A Tuscan View - from Umbria

Ex Voto

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.

Russian dolls and icons

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.

Last one standing

There’s this old building.
It has been here since we arrived and for a long time before. It sits, hidden in the middle of a light industrial estate, in a small drive-through town a few miles from here and, despite all the pre-fabricated, non-descript, soulless monstrosities growing up all around it, it has always remained quietly there.

I have been meaning to photograph it, to make it into a sort of photo-essay, for a long time now and kept putting it off for one reason or another, and also because there was a rather high fence all round it. 

Then, last week, things suddenly changed. 

I noticed that the gate was open on Monday, nothing more on Tuesday, but by Wednesday morning someone had parked a bulldozer in the forecourt. It seems that this old boy has to come down to make way for something new.
So, in haste, I had to get myself in there and do my best. I’m not sure what it is about this building; perhaps the squareness, perhaps the fading stucco walls, the sense of what it was (and I still can’t figure that out), perhaps the fact that it is the last one standing, or just that I hoped it would make strong and striking images.

Anyway, as I write this, it’s still hanging on. The ground either side of it is now flat and prepared for something, and it looks even more exposed and under threat than before.

So, I have put a few examples of my (all too hasty) photos in the sidebar. Have a look before it's too late!

Solomon Soddon

It has rained for 3 weeks, 5 days and 8 hours - almost non-stop and almost biblical - and the sound of ‘rain on roof’ is becoming strangely hypnotic. However, despite flood warnings from our Italian neighbours and the sight of the eco warriors on the hill building what looks like an ark, we decide to pop into Arezzo to look at the Christmas lights and do a spot of shopping.  We put a bucket under the drip that’s coming in from the bedroom ceiling and head off. 

It’s late afternoon and Arezzo is ablaze with festive cheer and, despite the rain, a good old-fashioned Christmas passeggiata is in full swing.  White lights are strung across the narrow streets leading up to the main Piazza Grande and, while the lower town is buzzing with activity, Vasari’s loggia and the beautiful square up in the old town are strangely deserted. The flagstones gleam wetly in the lamplight and footsteps echo in the chilly dusk. 

Traders, who have spent the day setting up for the weekend’s antique fair, have bundled up their treasures under drab tarpaulin wraps and gone to ground. The last, and most conscientious, check the ties and straps for security before heading silently to the bar.

That this vast array of antiquities is left untended overnight is amazing, but there is something quite forlorn about it too, with the empty darkening square and the unattended tables waiting, solemn and sodden, in the rain.

Back on Corso Italia, gifts are carefully chosen and lavishly wrapped. Little hands clutch warm paper cones of roasted chestnuts and, although the rain comes and goes in fierce gusts, all seems well with the world. Unless the bedroom ceiling’s fallen in, that is.

Best thing I ate:
Chestnuts roasting on an open fire

I have to say that there is something wonderfully ‘winter wonderland’ about buying roast chestnuts from a street vendor’s blazing brazier, although the ones we bought were mighty expensive. Far cheaper and much more fun is to invest in a traditional chestnut roasting pan (a frying pan with holes in the bottom) and then, providing you have an open fire or wood burning stove, you can while away the cosy winter evenings roasting your own.  

Cut a little slash in the skins of your chestnuts, fill the pan with a single layer and roast them amongst the glowing embers. They will take approximately 10-15 minutes, depending on the heat of your fire.  Remember to give the pan a good shake every now and then to avoid too much charring. They make a fantastically seasonal fireside snack or a fine dessert, paired with a slab of Gorgonzola and a glass of luscious Vin Santo which seems to intensify the sweet, smoky flavour.
Let it rain, let it rain, let it rain…

Something to ponder

 A couple of questions have come up this last week, as we dodged the rainstorms and planned a trip to Florence for potential students. I remember helping to organise a similar visit about 13 years ago, in which we had booked a tour along the Vasari Corridor. It's an amazing place to see, as it spans a length of about a kilometre above the busy city of Florence from the Uffizi gallery to the Pitti Palace, crossing the river Arno by way of the Ponte Vecchio.

 
The corridor passing above the Ponte Vecchio , with windows to pause and gaze along the Arno.

It was designed to allow the Medici family who ruled Florence at that time to be able to go from 'home to the office' untroubled by the peasants in the streets. I read that, despite this amazing construction, the Medici still had all the butchers' stalls removed to another part of town because of the smells wafting up to their lofty and secret passageway. On that trip many years ago we had had to cancel our visit, and I felt that now would be a good time to go, as it has been used to house an eclectic collection of self portraits, including Vasari's himself.

Now here comes the question. Many people had spoken about it being quite hard to get into the corridor because of the rather old-fashioned booking system, but no-one had prepared me for the price, the cheapest ticket seems to be around €100 and the standard price €150 per person, bookable ages in advance and cancellable at short notice by the Ufizzi if they haven't got enough people for each visit.

So my question is, simply, why?

Next. I was in a small town the other day and came across this in the main square. There was no-one around to ask what it was and there is presumably a very simple explanation to its purpose, but I like to title my photographs...
So, any ideas?

The stupidest thing I did yesterday.
Thinking I might need a little, light lunch before my first ever Thanksgiving dinner, hosted by a genuine American and his genuine Italian wife.
And, on that subject, Happy Thanksgiving! (albeit a bit late)

Wine heaven

There comes a time when the wine finally runs out.  That doesn’t necessarily mean that you are the one who drank it all, but it does mean that you have to get some more.

Around here the best (and most economical) way to buy wine, from ordinary table wine to the posh stuff, is to buy it from a ‘cantina’ (cellar or winery). You can buy it by the bottle, and in many cases you can also buy it ‘sfuso’ or loose.  A visit to one of these places is a treat in itself, especially if it’s one near the wine heaven, Montepulciano.

There is something rarified about this noble little town, high on it’s ridge, midway between Florence and Rome. Flurries of classical music escaping from the Accademia della Musica echo through the alleyways and the air is diffused with the aroma of fermentation as thousands of barrels ‘cook’ gently in the vast cellars below the streets. 

I grew up around wine.  My dad was a wine importer and it was both his business and his pleasure.  Most of our family holidays were based around the wine regions that interested him, be they France, Spain or Italy. It was normal for us, as children, to play ‘catch’ amongst the vines or hide-and-seek down in the musty cellars.  I remember my sister and I giggling and lunging at each other from behind the barrels as my mum and dad talked earnestly with wine producers, sniffing and slurping, dad taking notes and swapping cards, loading the samples and freebies into the back of the car.  Later, as surly teenagers, we were allowed to join in those exquisite tastings, a privilege that was always guaranteed to lighten the mood.

 
The smell and atmosphere of a wine cellar, whether full of ageing oak or shiny stainless steel is intrinsically woven through my memories of my father.  As with so many things, I wish I had listened more intently and asked more questions.  My knowledge of wine is now, sadly, missing my ‘personal expert’ but my enthusiasm, which I inherited from him, remains undimmed.

One of the things my dad was best at was sniffing out a good affordable wine. He wasn’t a wine snob, he loved it all.  During the 60’s and 70’s it was buyers like my father who expanded the English palate for wine by importing drinkable, but inexpensive, table wines from France, Spain and Italy and gradually pushed the ubiquitous sweet German white wines to the back of the supermarket shelves.   He liked to buy wine from small, creative, independent producers who grew wines with ‘personalities’ imparted by a combination of climate, soil and grape variety.   “Wine”, he liked to say, “is alive”.  One of the only things we can consume after 200 years, still changing and evolving, waiting for the pull of the cork.  In one sense it’s just a drink, and yet it is capable of engaging our senses and imagination, it’s depths and complexities can communicate something intense and beautiful.

The ‘cantina’ that we visited was Ercolani located just outside the walls of Montepulciano. We tried some wonderfully plush vintages of Vino Nobile di Montepulciano before opting for the youngest (and cheapest) one which we bought ‘sfuso’ in large 5 litre demijohns.  We also tried their deliciously sticky Vin Santo and some mind-bending Grappa, but that’s another story.

 
The best thing I drank today;
see above...

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.

Singin' the Blues

 Probably my first (and certainly my best) art teacher is a big blues fan.

I suspect that one of his many harmonicas is always lurking never more than a few feet away at any given time, ready to spring into action.

And so, with him firmly in mind, and accompanied by a bevvy of Zimbabwean beauties, the Mrs and two over-excited little girls (lucky me!) we headed off to the Trasimeno Blues festival in a local town on the edge of the lake. It's hard to imagine a more beautiful location for an evening concert; inside a medieval fort, surrounded by crumbling walls and ancient olive trees, with a small bar, a cool breeze off the lake and an atmosphere that's just so laid back.

Shemekia Copeland (never heard of her), daughter of the legendary Johnny 'Clyde' Copeland (never heard of him either), was heading the bill, direct from Brooklyn, New York.

They said her voice, even without a microphone, would be enough to crumble the walls and, when she eventually got on stage, you knew that she was the real deal; big, black and beautiful.

The truth is that none of us really knew much about the blues but, equally, none of us really had to. It was all about being there, sitting on the grass and waiting for Shemekia to crumble something.

I soon discovered that the Blues is all about 'love gone wrong' and Shemekia's 500 previous boyfriends all seemed to have a song written about them; vain, mean, lazy, no good hustlers and tramps. For some reason my 'posse' of girls found the whole thing very amusing...

The stupidest thing I did today;
Perhaps should have gone to see John Lee Hooker Jnr. the day before - I bet he's got a few choice numbers about previous girlfriends!

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. 

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. 

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’!