A few weeks ago I turned 28. Yikes. 28 is meant to be one of those ‘turning point’ ages, right? An age where you’re taunted by the looming vision of the big 3 0 and constantly fielding questions about mortgages, your marital status and babies. Happy birthday to me! Maybe I’m in denial, but I chose to ignore the dark side of turning 28 and viewed it just like any other birthday – an amazing excuse to catch up with my nearest and dearest. No scary questions or pressure, just a week of feasts, parties and bubbles with all my favourites. Now that’s more like it.
The only sign that age was creeping up on me were the presents. Thoughtful as ever, my friends and family paid homage to my increasingly gluttonous ways by sticking to a distinct food theme in their gifts. There were glorious bottles of ‘the good wine’, customary jars of nutella to fuel my addiction, and even a rather nifty salad spinner from my brother. I can practically hear my 18 year old self mocking me. But let her mock, because she’s got ten years to wait before she’s gifted with one very special food item indeed; the first of its kind to ever grace my kitchen with its ethereal presence.
My past encounters with truffle have been few but special. There was a truffled pecorino and rocket panino at a hole in the wall bar in Florence, a white truffle pizza in Lisbon with shavings of truffle AND truffle oil, and the almighty truffled Barncliffe Brie at The Greedy Pig’s ‘Roots to Shoots’ pop up. The most notable experience was at The Samling earlier this year, when a canapé of truffled polenta on a truffled mayonnaise nearly reduced Rob and I to tears. And just as I thought I’d managed to get it together, they whipped out the truffle risotto. It was emotional.