A Tuscan View - from Umbria

One thing I know

27th January 2008

Just before we left England, in a kind of panic to cling on to some remnant of my old life, I persuaded marito to buy me a running machine. This he did, at some expense, over the internet. It was to be delivered to our new home in Italy. Of course, shortly after our arrival at our enchantingly rural money-pit, I realised how completely frivolous and inappropriate the purchase was.

The tranquil white roads beckoned and I was seduced. I began to run outside, early in the mornings, my feet crunching on layers of frosty leaves, sun rising in an opalescent sky and air so pure and cold that it crackled through my hair and caught my breath. It was exhilarating. I began to dread the arrival of the tread-mill. However, as the weeks and months passed by, it dawned on us that the machine was not “on it’s way”, “just about to be delivered” and that we had, in fact, been had. An internet con.

Now, not only had I coerced marito into making a reckless purchase that we could ill afford, but we were also unlikely ever to see it. The running machine began to symbolise all my foolish suburban naiveties as well as our financial ineptitude. I felt a sickening shame whenever I thought of it.

Marito, however, was on the case. He tracked the shyster down to his hideout in deepest Cambridgeshire and, with a little help from the local police, organised a dawn raid. Fortunately the ‘dodger’ turned out to be an equally inept criminal and quickly confessed all. We had not been his only victims and other witless fitness fanatics had been similarly fleeced. The courts gave him a conditional discharge, he must pay back his ill-gotten gains or face the consequences. I had my doubts and carried on running with a heavy heart.

This morning, a year and 2 months later, a cheque arrived in the post and I am astonished. He has made good, paid his dues and bought me a reprieve. I can run free from the chains of guilt that had held me back. So, as the dog bounds ahead around a corner, momentarily out of sight, and I quicken my pace to catch him, I may not know what lies ahead but I do know one thing for sure. You cannot take your old life with you to a new country, you must evolve and embrace the new. Thank you Steve, whoever you are, it may have taken a year and a bit but you did the right thing and maybe we are both better for it.

The best thing I ate;

Quince (Cotogna)

Detail of 'Two Quinces' (1951) by Eliot Hodgkin

A quince is an ancient fruit. It looks like a mixture between an apple and a pear but in fact is not. It cannot be eaten raw and, when cooked, has a taste and texture like neither. It is intensely and beautifully fragrant. A strange, hauntingly, honeyed fragrance so lingering that I have read that great bowls of quinces were left to rot in order to perfume the Renaissance houses of Florence.

The quince season is fleeting and they can be difficult to track down. Luckily for me there are plenty of them growing around here. I have eaten them at a neighbour’s house added in chunks to a fig crumble (home bottled figs, no less) and their luscious, grainy texture stole the show.

For myself, I poached mine in cheap Vin Santo , filling the kitchen with a warm, heady fug and watching as the coarse rock-hard flesh softened and turned gloriously rosy.

Where to get them;
Good luck. They’re hard to find…

Mad Tom

17th January 2008

A hard frost is on the ground and mist is in the valleys, rising up from between the bald scrub oaks in whisps and spectres.
In the distance the milky mountains roll back like time, Umbria morphs into Tuscany and soon we are in Florence, waiting on the cold stone steps of Santa Maria del Carmine to see the Brancacci chapel.  It was on these steps that Michelangelo's nose was broken in a brawl. But that's another story, today we are here for 'Mad Tom', Masaccio.

The Brancacci frescoes were commisioned in 1424 by the Brancaccis, a family of wealthy Florentine silk merchants.  It was while working on these frescoes that the 22 year old Masaccio began to really shine, usurping his teacher (Masolino) and emerging as a compelling talent.  His desolate depiction of Adam and Eve howling in their nakedness as they are cast out into the world is worth the ticket price alone.

In the panel 'St Peter Enthroned', Masaccio has painted himself as one of the figures to the right of the throne.  He stares boldly out as he touches St Peter's hem for luck, a luck that could not save him as he was to die just 3 years later. But it's more than a signature, it is a brazen flourish of humanity. It says "Look at me. I did this wonderful thing. I was here".

Masaccio never completed his paintings in the chapel and, in a shift of politics, the Brancaccis were exiled.  50 years later, after the dust had settled and long after Masaccio's death, the artist Fillipino Lippi finished and 'restored' the frescoes.  It was a different kind of human emotion that prompted Lippi to paint out the arm that dared to touch the saint.  He would have had to look Masaccio in the eye as he worked and, I wonder, did that open, steady gaze trouble him as he applied the tempera? Did it disturb his dreams?   

The best thing I ate today;

Cavolo Nero

At this time of year I always feel the urge to gorge on dark green veg. Maybe it's a kind of detox, an antidote to the excesses of December.  Kale or spinach will do, but best of all is the 'king of cabbages', Cavolo Nero.

Its tightly crinkled, black/green leaves look so enticing when sold in large frosty bundles on the market stall in Chiusi.  I lug them home and use a long sharp knife to separate the leaves from the central stem. The deep, sweetly pungent flavour is full of 'brassic' goodness.  I have been toying with the idea of cooking them with lots of garlic and stiring the resulting puree into wet, creamy polenta (River Cafe Green) as a sort of yin/yang/flavour/colour thing.

But maybe it's best not to mess, as it's hard to beat the joy of cooking it in it's simplest form.  All you need to do is boil until 'al dente', drain well, slug in the olive oil, sea salt, and black pepper, and pile the dark glistening leaves around a couple of plump and spicy sausages or any sticky roast.  Then, open a bottle of good red wine and invite me round for supper.

New Year

12th January 2008

New Year and a time to reorganise, revitalise and prioritise. First of all (and most importantly), new boots - steel toe-caps, acid-proof, burn-proof, water-proof and rubbery. Next I have to start thinking about the year ahead. This is the big one and, if our project is going to work, we'll probably know by this time next year, so we have to get ourselves sorted. My job has now been split into two halves; morning and afternoons building (with new boots), and evenings trying to figure out how to use Dreamweaver and Flash to get our websites going (probably still in new boots). Not sure which is the hardest but, on balance, the frustrations of technology seem to outweigh those of a sledgehammer. My brain is being stretched and it doesn't like it.
Of course the antidote to all this is only about an hour away from us and is one of the reasons we are here. Florence.

Piazza della Signoria, Florence, at night.

We had to go over the Christmas period just to see what was going on and we weren't disappointed. The lights and the lighting proved to be as captivating and magical as we could have imagined, and even the children stayed the course with barely a murmur of discontent.
I haven't yet become used to, or complacent about, the fact that we are lucky enough to get onto the motorway a few miles from our house, and our choice of destinations, according to the big green signs, is as below. How could anyone grumble about that?

The stupidest thing I did today;
A new year and, so far, completely stupid-free.