October 29, Curry Heaven
This week I attended a small dinner party and was treated to homemade curry! My hosts, Gernot and Stefanie, are garden clients of mine. Every week I spend 3-4 hours puttering around their yard, weeding, mulching, and deadheading. He is Austrian. Before this new life as "man of leisure," Gernot was a chef in both the hotel industry and in his own restaurant. He has cooked for people like Khrushchev and Kennedy. Stefanie, who is English, was an HR director working internationally. They were living in England but have relocated to the warmer climates of Umbria.
Now, they have the time and the means to indulge their passions -- food, gardens, travel and toys. Gernot is a bit of a tinkerer, with a boat and a plane. They are delightful... very warm and curious, with genuine interest in the world and other people. They have done very well financially but with none of the posturing or attitude that can come with money. They've been a delight to work for. When I arrive, Stefanie has a tray with a bottle of water and a glass set out on a bench. And when we are there at the same time, we have good chats about all sorts of things, not just plants. The only unfortunate thing is that they leave in November to winter over in Florida.
In any case, they were preparing to close the house for the winter. As a goodbye, they had a few people over for dinner. It was the first I had seen inside the house since they moved in. Gernot's father had been a painter. His watercolors and oils hung in all the rooms... landscapes of Austria, Italy, his children. Gernot still has a small diorama that his father painted for him as a child... a little 2-dimensional Austrian mountainside and meadow with a brook running through it. As a boy, he had toy animals and played in the meadow. Idyllic.
The evening was lovely. We feasted on fresh papadums with homemade chutneys. Then a savory chicken curry and a vegetable curry with whole hard-boiled eggs. For dessert, vanilla gelato with apricot compote (apricots from their garden). The food was excellent, the wine was good and the conversation kept stride. We talked about travel and opportunity, painting, Florida, and how we all ended up in Umbria. I'll miss them. By the time they come back in spring, I'll be preparing for my return to the US. Sigh. Another reason to keep up my Italian and visit.
Luigina
Luigina is a tiny Sardinian grandmother of indeterminate age. Part of the cleaning squadra at Pancesi, she is just a slip of a woman but radiant with youthful energy. Luigina doesn't bustle as much as slip like a knife, purposefully, moving through the day with unflagging vigor. Whether cleaning at the houses, making coffee for drop-in guests, or minding her grandson, there is a consistent flow to everything she does. She just never stops doing. From what I've heard, she's had a hard life. Her family in Sardinia was dirt poor so she came to the Niccone Valley for work and prospects. (Many Sards, traditional shepherds, migrated here for the pastureland.) With no teeth and deep lines on her face, Luigina should look older than her 60 some years. However, she embraces the world with a ready laugh and one of the most genuinely, positive dispositions I've met. Somehow this makes her ageless.
Relentless about finding out when I've eaten, she maintains an eagle-eyed search to be assured I've eaten enough. She is becoming single-minded about pushing me toward "a nice Italian boyfriend"... with money. For awhile, it seemed like she was thinking of her son, Adriano, the pool boy. (Adriano is actually a man... but for those who have met him, he is forever the cabana boy, preening in his white shorts, peeling off his tank top and stretching languidly to show off a hard-earned musculature.) It's very flattering that she would even consider me as a potential relation, but I was thankful that idea died on the vine.
Luigina never tires of questioning me and encouraging me to speak. She has offered to pay me a dime for every word she speaks that I understand. Her approach is always motherly and cajoling. I see her at least twice a week as the cleaning squadra mops, sponges, and squeegees their way through the day. Efficiency and thoroughness beat in the hearts of these women.
Fernanda is also in her 60s. Short and plump, with soft bottle-blonde hair and a peaceful, satisfied demeanor. She is more quiet than the others. I imagine she was a strikingly pretty girl. A "catch" with strong arms and an unchallenging manner. During the harvest in September, Fernanda picks tobacco with her family. Her daughter-in-law, Tiziana, is the forward thinker. In her late 20s or early 30s, she is laser-focused on efficiency and how to turn opportunity into profit. (Tiziana is the first to point out when I've bought the wrong type of broom "too soft.") All three are unfailingly solicitous, inviting me to eat with them, asking how my week has been, quizzing me on men and prospects They gather the food left behind by the guests and fashion a mid-day meal for us. Mozzarella fritters, fresh fruit with pecorino, and when no one is watching, maybe a little wine for Fernanda.
But it is Luigina who sticks in my mind. Tiny, coming only to my shoulder... thin, like she might blown away in a wind -- yet she exudes a permanence. Like the hills -- weathered by time, witness to too much, but sempre qui...always here. "Where is that Kathy? Eh, beautiful, beautiful...what a lovely dress/sweater/scarf/pair of shoes. Always lovely! Are you having a strike against eating? When did you eat today? Sit with us, I am making fritters. Have one. Have two. Did you meet a nice boy yet?" Luigina warms you with genuine affection. Her delight in people she likes and thinks of as extended family is real. And a strong contrast with the often hard stares of the local country folks. Then, Luigina is Sardinian. And the Sards can tell stories of their own about suspicion and closed doors when they relocated into these hills.
Vini, vidi, vinci -- A Few Days in Rome
Dumping the car, October 7
Early in the month, Jan and I went down to Rome to pick up her friends, Sunny and Donna, and to get my new leased car. You can only keep a leased car here for six months max, unless you have a valid visa. So I had to given up my trusty Peugeot and go to Renault. Why French cars? The long term leasing deals are cheaper through France.
I took the Peugeot back on a Monday the 7th. The original drop off spot was Milan, but I could not face the drive so I switched to Rome. They were very annoyed.
Adding insult to injury, I was late. My driving is much more aggressive than it was 6 months ago when I brought the car down from Milan. I made great time on the freeway, thundering along in the third lane. However, when I got to the beltway that rings Rome, it was inexplicably closed and we were diverted. Picture 12 lanes of traffic -- trucks, tour buses, delivery vans and angry Italian commuters -- coming out of the tollbooths and funneled to a two-lane road on the far right. It took 30 minutes to merge into that 2-lane road. Then we meandered along, paralleling the empty beltway, disappearing into the trees, winding by old businesses, houses, fallow fields.
There were no signs indicating we were on a road going to the airport. Maybe it was the road going to the road that leads to the airport. Or maybe it wasn't. I asked a tollbooth worker which way to the airport. He pointed to the big funnel of traffic. Later I asked a police officer, waving at the mess of cars as if directing them somehow. He indicated the road we were creeping toward. Sometimes, you just have to trust. As my appointment time with Peugeot drew near, I panicked a bit and pulled into a gas station to ask again. Again, the nice mechanic waved vaguely at the line of cars ahead and said, "Diritto." Straight. Okay, straight it is. It was galling to see the empty freeway in the distance. I never knew why we were diverted. It wasn't as if this was the scenic route. It was the old commercial route that had been superceded by the faster, bigger freeway. It was the ugly, slow route. Nothing redeeming here except my self-congratulations for patience.
I did get to the airport... a half hour late. The Peugeot people were waiting for me, standing in traffic flagging me in like a pit crew at Indy. They were annoyed with me for switching the drop, for being late, and -- drum roll -- for forgetting to bring the car registration with me. Yes, I had been in the states for a month and had packed it away safely in my papers and completely forgotten about it. I didn't even remember what they were talking about. "Green card? What green card? I never got a green card." They took me into the airport police station to file a report about my "lost" registration. Man, were they peeved. So I annoyed everyone and the police officer even further by telling them I didn't have my "documenti" (my passport) with me. Just a California driver's license. Ouch.
Generally, I try to avoid the authorities like the plague. This time, my criminal forgetfulness worked as a camouflage... they saw me as the typical, witless, annoying American tourist. I just shrugged and smiled, said I was sorry but in a big hurry. Did they want the car?
Cheeky monkey.
Roman Holiday
October 9-11
My new Renault was to be picked up at the Rome airport on Friday. As it happened, Jan had friends arriving and it seemed a few days in Rome would be a nice, little diversion. We planned a little sightseeing.
Friends offered an apartment in Trastevere for us to stay in. Trastevere, across the river from the historic center, just down from the Vatican, is seen as the bohemian, artist/craftsman area, full of cafes and shops, crooked alleys, old churches and sudden tiny piazzas. Think The Village in Manhattan..
Roman Cojones
Sunny and Donna were staying at a sweet little hotel near the Spanish steps. We took a cab from the train station to meet them for lunch near their hotel. It was a typically Roman downtown lunch spot -- lots of outdoor seating, many tourists, distracted wait staff. Oh, except the maitre'd. He offered exceptionally hands-on service. Literally. In the Roman style. He beckoned us in to see the buffet table and strongly encouraged us to partake. It was truly an impressive array of foods... many vegetables, hot and cold, under oil, grilled, repassati. Cold meats, hot meats; artichokes stuffed and fried; scalloped potatoes; pickled beets; seafoods. The man was always right there, with a hand on the elbow or the waist, leaning against you, directing your attention.
He called my attention to some specific treat in the far corner of the buffet. I knew what was coming. As I slipped into the space near the food, Mr. Helpful stretched himself fully along the length of my back, arms on either side of me "to help me see". Full body contact. If he'd used his hands, we could have called it braille. But no hand contact, so no foul, right? It could have been just a misunderstanding. Amazing cojones. Roman cojones to pull that kind of stunt. He was a master. I had to laugh. Moreover, he kept at it. Any excuse to creep in... new food for the buffet, another house specialty to point out, rearrange some silverware. After one or two further body checks, which left me wondering if we should be engaged by now, I started positioning my tray strategically. The least he could have done was offer a free dessert.
After lunch, we split up, with plans to meet for dinner. Jan and I headed back to the apartment for a bit of a rest. It was looking stormy, so we read and napped. By rendezvous time, it was rainy and dark. Sunny and Donna were happy to stay in and have cheese and crackers. Jan and I opted to go outside and see what Trastevere had to offer. (Trastevere offered better than Mr. Full Body Massage.)
Goerge Clooney in Rome
Just around the corner we found a local restaurant that looked inviting. Il Miraggio -- intimate, red check tablecloths, maps of old Rome on the walls, bunches of onion, garlic and peppers hanging from the beams. The menu was extensive. A section of traditional Roman dishes -- bucatini alla amatriciana, tripe, baccala, brocoletti ripassati. Other sections offered pizza from the wood oven, fresh pastas and seafood. At 7:30 it was busy but not yet packed. Italians eat late, more 8 or 9ish. Our waiter, Giancarlo, was very helpful. He reverted to English right away and made good suggestions. Jan ordered fresh pasta with an artichoke sauce and a green salad. I ordered a simple grilled fish and a green salad. With that, he suggested a house white. The white went to work immediately. I decided Giancarlo looked like George Clooney. Sigh... to be waited on by George Clooney in Rome.
The food was good. I didn't get my grilled fish. He brought the pasta with artichoke instead. I didn't care because he looked like George Clooney and frankly, one dish was as good as the next. Giancarlo endeared himself to me further by suggesting that we try their signature dessert... a very special homemade gelato. When it arrived we began to understand why this is a very special dessert. According to Giancarlo (who can now do no wrong, even if I didn't get my fish) regular customers call ahead to see if it is being served before they drive over.
This dessert is hard to explain, succinctly. When I say gelato, you envision a scoop of something colorful that tastes good. However, this is not your garden-variety sorbet in a cup with cookie garnish This transcends ordinary gelato. In fact, this makes really good gelato look ordinary. This is gelato with a capital G. And speaking of capital "G"s Giancarlo/George Clooney arrived at our table smiling shyly... all 6'4 of him... and gently lowered a white oval platter with two small spoons.
On the platter were two apple wedges, two fig halves, two peach wedges, two walnut and two chestnut halves, and two fichi d' India halves. Each fruit or nut was hollowed and filled with homemade gelato that was exquisite. The peach did not taste like peach ice cream or peach gelato. It tasted like a peach. Like the essence of the fruit captured in something silky. It was joy on the tongue as it melted and slid down the throat. I cannot do this justice... the flavors were so true and subtle they were astounding. Our eyes got wide and we stared at each other making little noises. No ice cream or sorbet ever tasted this much like its parent. Jan and I were delighted, and very sorry to see disappear. Giancarlo knew. He had seen it before. He came back to the table smiling and asked, "Was it alright?"
Baby, it was good for me. We liked it so much, we decided to comeback for dinner that next night.
The next day was Vatican Day. I'd been to the Vatican as a 14-year old and was unimpressed. However, I was 14 and not impressed by much. We got an early start -- the lines can be hellacious. It was pouring and my skirt was getting progressively wetter as water splashed and leeched higher. We got into the Vatican quickly and began the cattle call. There was no time or space to linger and really look at the antiquities and treasures, there was just a stream of people, shuffling forward at various speeds, some looking around, some walking as quickly as possibly to the Sistine Chapel.
The Sistine Chapel was restored. I'm sure you've heard. The colors are vivid, befitting the stories illustrated on the walls and ceiling. The artwork is awe-inspiring really. There is so much crammed into that small chapel. The room is packed with people standing cheek by jowl, turning slowly, staring upward, talking softly about being amazed. Every few minutes a loud speaker announces, in half a dozen languages, that you cannot speak here. The rumble of voices lowers slightly, for a bit, then begins to rise again as new folks stream into the room. It's not a place for contemplation. Though there is much to think about... how many people worked on this masterpiece, the faith and belief they must have had, how real the stories depicted must have seemed that long ago, how much money the church had amassed, the power of the popes (some for good, some not so much). And the lives of the artists... the talents of these men who could paint, draw, design, architect, sculpt... some better than others, obviously. Instead, you stare upwards, let your jaw drop in amazement, and work your way to the exit. Not much choice, because the tour busload of Germans that came into the building behind you is shuffling into the chapel.
Next stop is St. Peter's. It is huge, built to awe. We saw three ancient Irish priests standing together outside, dressed in black and fumbling with their umbrellas. They were a genuinely charming sight. One looked as cranky and difficult as your worst catechism nightmare. The other two, sweet and bemused. I took a surreptitious picture, and the crank caught it and shot me a glare. It was a bit like taking a picture of a local tribesman. Perhaps I should have asked first, but I wanted the candid shot. Did he think I was stealing his soul? Nah, just commemorating the last of a dying breed.
After all that ancient history, we needed a gelato and a sit down. We hit on a gelateria nearby, with awnings to block the intermittent rain, and ordered four coffees and four gelatos. As seasoned travelers, we knew better that to dine in the shadow of the Vatican. When the bill came, I looked and thought, "Lord, haven't the Romans switched from lire yet? How absurd." Then I looked again. The bill wasn't in lire. Our four coffees and four gelati actually came to 50 Euro. Wowee zowee. We laughed out loud and joked with the table next to us. Anywhere farther into the neighborhood would have been reasonable. We had been too tired to walk further, and that was the price of admission. That $50 snack became a benchmark against which we measured every meal afterward.
Properly fleeced, we flagged a cabbie and asked him if he might take us around Rome and show us the big sights. Jan speaks fluent Italian so compatible language skills were not an issue. We negotiated a price before hand, still smarting from the gelato prices. Our cab driver's name was Gianni. Gianni, The Delightful. He showed us the expected (Coliseum, Forum, various churches and piazzas, and he shared the unexpected. We saw Garibaldi Park, with its panoramic view of the city. He drove us along a road off of the park where St Peter's dome seems to grow smaller as you approach and larger as you drive away. Amid information and stories of Rome, he took us to a walled garden where you look through a keyhole in an old door and see St. Peter's, Malta and another country in the distance. We threw three coins in Trevi fountain and watched the rain sheet through the oculus at the Pantheon. It was a delightful afternoon. Around 4pm, Gianni dropped us off, and we toddled back to Trastevere for a cup of tea and a rest before dinner.
For dinner, Il Miraggio. Again. The special dessert was a big factor, but the other reason we returned, instead of trying another charming spot in ristorante-packed Trastevere, was that we rather liked Giancarlo.
Rather, I really liked Giancarlo. Jan had suggested that Giancarlo may have paid some special attention to me. I was happy enough to see if that was true. We went back with no resistance from me. He recognized us and set about making us feel very special. The place was packed, and he told us he had worked a busy lunch, but he was very attentive to our table. He suggested an appetizer of mixed seafood -- baccala, calamari, etc. He thought we might prefer to drink a nice Frascati. I ordered grilled fish again to see if I might even get it. He assured us he would put aside two of the gelati for us to share. Very sweet. Once again, the meal was great and for the four of us, the bill came to around $80. With the gelato as a benchmark, we declared Il Miraggio a keeper.
Giancarlo told Jan she had a beautiful voice, then called a cab for Sunny and Donna. He gave me the taxi number for future reference and as I thanked him for his help, Giancarlo asked if he could have a little bacino -- a little kiss... the double cheek sort. In my dreams, I said something witty that would stick in his head for weeks. In reality I blushed and smiled a yes. The Italian George Clooney kissed me. That was better than gelato.
In the morning, we called our cab, picked up Sunny and Donna, then headed for the airport to pick up the Renault. I had moved the pick up time from 11am to 10am when we first arrived in Rome. So, 10am... there we are in Terminal B waiting for the Renault rep. Sunny and Donna have all their luggage, ready for the ride back to Umbertide. No little sign "Simon" calling for us, so we wait. I ask at the designated information desk. The desk is a clearing house for a number of car rental and touring groups, so they have no information. I call Renault. The man on the phone knows that the rep is there but with another client. "Just wait by the desk." About 45 minutes go by so I call again to plead with the nice man (through gritted teeth) to be sure that the rep knows I am waiting. Almost an hour has gone by and we've seen no one -- except the Peugeot rep. I call again and the Renault man on the phone is surprised, shocked even, "No, he is there. Are you in front of the desk? Wait there and he will be there momentarily."
"No no no no... please, you wait." I have been here... since 10. And no one with a Renault sign is in sight. At 11am a brisk young man with a Renault sign arrives, but not my sign. It says Wyndam or something unlike Simon. I collar him. He has me listed as an 11am arrival, not 10am. (Ah, they never shifted my arrival time.) But hey, its 11am now, so we should be ready to roll, even by their standard. But no, again someone is annoyed with me. The Renault reps suddenly go into overdrive as if I've shown up 2 days early for this car. What is it with me and the rental cars? "They cannot do this immediately. I should have called." I did. Two days ago. "Well. Have a seat in the coffee bar and we will see what we can do."
Okay, a little breakfast. A coffee. I begin to relax. Until I see the Renault car leasing agent coming our way with the documents for the car. It is the same man who I turned the Peugeot into. The man who hauled me into the police station, who so despised me for changing my drop off and forgetting my registration. Oops.
He sits down without batting an eye and he begins the spiel. Not a hint of recognition. Lord, how could he forget? He is emblazoned on my memory. We go through everything. He starts to hand me the registration, looks me dead in the eye and says, "This is very important. Don't forget it." And winks.
October 21 - The Beet That Ate Umbertide
Our friend Rudolf Meyer is leaving Umbertide to return to... well, he isn't sure yet. Somewhere in Germany or Austria. Rudolf is from the Sudetenland, an area in Austria that was predominantly settled by Germans who were evicted during WWII. (That is a gross oversimplification, but you can look up details if you are inclined.) Rudolf was a professor for many years. He was always an artist as well, keeping his day job while painting and writing poetry and stories. Over the years, he has experimented with many styles in most media -- cubist, abstract, impressionist, graphic. Now in his late seventies, he arranges gallery shows and teaches creative writing. Rudolf is quite the Renaissance man... courtly and charming with a streak of earthiness.
Rudolf leaves us this week to move up to Munich and begin his search for a new home. Back in August, I offered to host a going away bash for him. When I returned from the US, he reminded me and promptly loaded me up with all the food in his freezer and refrigerator. Using the supplies at hand, I began a menu plan. This was to be a small lunch for his closest friends -- no more than 10. The guests were Paolo and Helga Brockhurst (from Germany); Mark and Elizabeth Wholey; Jil (my yoga teacher); Melchiorre; Jan; and myself.
Much of the food that Rudolph packed me off with were donations friends brought to his last few dinners and get-togethers. A real mixed bag. The raw material: frozen turkey roll (always suspicious); two packages of frozen shellfish (even more suspicious); 3-4 bags of party snacks with cheese crackers, chips and pretzels, etc.; 6 packages of zwieback toasts; six or seven jars of various vegetables relishes, mustards and unidentified things preserved under oil; and a huge red cabbage grown by some German friends. The crowning touch was a basket of wine 4 red, 4 white and one Prosecco (a dry sparkling wine).
One of my favorite stories in The Soul of a Chef (author, Michael Ruhlman) is during the Certified Master Chef examinations at the Culinary Institute of America. As part of this stomach churning, white knuckle 10-day test, each chef is given a mystery basket of ingredients and 4 ½ hours to plan and cook a 4 course meal for 10. Make something wonderful from this, they say with a flourish, unveiling the mix and match ingredients. I am not a chef in the making, but with 2 days to plan, this lunch had that feel -- a challenge to be met.
Ideally, I'd create something more Germanic than Italian, basing it around the turkey roll, and the cabbage. The seafood was tricky though. A game plan: Turkey roll roasted with some veggies and white wine as flavor (and the base for a possible gravy). The cabbage would become a hot red cabbage and apple slaw flavored with pancetta. The seafood (ugh)... maybe ceviche, maybe a risotto. The relishes, mustards and "sotto olios" would be put out as appetizers with cheese and the zwieback toasts. To balance the roast, a hot German potato salad with red onion, celery and pancetta. For dessert, a simple apple crumble.
I began planning, and almost as immediately, changing the plan.
The appetizers seem skimpy. I'll buy more cheese and make a ricotta/paprika spread as well. The seafood will be marinated in lemon juice, garlic and peperonici to make a bastard cerviche. (I won't eat it, but someone might. I'll lose points on this.)
Some of our guests at La Quercia made a large pot of chicken broth and then left a day early. Elizabeth offered the fresh broth for the lunch. Okay, first course is now soup. Add some carrot, celery and small pasta noodles for a light first course. No celery at the Coop? Switch to fennel. Fennel for the soup, fennel for the potato salad, and a little fennel to roast with the turkey roll. (Just the sound of "turkey roll" scares me.) The cabbage and the potato salad will work well. And the blessed Elizabeth is making a cake for dessert.
Sunday, I clean the house and open the table out to fit 9 people. There are flowers for the table, floating in the grotto and in a large arrangement in the niche above. Candles are set up around the room and the place settings looked good -- plate, bowl, wine glass -- complete but not formal. Three of Rudolph's paintings, of varied styles, hang in the house. I also use the bowls and plates he has given me. In the morning, I just have to roast the turkey roll (1 hr), finish the potato salad (1/2 hour tops it needs to be served warm), make the cabbage (1 1 ½ hrs), marinate the seafood (1/2 hr to assemble, 2-3 hrs soaking), assemble the hors d'oeuvres (1/2 hr), toss the pasta into the soup before serving (¼ hr). No sweat. I've done as much set up and cooking ahead as possible. I am ahead of this plan! Or so I think. I always believe I'm on plan, and still manage to have a mini-meltdown about an hour before the guests arrive. Would this time be any different?
Monday dawns and everything is actually going rather well. I'm up early, have a leisurely cup of tea and toast. I slice the veggies for the soup so it can simmer quietly on a back burner. Have I mentioned that I have no oven in my apartment? I use Jan's tabletop "toaster oven" for small things. The turkey roll will fit, but the cabbage will have to go upstairs to Jan's house. Now, let's get a good look at that turkey roll to see what we're up against... ½ hr to cook? Doesn't seem likely but it's a place to start. Next, squeeze the lemon and prepared the cerviche. Done. Now, get the cabbage in and I'm home free.
I get the cabbage from the refrigerator, in its milky white grocery sack, to lift it out for cleaning. I'd seen it at Rudolph's house... a fairly large red cabbage head, tight leaves, deep purple color. It probably needs a good wash and a few outer leaves pulled off. Simple. I lift it out of the sack and... whoa... since I last saw this thing two days ago, it's changed. This is not a cabbage. I turn it over, unbelievingly, searching for some signs of tight leaves. No, this is a beet. Not a cabbage... a big beet. How did this get to be a beet when I saw a cabbage? This is the biggest beet that I have ever seen. It's the size of a large cabbage... of a small bowling ball. It's the size of a Volkswagon! My god, what the hell am I going to make with that?
Its Monday morning in Umbria shops are closed til 4pm. (Just another local quirk.) No option to buy a real cabbage. This is the biggest damned beet I have ever seen. How can I possible cut that? Its huge (deep breathe)... Let's check the Joy of Cooking and see what they say about beets. It will all be about normal-sized beets, but what the heck? I can improvise. Maybe there will even be a recipe that lists ingredients I have in the house. It's a root vegetable, like cabbage... sort of. Well, its an autumn vegetable. There must be some cross over here.
Sure enough, a recipe for baked beets with apples. It wants nutmeg. I don't have nutmeg. So what. I have apples. I'll MAKE it work. I'll add the pancetta that would have gone in the cabbage Okay, cube the beets and the apples, flavor with onion and pancetta, and toss with aged balsamic vinegar if it tastes bland. There is a working solution. Now, have you ever cubed a beet as big as a bowling ball? It needs a band saw. A normal cooking knife is too short. Beets are very dense... like bowling balls. Altogether, I think it took an hour alone just to dismember that beet. Everything -- my hands, the counter -- were stained red from the experience. I was working in a beet charnel house. Normally, I try and clean as I cook to avoid a sink full of dishware. This faucet delivers a strong stream of water that splashes everywhere. I am a seal splashing about, with jets of water bouncing off the plates and me, spraying the floor and the walls. I'm moving fast with no measured approach, so the beet juice arcs off of the plates and cups, splashing me and the walls. I feel like Lady Macbeth with her arms held high... out damned spot!
Finally, the beet is cubed and the apples, pancetta, and onion are prepared. I don't have an oven proof casserole big enough for all of it. I know you don't believe the beet was as big as a VW, but one beet managed to make enough cubes for 2 casseroles. Don't even tell me it was the apples. It is 12:30 and everyone is due at 1 o'clock. The beets will cook for one hour, allegedly. I have an inkling that this will not be so. The beet is my curse. The schedule is blown. My doorbell rings and my blood pressure soars. Muttering curses, I troop upstairs to see who is taking me away from the precious minutes I have left. Ah, Melchiorre is here early. "Am I early? Sono pronti?" "Si, si un' po." I smile graciously, wiping the beet juice from my hands. How could he know that I have precious little time to get this sucker pulled together? One look at me, and he opts to go get a coffee in the piazza. Smart man. Or the beet juice scared him.
Now I begin the meltdown, running between appetizers, potato salad, and turkey roll. Nothing will be done in time... its 12:30, people are due any minute... the beets will be cooking until Armageddon!. I can feel the rising hysteria. I'll probably throttle the next guest. So I stop and take a deep breath. No one cares when it all comes together. The important thing is to clean up the beet juice and not attack anyone. Just then, Jan comes down to see if she can help with anything. The cooking angel has smiled.
She seals the beets with foil and hustles them up to the oven. I get the appetizers finished so everyone has something to occupy themselves with on arrival. The cerviche is drained and put in a bowl. (Creepy stuff.) The pasta goes into the soup. We pull out the turkey roll. Looks fine, leave it on low til serving. The guests arrive, all smiles, including Melchiorre who steers a wide berth around me. Mark Wholey takes over the wine responsibilities. Jil lights the candles for me. I finish the potato salad. The beets are running late, but somehow I expected that.
I love my friends. We had a great time. The Brockhursts made Rudolf a crown of laurel leaves (very Roman!) with a big pink rose settled in the front. People talk about life and art and moving your whole house to another country. Elizabeth and Mark brought a friend from Florida, Catherine, who is visiting this week. Catherine is a painter with galleries in Maine and Florida. Rudolph and Melchiorre read selections of Rudolf's poetry in tandem, in Italian and German. Then we drink Prosecco, and toast Rudolf's health and happiness. People eat the zwieback crisps and avoid the ceviche. Helga Brockhurst, who looks like a tiny forest elf, spends much of the party telling me and everyone else that the apartment is "schoen" which I think means charming, or cute, or sweet, or enchanting... something along those lines. Everything made her eyes widen and her smile spread Helga speaks no English, but she is never at a loss for words. She keeps chatting at us in German. It is wonderful what you understand from people even when the words are incomprehensible.
It was a thoroughly enjoyable meal. The beets were very good.
October 14 - Pinocchio
Jan and I went to see Pinocchio at the local cinema. Roberto Benigni (Life is Beautifu) stars as the title character. He directed and produced the film as well, with his wife, Nicoletta. She plays the blue fairy. This is a fairly straight forward retelling of the fairytale... no adult subtext, no examination of underlying messages. All fairytales seem to be cautionary stories with underlying messages. Pinocchio is just a magical little film, full of beautiful scenes and sight gags. It is in Italian so you will have to see the subtitled version. But do see it. You already know the story so the subtitles won't be a big issue. See it for the beauty of the language and the magic of film. Benigni manages to create a world where anything is possible, from lively logs to talking crickets. He is a manic actor, rather like a fey Robin Williams. Everything is in high gear, rapid fire and very physical. My favorite characters were Il Gatto and Le Volpe (the cat and the fox) and Eugenio, Pinocchio's ill-fated ass of a friend. It's definitely a kid's film... this is no Rocky and Bullwinkle cartoon with layers of humor for everyone. Still, it is well done and worth seeing.
Some of the dialogue was fast for me. Some was in dialect. I really had no trouble understanding the action. I missed some of the jokes, partially because they are Italian. Not in Italian, but of Italian humor. That cultural gap again. One of the things I found interesting -- parents will understand -- the film began at 9:30 pm. The theater was full of little children who made it through the entire film without falling asleep or melting down in frustration. No tantrums. Talk about a cultural difference. When was the last time Lady and the Tramp or Little Mermaid screened at 9:30? When was the last time you had your 5 year old out until 11pm without a scene?
October 13
Spent the day with Jan, Sunny and Donna tooling around Montone. (Sunny and Donna are old friends of Jan's from Portland.) We lucked into a crisp fall day for our stroll. The museum and church were open (I didn't even know they HAD a museum) and saw some well-preserved church vestments and some remarkably unpreserved frescoes. For lunch we stopped into Le Fonti, a little trattoria just outside the town walls. The rains have brought in funghi season. Fresh truffles and porcini are mouthwatering... like a fresh garden tomato or a fragrant garden rose, much is lost in translation. Jan had homemade tagliatelle pasta with porcini and the rest of us had tagliatelle with fresh shaved truffles. Favoloso! The day was slipping by... we finished lunch around 2. The original the plan (at 10am) had been to stroll Montone, have lunch then drive to Cortona for the afternoon. Fresh air and pasta pretty much demanded a change to naps for all. (At the very least, quiet time.)
At 5 however, we did need to re-rendezvous to drive to the Terontola train station (near Cortona) to pick up Lenny's car and transport it back to Umbertide. The driving portion of that task fell to me -- stick shift redux. If you recall, I do not drive a stick. My sole experience is a 15-minute "on the fly" lesson from Elizabeth and one week in the countryside. In that short time, it became apparent that I'm a menace when shifting from stop to 1st. My sole talent is a rolling stop and I only relax when I am tooling along in 3rd.
I had to pick up Lenny's car at the train station, a well-trafficked station in a very small town. I'd describe Terontola as one big main street and a road that loops into the station and out again. I start out badly. Lenny had left the car in first gear... a habit I know nothing about. So every time I start the car, it jumps forward. The first time shocked me. The second time I got the gist... figure something out or you will be jumping your way into the muddy ditch. So, I figure out that neutral is the way to go. Great... I've managed to start the car. I ease it into first and begin the looooong ride home. My first challenge is the turn onto the main road. Its sunset, facing a long string of headlights I try to coax the car from a standstill onto the busy main street. On a different day, I might wax poetic about all those headlights looking like pearls, diamonds or planes lining up for landing at Newark, but this night they just look like angry people who will be mad when I stall in the intersection.
And I keep stalling... once, twice, thrice. A little touch to the gas pedal, a slight leap and stop. The man behind me honked repeatedly, as if I needed a reminder to move forward, then zoomed around me in a huff. I finally saw the whisper of an opening and figured, since I had to get onto that road, the Italians would just have to move around me. Heavens, I'm traveling at 5 miles per hour, I should not be hard to miss. And they do -- miss me. Eventually, I'm obviously going to shift into second but I decide that can wait, and slap on my hazard lights, staying in first for as long as it takes to be alone on this road -- because stalling out on the main road is not an option. I have had enough humiliation. I roll along (quite literally like a can of beans rolling along) with my flashers creating great orange shadows on the asphalt. Finally, I come to the turn off into Ossaia, teensy town named for the bones of the Romans massacred by Hannibal. Somehow I find that factoid comforting in my present situation... bigger things have happened here than my inability to shift gears. Ossaia has no sidewalks, just stone houses that sit right on a series of narrow, paved S curves through town. This offers a legitimate reason to go slow. Outside of Ossaia, when the road straightens, I shift into second and prepare for my next challenge -- a stop sign and right turn. The stop is usually busy and having proven my technique of shifting from a stop, I cross my fingers and start chanting, "please don't let anyone be there, please don't let anyone be there, please don't let anyone be there." I perform a perfect California rolling stop through the intersection -- no harm, no foul, no one there to see it. I remind myself, this is Italy where there are no real rules, just flexible standards. I'm becoming heady on these successes, so I get daring and shift to third, mostly because I know that the next 30 miles have no stop sings or intersections... just fast roads over the mountain pass. If I can maintain 40mph most of the way home, I'm set -- stormin' like Norman.
The mountain pass was easy -- no log trucks or porcupines to avoid. The biggest challenge is due in Mercatale (about half way home) where the road narrows as it passes through, taking a fast downward curve into a three way intersection at the middle of town. As you enter the curve, you are between two stone buildings with room for one and a half cars... and no right of way Still in third gear, I slow and begin my chant "please don't let anyone be there, please don't let anyone be there, please don't let anyone be there." Clear, and another perfectly executed California stop! As I rolled through Mercatale, I thought I smelled the car burning. Or it could have been my fevered imagination. By the time I faced down the last stop sign, the intersection in Niccone, I confidently rolled through... handily. I arrived in Umbertide, and abruptly stalled to a stop in the new resting place for Katherine and Lenny's Peugeot. And that is the end of my standard transmission career. Give me a reliable automatic that thinks for me any day.
October 5 - Benedizione degli motocicleti
Jan and I were strolling around Umbertide this crisp, fall day catching up on all the news since our trips to the US. As we wandered into the main square, in front of the round church, we saw a fleet of motorcycles -- maybe 80 or 100 -- lined up in rows. As we approached, the church doors opened and leather-clad motorcyclists poured out and down the steps. These guys were all kitted out in black leather with stripes and colors of all combinations. Local folks were gathered admiring the bikes, chatting and patting each other on the backs. The Italian biker is no slovenly, greasy long-haired Pagan... here we saw perfectly coiffed and accessorized men in leather pants with jackets to match their bikes. Lots of goatees and Armani sunglasses. As we watched, the priest, in white and gold vestments, came out with a vial of holy water and began a blessing of the bikes. He swung his arm and cast the devil aside with wide arcs of holy water.
No one commented. Nothing seemed odd or funny about the spectacle to anyone present, and not an eye was batted (except mine) when the bike that was on the altar for the mass was wheeled out of the church. Evidently, a local man had just relocated his motorcycle shop. We ran into this special mass for his good fortune and the health of all the riders/patrons. After the blessing of the bikes, all the riders mounted up and vroomed out of town together for an afternoon adventure... with the shop owner bringing up the rear like a mama duck herding her brood onward.
2002
