A Tuscan View - from Umbria

Quite a blow

The last week or two have been a bit hectic around here as our first group of artists arrived.  The last minute panic to get things ready gave way to a steady rhythm of activity as the workshop got underway.  It seems, at last, we are beginning to do what we came here to do which is, of course, run painting holidays.  After all the graft that has gone before, this seems somehow incredible to me.  There is still, however, so much to be done that it seems there will be no time for resting on our laurels, at least not in this lifetime. 

The most amazing thing to me was how the studio was transformed by the addition of the students. What they brought to what is, in fact, just a large, light space was all the atmosphere and vibrancy that made the place hum.

The start of the art courses seems to have shaken things up around here and change is definitely in the air, good change.
Despite my being one of those irritating people who appears to suffer from unusually high self-esteem, I have been left reeling from the fact that my eldest daughter, recently and at surprisingly close range, mistook me for one of the builders.  It’s not that I have anything against the builders, but still it was quite a blow.

The last two years of living in rural Italy on what can only be described as a building site seems to have turned me from someone who used to look like a relatively well put together urbanite into, well, let’s be honest, someone who looks like a builder.

A Winter spent huddled by the stufa mainlining Gorgonzola hasn’t helped me much either and after an honest self-appraisal I think I have to call time on this particular look, it’s obviously not working for me anymore.  Spring is here and I need to ‘re-glamourise’. 

This afternoon I quit the building site, donned my Ipod and my running shoes and hit the white roads.  I haven’t been running for a couple of weeks and the first kilometer felt so bad I almost gave up but, after a while, the music got to me and the old euphoria began to kick in.   Anyone who runs regularly will tell you that it’s very addictive, in a good way. I came home on a high with plans for extensive surgery and a whole new wardrobe, or at least to go running regularly from now on and to stop wearing marito’s old clothes in public. 

It occurs to me while writing this that if you ever see a woman in the supermarket, here in Italy, with dusty hair and paint splattered clothes, or a frazzled looking mother covered in cement at the school gates you can be 99 per cent certain she’s not Italian. They just don’t do ‘sloppy’, in fact most of the mothers at the school pick-up could give Victoria Beckham a run for her money.

The best thing I ate;

You would think that given my new regime I would be nibbling on a leaf or something, but actually I’m back on the bruschette.  My latest addiction is bruschetta with cannellini beans and rosemary.  There is something wholesome and comforting about creamy cannellini beans, here they are mashed into a coarse puree and perked up with the pungent oily taste of rosemary, a spritz of balsamic vinegar adds a slightly acid bite and the drizzle of good virgin olive oil transports it to sublime.  Top lunch-time treat of the moment.

Bruschetta with Cannellini beans and Rosemary

1 tin or jar good quality cannellini beans, drained
Large spring rosemary
Balsamic vinegar
Extra virgin olive oil
Sea salt and black pepper
2 cloves Garlic
Coarse country style bread, sliced

First grill your slices of bread. While they are still hot drizzle them with olive oil and rub them with a cut clove of garlic.

Pull all the spikey leaves from the rosemary spring and chop very, very finely until almost a powder.  Fry one clove of chopped garlic in a little olive oil but be careful not to let it colour.  Add the drained beans and continue to cook for about 5 minutes, add the rosemary, a little more oil and season well with salt and pepper and a spritz of balsamic vinegar.  Mash everything together using the back of a wooden spoon until you have a coarse puree.  Heap the beans onto the grilled bread and drizzle with more of the olive oil.  This is delicious with a sharp green salad on the side and a glass of rough red wine to wash it down.

 

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…

Run, run, as fast as you can

January 20th 2007

I have been going running in the mornings outside, something I never really did in England, but it’s so beautiful here. We live on an old estate, on rolling hills so typical of Tuscany, a place that is rich with woods and fields and wildlife, and it feels like being on a protected island. The quiet tracks are irresistible to someone with restless legs and calories to burn. Every time I go I think of my old running buddies back home, pounding out the miles on machines in the gym. On my route is an old stone Madonna, she’s falling apart but often I’ll find that someone has left some flowers there. I call her the ‘Madonna of the Morning Run’ and when I pass her these days I sometimes stop to take a breather and look at the view.
I hope the running machine (when it arrives) doesn’t become redundant. Mio marito ordered one off the Internet before we left, but the seller’s trail’s gone cold and he suspects foul play…

Running tracks within the estate

Best thing I ate today;
Focaccia - home made - straight out of the oven, the smell alone will drive you mad.

Where to get it;
Any 'forno'.
I decided to try and make it myself and,rather than boring you with the recipe and after lots of failed attempts, I found that the Carluccio's recipe works best - I just tweaked it a little by adding brown sugar to the yeast mix. All the kneading is great for toning the upper arms and it makes the kitchen smell like heaven.

The Madonna