A Tuscan View - from Umbria

white speedos?

It's August, which in Italy means that 90% of Italians head for the sea and, with 7,600km of coastline, there's a lot of room for all those millions of pairs of white speedos which never seem to have gone out of fashion here.

I must say that I've never personally been one for gazing out to sea (or at white speedos for that matter) and, being in the only landlocked region of the Italian peninsular, I'm well placed to appreciate the inside, rather than the outside edge of the country.


Early evening view from the house

The midsummer colours here are so bright and full of glare that it is hard to photograph the countryside except when it's a little cooler, either early in the morning or late in the afternoon, but when the light is just right you can sometimes hit upon a rich seam of shapes, lines and colours which define this landscape and these freshly cut fields below were, for me, just such a seam.


 
Freshly cut fields of grain

They remind me of chestnut woodgrain or warm travertine and they mark a brief respite for the hardworking farmers of this area - who I imagine have also gone off for a few days by the sea, firmly clutching their white speedos.

tempera

A little while ago we decided to run a course in Tempera painting. This is a traditional technique used extensively in Italy during the Renaissance and, in it's classical form, is called Egg tempera as the powdered pigments are bound together with egg yolks. After about 1500 oil painting took over in Italy and these days tempera has been transformed into what we now call poster paint or Gouache.

There was a wonderful moment in Florence in 1483 when a painting (The Portinari Altarpiece - Adoration of the Shepherds) was carried with much 'pomp' into the city all the way down from the Northern European city of Bruges. It had been painted by the Flemish master Hugo van der Goes in oil paint and it was a revelation.

People queued to marvel at the extraordinary realism and detail of this spectacular altarpiece and, amongst many other things, made particular mention of the dirt visible under the fingernails of the shepherds adoring the Christ child.

 This was a real wake-up call to the painters of Florence who had always thought themselves and their techniques  to be the best in the world and so was also a real threat to the method of tempera painting they used. One artist took up the challenge.

Determined to prove that Florentines were at least as good as the Flemish oil painters, Domenico Ghirlandaio produced an 'Adoration of the Shepherds' in Florentine style and in tempera, but with more than the occasional reference to the rival Flemish painting, including dirt under the fingernails of the shepherds, one of whom is Ghirlandaio himself, with breathtaking realism, stubble and watery eyes, showing us what he can do.

Detail of Ghirlandaio's Adoration, he is the handsome man on the bottom left!

Both paintings are still in Florence, one in the Ufizzi, carefully protected and preserved amongst all the other masterworks of Italy, and Ghirlandaio's in a dark corner of a comparatively small church called Santa Trinita, with a broken light, no entrance charge, no queue and no guard. You just have to walk in and admire.

Anyway, I want to try as many traditional methods as possible, so I went to Arezzo to do a little research into tempera. I can find the eggs myself, but dry powdered pigments and gold leaf may be a little harder to come by!

I found a workshop with a wonderful old man who restores and repairs all sorts of artwork, with paintings and frames piled up against the walls and hanging from the ceiling. So, I made myself a nuisance and tried to get as much information as I could out of him, wandering around the studio, staring at his brushes, pigments, mouldings, powders, pots and tins of strange mixtures of gesso, gold leaf, silver leaf, glues, sizes, boles etc.

He told me that he would be the last of his family to continue in his business as his children had decided not to follow on his line of work.

In another life I would have jumped at the chance to become his (unpaid) apprentice. Not least because his knowledge and his recipes have been so carefully developed over 60 years and, when he goes, a lot goes
with him.

There are a lot of mysteries in those tins and jars.

But of the photos I took that day, one stands out. This one. I could look at it for hours. It is a picture of one part of one wall of his studio and it tells us so much about him, his family, his life and his career. Next week I might just have to go back to ask him a few more questions...

Brace yourselves...

Well, would you believe it? This is almost our one hundredth post (number ninety nine, to be exact) so, as everyone likes a list, brace yourselves.

Here we go: 

99 reasons to love Italy (in no particular order)

1. Coffee, from espresso to caffe latte. No other country does it better.
2. Ape, gorgeous little scooter-van-thingys, top of my wish list.
3. Vespas, in all their wonderful retro colours.
4. Opera under the stars on a balmy summer evening.
5. Perugino - our local hero.
6. Gelato!
7. Bruschetta - 101 delicious things you can do with a bit of stale bread.
8. Bar culture; the smell, the coffee paraphernalia, the old boys hanging out in the corner...
9. The Renaissance, an intoxicating mix of art and intrigue.
10. Florence. The glorious epicentre of the Rennaisance.

11. Aperitivo. Yes please and, although the Italians favour Campari, mine's an Aperol Spritz!
12. Sense of family; love, humour and pride bound together by blood, it’s a passionate combo.
13. Il Palio, the whole ‘contrade’ thing.
14. Olive oil, the peppery tang of the first pressing, grassy and green.
15. Sicily - beautiful and dangerous.
16. Markets - from bread to bras to broken chairs, everything under the sun.
17. Jovanotti, making beards look good.
18. Shoes and boots, not cheap, but oh so very lovely!
19. Passeggiata. Got the shoes, now walk the walk.
20. A Lagotto Romagnolo, more than just a dog...

21. The Medici, a bloody history of power, money, and art. These boys bank-rolled the Renaissance.
22. Parmigiano, the king of Italian cheese, intense and crumbling
23. Sex appeal, lets face it, most Italians have some.
24. Rome, home of Il Papa, the Colosseum and all-round shopping heaven.
25. Driving, face the fear!
26. Pasta, one of the world’s greatest carbohydrates.
27. The Crete Senese, a hauntingly beautiful landscape.
28. Wine, sniff it, sip it and swallow it. Italy gives great wine.
29. Mozzarella; drippingly fresh, clean and lactic. Lose your heart to this subtle cheese.
30. Sunflowers, a bit naff, but everyone loves them.

31. Siena, it’s all about Il Campo, which is perhaps the loveliest Italian piazza I have ever seen.
32. The porchetta van, you haven’t lived until you’ve eaten a porchetta panino.  The savoury highlight of every market place. Just remember to wipe your chin...
33. Language, “Ciao bella!”, what’s not to love?
34. Roadside Madonnas, they're everywhere; forgiving and serene.
35. Venice; the Grand canal, St Marks Square, the faded, shabby splendour - unforgettable.
36. Salsicce, the Italians know how to make a mighty fine sausage.
37. Italian nonnas; slow moving and dressed in black, God bless them all.
38. Amici, great reality TV, Italian style.
39. Dylan Dog, he just gets sexier. (It’s a comic)
40. Umbrella pines

41. Arezzo. The antiques market, Casa Vasari, Piero della Francesca’s ‘Legend of the True Cross’ fresco cycle and a Cimabue cross, make this laid back town perfetto.
42. Baci, Perugia’s little chocolate and hazelnut kisses.
43. Buh! An expression that defies translation and yet somehow seems fitting for almost every occasion.
44. Fiat cinquecento, in all it’s wonderful retro colours, top of marito’s wish list.
45. Naples, the dark heart of Italy.
46. Befana. Will she bring you sweets or coal? You’ve gotta love the Christmas witch.
47. Rolling wheat fields, changing with the light, a magical part of the landscape.
48. Pizza, peasant food made good, one of Italy’s finest exports.
49. Niccolo Ammaniti’s ‘I’m not Scared’ a great read.
50. Olive trees.

51. More gelato.
52. Elena Ferrante ‘Days of Abandonment’ another good read.
53. Siesta, everything stops from 1pm to 4pm, why fight it?
54. Body language; the shrugs, the gestures, the facial expressions, my children use them all!
55. Free food, the funghi, the truffles (I wish!), the wild herbs and salads, it’s a foragers paradise.
56. Fashionista, they are out there somewhere, though maybe not in Chiusi.
57. Churches, dimly lit, smelling of candle wax and polish.
58. Ferragosto, everything stops for the whole month of August, why fight it?
59. Tans. After April, somehow, everyone has one.
60. Italian beach culture, the kiosks, the loungers, the tightly fitting speedos...

61. Risotto, the ultimate comfort food. Even the ritual of stirring and pouring can soothe a savage soul.
62. Northern Italy, Liguria and Piemonte, the coast, the mountains, the polenta.
63. White roads, often unmarked, dusty and rutted, seemingly leading nowhere.
64. Ciambelle, (doughnuts), let’s not go there.
65. The men in tights, the processions and pageantry, the painstakingly made Renaissance costumes.
66. The mists in the valleys and the hilltop towns of Tuscany and Umbria.
67. The seasons, each very different, defined and extreme.
68. Frescoes. Yes, all of them.
69. Acqua Frizzante
70. Panettone, the gaudily packaged traditional Christmas cake.  Vanilla scented and sweetly risen, these cakes are highly addictive and all too often on special offer way into the New Year!

71. Carnevale, the masks, the streamers. Oh come on, it’s a holiday!
72.  “Permesso?” No Italian would ever cross your threshold without first uttering this word.
73. Architecture, apart from a bleak post war period lasting well into the 1970’s, Italian architecture is pretty damn fine.
74. Pecorino, a great cheese made from sheep’s milk. Sold here in many guises from young and wet, like a sharp tasting mozzarella, to mature and granular rather like a parmesan.  Delicious, eaten with pears or fresh figs.
75. Pigs, what the Italians can’t do with pork is not worth knowing, think proscuitto, pancetta, speck, salami, salsicce (I know, we’ve been there already!)
76. The smell of wood smoke in winter.
77. Roberto Saviano's ‘Gomorrah’ This book is both brilliant and terrifying in any language.
78. Sweet wine, Vin Santo, luscious and golden for dipping biscotti, and Marsala, the cook’s quick fix, for transforming pan-fried chicken or pork into something sublime.
79. The Equestrian Portrait of Guidoriccio da Fogliano, attributed by some to Simone Martini. This portrait of a knight setting forth from his battle camp to besiege a walled hill town is stunning, no matter who it’s by.  It can be seen in the Palazzo Pubblico in Siena, and is one of my very favourite paintings.
80. An almost neverending 3 months off school for the summer holidays, according to my children it’s the very best thing about Italy, personally I’m not so sure.

81. Gennaro Gattuso, I just slipped him in for marito.
82. Pesto. Whoever first dreamt up this fragrant sauce was a culinary genius.
83. Gorgonzola, love it, love it, love it.
84. Ricotta, Mascarpone, Fontina, OK, OK, I just love cheese.
85. Taking the waters, a national pastime, those thermal spas are oh soooo good.
86. Riccardo Scamarcio, an Italian actor who is heartbreakingly gorgeous.
87. The tiny green lizards, I don’t know their proper name, but I love the way they smile and keep me company when I’m sitting on the steps.
88. Francesco Totti,  making the beautiful game beautiful, apparently.
89. Piero della Francesca’s overwhelming fresco, the ‘Madonna del Parto’ located in the tiny village of Monterchi, near Arezzo. It is the only depiction of the pregnant Madonna in Renaissance art.
90. Cypress trees.

91. Savonarola, the 15th century mad monk of Florence, adversary to the Medici and instigator of the purging frenzy that culminated in the colossal ‘Bonfire of the Vanities’.  Some people just make great history.   
92. Long lunches in a shady piazza.
93. The hot resinous smell of summer.
94. Tiziano Ferro, bellissimo.
95. Biscotti, dry and nutty Cantuccini for dipping, or sweet and squidgy Ricciarelli for pure indulgence, the Italians do make great biscotti.
96.  Le Marche, Abruzzo, Calabria, all places I haven’t been to yet but have heard so much about that I just can’t wait to visit.
97. Regional food passion. In what other country would a group of grown men stand around naked in the football changing room discussing the merits of mozzarella? Thank you, marito, for that insight.
98. “Dai”, that a word so short can be so full of meaning, moaning and pleading is quite amazing.
99. Prosecco, fizzy and frivolous, the Italian answer to Champagne.

Phew! I think I need one!

I’m sure there are many, many more. After all, these are just my reasons based on the Italy that I know so, whether you agree or disagree, please feel free to add a few of your own in the comments.  As for number 100 well, I’m afraid you’ll just have to wait…

Mr Woodworm

The hidden junkyards of Umbria are not really a secret, but I always feel a kind of furtive excitement whenever I come across one, as if somehow I have outwitted the wily dealers at the antique markets and found their precious source.  My favourite is on a scrappy bit of farmland nearby, former barns and pig stys stand full of treasure whilst chickens peck amongst the remnants of a much harsher rural life. The owner is locally known by the nickname ‘il Tarlo’, the woodworm.

 It may look like an unkempt jumble of damp wood and rusting metal but if you have ‘the eye’ it is so much more.  ‘The eye’ is a term that causes much bickering between me and marito as each of us would be loathed to admit that the other one has ‘it’ if, indeed, either of us does. I suppose it simply means seeing potential in something that even Mr Woodworm would be hard pressed to understand, and even harder pressed to try to charge you much for.

 As marito points out a beautifully worn metal tabletop, I nod in agreement.  It is round and mottled with the oxide colours of rust like an August moon.  “That would look great on the wall” he says, I nod again, then he boasts (and I know it’s coming), “You see, I’ve got the eye!”

Of course he may think he has ‘the eye’, but not for long.  In one of the dimly lit, corrugated iron sheds, behind a pile of peeling white1960’s hospital doors I glimpse something interesting. We lug it out and, in the light, can see it’s an old red door, the pigment faded to a glorious rosy orange, its bolted together with metal straps and to me seems like the perfect find.  “That would make a fantastic table top”, I venture. Marito nods and, quick as a flash, I claim back ‘the eye’!  

It’s sad, I know, but we can play this game all day.

I love the junkyard; the old handmade tools, no longer useful, the ripped out shutters and broken ladders. 

I love the way that things can be salvaged, that they can evolve and a door can become a table and a table become a piece of art.

Sometimes, of course, it goes completely wrong and Il Tarlo has the last laugh. I imagine he thinks he's got 'the eye' too.

 
The best thing I ate today;

Pici
Once you have eaten pici, all other pasta seems to pale.  The thick, chewy, almost nutty strands of pasta rather like a superior kind of fat spaghetti can carry almost any sauce.   It is as good slicked with oil and  peperoncini as it is with something more robust. 

I think it may be a Tuscan/Umbrian thing but every local menu seems to boast a ‘pici al ragu’ or a 'pici all'anatra' or 'pici al pomodoro' and so on.   Traditionally it is made without the addition of egg and I’m sure the very best is hand rolled on the thigh of an ancient Italian Nonna, but luckily there are some surprisingly good varieties available in the local supermarket too!

Where to get it:
 At every restaurant in the region of Tuscany and Umbria, also available in most supermarkets and ‘alimentari’. Especially good, both fresh and dried, from COOP Castiglione del Lago.

Last Supper

Even Italian summer holidays have to come to an end and, last week, that end finally came.  The girls went back to school.  Half-days only at first, to help them get over the shock, I suppose.  We had a 'last supper' under the twinkling fairy lights marito has rigged up in the pine tree and talked about the highlights of the Summer, “getting my arm back” for the small one and “going to the sea’ for the tall one. So that’s that.  The long holiday is over for another year.

 Whooping with delight (they really were that bored), and dressed in clean ‘grembiulis’ (a kind of apron favoured by all Italian schools) and loaded down by the obligatory enormous ‘zainos’ (rucksacks), the girls fairly ran into school that first morning.  They left us light with relief and freed of responsibility, a celebratory cappuccino was definitely in order.

Grembiuli 

But something else had happened, something subtle, a slight shift of sensibilities. At the school gates we were no longer known as ‘stranieri’ (foreigners - that strange and wary word), but with some slight affection we seem to have become ‘Inglesi’ (English) and that, for me at least, is triumph enough.  Because I know what the locals have always known: that no matter how wide our vocabulary, how good our accent, what team we choose to support or the depth of our tans, deep in our souls we will never be Italian.
But that’s OK by me, just give me a cappuccino and I’m happy to watch.  After all, they are so much better at it.

The best thing I ate today;

More bruschette! Yes I know I’ve been banging on about bruschette all Summer and, if truth be told, I am a little obsessive when it comes to food.  I get kind of stuck in a groove, the impulse to keep on perfecting a recipe takes over and, before I know it, we are eating bruschette every day of the week.

Well, there’s nothing wrong with that. It’s delicious in all its forms and makes a perfect, healthy lunch, or antipasti, or breakfast, or dinner… midnight snack anyone?

Here they are, the last of the Summer season, until next year.

Bruschette con pepperoni

3 red peppers
Olive oil
Sea salt and ground black pepper
1 tablespoon good balsamic vinegar (but there’s no need to take out a loan)
A teaspoon of fresh thyme leaves
1 glove of garlic peeled and cut in half
6 slices of country bread

De-seed the peppers and cut them into strips.  Heat some olive oil in a heavy based pan and sauté the peppers until they begin to soften, then add the balsamic vinegar and the thyme leaves. Continue to cook on a low heat for about 10 minutes (the idea is that the peppers begin to caramelize) but add a little water if they get too dry. Season with salt and pepper to taste.  Meanwhile toast your bread (try and use a griddle if possible because I’m sure it tastes better) rub one side of the toast lightly with the garlic, pile on the peppers and drizzle over with a little more olive oil.

Bruschette con spinaci

3 handfuls of left over spinach
Olive oil
Sea salt and ground black pepper
Nutmeg
1 glove of garlic peeled and cut in half
6 slices of country bread

Re-heat the spinach in a heavy based pan, stir in 2 tablespoons of olive oil and add a good grating of nutmeg.  Season with salt and pepper to taste.  Toast bread as before and rub lightly with the garlic. Pile on the spinach and drizzle with more olive oil.

Bruschette con pomodori

Surely everyone knows how to make this.  If not, email me.

The infarinata

I know it shouldn't happen like this, I ought to know what's going on, but every so often you visit a town by chance in the Summer, and you get an immediate sense that something is about to happen. Call it intuition, a sixth sense, or maybe it's just because a couple of thousand locals in medieval costumes are marching up the street towards you with drums beating, dragging ludicrously large cannons to the main square.

The festas here are great, and they just keep on relentlessly throughout July and August and even into September. Each one has its own historical charm and, more importantly, each one is taken quite seriously by the participants, even those given the minor supporting roles of 'common soldier' or 'wench'.

So we found ourselves in Citta della Pieve, wondering again what was going on. But this occasion seemed a little different from the others, something was definitely building up, and the mood in the crowd was quite excitable, there were chants and taunts towards the other groups of the town and all three; Castello, Casalino and Borgo Centro were definitely going to meet at the top for something.

We began to see people in the crowd putting plastic bags on their heads, some covering up their mouths and noses with their bandiere (normally tied around their necks) and others with cameras putting them in plastic bags too.

Then it began, the 'infarinata'.

In the middle of the 'infarinata'

From out of nowhere, hundreds, perhaps thousands of bags of flour suddenly came flying through the air from all directions, landing and exploding with some force all around the square. It was absolute chaos and mayhem. Everyone was at it, for about 15 minutes, until one of the groups, Castello, who had arrived in an enormous wooden castle for the fight, seemed to claim victory over the others, and the weary flour covered soldiers and wenches began to dissipate.

The Castello Terziere claim victory

But that wasn't the end of it, because that's the cue for the crowd to get stuck in, and so hundreds more people then ran into the square and took up the fight, this time with anyone and everyone.

 

The stupidest thing I did today;

Well, this was also my cue. I have always fancied myself as an intrepid war reporter type, so as soon as the small children began to scoop up the last bits of flour from unexploded bags, I finally emerged from my hiding place in a shop doorway and tried to take some dramatic shots. Suddenly realising why the other photographers had plastic bags over their cameras, I once again retreated to my shop doorway. Sorry.

The wild west of Tuscany

It wouldn’t be a true Italian Summer without a trip to the beach (well, not in this house anyway). So, making good on a promise made to the small one, we pack the car with all our junk, our picnic and our plastic bags and head for the coast.  (Not to be misleading, I have to admit that the nearest beach is a 2 and a half hour drive away, but I also have to say that it’s worth every minute).

We head towards Grosetto, taking the ‘short cut’ which winds up into the hills of Tuscany, past vineyards and castles and drops breathtakingly into the stunning Val D’Orcia before crossing the scorched coastal plain of the Maremma.  This is cattle country, the wild west of Tuscany.  Years ago the rich Sienese would pay the rough and fearless cowboys of the Maremma to ride bareback in the Palio.  Today, the dusty plain is divided into huge ranches and long-horned cattle slumber under the wide blue sky.

Our destination is the Marina di Alberese, part of the Maremma’s preserved seashore and, I think, the only stretch of raw, untamed coastline left in Tuscany (the rest being part of the true Italian tradition of beach culture; a haven of bright umbrellas, and kitsch beach bars).

At the sleepy little town of Alberese we stop for breakfast and buy yellow spades and spindly green shrimping nets.  In the bar, behind the glass front of a cabinet containing cornetti and pizette, I spot a tray of freshly made focaccia. It’s soft and oily and seared with a light salt crust. Four large wedges wrapped in wax paper complete our picnic and we are on our way.

Almost the best part of this trip is the drive on a long straight road through an imposing forest of umbrella pines, the hot resinous smell is almost overwhelming and wild rosemary grows along sandy pathways.  Past the corrals of white cattle and chestnut horses, on and on through the trees until, at last, you leave the car and walk to where the forest ends and the trees grow into the sea.

The narrow beach curves gently round and, in the distance, you can see bruised mountains against the cobalt sky and a spit of land jutting out towards the Island of Argentario.  Today the sea is light clear celestial blue, tipped with tiny silver waves and strewn along the beach are the pale bones of bleached driftwood.  People before us have built these smooth wooden carcasses into strange shelters, wigwams and sculptures, and they are left to stand and weather until they are claimed by the waves.

There are no umbrellas or sun loungers, the nearest loos are a 10 minute walk back through the trees. All you have is what you take, I love that. 

But the best part of course, the very best part, is racing full tilt across the hot sand towards the sea and feeling the first sting of the salty spray. Any beach, anywhere, you just can’t beat it.

You can find out a lot more about Italian beach culture with a guide to Italy’s top ten beaches over at Italyville, one of my favourite blogs and, while you’re there, check out the other stuff too. Joe is a first generation Italian American, his blog is beautifully written, funny and intuitive.  He comes from a family of butchers, bakers and pasta makers, what more could you want?

The best thing I ate:

Fig, ricotta and honey bruschette.

Throughout the whole month of August I have been silently stalking our fig trees, waiting for the first ‘Settembrini’ to ripen. For some reason they are late this year and I had begun to get impatient, but at last they are here and almost all at once. A huge, greedy glut of them.

This is my current favourite breakfast bruschetta;

Ripe fresh figs,
Fresh ricotta cheese
Local honey
Country bread

Toast your bread, I use a griddle because I think I’m posh, and I like the griddle marks.  Spread the bruschette thickly with the ricotta, top with a torn ripe fig and drizzle over with the honey.  If you are in company make plenty of them, if you are alone sit on the step in the sun and scoff the lot yourself.

Where to get them:
Make them yourself

La vecchia donna

With the football season just kicking off here, and without any English football to watch, I have decided that it's time to get myself an Italian team to support. Also, I've been told on more than one occasion that a man in Italy isn't fully dressed without the 'pink paper' under his arm and, at 1 euro, it represents a very affordable fashion statement.

Where I spent my first few years, in Malta (a tiny island 50 miles south of Sicily) everyone supported Juventus - I'm not sure why. Perhaps there was a certain magic or mystique or simply a natural appeal to one of the oldest clubs in Italy, set up by a bunch of English, Italian and Swiss lads who used the latin word for 'youth' to name their team and played in their, now legendary, black and white vertical stripes. I remember my brother and I collecting the stickers for our Panini football albums, always happiest when unpeeling a Juventus player. Their first Championship winning team in 1905 was, apparently, made up of a mixture of painters, poets and factory workers - wow, that's my kind of team!

However, living in Italy (but not in Turin where Juventus are based) it won't be easy to become one of the 'juventini' as all over the rest of Italy there exist a vast majority of 'anti-juventini'  who have no time at all for 'la Vecchia Donna' (the old lady) of Italian football.

So, after a lot of soul-searching, I have decided to turn instead to my 'local' team, Siena, who have come good in the last few years and play in the top division. The advantage is that they are a smallish team who play in a smallish stadium near the city, less than an hour from here, and so I might be able to get a ticket to a game.

The other advantage is that they also play in black and white vertical stripes, so I can buy the shirt, wear it and yet continue to secretly still support Juventus, on the inside. You see, there is a saying in football which goes something like, '...you can change your job, your car, your name, your religion, your partner, even your sex, but you can't change your football team...'

The stupidest thing I did today;
Probably deciding to get involved in the murky world of Italian football - great players, financial corruption, violent fans, drugs, the Mafia, the World Cup. It's an opera played out every weekend and the obsession of every Italian.

Ferragosto

August in Italy is a strange month, it has its own lazy charm but life, as we know it, shuts down.  It packs it’s bags and clears off to the coast, or the mountains, or ‘nonna’s farm’ in Puglia.  One by one the builders and the plumbers disappear into thin, hot August air until they are all gone.
For a while the cement mixer continues it’s lonely lament with only Marito for company until he too throws in the trowel and accepts that everyone needs a break.  My excuse for lack of blogging is simple, ‘ferragosto’.

You start to notice the mass exodus at the beginning of the month as the discrete and irritating little sign ‘Chiuso per ferie’ appears more and more frequently; the barbers, the forno, the take-away pizza place, one by one they all succumb. 

The motorways are suddenly filled with small Italian cars packed with people and their plastic bags all desperately heading for somewhere else and, quietly watching all this summer mayhem, quite still on her plinth or in her niche, stands the serene and ubiquitous Madonna of the roadside.

There are some more of these marvellous Madonnas in the sidebar, I hope you like them as much as I do.

The best thing I ate:

Succo di Mele

On the way to Castiglione del Lago is an apple farm, Az Agr. Mele del Trasimeno. The fruit, glowing rosily between dark leaves, can be seen on the beautiful espaliered trees from the roadside.  It’s a small organic concern, they grow apples and they sell apples and, as luck would have it, they sell apple juice too.

But this is no ordinary juice, it can be quite changeable, sometimes clear and golden and at other times almost pink and cloudy. It’s aromatic and full of lovely old-fashioned apple flavours; a heady mix of sunny fruit with a hint of aniseed and almonds. It is as deep and rich and sweetly complicated as any wine might be. I like it best after lunch, give me a small cold glass of succo di mele with a crumbly wedge of parmesan and I’ll happily pass on dessert. 

Where to get it;
Az Agr Mele del Trasimeno
SS71 Umbro Casentinese
Loc. San Fatucchio
Castiglione Del Lago
PG. Tel 075 9589722

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.