In Beloeil, on our last evening, I made malfatti. Gnocchi, malfatti, I am not sure that there is a difference. They are not hard to do, just time consuming, in a quiet way, and we had time. We fell fast into the rhythm of the house, where evenings are early and supper is at 6, so I started making them around 4.30, when darkness had already fallen between the window and the humped mountain that fills its view - Mont St Hilaire. Brigitte coloured in a mandala at the white table where we eat, Germaine worked out a crossword in French, sounding the clues out loud, every now and then, Brigitte answering.
A bottle of red wine was open in the kitchen where wine is not usually drunk, and sips of it kept me company as I shaped the endless little balls before rolling each lightly into its small log shape.
I doubled my usual recipe, to feed four, and as each rose to the surface of the water roiling in two pots, I scooped it gently with a perforated spoon onto a waiting, warm plate. They did not like being stacked, so if you make them, keep them in single layer, but otherwise they tasted good. The Quebec breadcrumbs were finer than the ones I use, and the enourmous amount of raw spinach was baby leaves, which made a finer leaf base, but still worked well, after the usual squeezing and wringing to remove every last drop of moisture.
Melted butter, sage, another dusting of parmesan.
The recipe is over at 66 Square Feet (the Food).