Do Vampires Drink Blood Orange Juice?

This question about vampires popped into my head as I was squeezing out my morning glass. Blood orange season is at its peak here, and these noble orbs from Sicily dominate every fruit stand in Italy. When the season begins just after Christmas, I start buying oranges for juice. At first, they look like any orange when you cut into them—they’re orange. But as the season progresses, a little tinge of red appears. It  resembles a drop of blood in a basin of water the way it appears to spread across the orange pulp.

At the beginning of the season, when the pulp is more orange than red, the juice acquires a rosy glow. As the season waxes, the red pulp overtakes the orange and the juice becomes redder and redder. It’s on the wane now, and the red is diminishing each day. At this point, a bag of oranges is like Forrest Gump’s box of chocolate: you never know what you’re going to get. This morning, for example, the first orange I cut into had barely any red at all. The second one was mahogany. But the juice was a rich rose, and the taste exquisite.

At this time of year, oranges dominate our menus, too. A couple of weeks ago, I unearthed a duck breast from my freezer (part of a duck I’d bought a few months ago and cut into individual portions). I sautéd it with a little garlic, adding blood orange juice to cook a sauce, and finally the orange sections at the last minute. Delicious!

But blood oranges are eaten fresh more often than cooked. One of my favorite ways of eating them is in a salad with fennel and black olives. It’s simple, tasty, and can be made with any type of oranges, but blood ones add a beautiful color.

BLOOD ORANGE, FENNEL, AND OLIVE SALAD

(serves 2)

1 large fennel bulb

2-3 blood oranges (or regular oranges)

½ cup oil cured black olives

Extra virgin olive oil (to taste)

Black pepper (to taste)

1.
   Wash the fennel and cut out the tough core. Slice very thinly. You can do this by hand or with your food processor blade. I use a little slicer available in markets here for around $8.

2. 
  Using a sharp knife, peel and cut out the orange sections from the pith.

3. 
    Arrange the fennel on a plate; place the oranges and olives evenly on top.

4. 
    Add a few grindings of black pepper. The olives are salty enough, so you won’t need salt.

5. 
    Drizzle on the olive oil.

Cultural note: The Italian translation of “to taste” is quanto basta which literally means “enough.” Italian recipes often have the abbreviation q.b. meaning “to taste.”

              

What Is in a Name?

     Google Alerts delivered this message two days after my first blog post: Patricia Winton Police Blotter. I read “blogger” instead of “blotter,” and a bubble of joy filled my chest. I thought my blog had made some list and I’d have readers beyond friends and family. I clicked and saw: Patricia Winton Arrest. The bubble burst and bile rose in my throat. I clicked again and saw: Patricia Z arrested in Winton, California.

     This is the second time in four months that Google Alerts has delivered news of Patricia Winton’s arrest. Back in December, on Rome’s coldest day this winter, I had two hours to kill between appointments. I wandered into a department store where I walked the aisles, fingering candles and pajamas and soup pots. Anything to pass the time in a warm place.

     Everywhere I went, I saw the same two guys. One looked like store security in his spiffy suit and shiny shoes. The other, a muscular guy in raggedy track suit and tattered sneakers, looked like he was there to rob the place. They were in house wares; they were in lingerie; they were in handbags. I lingered in handbags to buy a wallet.

     As I left the store, I noticed a little beep, but nothing alarming. Suddenly, the burly guy I had seen earlier leapt into my path and showed me ID. He was store security and the little beep I heard was in fact an alarm. “Signora,” he said. “Did you leave without paying?” As I began searching the two bags I was carrying to locate the wallet and receipt, he kept peppering me with questions. “Did you just forget to pay?” A crowd gathered. The questions continued. The crowd grew larger. The more questions he asked, the more agitated I became. I fumbled with zippers. I rattled paper. Just as he was reaching for my arm to take me who knows where, I found the wallet and receipt. He examined them both, glanced at me and said, “You’ll have to take these back to the cashier.” No smile and no apology.

     The very next day, Google Alerts delivered the news that Patricia Winton had been arrested for shoplifting. You can’t imagine the emotions that roiled in my chest that time, especially since the woman was my age and in my home state of Tennessee. The coincidence is uncanny. I come from a law enforcement family: my father was a sheriff and my sister worked for the FBI. It’s a weird feeling to have my name on the wrong side of the law.

     So I’m wondering, is it a good thing or bad for a mystery writer to share a name with jailbirds? I hope you’ll leave a comment with your thoughts on the question.