November 22 - Opelas
My Italian teacher is married to a musician. Patrick plays all around Italy in a number of bands. He is a string man -- primarily fiddle -- but if it has strings, he can master it. One of the bands he plays in has become "the voice of the Italian left". Interestingly enough that voice is Celtic. They appear at rallies and demonstrations, including the big antiwar march in Florence earlier this year, playing traditional Irish songs of protest and defeat. Ironic?
Luckily for me, they had a local gig this month at a small restaurant and club in Umbertide. Patrick writes and composes his own music, kind of Celtic inspired instrumental work. He appeared with one of the band incarnations -- two Italians, an Englishman and a Basque. They are a lively, toe-tappin', knee-slappin' bunch, focusing on spirited folk music. Its a performance that makes you want to dance.
The venue was Opelas, a combination Thai restaurant, musical club and roving dance troupe. At certain times of the year, Opelas tours with the dance club. I suppose the restaurant shuts down while they are dancing elsewhere. When not touring, locals are able to enjoy a close approximation of Thai cuisine and a revolving door of good musical performances. Opelas attracts the intelligentsia of Umbertide -- the misfits, the young sophisticates pining for bigger and better things. Well, they dress like young sophisticates biding their time before they break away for the big city. Who really knows what their dreams are, but these are not the folks I see at the local coffee bar where the old men play cards.
I have not tried the food yet. Coming from SF, I fear it will not stack up. But then again, it is all we have. The music I am familiar with. The few times I've come to see a band I've not been disappointed. That night there were a large number of ex-pats on hand. Probably the connection to Patrick. I met Mark Wholey, Dorothy and her friend Annette (a local German woman). We ordered beers and settled in for the show.
Patrick's band was great fun -- strong, confident and lively. My feet tattooed the beat. Unfortunately, young Italians are much like high school Americans, "boys over here, girls over there". They look at each other but pretend not to look. And no one, except silly foreigners, dances. The band played a number of traditional Irish folk songs, like "Dirty Old Town", but other songs were Patrick's originals. They even slipped in a Basque song, hauntingly sung in Basque.
I was transported back to my days of playing soccer and drinking in the SF Irish bars, and loved it all. After the show, I bought a few of their CDs. Italy has some oddball laws and regulations. One actually suppresses the sale of original work by insisting on a number of forms and taxes be paid at the time of sale. It's a cumbersome process, so most performers avoid it. Patrick could not actually say he had CDs to sell, he just heaped them up at the base of the stage and hoped none of the "financial police" were in the crowd. For a culture that reveres art, the day to day process is singularly anti-artist.
November 19
In Umbria, our Thanksgiving was early. Jan and Melchiorre work on the real day, so we moved everything forward a bit. We set a table for 17 people and our 20 lb big-boy turkey. The balance was just right... conversation flowed. We made enough food but not too much. Instead of having everyone bring something different, we tried to focus on 3 dishes that everyone could have significant helpings of. Ginda and Mike made cranberry sauce from the real deal... cranberries brought lovingly over in someone's luggage from the US. I made mashed potatoes. But the hit of the day was the turkey.
Picture this, if you can. It's a 20-lber and Melchiorre was not sure we would be able to fit it into the oven so he de-boned it. He de-boned a 20-lb Thanksgiving turkey. When we saw it, it resembled a large wet dishrag lumped in the pan. Jan and I looked at each other with round eyes... Oh my, how to handle that? It really was a funny sight, me holding the breastmeat up so Jan could cram the stuffing into what was once the ribcage area. Eventually, the stuffing held the turkey up so it resembled a bird with shape. The bird was treated as well as any virgin being prepared for sacrifice. We slid butter and fresh herbs under the skin, and coated him with fresh olive oil. Then slid him into the oven. Our turkey cooked beautifully. We had a moment or two of pause, trying to figure out if the lack of bones would affect cooking time. But nothing went amiss. And it was easy to carve. Not that I would ever recommend de-boning a whole turkey. I think Melchiorre just wanted the experience.
We all had generous helpings of our traditional fare. The guest list included American, British, and Italian guests. Toasts were made in various languages. Everyone was sated.
Olive picking
Every year between October and December, depending on local beliefs, the Italians get out the nets and start hauling the olives in for pressing and curing. Olives are not a high margin crop. It is next to impossible to hire pickers. Most folks force the family and coax the friends into lending a hand. Depending on the weather, it can be light-hearted fun or sheer drudgery. The olives must be picked, so you are out there, rain or shine, attempting to beat the wind or the frost to the fruit. The best olive oil is pressed from young olives picked from the tree, and squeezed as soon as they are harvested. Some families prefer to wait until the olives fall off the trees, but the olive fanatic knows that these olives are not at their best. Therefore the oil is not at its best. The finest oil, from the first press, is bright green, cloudy and very flavorful. Traditionally, a families olive harvest oil is for their own use, a years worth of cooking oil with perhaps some gifts for friends and a portion set aside as a thank you to the pickers.
Jan and I went up to Stefano's to help him with his harvest. He has about 100 or 150 olive trees planted on terraces high in the Niccone Valley. Stefano is an interesting character. Born and raised in Rome, he was a professional accountant for many years, but he gave it all up to live an independent life in the countryside. He raises his own sheep and chickens for meat and has a large garden of vegetables which are frozen, pickled and canned for the year.
At 9am, the morning was warm and balmy. Stefano was already out in the trees with his two dogs and all the equipment. He showed us how to lay the nets out, covering a wide swath of ground under the branches, tucking close to the trunk to prevent runaways and anchoring the ends that slope down the hill to posts to create a natural basket. As you pick, you push the olives toward the slope and they roll out of your way to the safety of the net. Otherwise, they get squished underfoot and under bum. Once the nets were secured, he set us to stripping the green and purple olives from the tree. We had a great time, Jan sang songs her grandparents taught her. Stefano joined in with the Italian songs he knew. We chatted and asked questions. At lunch, Stefano herded us back to the house and fixed un buon pranzo (a good lunch) for his diligent workers.
November 14
Thanksgiving is coming. Today we went out in to the countryside to pick out our turkey. Normally, I avoid meeting the main course. However, Melchiorre knows a woman who raises her own poultry. We are planning a Thanksgiving for about 17 people, a big turkey is key.
Gloria's house is an agritourismo (a B&B/working farm) and it looks more like a farm than a B&B. It's not quaint and well manicured with green lawn and pots of flowers. It's dusty with chicken wire fences propping up old tools. No sprays of climbing roses or charming old gates to walk through. There is a dirt road and a passel o' chickens running around. Its real.
There were 4 turkeys -- 3 white and one black. Two were huge monsters with beautiful blue and red heads. They looked a little vulture-like. Melchiorre chased one down and got it in a headlock. They carted him up to the barn to be weighed -- poor creature -- feet tied together and hoisted upside down into the balance. I am a sucker for animals... no matter how stupid. When he was righted, but still tied, I hugged our turkey and smoothed his feathers. He lost a few long, white feathers in the struggle, so I picked them up as a little remembrance. Given another hour I might have named him and refused to eat him. So turkey chosen, his death warrant signed, we set delivery for the day after tomorrow. If not us, it would have been someone else. No one raises them as pets.
The Awful, Offal Truth
Melchiorre called Jan, with a culinary surprise for us. Would she gather a few other friends together for a special dinner treat? Certo. Of course. No one in his or her right mind passes up a chef's invitation to dinner. Melchiorre is closed-mouthed as to the menu, but we are instructed to prepare a salad and dessert. (Melchiorre is a meat and fire guy. If he had been raised in America, he would be King of the Backyard Barbecue.)
At 7ish he arrives, bustling with his preparations for the antipasto and main course. This will be a simple, seasonal peasant meal. As this is pig-killing season, pork will feature heavily. Yum.
It's a crisp fall day and the sun is setting over the Tiber. A fire is crackling in the hearth, and a basket of chestnuts waits to be roasted and split. Jan sets a lovely table for seven -- Katherine and Lenny, Paola and her friend Christina, Jan, Melchiorre and me. We have candles, fresh bread and a persimmon and fennel salad. Everyone brings a bottle of wine.
I ask Jan if she has been told what the surprise is. "Yes." She gives me a look that is not quite a smile, not quite a grimace. The one where the eyes open wide as you smile, sending the message that something bad is happening... there is a man in the hall with a knife and please do not react and give it away. Or, Melchiorre is in the kitchen with something awful. Ah, now I know my American palate is in for a challenge. Innards. Offal. Such is the life of a foreigner abroad. You must try everything, keeping an open mind and learning about the culture and the history. The history of food... the history of poverty-stricken people who barely had enough to survive. They eat every bit of an animal. Bits we boil up for the cat or ask the butcher to "please take it away".
For antipasto, we had sanguinaccio. Those with a Latin language background already have a foretaste... no pun intended. Sanguinaccio is a bit like Irish black pudding. Basically, it's the blood of the animal captured and cooked. In this case, cooked and stuffed into sausage casings so it can be sliced and fried. What struck me funny was our bright, upbeat manner of disguising our first reaction... fear.
Melchiorre is sharing a family recipe with us. Sharing a peasant tradition and I am scrambling to balance an impulse to run with a genuine desire to be part of his experience. I'm expecting that we all try a slice and we move on to the next course graciously. Instead, we get into a Chaplinesque pantomime of justifying the smallest slice possible without seeming ungrateful. I was in the post position... first slice and no idea there might be a chance to trade down. Jan was next, and used the "diet card" as the reason for not tucking in. She killed three birds with one stone by offering to divide her one slice with Paola and Christina, both of whom were looking for an easy out. That left Katherine and Lenny, who were genuinely pleased to try some... but just one. And me, wishing we'd been able to split Jan's slice in fourths. Facing a generous helping, it was critical to divorce from reality. In some ways, the taste was similar to liver... a velvety texture and a strong flavor. Not unpleasant, but not on my list of most requested dishes. I ate it but did not request seconds.
So, sanguinaccio laid to rest, I looked forward to the main course which I hoped was fresh pork chops or ribs. Wrong. Next up, frito. Frito (and its lamb equivalent, coratella) is a traditional fall/winter dish. It is a large bowl of pig innards sautéed with onion and wine. I don't ask the details of which innards beyond the expected liver, heart, kidneys I expect there are a few other things in there that I do not want to know about. The lamb version is minced finely. Frito is coarsely chopped with cubes of fat. It makes me queasy to describe it.
I try. I do try to partake in the experience and enjoy the opportunity. Frankly, if I'd known organ meats were on the menu, I'd have eaten a big sandwich before dinner. Melchiorre handles these dishes well the flavors are good, with depth. He is the kind of person who enjoys these dishes. He is the guy who requests the head when pig or a lamb is roasted. Eyeballs, brains and innards are right up his palate. I can't keep up. I'm just not an offal fan.
The salad was next. A bed of valerian with sliced fennel and a persimmon dressing. I had three helpings. Dessert was ice cream and cookies. The wine got me through with a smile on my face.
November 10
Life here revolves around food and the act of sharing food. It goes beyond eating, encompassing hospitality, preparation and the people with whom you are surrounded. Fresh, well-prepared food is a priority -- a given. It's hard to explain because we do not have an equivalent in the US. We've strayed from the original model. Some Americans have a passion for food for experiencing the finest ingredients transformed into well prepared, intriguing meals. But its not a communal activity. In some ways, it is more of a competitive event, full of research and arcane knowledge, secret handshakes and knowing glances. We have rediscovered heirloom tomatoes, organic poultry, and obscure sea salts. But not the conviviality of a relaxed, shared experience.
Here, much of a given week is taken up with shared meals -- with dinners, lunches and social invitations. Hence, so many journal entries that revolve around food. I've been pondering it a lot because I seem to have little time to devote to my journal these days. Or even to real work. Here, life and other people are a priority. Here, an hour on the computer is often bumped by an invitation to lunch or a call to take a walk in the hills. In the US, work took precedence over everything. Here, its people.
This week I went to Stefano's for our semi-weekly conversation lesson. We get together a few times a week to speak in English, then in Italian... a concerted effort to push our respective vocabularies to that next step. This week we read from some beginner reader English books for him, then shifted to Italian and prepared a dinner together. His son, Fabrizio, who lives in Rome, came up with his girlfriend Guissi. Stefano is from Rome. I think he would want me to make that clear. Stefano is Romano.
My Italian lesson lasted from 6pm until the wee hours and included a history of Rome and Italian politics, with some Roman slang thrown in for good measure. Fabrizio was charming. We set the table together, repeating the proper Italian and English word for each plate, cup and utensil before placing it. Stefano and I talked through what all the food was and how it was prepared. During dinner, he and Fabrizio got into a heated discussion of Italian politics. Stefano is usually quite controlled and even-toned. For the first time, I heard him yell. I suspect Fabrizio was winding his dad up a bit, but the effect was quite amusing. I learned all about the rise and fall of the various governments. Did you know that Italy has the distinction of having the more changes in government (since unification in the late 1800s) than any European nation? Instability and chaos is the name of the game. It was a very intense and enjoyable evening. By 1a.m., my head was swimming. I had hit vocal paralysis. There was no way to respond in Italian to anything. All I could do was say, "Devo andare al letto." I must go home to bed.
A short postscript. Evidently Stefano called Jan the next day, worried that the length and intensity of the evening might have upset me... perhaps even driven me away entirely. As if.
November 9 -- A cozy dinner in the grotto
This week I had my first real dinner party at the grotto. Just something small -- 5 people -- Jan, Katherine, Lenny, and Paola, my Italian teacher. It's been nippy here and feels like autumn. I craved fall comfort foods. We started with fresh ricotta cheese (made just a few days before by Melchiorre). It was lightly salted and spread onto carta di musica, a Sardinian flatbread. I whipped up a white bean "pate" of cannellini beans, minced shallot and garlic, toasted cumin seed and fresh olive oil (also on the carta di musica). We chatted for quite awhile by the sorgente (spring) before moving to the table.
Michelle and Judith had given me a beautiful tablecloth before they left... a deep green oilcloth with orange persimmons. Very autumnal. The centerpiece played on the persimmon theme -- green ceramic candlesticks, burgundy candles, a small jar of yellow freesia and fresh persimmons. The deep colors work with the stone walls.
For our first course, we had a hearty beef stew. The beef was marinated in red wine, browned in olive oil then simmered with potatoes, shallots, carrots, tomatoes, juniper berries, and bay until it began to pull apart. Paola brought fresh bread, fatto a mano (made by hand) with sunflower and pumpkin seeds. Soooo good with stew. The salad course was a hit -- valerian (a type of mild cress) with sliced fennel, topped with an unusual persimmon vinaigrette. The salad was meant to be a sliced persimmon and fennel salad (with a simple lemon juice/olive oil vinaigrette) however I was forced to change plans. There are two kinds of persimmon -- soft and hard. I needed the former but the Italians grow the latter. While trying to slice the soft persimmons, I realized that they were not going to cooperate. Quickly improvising, I mashed them into pulp (very easy... skinning it gets you 80% there) and blended the sweet pulp with the lemon juice/olive oil vinaigrette. Voila, a new creation... a new creation that worked. Jan wants to recreate it for Christmas. Dessert was a fragrant apple, pear and ginger crumble with thick cream or Greek yogurt to top.
Dinner was satisfying... rich, warm flavors, cozy cold weather food. The sorgente trickled musically in the background, and we chatted until late in the evening.
November 8 It's the Cheese
I have a 5-lb cheese wheel at the house, ripening on the sideboard. Melchiorre did a cheese-making demonstration for a guest who works with the California Cheese Board ("It's the Cheese.") He made four pecorino romano wheels, about 8-9 inches in diameter, from ewe's milk. That was followed with 2 tubs of fresh ricotta from the leftover whey. Everyone at the event was thrilled. The guests were planning to smuggle their 4 cheese wheels back into the US. At the last minute, when packing, they decided that 3 wheels would suffice. I was gifted with the 4th wheel.
It's like having a pet. Every day you have to go to your cheese, wipe it down, turn it and salt it. After a few weeks, its more self-sufficient and can be wiped clean and set to age for a few months on its own. Eventually, we have a "slaughter the cheese party" and the wheel goes under the knife. If I can remember to turn it and salt it every day. Please pray that my cheese does not go belly up on me. I might disgrace Melchiorre, who seems to think that I am a born farm girl.
November 5, Wine Tasting with the Ghost of the Doge
Some friends arranged a small wine tasting at a new winery in the Niccone hills. We had a quick tour of the facility -- a look at the casks and the stainless steel tanks -- then piled into cars and drove up to the owner's home. Our tasting was set up in a large room with windows on 3 sides looking out on lighted lawns and olives. We seated ourselves around an oval meeting table for a guided tour of their wines and some ideas for the future. It was a revelation. The surroundings were lush, the wine was fantastic, and fitting with local tradition, surprisingly inexpensive. We were even served some light antipasti to be sure our series of tastes did not get us tipsy and cause an 8 car pile-up on the way home.
This family has an interesting story. They've been in the valley for about 5 years, planting the vineyard and settling into the life. Carlo Massimiliano Gritti is related to the Gritti family. (The family who gave us the Gritti palace in Venice and Andrea, one of the Doges.) His grandfather won a silver medal in the Berlin Olympics jumping horses. The office has a nice collection of old black and whites of this "neat as a pin" gentleman taking the fences. Ursula has the look of a horsewoman about her -- tweed jacket, hair in a twist. She is German originally, from a small town near Bavarian. They have some beautiful Peruvian Paso Finos (a very showy breed of horse) at their farm. (I was very forward and asked if I could come back to see them in action!)
We did not meet Carlo, but Ursula was full of information. My kind of person. She new her wine and the "vigne" issues specific to this area. Evidently, this part of Umbria is already a DOC region. Who knew? Ursula was genuine and enthusiastic about winemaking and creating positive changes in the valley. Local farmers rely heavily on tobacco, which is hard on the land and on the people. Soon the EU subsidies for tobacco are due to end. The Grittis have been experimenting with new crops, like camomile, that are EU supported. They are also encouraging some changes in the current DOC requirements to allow new techniques and, eventually, better wines. The issues were interesting. If the Grittis here in the Niccone Valley are representative of the new Umbrian vintner, keep an eye peeled for the Upper Tiber Valley DOC.
This winery, I Girasole di Sant'Andrea, has connections to another established vineyard in Sicily. We tasted wines from both vineyards. I do not know enough about wine to go into great, florid detail but I can tell you what I liked.
The two wineries are: "I Girasole di Sant'Andrea" in Umbria and "Elorina" in Sicily.
You taste wines in the order of their strength, in order that a light wine is not overpowered by following a strong wine. These are the wines, in the order we tasted them:
1. Inzolia, Siciliana Bianco (Elorina), a perfumed, flavorful white. Light and crisp.
2. Moscato di Notte, Naturale (Elorina), a dry, richly perfumed white.
Holds its own with seafood and rich shellfish. We had it with frutti di mare.
3. Elora, Nero d'Avola (Elorina), a light to medium red of good flavor and texture. Nero
d"avola grapes are also known as Calabrese.
4. Ca'Andrea (I Girasole di Sant'Andrea), a nice medium red, flavorful
5. Muda (I Girasole di Sant'Andrea), a full bodied red, Zin-ish, with a picture of the Doge on
the label. I would buy this.
6. Pachino (Elorina), (I was most enthusiastic about this red full and complex. I will be
stocking this)
7. Moscato di Notte, Liquoroza (Elorina), this is a dessert wine with a high alcohol content.
Normally, I am not a fan of sweet wines at all but this was fabulous. A real surprise. Not
cloyingly sweet, more like an after dinner sherry. I'll buy it.)
Keep in mind that this year was a terrible year for Italian grapes. After the searing heat of June and the unexpected cool and rain in August, the vines were hung with mildewy raisins. The weather broke Italy's streak of vintage years -- 1997-2001. But be on the lookout in local wine shops for Elorina and I Girasole di Sant'Andrea.
November 1, What a Difference a Year Makes.
A year ago, I went to Montone for the annual Festa del Bosco. Everything was new. I relied on my new friends for any except the most rudimentary communication with strangers. I was a twitter at the beauty and the strangeness of it all. Roasted chestnuts were not just roasted chestnuts... they were Italian roasted chestnuts. How much more wonderful could they be? I asked lots of questions and accepted all answers as gospel. "Roasted chestnuts? Yes, they were brought by the Etruscans and used as money, then later the peasants built their houses with them, dipped in cheese, one at a time." "Really? How fascinating."
This week I re-visited the Festa del Bosco, my sentimental favorite of the festivals. And I took guests. This time, I was the knowledgeable one (though I did not tell them chestnuts were used as money) who ordered the wine and negotiated with salespeople. I spoke the language, maneuvering confidently through crowds and conversations.
Michelle, is a friend in San Francisco. She moved into my old apartment and is sitting with the cat. Although quite an adventurous traveler, she has never been in Europe before. This was a quick run through Italy with a friend from Amsterdam, Judith. As luck would have it, they arrived just in time for the festa.
Montone is an excellent introduction to Umbria. A tiny, walled hill town set in the hills away from any major sites, it does not get many tourists. The approach to town is picturesque. You enter through one of two arched portals and wind your way to the center along narrow stone streets. No cars are allowed in town. The main piazza has tables for sipping caffe and enjoying gelato; there are a few nice restaurants, an old church and a small museum. It's the perfect half day trip, meandering twisting streets "ooohing" and "aaahing" over the stones, the gardens, the views of the rooftops, valleys and hills, and over lunch.
We parked a ways out of town and walked up to the walls. Outside the walls was a large stalla displaying autumn fruits and vegetables -- apples, pomegranates, walnuts, hazelnuts, nespole, quinces, squash of all sorts. The table in front was crowded with people buying paper cones of roasted chestnuts, fresh from the fire, and glasses of vino novello. (New wine has not had time to ferment, so it tastes like grape juice. Grape juice packing a wallop though.) As we walked along the walls and through town, the cantinas full of twig baskets replete with freshly picked fall mushrooms, black truffles, dried beans and fruits. There were cheesemakers proffering knives curled with ribbons of aged pecorino and dollops of blue-veined cheeses. Bakers displaying fresh crostati, fragrant biscotti, and myriad cakes. Up and down the winding streets we found all amnner of artisans -- jewelry makers, painters, ceramicists, weavers and lace makers. All are local people. No one treks over from Rome or Florence with boxes of tube socks and underwear. The festa seemed larger than last year, with stalls winding to the top of town. Luca, the blacksmith, had his forge and showroom open. One of the chestnut roasters brought hisdog an d charmed the crowd with dog tricks. The streets were lit with torches and firelight. Several restaurants had outdoor cantinas set up to serve piedini, beans, polenta, sausages, and everything with mushrooms or truffles.
We treated ourselves to a sit-down dinner at a new restaurant in town. It's a small place tucked into the back of a coffee bar -- two floors, the upper with a large window overlooking the valley. They've done a lovely job with ambiance... flax colored linens, flowers, candles, an autumn arrangement on the entry table. And the food meets the build up. More expensive than most local trattorias, but worth it. I had a white truffle risotto that was perfect -- a light, creamy texture with rice done to the tooth, perfumed with white truffles. My secondi was salsicce con uvi di Sagrantino (sausages grilled with sagrantino grapes). It was a simple dish, well-prepared and creatively done. We ordered a nice bottle of wine and lingered for awhile.
The next morning we lounged, sipping tea and munching tidbits bought at the fair. We got into some great discussions about work... what we do, what we'd like to do, what we avoid and what we've learned about all that. Then, we popped out to tour the shops of Umbertide, giving Michelle a chance to find souvenirs of her first visit to bel' Italia. Linens, shoes, clothes, scarves, food -- what would it be? Linen and clothes. A girl after my own heart. She did pass on the shoes, but its not the sale season, so I understand.
We spent a bit of time in a local dress shop (Athena Moda) where Michelle did some serious damage. In the store, I was reminded of how far I've come in a year. The woman running the shop remembered me from a prior visit and wanted to chat. Although I cannot say I even approach speaking good Italian, the woman understood me and we kept bantering back and forth, like real people. I was triumphant, in a minor sort of way. I held my own with a real Italian.
It was nice to see Michelle and to meet Judith. I love visitors... we had a good time and I was sorry to see them leave.
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