Nancy, Author at Itch.world

Nancy, Author at Itch.world - Page 19 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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August 24, 2018 In About, Live By Nancy

Mostly out of control, nearly all the time

I’ve always been a bit of a control freak, thinking that if I can get the most in-depth information, take my vitamin D3, get the “best” teachers for my kids, walk 10,000 steps a day, and have just the right black cashmere sweater, that I may be able to slightly control life’s path. So stupid really, but inescapable for me.

Moving to a small village that seems to operate in its own dimension and century, navigating another culture, getting along in a language I barely speak, all these things have not only blown away any illusions I had of control, but have made me realize that I can function quite well in life having basically no idea what is going on around me most of the time. And that, in some ways, is a tremendous relief. Because I have to trust those around me to an astounding degree. Maybe it’s part of what has drawn me to stay.

The way we ended up choosing our village set the tone for this shift. When we decided to have a one-year family adventure, we didn’t do a grand tour of villages to check out the schools, talk to locals about expat life, and look at possible housing choices. Quite to the contrary, initially we were set on a major European city with a well-connected airport and lots going on culturally. Partially to reassure ourselves (and we thought better justify to our clients) that our year abroad would be “worth it”.

But the kids kept asking for more of an adventure (as did our hearts), so we decided to find a choice that was as different from our lives in Berkeley as possible. And it turned out true adventure for us was a small village, in Italy, a country that we had never been particularly romanced by, but had citizenship in through John’s grandparents.

We scoured the internet for year-long vacation rentals and found it—a beautifully restored apartment in a mostly unrestored convent from the 1600s in a small Tuscan village. And we decided, sight unseen, about the village, and place to live. And moved. And let everything fall into place. Which it did beyond what any amount of careful planning could have yielded.

It was one of the first times I found myself surfing the wave rather than thinking about how to surf the wave. And one of the oddest things of our new life was that, leading up the one-year mark, when we had to find another place to live, we never had a family discussion about whether to stay or go—all of us were coming into ourselves in such profound ways that it never even came up to go back to our old life.

And it keeps unfolding—this not being well-informed or on top of anything, but feeling like that’s the right thing. And that is at the heart of Itch, the spirit of adventure, leaps of faith, amazement, struggle, failure, and joy.

August 21, 2018 In Chow, Recipes By Nancy

Potent plant potion: elderberry syrup

Elderflowers grow like weeds here. Weeds that have huge thorns and become 30-foot trees while your back is turned. Good thing they have gorgeous white flowers that are delicious to make into elderflower cordial. (I’ve heard they are also good to fry, like acacia flowers.)

The clusters of little white flowers turn into these tiny, so-dark-red-they-are-nearly-black berries, which I’d heard are perfect for making into elderberry syrup. This year I decided to make my own, inspired by one of my favorite food writers, French expat David Lebovitz.

The clumps of berries were easy to gather, but it took much longer than I’d planned to get the little buggers off the stems without the stem coming along for the ride. (And you do need to be very careful about the juice, as it can stain nearly anything.)

But it was worth the effort. The result is as close to a magical potion as anything I’ve ever made: thick, gorgeously colored, and characterized by a very unusual, nearly magical taste—not quite bitter, not quite floral—, totally delicious.

So far I have served it over a friend’s roasted peaches and cream, mixed into sparking water and ice, and swirled into prosecco with a little lime. I’m going to try it next over fruit and vanilla gelato.

I followed David’s recipe, and it was easy. The amount of berries in the photo was almost exactly the amount called for in the recipe.

August 4, 2018 In Best Of, Live By Nancy

Rooster ring tone

There’s the most fantastic rooster who wakes me up every morning. So ready for the stew pot, partial cock-of-alzheimer’s, partial been-out-too-late drinking. Indescribable call. So I decided not to try, but to go one better.

One Sunday morning around 5am I decided to track him down. Armed with a mic and recorder I drove down to two different chicken coops in nearby fields and stealthy, like the fog, sneaked around until I heard my mystery rooster.

He is now properly recorded, and turned into a ring tone because I wanted it, which means that at least one of you probably does too. And no roosters were harmed in the making of this post.

August 4, 2018 In Roam By Nancy

Hot water

An odd corner of Tuscan life is “taking the waters.” Italy is studded with terme, (natural hot springs), all along its length wherever underground water chambers meet volcanic activity. And in Tuscany, terme are particularly abundant. These springs can be undeveloped, rough swimming holes or elaborate resorts, and everything in between. A few that I’ve been to even have a kind of Italian-Wes-Anderson mid-century-modern vibe with all the strangeness that you’d expect with that particular combination.

One day a friend took my husband John, our kids, and me to Terme San Giovanni, about a half hour east of Siena. The views from the pools and from the lawns and sun beds that surround them are of a perfect Tuscan landscape. The five cascading swimming pools here start with a covered kind of temple-to-the-water where 39-degree celsius (102-degree Fahrenheit) water emerges from the mouths of marble gods, then descends through the other pools, getting cooler at each plateau. The water is uniformly white from its natural mix of sulfur and magnesium sulfate. It has so much of the stuff that you can pick it up in your hands from the bottom of the pools like mud and plaster it all over your skin, which is supposed to be something good to do.

But that wasn’t what John was noticing. Turns out while I was pondering the effect of sulfur on one’s pores, John looked around and realized that we were surrounded by scantily clad, buff and beautiful 20-something Italian men and women prancing about.

John tapped me, and I wiped the white goop out of my eyes and looked around. We were, by a wide margin, the most modestly clothed bathers in the terme. It turned out we’d happened to arrive for the Friday and Saturday spa nights when the place in open until 1am and features “Romantic bathing under the moon, surrounded by candles, with a dinner that is never banal, in an intimate atmosphere.” Intimate. In case you didn’t get it already.

I started to worry, but then remembered something I’d read on the website, something that seemed odd at the time, but made more sense now. Foremost among the rules was “Evitare Effusioni Pubbliche”.

I will use the literal translation here: “Avoid Public Effusion”.

In addition to the baths, there is also a hotel, and restaurant by the pools (which I did think was good, but may have borderlined the “b” word). Terme San Giovanni also has a spa, which judging by my massage, has pretty fabulous treatments.

To visit a Tuscan terme is to embark on an unusual adventure. Don’t forget that you’ll need rubber flip flops and a fabric hair cap, as you will at all Italian pools.

August 2, 2018 In Live By Nancy

Big cheese

Growing up in the United States, I somehow missed out on learning that there is an Italian sport that involves rolling cheeses. My first clue that my sporting education might not be complete is a photo on the wall of one my favorite workers’ lunch restaurants. In it, the chef is holding a large wheel of cheese. He’s poised to throw it, much as if he were about to roll a bowling ball.

My next brush with cheese rolling happened as I was driving down a Tuscan backroad on the way to the grocery store. I noticed a group of men—including the chef— standing together, looking very serious, all well-armed with large cheeses. I’d like to say that I instantly pulled over to find out more, but wasn’t brave enough—they were having such a good time among friends that it like intruding, and I’m not yet confident enough about my Italian.

The third time I spotted a cheese in play, it was a solitary man, practicing his cheese roll, and I wasn’t going to let this opportunity pass. I was with my fluent daughter, and she owed me one because I had just picked her up at the horse stable, so “we” found out when the next competition was happening and asked if we could come and film.

As is appropriate with cheese rolling, my search came full-circle when I interviewed the chef—whose picture hangs in the restaurant—about the basics of the sport. I was surprised that he has only been participating in this sport for three years—so for those of you who think “It is too late for me to learn to roll a cheese” there is hope yet.

Each team of two has a large, flat, hard cheese between them (could be pecorino, asiago, or parmigiano; but all the teams have to use the same kind.) They attach a leather strap around the cheese, which creates a sort of handle, that enables them to launch the cheese, rolling it down the road. The team who cheese goes the farthest with a predetermined number of throws wins.

Cheese rolling is an all-day sport. The day we came out to watch, they had been out rolling cheeses since 8 in the morning and would be doing so until about 7:30 in the evening, covering around 9 kilometers on foot.

Cheese rolling dates from Etruscan times (the local tribes living here pre-Roman times, whom Tuscany was named after). It’s even included in the Federation of Italian Traditional Games and Sports (figest.it), an organization that holds competitions and publishes the rules for about 15 ancient games like, tug of war, cross bow shooting, darts, and very obscure games like morra, which dates to the ancient Egyptians. (For a lovely little blast of morra: https://www.facebook.com/MorraMarche/videos/978697128831911/)

In cheese rolling there are five different weight classes—cheeses ranging from 1.5 kilograms (a little over three pounds) to 25 kilograms (55 pounds). Hurling a 55 pound cheese down the road takes serious training and muscle!

My favorite part is that the rules specify what to do if your cheese breaks during competition. First feed the spectators cheese, then you can replace the cheese and carry on.

Our chef friend says they always serve the cheese after it has had its moment of competition and that it is particularly delicious. The rules dictate that, after the competition, the winner provides everyone else with glasses of wine. But victory is sweet after all, because the victor gets to keep the cheese of the defeated.

July 10, 2018 In About, Best Of By Nancy

So I find myself…

…sitting in a house that’s somewhere between 400 and 800 years old in a Tuscan village thinking about what to do if I meet a wild boar again while taking a walk, business development for the company I run, what one more year in an Italian high school will mean for my teenage son, and what to have for dinner—all at the same time.

We are almost six years into the adventure of responding to a deep, unrelenting urge to change our lives, an itch, if you will, that inspired our move to Italy—enrolling the kids in the local school (where they started off not speaking any Italian), working with clients all over the world from our homebase in this Italian village, and finding our way in a new life.

Friends, understandably, ask questions. “Do the kids feel more Italian or American, and which parts of their attitudes come from which culture?” “What do the locals think of you?” “What do you actually do all day—don’t you get bored? ” “Where can we go in Venice to escape the crowds and see real neighborhoods?” “Where should we get dinner in Florence?”

So lately I’ve discovered a different kind of itch—a desire to answer these questions and more. Hence the birth of Itch, my notes about food discoveries, language insights, surprising cultural moments, and ideas for adventures in Italy, shared as we live them, weekly.

I invite you to come along for the journey and share with like-minded friends.

July 9, 2018 In Live By Nancy

The race to be—exactly—on time

I don’t know a lot about races, but I do know that in most, being fastest is key. So I was surprised—and delighted—to discover that the path to victory in our local vintage Vespa race is being very, very punctual. The winning strategy requires finishing the race to the correct hundredth of a second of a specified time. How do you do it? By adhering to the speed limit the whole way.

(As you could well imagine the Italians adore going the speed limit and do so on every opportunity. On a nearby, well-used road the speed limit just dropped from 70 to 50 kph prompting a local firestorm of opinion. A TV station described local drivers as being beset by “panic and rage” at the reduced limit—really? “Panic”?)

For this vintage Vespa race the art of winning is in the precision and preparation. Routes can be tricky, and are often on windy, steep, and even unpaved roads. To add to the challenge, all the Vespas are old—only certain storied racing models from the 1950s and 60s—and likely to break down. Inspired by their rides, some participants pride themselves on using only time-keeping and navigation technology from the period of their Vespa.

This all leads to some very interesting finish-line maneuvers to burn through those all-important seconds if one is slightly too early.

Watching it for the first time, I thought that surely, this was a race like no other. But digging a bit deeper into the world of vintage “racing” I realized that this style of rally is actually pretty common. But the story of this particular rally stands out as one of determination and resurrection.

Our local Vespa repair shop, which sits just down the road from the finish line, has been in business since the 1950s. It’s run by the son of the original owner, who has been racing—and fixing—Vespas since he was three (check out the pic below).

He remembers seeing the race go by when he was a kid in the 1970s but then it stopped. Two years ago he decided to revive the race and got over 50 riders to participate from all over Italy. I can’t wait for next year’s race to see how much it grows.

The lure of the Vespa is a deep one for Italians, and for reasons I wouldn’t have expected. More on that later.

July 8, 2018 In About By Nancy

Love Italy?

“Italy,” she said in italics, every syllable elongated.

I’ve never been the person who said that. Despite earnest vacation attempts, I’d never fallen in love with Italy as an aspiration, or a lifestyle. I’ve always had more of a crush on France “France” or rural England. But having moved here six years ago Italy has deeply seduced me into being a quivering pile of, well, that may be revealed in a future issue.

Here, every day is unexpected in a way that feels like driving off-road from my old life, whether I’m buying a live “replacement” chicken for a neighboring grandmother after our dog killed one of hers, accidentally calling the carpenters working on our house “witches” instead of by their last name, or being the only woman in a meeting of all men when they all simultaneously grab their balls for good luck when an inauspicious comment is made.

I want to share what I am responding to, every day, living here. Why life feels different, and a bit more technicolor.

My goal is to surprise and delight you every week, whether you’re looking for a three-minute Italian escape while at work, or are an Italophile planning your next vacation. Or even, maybe, wondering “if this is it” and are curious about what it’s like to dive head-first into a new life.

In the weekly newsletter, and on the site, you’ll find articles broken down by topic:

Live: Here I’ll share what it’s like to live here. The moments that appeal, challenge, amaze, and puzzle me every day, and those amazing words and phrases in Italian that you need to know because they are so damn wonderful.

Chow: If you’re drawn to Italy for the food, you’re not alone. I’ll be sharing my favorite local foods and ingredients, plus exceptional restaurants and farms. There will also be recipes and even a few videos of grandmothers cooking their favorites.

Roam: Ideas for day trips to little-known villages, spas, adventures, beaches, hikes, hidden corners of cities, and more.

There’s more to come…

Not every inspiring moment fits into a category, especially here. I’ll share other bits and pieces that I think you might like as we live them.

Glad you are here, and I’d would love to hear what you think. If you have friends who would enjoy Itch, please invite them to share the adventure.

July 7, 2018 In Chow, Recipes By Nancy

Deep-fried acacia blossoms

In mid-August, I start to long for winter in Tuscany. Those months can be surprisingly cold, grey, and wet—but still gorgeous—and are slower, with only the locals out and about. Despite my love of winter it’s always exciting when the acacia trees start flowering—a sign of the landscape waking up. In early summer these delicate white cascades adorn acacias big and small, from the tallest trees to unassuming roadside bushes.

Best of all, you can taste this bit of summer. I’ve never seen it served at a restaurant, but the tradition of battering and frying these acacia blossoms is alive and well, passed among kitchens and between generations. It requires some foraging, since you won’t find acacia blossoms at a supermarket, but it’s an adventure that marks the season.

This old Tuscan recipe was told to a friend of mine by a 90-year old neighbor who is an avid forager. It’s simple, yet sophisticated, and adds drama whenever it’s served. There’s a slight floral flavor that’s unexpected in something fried. When we served it recently a friend called it “adult popcorn.”

I have heard that elderflowers and spring garlic are also delicious done this way.

To make deep-fried acacia flowers:
Gather bunches of acacia flowers when they are in early to full bloom. We don’t wash them (way too fragile), but you should look closely for any bugs. For the batter take about 1 cup of 00 flour (all-purpose also works) and mix with 1.5 cups of COLD sparkling water and a little salt. Mix it all together until you have a batter that’s the consistency of pancake batter. Pour about 4 inches of sunflower (or peanut) oil in a pan and heat until around 350 F (175 C). Hold the acacia blossoms by the stem and dip them in the batter, coating each well, then drop them in the oil, a few at a time, until they are a nice golden color. (Don’t let them drip too long before putting in the oil as you want them well-coated.) Remove and drain on paper towers, then serve as soon as you can. We’ve always sprinkled sea salt on top, but I’ve heard that a little acacia honey is also magic, and is rather poetic to boot.

July 7, 2018 In Roam By Nancy

The Madonna del Parto

Another restaurant I love in Monterchi is Una Terrazza in Toscana, run by three sisters from Rome. They make the best Carbonara I’ve ever had. One cooks, one works the front, and one splits her time. It’s tiny inside and in the winter I am usually the only woman eating there as most are work men in some type of uniform, often head to toe safety orange. Because it’s also a worker’s restaurant they offer a fixed lunch of pasta, main course, wine, and water for €12. (I adore worker’s restaurants, more about the genre later, with many more addresses to come.)

Oh, this place also happens to be next door to a museum that houses one, and only one, painting. It’s Piero della Francesca’s Madonna del Parto, one of the greatest masterpieces of the Renaissance, and the first time in art history that the Madonna was ever shown pregnant. Piero painted it for his mother who lived in Monterchi and it was in the cemetery until it was recently moved to the museum. No one is sure exactly who owns it: Italy, the Vatican, or the local village. Because of this Monterchi will never let it go on loan to major museums worldwide because it might never return back to the village. The New York Times has a fascinating article about it.

There is something about her expression, and the angels’ red and green feet contrasting with their red and green robes that gets me every time.

I guess it gets other people too. One time at lunch early on in our time in Italy (really saying that I was still pretty contaminated by California thinking) a Brit at the next table was holding forth on how he was “on the trail of the PDFs.” My mind was racing—had his computer crashed and he had lost valuable documents? Was he tracing a digital trail for some fantastic white-collar crime? Nope. He was on the trail to see all of the local Piero Della Francesca’s.