“I think it’s around here somewhere,” Josiane said, as she fumbled through her maps as she drove. Her GPS, Justine, had become cantankerous, as she was not familiar with this particular road and was continually barking orders at Josiane in French, “Retournez! Retournez! Vite!” Josiane Selvage, a dear friend and French traveling partner and I were in the heart of the Loire Valley, just south of Chinon one Spring a few years back. We had been on the road crisscrossing France while interviewing families about their favorite foods and traditions and we were headed for a unique experience: a truffle farm.
“Ah, there it is,” Josiane said, pointing at an immense 15th-century stone chateau. It was off the road and hidden by a small forest of oak trees. Beyond, the fortified walls with decorated turrets atop cylindrical towers poked above the tree line. Corbelled walkways, possibly used during battles I surmised, skirted the upper stories along the dormer windows.
“Oh, Josiane! This is wonderful! This is so grand!” I blurted out.
“Well, actually, the truffle farm we are seeking is over—there,” she said pointing to a few low-to-the-ground stone buildings, “behind the chateau. The truffle farm is housed in those old farm buildings.” She shrugged her shoulders, but grinned. “Sorry to get your hopes up, but I believe you’ll be pleased.”
“I think you also used the adjectives ‘surprised, and pleased’, before. You’re right,” I said with a hint of reticence, “I am surprised," "But have I led you astray yet?” Josiane asked me. I grinned. As we climbed out of the car, a wild frenzy of barking set up. My eyes lighted on some broken down sheds and barns, with a couple of connecting rickety-looking gates. Between the outer gates, which led to an inner gate and courtyard, scrabbled two boisterous dogs.
“Ah, there’s our welcoming committee,” Josiane said cheerfully. She began walking toward the gate, while I lagged reluctantly behind. (I must confess I’m not always an exuberant dog fan.) As we stepped out of the shade of the oak trees, we could see a woman inside the courtyard beckoning us in. The dogs immediately quieted and raced off to the side to play in the garden. I was greatly relieved! Madame Gaulandau introduced herself with a shy, yet warm French greeting, (as she only knew French), and said, “Don’t worry about the dogs. They sound much fiercer than they really are.” She tittered into her hand. “The dogs are supposed to guard me, but they seem to have more fun challenging each other. But, welcome,” she said sweeping her arm toward the entrance of her home. But at the mere mention of ‘dogs’, the two bounded up once again. It was clear the older black and white Border collie was in charge. And it was also clear that she had her work cut out for her by keeping the lumbering dark brown, bright-eyed, scruffy-looking but much younger spaniel in line. At that very moment, the older one was demanding, with nips and barks, to have the spaniel settle down. Once success was achieved, Josiane let out a guffaw and the dogs began to frisk about once again.
“Oh, they’re not really just our guard dogs,” Madame Gaulandau said. “Poof!” she exhaled. “No. No. No. They are really our ‘truffle dogs’. They are most important to our operation. Zabou here,” she said pointing at the older of the two “has a gift of a most incredible nose and for years now has been leading the cavage parties . . . .”
“That’s the term used for scouting for those fragrant little tubers,” Josiane informed me.
Madame Gaulandau motioned the two of us toward her front door which led into what was once the living quarters for livestock many centuries before. The stone-on-stone walls which appeared ready to collapse supported an ancient, yet sagging red barrel-tile roof, green with years of mossy overgrowth. We stepped up to a deep-set doorway, past a Dutch door and into a large room which was obviously Madame’s living room. A black leather sofa, large overstuffed chairs and antique side chairs were interspersed throughout the room. Colorful tapestries covered the stone walls which leant warmth and richness to this interior. Over the ceramic tile flooring were red Oriental rugs and in one corner a television set was snugged in with numerous bookcases. Madame Gaulandau handed us keys to our rooms, then invited us to return for tea.
“Grab your notepad and your tape recorder, Carole. This may be the only time we get our interview,” Josiane said, as she headed into the main house. I zipped back to my room and when I returned I was surprisingly followed by two overly-curious dogs. Just as the large brown dog set one paw on the floor, Madame Gaulandau turned and stared him down. Zabou nipped at his younger counter-part, as if he knew this up-start was nothing but trouble. Clearly, he was saying, “Didn’t I tell you, Mutt-face, she won’t let us in?” They slunk down and backed away from the door.
An ornate tea service was set up in Madame Gaulandau’s living room and she handed us each steaming hot cups of tea cradled between small sweet biscuits on our plates. She settled onto the sofa with her own cup.
“Yes,” she said, “I will be happy to tell you about the truffle business, but I only have about an hour before I must leave.”
As I struggled to pull open my note pad and set up the tape recorder, Josiane began writing down recommendations for that night’s dinner in Chinon. (First things first: we always prepared for the next meal, first.) I had already settled down in a seat closest to the door, when I caught movement out of the corner of my eye. Madame must have left the front door slightly ajar as the lower half of the Dutch door slowly began to swing open. I must have looked surprised because Josiane took notice, too, and then burst out laughing. There, standing on the threshold were both dogs sheepishly staring in at the tête-à-tête before them. Although all eight paws were comfortably outside the door frame, one of the collie’s paws was stealthily—centimeter by centimeter—easing the lower half of the door open.
“Oh, you scamps!” Madame Gaulandau snapped, as she quickly stood up and firmly closed both sections of the door. She began to apologize to us, but could see we were laughing so hard at the comedic interlude; she simply smiled, shrugged her shoulders and sat back down again.
“Okay. Okay. So before we ask you about the truffle business,” Josiane said once she caught her breath, “you have to tell us about the dogs. Have you always used dogs to hunt for truffles?” Through a side window, we could still see the two dogs cavorting about in the courtyard as if they were puppies.
“Oh, mais oui! The work of the dog is marvelous. It is the same as the dog working with a game hunter. The dog is your leader and is much more convivial than a pig and much more interesting. Oh, my yes! In this area, there are not many people who work with pigs. But in the Perigord Region, older people still have pigs to go hunting for truffles. We tried at one point to use a pig, but the pig weighed about 300 pounds, so it was difficult to train. And if it pulls on you, you are in trouble, as you are not stronger than the pig. We found it horrible! Once we had a sow that pulled my husband across the snow and icy ground, then she escaped. And the whole day we looked for that ungrateful sow, only to find her late in the evening. We were only able to come up to three or four meters to her. In fact, we could almost touch her and then she would run away again and again. I could have killed her! Well, in any case, that is the way she was finished! Quite a tasty ham and rillettes, I must say,” she said, slapping her thigh and throwing her head back to laugh. (Stay tuned, for recipes for truffles and, perhaps, rillettes.)
Thursday, November 17, 2011
Saturday, May 15, 2010
Feste di Poderi di Montemerano, Tuscany, Italy
During our six-hour train ride from Milan, down through Genoa, and along the shimmering coastal waters of the Tyrrhenian Sea, my head bobbed on and off my husband’s shoulder. My thoughts kept the beat of the moving train—click-clack, click-clack—as I remembered with fondness how this trip to Italy had come about. It began when I found an ad for a rental listed in a San Francisco magazine: “Charming, Tuscan farmhouse, deep in the hills of Etruria.”
I recalled rolling the word Etruria off my tongue as I dialed the Bay area number in answer to the ad. I knew nothing about Italy, much less Tuscany, but the provocative sound of Etruria resonated through my mind. With very little fuss, my husband and I found ourselves seated in a small San Francisco coffee shop across a table from the owner of the ad and of the ‘charming Tuscan farmhouse’. Lisa appeared to be a quiet woman, was modest of dress with an unassuming manner, but she immediately surprised us when she boomed, “Do you want to visit Tuscany, or do you want to experience Tuscany?” Her blue eyes sparkled as her eyebrow arched to accentuate her point.
“My home is high in the hills of Etruria of southern Tuscany—in Poderi di Montemerano. This is where you will meet the real people.” Our souls lit up from the inside.
“When are you planning to go?” Lisa prodded us.
“We were thinking September would be lovely . . .” I started to answer.
“Ah, then,” she interrupted, “go the very first weekend. You can attend the Feste. It’s the harvest festival. You simply can’t miss it.”
As the train continued along its coastal route, my eye caught glimpses of snow on the mountain slopes north of Pisa. Surprised to see snow so early in September, my husband and I pressed our noses firmly against the glass for a better look. Then a rail yard blurred past us with palettes of white stone spread as far as the eye could see.
“Aha,” I said. “That’s not snow we’ve just seen. We’ve just seen patches of white marble—Carrera marble—the same marble Michelangelo made famous with his sculptures. We grinned at each other obviously glad that we had solved the mystery and that we had indeed packed enough warm attire. We settled back into our seats, but kept a watchful lookout for the Leaning Tower of Pisa. I must have drifted off to sleep when my husband murmured, “I think we missed it.”
“Missed the festival?” I mumbled out of my fog. “That’s not possible. She said we can’t miss it!”
“Who said you can’t miss it? What festival?” My husband looked confused.
“Lisa said, ‘you can’t miss it, because the festival will be right on our doorstep.’ Don’t you remember? Her arms were sweeping above her head and her voice was booming with such exuberance, ‘There will be traditional foods, music and dancing… All will be there for you to enjoy. I will come too, and show you around.’ That’s what she used as an inducement for us to come. Don’t you remember?”
“Oh, and the foods,” he drooled, “she told us the foods will be molto delizioso.” He rolled the words off his tongue as if he knew what he was saying.
“I can’t wait,” I said. ‘Only made in Poderi,’ she said, ‘and only made for the festival.’ Do you remember when she asked us if we liked Italian food? Don’t you remember how hard we laughed?”
“All she had to do was look at us! Why, we don’t miss a meal,” he shook his head with vigor. We settled back into our seats, with Cheshire cat grins swathing our faces. Yes, Lisa’s invitation was too seductive to resist?
“‘Come,’ she had said. ‘You will love it, and the festival will be a perfect introduction to Tuscany. You will revel in our beautiful hills, our delectable wines and sumptuous foods, but the people—they are the heart beat of Tuscany. Come!” And, so we came.
At Grosseto, a city halfway between Milano and Roma, a flood of relief swept over me as we stepped off the train and heard a familiar voice shouting, “Buòna sera!” and in English, “Good afternoon! Welcome to Tuscany!” Lisa, along with her dear friend, Cècilia, embraced us like we were long, lost friends then efficiently maneuvered us out of the station and into their waiting car. Within moments we, along with our bags, were stuffed inside the tiny vehicle and Lisa quickly headed out of the city traffic and into the golden Eturian hills. The sunlight fell in diffused webs over vineyards and olive orchards and dust lay lazily across rich, emboldened fruit, but we raced past.
Our excitement intensified as Lisa told us—again, with arms flapping in the air even though she was at the wheel—of the preparations going on in Poderi. “Today is the day of the Feste,” both she and Cècilia giggled like school girls. They had been helping with preparations all day and were excited to show us.
After an hour, she wheeled up a narrow road and parked in an open field under a banner which stated, Feste.
“There’s no room at the top,” she said, as if that was explanation enough. She helped us drag our bags out of the car and up a long hill to her house.
“I’m sure you are wondering where the village is, si? Well, Poderi,” Lisa said as a form of explanation, “is a 12th century feudal term which means farm. It refers to the land which was owned by the lords of the nearby castle of Montemerano.” She waved one empty hand to an out-of-sight hillside as she clutched a valise in the other.
“Only in the past 150 years have families been allowed landownership, so Poderi was never a town. It was simply a wide spot at the top of this hill where a cluster of farmhouses were built. My husband and I fell in love with the area and the people, so this is where we lived and raised our sons. You may meet one of my sons soon.”
By this point we had puffed up a very steep hill and paused to get our breath. We were sheltered by immense plane trees and surrounded by overgrown vineyards. I hoped we were near the top. But, now we could see across the open vistas Lisa had referred to and, on a promontory five kilometers in the distance and perched in the sunlight, was the silhouette of a medieval walled city with a square keep from a castle towering above all.
“That’s Montemerano. And, just beyond Montemerano,” said Lisa pointing to hills just beyond, “is the ancient termé of Saturnia. I’ll take you to the Roman baths there. It’s quite relaxing. . .”
Before she could continue, we heard a multitude of voices rise in a cheer, and we turned to round the final curve and there before us was a raucous crowd filling the street. We inched slowly forward, dragging our bags across the stone road, past a band shell and came to a stop in the heart of the throng. Jubilant faces foisted themselves into ours. Kisses smothered Lisa, Cècilia, and now us! The cacophony of Italian voices grew and I could barely hear myself think. Lisa was pointing up. Over our heads, I could almost make out a string of buildings on either side of the road—some with honey-colored stone façades and others, white stucco. Various styles of wooden shutters had been flung open as children along with hovering mothers hung out of the second-story windows, laughing and shouting to the crowd below. Fuchsia-colored roses cascaded past their noses and along the outside of the structures to brush against the entry doors. And as we stood in the throng trying to figure out what was being said to us, Lisa turned to us and pointed again at one doorway. Over the din, she said simply, “In the States we would call these condos; here we call them farmhouses. You are almost home.”
“And, see,” she said, “the festival—it is right on your doorstep.” She laughed heartily as surprise registered on our faces.
She strode through the crowd, embracing one person, then another, kissing this person and then another, before leading us into her home. Many hands helped us drag our bags in the door and up the stairs to the living quarters above. The lower quarters, she told us, had been relegated to storage—after the farm animals no longer had residency.
While contemplating the concept, we began to look around. The living room was open and spacious. Hewn timbers crisscrossed the high ceilings, and a coat of white paint covered all the walls. Near the center of the room was a dining table splashed with a yellow Provençe-style table cloth. Four chairs with red print seat cushions sidled up beside. On the far wall was a stone fireplace which had served as the only source of heat for over one hundred years. Two roomy bedrooms were tucked behind the wall of the fireplace, with windows which opened onto vineyards, farms and across the way, to the village of Manciano. The bathroom was compact, but convenient and the kitchen was roomy with voices floating in the open window from the people in the street below.
After our quick tour through her house, Lisa quipped, “The Feste will start in an hour, so rest up, as it lasts until tomorrow.” She prepared to slip back out of the house and into the street where her friends awaited her when we asked, “Aren’t you staying here with us?”
“Heavens, no! This is your time. And your place for now. If you need me, I’ll be staying across the street with my friend, dear Margarita,” and she was gone.
Before we could even unpack, we collapsed on the bed, hot and sticky from our day’s journey, too tired to move. We dozed off, but were slightly aware of a low, mournful, almost Arabic-sounding chant that echoed up the stairs from the street below. The voices were first sonorous, deliberate and lyrical then ended abruptly with great laughter and applause. Then, another vocal utterance would take up in response, and would continue with a vibrant beat. Not a word could we understand. I was not certain if these mournful poems were part of my sweat-soaked dreams or the reality of—where was I? My husband forced me into wakefulness, as we crawled off the bed, along the floor in order to peek out of the kitchen window.
Directly below us, a multitude of faces focused intently on our doorstep which, by now, had been transformed into another stage. A contest of sorts was being held; indeed, a poetical sparring, known as a Tuscan Contrasto. Lisa later explained that the audience provided each team a spur-of-the-moment theme of contrasts, and in eight-meter improvised rhyme, the men hurled their words like lances at each other. This event, which had been performed since medieval times, signaled the beginning of the Feste di Poderi di Montemerano. We were just in time.
Pushing through a thick gauze of sleepiness, we quickly sponged off, changed clothes and headed down the stairs. As we stepped into the street, Lisa met us and began to introduce us to her many friends. This one was from Switzerland, that one from Sweden; this one from Germany, and that one from—of course, Poderi. We immediately felt included for they were as warm and welcoming as she had promised. And, fortunately for us, all but those from Poderi spoke English.
Then, like lava flowing down a mountain, the crowd began to ebb along the stone roadway with us caught up in the current. All were moving toward the festival grounds at the bottom of the hill. Smoke from the pits of braising meats tantalized us, along with the intoxicating aromas of simmering pasta sauces. The crowd turned toward the ticket booths as the excitement grew. Music, laughter and the banter of their melodious language filled the air. Because we understood very little Italian, Lisa recited the menu in English in the most delectable detail. We hungrily placed our orders.
Another push from the crowd propelled us into the nearby tents, where we were once again greeted with hugs and kisses by those who were already glowing with amiability—and wine. Lisa wedged us into the two remaining seats beside her in the middle of a long table filled with twenty or more of her closest friends. We had barely been seated when a trumpet sounded and the feast began.
The doors to the kitchen were flung open and local waiters proceeded in great numbers to the tables with plates of bruschetta, toasted bread covered with rich, local olive oil, chopped fresh tomatoes and succulent olives. Bottle after bottle of homemade wine began to magically appear—some from the kitchen, some from under the table. Again, the waiters swung out of the kitchen. For the prima piatti, or first course, platters of fresh pasta were served. Plates of tortoni, Poderi’s specialty pasta—delicate pillows filled with cheese and arugula—were reverentially placed before us covered with a bubbling, robust marinara sauce. The masses swooned with appreciation.
Lisa leaned over to us and whispered, “I had to live here over twenty years before the older women of Poderi allowed me into the kitchen to help prepare their beloved tortoni. And, the recipe? Don’t even ask! It is still a much guarded secret.” She laughed with bravado.
Sweet, yet quiet Cècilia leaned over the table and said, “They’d perhaps have to keel you!” She grinned and sat back as hand-made gnocchi with meat sauce and pasta e fagioli were whisked to their designated places along with baskets of Tuscan bread to sop up lingering juices.
For our secondo piatti, or second course, sizzling grilled meats of beefsteak, pork, chicken or sausages-on-spears were passed down the tables. Then, contorni, or vegetable side dishes, of white beans, fried potatoes or mixed green salads, followed the meats. Gasp!
Filled to the brim, we all leaned back to gather our collective breath, but to no avail. Next, we were being tempted with the formaggio, or cheese course. And then, another highlight of the evening, the dolci, which was presented with a final flourish. Lisa told us we were to choose from either Mousse di ricotta, which was a sweet, creamy custard made by Lisa’s neighbor Margarita who sat across from us at the table and was mouthing a few words. I could not make out her words over the noise.
I turned to Lisa for an explanation and she said, “Margarita used 72 eggs! 72 eggs to make the Mousse di ricotta! Can you imagine that?”
And, then we were given another option. A salame, which was not a sausage at all, but a rolled cookie filled with chocolate cream. This was prepared by dear Amelia who waved to us at from the end of the table. Of course, we tried a little of each; we had too. Each was delicate, light and sumptuous! Wine continued to be poured throughout the meal, and when one bottle was emptied, another would appear.
As the evening flowed into night, the air filled with music from a local band in the piazza back at the top of the hill. The rhythm reverberated throughout the tents, and the crowd once again was on the move. Following a festoon of colorful lanterns, people of all ages made their way to the top of the hill. Wizened old women in their best black dresses, shiny from use and a heavy iron; short, rotund old men in their best suits, a bit rumpled from the lengthy dinner; young couples in sensually-loose clothing looped together like knots in a tie; giggling children in shorts and tee-shirts, now grabbing up sweaters handed to them by caring parents; swaddled babies snuggled down in the arms of protective grandmothers; and the likes of us, middle-aged folks laughing at shared stories enjoying another paper cup of wine—all climbed the hill to the beat of the music.
At the moment of reaching the top, the harvest moon broke out above the rooftops and sent golden light cascading onto the heads of the villagers below. In spite of—or because of—being thick with food, wine and the beauty of the night, everyone began to dance. The music was a captivating mix of old and new, some rock and roll, some lilting Italian melodies, and even some familiar American pop tunes. But, when the waltzes began, my husband and I stood back to marvel at the grace and elegance of the more skillful dancers. We love to dance but we were not worthy.
“Watch for dear Mondiale,” Lisa shouted to us, “for he is the most exquisite dancer of them all.” And there he was: the burly town butcher from Manciano, just a hillside away, guiding and gliding his partner with finesse and grace across the ancient stone street beside us.
“You are, indeed, a lucky woman to be able to dance with Mondiale,” Lisa whispered to us, as he wrapped his arms about her and whirled her away.
As night became morning, the townspeople, undaunted by the late hour and copious amounts of wine, continued to dance. We were no match for these stalwart sorts, so we crept back up the stairs to our newfound home. With exhaustion cleaving to every part of our beings, we pushed open the bedroom windows for just one last look. The moon spilled into the room and across the bed filling it with light. It flowed like mercury over the ancient hills and valleys beyond us. And, there silhouetted against the night sky, was the medieval fortress and clock tower shimmering on the highest hill in Manciano. Awash with exhaustion but gratitude for having experienced the beauty of both people and place, we slid into bed. Our eyes flickered closed as the final songs reverberated from the streets below—or was that the heart beat of Tuscany we were hearing?
I recalled rolling the word Etruria off my tongue as I dialed the Bay area number in answer to the ad. I knew nothing about Italy, much less Tuscany, but the provocative sound of Etruria resonated through my mind. With very little fuss, my husband and I found ourselves seated in a small San Francisco coffee shop across a table from the owner of the ad and of the ‘charming Tuscan farmhouse’. Lisa appeared to be a quiet woman, was modest of dress with an unassuming manner, but she immediately surprised us when she boomed, “Do you want to visit Tuscany, or do you want to experience Tuscany?” Her blue eyes sparkled as her eyebrow arched to accentuate her point.
“My home is high in the hills of Etruria of southern Tuscany—in Poderi di Montemerano. This is where you will meet the real people.” Our souls lit up from the inside.
“When are you planning to go?” Lisa prodded us.
“We were thinking September would be lovely . . .” I started to answer.
“Ah, then,” she interrupted, “go the very first weekend. You can attend the Feste. It’s the harvest festival. You simply can’t miss it.”
As the train continued along its coastal route, my eye caught glimpses of snow on the mountain slopes north of Pisa. Surprised to see snow so early in September, my husband and I pressed our noses firmly against the glass for a better look. Then a rail yard blurred past us with palettes of white stone spread as far as the eye could see.
“Aha,” I said. “That’s not snow we’ve just seen. We’ve just seen patches of white marble—Carrera marble—the same marble Michelangelo made famous with his sculptures. We grinned at each other obviously glad that we had solved the mystery and that we had indeed packed enough warm attire. We settled back into our seats, but kept a watchful lookout for the Leaning Tower of Pisa. I must have drifted off to sleep when my husband murmured, “I think we missed it.”
“Missed the festival?” I mumbled out of my fog. “That’s not possible. She said we can’t miss it!”
“Who said you can’t miss it? What festival?” My husband looked confused.
“Lisa said, ‘you can’t miss it, because the festival will be right on our doorstep.’ Don’t you remember? Her arms were sweeping above her head and her voice was booming with such exuberance, ‘There will be traditional foods, music and dancing… All will be there for you to enjoy. I will come too, and show you around.’ That’s what she used as an inducement for us to come. Don’t you remember?”
“Oh, and the foods,” he drooled, “she told us the foods will be molto delizioso.” He rolled the words off his tongue as if he knew what he was saying.
“I can’t wait,” I said. ‘Only made in Poderi,’ she said, ‘and only made for the festival.’ Do you remember when she asked us if we liked Italian food? Don’t you remember how hard we laughed?”
“All she had to do was look at us! Why, we don’t miss a meal,” he shook his head with vigor. We settled back into our seats, with Cheshire cat grins swathing our faces. Yes, Lisa’s invitation was too seductive to resist?
“‘Come,’ she had said. ‘You will love it, and the festival will be a perfect introduction to Tuscany. You will revel in our beautiful hills, our delectable wines and sumptuous foods, but the people—they are the heart beat of Tuscany. Come!” And, so we came.
At Grosseto, a city halfway between Milano and Roma, a flood of relief swept over me as we stepped off the train and heard a familiar voice shouting, “Buòna sera!” and in English, “Good afternoon! Welcome to Tuscany!” Lisa, along with her dear friend, Cècilia, embraced us like we were long, lost friends then efficiently maneuvered us out of the station and into their waiting car. Within moments we, along with our bags, were stuffed inside the tiny vehicle and Lisa quickly headed out of the city traffic and into the golden Eturian hills. The sunlight fell in diffused webs over vineyards and olive orchards and dust lay lazily across rich, emboldened fruit, but we raced past.
Our excitement intensified as Lisa told us—again, with arms flapping in the air even though she was at the wheel—of the preparations going on in Poderi. “Today is the day of the Feste,” both she and Cècilia giggled like school girls. They had been helping with preparations all day and were excited to show us.
After an hour, she wheeled up a narrow road and parked in an open field under a banner which stated, Feste.
“There’s no room at the top,” she said, as if that was explanation enough. She helped us drag our bags out of the car and up a long hill to her house.
“I’m sure you are wondering where the village is, si? Well, Poderi,” Lisa said as a form of explanation, “is a 12th century feudal term which means farm. It refers to the land which was owned by the lords of the nearby castle of Montemerano.” She waved one empty hand to an out-of-sight hillside as she clutched a valise in the other.
“Only in the past 150 years have families been allowed landownership, so Poderi was never a town. It was simply a wide spot at the top of this hill where a cluster of farmhouses were built. My husband and I fell in love with the area and the people, so this is where we lived and raised our sons. You may meet one of my sons soon.”
By this point we had puffed up a very steep hill and paused to get our breath. We were sheltered by immense plane trees and surrounded by overgrown vineyards. I hoped we were near the top. But, now we could see across the open vistas Lisa had referred to and, on a promontory five kilometers in the distance and perched in the sunlight, was the silhouette of a medieval walled city with a square keep from a castle towering above all.
“That’s Montemerano. And, just beyond Montemerano,” said Lisa pointing to hills just beyond, “is the ancient termé of Saturnia. I’ll take you to the Roman baths there. It’s quite relaxing. . .”
Before she could continue, we heard a multitude of voices rise in a cheer, and we turned to round the final curve and there before us was a raucous crowd filling the street. We inched slowly forward, dragging our bags across the stone road, past a band shell and came to a stop in the heart of the throng. Jubilant faces foisted themselves into ours. Kisses smothered Lisa, Cècilia, and now us! The cacophony of Italian voices grew and I could barely hear myself think. Lisa was pointing up. Over our heads, I could almost make out a string of buildings on either side of the road—some with honey-colored stone façades and others, white stucco. Various styles of wooden shutters had been flung open as children along with hovering mothers hung out of the second-story windows, laughing and shouting to the crowd below. Fuchsia-colored roses cascaded past their noses and along the outside of the structures to brush against the entry doors. And as we stood in the throng trying to figure out what was being said to us, Lisa turned to us and pointed again at one doorway. Over the din, she said simply, “In the States we would call these condos; here we call them farmhouses. You are almost home.”
“And, see,” she said, “the festival—it is right on your doorstep.” She laughed heartily as surprise registered on our faces.
She strode through the crowd, embracing one person, then another, kissing this person and then another, before leading us into her home. Many hands helped us drag our bags in the door and up the stairs to the living quarters above. The lower quarters, she told us, had been relegated to storage—after the farm animals no longer had residency.
While contemplating the concept, we began to look around. The living room was open and spacious. Hewn timbers crisscrossed the high ceilings, and a coat of white paint covered all the walls. Near the center of the room was a dining table splashed with a yellow Provençe-style table cloth. Four chairs with red print seat cushions sidled up beside. On the far wall was a stone fireplace which had served as the only source of heat for over one hundred years. Two roomy bedrooms were tucked behind the wall of the fireplace, with windows which opened onto vineyards, farms and across the way, to the village of Manciano. The bathroom was compact, but convenient and the kitchen was roomy with voices floating in the open window from the people in the street below.
After our quick tour through her house, Lisa quipped, “The Feste will start in an hour, so rest up, as it lasts until tomorrow.” She prepared to slip back out of the house and into the street where her friends awaited her when we asked, “Aren’t you staying here with us?”
“Heavens, no! This is your time. And your place for now. If you need me, I’ll be staying across the street with my friend, dear Margarita,” and she was gone.
Before we could even unpack, we collapsed on the bed, hot and sticky from our day’s journey, too tired to move. We dozed off, but were slightly aware of a low, mournful, almost Arabic-sounding chant that echoed up the stairs from the street below. The voices were first sonorous, deliberate and lyrical then ended abruptly with great laughter and applause. Then, another vocal utterance would take up in response, and would continue with a vibrant beat. Not a word could we understand. I was not certain if these mournful poems were part of my sweat-soaked dreams or the reality of—where was I? My husband forced me into wakefulness, as we crawled off the bed, along the floor in order to peek out of the kitchen window.
Directly below us, a multitude of faces focused intently on our doorstep which, by now, had been transformed into another stage. A contest of sorts was being held; indeed, a poetical sparring, known as a Tuscan Contrasto. Lisa later explained that the audience provided each team a spur-of-the-moment theme of contrasts, and in eight-meter improvised rhyme, the men hurled their words like lances at each other. This event, which had been performed since medieval times, signaled the beginning of the Feste di Poderi di Montemerano. We were just in time.
Pushing through a thick gauze of sleepiness, we quickly sponged off, changed clothes and headed down the stairs. As we stepped into the street, Lisa met us and began to introduce us to her many friends. This one was from Switzerland, that one from Sweden; this one from Germany, and that one from—of course, Poderi. We immediately felt included for they were as warm and welcoming as she had promised. And, fortunately for us, all but those from Poderi spoke English.
Then, like lava flowing down a mountain, the crowd began to ebb along the stone roadway with us caught up in the current. All were moving toward the festival grounds at the bottom of the hill. Smoke from the pits of braising meats tantalized us, along with the intoxicating aromas of simmering pasta sauces. The crowd turned toward the ticket booths as the excitement grew. Music, laughter and the banter of their melodious language filled the air. Because we understood very little Italian, Lisa recited the menu in English in the most delectable detail. We hungrily placed our orders.
Another push from the crowd propelled us into the nearby tents, where we were once again greeted with hugs and kisses by those who were already glowing with amiability—and wine. Lisa wedged us into the two remaining seats beside her in the middle of a long table filled with twenty or more of her closest friends. We had barely been seated when a trumpet sounded and the feast began.
The doors to the kitchen were flung open and local waiters proceeded in great numbers to the tables with plates of bruschetta, toasted bread covered with rich, local olive oil, chopped fresh tomatoes and succulent olives. Bottle after bottle of homemade wine began to magically appear—some from the kitchen, some from under the table. Again, the waiters swung out of the kitchen. For the prima piatti, or first course, platters of fresh pasta were served. Plates of tortoni, Poderi’s specialty pasta—delicate pillows filled with cheese and arugula—were reverentially placed before us covered with a bubbling, robust marinara sauce. The masses swooned with appreciation.
Lisa leaned over to us and whispered, “I had to live here over twenty years before the older women of Poderi allowed me into the kitchen to help prepare their beloved tortoni. And, the recipe? Don’t even ask! It is still a much guarded secret.” She laughed with bravado.
Sweet, yet quiet Cècilia leaned over the table and said, “They’d perhaps have to keel you!” She grinned and sat back as hand-made gnocchi with meat sauce and pasta e fagioli were whisked to their designated places along with baskets of Tuscan bread to sop up lingering juices.
For our secondo piatti, or second course, sizzling grilled meats of beefsteak, pork, chicken or sausages-on-spears were passed down the tables. Then, contorni, or vegetable side dishes, of white beans, fried potatoes or mixed green salads, followed the meats. Gasp!
Filled to the brim, we all leaned back to gather our collective breath, but to no avail. Next, we were being tempted with the formaggio, or cheese course. And then, another highlight of the evening, the dolci, which was presented with a final flourish. Lisa told us we were to choose from either Mousse di ricotta, which was a sweet, creamy custard made by Lisa’s neighbor Margarita who sat across from us at the table and was mouthing a few words. I could not make out her words over the noise.
I turned to Lisa for an explanation and she said, “Margarita used 72 eggs! 72 eggs to make the Mousse di ricotta! Can you imagine that?”
And, then we were given another option. A salame, which was not a sausage at all, but a rolled cookie filled with chocolate cream. This was prepared by dear Amelia who waved to us at from the end of the table. Of course, we tried a little of each; we had too. Each was delicate, light and sumptuous! Wine continued to be poured throughout the meal, and when one bottle was emptied, another would appear.
As the evening flowed into night, the air filled with music from a local band in the piazza back at the top of the hill. The rhythm reverberated throughout the tents, and the crowd once again was on the move. Following a festoon of colorful lanterns, people of all ages made their way to the top of the hill. Wizened old women in their best black dresses, shiny from use and a heavy iron; short, rotund old men in their best suits, a bit rumpled from the lengthy dinner; young couples in sensually-loose clothing looped together like knots in a tie; giggling children in shorts and tee-shirts, now grabbing up sweaters handed to them by caring parents; swaddled babies snuggled down in the arms of protective grandmothers; and the likes of us, middle-aged folks laughing at shared stories enjoying another paper cup of wine—all climbed the hill to the beat of the music.
At the moment of reaching the top, the harvest moon broke out above the rooftops and sent golden light cascading onto the heads of the villagers below. In spite of—or because of—being thick with food, wine and the beauty of the night, everyone began to dance. The music was a captivating mix of old and new, some rock and roll, some lilting Italian melodies, and even some familiar American pop tunes. But, when the waltzes began, my husband and I stood back to marvel at the grace and elegance of the more skillful dancers. We love to dance but we were not worthy.
“Watch for dear Mondiale,” Lisa shouted to us, “for he is the most exquisite dancer of them all.” And there he was: the burly town butcher from Manciano, just a hillside away, guiding and gliding his partner with finesse and grace across the ancient stone street beside us.
“You are, indeed, a lucky woman to be able to dance with Mondiale,” Lisa whispered to us, as he wrapped his arms about her and whirled her away.
As night became morning, the townspeople, undaunted by the late hour and copious amounts of wine, continued to dance. We were no match for these stalwart sorts, so we crept back up the stairs to our newfound home. With exhaustion cleaving to every part of our beings, we pushed open the bedroom windows for just one last look. The moon spilled into the room and across the bed filling it with light. It flowed like mercury over the ancient hills and valleys beyond us. And, there silhouetted against the night sky, was the medieval fortress and clock tower shimmering on the highest hill in Manciano. Awash with exhaustion but gratitude for having experienced the beauty of both people and place, we slid into bed. Our eyes flickered closed as the final songs reverberated from the streets below—or was that the heart beat of Tuscany we were hearing?
Wednesday, March 31, 2010
An Ancient Italian Passion Play
Part I – ‘Good Friday’
In a recent edition of the San Francisco Chronicle, I read a delightful story of a Spring fest-Iranian style for the Persian New Year, which is always celebrated on the first day of Spring. The article referred to the Persian New Year, or Now-ruz, as being one which had been celebrated for over 3,000 years and is highlighted with the preparation of ancient and traditional family foods.
Traditional family foods? My eyelids popped open and my thoughts perked up. I poured myself another morning cup of coffee. This article had struck a familiar chord, especially with the mention of colored eggs and gifts given to family members. But when I read of the traditional picnic celebrated by all families on the last day of the festivities, I was reminded of the once pagan springtime celebrations I was introduced to in a remote area high in the hinterlands of Abruzzo, in Italy. The ancient celebration is now known as Pasqua, or Easter.
One March a few years back, after flying all night into Florence, a culinary-instructor friend of mine—I’ll call her, Karen—picked me up at the airport and we prepared to drive south out of Florence and down through the center of Italy. It would have been nice to spend some leisurely hours investigating all those beautiful regions—Tuscany, the Chianti region, parts of Umbria—but, we were on a mission. And, that mission was to arrive the next day—on Good Friday—into a miniscule village in the heart of Abruzzo. It was called Introdacqua.
We wove our way down through the rugged hills for mile after endless mile, until we reached a crossroads of sorts – where we could either head west toward the magical city of Rome or turn east and drive directly through the rugged snow-filled Apennine Mountains. We turned east, as not all roads do lead to Rome, and quickly bypassed L’Aquila, Barisciano, Capestrano, and hung a right toward Popoli. By now we had entered a wonderland of mountain ranges and had also entered a cavernous valley, known by the ancients as the Valle Peligna. At this point, we would have loved to sashay through the lovely city of Sulmona (birthplace of Ovid), but we were only a stone’s throw from our destination and the sun was about to set. Why the rush? Well, I had been promised an opportunity to witness a most unusual ancient rite—part pagan ritual from over three millennia past and part medieval ‘passion play’—and those services were about to begin.
Quickly checking into the hotel, La Trôta—the only hotel open in the village—we quickly changed clothes in our upstairs chambers. (It was clear that we were the first tourists of the season, as the heat had yet to be turned on and our breath met us coming and going as we rushed about the room.) Before leaving the hotel, we attempted to get directions to the village festivities, but all involved were stumped. Our friend and host, Lucia, also a culinary instructor, had not made her arrival known, as of yet. We knew very little Italian, and English was a foreign language of which our hotel hosts were not familiar. But not to fear - Introdacqua (which means ‘between waters’) was a very small village and we were fortunate enough to arrive at our destination just after the procession of somber participants began to stream past.
I believe the parade was led by the town band, for their funereal dirges could be heard echoing through the canyons of the 10th century town buildings. They were followed by elaborately robed mace and lamp bearers, who lit the way for the children, who, in turn, were said to carry instruments representing the pain suffered by Christ at his crucifixion. A small choir, in mournful and plaintive song, continued the cortege in a slow gait—a struscio—a shuffle of sorts, which represented the sorrow the world felt after the death of The Lord.
In the center of this corteggio, was a group of laymen who somberly carried two cloth-covered plinths, or catafalques: one bearing a statue representing the tortured body of Jesus Christ and the second, the Madonna, covered in black mourning clothes. Somewhere in their midst, a solemn priestly and prayerful voice rose above them.
Bringing up the rear were streams of silent, but tearful villagers—all women, all dressed in black—who sobbed quietly into handkerchiefs as they made their way through the narrow cobblestone streets, up and down the hills, through the town and back down into Santa Addolarota. It was here that each penitent filed before the illuminated statue of the Dead Christ, before flowing back out of the church and into a piazza.
Immediately, and before we could adjust to the change in atmosphere, the reverence for the Dead was broken with an explosive array of fireworks which bloomed into the darkened sky, then cascaded down onto the awaiting crowd of expectant and jubilant-faced children and adults.
We, Karen and I, who had skittered behind the crowd through the streets, had avoided using our cameras due to the reverential tone of the procession, then hovered outside the church as cautionary observers. Again, we looked around for our friend, Lucia. It was due to Lucia’s encouragement that we had made this trip in the first place. And, it was because of my interest in local traditions and foods, that she suggested we join her here. You see, her ancestors hailed from this locale, so she knew many of the local people and had participated in a number of their local traditions which included this four-day festival. But, so far, she was still a no-show.
I was becoming a little nervous, as I had insisted we make this Mad-Hatters’ dash across Italy due to my unquenchable interest in traditional folklore, but Karen, who has little interest in history, was only there for the food. So my hopes of having some explanation of the procession and its connection to the Christian and the pagan was still wanting and it looked like it would have to wait another day. Even though I could pick up on some of the light and jubilant expressions of people around me, I was literally in the dark. And reading Italian lips? It wasn’t happening.
We waited to see what was next on the list of festivities and I was praying that we would be introduced to some feste food, as food and festivals, I thought, go hand in hand. But as we began looking for a café or trattoria, we noticed that most people were carrying their transformed selves away from the piazza and home for a late and private repast. All stores were closed and no restaurants were open. We hurried quickly back to the car, as freezing temperatures were beginning to set in, and we hoped for the best at our heat-deprived hotel. It was there we found a roaring fire, filling the restaurant with warmth from the open pizza oven, and we were welcomed into the dining room for a most delicious dinner. Among the delightful courses we were served that evening was a pasta course, called Maccheroni alla Chitarra con Ragù d’Agnello e Peperoni. After I asked for a somewhat English translation about the pasta, Karen perked up as she was familiar with the term ‘alla Chitarra.’
“Ah, ‘Guitar Pasta!” she exclaimed cheerfully for one of the first times that day. “This pasta is one of this region’s most celebrated pasta courses!” Aha! I thought to myself with a slight smile. This is her forte!
“This pasta,” she continued, “is made by using an instrument which resembles a guitar-like assemblage; a wooden frame with parallel strings.” Her large arms flapped back and forth as she happily illustrated to me how squares of pasta dough were pressed through the strings of the ‘guitar’ with a rolling pin to form the thin strands of pasta. The waiters stood by smiling infectiously. The pasta was delectable and I found that night that the exuberance over food—in any language—can ease all qualms or fears I might hold about the unknown. That, along with the kindness of strangers. (Recipe follows, as will the next installments.)
Maccheroni all Chitarra con
Ragù d’Agnello e Peperoni
(Guitar Pasta in Lamb and Sweet Pepper Ragù)
This pasta is one of the region’s most celebrated pasta courses, and the pasta is made by using an instrument which resembles a guitar-like assemblage,
a wooden frame with parallel strings, which is used to cut the strands of pasta.
Lamb and Sweet Pepper Sauce:
1 lb. trimmed boneless lamb shoulder, in 1/8” chunks
2 T plus ½ teas. salt
¼ teas. freshly ground black pepper
½ C. extra-virgin olive oil
4 garlic cloves, chopped
3 bay leaves
1 C dry white wine (why not Trebbiano, from the region?)
4 plum tomatoes, peeled, seeded and diced (Dip in boiling water for a few seconds to
remove the skin.)
2 red bell peppers, cut into long, thin strips
2 yellow bell peppers, cut into long, thin strips
(Can be made three days ahead and refrigerated; reheat as you boil the maccheroni.)
In a medium bowl, toss the lamb with ½ teas. salt and pepper; cover and refrigerate for 2 to 24 hours. Next, heat olive oil in a 4-quart sauté pan over a medium to high flame. Add the garlic, bay leaves, and cook for 1 minute. Add the lamb and cook until browned all over, stirring often, about 10 minutes. Lower the heat and deglaze the pan with wine. When it evaporates after about 10 minutes, add the tomatoes and red and yellow peppers. Cover and simmer for 2 hours, stirring once in a while and adding a little water/wine if needed. Discard the bay leaves.
Meanwhile make the pasta dough and let it rest according to directions. Cut the dough into 4 pieces. Working with 1 piece at a time, keeping the others covered with a towel, roll out each piece on a lightly floured counter into a nearly transparent rectangle. Cut into rectangles of the same size as the stringed part of your ‘guitar’. Lay 1 rectangle over the strings and press down with the rolling pin to cut. These are your maccheroni all chitarra. Toss with flour, spread on a single layer on a floured tray, and again
Pasta Dough:
2 2/3 C. unbleached all-purpose flour, plus extra for counter
¼ teas. fine sea salt
4 extra-large eggs, at room temperature
Place the flour on a counter and add salt; combine with fork. Make a well in the center of the flour and begin to add the eggs one at a time into the well. Using a fork, draw the flour little by little into the eggs.
When almost all of the flour has been incorporated into the eggs, begin kneading the dough by hand; knead until it is smooth and firm – about five minutes, adding a little water if the dough is too dry.
Shape the dough into a ball, dust with flour, wrap in plastic and let rest at room temperature for 30 minutes. Then prepare to roll out. (Can be prepared 12 hours ahead of time, and then spread out on a floured tray and refrigerated, covered with a towel.)
Bring 6 quarts of water to a boil. Add the maccheroni and the remaining 2 tablespoons of salt and cook, al dente, or about 3 minutes. Drain, reserving ½ C. of the pasta cooking water. Toss the maccheroni with the ragù and the reserved cooking water in a bowl. Serve hot, passing plenty of Pecorino cheese at the table.
(Taken from Micol Negrin’s book, Rustico-Regional Italian Country Cooking. I met her at an IACP conference in Montreal later that same year as my trip to Abruzzo, Italy.)
In a recent edition of the San Francisco Chronicle, I read a delightful story of a Spring fest-Iranian style for the Persian New Year, which is always celebrated on the first day of Spring. The article referred to the Persian New Year, or Now-ruz, as being one which had been celebrated for over 3,000 years and is highlighted with the preparation of ancient and traditional family foods.
Traditional family foods? My eyelids popped open and my thoughts perked up. I poured myself another morning cup of coffee. This article had struck a familiar chord, especially with the mention of colored eggs and gifts given to family members. But when I read of the traditional picnic celebrated by all families on the last day of the festivities, I was reminded of the once pagan springtime celebrations I was introduced to in a remote area high in the hinterlands of Abruzzo, in Italy. The ancient celebration is now known as Pasqua, or Easter.
One March a few years back, after flying all night into Florence, a culinary-instructor friend of mine—I’ll call her, Karen—picked me up at the airport and we prepared to drive south out of Florence and down through the center of Italy. It would have been nice to spend some leisurely hours investigating all those beautiful regions—Tuscany, the Chianti region, parts of Umbria—but, we were on a mission. And, that mission was to arrive the next day—on Good Friday—into a miniscule village in the heart of Abruzzo. It was called Introdacqua.
We wove our way down through the rugged hills for mile after endless mile, until we reached a crossroads of sorts – where we could either head west toward the magical city of Rome or turn east and drive directly through the rugged snow-filled Apennine Mountains. We turned east, as not all roads do lead to Rome, and quickly bypassed L’Aquila, Barisciano, Capestrano, and hung a right toward Popoli. By now we had entered a wonderland of mountain ranges and had also entered a cavernous valley, known by the ancients as the Valle Peligna. At this point, we would have loved to sashay through the lovely city of Sulmona (birthplace of Ovid), but we were only a stone’s throw from our destination and the sun was about to set. Why the rush? Well, I had been promised an opportunity to witness a most unusual ancient rite—part pagan ritual from over three millennia past and part medieval ‘passion play’—and those services were about to begin.
Quickly checking into the hotel, La Trôta—the only hotel open in the village—we quickly changed clothes in our upstairs chambers. (It was clear that we were the first tourists of the season, as the heat had yet to be turned on and our breath met us coming and going as we rushed about the room.) Before leaving the hotel, we attempted to get directions to the village festivities, but all involved were stumped. Our friend and host, Lucia, also a culinary instructor, had not made her arrival known, as of yet. We knew very little Italian, and English was a foreign language of which our hotel hosts were not familiar. But not to fear - Introdacqua (which means ‘between waters’) was a very small village and we were fortunate enough to arrive at our destination just after the procession of somber participants began to stream past.
I believe the parade was led by the town band, for their funereal dirges could be heard echoing through the canyons of the 10th century town buildings. They were followed by elaborately robed mace and lamp bearers, who lit the way for the children, who, in turn, were said to carry instruments representing the pain suffered by Christ at his crucifixion. A small choir, in mournful and plaintive song, continued the cortege in a slow gait—a struscio—a shuffle of sorts, which represented the sorrow the world felt after the death of The Lord.
In the center of this corteggio, was a group of laymen who somberly carried two cloth-covered plinths, or catafalques: one bearing a statue representing the tortured body of Jesus Christ and the second, the Madonna, covered in black mourning clothes. Somewhere in their midst, a solemn priestly and prayerful voice rose above them.
Bringing up the rear were streams of silent, but tearful villagers—all women, all dressed in black—who sobbed quietly into handkerchiefs as they made their way through the narrow cobblestone streets, up and down the hills, through the town and back down into Santa Addolarota. It was here that each penitent filed before the illuminated statue of the Dead Christ, before flowing back out of the church and into a piazza.
Immediately, and before we could adjust to the change in atmosphere, the reverence for the Dead was broken with an explosive array of fireworks which bloomed into the darkened sky, then cascaded down onto the awaiting crowd of expectant and jubilant-faced children and adults.
We, Karen and I, who had skittered behind the crowd through the streets, had avoided using our cameras due to the reverential tone of the procession, then hovered outside the church as cautionary observers. Again, we looked around for our friend, Lucia. It was due to Lucia’s encouragement that we had made this trip in the first place. And, it was because of my interest in local traditions and foods, that she suggested we join her here. You see, her ancestors hailed from this locale, so she knew many of the local people and had participated in a number of their local traditions which included this four-day festival. But, so far, she was still a no-show.
I was becoming a little nervous, as I had insisted we make this Mad-Hatters’ dash across Italy due to my unquenchable interest in traditional folklore, but Karen, who has little interest in history, was only there for the food. So my hopes of having some explanation of the procession and its connection to the Christian and the pagan was still wanting and it looked like it would have to wait another day. Even though I could pick up on some of the light and jubilant expressions of people around me, I was literally in the dark. And reading Italian lips? It wasn’t happening.
We waited to see what was next on the list of festivities and I was praying that we would be introduced to some feste food, as food and festivals, I thought, go hand in hand. But as we began looking for a café or trattoria, we noticed that most people were carrying their transformed selves away from the piazza and home for a late and private repast. All stores were closed and no restaurants were open. We hurried quickly back to the car, as freezing temperatures were beginning to set in, and we hoped for the best at our heat-deprived hotel. It was there we found a roaring fire, filling the restaurant with warmth from the open pizza oven, and we were welcomed into the dining room for a most delicious dinner. Among the delightful courses we were served that evening was a pasta course, called Maccheroni alla Chitarra con Ragù d’Agnello e Peperoni. After I asked for a somewhat English translation about the pasta, Karen perked up as she was familiar with the term ‘alla Chitarra.’
“Ah, ‘Guitar Pasta!” she exclaimed cheerfully for one of the first times that day. “This pasta is one of this region’s most celebrated pasta courses!” Aha! I thought to myself with a slight smile. This is her forte!
“This pasta,” she continued, “is made by using an instrument which resembles a guitar-like assemblage; a wooden frame with parallel strings.” Her large arms flapped back and forth as she happily illustrated to me how squares of pasta dough were pressed through the strings of the ‘guitar’ with a rolling pin to form the thin strands of pasta. The waiters stood by smiling infectiously. The pasta was delectable and I found that night that the exuberance over food—in any language—can ease all qualms or fears I might hold about the unknown. That, along with the kindness of strangers. (Recipe follows, as will the next installments.)
Maccheroni all Chitarra con
Ragù d’Agnello e Peperoni
(Guitar Pasta in Lamb and Sweet Pepper Ragù)
This pasta is one of the region’s most celebrated pasta courses, and the pasta is made by using an instrument which resembles a guitar-like assemblage,
a wooden frame with parallel strings, which is used to cut the strands of pasta.
Lamb and Sweet Pepper Sauce:
1 lb. trimmed boneless lamb shoulder, in 1/8” chunks
2 T plus ½ teas. salt
¼ teas. freshly ground black pepper
½ C. extra-virgin olive oil
4 garlic cloves, chopped
3 bay leaves
1 C dry white wine (why not Trebbiano, from the region?)
4 plum tomatoes, peeled, seeded and diced (Dip in boiling water for a few seconds to
remove the skin.)
2 red bell peppers, cut into long, thin strips
2 yellow bell peppers, cut into long, thin strips
(Can be made three days ahead and refrigerated; reheat as you boil the maccheroni.)
In a medium bowl, toss the lamb with ½ teas. salt and pepper; cover and refrigerate for 2 to 24 hours. Next, heat olive oil in a 4-quart sauté pan over a medium to high flame. Add the garlic, bay leaves, and cook for 1 minute. Add the lamb and cook until browned all over, stirring often, about 10 minutes. Lower the heat and deglaze the pan with wine. When it evaporates after about 10 minutes, add the tomatoes and red and yellow peppers. Cover and simmer for 2 hours, stirring once in a while and adding a little water/wine if needed. Discard the bay leaves.
Meanwhile make the pasta dough and let it rest according to directions. Cut the dough into 4 pieces. Working with 1 piece at a time, keeping the others covered with a towel, roll out each piece on a lightly floured counter into a nearly transparent rectangle. Cut into rectangles of the same size as the stringed part of your ‘guitar’. Lay 1 rectangle over the strings and press down with the rolling pin to cut. These are your maccheroni all chitarra. Toss with flour, spread on a single layer on a floured tray, and again
Pasta Dough:
2 2/3 C. unbleached all-purpose flour, plus extra for counter
¼ teas. fine sea salt
4 extra-large eggs, at room temperature
Place the flour on a counter and add salt; combine with fork. Make a well in the center of the flour and begin to add the eggs one at a time into the well. Using a fork, draw the flour little by little into the eggs.
When almost all of the flour has been incorporated into the eggs, begin kneading the dough by hand; knead until it is smooth and firm – about five minutes, adding a little water if the dough is too dry.
Shape the dough into a ball, dust with flour, wrap in plastic and let rest at room temperature for 30 minutes. Then prepare to roll out. (Can be prepared 12 hours ahead of time, and then spread out on a floured tray and refrigerated, covered with a towel.)
Bring 6 quarts of water to a boil. Add the maccheroni and the remaining 2 tablespoons of salt and cook, al dente, or about 3 minutes. Drain, reserving ½ C. of the pasta cooking water. Toss the maccheroni with the ragù and the reserved cooking water in a bowl. Serve hot, passing plenty of Pecorino cheese at the table.
(Taken from Micol Negrin’s book, Rustico-Regional Italian Country Cooking. I met her at an IACP conference in Montreal later that same year as my trip to Abruzzo, Italy.)
Tuesday, March 9, 2010
A GIFT FROM THE ARDENNES
As a going-away gift after my stay in her Beine-Nauroy home (about one hundred miles east of Paris), Martine Zabée handed me a ream of paper on which she had copied some pages from a favorite cookbook she enjoyed from the Ardennes region.
“This is a region just north of where we live,” she said. She was out of breath as she had rushed off early that morning to make the copies for me and then returned right before we were to head out of town.
“This may not be precisely from our Champagne Region, but I thought you might appreciate these recipes. We all live so close to each other as neighbors and these recipes are ones I use quite often. These pages are written in the dialect of the Ardennais but if you can get these pages translated, I think you will find a richness of culture bound into every one of these pages. We are not so very different, you see,” she said as she pressed the pages into my arms.
It was almost a year later when my friend and translator, Josiane Selvage, had time to translate the pages Martine had given me, so I had no idea what a gift this truly was. I think you, too, will appreciate them. As an amuse bouche, or a short excerpt to my book, Savoring the Olde Ways, I will begin with this most delightful introduction to the cookbook:
CUISINE DES ARDENNES
By Monique Esquerré-Anciaux
This book comes to you from our marvelous grandmother, who was named Marie-Louise, but was known affectionately by her nickname, Loulou. From all of her kindness, her tenderness, and her skill, she reigned over the old family house…a large house which, with all of its size easily accommodated her fifteen grandchildren. She loved to invite us to gather together for theater or for marionettes, with parts which we played on stilts, in and around the large and small tables, flower stands and vases. And, with the plays, always a “gouters” or an afternoon snack which could only animate her spirited cheerfulness.
How could I ever forget this generous and tender heart? I remember her, small and fine, with her clear blue eyes, as light as her heart, and of her humor, which contrasted surprisingly with her somber figure (the fashion of her time was with discrete colors but my grandmother chose to decorate her neckline with white pearls or with a jet black necklace, which was the only apparent sign of her coquettery). How could I have forgotten her style of a natural quality and her treasures of fantasy, which became the small salt of life?
I also remember her faithful servant, Berthe, with which fell the enormous responsibility of the ovens. As children, we contemplated the beating of the pastry dough with her strong white arms, covered in flour, while taking out of the smoking wood fires the moist cakes, the white rolls fried in butter called ‘lost bread’, the crotté bread or golden brown bread, without ever forgetting the moist cake of Saint Nicolas's Day! Ah, what a tender evocation!
It was on December 6th, Saint Nicolas’ Day that our grandmother chose to spoil us most. Because of her, Christmas was always a holy, religious holiday, and New Year's Day was that of the New Year's gifts, but Saint Nicolas' Day was especially for the children. That day, Loulou covered the fireplace mantle with a show of toys, delicacies, small animals made with red sugar and figurines made out of gingerbread or chocolate; and when it was all ready, she sat down in her large armchair, close to the hearth, and Berthe, out in the hall, gave the three knocks just as is done in the opera as the curtain begins to rise.
With great emotion, we came down the stairs and lined up, one behind the other, and by row of size. We then crossed the salon to join our grandmother with whom Saint Nicolas had left a large envelope. With a tender but somewhat malicious voice, she read to us from this celestial courier. She transmitted to us congratulations and the small reproaches for unquestionable small misdeeds. We listened to her, most attentive, to her little impressions, but never to homilies. Our turn passed, and with relief, we gave ourselves up, all in a chorus, with the greatest insane laughter. Then, finally, the distribution came of the toys and the little snacks which were quite useful to enervate us which Berthe had prepared.
Thursday after Thursday, holiday after holidays, my grandmother wove the weft of precious and intense moments, into the memories of our childhood. But, will you say, we were talking about the Ardennes, right? Where are they located then? And, invariably, with your hand you will vaguely point out toward an area between the Vosges and the Somme. However, they simply are located in the North-East of France, between the Marne River and Belgium, not at the end of the world.
And, for the recipe? I’m still working on translating the some 300 items in the book. Stay tuned . . . Carole
“This is a region just north of where we live,” she said. She was out of breath as she had rushed off early that morning to make the copies for me and then returned right before we were to head out of town.
“This may not be precisely from our Champagne Region, but I thought you might appreciate these recipes. We all live so close to each other as neighbors and these recipes are ones I use quite often. These pages are written in the dialect of the Ardennais but if you can get these pages translated, I think you will find a richness of culture bound into every one of these pages. We are not so very different, you see,” she said as she pressed the pages into my arms.
It was almost a year later when my friend and translator, Josiane Selvage, had time to translate the pages Martine had given me, so I had no idea what a gift this truly was. I think you, too, will appreciate them. As an amuse bouche, or a short excerpt to my book, Savoring the Olde Ways, I will begin with this most delightful introduction to the cookbook:
CUISINE DES ARDENNES
By Monique Esquerré-Anciaux
This book comes to you from our marvelous grandmother, who was named Marie-Louise, but was known affectionately by her nickname, Loulou. From all of her kindness, her tenderness, and her skill, she reigned over the old family house…a large house which, with all of its size easily accommodated her fifteen grandchildren. She loved to invite us to gather together for theater or for marionettes, with parts which we played on stilts, in and around the large and small tables, flower stands and vases. And, with the plays, always a “gouters” or an afternoon snack which could only animate her spirited cheerfulness.
How could I ever forget this generous and tender heart? I remember her, small and fine, with her clear blue eyes, as light as her heart, and of her humor, which contrasted surprisingly with her somber figure (the fashion of her time was with discrete colors but my grandmother chose to decorate her neckline with white pearls or with a jet black necklace, which was the only apparent sign of her coquettery). How could I have forgotten her style of a natural quality and her treasures of fantasy, which became the small salt of life?
I also remember her faithful servant, Berthe, with which fell the enormous responsibility of the ovens. As children, we contemplated the beating of the pastry dough with her strong white arms, covered in flour, while taking out of the smoking wood fires the moist cakes, the white rolls fried in butter called ‘lost bread’, the crotté bread or golden brown bread, without ever forgetting the moist cake of Saint Nicolas's Day! Ah, what a tender evocation!
It was on December 6th, Saint Nicolas’ Day that our grandmother chose to spoil us most. Because of her, Christmas was always a holy, religious holiday, and New Year's Day was that of the New Year's gifts, but Saint Nicolas' Day was especially for the children. That day, Loulou covered the fireplace mantle with a show of toys, delicacies, small animals made with red sugar and figurines made out of gingerbread or chocolate; and when it was all ready, she sat down in her large armchair, close to the hearth, and Berthe, out in the hall, gave the three knocks just as is done in the opera as the curtain begins to rise.
With great emotion, we came down the stairs and lined up, one behind the other, and by row of size. We then crossed the salon to join our grandmother with whom Saint Nicolas had left a large envelope. With a tender but somewhat malicious voice, she read to us from this celestial courier. She transmitted to us congratulations and the small reproaches for unquestionable small misdeeds. We listened to her, most attentive, to her little impressions, but never to homilies. Our turn passed, and with relief, we gave ourselves up, all in a chorus, with the greatest insane laughter. Then, finally, the distribution came of the toys and the little snacks which were quite useful to enervate us which Berthe had prepared.
Thursday after Thursday, holiday after holidays, my grandmother wove the weft of precious and intense moments, into the memories of our childhood. But, will you say, we were talking about the Ardennes, right? Where are they located then? And, invariably, with your hand you will vaguely point out toward an area between the Vosges and the Somme. However, they simply are located in the North-East of France, between the Marne River and Belgium, not at the end of the world.
And, for the recipe? I’m still working on translating the some 300 items in the book. Stay tuned . . . Carole
Saturday, September 19, 2009
Chaudree, anyone?
Seafood and Vegetable Chaudrée
As a food/travel writer, food is usually my source of inspiration. But recently I was asked to accompany a group of WWII veterans on a tour commemorating the 65th anniversary of the 2nd D-Day on the southern shores of France near St. Tropez (August 15th). I’m not ambidextrous but I thought, ‘I can do this.’ So, off I flew to Nice, France to join eight veterans from the 3rd Infantry Division and their families on a two-week tour, as a freelance writer.
Who would have guessed that our dear veterans would be celebrated like the ‘conquering heroes’ that they were in 1944? Who in the U.S. would believe that hundreds of French men and women participated in parades, festivals, receptions and dinners honoring our men? But, I’m here to tell you that it was true.
Each and every day of our tour, we traveled from one village to another—twenty-five in all and from St. Tropez to Strasbourg—following the veterans’ original ‘trek of liberation’. And, in each and every location, villagers flooded into the streets throwing kisses, giving hugs and celebrating ‘the liberators’ of their country.
Even children came out in throngs, dressed in traditional costumes and equipped with their own hand-written letters as gifts to the men who gave their families freedom. The refrain we heard again and again was, “We will never forget; we will never forget that you came to a foreign country to set us free.” “We will never forget that you liberated us from tyranny.” “France will never forget.”
Oh, and along with all of the speeches and award ceremonies came traditional foods and regional wines. And following the final grand reception held in the regal City Hall of Strasbourg, and officiated by the mayor, vice-mayor and members of Parliament, another extraordinary meal followed.
You are now the recipient of one of those traditional recipes: a light, yet savory seafood stew—a form of ‘chaudrée’, or chowder which incorporates a delicate balance of seafood, vegetables and light milk/cream.
Seafood and Vegetable Chaudrée
(Serves 6-8)
1 dozen washed clams and/or cockles; 1 dozen de-bearded, washed mussels
1 lb. white fish, cut into 1-inch chunks
1 lb. Golden Yukon potatoes, cubed
1 cup of shelled fava beans; 1 cup of carrot slices; 1 cup of cauliflower ‘florets’
1 chopped medium onion or the white of a leek, chopped
2 cups of half/half
2 cups of 1% milk
2 cups bottled clam juice
1 bay leaf; sprinkling of tarragon
2 T butter; salt and pepper to taste
Wash and dice potatoes (with skins left on). Place in a small pot of boiling, salted water. Simmer for about eight minutes.
In a separate pan, place half/half, milk, 1 cup of the clam juice and the bay leaf in a pan and warm over low heat.
In a large pot, melt the butter and sauté the onion (or leek), carrot slices, fava beans and cauliflower florets. Add the second cup of clam juice and add the fish and simmer for a few minutes before adding the cockles and/or clams. Simmer for about eight minutes. Drain the potatoes and add to the soup, along with the warmed milk and now add in the mussels and simmer gently for six to eight more minutes, until the mussels have opened.
(Discard any unopened shells.) Serve in bowls. Bon Santé!
As a food/travel writer, food is usually my source of inspiration. But recently I was asked to accompany a group of WWII veterans on a tour commemorating the 65th anniversary of the 2nd D-Day on the southern shores of France near St. Tropez (August 15th). I’m not ambidextrous but I thought, ‘I can do this.’ So, off I flew to Nice, France to join eight veterans from the 3rd Infantry Division and their families on a two-week tour, as a freelance writer.
Who would have guessed that our dear veterans would be celebrated like the ‘conquering heroes’ that they were in 1944? Who in the U.S. would believe that hundreds of French men and women participated in parades, festivals, receptions and dinners honoring our men? But, I’m here to tell you that it was true.
Each and every day of our tour, we traveled from one village to another—twenty-five in all and from St. Tropez to Strasbourg—following the veterans’ original ‘trek of liberation’. And, in each and every location, villagers flooded into the streets throwing kisses, giving hugs and celebrating ‘the liberators’ of their country.
Even children came out in throngs, dressed in traditional costumes and equipped with their own hand-written letters as gifts to the men who gave their families freedom. The refrain we heard again and again was, “We will never forget; we will never forget that you came to a foreign country to set us free.” “We will never forget that you liberated us from tyranny.” “France will never forget.”
Oh, and along with all of the speeches and award ceremonies came traditional foods and regional wines. And following the final grand reception held in the regal City Hall of Strasbourg, and officiated by the mayor, vice-mayor and members of Parliament, another extraordinary meal followed.
You are now the recipient of one of those traditional recipes: a light, yet savory seafood stew—a form of ‘chaudrée’, or chowder which incorporates a delicate balance of seafood, vegetables and light milk/cream.
Seafood and Vegetable Chaudrée
(Serves 6-8)
1 dozen washed clams and/or cockles; 1 dozen de-bearded, washed mussels
1 lb. white fish, cut into 1-inch chunks
1 lb. Golden Yukon potatoes, cubed
1 cup of shelled fava beans; 1 cup of carrot slices; 1 cup of cauliflower ‘florets’
1 chopped medium onion or the white of a leek, chopped
2 cups of half/half
2 cups of 1% milk
2 cups bottled clam juice
1 bay leaf; sprinkling of tarragon
2 T butter; salt and pepper to taste
Wash and dice potatoes (with skins left on). Place in a small pot of boiling, salted water. Simmer for about eight minutes.
In a separate pan, place half/half, milk, 1 cup of the clam juice and the bay leaf in a pan and warm over low heat.
In a large pot, melt the butter and sauté the onion (or leek), carrot slices, fava beans and cauliflower florets. Add the second cup of clam juice and add the fish and simmer for a few minutes before adding the cockles and/or clams. Simmer for about eight minutes. Drain the potatoes and add to the soup, along with the warmed milk and now add in the mussels and simmer gently for six to eight more minutes, until the mussels have opened.
(Discard any unopened shells.) Serve in bowls. Bon Santé!
Thursday, July 30, 2009
Ligurian Olive Oil Tasting
LIGURIAN OLIVE OIL TASTING
and SUMMER PANZANELLA
(Savory Bread Salad by Carole Bumpus)
Franco Boeri, from ROI Frantoio of Badalucco, (Liguria) Italy, lifts his small tasting glass into the air, as if calling each of us to the altar for communion. We solemnly proceed forward to the olive-oil tasting table, pick up a glass smaller than a shot glass, and tip the shimmering golden liquid toward our lips. But, wait! The olive tree and olive have been considered sacred from as far back as the 17th century, B.C. Therefore, this is a religious experience. Therefore, we need to sample olive oil in a manner distinctly separate from any other tastings.
With his hand still poised, he instructs us in Italian to ‘inhale’ the liquid—through the teeth and past the gums—with almost a slurping method.
“The oil should cross the tongue, and then be allowed to linger at the back of the mouth before actually swallowing it. It takes practice,” he says, “and it will sound most vociferous,” he warns.
Seventy-five of us traditional culinary students begin the process of tasting. Some are reticent, while others more enthusiastic. But no matter how one positions his or her lips or how one uses the technique of inhalation, all of us end up sounding much like a gaggle of geese with chicken bones caught in our throats. Thuulk! Thuulk! Thiilk!! Some quickly place their glasses on the table for more, while others prefer to cover their ears from the abhorrent sounds. But we all come around again to lift our glasses in the air, once again refilled with yet another delectable choice. Light, fruity, yet full bodied oils bless our tongues and we come away feeling sanctified.
In this region of Liguria, high above San Remo and the Italian Riviera, olive trees have grown since Roman times. The mild climate has guaranteed a production of extra-virgin olive oils which have a delicate, yet memorable full-bodied flavor. And, since 1900, each generation of the Boeri family have produced award-winning olive oils as their legacy. We were in the company of the Gods.
If you are far away from Liguria, yet want to sample good olive oil, embrace the local olive oils of the Central Coast. Search for extra-virgin olive oils which have been produced in the cold-pressed method, and bottled in dark bottles. Make certain to keep them in the dark and away from a heat source, but enjoy, enjoy, enjoy!
Summer Panzanella
(Savory Bread Salad)
Serves 6
2 lbs. of ripe tomatoes, peeled, seeded and diced
1 ½ teaspoons of minced fresh garlic
1/3 cup chopped red onion
8 large basil leaves, coarsely chopped
½ English cucumber, chopped
1/3 cup of pitted Kalamata olives, chopped
6 thick slices of dry, Italian bread, cubed. (Possibly olive bread, but no sourdough bread, please.)
*******************
Mix all ingredients together in a large bowl. Then, sprinkle:
2 Tablespoons of red wine vinegar
1/3 cup of good extra virgin olive oil
Add plenty of medium coarse sea salt and coarse ground pepper.
Adjust to your taste. This is excellent on hot summer evenings or as picnic fare, as it travels well.
and SUMMER PANZANELLA
(Savory Bread Salad by Carole Bumpus)
Franco Boeri, from ROI Frantoio of Badalucco, (Liguria) Italy, lifts his small tasting glass into the air, as if calling each of us to the altar for communion. We solemnly proceed forward to the olive-oil tasting table, pick up a glass smaller than a shot glass, and tip the shimmering golden liquid toward our lips. But, wait! The olive tree and olive have been considered sacred from as far back as the 17th century, B.C. Therefore, this is a religious experience. Therefore, we need to sample olive oil in a manner distinctly separate from any other tastings.
With his hand still poised, he instructs us in Italian to ‘inhale’ the liquid—through the teeth and past the gums—with almost a slurping method.
“The oil should cross the tongue, and then be allowed to linger at the back of the mouth before actually swallowing it. It takes practice,” he says, “and it will sound most vociferous,” he warns.
Seventy-five of us traditional culinary students begin the process of tasting. Some are reticent, while others more enthusiastic. But no matter how one positions his or her lips or how one uses the technique of inhalation, all of us end up sounding much like a gaggle of geese with chicken bones caught in our throats. Thuulk! Thuulk! Thiilk!! Some quickly place their glasses on the table for more, while others prefer to cover their ears from the abhorrent sounds. But we all come around again to lift our glasses in the air, once again refilled with yet another delectable choice. Light, fruity, yet full bodied oils bless our tongues and we come away feeling sanctified.
In this region of Liguria, high above San Remo and the Italian Riviera, olive trees have grown since Roman times. The mild climate has guaranteed a production of extra-virgin olive oils which have a delicate, yet memorable full-bodied flavor. And, since 1900, each generation of the Boeri family have produced award-winning olive oils as their legacy. We were in the company of the Gods.
If you are far away from Liguria, yet want to sample good olive oil, embrace the local olive oils of the Central Coast. Search for extra-virgin olive oils which have been produced in the cold-pressed method, and bottled in dark bottles. Make certain to keep them in the dark and away from a heat source, but enjoy, enjoy, enjoy!
Summer Panzanella
(Savory Bread Salad)
Serves 6
2 lbs. of ripe tomatoes, peeled, seeded and diced
1 ½ teaspoons of minced fresh garlic
1/3 cup chopped red onion
8 large basil leaves, coarsely chopped
½ English cucumber, chopped
1/3 cup of pitted Kalamata olives, chopped
6 thick slices of dry, Italian bread, cubed. (Possibly olive bread, but no sourdough bread, please.)
*******************
Mix all ingredients together in a large bowl. Then, sprinkle:
2 Tablespoons of red wine vinegar
1/3 cup of good extra virgin olive oil
Add plenty of medium coarse sea salt and coarse ground pepper.
Adjust to your taste. This is excellent on hot summer evenings or as picnic fare, as it travels well.
Wednesday, July 1, 2009
LE TIAN PROVENÇAL
Mixed Summer Vegetables,Provence-Style
One early summer, I traveled with our Provençal culinary group to the ancient city of Arles, France where we were instructed by Erick Vedel in cuisine paysanne—peasant cooking. As I stood in the extension to the Vedel’s Arlesienne kitchen, purported to once have been a first century, A.D., Roman stable, my eyes wandered about to see if there were traces of earlier times, but no. Twenty centuries had come and gone with no recognizable stalls to be seen. Instead, long tables stretched the length of the room with an array of garden-fresh vegetables: deep purple aubergine, sleek green zucchini, brightly-colored peppers and voluptuous tomatoes. Fat round onions lay side by side along with rows of garlic cloves. Local bottles of luminous green olive oil stood like soldiers awaiting duty while glasses of wine had been poured for those of us awaiting instruction.
Madeleine Vedel stood close to her husband, as she translated his every word, his every move. “We are about to begin the serious business of ancient and medieval cuisine,” she announced. “Prepare yourselves.” Erick set out numerous sizes of ‘tians,’ rust-red terra cotta baking dishes, as we pulled on our virginal aprons, unscathed by spot or stain. We picked up our wine glasses, pens and stood at the ready.
“Because our fine city is situated on the Rhône River, Arles has, over the past two thousand years, been the benefactor and repository of fine international culinary history. You see, this city was one of the first ports-of-call on the inland ‘highway’ into France. Foods and recipes have always transcended the need for a common language, and as mariners stopped at our port, they would share their recipes, spices, and stories from their homelands. Our present Provençal cuisine reflects this so-called international ‘fusion’ of flavors.” Erick nodded his head in acknowledgement, smiled and grabbed a large knife and one of the glistening purple aubergine.
*************************
Set oven temperature at 375 degrees, Fahrenheit
Ingredients:
2 Aubergine (Eggplant)
3 Zucchini
4 Fresh tomatoes—the freshest, please
1 Red/Yellow Bell Pepper (your choice)
1 Onion
2 Garlic cloves
3 Bay leaves
1 Sprinkling of thyme
½ Cup of olive oil
6 Tablespoons grated Gruyere cheese
Sea salt from the Camargue (or kosher salt)
First, cut the eggplant into rounds and salt liberally. Layer into a colander to ‘sweat’ for one hour. In the meantime, cut zucchini into rounds, as well as the tomatoes. Set aside. Mince the onion and chop the bell pepper into small pieces; set aside.
Take out a frying pan and lightly sauté the minced onions and peppers in olive oil until they caramelize. Remove with a slotted spoon and layer mixture into bottom of a tian or baking dish. Fry the zucchini rounds a minute per side. Set aside. Rinse eggplant from salt and pat dry on paper toweling. Fry them a minute on each side. Set aside. Crush and chop the garlic.
Then begin to layer the vegetables. Place the eggplant in one layer on top of minced onions, followed by raw tomatoes, a bit of chopped garlic, crumbled bay leaf, a little salt, and then a layer of zucchini rounds. Repeat until all vegetables have been used. Sprinkle the top with cheese and bake in the oven for 30 minutes. (Author’s note: I use more cheese, some pitted black olives, plus a sprinkling of Herbes de Provençe or ground culinary lavender.)
Hot steamy hours passed as we completed instruction for this recipe, and two more that followed— Pacquets d’Aubergine and one medieval recipe for quail. Succulent aromas of olive-oil laced vegetables and garlic filled the air. Finally golden cheese-encrusted tians along with platters of crispy quail were placed on the table for all to enjoy. Quickly, we sat down, totally exhausted but completely ravenous. Ah, but would you pour just a touch more Provençal rosé, s’il vous plait?
Tour conducted by: Erick and Madeleine Vedel, Association et Cuisine et Tradition, Arles, France
Culinary Lavender source: http://shop.prairielavenderfarm.com/main.sc
One early summer, I traveled with our Provençal culinary group to the ancient city of Arles, France where we were instructed by Erick Vedel in cuisine paysanne—peasant cooking. As I stood in the extension to the Vedel’s Arlesienne kitchen, purported to once have been a first century, A.D., Roman stable, my eyes wandered about to see if there were traces of earlier times, but no. Twenty centuries had come and gone with no recognizable stalls to be seen. Instead, long tables stretched the length of the room with an array of garden-fresh vegetables: deep purple aubergine, sleek green zucchini, brightly-colored peppers and voluptuous tomatoes. Fat round onions lay side by side along with rows of garlic cloves. Local bottles of luminous green olive oil stood like soldiers awaiting duty while glasses of wine had been poured for those of us awaiting instruction.
Madeleine Vedel stood close to her husband, as she translated his every word, his every move. “We are about to begin the serious business of ancient and medieval cuisine,” she announced. “Prepare yourselves.” Erick set out numerous sizes of ‘tians,’ rust-red terra cotta baking dishes, as we pulled on our virginal aprons, unscathed by spot or stain. We picked up our wine glasses, pens and stood at the ready.
“Because our fine city is situated on the Rhône River, Arles has, over the past two thousand years, been the benefactor and repository of fine international culinary history. You see, this city was one of the first ports-of-call on the inland ‘highway’ into France. Foods and recipes have always transcended the need for a common language, and as mariners stopped at our port, they would share their recipes, spices, and stories from their homelands. Our present Provençal cuisine reflects this so-called international ‘fusion’ of flavors.” Erick nodded his head in acknowledgement, smiled and grabbed a large knife and one of the glistening purple aubergine.
*************************
Set oven temperature at 375 degrees, Fahrenheit
Ingredients:
2 Aubergine (Eggplant)
3 Zucchini
4 Fresh tomatoes—the freshest, please
1 Red/Yellow Bell Pepper (your choice)
1 Onion
2 Garlic cloves
3 Bay leaves
1 Sprinkling of thyme
½ Cup of olive oil
6 Tablespoons grated Gruyere cheese
Sea salt from the Camargue (or kosher salt)
First, cut the eggplant into rounds and salt liberally. Layer into a colander to ‘sweat’ for one hour. In the meantime, cut zucchini into rounds, as well as the tomatoes. Set aside. Mince the onion and chop the bell pepper into small pieces; set aside.
Take out a frying pan and lightly sauté the minced onions and peppers in olive oil until they caramelize. Remove with a slotted spoon and layer mixture into bottom of a tian or baking dish. Fry the zucchini rounds a minute per side. Set aside. Rinse eggplant from salt and pat dry on paper toweling. Fry them a minute on each side. Set aside. Crush and chop the garlic.
Then begin to layer the vegetables. Place the eggplant in one layer on top of minced onions, followed by raw tomatoes, a bit of chopped garlic, crumbled bay leaf, a little salt, and then a layer of zucchini rounds. Repeat until all vegetables have been used. Sprinkle the top with cheese and bake in the oven for 30 minutes. (Author’s note: I use more cheese, some pitted black olives, plus a sprinkling of Herbes de Provençe or ground culinary lavender.)
Hot steamy hours passed as we completed instruction for this recipe, and two more that followed— Pacquets d’Aubergine and one medieval recipe for quail. Succulent aromas of olive-oil laced vegetables and garlic filled the air. Finally golden cheese-encrusted tians along with platters of crispy quail were placed on the table for all to enjoy. Quickly, we sat down, totally exhausted but completely ravenous. Ah, but would you pour just a touch more Provençal rosé, s’il vous plait?
Tour conducted by: Erick and Madeleine Vedel, Association et Cuisine et Tradition, Arles, France
Culinary Lavender source: http://shop.prairielavenderfarm.com/main.sc
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