Category — Food

It’s noon here and already I’ve had a great day.

I got back from Lucca last night to do a bit of house sitting for Deb and Sandra while they’re on vacay.  Their son, Tom and I chatted a bit, planned for tonight’s meal, and went to sleep. I’m amazed at how quickly I’ve come to think of my little mattress as home.  I had a fantastic visit to Lucca, but I felt a sense of quiet as I climbed into bed last night.  The sounds and smells are familiar now, and I know where I am when I wake up in the night.

This morning when I woke, I started the laundry, fed the dogs, warmed a brioche and made my best cappu yet.  I even managed to get out of the house with keys in hand (if you forget the keys, you’re sol, as many Italian houses don’t seem to have doorknobs, requiring the use of a key to enter.  One morning spent in the cold in my pj’s taught me that lesson.)

Looking around at the scenery, I saw what I had been unable to take-in the night before.  While I was away, the mountains had been coated with a brilliant snow.  Beautiful.

On my way down the stairs, I heard Berti calling my name (or something like it).  “Giorno!”  We then carried on a 10 minute conversation in Italian during which we understood each other probably 60% of the time, planning who would be looking after Tommy today, whether the dogs had eaten, and the status of the tubo.  Wow!  Apparently,my time in Lucca did quite a lot for my vocabulary and confidence.

Then I headed out the gate to the Micra.  My first test of Italian driving.

It’s me, no?

So, I popped in my new Noemi CD (as far as I can tell she’s the Italian equivalent to Adele), put on my driving glasses and headed up the hill.

First, I want to say that the Italian conception of what “good driving” is is a little different than what you might experience in the US.  While in the US, stopping distance is important and almost everyone will talk on their cell while driving, in Italy, a 6 inch to 6 foot stopping distance is considered adequate, while the idea of talking on the phone without a hands-free device is considered completely unsafe.  As I backed out of the driveway, I wondered if I’d make it up the hill without pissing off half the residents of Barga and how I’d handle parking once I got there.

As I pulled away from the first stop sign, the little Micra peeled a little rubber – surprising, given how much Deb makes fun of the little car’s lack of pick-up.  Frankly, I felt like I was in a race car.  I see now why Deb uses the parking break instead of the foot pedal.  I’ll have to practice more to get that down.  Winding my way up the hill, I felt completely at home, even becoming irritated by the slow van in front of me (I say slow, but I really don’t know how fast I was going.  Like the Euro, the Km is so foreign to me that it all seems like pretend denominations).  I did not, however, pass the van, risking a three-across situation on the road as I’ve experienced a number of times riding with Deb.  Evidently, this is common, but I’m not used to it yet.

When I got to Barga, I found the little street where we park every morning.  Unfortunately, a larger car had totally screwed-the-pooch (That’s a terrible phrase, isn’t it?  Which is worse do you think:  screwed-the-pooch or shit-the-bed?  I like shit-the-bed, honestly.  Either way, that’s what this guy did) for all of us by parking over the line.  After about 10 mins of psyching myself up, I put my big-girl panties on and made an attempt at the already too-small space while a nice man sitting on a bench across the street directed me from afar using hand signals.  It’s so fun to have an audience for things like this.

In the end, I actually made the car fit without scraping, rubbing or bumping anything.  I’m not sure how I got out or how anyone else will get in, but I’m sure we’ll work it out.

After figuring out which key opened the studio, and turning on the lights (bonus) I sat down to write and bask in the glory of my morning.  Then I walked to one of my favorite places for pastry:  Caffe Lucchesi.  It’s a great place (I think) where they make pastry and chocolate daily (I’m basing that on the smells that come from the inside when you open the heavy doors, and the overhead flat-screen tv that shows someone working away on a vast stainless steel surface somewhere out of sight.)  The only problem with Lucches is that they are so eager to help me that I have to force us all to speak in Italian, me pointing and them patiently talking me through the pastries.

This morning it was cappu and a pasta con pera (pear pastry).

The pastry is light and lovely and the pear seriously melted away when I bit into it.  Amazing.  For 1 Euro 90 I have a practically-perfect second breakfast that would easily cost twice that in a busy coffee shop in the US.  And a view of the mountains.

The Italian word for “happy” is “contento/a”.  I like it very much.  It doesn’t have the connotation of manic expectation that “happy” has for me.  Just easy contentment.  Sitting there at an outside table with my coffee, pastry and Harry Potter book, I let myself be still,  awash in the feeling that has crept in over the last week.  There is nowhere in the world I would rather be than right here right now.

One of the hazards of being someone who looks toward to future, toward an ideal construction of whatever it is I would like to see in the world, is that I often lose sight of the beauty of what is around me and within me at any given moment.  I’m working out the next move, the next manipulation in order to bring about that which I would like to see in the world.  One of the great gifts I am receiving is the ability to experience right here, right now and to let go of my expectations; to let things evolve and unfold naturally.

That leaves me time to think about just how long I can live on my savings.

Sono contenta.

As I’ve mentioned, I really enjoy Italian words that sound similar to each other.  Come to think of it, I really like English words that sound similar to each other.   For years, I kept a list of homophones in my underwear drawer.  They might still be there.  I’ll have to look next time I’m home.  Yes, I know I’m a freak.

Anyway, one set of words that I’ve learned is ancora (stress on the first syllable) and ancora (stress on the second syllable).  The first means “anchor” – as you would find on a boat.  The second means “more”.  I use the second word quite a lot.  When Franca and I won at Burraco, for example, “Ancora!” and we played on.  When I finish a befuddlingly good meal, “Ancora!” and my plate is suddenly full again.

Today was a day of ancora.  More great food, more beautiful places, more fantastic people.

I had no idea (my Italian is improving, but I miss some of the finer points), but Franca works in Florence!  Fabulous.  She’s the regional secretary for the country’s largest union.  Too cool.  So, Giovanna and I decided to take the bus with her and bum around the city while she worked.

When I was here last time, my family visited Florence for a day.  We knew it was a bit insane, but armed with Rick Steves’ (incomplete) guide to Italy, we got up super-early and hopped a train to Florence for a whirlwind tour.  One major thing I want to accomplish on my current leap is to experience places with locals, as though I’m living here, and not as a visiting outsider.  Today, that happened in a couple of ways.

First, we took the bus, and not the train.  Interesting.  While the train ride from Lucca was kind of dirty and took a couple of hours, stopping in a gazillion little towns along the way, today’s bus ride was just over an hour, very clean, and direct from Lucca to Florence.  We were really proud of ourselves to have figured out the train last time.  I would never have thought to take the bus.  Good tip:  take the bus when traveling from Lucca to Florence.

Second, while we tried to cram everything into one day last time, today, we picked out one exhibit and spent the rest of the day wandering around.  The exhibit was at the Palazzo Strozzi, and was about all manner of trompe-l’oeil.  Everything from the program to the paintings to the floors of the exhibit were designed to fool the eye.  The art was beautiful-  but the exhibit was marvelous.  I kept trying to step over decals that had been placed at the thresholds of rooms, making it look like you needed to step up or down to enter.

And there was an entire gallery dedicated to experiential art.  Giovanna and I took turns posing with the other optical illusions, walking through a wonky room that looked normal from the right perspective, and donning 3-D glasses to watch rotating images pop to life.

Then it was off to wander.  We grabbed a sandwich and coffee and strolled the streets of Florence.  In this off-season, the streets were very quiet and the experience was much different than last time.  The temperature was perfect, prices were really reasonable, and we were able to walk through the streets easily, just enjoying the day.

This morning, I had a pretty serious fashion crisis.  This is somewhat rare for me, but it hit today.  Over the last couple of days, Franca and Gio have outfitted me with new coats and boots, totally suitable for strolling around fabulous Italian cities.  I wasn’t able to wear anything new yesterday, because it was raining the entire time.  However, today, it looked like the rain had stopped, and so I decided to get duded up.  That meant figuring out what, exactly would go with the navy blue coat and tan suede boots.

After a wardrobe change or two, I had it worked out.  Now, walking down the streets of Florence in my hip Italian clothes, I felt like I could melt into the city.

After a while we decided to visit Franca at her office across town.  A short taxi-ride later we were sitting in her second-floor office surrounded by union slogans, books and materials.

We chatted about Franca’s work – what she does, how much she truly loves it – and when I left, I had a film about workplace discrimination and a beautiful book detailing the history of women in the union over the last century.  Bello.  But heavy.

When she finished up work, we headed back downtown for some shopping at a fabulous department store, and then a bookshop, where I picked up a super-handy Italian-English dictionary.  At this point, my little computer bag was overflowing with goodness – heavy, heavy goodness.

While we waited for the bus to Lucca, we sat in a café drinking tea and eating a chocolate-dipped cookie.

By this time in the day, I’d had 4 coffees and declined two more.  I especially love that the people I’m around not only drink coffee, in actual cups at bars, but they also take English-style tea – in pots – in the afternoon.  It’s lovely and somehow more civilized than grabbing a venti latte to go, or drinking tea all day long from a mug at my desk.  It means more stops for little coffees, and more interactions with more people.  Ancora.

Once we were back in Lucca, we sought out an open restaurant.  Many restaurants are closed on Monday, especially in the off-season, but we found one where they knew the owner and the lights were on.

As has become customary, we sat at the table identifying food items in dueling languages, deciding what we would eat.  Tonight it was gnocchi with truffle and pumpkin.  Buono.  The ladies had spaghettini arrabbiata and some kind of fish balls.  While they ate fish I had a plate of baked cheese with honey and tomato.  This cheese and honey thing that the Italians have going is pretty great.  I’d suggest trying it, but I can’t remember exactly which cheeses you’re supposed to do it with, or which honey goes best.  I’ll let you know if I get a hard and fast set of rules

Finally, it was time for dessert.  When we walked in, Franca and I rushed to the counter to look at the torte.  All manner of yummy things stared back at us.  The most interesting is a vegetable pie that has peppers and pine nuts and spinach, I think.  Tonight’s was extraordinary.  Giovanna asked for a sampling for one person, and a plate big enough for three arrived.

Franca, who pretends not to like sweets the way she pretends not to speak English, and Giovanna, who had declared herself too full, found it in themselves to help polish off the plate while we examined my little dictionary for words we weren’t able to translate during the day.

As we walked from the restaurant to their flat, a stone’s throw away, the night was magical.  We saw only one other person in this often busy city.  Very few stores had open windows, and the cobblestones of the street glistened with the memory of that morning’s rain.

“WHEN you return…” Franca had said over dinner as Giovanna nodded.  “WHEN you return we will…”  Ancora, ancora.  It’s a lovely feeling to know you aren’t the only one wanting more.

The people I’ve met are fantastic. Simply fantastic. It can be difficult convincing them that I’m alright. Yes, I’ve had enough to eat. Yes, I’m happy. No, we don’t need to plan an elaborate day. I’m more than happy to tag along and do whatever they are doing. Really. Here’s why:

During practically every experience I’ve had in Italy, every time something has fallen-through I have ended up having amazing, beautiful, sometimes life-changing experiences. Today, my weekend hostesses, Franca, Giovanna and Vittoria wanted to take me to the sea, but when we woke up it was raining something fierce. Change of plans. So, we went to the bookstore to find a book for Gio. They didn’t have what she was looking for, so another change of plans. We wandered the streets a little, and ended up at an amazing gallery tucked away next to a church. I probably wouldn’t have noticed it if it wasn’t for Giovanna pointing it out. After Giovanna talked with the owner a bit, he escorted us from the front galleries into the labyrinthine back galleries where some of the more interesting installations were.

One was a sculptural piece that involved a hunk of raw marble – one that had been blasted out of the side of the mountain. The artist took the raw piece and set out to carve a copy. Very, very interesting – and well executed.

The place was strange, barely finished, and vaguely reminiscent of a hospital or psych ward from a horror movie, with red painted cement floors and broken black and white tiles adorning the walls in places (although that might have been a sculptural installation now that I think about it). As we wound through the galleries, the sound of dance music got louder. “Push it, push it real good!” ran in a loop. I started to wonder if someone was working with a boom box in a back room, or if the Gio and I were about to meet an untimely end.

When we reached the final room, it was dark. We found a projector sending an image of a middle-aged woman in a brightly colored moo-moo shaking her life-sized money maker.

We chortled a little as the gallery owner explained that the project gave 3 minutes to various people to dance for the camera. He told us to sit and left us. We perched ourselves on a chaise that was against the wall opposite the screen and sat back. First one than another interesting characters came on the screen – a fairly normal looking man, a hippy dude complete with a VW bus and huge beard, and a man in a very proper suit. It became clear after about the third person that they were all being instructed from somewhere off-camera to do the steps they were doing. Waive your arms like this then step to the left. Point to your crotch and swing your hips to the music. Now slap your ass and turn around.

As we watched the entire loop of maybe six people, I became more and more engrossed. What seemed a funny, almost silly installation became really quite powerful. This dance, executed by so many different people showed their insecurities, their individualities, and their beauty. By the end of their three minutes, each person was panting, and each person was smiling. Even those who seemed most unlikely to enjoy the experience got into it.

Check out the artist. She was really great, and by the sound of it has some equally interesting ideas for new projects.

After more time looking and talking with the gallery owner about our fantastic artist-friends Deb and Sandra, we cruised past some of the churches in the area and headed back to the flat.

Lunch brought an excellent pumpkin risotto and turnip greens (we had to go online to see what the English was for turnip).

For the afternoon excitement, we talked about going to a movie, which was mildly interesting, but just as I was falling asleep on the sofa, Giovanna pulled out a double-deck of cards.

Over lunch, Franca and Vittoria were talking about a card game, Burraco. They said it was fun, but difficult to explain. Not one to miss out on a good game, I jumped up from the sofa to see what Giovanna had in mind. “Burraco!” “Will you teach me?” They all looked at me. “You want to learn?”

And it was on.

For the next two or three hours we played, Franca and I versus Gio and Vito. The ladies patiently taught me the rules, and we exchanged more vocabulary words as we played. They laughed when I shuffled, “Las Vegas” they chuckled. There was a lot of chuckling. Well, at least until I started winning. (I’m sorry, I just can’t give up trash-talking. I’ve tried, and I’m not sure I can live without it, so there it is. Franca and I won, twice. Sure, Gio changed the winning point amount so we could keep playing, but when it was all said and done, Franca and I won, won, won. Both times. Brava, Franca. Brava.)

It turns out that playing cards is a fantastic way to learn numbers as well as slang. I am now fairly confident in my ability to trash-talk in Italian. Deb and Sandra will be so proud.

Time for the movie came and went, and dinner was prepared in between hands of Burraco. We had a beautiful soup made with broccoli, potatoes and pasta. This was seriously delicious. I’ll ask for the recipe tomorrow, so hold tight and I’ll try to translate and post it.

We also had a selection of cheeses (always) which included a garfagnana specialty cheese topped with faro. This was good. I mean, really good. I’m going to try to find and bring some home, because it was on par with the Rogue Bleu that’s made by Rogue Creamery in Oregon – the cheese that’s wrapped in brandy soaked pinot noir leaves and stored in a cave. Only, it was had in Lucca with friends, so it might even be better.

I’m sure the sea would have been lovely, too, but for today I’m very happy to have learned slang over a game of Burraco!

When my family gets together, we spend our days largely eating, and talking about what we’re going to eat at the next meal. I have no idea if this is a uniquely Italian trait, or just something that follows me.

Today was a planning day. We don’t have dinner plans, so we talked at lunch about dinner. We’ll likely make “jacket potatoes” with a bag of potatoes that Sandra’s mom bought from the local fields.

Yesterday was an eating day. Sandra and Deb are putting together a very cool exhibition in the region (I’ll post as soon as info is online), and every few days they have meetings to talk about the project with potential contributors, sponsors, collaborators. Last night was a dinner meeting in Castelnuovo, just up the road in Garfagnana.

The restaurant/shop had exactly two tables: one long one that seated 10 of us (and a couple others who wandered by or transferred from the other table when their party broke up) and a second one that could probably fit 6 if it needed to. We were first to arrive, and seated ourselves in front of three great slabs of wood placed as chargers. The first of Deb and Sandra’s friends arrived, and I was introduced half in Italian, half in English, as the English-speaking visitor. We all smiled at each other, traded what pleasantries we knew in each other’s languages, and then I sat back to observe and soak up as much Italian as possible. As others arrived, the routine repeated itself.

Being the only one at the table who doesn’t speak the language is one thing. I, apparently, seem the deep, exotic observer, snapping pictures, and not the mildly thoughtful, painfully self-aware outsider that I sometimes feel. Bonus. Adding to that the fact that I’m a vegetarian who doesn’t drink alcohol, and doesn’t usually drink coffee or eat sugar, and I’m like someone from Mars. Especially in a shop that has legs of dried meats hanging in the corner.

Fortunately, my hostesses are very kind, very thoughtful women, and they made sure that the shop owner knew I am vegetarian. I’d been looking forward to the type of meal that we were about to have – one where the owner of the shop just starts bringing food, plate after plate, specialty after specialty. And, this shop specializes in local dishes. Sacks of local potatoes and walnuts sat in heaps around the shop, and bottles of wine, honey and all other manner of things lined the walls.

The shop owner, a man who clearly loved his work, and looked remarkably like the painting of Baccus on his wine cask, came over to speak with me in broken English about what, exactly, I do and don’t eat. Once we established ground rules (no fish, but yes cheese), he set to preparing dinner. First came focaccia. No, not like the kind in the states. Much, much better. Then a plate of farro (spelt) which is a regional staple.

This was prepared with oregano, olive oil, cheese and sun-dried tomatoes. It was really, really good. The meat eaters also had some kind of fish salad.

Second came smoked trout, lovingly carved at the table and passed from friend to friend.

Every dish, even those I wasn’t eating were proudly explained to me, with questions of whether I was familiar with the ingredients; whether we have trout where I come from.

Next came beans on squares of delicious, toasted bread. The olive oil that was drizzled over the beans was intense and beautifully colored. As seems to happen at meals, the surplus food ended up next to the visitor. That meant not only extra beans for me, but access to the plate with gorgeous, green olive oil – perfect for more focaccia.

Then, two fantastic “cakes,” one with rice and one with spelt. Lovely and eggy and savory. Again these ended up at my end of the table for far too long. (Side note: last time I was here, I realized on the last day, that the fabulous pastries I had been eating in the mornings were made with rice. Rice is used in a ton of dishes. After eating the rice pastries, I feel like it’s really underutilized in the states.)

The owner then came by to make sure I was alright. He let me know that he would be preparing vegetables and then “pop beans” to make sure that I would get enough to eat – you know, because I was really feeling underfed at this point. Evidently my athletic frame is cause for great concern to most of the people who feed me. “Anchora? Anchora!” is a familiar phrase at meal time. “More? More!” Pop beans are something like pop corn Nobody else at the table knew what the owner was talking about, but we were all game to try something new.

The vegetables were beautiful. They included artichokes, which are known to be some of the best in the world, as well as fennel (which is something I never know what to do with when it comes in the harvest box. Turns out it is fabulous sliced, with a little olive oil and salt).

And then it was on to the pop beans. These were excellent. I don’t really know what he did to make them, but they were definitely “popped” open and contained a good amount of olive oil. They were a hit.

After pop beans came a great wood slab of salami, sliced from various hunks of meat that still resembled the animals from which they came. And cheese. Everyone else, transfixed by the meats, passed on the cheese. I tried to decline, but Deb and Sandra know that I love cheese, and the owner wasn’t going to let me out of his shop without sampling his fabulous cheeses. Here’s a side-by-side. I really think I got the better deal.

The cheeses included a mozzarella coated in local herbs, a misto (cow and sheep milk together), and a couple of other sheep’s milk cheeses: one with balsamic reduction and one with something that resembled marmalade. These went perfectly with the several different kinds of bread on the table – including pane coto nel forno a legna.

Along the way, the table had several carafes of red wine poured from big bottles, and small amounts of an amber dessert wine.

As for dessert, we had an assortment of fantastic things. A chocolate cheesecake, some kind of pound cake that might have made me a bit tipsy, and the best thing: a nochi torta. Walnut torte. The walnuts were so delicate and the torte so fresh, I was totally absorbed.

From the other end of the table, where he was now sitting and smoking with the ladies, the owner caught my eye and asked whether I enjoyed the desserts. “Bella, i noci.” “Anchora, more!” he declared, over my objections, and the plate was passed down to my end again.

While we ate and drank, Sandra explained her project. Given over to the confidence that only comes with being surrounded by supportive friends, she smiled, joked, and commanded great attention. It’s amazing what you can understand even when you can’t comprehend. Sandra’s passion and vision were palpable – as were the enthusiasm and admiration in the room.

People continued to chatter, excited about the project, as the owner walked around the table, humming “here comes the bride” and handing out little, paper-wrapped bon-bons that he pulled from his apron pocket. He reminded me of an Italian Hagrid.

Coated in delicate dark chocolate, these little gems were an absolutely perfect end to areally great night of food. We had been eating for over two hours. We didn’t just sit and snack, we ate – for two hours. When we got home it was almost midnight – and time to plan for breakfast.

When I packed for my trip to Italy, I wasn’t sure exactly where I’d end up.  I knew I’d start the trip with my friends Deb and Sandra, but from there, I didn’t know if I’d be in homes, hostels, or five-star hotels.  So, I packed light and deep.  Warm clothes that I could layer and other items that would make life easy.  I agonized over which electronics could share cords, and which jackets to bring (settling on one light jacket and one technical, winter coat).

There are a few things I’ve taken grief over.  Yes, it’s a little strange that I packed toilet paper and tampons, but as I said, I wasn’t sure if I’d be backpacking around.  Plus, I brought a big suitcase to fill with treasures for the return trip, so I had room.

There are other things that really make my friends laugh.  My headlamp, for example, isn’t something everyone would have brought, but it’s dead useful.  It’s good for reading at night, and can save you from being squished when walking at dusk.  However, it also might make your friends act like they don’t know you.

Also, for some reason, only “professional cyclists” – the ones wearing brightly colored team jerseys and riding fancy, fast bikes – only they, wear helmets.  I noticed this last time I was here.  I also noticed how American drivers tend to run cyclists off the road.  Thinking I might like to pick up a nice used Italian bike and ride around a bit, I decided to pack my helmet.

Every day, I assess the weather, select a combination of clothing, jacket, electronics and books that will get me through the day comfortably, and pack up my little messenger bag.  However, when I packed yesterday, it was with the assumption that I would be back at the house before I headed to Lucca that evening.

Bad assumption.

So, I started the day with two layers of icebreaker, my light jacket, sunglasses, my laptop and camera, and an array of books to help me plan my Italian itinerary.  Heavy bag, but lightweight clothing.  Good for bumming around Barga on a glorious day.

After a fantastic, surprise lunch with a new friend, I met up with my ride to Lucca.  Lucca is a really cool walled city.  The walls are hugely thick to withstand cannon fire.  Thick enough to ride bikes on the wide boulevard that sits atop them.  We got to Lucca (which is having a huge, international comic festival) just as the sun was setting.  Fortunately, I had my little wool hat, which I happily pulled on.  The 80 degree day was settling into the high 40s, and my light jacket was not so warm.  It was black, however, as was my hat.  Super.

As it got darker and darker, we stopped to turn on headlights that some of the bikes had.  I reached into my little messenger bag to see if I had my headlamp.  Nope.  But I did have a laptop and about 8 books.  Bonus!  Here I was, wearing black, riding around in the pitch dark cold with no helmet, no light, no warm coat and a bag of books and electronics, through an insane crowd of wandering people who were dressed like comic and video game characters.  Well done.  I probably should have put on my sunglasses and snaked some of the electronics cords through my hair.  I would have fit right in.

When we reached the restaurant after our harrowing ride, we all gathered around the fire to warm ourselves.  It turned out that the adrenaline needed to keep oneself upright through all the twisting, turning, swerving insanity provided exactly the right amount of warmth in the dark city.  Also, books are really quite insulating.

At any rate, the ravioli was some of the best I’ve ever had outside my mom’s kitchen. And I had my camera with me to capture it.  Va bene.