A Tuscan View - from Umbria

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…

Mad Tom

17th January 2008

A hard frost is on the ground and mist is in the valleys, rising up from between the bald scrub oaks in whisps and spectres.
In the distance the milky mountains roll back like time, Umbria morphs into Tuscany and soon we are in Florence, waiting on the cold stone steps of Santa Maria del Carmine to see the Brancacci chapel.  It was on these steps that Michelangelo's nose was broken in a brawl. But that's another story, today we are here for 'Mad Tom', Masaccio.

The Brancacci frescoes were commisioned in 1424 by the Brancaccis, a family of wealthy Florentine silk merchants.  It was while working on these frescoes that the 22 year old Masaccio began to really shine, usurping his teacher (Masolino) and emerging as a compelling talent.  His desolate depiction of Adam and Eve howling in their nakedness as they are cast out into the world is worth the ticket price alone.

In the panel 'St Peter Enthroned', Masaccio has painted himself as one of the figures to the right of the throne.  He stares boldly out as he touches St Peter's hem for luck, a luck that could not save him as he was to die just 3 years later. But it's more than a signature, it is a brazen flourish of humanity. It says "Look at me. I did this wonderful thing. I was here".

Masaccio never completed his paintings in the chapel and, in a shift of politics, the Brancaccis were exiled.  50 years later, after the dust had settled and long after Masaccio's death, the artist Fillipino Lippi finished and 'restored' the frescoes.  It was a different kind of human emotion that prompted Lippi to paint out the arm that dared to touch the saint.  He would have had to look Masaccio in the eye as he worked and, I wonder, did that open, steady gaze trouble him as he applied the tempera? Did it disturb his dreams?   

The best thing I ate today;

Cavolo Nero

At this time of year I always feel the urge to gorge on dark green veg. Maybe it's a kind of detox, an antidote to the excesses of December.  Kale or spinach will do, but best of all is the 'king of cabbages', Cavolo Nero.

Its tightly crinkled, black/green leaves look so enticing when sold in large frosty bundles on the market stall in Chiusi.  I lug them home and use a long sharp knife to separate the leaves from the central stem. The deep, sweetly pungent flavour is full of 'brassic' goodness.  I have been toying with the idea of cooking them with lots of garlic and stiring the resulting puree into wet, creamy polenta (River Cafe Green) as a sort of yin/yang/flavour/colour thing.

But maybe it's best not to mess, as it's hard to beat the joy of cooking it in it's simplest form.  All you need to do is boil until 'al dente', drain well, slug in the olive oil, sea salt, and black pepper, and pile the dark glistening leaves around a couple of plump and spicy sausages or any sticky roast.  Then, open a bottle of good red wine and invite me round for supper.

Panettone

23rd December 2007

The car is filled with the resinous smell of Christmas as the girls squash into either side of the still-netted and prickly tree. It is the end of the last school day before the long-awaited holidays and they are fizzing with excitement.

They bubble over with a jumble of chatter; bursts of song from their school Christmas Shows, jokes and gossip. They talk about the new boy, the naughty boy, the tall girl, the new friend, the favourite teacher, the homework, the party and the plans for the holidays.
Conversations with no beginnings and no ends, alive, fluid and full of laughter.
Marito and I fall silent, listening and smiling.
We are almost home when something strikes me, they are talking to each other in Italian.

The best thing I ate today;

Panettone.

Italy has gone Panettone crazy. These gaudily wrapped cakes are everywhere, and so appealing. There is something so splendid about the packaging that draws you in. Even if you’re not addicted to the rich, yeasty sweet bread, fragrant with vanilla and studded with sultanas and citrus peel, the festive allure of the box will surely get you every time.

As you might have guessed, I love a bit of panettone (and, by now, have probably eaten one too many). My favourites are the traditional fruited ones, although you can find the dome-shaped loaves, stuffed with all kinds of things; chocolate-chip, praline, tiramisu and even limoncello.
The prices vary enormously too, as much as €56.00 for a Father Christmas shape which, if you ask me, is a bit steep for what is, basically, an overblown currant bun. However, I did quite fancy the ‘Tachino d’Oro’, a large golden panettone, shaped like a turkey and stuffed up its rear end with custard. Now that would make a change for Christmas dinner.

Where to get them;
You can’t walk into a Supermarket in Italy without tripping over piles and piles of them.
There are many stories about how this dolce originated. My favourite, by far, is that many centuries ago this ‘pane’ (bread) was invented by a baker called ... wait for it ... Toni.

Homecoming

7th December 2007

Two little girls are glad to see me; brown eyes shining in squirrely faces, gappy smiles and vanilla flavoured sticky kisses. Marito, slightly weary but triumphant (smug even) after 10 days single parenting, is glad to see me. Tufo, wagging his entire doggy body, is glad to see me. Even the deaf cat manages a purr. I am back were I belong, back to fill the me-shaped space that has been waiting. Our house, standing on the hill, its lights glowing in the dusk, is glad to see me, and I am glad to be home.

Letter to Santa, just before it disappeared up the chimney

I have arrived to a house full of Advent calendars, letters to Santa and persistent requests to "Please get the crib out so that we can play with Baby Jesus".

There is always some debate about this as Marito feels it necessary to point out that baby Jesus should not strictly be in the crib until Christmas Day. However, as it is impossible to play the 'Baby Jesus and his Family' game without the main character, the small one and the tall one get their way. As usual.

The Three Kings - early and confused

The best thing I ate today;

Baked beans on toast.

If this was the best thing I ate today it must have been the best thing the girls had eaten for ages judging by the whoops of delight when I produced two tins of Heinz Baked Beans from my bag.

It's not immediately obvious, but there is an art to making the perfect beans on toast; the beans, Heinz of course, must not be too wet, they must be cooked on a high heat to reduce the syrupy tomato sauce to a beany sludge and then dolloped on to crisply toasted sliced white bread of the lowest possible quality which has been thickly smeared with enough butter to choke a horse. A few grinds of black pepper, maybe a dash of Lea and Perrins Worcestershire sauce and there you have it. Delicious!

Previous life

17th November 2007

In my previous life I would have liked to have been present at the illustrious gathering in Rome in 1546 during which Cardinal Farnese asked his bearded bumptious friend Giorgio Vasari to assemble a " catalogue of artists...". Perhaps I could have been the slightly faded courtesan in the shadows, dressed in second-hand silk with a whisper of ermine. I would have leaned in with naked curiosity as the conversation took its turn and Vasari paused to draw the breath that would exhale his magnus opus, 'The lives of the most excellent painters, sculptors and architects' - more comonly known as 'Vasari's Lives'.

Painted ceilings in Vasari's house, Arezzo

Born in Arezzo, Vasari initially trained as an artist and was very successful, but he obviously became so much more than that - in fact he became what Malcolm Gladwell calls a 'connector' with his finger on the very pulse of his day - a kind of impresario, remembered for his rather pedestrian painting and his innovative architecture, but most of all for his unique insight into the art history of the Renaissance.

His biographies are full of juicy snippets of gossip and, although many of his anecdotes have the ring of truth to them, I wouldn't be surprised if he'd made them up either and, frankly, I don't care. He is hugely opinionated and biased, but that's what makes him so readable. Love him or hate him, in the world of the Renaissance, it's hard to ignore him.

Vasari mada a fortune and bought himself a small palazzo in Arezzo "with enough space to make some beautiful vegetable gardens". We went there to have a look. The house is lovely; frescoes by his own hand, a visual ode to himself, and why not?

The Loggia in Arezzo, by Vasari

I'm glad he's not around to see the rather sorry state of his vegetable patch, though...

The best thing I ate today;

Coniglio alla porchetta (rabbit - don't tell the girls!)

Controversial I know, but I like a bit of rabbit. Growing up in the Norfolk countryside, it was something we ate quite a lot. I remember the excitement of my grandparents arriving on Christmas Eve, their car loaded with presents, and a seasonal Rabbit Pie for supper.

Fluff and cuteness aside, rabbit is, surely, a healthy and a free-range (or wild) ethical choice. Its mild, slightly gamey flavour is flattered by the oily aromatics of shrubby Mediterranean herbs as well as the aniseed flavour of fennel.

For lunch in Arezzo today, I chose 'Coniglio alla Porchetta' (roasted with fennel and squashed cloves of garlic). No veg, just a dish of spikey rucola which, with its peppery twang, creates a perfect pairing.

Where to get it;
Osteria Saraceno, Arezzo

Tip - It's called 'alla porchetta' only because the fennel is usually used to flavour pork - there's no pork in this dish.

Beams, boots and beans

9th November 2007

Now that the new/old walls are starting to ‘grow’, you can almost begin to see what the apartments in the old stables under the house might become. I squint and then close my eyes, trying to conjure up images of cool, clean, furnished spaces with new shutters thrown open onto shady terraces planted with lavender and pots of basil, the sound of laughter, wine being poured and enticing aromas wafting from the kitchens.
But it’s still difficult.

For a few days now we have had no builders here as they are rushing to finish replacing a roof while the skies are still blue. Valiantly, despite wearing two pairs of trousers and an unfashionable top, mio marito works on. He has cleaned and restored the old steels in the more ‘modern’ apartment and they gleam with an industrial shine. He has also uncovered a beautiful internal arch in the more rustic, beamed apartment. He works alone, only appearing for plates of pasta, the odd espresso and to check the head count behind the oven.

The best thing I ate today;

Zuppa di Farro e Borlotti

As a kind of mid-week treat, if we have both been working (because I do help – sometimes), we occasionally go out for lunch. The place of choice would be described, in England, as a ‘builders caff’ or a ‘greasy spoon’. The food is cheap and the tables are wipe-able, no cloths, no candles. There are usually 3 dishes on offer for each course and no written menu. The waitresses have attitude and it would be a very brave ‘muratore’ (bricklayer) who asked them to repeat the choices or lingered over his decision. They want to feed you, and feed you fast.

The soup is thick and swampy, the Borlotti beans a rich brown, the colour of the newly turned earth in the surrounding fields, its taste is earthy too. The farro has a nutty ‘bite’ and in its depths the subtle, rounded heat of peperoncino. Savour every steaming spoonful and wipe the bowl clean with a ragged crust of saltless Umbrian bread.
This is Italian soul food.

Farro, know as ‘spelt’ in English (a bit like pearl barley), is a type of hard wheat grown in Umbria and Tuscany and used in the distinctive soups of this region.

Where to get it;
Bar Pineta, Panicarola

Tip; The dress code is strickly builders boots and overalls.

A near perfect day

6th November 2007

Thankfully my declaration of Winter has proved to be a little premature and, as sometimes happens, the Gods conspire to throw together the makings of a near perfect day; blue skies, russet trees, the low mellow sunshine of Autumn - and Arezzo antiques market.

Arezzo Antiques Market - (1st weekend of every month)

This compelling jumble of tat and treasure is more of a spectacle than a place to procure a crafty bargain. We go with friends who claim to be on the lookout for large wooden rosary beads, “You know, big ones like the chief monk would have used”. We, on the other hand, are determined to buy nothing, steely in our resolve. It doesn’t last long, of course, and within the hour we are haggling over the price of an unfeasably large retro fan. Luckily, we are being tutored in the art of haggle by a ‘grand master’ and, after a flash of the cash and a strategic interlude (during which we visit San Domenico to discuss tactics under the gaze of Cimabue’s strikingly beautiful and asemetric crucifix) we return to the stall and clinch the deal. Kerching!

Crucifix by Cimabue in San Domenico - Arezzo

Arezzo is such a classy town, it was recently voted one of the best places to live in Italy (by Italians) and I can see why. Despite being full of Renaissance goodies it still manages to be alive and hip and trendy.

It was also home to the effusive artist/architect/writer Georgio Varsari, the ‘Nigel Dempster’ of the Renaissance and anyone who has a real interest in this period really must read his ‘Lives of the Artists’ (Volumes 1 and 2). They are sometimes acerbic, sometimes gushing but always fascinating - a bit like an historic ‘Hello Magazine’.

I say this was a near perfect day because, to make it perfect, you should really remember to book a table for lunch. We didn’t.

The Best thing I ate today;

Roast Pumpkin Risotto

I make this risotto a lot at this time of year and it’s very comforting; savoury, sweet and full of Autumnal goodness.

OK, this is more of an idea than a recipe because I’m sure most of the people reading ‘The best thing I ate’ have some idea how to cook.

A quantity of pumpkin depending on how many people you are feeding. Chop it into cubes and simmer half of it in a little stock until soft and then puree it. The rest, roast in the oven with olive oil, some branches of thyme and a sprinkle of sea salt.

Meanwhile, make a white risotto, with onions, garlic, white wine and stock and, just before it is ready, stir in the pumpkin puree with a slug of cream (or not) and lots of parmesan cheese. Just before you serve it add a handful of rucola and stir again. Serve with the roast pumpkin and thyme piled artfully on top.

I’ve also made this with small wedges of red onion roasted along side the pumpkin and served it without the rucola. Although it may seem like a pain to cook the pumpkin in two different ways, this risotto is all about texture as well as flavour. So give it a try.

Where to get it;
Make it yourself

Cold snap

26th October 2007

Just as I was contemplating a long Indian Summer and mellow Autumn, suddenly, shockingly, it has become Winter.
After a perishing weekend during which temperatures here dropped by 12 degrees and shrieking Arctic winds ripped through the valleys, the last remaining sunflowers have been shredded and the cowering countryside pelted with icy rain. We bundled the girls off to school dressed in as many layers as possible but minus their coats or mittens which I couldn’t find at such short notice. “Don’t worry girls, you’ll be fine, you don’t need mittens. It’s not really winter yet.” I explained.
“But why are you wearing your gloves Mummy?”

Still, now I’ve had a week to get my head around the idea of Winter, I’m beginning to enjoy it. The logs have been lugged up from the wood store, the fire is lit and ‘Ceci’ (chickpea soup) is bubbling on the stove. I’ve found the mittens and packed away the bikinis. A brand new stufa is being fitted today to heat the bedrooms and my mind is filled with pumpkins and bonfires.

Winter in Italy, bring it on. I love it.

The best thing I ate today:
A little red drink.

For years now I have been seduced by the allure of those little red drinks that most Italians seem to have as their aperitivo. These ruby red drinks somehow seem so decadent and glamorous and yet, try as I might, I have never been able to acquire the taste for Campari. I thought I had tried it in every form, with tonic, soda water, orange… always hopeful that one day I would join the throngs of sophisticated pre-dinner drinkers, but always one grimace away from spitting it out all over my flipflops.

Until today. We have some lovely ‘boozy’ friends staying with us and they have introduced me to a drink they had in Venice, rather like an Italian Kir Royale. This mixes a small slug of Campari with a rather larger slug of Prosecco. The taste is light and zingy with a subtle, dry, herbal bite from the Campari and, best of all, it’s red.

Perfetto! You have no idea how much this pleases me...

Where to get it:
From the bar, but what is it called? Help!