Nancy, Author at Itch.world

Nancy, Author at Itch.world - Page 17 of 19

A three-minute escape to Italy.

Tuscany, travel, medieval village, Italy, festivals, celebrations, customs, cooking, recipes, living in Italy, moving to Italy, visiting, visit, restaurants, language

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November 2, 2018 In Live By Nancy

The many time zones of one village

Time moves differently in Italy, I’ve heard people say. A friend from London says that the moment she knows she has arrived in Italy is when she withdraws money from the cash machine in the square, which seems to take about 30 seconds between each step of the process, it feels like geologic time if you’re not used to it.

We used to live in an apartment in old town over a little store. I’d go down each morning to get fresh bread for the kids’ breakfasts before taking them to school. The opening time on the store’s door is definitive: 7:30. One morning, I was still standing by the locked door at 7:45, when the owner finally showed up. I was getting nervous about getting the kids to school on time, so I said, trying to hide my annoyance, “I thought you opened at 7:30.” The very sweet woman who owns the shop replied, totally at ease, “7:30…7:45—uguale.” “Uguale” meaning “equal, no difference.”

The most obvious way that this, more elastic, sense of time plays out is when the bells of the village ring to announce the current time. From various places we’ve lived we’ve heard the bells from several towers tolling the time, twice an hour (depending on which bells are working). You’d think this would be a very predictable thing, and a cacophony every thirty minutes, but it’s not. Each bell takes its time, ringing in seven o’clock, for example, at 7:00, 7:07, 7:10 and up to about 7:12, then taking its turn again in 30 minutes. The half-past bells add an additional beat, with a different tone, before or after the count to signify the half hour. Except for the one that doesn’t, and just rings the hour bell again.

The bells get a bit more aligned after the twice annual shifts for daylight savings time, and then they drift further apart. Time, in a village, is all relative.

I’d like to get deeper into this story and report back. Does one person change the time on the bells or is it done by by different bell keepers? How do they decide which bell is the one that is most accurate, or does it matter?

But for now I want to leave you with a question. The next time you look at your phone or Apple watch to find out the time (when I often get a little thrill knowing I actually know what the exact time is), does it matter if time is relative or absolute, and is it true (and perhaps better) that 7:30 and 7:45 may, in fact, be uguale?

November 2, 2018 In Chow, Live By Nancy

Raining olives

We just pressed the olive oil from our trees. The days of picking are all-consuming: spreading nets under the trees, raking the olives off the branches by hand with small plastic rakes, pouring the olives caught by the nets into plastic crates, and moving the crates to safe storage until the olive oil can be pressed, which should happen no longer than 48 hours from picking. Thankfully, this year we had help, two Americans, a friend and her 19-year old son, coming to Italy for the first time.

The culmination of all of this work is going to the olive oil press, or “frantoio”.

The crates of olives are unloaded and weighed with great import, carefully watched by the others in line for the press. It’s a competitive “I have more olives than you” moment. We do respectably well, olives weighing in at over 500 kilos (over half a ton), in 25 crates. But soon we are put in our place by three very scruffy 40-something guys who came in after us, unloading about 75 crates. “Smug devils,” I think to myself. We eye them. They eye us. No smiles.

We settle in for a long wait. Turns out everybody showed up with twice the amount of olives they’d predicted, slowing down the process from an hour or so to about five. No English is spoken here, so my friends amuse themselves by watching the scene and playing with the various dogs on hand for the press. The guy who runs the press runs around in his black tracksuit, overseeing all.

He decides that our friends’ lack of Italian, and John and my limited understanding, does not hinder communication in the slightest when it comes to the important topics of life. He pulls us over to look at the olives unloaded by the three guys. “Idiota!,” he tells them, encouraging John and our 19-year old visitor to chime in with their opinion of the three. Turns out they had used mechanized rakes, getting a great yield, but bruising the olives in the process, and mixing in a lot more twigs and leaves than is desired. The guys didn’t blink, complimenting our smaller yield on the lack of leaves, twigs, and bruises. All are laughing and chatting away now. These guys remind me that Tuscan men seem to have a lot more fun than men in other countries.

The woman of the mill shows up with plates of freshly baked cookies, crackers, and bread, drizzled with just-pressed oil and salt, which she enthusiastically passes. Mr. Mill decides it’s time to get out the wine just as we are starting to pour our boxes of olives into the press, which is the last chance to pick out sticks, leaves, and any olives that don’t look worthy. We are all trying to do final quality control, leaning over the large open funnel leading to the grinder, while balancing our never-empty plastic cups of wine and a constantly replenished supply of bread with olive oil, crackers, and cookies that the owners watch carefully that we finish.

Our new press buddies in the background.

Finally the oil comes streaming out. It is a record harvest for us—more than 100 liters when we are finished with all the trees. Dark green and very peppery.

And to celebrate the owners decide that it is time to bring out the special grappa.

October 27, 2018 In Live By Nancy

Feeling cozy in an Italian cemetery

This story started out to be about the cemetery, in honor of Halloween. As my Itch stories often do, it ended up being about something different. It is about death, but also about love and community. After all there are two holidays that follow All Hallow’s Eve: All Saints Day, and All Souls Day—days for remembering and affirming family and friendship.

One dark, rainy, winter night I decided to walk home, alone, from a nearby pizza restaurant so I could get more steps on my fitness tracker. I took the route that goes by the cemetery, and instead of walking by it, I decided to go in.

We live near this cemetery. I drive by it multiple times a day, see a steady stream of people walking by our front gate going on their daily visits, and witness funeral processions coming from the church at the top of the hill down our narrow lane to the cemetery. The hearse drives by, followed by a priest chanting on his loudspeaker, and a stream of mourners on foot. Despite this proximity, I hadn’t yet ventured inside the cemetery gates.

Italian cemeteries are special places, obviously well-visited and loved. The density of tombs is impressive, stacked five high in a sort of high-rise condo complex of mortality. It feels somehow warm, crowded, and social. I think it is due to the quirky humanity of the decorations that crowd the shelf-edge of nearly every nook. Battery-operated candles are the only lights in the graveyard at night (and there are so many that it is well lit), and one or two plastic floral arrangements in ceramic vases are crowded on every shelf, next to multiple figurines. Photos abound, which give a glimpse of the personality and passions they had in life. The gates are not locked at night, although the cemetery is officially closed, and none of the floral arrangements or figures of small angels are fixed in place.

That night I was stunned by how cozy the whole place was. At one point I realized how foreign my life here really is, that a woman alone could spend 45 minutes in a graveyard at 11:00 at night feeling cozy? Not wary and on-guard about personal safety. Not thinking of old zombie movies and ghost stories. Not even particularly melancholy about my own mortality. Somehow this kind of cemetery puts mortality in perspective and makes death seem somehow more tolerable.

In Italy, death is not hidden and sanitized. A Canadian friend of ours, who lives in the village, lost his life partner a few years ago. He found that things progress quickly here, as burial usually happens in 48-hours (bodies are not usually embalmed.) The expectation is to keep the body at home until burial, and to always keep the body company. For our friend, a steady stream of friends and neighbors came by with encouragement, food, and to help keep vigil or “veglia”.

I asked him how he thought the experience would have been different for him emotionally had his partner’s death happened in Canada, or America, where the body is immediately removed. He said although he was at first surprised, the whole experience “was like a big hug”.

He walked behind the hearse to the cemetery, accompanied by a crowd both young and old. Friends took his arm for much of the way.

He visits his partner’s grave every day to say hello, think, and remember, and also to socialize with everyone else who is visiting the cemetery. When he is away his neighbors help to tend his partner’s grave. He describes his trips to the cemetery as being like a family visit.

Italians are also pragmatic. It’s good not to become too attached to one’s nook. The place is only leased for a set number of years. After that, if the family doesn’t want to renew the lease, the bones are removed to the “ossario,” a large underground room for bones that every cemetery has, and the site in the wall reused.

October 26, 2018 In Chow, Live By Nancy

A one-table restaurant, Tuscan style

There’s a farm stand I love. It’s a big shed and they sell things from their land, including eggs from the chickens who are underfoot. I asked if they had any broccoli rabe and they sent their son into the field to cut some. He returned with an armful, stems dripping.

They have created a fabulous font.

John and I happened to be there around lunch time and I noticed two construction workers sitting at the one tiny table in the place. Minutes later I saw two bowls of spaghetti aglio e olio go by, one of my favorite things to eat. I asked a crazy question—”do you serve lunch here?” The answer was yes, cooked in their kitchen next door. The workers finished eating, explaining that they come here nearly every day, and left the table so that we could sit down, taking their coffee elsewhere.

And we had this wickedly good lunch—grilled vegetables from the garden followed by pasta, and wine. Served with such pride and pleasure. All for €9 each.

My 15-minute errand turned into a 90-minute lunch, making me late for everything else that day, but sometimes when Tuscany grabs you by the collar you can’t say no.

October 20, 2018 In Live By Nancy

Are roosters born evil or do they learn?

I never knew that roosters had to learn how to crow. Or that adolescent ones crow an octave higher than the more seasoned members of the flock. Or that they have to learn how to enunciate the whole of cockaa-doodle-doo. These things take practice. Loads and loads of practice as we have learned waking up every morning for the last month.

So it seemed a rooster recording update was needed. Here’s the latest of what we wake up to, as recorded by me, this morning, stomping through our wild boar-ravaged lower pasture, to get to the neighbor’s chicken coop. Couldn’t get close enough because of the wild blackberries to get a decent photo, but will work on it.

October 20, 2018 In Chow, Live By Nancy

Finding chestnuts. Bravery. And humanity.

I had this article about chestnuts completely written. Some very nice discoveries that I thought you would find interesting. Then I decided on Friday that I needed to double check a couple of things, and to get some video of the almost-worthy-of-an-amusement park four-wheel drive up a stream bed to get to my friend’s grove of chestnuts in the middle of the forest. I asked him if I could tag along the next time he gathered chestnuts, he agreed, then mentioned that it was his birthday and that a few other friends were coming to have a lunch in the woods.

Simple, right? These things sound so much easier in retrospect, and in print, then they are for me to do. I’m shy, I hate to impose, and am very sensitive that I can’t communicate in Italian with any measure of fluidity or nuance. My Italian is very much in the sledge hammer stage, and I knew I’d be in for an all-day Italian-speaking extravaganza. My heart was pounding with anxiety when I joined friends in the piazza to drive up the hill.

Chestnut Grove from Itch.world on Vimeo.

I also know that this is why I am doing Itch. Every week I am pushed to do more than I am comfortable with, more than I actually want to do, both in my Italian community, and in my creative life. I am creative, every day, for clients, but this is different. This is for me—I’ve never written, at all, before now. But have wanted to, my whole life. Every week is a new frontier, rough edges all around.

And my relationships in the village had reached a comfortable point. I now know hundreds of people, engage in short conversations, goodwill flowing in both directions, but it’s difficult for me to get deeper, for all the reasons above. Itch is a wonderful forcing mechanism.

So I found myself in the middle of the woods, at a long table surrounded by stumps, eating roasted pig parts rejected by the rest of the world but revered by the “real” Tuscans, debating whether truffles found locally actually count as authentic Tuscan food, and singing, yes, singing, helping friends learn the English words to “Knocking on Heaven’s Door” while a guitar was played. And with these sweet, kind, generous, secure, happy people it didn’t matter a bit if my conditional tenses are garbage, or that business development is taking longer than I would like, or that I didn’t know these people profoundly. I was at peace—accepted, included, encouraged, supported. At that moment on a Friday afternoon it was hard to imagine a similar scene unfolding anywhere else but this Tuscan woods. And I knew that this was the point of this post.

Here’s the original article about chestnuts, for your edification.

October 20, 2018 In Chow, Recipes, Roam By Nancy

Marrone chestnuts of Caprese Michelangelo

The village of Caprese Michelangelo is famous for two things: Michelangelo’s birthplace, and some of the finest chestnuts in the world. Not two terrible things to be known by, in my book. And the chestnut fame is not a recent thing—the Romans, and before them, the Etruscans (after which Tuscany is named), both loved these nuts from Caprese Michelangelo.

In Italy there is a DOC appellation (Denominazione di Origine Controllata, like the French DOC) and these Caprese chestnuts (a particular, fussy subset of chestnuts, called marrone, from grafted trees) have earned this rating.

Harvesting chestnuts involves going into the forest and picking up the spiky pods, with chestnuts inside. The very prickly pods often break open upon impact, making the task easier. (Love that the pods are called “ricci” the same word as for hedgehogs, and curly hair.) Attention is needed to differentiate between the sweeter and more valuable chestnuts from grafted trees, and wild chestnuts, which are used for chestnut flour.

Chestnut forests are glorious, primeval things. Huge, old trees grow in just the right elevation on the sides of mountains. Locals often lease a plot of forest so they can gather chestnuts, and these plots are closely guarded (though not as closely guarded as where truffles and porcini mushrooms are found. Tuscan life has its dark sides, like the poisoned meatballs left as a trap for dogs with truffle and mushroom hunters who go into another’s territory.)

This chestnut is known to be one of the oldest in the forest, over 1,000 years old.

I am a person who appreciates eating, and a good fire, so I love that chestnut plots tend to have small huts, often quite ramshackle, with just enough room for gallons of olive oil, some cooking gear, and much red wine. Chestnut gathering often ends with a big bonfire in the middle of the woods over which a variety of meat and vegetables are roasted, and bread is toasted, all accompanied by wine and olive oil. Often it’s all served at a long table with tree stump as chairs. The Italians haven’t elevated the “picnic” to a fine art form, like the French, but they shine when cooking meat outside over fire, the act of which is called “ciccia.” This word also means “fat or meat” and is sometimes an abbreviation for “salsiccia”, or sausage. But most often you hear it used as an endearment.

Moving here, one of the things I was most surprised by is how grindingly poor the area was for centuries. The first house we rented had a big attic that had racks custom-built for storing chestnuts, sometimes the only food source for the winter. These racks are quite common in old farmhouses.

Chestnuts are also ground into flour, which is made into a local delicacy, castagnaccio. I believe that this is the worst dessert ever invented, containing only chestnut flour, olive oil, rosemary, pine nuts, and raisins. Apparently after about 10 years of steady exposure you can acquire a taste for it. I have been fooled twice by the look of them into thinking I was biting into a brownie. Nope.

In case you have never roasted your own, over an open fire or not, they are easy and delicious. Choose chestnuts that are firm, and heavy. If they’re light, they’ve dried out and will be bad. Cut the shell horizontally, almost all the way across one side slightly into the inner nut, to give it room to expand when heated…otherwise they explode. (A serrated knife works well for this.) Then cook in a preheated oven at 200°C/400°F for 15-20 minutes. If over a fire, there are some cheap metal pans with holes in the bottom for this. Just roast over hot embers. It’s OK if they char a bit. Peel and enjoy.

October 13, 2018 In Chow, Recipes, Roam By Nancy

Caramelized red onion jam

I find it really hard to find a restaurant I like in Florence. Most are completely geared towards tourists who will only come once, with food, prices, and service to ensure that the one visit expectation will be fulfilled. I’ve found a couple of places that are exceptions: Il Santo Bevitore restaurant, and its two spin-offs, the little wine bar next door, Il Santino, and a bread shop, S.forno. They are across the river from the Duomo in my favorite neighborhood which is filled with actual Florentines, and small shops and restaurants.

The restaurant is lovely, but the wine bar, Il Santino, has stolen my heart. It’s tiny, a gorgeous mix of ancient walls, an antique bar, and more modern design elements. It has an atmosphere that’s both warm and hip. The staff has been a delight every time I’ve been there, and even sold me bulk cheeses when I’ve been stuck before a party.

I recently went with friends for a glass of wine and some snacks and alongside the great selection of cheeses was a little jar of nearly-black goop. We started eating it with everything, kept asking for more, and then asked for the recipe. It’s a great mix of savory and sweet, with a little extra kick from cinnamon. My friend made it the next day and it turned out wonderfully. It’s super easy too.

Caramelized Red Onion jam:

6 red onions

3/4 cup sugar

1/2 teaspoon cinnamon

dash of olive oil to coat the pan

Slice the red onions, then saute with a little oil, over medium-low heat for about 30 minutes or longer—until completely they are soft and caramelized. Add sugar and cinnamon, then put into a food mill and process until it reaches a smooth consistency. Taste and add more sugar and/or cinnamon as desired.

Great served at room temperature with cheese and bread. Also fantastic with cheese and bread are the preserved figs.

October 7, 2018 In Chow By Nancy

From the mouth of frogs

Many pastas come from very ancient traditions, but I recently discovered a pasta that is far more recent in origin. I’ve been intrigued by it since I spotted it on the shelf in a workers’ restaurant—the one with chef who rolls cheese for sport. The label reads “Bocche di rana”—”frogs’ mouths.” I thought I must be mistranslating until I bought a package and started looking closely at the pasta inside.

Frogs’ mouths pasta vs. its more boring cousin, the paccheri

The small, ribbed tubes of pasta are shaped a bit like a big rigatoni, or a paccheri, but the end of each pasta droops in a unique way that looks remarkably like how I could imagine a frog’s mouth moving when expressing a range of sounds and feelings.

I took it home and played with the pasta for an embarrassingly long amount of time, imagining them as frogs. I mean I didn’t make up voices or anything, but did look through most of the package finding the most amusing ones. It was an excellent break from thinking about politics.

I tried to find out more about this shape of pasta, but came up empty handed. (With the exception of a frog’s mouth being a kind of helmet in a suit of armor. Can you imagine going to war and asking your squire “Hand me the frog’s mouth and I will be ready for battle!”)

I drove over to the restaurant to talk with the chef’s son, who I had heard is friends with the people who started the small, local pasta company, called Toscodoro. He told me that he occasionally helps out with the pasta creation. One day they were trying to make paccheri, and kept failing because one side collapsed in unpredictable ways. And the frogs’ mouths pasta was born.

We love it—and its more more-predictably shaped cousin, paccheri—with any kind of meaty, chunky ragu sauce. The New York Times recently had a seafood recipe perfect for pastas shaped like paccheri, rigatoni or our frogs mouths, which sounds interesting to try.

October 7, 2018 In Lingua, Live By Nancy

Con Calma

One of my favorite Italian expressions is “con calma,” or “calmly.” I hear it used several times every day.

The phrase is very different from “calm down” in English, which, to me, has this slightly judgmental, and even a bit condescending quality, that hints that you are overreacting. The effect is to make me feel less calm. By a lot.

A perfect example of “con calma” was a morning when I was at a cafe near the beach on a small island. There was a big crowd of hungry people waiting for their morning coffee and pastries, and only one woman working—her two co-workers hadn’t come into work that day. The waiting crowd kept telling her “con calma.” With calm. Meaning we get it, you are doing the best you can, it will all work out, breathe.

There’s a local restaurant that we love that serves squares of pizza from big sheets and little else. There’s the wife who serves and works the register, and the husband who cooks in the back. The two could win the Olympic gold in pairs for “con calma.” It’s always a comforting and calm experience eating there, even on Wednesday lunch during the school year.

Wednesday is the long day at the town’s public schools, so the kids don’t get out in time to go home for lunch. The elementary school has a hot lunch provided, complete with three courses, china plates, and actual flatware. Served by volunteer grandparents at long tables. But there’s no school lunch available for the middle school students, and people seem to fear that they might go hungry, or have to eat something cold, in which case the world might end. So parents have organized this thing where a couple of them go to this restaurant with all the kids’ requests for pizza—all custom made and assembled into labeled bags—which the volunteer parents then deliver back to the school a couple of hundred yards away.

The restaurant comes to a standstill for other patrons, who all stand around waiting for about 45 minutes while the staff of two completely focus on each order for the kids. “Paolo gets one slice of salami pizza and one hot dog pizza, a bag of chips, and a Fanta.” Times about 30. It’s town “con calma” in action for all concerned—the relaxed and understanding patrons, the husband and wife team, and the parents who make it all possible. No one is flustered or annoyed. After all, in Italy, everything stops to make sure that kids eat well.

I can’t think of an equivalent phrase in the U.S.—maybe because being calm, an acceptance that others are human, that situations come up, and, as a result, things might not move as quickly as we’d like—aren’t things we particularly value or want to accept.

As I go through my day and am stressed about little things I frequently tell myself “con calma” and it reminds me to save the stress for things that really deserve it.