A Tuscan View - from Umbria

The colour of earth

The first coat of calce (lime-wash paint) is diluted to the consistency of milk.  As I slosh it on to the walls it streams down my arms and splashes on my feet.  It barely covers the newly finished plaster in a thin pale wash.  This is the ‘primo mano’ or undercoat in pure chalk white.  
The idea of calce is that it breathes. 

I love that idea, a house with a soul and walls that breathe.

After the primo mano you can choose a colour, if you wish, to add to the chalk base.  You are given a tin of pigment, which you mix in, and the broken colour is achieved in 3 coats each diluted to a lesser degree with water.  The end result is a colour that appears to move in and out of its own intensity, changing with the light and the undulations of the walls.  Well, that’s the aim anyway.

Since I first visited Italy, years ago,  I have been infatuated with its colours; the warm rosy apricots and rich terracottas of the peeling stucco in the piazzas.  Faded frescos with the soft tinctures of the Renaissance, ghosts of vivid lapis blues and true clear reds. 

In the countryside, the ever-changing grey green olives and inky dark cypresses stand against the ripened gold of wheat. And the land itself, its ploughed and fallow fields with great clods of soil like raw siena, the fertile colour of earth.

In the cavernous warehouse where we have come to buy the paint I feel suddenly nervous, almost overwhelmed by colour, but I know I haven’t come this far to paint yet another stark white wall, so I hold my breath and choose…

The best thing I ate;

Bruschette con pomodorini e ricotta or (less romantically) tomatoes on toast!

I have been making these a lot recently. They are great for lunch but even better as the sun sinks behind the hills, served with a gently fizzing glass of chilled prosecco. I think it is the intense tomato taste of summer, the piquant edge of the peperoncino,  or maybe the mellow sweetness of the balsamic contrasting with the crumbling cool ricotta that really gets me.  Enough already!  Just try it.

Serves 4

cherry tomatoes (about 30)
Balsamic vinegar (1 and a half tablespoons)
Extra virgin olive oil
A peperoncino  chopped really finely
Sea salt and ground black pepper
Country bread sliced about 1cm thick
Garlic
Fresh ricotta cheese (try and get the good stuff made of sheep’s milk from the deli counter)
Fresh basil

 Leave the tomatoes whole and put them in an ovenproof dish and spread them out in a single layer. Season them with a little salt and pepper and drizzle generously with olive oil and half a tablespoon of balsamic vinegar.  Roast them in a hot oven for about 10 minutes or until the skins have burst and the juices started to caramelise.  Take them out of the oven and add the peperoncino, then add another tablespoon of balsamic vinegar and stir gently to mingle the flavours.

Meanwhile, slice your bread and toast it on a hot griddle until it is crisp on both sides.  Rub each slice a couple of times with a cut glove of garlic.  Drizzle with some olive oil and sprinkle with a little sea salt. 

To assemble your bruschette, spoon the tomatoes on to the toasted bread and top with a little ricotta.  Serve on a large white platter with some torn basil strewn around. 

The early morning ferry

As usual we have a million things to do; lists, sub-lists, goals and deadlines and sometimes the hours just seems to slip away like sand.  But something subtle is happening here, Summer is weaving her hot magical spell, the children are in holiday mode and it’s catching.

Arriving early in Castiglione del Lago to run some errands, we happen to see the early morning ferry to Isola Maggiore heading for the jetty.  The water ripples silver in the sun and a cool reedy breeze blows gently from the lake.  Before we even hear the pleading cries from our offspring, Marito and I have exchanged ‘the look’.  Errands and lists will have to wait - we are getting on that ferry.

The spontaneity of it seems somehow thrilling and the children are half wild with excitement. The dog, a little unsure of his sea legs, is carried awkwardly on board and suddenly a very different kind of day is beginning to unfold.

Little waves slap against the wooden hull and the ferry heads out across the opalescent water to the island of Maggiore shimmering in the distance.  There are only a handful of other voyagers on board and in the quiet of the early morning the chug and pull of the engine is mesmerising.

Of the three islands that rise out of Lake Trasimeno, Isola Maggiore (close to the northern shore), is the second largest and the only one permanently inhabited.

We disembark and walk up the landing stage past some huge and mutant looking cats towards the Islands only village.  It is enchanting, the village consists entirely of a single street.  The quayside houses are built of mellow crumbling stone and behind them is the shifting grey green of olive groves rising up to the Church of San Michele at the island’s highest point.  Swallows swoop crazily in and out of the bell tower and the rasping cry of a thousand cicadas vibrates through the air.

Early in the morning (before the tourist rush) and with a population of less than 100, the place seems almost deserted - locked in time.  We walk up a rough and scorching track, the sun now blazing overhead through the olives and past a wild, abandoned castle towards the church. The sweeping views out across the lake make up for all the predictable moaning and the rather unpredictable gradient.  At last we reach a resting spot with a bench and a tap.  We drink, splash the dog and stick our heads under the flow of icy water.

It is said that in 1211 St Francis landed here and stayed for a 40 day sojourn during which time all he ate was half a loaf.  There is a little chapel marking the spot and a small Franciscan monastery.  The thought of only half a loaf makes everyone’s stomach start to gnaw and we retrace our steps in search of breakfast.

Back in the timeless main street I am struck by how much it resembles a film set, with it’s fishing nets drying in the sun and, inside dimly lit doorways little old ladies on rickety chairs making lace.

Half way down the street we stop to look inside the church of Buon Gesu, it has some wonderful, peeling frescoes from which baroque cherubs smile down from the faded lapis with naïve exuberance.

We see battered goal posts tucked into an alley way and imagine the island at night with children playing football in a street free from the noises and dangers of cars, and the old boys calling to each other across the way.  There is a solitary hotel and I find myself thinking, rather wistfully, how romantic it would be to stay the night.  To watch the sun set over the lake and slip down behind the distance mountains while dusk whispers in the olive groves and the hush of darkness descends on this tiny enduring community.

The best thing I ate:
Gelato, gelato, gelato.

After much experimenting I have to say I have found my favourite (local) purveyor of the cold stuff.  Caffé Venezia, via Porsenna, Chiusi.  I have tried lots and lots of lovely flavours here from the dewy coral coloured watermelon through various intense and smoky chocolate combos to my personal favourite, the creamy pale and elusive ‘gorgonzola and honey’ (I promise you, it’s delicious!).

The maker of these divine confections is the wife of the owner, and she is, quite simply, gifted.  She only uses proper ingredients (never any syrups) to produce the most sublime, silky gelato imaginable.  At once rich, voluptuous and also completely addictive. At the moment I am averaging about one a day and I freely admit I’ve lost my head as well as my heart. Is that too many?  Is that enough?  How many is too many?

Where to get it:
See above, if there’s any left.

Spellbound.

23rd June 2008

It’s 5.45 on the morning after the longest day of the year.  It’s warm but the sky still has the soft pale blue, almost white, look of dawn.  The sun, low and hazy, has yet to stoke and build up her heat.  The brick steps are still cool and there is freshness in the shadows.  We are up, the whole family and, with barely a tussle, have managed to assemble - bleary and blinking - by the car.

We drive through the sleepy, breezeless countryside past putty coloured olive groves and inky cypress trees standing still, silent and spellbound as the Sunday morning bells ring in the day.  Soon we arrive at Citta della Pieve keen and hungry.  Here the streets are being carpeted with flowers and it is this that we have come to see, the Festa dei Fiori in honour of S.Luigi Gonzaga, protector of the Casalino Terziere.

These beautiful decorations are made once a year on the nearest Sunday to the Summer solstice.  The festival’s origins are lost in the mists of time but some say it marks the solemn procession of Spring.  Many of the designs are traditional, taking their inspiration from the Renaissance and the local master Perugino, but every year new designs are added in rich and subtle colours.

Flowers and scented herbs are grown in the surrounding countryside specially for this extravaganza and for 3 months prior to the day locals collect and dry the blooms and seed heads in preparation.  No money changes hands, it is simply the Italian way.

 We wanted to be in Citta della Pieve early in the day to see the work in progress, volunteers have been up through the night creating these vibrant scenes.  Ordinary people, nonnas and nonnos with their grandchildren, the man from the bar and another, the big gruff man who sells tickets for the Perugino and hides his broken smile. Today he walks up and down spraying the flowers with sugar water which will harden and set the blooms.

There is an atmosphere of hushed business and an up-beat vibe.  The whole place glows in the intensifying sunshine, the vivid colour of the petals radiant against the old stone and red brick of the town.

This wonderful show of dedication and artistry is made all the more fascinating by it’s fleeting nature, later this evening a procession of townspeople will walk over the flowers to the main piazza scattering the blooms to the gutter in their wake.

As we walk between the images taking photos, laughing with our girls, chatting with the old guys, restraining the dog and stopping for cappuccio and cornettos, I have to admit it was well worth the wake up call.

We so enjoyed photographing this glorious event that you can find more pictues of the flower designs in the side bar, just give me a day to sort it out...

The best thing I ate:
Risotto with roast fennel and peperoncino a casa

Yes it’s hot, but sometimes only risotto will do.  There is something so therapeutic about the making and eating of risotto, the ritual of adding the stock and stirring, watching while the little translucent grains grow plump and creamy.  Followed by the soothing balm of eating a bowl full of bliss.

  A good risotto can calm a frazzled spirit, comfort a fragile soul and even cure a hangover!  But for this magic to work it has to be made well and that means practice.
The rice should still retain a slight ‘nutty’ bite and the consistency be an unctuous oozing mass, not too soupy, not too stiff.

 Find a good recipe for risotto bianco and get practising, I suggest ‘The best of Anna Del Conte’.  It is this book that gave me a great tip for preparing risotto in quantity without having to stand and stir, red in the face, while others are knocking back the aperitivo.  ‘Jamie’s Italy’ also has a good variation.   Once you’ve got the knack there is no limit to the good things you can add to your risotto.

With a nod to Jamie (and for a big gutsy flavour) I stirred in soft caramelised roasted fennel and boosted it with crushed fennel seeds, lemon zest and the subtle hint of peperoncino and, what do you know, even marito’s hangover was cured!

Where to get it: 
Make it yourself. 

Pedalo fun

10th June 2008

 It’s all about the lake.  The Etruscans farmed here and Hannibal fought here.  Lago Trasimeno is the largest body of water on the Italian peninsula, 54 kilometres around. A vast expanse of luminous water, changeable with the light and seasons; sometimes milky pale and silver, or azure blue and shimmering in the lazy heat of noon.  Ringed by misty mountains it makes a perfect backdrop for the fortified town of Castiglione del Lago.  The way the town juts out on a promontory means that it is almost completely surrounded by water and seems to dominate the lake.  This is the landscape of Perugino and for landlocked Umbrians, this inviting cool blue water has the magnetic pull of an ocean. 

Along the shore there are lakeside restaurants and bars, little grassy beaches and sandy lidos.  In summer there is all the buzz of Italian beach culture with swimming, sunbathing and pedalo fun.  Call me old fashioned, but I love a bit of pedalo fun, especially with young children.  I have always found the combination of manic aquatic cycling coupled with the risk of accidental drowning to be highly entertaining.  Meanwhile, blue and white ferries glide through the languid waters on route to the lake’s three tranquil islands Maggiore, Minore and Polvese.

The best thing I ate

Cake

I must admit (and it will come as no big surprise) to a greedy love of cake in all its many forms.  The cake, or cakes, in question were jubilant birthday offerings to celebrate the sunny age of nine.

Underneath fluttering bunting and pastel coloured balloons, by the side of the limpid lake we shared a festa with the tall one’s Italian friends.

Italian birthday cakes are blousy, flamboyant affairs.  There is none of the sturdy weight of the English counterpart.  Under the elaborate decorations the Italians favour light puffs of sponge sandwiched with softly billowing custard and cream, more like a deliciously corseted trifle.

The real stars of the show were the miniature tarts and ‘bombolloni’ that had also been made by Michele, a young and gifted Castiglione based baker, in his laboratorio.  They looked so pretty it was hard to choose.  Cute and kitsch, vanilla scented mouthfuls of pure extravagance.

Where to get it: 
GMB Castiglione del Lago

 

Guilty as charged

10th May 2008

Around 10 years ago there was a great deal of excitement about the 500th Anniversary of the death of one of the greatest Renaissance painters, Piero Della Francesca. I remember being on holiday in Italy at the time and tearing around with Marito to various churches, museums and small towns to see as much of his work as possible as quickly as we could, The Piero Trail.

There were so many highlights, including my personal favourite, the serene Madonna Del Parto , but the one that perhaps stands out the most in terms of its sheer magnificence is the Legend of the True Cross fresco cycle in Arezzo. As a story it has all the intrigue of The Lord of the Rings, spanning over 5,000 years from the death of Adam to the return of the cross to Jerusalem.

In the middle there is the search for healing oil from the Wood of Mercy, the theatrical angel appearing to Constantine in his beautifully illuminated campaign tent and two tremendous battle scenes. It appears exactly as it would have done, except for the damage caused by earthquakes, lightning, nearby building works and, perhaps the worst of all evils, if you're a fresco, damp.

I took some photographs, although I did get told off for doing so. Flash photography causes terrible damage to a fresco, I was once told that one flash was the equivalent of 10 days subdued sunlight, so I am always careful to not use it. So when I asked (politely) why it was wrong, it seems the reason is now copyright. After 510 years I doubt whether Piero Della Francesca would really care that much.

Anyway, guilty as charged, here they are. The idea is to make other people want to go and pay to see the frescoes, so I guess it all works out ok in the end.

The History of Art really is food for the soul, it's history with pictures, a wonderful subject for anyone with their eyes open to ideas and creativity and, whether or not you love the art, it represents an aspect of human endeavour which shapes the world we live in.

Seems like nature’s doing a pretty good job too, it being so juicy green and blooming beautiful around here these days.

Best thing I ate;

Panino

Sometimes the best thing you eat has less to do with the actual food itself and more to do with the location in which you eat it, or the company you're with. So it was with my Panino con Tonno e Capperi, oily and delicious indeed, but it would hardly have drawn a crowd. 
However, add to it the location, (a bustling outside café under Vasari’s gracious loggia in the stunning town of Arezzo) the company, (two of my favourite Italophiles and fellow bloggers, the olive notes) a little sunshine and the famous Fiera Antiquaria.

Mix it all up and stick that in a Panino – ‘perfetto’!

The birds and the bees

27th April 2008

Forget the bursting buds of Spring, forget the birds and the bees. For a sure sign that more clement weather is on the way check out this remarkable transformation.

It was with some trepidation that we took our beloved hound (one year old this week) for his first haircut warned, as we had been, by the vet that it might look “un po brutto”, (a little ugly) but, as temperatures started to climb, the hair had to go.

Just look at what a handsome and expressive face had been lurking beneath all that wool. At first he seemed more vulnerable and, strangely, slightly more intelligent however, after a brief identity crisis, he is now back to his normal stupid self and feeling mighty confident about his furry charms. Strutting his stuff down Chiusi main street with hardly a backwards glance at all the lady-dogs swooning in his wake.

Best thing I ate:
Bistecca alla Fiorentina

I am enamoured with my butcher. He has Al Pacino eyes and the lazy smile of a well fed wolf. I know he likes me and he knows I like him. Why? because we both like good meat.

Yesterday, when Marito was buying some bistecca (steak) and I was waiting outside with the dog (our noses pushed up against the window), ‘Big Al’ refused to cut marito’s steak thicker than mine, despite his protestations because, said Al, (gesturing towards me with his chopper), “I know she likes her meat!”
So… if you’re ever in Chuisi, and you require the services of a good butcher, you know where to go – 70, Via Porsena, Chuisi.

For a bistecca that’s butch and bloody with a salty crust, here’s how;

The steak (about as thick as your thumb)
Some olive oil
Sea salt, black pepper and a stem of fresh rosemary
A heavy frying or grill pan

Rub your steak all over with olive oil, use the rosemary to brutally brush it on, crushing the herb and releasing the fragrance. Grind the pepper over both sides and (controversial I know), a good grind of sea salt too. This gives a lovely salty crust to the meat.
Put a little more oil in your pan and get it nice and hot, (it must be hot for this to work), then slap in the steak and press it down into the pan, don’t move it about.
Let it cook for 2 minutes, then turn it over, grind a bit more salt over it and press down again.
Let in cook for 2 minutes more and it will be ready, (the faint hearted may wish to cook it for a bit longer). I sometimes add a couple of cloves of garlic, squashed in their skins to the pan, or throw in a little wine after removing the meat to make the beefy juices go a bit further.

Apologies to vegetarians. I like vegetables too, promise.

The garland maker

29th March 2008

During the Easter break we shed our builders’ overalls and travelled by train to Florence for another quick fix of culture.

We chose Santa Maria Novella, not because it’s a stones throw from the station, nor because of it’s ornate green and white marble façade but because it really is a marvel. So jam packed with Renaissance goodies that at two and a half euros for the entrance it’s got to be the best value for money in town.

Green and white marble facade

Despite the lure of an early Masaccio fresco and the tormented beauty of Brunelleschi’s crucifix, what really does it for me is the Tornabuoni chapel, frescos by Domenico Ghirlandaio.  The name Ghirlandaio means garland maker and was a nickname passed down by his father, a goldsmith who made gold garland-like necklaces for the wealthy women of Florence.  From his father’s workshop Ghirlandaio was said to have begun his career making drawings of the passers-by.

His skill for portraiture is displayed at it’s best in these striking frescos commissioned by the banker, Giovanni Tornabuoni. Despite the subject matter being the lives of the Madonna and St John the Baptist there are no fewer than 21 portraits of members of the Tornabuoni family and their circle depicted here.  This might explain why certain illustrious ladies of Florentine society are shown as if present at the births of both St John and the Virgin.  These beauties include the ill-fated Ludovica Tornabuoni, the patron’s only daughter, who never saw her prominent portrait as she was to die in childbirth aged 15 before it was finished, making the scene even more poignant.

Ludovica Tornabuoni, 5th from the left, by Domenico Ghirlandaio

As a snapshot of 15th Century life in Florence, no frescos are more fascinating.  There is a strange, almost Disney-like quality to them and the interior detail is compelling.  Imagine the impact when these gaudy scenes were revealed to the god-fearing Florentine masses in all their technicolour glory.  Here there are no imaginary celestial settings but the real, elaborate halls and bed chambers of contemporary Florence, peopled by the wives and daughters of the rich.  In a world without glossy magazines, TV shows or shopping channels they were like a Florentine soap-opera, the first ever reality show and they caused a sensation. John Ruskin snippily said of them that “if you are  nice person they are not nice enough” and “if you are a vulgar person, not vulgar enough”.
To me they are nice and vulgar!

As you leave you may notice a large carved, wooden pulpit, it was from here that the zealous Dominicans first denounced Galileos daring realisation that the earth revolved around the sun and not the other way round.  And, in a dimly lit corner with no label or sign attached, is a small but exquisite water stoop carved by a young Michelangelo.  All this for two and a half euros!  What more could you ask for, (although marito remarked cynically that it used to be free).

The best thing I ate;
Asparagus.

It’s a little early I know (the true season for Italian asparagus being the end of April to the end of June) but I just can’t wait. Slowly, gradually it is beginning to appear on the market stalls. I’ve been holding back knowing my greed for asparagus knows no bounds, not wanting to waste the first taste of the year on  something lacking and inferior. But then, as luck would have it, I was invited to join some neighbours for supper and there it was, the first course. A large white platter, piled high with beautiful, glistening spears of silky green asparagus, briefly boiled and tender to the bite. The partner to this heavenly vision was a large bowl of lovely, fat, wobbly home-made mayonnaise. And so, I declare the asparagus season (in this house) has begun.

Where to get it;
Anywhere you can, before I do.

Bones and stones

9th March 2008

Real life seems to be taking over from blogging here at the moment as, finally, the building work seems to be moving on a pace, which is good, as our first painting course starts in September and the apartments and studio need to ready for the summer.
Hard work, however, doesn’t come cheap and this is a point in the project when we seem to haemorrhaging cash.
The house is changing and evolving almost daily and it seems to me that sometimes it ‘talks’. By that I mean it makes it’s spirit felt. When you take a building back to it’s origins and strip away the layers of man made rubbish we like to surround ourselves with; the polyurethane, vinyl, plasterboard and pebbledash to reveal the beautiful bones and stones and brick and wood you set it’s spirit free.

The spirit of this house soared free yesterday morning when marito and Vlad began to chisel off the sombre render on the front of the house and revealed this.

Best thing I ate:

Here, for my friends Maryann, Finding La Dolce Vita and Marie, Proud Italian Cook, is my contribution to Festa Italia

Pasta al forno con pomodoro e mozzarella

This is one of my favourite Italian pasta dishes. I love the way a few humble ingredients like cheese, tomatoes and pasta can be made into something rich and sustaining.
When I take this out of the oven, fragrant and bubbling, it always makes me feel like a sexy Italian ‘mamma’. You will find versions of it in almost every Italian cookery book and it is a regular feature at celebrations all over Italy.
Marito and the girls would gladly eat this everyday of the week given half a chance. It is straightforward to make in large quantities so perfect for a festa. The fact that Italians choose to celebrate with such a simple dish and then to lavish so much care over its preparation is for me what makes Italian food truly great.

It feeds four greedy people;

2 large cloves garlic squashed
1 peperoncino crumbled
Extra virgin olive oil
3x 400g tins of good quality plum tomatoes
2 bay leaves
Sea salt, black pepper
Big bunch of Basil leaves
2 or 3 balls of good quality mozzarella cheese
Lots of freshly grated Parmesan cheese
Nutmeg
400g Penne pasta

Pre heat the oven to 200 degrees and put a large pan of water on to boil for the pasta.
In a large deep frying pan heat a good glug of olive oil and sauté the garlic and peperoncino for a few minutes but do not colour. Add the tomatoes and chop them roughly, then add the bay leaves and simmer it all for about 20 minutes until it’s thick and reduced. Mash in the garlic, which should now be soft, and remove the bay. Check the flavour and season with as much salt and pepper as you like.

When your water is boiling add some salt and cook the Penne until just ‘al dente’ then drain, reserving a small cup of the pasta water. Toss the pasta with half of the sauce and use the water to thin down the remaining tomato mixture.

In a large baking dish layer the pasta followed by the tomato sauce and 1 torn up mozzarella ball, some basil leaves and a good grating of Parmesan. Repeat these layers until you have used everything up. Ending with a layer of mozzarella and Parmesan and topping the whole glorious thing off with a grating of nutmeg, don’t hold back.

Bake in a hot oven for about 15 mins until crusty and golden.

This is a perfect sop for large quantities of good red wine. Buona Festa!

Cold and luckless

22nd February 2008

On a cold and luckless night last week, the pitiless febbre (flu) that has been stalking the winter countryside paid a visit to our house, claiming me and the small one as it’s victims before bounding on to Chuisi for a pizza. Having spent the last few days aching, shivering and sneezing while administering to a cranky child, I can tell you that Italian flu is no fun.

The house, emerging from Winter

However, while I’ve been languishing in my sickbed, inhaling foul potions prescribed by marito, the air outside has softened and the promise of Spring can be felt as the pale sunshine breaks through the mist. Things are looking up.

Preferring not to waste his time on elaborate bedside manners, marito has been busy demolishing the back of the house. Bravo, who wants to be a doctor anyway.

Marito, hiding somewhere in this picture, avoiding the flu

Best thing I ate:

Tachipirina (Paracetamol)
Pity me.
I have also (temporarily I hope) lost my sense of taste and smell.

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…