It was. The shop, no larger than your average living room, was nothing short of a temple of Sardinian gastronomy. The walls were lined with dried goods: cassuli - a short pasta that vaguely resembles maggots (but don't let that put you off), pan carasau - a thin crispbread also known as carta di musica (music sheets) because it is as translucent as manuscript paper, and bottarga - dried mullet roe which makes for sensational spaghetti. Only the English signs betrayed the fact that this was Britain, otherwise I could have quite happily believed that I had just stepped off a dusty, sunbaked street in Olbia or Cagliari, rather than a grey, English car park in a torrential downpour. 

After scrutinising each row in turn (and trying to visualise my last bank statement) I turned to the sleek, glass counter that ran the length of the room. It contained a vast range of salumi and preserved fish, and a selection of cheeses that put most British supermarkets to shame. There was pecorino sardo, scamorza, parmigiano reggiano, and, wonder of wonders, at least three different types of ricotta. In England, ricotta is only really found in its spoonable, pasteurised form, made with cow's-milk. In Italy, the traditional sheep's milk version is widely available, and is sold in varying stages of maturity. And I have never met a ricotta I didn't like. As a result, we emerged fifteen minutes later with a large brown bag's worth of purchases. (Please don't mention the bank statement.) The rain had not dispersed but I paid it no mind - blue skies were surely in store.

It's quite remarkable how a good cheese can improve a meal, whether or not it plays a central role. My maternal grandparents almost always have a cheese course (pre-dessert, naturally, we are foreigners after all) and I have many a fond memory of slathering Boursin over baguette, watching the adults close their eyes and sigh at the discovery of a new comté or gorgonzola. At home we ate cheese in a more functional way: melted in béchamel, grated on pasta or squished into sandwiches, and so I have always regarded this extra course as a treat, a habit reserved for holidays. Unwrapping our new cheeses from L'Isola Buona after dinner, I found myself giggling at this almost clandestine luxury. We cut cautiously into each piece and speared chunks on our knives. There was a great deal of sighing all round. The clear winner was ricotta mustia - a slightly smoked, aged cheese, milky white in colour with a subtle, creamy flavour. It tasted like every summer holiday I have ever had. 

In order to preserve this sensation, these cheeses have appeared in numerous recipes throughout the first month of my challenge. I added cubes of ricotta mustia to a 9pm omelette with spring onions, parsley and dill, which my even my sister (who shudders at the smell of eggs) considered worth eating. On another occasion, crumbly ricotta salata turned out to be a natural partner for a salad of fresh broad beans and fennel. The pinnacle, though, was pasta alla norma, a Sicilian dish combining tomatoes, aubergines and basil, where my love of ricotta salata began six years ago.


I was on holiday in France, visiting a medieval village called Roquebrune-cap-Martin high in the hills between Nice and Monaco. Nestled in the curve of one of the winding, cobbled streets was a tiny Sicilian restaurant, run by a short pensioner with pinned grey hair and a floral housecoat. My mum always says you can trust a restaurant run by a grandmother, and she was right: it turned out to be the best meal of the whole trip. I can't remember what anyone else ate because my memories are wholly taken up with the joy of discovering this legendary pasta dish.


Pasta alla norma has summer in its very soul: its success lies not only in the skill of the cook, but the use of ingredients that have matured slowly in scorching Mediterranean heat, until they are swollen with a sweet and heady ripeness. In this first encounter I was presented with a stack of slick, fried aubergines, piled atop a mountain of scarlet-stained spaghetti, covered with a snowy dusting of ricotta salata. (This was perhaps no accident: it is said that the presentation of the dish is meant to mimic Mount Etna.) I was intrigued by this cheese, having never come across it before; it was slightly salty, but a far cry from the intense savoury hit of parmesan. It matched the dish perfectly and I loved it; I have been waiting for an opportunity to recreate that meal ever since.

So in 2017, with a block of this very cheese sitting patiently in my fridge, it was finally time to have a go. The method was roughly based on Felicity Cloake's "How to make the perfect" recipe, plus some pasta sauce tips from Delia Smith and my grandmother. As Cloake suggests, I opted to roast, rather than fry the aubergines, which is highly controversial, but necessary given the state of our extractor fan. It also helps, in my opinion, to bring out the depth of flavour in the aubergines, preventing them from tasting of nothing but cooking oil. I tipped them directly into my basil-laced tomato sauce, brought it to the boil, added a slug of red wine (thank you, Nonna) and left it to simmer and think about life for a good half an hour. As I stirred in the penne, it made a wonderfully unctuous sucking sound, which I took to be a promising sign. 


Finally it was time to bring out the cheese. I unwrapped it carefully from its waxy paper, fervently hoping that I was not about to be disappointed. I wasn't. Like a well-chosen piece of jewellery, the ricotta brought out the best of the pasta's features, without dominating the ensemble. It offered the slightest of edges against the sweetness of the tomatoes and the richness of the caramelised aubergines, but did not monopolise the flavour. My dining companions decided that the whole thing tasted "legit", a conclusion with which I was more than satisfied. Of course it didn't taste quite like the original dish from that holiday; no amount of cheese can really replicate cloudless skies or the thrill of summer freedom. But it warmed me from head to toe, as though the ingredients still carried with them the heat of that southern sun. For the first time in a little while, I found myself smiling. And that, for now, is enough.