In 1944, my mother and grandmother returned from their three years of exile in the USA on a United States army ship via the Port of Casablanca in North Africa. Fiammetta was 29. She was feeling enormously homesick for Italy, despite having enjoyed her American adventure – her time in New York in particular. Her father had never let her stop feeling for Italy during their many years of exile and her whole being ached for the country she loved. She told me often how the thought of being back on Italian soil had kept her from sleeping during the entire voyage home.
Carlo, eager to get back into frontline politics as quickly as possible, had set off for England with his son, Sforzino, several months earlier on one of the rare transatlantic flights. One of the first things he did once he had landed in the UK was to meet with Winston Churchill for some rather frank and explosive discussions. Carlo still felt keenly that his warnings about the dangers of Mussolini’s leadership and its potential outcomes should have been heeded by Churchill before the war, who had instead turned a deaf ear to them.
Fiammetta and Valentine followed by ship, having packed up their belongings and said goodbye to all the good friends they had made. It was time to go home at last. The ship was filled with GIs, on their way to liberate Italy. Mostly, these were men who had never been outside their own home state, let alone the country. They were overexcited at being on the ship and a part of the war. My mother told me that it was on this voyage that she first properly awoke to a wider sexual understanding. She had never been exposed to the kind of exhibitionism these boys adopted, partly to cover up their terror of war. She sat watching them, quietly knitting a jumper to keep her hands busy, while her emotions ran high.
Their first stop, once safely across the Atlantic, was the port of Casablanca. Having eaten a Moroccan dinner of spicy bean soup, chicken tagine and lamb and date stew accompanied by a mountain of cinnamon-scented couscous, Fiammetta settled her mother in her room with a tray of mint tea and a little dish of almond sweetmeats. She went downstairs to the hotel foyer, too excited to sleep. Italy was just across the water and she could not wait to breathe the air of home once again. The heat was oppressive and the GIs noisy. She sat in a corner with her knitting, watching them cavort with the local women, who looked exotic in their Moroccan clothes. She sat there deep into the night as they came and went. There appeared to be no end of available women and the young men seemed to her impossibly far away from their squeaky clean all-American homes, wrapped in their brown, bangle-covered arms.
At about 3 o’clock in the morning, a timid Italian man approached Fiammetta and sat down beside her.
“Are you the Contessina Sforza?” he whispered. “On your way home?”
“Si,” she replied, continuing to knit.
“Please come with me, Contessina,” he begged. “There is something you can do for your country right away. We need you.”
In hindsight, Fiammetta realized that it had been very risky to believe this man and let him lead her away, but that is exactly what happened. In the back of a jeep, with no headlights to light their way through the dark streets of wartime Casablanca, my mother lurched around, hanging on for dear life. She did not know where she was going, though in her heart she was certain that she was meant to be there, and that she was destined to help her countrymen. Out into the desert night they went, on and on until they came upon a fenced-in area about the size of a football pitch, next to a few basic huts.
The driver of the jeep signalled just once with his torch and they got out. My mother walked with him across the cold sand in the dark until they were up against the fence of the compound. On the other side, a hundred or more Italian prisoners of war emerged from out of the darkness, whispering to Fiammetta and slipping tiny bits of paper into her hands.
“Please let my family know I’m alive.”
“Please Contessina, tell my mother I am safe.”
“Contessina, tell my children I love them.”
Right, my dad – the handsome devil! Below, my mum falling in love with my dad.
Fiammetta took the scraps of paper and, touching the outstretched hands through the wire fence, she promised the parents, sons, daughters, wives, husbands, brothers, sisters and nonni that she would do everything she possibly could to pass on their messages as soon as she was back in Italy.
Then there was a sudden movement over by the huts and a flash of light from another torch. Fiammetta’s companion quickly pulled her away from the fence and thrust her into the jeep. Moments later they were on their way back, my mother’s hands filled with scraps of paper covered in tiny writing. Neither the driver nor Fiammetta spoke a single word on their journey. She never knew his name or heard from him again.
As soon as Fiammetta was safely back in her hotel room she unravelled her knitting wool and rewound it around the little bits of paper. She was sure that her luggage would be searched repeatedly on their way home and it was the only place she could think of hiding them. During the rest of the voyage her mind was whirling: how was she going to track down these people’s families and not break her promises? Her knitting, buried at the bottom of her belongings, remained untouched, the secrets inside the ball of yarn kept safe.
The following evening, the ship docked in Naples and mother and daughter travelled on to Rome where they were finally reunited with Carlo and Sforzino. It was wonderful to be home and to be among their family and friends, but Italy was in a dreadful state at the end of the war and there was much to do. As soon as the family was settled, Fiammetta set out to find those people whose addresses were hidden in her knitting wool. And so began her personal and extraordinary mission that was to lead to her meeting the love of her life – my father.
On her forays into the countryside outside Rome, Fiammetta always took along a willing GI who would have no complaints about spending his day off with a beautiful girl who spoke Italian and English so perfectly. Together, they sought out lost children – orphaned or abandoned by their parents – many of whom were sheltering in the ruins of their homes alone and living, quite literally, off the land. My mother found many young children, damaged by their experiences of war. She would load them into the truck and take them home to her parents’ house. She scrubbed and washed them, cuddled and fed them as best she could. Some of them – those who had wintered outside for more than one season – had developed a natural grey down all over their bodies. It was a simple gift from Mother Nature, to protect them from the cold, my mother told me: “It just went away after the third bath.” Fiammetta would care for these children’s physical wounds and then try to find them a new home.
“In the end,” she told me, “I persuaded some of the Yanks to adopt them. Many of the children went to live in the States. They still write sometimes, and some of their children too.”
My mother never forgot those Italian voices that asked for her help in the desert. Her quest to find the relatives of the prisoners of war she had met in Casablanca led her to seek help from the Office for War Information. It was there that she met my father, Howard, whose job it was to to reunite all those families that had been displaced and torn apart by the war. The spark between my parents was ignited at a New Year’s Eve party on 31 December 1944.
My dad.
This lovely, tangy, rich chicken dish is very typical of the best kind of Moroccan cooking. My mother used to make this in an old clay tagine, and served it on top of a pile of fluffy couscous, steamed over a pan of simmering chicken stock.
Serves 4–6
Preparation time: 30 minutes, plus 1 hour marinating
Cooking time: about 1 hour
1.3–1.8kg/3–4lb chicken leg and thigh joints
1 large preserved lemon
2 tbsp olive oil
3 garlic cloves, finely chopped
1 onion, chopped
75g/2½oz mixed olives, stoned
4 tbsp raisins
3 tbsp chopped coriander leaves
3 tbsp chopped parsley leaves
sea salt
steamed couscous, to serve
Spice mix:
2 tsp paprika
1 tsp ground cumin
1 tsp ground ginger
1 tsp turmeric
½ tsp ground cinnamon
¼ tsp freshly ground black pepper
Combine all the spice mix ingredients in a large bowl. Pat the chicken pieces dry with kitchen paper and add to the bowl, then turn to coat them in the spice mixture. Cover and leave to marinate in the fridge for 1 hour.
Meanwhile, rinse the preserved lemon, then remove the rind and discard the pulp. Cut the rind into thin strips and leave to one side.
Heat the oil in a large, heavy-based saucepan over a medium-high heat. Add the chicken pieces, skin side down, sprinkle lightly with salt and fry for 5 minutes until browned all over. (If you are using a clay tagine, put on a diffuser over a medium heat to prevent the tagine from cracking. Do not brown the chicken, but add with the oil, garlic and onion and continue as detailed below.) Reduce the heat to medium-low, add the garlic and onion, then cover and cook for 15 minutes until the onion is soft.
Turn the chicken pieces over, then add 6 tablespoons water and the preserved lemon rind, olives and raisins. Reduce the heat to low, cover and cook for a further 30–40 minutes, adding more water if necessary, until the chicken is cooked through and tender (the juices should run clear when the thickest part of the meat is pierced with the tip of a sharp knife). Stir in the chopped herbs, season with salt and serve with couscous.
My mother always loved dates and we often had them in the house when I was growing up, and not just at Christmas time when they are traditionally most popular. This was one of my mother’s favourite lamb dishes and one which I think must have always reminded her of stopping off in Casablanca during that long voyage back from America over the ocean on her way home to Italy.
Serves 4
Preparation time: 20 minutes
Cooking time: 45 minutes
1 tbsp olive oil
1 onion, finely chopped
500g/1lb 2oz boned lamb steaks, trimmed of fat and cubed
300g/10½oz sweet potatoes, peeled and cut into small chunks
2 tsp ground coriander
2 tsp ground cinnamon
¼ tsp mild chilli powder
juice of 2 clementines
1 tbsp tomato purée
60g/2¼oz/
cup dates, pitted
2 tbsp finely chopped coriander leaves
1 tbsp finely grated unwaxed clementine zest
steamed couscous or rice, to serve
Heat the oil in a large, heavy-based saucepan over a high heat. Add the onion and lamb and fry until the lamb is lightly browned all over, turning frequently. Add the sweet potatoes and spices and mix well.
Add 455ml/16fl oz/scant 2 cups just-boiled water, the clementine juice and tomato purée, stir well, then bring to the boil and cook for 3 minutes. Reduce the heat to low, cover and simmer for 20 minutes, or until the sweet potatoes and lamb are tender. Remove the lid, stir in the dates and simmer for a further 10 minutes until the dates have softened and the sauce has reduced and thickened.
Scatter the coriander and clementine zest over the stew, then serve straightaway with steamed couscous or rice.
A wonderful winter warmer, this is one of those invigorating, almost spine-tingling, soups that also manages to be really satisfying. My mother loved to make it, although she did not use as much harissa as I do. I’m sure it was inspired by the brief time she spent in Casablanca on that arduous journey home. Dried beans, soaked overnight and then cooked (see page 96), can be used instead of tinned, if you like. You need to halve the quantity of beans if using dried rather than canned.
Serves 4–6
Preparation time: 10 minutes
Cooking time: 45 minutes
6 ripe tomatoes
200g/7oz tinned haricot or cannellini beans, drained and rinsed
200g/7oz tinned chickpeas, drained and rinsed
200g/7oz tinned borlotti or pinto beans, drained and rinsed
1 large onion, finely chopped
2 tbsp lemon juice
1 tsp ground cumin
1 tsp turmeric
50g/1¾oz/¼ cup long-grain rice
2 tbsp chopped coriander leaves, plus extra to serve
2 tsp harissa paste
sea salt and freshly ground black pepper
Cut a cross in the bottom of each tomato, using a sharp knife, then put them in a heatproof bowl and cover with just-boiled water. Leave to stand for 2–3 minutes, then drain. Peel off and discard the skins, then deseed and roughly chop the flesh.
Put all the beans in a large saucepan with the onion, tomatoes, lemon juice and spices. Add 1.75l/60fl oz/6
cups water and bring to the boil, then reduce the heat, cover and simmer for 30 minutes.
Stir in the rice and simmer for a further 12 minutes, or until the rice is tender. Stir in the coriander and harissa, then season with salt and pepper to taste. Serve the soup topped with extra coriander.
I love this salad, which is a great way to use both carrots and radishes, and, like my mother, I love using orange-flower water, with its amazingly elusive flavour. I have always associated oranges with North Africa, Morocco in particular, as they have a special sweetness there that is quite unique. Orange blossom will always remind me of my mother, and the story she told me of her wedding day and the gift she received from her cousin Giovannino Sforza of a dachshund puppy, sitting in a box filled with orange blossom!
Serves 4
Preparation time: 15 minutes
450g/1lb carrots, peeled and grated
2 oranges, peeled and segmented
1 large onion, diced
4 large radishes, thinly sliced
2 tbsp chopped coriander leaves
warm pitta bread, to serve
Dressing:
3 tbsp olive oil
2 tbsp lemon juice
2 tbsp orange juice
2 tsp orange-flower water
1 tsp ground cinnamon
2 tbsp chopped coriander leaves
sea salt and freshly ground black pepper
Combine the carrots, oranges, onion, radishes and coriander in a salad bowl.
To make the dressing, whisk together the olive oil, lemon and orange juice, orange-flower water and cinnamon. Season with salt and pepper and continue to whisk the dressing until slightly thickened. Stir in the chopped coriander.
Pour the dressing over the salad. Toss everything together, then cover and chill until ready to serve. Scatter the coriander leaves over and serve with warm pitta bread.
My mother and father’s wedding day at the Campidoglio, Rome, 1946.
