Surely the best day out you can have at this time of year has
to be the Arezzo antique market. I know I have raved about it before,
but it never fails to thrill me. It's the mix of clear blue skies
and thin autumn sunshine, the Italian fashionista out in throngs
displaying the new seasons ‘look’, the marvelous spectacle of all that
junk and religious paraphernalia, as well as a chance to strut my stuff
in new skinny jeans and boots.
One of my favourite things on offer is
the Ex Voto. The word comes from the Latin, meaning ‘from the vow
made’. These votive offerings were traditionally left to a saint or
divinity, placed on the altar of a church, expressing a wish or desire
or to give thanks for the fulfillment of a prayer.
How we regard
illness and healing has changed drastically throughout the ages but
our abiding hope that all will be well is wonderfully expressed by the
ex voto. They were often left to give thanks after a successful
operation, or survival of an accident and, although usually left
anonymously, they are a touching mix of both public and personal faith.
Ex votos
Beginning in this form in Italy in the 15th Century, they slowly
spread to the new world and, although most prolific in the early 19th
Century, they continue to be used as an expression of thanks for
healing, even cats and dogs get a look in.
Out of their religious context, these tarnished
pressed tin likenesses take on a silvery and tactile allure. I find
their naïve symbolism strangely compelling.
Jumbled together in damp
cardboard boxes or haphazardly displayed amongst all the other tawdry
tat, they glint temptingly. I can never resist them and can spend
endless time deliberating over body parts, often returning home with
several comforting little packages containing disembodied limbs, eyes
and torsos.
Best thing I ate:
Porcini
We
are coming to the end of the porcini season here, so I thought I’d
better get a move on before the first hard frost arrives. I wish I
could tell you that I’d been foraging in the woods for them, but I am
far to fearful to trust my own judgment in the poisonous funghi
department. Luckily, at this time of year, there are porcini stalls at
every local market as well as those randomly placed by the side of the road,
seemingly in the middle of nowhere, just waiting for a some porcini
crazed motorists to pull up, and sure enough we did.
Piled into a wooden crate, the porcini look so plump
and appealing with their chestnut bronze and chocolate caps. I think
the best way to cook porcini is to roast them, either whole or thickly
sliced. Place them in a single layer in a shallow roasting pan, douse
them with a generous slug of olive oil, sprinkle with sea salt and a
few sprigs of thyme, and roast until the flesh is slightly shrunken
and the tops a little wrinkled. The 'bosky' flavour will be sublime,
intense and earthy. I served mine, dark and glossy, piled on top of a
basic white risotto, to which I had added the sweetness of a little
marsala, and finished by stirring in a big creamy dollop of mascarpone.
Heaven.
Where to get them:
In the woods, if you dare.
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