{"id":16854,"date":"2013-02-27T02:50:21","date_gmt":"2013-02-27T01:50:21","guid":{"rendered":"https:\/\/www.laragazzacolmattarello.com\/apricot-jam-crostata\/"},"modified":"2026-08-26T19:02:28","modified_gmt":"2026-08-26T17:02:28","slug":"apricot-jam-crostata","status":"publish","type":"post","link":"https:\/\/www.laragazzacolmattarello.com\/en\/apricot-jam-crostata\/","title":{"rendered":"Apricot jam crostata"},"content":{"rendered":"

I don’t think you would ever guess which sweet comes to mind when I think of Italy. It’s not the world-famous gelato, nor tiramisu, nor even panna cotta, but the apricot crostata that I used to eat on Saturday afternoons at the bar near our house when we lived in Bracciano. They didn’t have anything else at snack time, since it was a place mainly frequented in the morning and from Monday to Friday. Those crostatine weren’t bad, but not enough to distract me from the fact that it was another Saturday afternoon, of another weekend away from my family, where the most exciting activity I would enjoy would be precisely eating a crostatina, leaning on the counter of a very old-fashioned roadside bar, next to the hospital in the second most boring town in all of Italy, even if the even more popular Tom Cruise and Saint Katie had gotten married in its famous castle. Moments when my mental moderator would get bored until it fell asleep, and the most viscerally human thoughts and feelings would take over to, in short, ask me what the hell I was doing in Italy. I suppose the crostata-longing association from my first months away from home is what made me loathe crostate and Italy for a good while.<\/p>\n

The star of this post, more than a dessert, would fall into the category of pasta, because in its simplest version, the apricot or peach one and the blueberry one, it is usually eaten for breakfast, as a snack, or to accompany a coffee, and very rarely as the final apotheosis of a meal. To find a piece of crostata or a crostatina, the individual version of the crostata, you don’t need to go to a bakery. They have them in bars, bakeries, and supermarkets. The Italian crostata is so old that its exact origins are unknown. There are several stories and even a very curious legend<\/a> circulating, with Naples as the only setting or common point.\"Apricot<\/a> The legend speaks of the spring offerings that the people brought to the Gulf of Naples for the Siren Parthenope. They gave her the most precious things they possessed, which were nothing more than the ingredients of the ricotta crostata separately. One day Parthenope<\/a>, in turn, offered these foods to the Gods; they turned them into the famous sweet, and the siren gifted it to the people as a thank you for the initial offering.<\/p>\n

For some time now, I have reconciled with the crostata. I don’t know if it’s because the one I make myself at home has made me rediscover it, or perhaps because, in general, since we are talking about little mermaids, I have stopped suffering from the complex that tormented me while I was eating it. It is hard to leave everything from one day to the next for love; to sacrifice your own voice, which is nothing more than the possibility of expressing yourself in your own language, which at the same time means not only a way of speaking, but of living, the symbol of a land, of a way of understanding the world and, above all, not having your family nearby. Complaining, however, turns out to be endearingly ridiculous when it turns out that the only volunteer for your exile has been yourself. Besides, it is time wasted that you could invest in adapting, seeing the advantages that a new place offers you, learning from the customs of others. I think that, as of today, I am fully integrated, but if for some reason I had to return with my tail between my legs, at least I could say that I have learned to make a more than acceptable crostata.<\/p>\n

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