea. You serve it in your cute porcelain cups.
You arrange the flowers your husband brought home. Dragon flowers in Italy are called Bocche Di Leone, lion’s mouths. He added a few red, velvety sprigs, sure they’d look perfect on the chimney mantle.
With the pinkish sprigs, you try your first Ikebana arrangement with the base your sister gifted you for Christmas. But first, you take a cute picture of Simposio. The light is great.
You take a shower and spray yourself some “Acqua Di San Giovanni“.
You clean the dishes. Fine china can’t go in the dishwasher.
You take a cute picture of the flower that fell on the marble.
You check the aromatics on the balcony, water them, sigh cause some bird has been pricking at them. You remove weeds and pray for basil to survive winter.
You start cooking lunch. Cut an Italian sausage into chunks. Decide you’ll add new flavors to the “sugo con le salsicce”. First, a couple of sage leaves you eyed on the balcony while checking the plants. Second, a bay leaf, one of the ones that nonna-in-law gave you. A friend living in the countryside and with a giant tree replenished her. When you went visit, she was just drying them inside a big ceramic bowl. And filled a plastic bag for you, giving you exact instructions on how to dry and store the leaves. That you, of course, forgot.
But you won’t certainly skip the cinnamon stick you always add to sausage sauce.
You open the passata bottle, grumbling because it’s the one your mother-in-law left behind the last time she was in Rome – but not your usual brand. A never-ending battle between Tuscany and Puglia produce.
You add the tomato paste to the pan, fill the bottle with a couple of cups of water and swirl, both to clean it and add every drop of salsa to the pan. You cover the pan and leave its content to its destiny.
You remember you must cook the “broccoli romani” before they begin to stink.
You overcook them, like any decent Italian would, but steam them to retain the more nutrients possible.
You gaze at the polenta from red corn you bought at that cute little delicatessen your friend Elena recommended. You must go back and get another package. Never experienced such a velvety polenta!
You try to guess the correct amount of water to boil – too lazy to go check. Same for salt. But you do weigh the polenta: you’re keeping an eye on portions after the holiday indulgence.
You go crazy trying to find the wooden polenta dishes. Under your nose, as always.
You concede a few drops of extra virgin olive oil (Coratina, the one you brought from Puglia last time) to the broccoli and add a few grinds of pepper for extra flavor.
You decide the bellied oil bottle you bought in Grottaglie, the Apulian town of ceramics, needs a clean. And discover it’s not that easy.
You set an improvised table – but with flowers.
You grate your 36 months aged Parmigiano.
You go grab a bottle of your favorite mineral water – “leggermente frizzante”, lightly sparkling, Acqua di Nepi – from the pantry. No wine. You drank plenty yesterday night.
You taste the sugo. Decide it’s ready.
You dispute with your husband because he’s putting a soccer match on tv. Settle for no volume and a vinyl.
You enjoy lunch chatting and commenting on the food and last night’s jazz concert.
You partially clean up the table and dishes. There’s time. It’s Sunday.
You pour a few drops of lavender, sage, and neroli essential oils into a small water bowl and place it over the radiator.
You pour yourself a cup of the tea you made. It’s good, a bit bitter.
You put on an episode of the Netflix show you’re watching.
You take a “pisolino“, nap. Sleep lightly, mostly dreaming of future projects – a Cicchetti night and a Jane Austen day in Villa Borghese. You wake up to take notes.
You read a book about Casanova.
You heat another cup of tea.
You watch a documentary about Venice’s toxic tourism.
It’s time to order pizza delivery. One thick, one thin. One with Provola and Speck, One with porcini mushrooms.
You have a little chat with the sweet raspy-voiced lady of the pizzeria.
You devour the pizza sitting on the sofa while watching a movie.
That’s it! I hope this sincere recount is a bit of inspiration for your lovely, lazy Italian Sundays!