Tuscany, travel, medieval village, Italy, festivals, celebrations, customs, cooking, recipes, living in Italy, moving to Italy, visiting, visit, restaurants, language
Living in a country that is all about eating local sometimes we want to run wild and eat things that aren’t produced within 50 miles of where we live. I’m sure this is not a problem in faraway, exotic places like Rome or Milan, where I bet they can buy whatever they want, but in our rural village, to pick an example, our cheese choices are restricted to fifty shades of pecorino. A nice French-style goat cheese? No way.
My summer adventure introduced me to how great a real fontina cheese can be—produced by a certain breed of cows eating native grasses in the Val D’Aosta in only select pastures, with the cheese created in the hallowed, ancient tradition—and we decided to try ordering some from the tiny cheese shop we’d found in Aosta, Erbavoglio, that said on their website that they do mail order.
John jumped into action and was emailing back and forth with the cheesemonger. He was in the middle of telling me that he needed to write to the store again as he hadn’t heard back about the order when the doorbell rang.
At the front gate was a large package. From Erbavoglio. The puzzling thing is that we hadn’t given them any payment information at all. But here was our cheese.
John emailed them yesterday to ask how to pay. They haven’t gotten back to us yet.
We did a documentary for HP interviewing a bunch of people who had worked directly with Bill Hewlett and Dave Packard, who created one of the greatest company cultures of all time. One story that has always stuck with me was that Bill insisted that the tools were left unlocked and available 24-hours a day. People thought he was nuts—employees will steal stuff. His response was that of course a few would, but the pleasure and creativity that the rest would have from being able to test out ideas (and the resulting products which made them hugely successful and profitable) would more than outweigh a few bad eggs. My favorite local linen maker ships all over the world and is giving Itch readers a 20% discount. And a great moment with cheese.
Our experience in Italy, which granted is a rural one, is that payment almost always works on trust, and more often than not we have to ask the dentist, or the carpenter, or in this case the cheese store, for the amount and how they want to be paid. These moments fill me with delight. The extraordinary sense of trust that people will do the right thing, and by god I am sure they usually do.
I’ve been having fond memories of how our village came together to help us celebrate our first Thanksgiving in town in 2012 when we were living in the small apartment in the convent. We may be in a different house now, in a pandemic, and not celebrating with family and friends, but some things remain the same. I went to the butcher today to pick up the bird I’d ordered for the two of us—”the smallest turkey at the farm, please”—to find this behemoth waiting for me. (At least the butcher refrained from asking me any personal questions. He recently asked a group of women customers, all 80 and up, “How’s sex, ladies?” They were delighted to be asked. More moments with the butcher here.)
I carried my bird through town, legs sticking out from the large plastic bag the butcher had wedged it into, to the wonder and amusement of most onlookers. It was market day and I went to my favorite cheese stand where they were fascinated by this little-known, foreign tradition—there are very few Americans in town. “How long to cook it? What is this “stuffing” thing you do? Do you really eat squash for dessert? How do you say ringraziamento again in English? Leave it here with us while you get a coffee—it is too heavy for you.”
The Etruscans get a bad rap. When the Greeks and Romans wrote the history of their time they intentionally left the Etruscans out. In the case of Rome, the victors get to write history. The result is that even my daughter, Donella, has a disdain for the Etruscans after spending five years in the Italian school system.
We live on an Etruscan road (the little lane above) and it’s made me curious to know more, as does living with the Tuscans and noting how different they are from the people of other regions—where did this difference come from? I’ve been investigating and here are ten reasons that I’m intrigued by this ancient civilization. (The Etruscans lived from 900 BCE to 89 BCE in present day Tuscany (and far beyond), and gave the region their name.)
1. Women were equals. Woman were literate and some were noteworthy scholars, they participated freely in the public sphere, became judges, dressed in any way they chose, and participated in banquets as equals to men and could drink, dance, and lounge on couches. The contemporary Greeks and Romans thought these women’s rights were scandalous. They kept their own names when marrying and people buried in Etruscan tombs were identified by their mother and father’s lineage. Women in art were represented with their heads on the same level as men, and as having the same torso size, which is clearly a physical exaggeration, but conveyed equality. When the Romans dominated the Etruscan culture women lost all these rights.
I visited the tombs at the Necropolis in Tarquinia (and took a private 2.5 hour tour) and in the Tomb of the Leopards (480-450 BCE) three couples are shown at a banquet. The pair on the right especially grabbed my attention. I think it is one of the most beautiful images I’ve ever seen of a couple’s relationship. There is such energy, enjoyment, and engagement in their body language.
2. They chose equal city-states over centralized power. The civilization was a federation of twelve equally-powerful cities. Key to Etruscan success was the idea that it was better to specialize, cooperate, and trade rather than fight amongst themselves for power. This made them very successful and wealthy. Cities specialized in different things, like mining and metal work, ceramics, food production, or cloth production. This specialization let technology surge ahead, which increased food production, which let more people specialize. A virtuous cycle.
3.Thefashion was amazing. For several centuries when the Romans wanted to say someone was really stylish they’d say someone dressed like an Etruscan. In the painting above the women are wearing three different patterns of cloth: stripes, polka dots, and stars. And check out the center musician from the same tomb as he walks through a field of olives with two other band members. His clothes are amazing, billowing backwards as he walks forward. And his shoes are marvelous. The Italian gift for designing clothes and shoes started early.
Etruscan jewelry is also beautiful. I love the things that started with the Etruscans and endure today. The town of Arezzo remains one of the top places in the world for gold processing and design, and its Etruscan predecessor was famous for metal work, including jewelry. Look at these Etruscan bracelets.
4.Italy with no olive oil or wine? The Etruscans brought the cultivation of grapes for wine and olives for oil to Italy from their contacts with the Greeks at the end of the third century BCE.
5. Romans would not have been the Romans without them. The Etruscans predated the Romans and then were subsumed by the Roman Empire in 89 BCE when the Romans stamped out their rights, culture, and language. The Etruscans got the alphabet and numbers from the Phoenicians and passed them on to Rome. The Etruscans also taught the Romans hydraulic engineering, city planning with streets in a grid, fashion (including the toga), architecture (temple design and the Etruscan adaptation of Doric columns) and more. Two of the last Roman kings were Etruscan. The most famous statue of Romulus and Remus and the she-wolf—the symbol of Rome—was created by an Etruscan.
6. They were the creators of the red-checkered table cloth. Some Italian traditions run deep. Check out what the lounging couples are sitting on in the painted scene above.
7. These guys got around. I am always amazed when I learn the extent of trade relationships that existed thousands of years ago. The Etruscans were one of the major players. They traded with Greece, Turkey, Egypt, the Phoenicians, and even the Celts.
8.Social mobility was celebrated. Although they did have slaves, apparently freedmen and women had many opportunities to cross occupations and social classes. One third of the paintings in the Tomb of the Leopards is about this topic. The same figure is repeated four times, starting on on the left as a naked slave and ending up on the right as a well-dressed member of society coming to the banquet.
9. They had great taste. More revered Greek attic vases, or kraters, have been found in Etruscan tombs than anywhere else, including one of the most infamous pieces of art the Metropolitan Museum of Art in New York has ever had, the Sarpedon Krater. This piece of pottery was looted from an Etruscan grave in 1971 and the Met illegally bought it a year later for the most they’d ever paid for a piece of art. The Krater was repatriated to Italy and moved from its centerpiece position in a Tiffany-designed case to a more humble Italian museum very near where it had been found.
The Etruscans also made Kraters that have been found in Greek tombs.
10. Precocious artists. The fresco is badly damaged, but look at the nuanced leg muscles on the guy on the right (and the shoes!). Predates the rediscovery of perspective and portrayal of anatomy in the Renaissance by 1400 years. And the door to the underworld actually has plaster relief working with the painting to amplify a 3-D effect.
If you are still with me in my rabbit hole I applaud you. If you want more I found this, this, and this helpful as good overviews of the Etruscan civilization.
When I was heading out for my walk today I spotted this amazing rainbow and John was able to get this photo out our bedroom window. It reminded me of what my mother used to say when I was really little and we spotted a rainbow. “That’s God’s promise that he won’t kill all of us again by using water. It will probably be fire next time and we will all be burned.” Why she thought that this would be a good thing to tell a small child would fill a book, which I do not intend to write, but my mother did have a gift for worrying. It’s a good thing that a pandemic, divinely sent or not, never crossed her mind.
The days are getting shorter, as are our leashes. Life had pretty much returned to normal in Italy over the summer, albeit with the new accessories of masks and hand sanitizer. Outdoor spaces and nice weather were abundant so it was easy to eat out, catch a drink with friends, or have a morning coffee pretty safely. Stores have been open and operating normally for months, although it is required to be masked and sanitize before entering. But it was kinda easy to let worry subside, fill up on socializing, sunshine, and freedom of movement, storing away those experiences like bits of gold for the soul. And when cases were averaging a couple of hundred a day, out of a nation of 60 million, this felt appropriate. I felt so very lucky when friends and family in other parts of the world have remained in virtual lockdown since spring.
Things have changed. As temperatures have started to drop cases are surging again. There is a new worry and seriousness on people’s faces. Even though everyone has been 100% masked in the grocery store throughout the summer there was a lightness and normalcy that’s fading fast. Fewer people are stopping to chat, the contents of carts are getting bigger, and eyes above the masks look concerned.
The slide back to a lockdown is happening quickly. The first sign I had that things were getting serious was when the Italian government announced a couple of weeks ago a warning that Sunday lunches were of grave concern. This may seem like an odd government warning to people outside of Italy but here Sunday lunch, culturally more than Friday night drinks or Saturday evenings out, is the main event of the week. Families gather en masse with everyone in attendance from babies and toddlers to recalcitrant teens to young families through to the very elderly with much conversation and hugging. Although a lot of lunches occur in homes it is almost impossible to book a restaurant Sunday at lunchtime. If you are lucky enough to get a place you often find you are sandwiched between long tables with dozens of people, all related. There’s a loud din as people from one end of the table are trying to catch up with others across six or seven people in the middle. Kids are underfoot everywhere. And it is a wonderful thing to behold. And a petri dish in action. If I happen to be driving on a Sunday around 1:30 the roads are empty. Stores are deserted. It’s like Superbowl Sunday. This tradition is starting slipping a bit — several families of Donella and Sebastian’s friends don’t do the formal Sunday lunch anymore — but Sunday lunch is still ubiquitous enough to merit a nationwide government warning aimed at the very heart of Italian culture.
This primal need to be social extends to schools. Keeping schools open is of the highest priority for the government, partially due to the impact on the economy, but also because it’s felt that socialization is one of the primary benefits of school. There’s a phrase in Italian i bambini devono stare con i bambini, children should be with children, as that’s the only way they will learn the rules of getting along in society. As of right now most schools in Italy have students back in the classroom. There was an interesting article in the New York Times, written by an American pediatrician/parent living in Italy. The article quotes an American, Mary Barbera, living in Florence with a 7-year old daughter attending a local school. She describes the elaborate safety procedures and parental co-responsibility pacts that are in place. “Personally, I think Italians have a better inherent sense of common good and taking care of each other. They understand that in order for people to be well, everyone has to follow the rules.” And from what I’ve seen locally, which is reflected in the article, there is a willingness to trust the system and other parents, and take some risks, in order for the kids to have this important socialization that was missing when academics were online.
But it is fairly inevitable that with cases surging in numbers similar to the spring that we, no matter how much we are social creatures, are headed into a dark period of more isolation as winter sets in. Some things are definitely an improvement from the spring, downloads of the trace and track app Immuni have been impressive. The app monitors via Bluetooth everyone you are around, how close you are, and for how long. If you are positive you self-report to the app which notifies the people who have been in your vicinity and might have been exposed, all anonymously, so that tests can be administered. Testing in Italy is free or low cost and widely available. When a traveler arrives at a major airport or train station there’s a tent where you can get a free, rapid result COVID test. Rome’s Fiumicino Airport was the only airport in the world to be given 5 stars by SkyTrax COVID-19 Airport Rating. Despite all of these impressive things the testing numbers are looking bad — 11,700 new cases today which is similar to the worst of the spring, although thankfully, hospitalizations and mortality are still lagging the earlier wave.
When I went for my walk my Italian neighbors clearly weren’t thinking of this beautiful rainbow as a sign that the next time God was displeased he might wipe us out by fire, or pandemic. They just thought it was beautiful. Four people had come out of their houses and were standing in the middle of our small lane taking pictures with cell phones and smiling in delight.
Although we had one of the toughest and longest lockdowns in the world I read today that 84% of Italians feel prepared to face what comes next and “are ready to face the health emergency and restrictions.” Once again I am impressed by the resilience and grace of this culture.
Since I had such a memorable adventure on the Chamonix side of Mont Blanc I felt it was only fair to give the Italian side a chance so on the return trip to Italy we stopped in Courmayeur for the night. We had work to do. Largely involving cheese.
Before this trip I’d asked Edward Behr for advice about food in the Val D’Aosta. (Edward edits and publishes The Art of Eating, which is one of my favorite publications on food and wine.) One of his recommendations was that we track down a Fontina maker in the mountains. Challenge accepted.
To do so we needed to add on an additional night in Courmayeur — not a hardship as we’d landed in a nurturing, cozy, and rustic place, Maison la Saxe. The six-bedroom inn was in a rustic farmhouse from the 1700s, one of many houses in a tightly packed cluster literally in the shadow of Mont Blanc. When I say tightly packed I mean the tiny lanes between the houses are about an arm’s width across. I asked the owner, Raphael, a guy in this thirties who was born in Courmayeur, had lived all over the world, and then returned to the village to restore and run the inn, and he said they were built tightly together not for defense but warmth. It’s the kind of place where my stone shower had a window thoughtfully installed with a view of Mont Blanc.
I enlisted the aid of Raphael for our Fontina search. He called a Fontina maker who invited us up the following morning. Up is a description I chose carefully. It took us 40 minutes to go just a couple of kilometers above the town of Aosta on one of the curviest roads I have ever driven. Pretty soon we were at eye level with the highest peaks and surrounded by green meadows. It was the closest to heaven I will probably every get.
Raphael had given us coordinates of where to park which was an unmarked grassy area at the top of the road. We then had to actually find the cows and cheese-makers. We asked at a tiny restaurant and were pointed to a hiking trail leading ten minutes straight up through the pastures to a small barn, the summer home of Azienda Agricola Quendoz.
The cheese maker took us into a small room with a huge copper cauldron to show us how it’s done. The cheese maker was originally from Morocco and had come to this spot, fallen in love with it, and moved here to take care of the cows and make cheese, more than a decade before. I can see the appeal of this life.
True Fontina comes only from here. To be recognized as “Fontina” (which has DOP — protected designation of origin — status from the EU) the milk has to come from red-pied Valdostana cows who graze only on these mountain grasses. They are milked twice a day and the cheese is made twice a day as each batch has to be from a single milking. The milk is heated in large copper cauldrons, enzymes and rennet are added to produce curds, the cheese is separated and drained, and pressed into a wheel-shaped molds. It’s brined in salt for two months and then set aside to age for three more months, frequently turned and salted. We tried the just ready Fontina along with a much more aged version and they were complex and interesting, not at all like the boring cheeses marketed as Fontina from other countries. This was nutty and buttery and wonderful.
Then on the way back down we got to meet some of the girls.
I wanted to write this article this not because I thought you needed to become Fontina aware, but more because I wanted to share this place of beauty and peace and a glimpse into a different way of life.
Trip notes:
If you are ever in Aosta but don’t have time to make it up the hill Raphael also pointed us to a small cheese shop downtown with a surprisingly large selection and a big cheese cellar in their basement (photo below) called Erbavoglio Antica Latteria. They put together a delicious tasting for us and looks like I can also order from them. I see more Fontina in my future.
Ed Behr also recommended Salumeria Bertolin in Arnad, just as you enter Valle d’Aosta. I stopped on my way to France and loved it. A wide variety of mountain salumi and delicious tasting board. I was fascinated by one that looked like a salumi but was made from beets. When life gives you beets…
I thought that after I was rescued by helicopter on Mt. Blanc my adventures were over, but I was wrong.
The next day I left my cozy hotel in Chamonix and drove to a place I’d found to stay outside of Vézelay, in Burgundy. I’d chosen it quickly and pretty much randomly. Exterior looked impressive online, it was well-positioned for my final sprint into Paris, on the edge of a huge national forest, not too expensive, and oddly it had rooms available on the last weekend of summer break — a major time for travel for the French.
To get to the hotel I drove through some truly beautiful countryside. Rolling hills of cut hay, old trees, tiny stone villages, small rushing rivers, and white cows in green fields. I get to the Château d’Island and it is as stunning as the pictures. The parking lot was empty except for one other car when I arrived. After a few minutes of standing in the parking lot an older man came out and led me to the base of a staircase in a tower. A woman came out, and instead brought me into the bar which was clearly never used and had me write my name and the date on a slip of paper. No ID or credit card required.
She led me to another staircase and up three flights of stairs to a room in the attic. It was then that I started to notice the smell. It was similar to the scent of a grandparent’s house that had been shut up for a long time, but like there had been generations and generations of grandparents who feared fresh air and replacing any furniture or upholstery. It smelled like death.
I loved my room, tucked into the corner of the attic, with an amazing array of beams, including one that grew out of the middle of the top of the mattress. There was a dormer window set near the floor with a wide sill where you could sit, touch the roof tiles, and gaze over the gables and gardens.
The woman then showed me around the rest of the house, including a salon that had original paintings from the 1400s, when the place was built, and the breakfast room with a fireplace almost tall enough to walk into, topped with copper. It was all stunning. It felt somehow naked — like nothing had been touched in centuries. An endangered species of place before it gets Relais-et-Châteaued. I was in heaven.
I left to go a few miles into Vézelay for dinner and when I returned I drove right past the hotel by mistake. It was easy to do this because the whole place was dark. Really dark. I parked, now the only car in the lot. They didn’t mention how I should get in after hours so I was relieved to see that the door to the tower was wide open, lit only by a couple of glowing green nightlights.
I get to the room, lock the door, open the window to get some fresh air, and get ready to go to sleep, placing extra pillows around the beam that’s even with my head in the middle of the bed in case I roll over quickly in my sleep.
All went well till the bat flew in.
When I first heard the loud rustling noise I thought a rat had come along the gutter and hopped into my open window. I was relieved when I turned on the light and saw it was just a bat. I pulled the covers over my head and tried to go back to sleep which turned out to be impossible because I’d hear the whoosh of flight and feel the lightest puff of air as the bat flew close over my head about every half hour. The problem was in the forest of beams in the tall peaked ceiling there was no way to tell whether it had left or was still in the room. And the window where he’d come in was near the floor and small. After several hours awake I got an ingenious idea, or at least it seemed so at the time. I turned on my iPhone flashlight and placed it outside on the roof, shining up, hoping it would attract bugs, which would attract the bat. I don’t know if this worked, or exhaustion took over, but I finally did get back to sleep for a couple hours.
The interesting thing is that after my Paris stay, when I am making the return road trip back to Italy with two friends, we book an overnight at a hotel in prime Burgundy territory, right outside Beaune. It is lovely, we have one of the best meals I’ve had in forever, sleep in comfortable, well-appointed rooms that are clean and don’t smell of death. And it is uninteresting and soulless. I realize my friends and I need to backtrack about an hour and a half to return to the Château de la Mort. Fortunately my friends are really good sports and trust me. No other guests were there when we arrived and the hostess showed us every room — quite the endeavour as it involved a huge mass of keys and considerable time to lock and unlock each door. Each was completely different and widely varied, as did the level of the château’s unique smell.
One of our favorite moments occurs over our two breakfasts. They have classical music playing from a station with a considerable amount of static over speakers that must have been from the 1970s. When this aria came on my friend had to capture it. We decided it was a fitting soundtrack of the place.
Although my friends were definitely aware of the rough edges, I interviewed them last night over some wine and captured their stream of consciousness memories. “A vanishing place that will never be again.” “There was no ‘show’. Most hotels feel like they are putting on a show, but not here.” “A privilege to see the unrenovated place before it is renovated beyond redemption.” “Unusually relaxed — more relaxing than being at a spa.” “Like time travel. My room had a desk and chair in front of the full length window set up to write letters.” “No pretension. It’s pure, not packaged for tourists.” And my personal favorite — “weird as shit”.
Trip Notes:
Château d’Island is located between the gorgeous villages of Vézelay and Avallon.
Château de Saulon is the place we stayed outside of Beaune and very near the famed Route Vins. Looks amazing on the homepage picture, but marred on the other side by the addition of an glass eating area and glass elevator. However their farm to table restaurant is worth a trip to Burgundy by itself.
Lunch at Olivier Leflaive, one of the top white wine makers in the world. We ate and tasted a about 10 glasses (between us all) of their wines. We tried two Puligny-Montrachet 1er Crus were from the same row of grapes in the same field, but one bottle was from the top of the rolling hill (a 2015 Champ Gains) and another bottle was from the less-arid bottom (a 2015 Renferts). And they tasted completely different. We also had a glass of a wine from the same field which is available only in the restaurant because so few bottles are made and it was breathtaking. For you wine buffs, just to brag, it was their Les Pucelles wine from 2011.
I’m going to do another Itch on Vézelay and Avallon because they are that good.
I drove Sebastian to the airport last Monday to fly back to London for school. Saying goodbye was even harder than usual as I don’t know when or where I will be able to see either kid next. I feel like a mother saying goodbye to a child about get in a covered wagon and go far into the wilds. Like Michigan.
Maybe a road trip to Paris would head off any incoming gloom. John can’t come with me as he’s been having back pain so I set out by myself with adventure in my heart and a rallying cry of “you never know what will happen next” on my lips. God, if he exists, heard me. I do not use the “he” pronoun lightly as I now am quite sure that the long held presumption that God is a man is true and that he decided that I need to be taught a lesson or two as I chose to set out on my own to have fun while my husband is lying on ice back at home.
My trip begins, complete with coronavirus protective protocols, routes, and equipment. My first night out is in Chamonix, at a really lovely inn. After a killer breakfast I ask the woman at the desk for good day hike ideas. I had already done research online and what she said matched what I’d found. So far I am adulting very impressively. Amazing views of Mt. Blanc, a great 6 hour or so hike, what could go wrong?
I set off, on my own, with my half-liter, eco-friendly bottle of water in hand. I start to get a bit concerned as the hike starts out paralleling a gravity-powered roller coaster, complete with upside down parts.
I keep climbing through woods. My Apple watch tells me I’ve climbed 75 flights of stairs in a mile and a half. A sign says is an hour more to the top. At this point I am being insufferable on the family group chat, sending a constant stream of statistics about my climb and distance. I am unstoppable. Some might even say smug.
I reach the top of the rail line at Montenvers, where I plan to rest and eat but there are long lines for the restaurant and to buy water and sandwiches. I fill my little bottle in the bathroom and hit the trail again as this part is supposed to be an “easy and pleasant” walk along the ridge to the Plan De L’Aiguille where I can catch the funicular back down.
But when I get to a fork in the trail I take the “advised route” going via “Le Signal” which turns out to be a another summit. With all that implies. Off I go having no idea that I had hours more climbing ahead of me.
I arrive at the Le Signal and feel horrible. I realize that I don’t have enough water and haven’t had anything of substance to eat all day. I find myself “resting” on the trail every hundred meters or so, occasionally even laying flat on the trail to keep from getting dizzy.
John and I have been talking and he has been tracking my location while looking at Google satellite images. He realizes I am in big trouble. I am insisting that I can go the next 2km of hard walking to get to the funicular down. He tells me to stay where I am and he calls the hotel to get the rescue helicopter.
The rescue team calls me immediately and conferences in a doctor to hear my tale of woe. He authorizes the rescue, they send me a text that I respond to that locates my exact position, and tell me that they will be there in ten minutes. And that I should put anything that can possibly fly away in hurricane force winds away in a bag.
If you squint you can see Chamonix at the bottom where my “walk” started.
I am flat on the trial, too dizzy to move, when I hear the “helo” as they referred to it lovingly several times on the call. I sit up and hold my arms in a y-shape as instructed, wondering where the hell they are going to land as the terrain is very steep. Doesn’t faze them. They hover the thing with one leg about six inches off the narrow trail and the other hanging in space. Three very cute, buff dudes hop off. One grabs me by the back of the neck like a bad puppy, forces by head down, and throws me into the helicopter. We are down in ten minutes.
Part of the reason I didn’t want to call is that I was worried about cost and that I’d probably have to spend a night or two in a hospital for observation. But no. We arrive at the bottom, get out, they take my ID, inform me that it’s all paid by the French government, and tell me to go to the nearest bus stop that is about a kilometer away to get back to town. They are clearly unimpressed by my saga. I wander away stunned. I arrive back in Chamonix and start drinking water. Liters and liters of water. I shower and my fingers are unrecognizable; they are indented like the proverbial prune. I keep drinking. 24 hours later I finally have to pee.
So, don’t hike without enough water.
Next Itch will be my following night in the chateau that smells like death with my friend the bat. Remind me again why I wanted an adventure?
A good friend of mine recently found this photo of me that she’d taken when we were at university. The photo caused a flood of memories — not so much around the specific moment as I don’t remember where the hell it was taken or what road trip we were on — but about that younger version of myself, and what I have, and haven’t, wised up to since then.
I feel like these months have stripped me bare, having lost so many of the trappings that I use to prop up my ego. Some weeks I feel lost in it all and have a hard time feeling focused or positive about anything. Other moments feel like a ray of light comes out showing me the way forward. But through it all this sense of being raw. This kind of vulnerability reveals the throughlines of self.
So what would I tell the me in the photo? That she can relax and play more. She will find love, marry, and create a family. That a beautiful, creative, and eclectic home in California waits, and then it will be outgrown and reborn in completely unexpected ways in Italy. That the group of friends she met at college who felt like family would not be the first or only experience of such connection and that I’d be lucky enough to have people in my life who see me as I am and still love me. I’d tell her to take more risks. Fall in love more often. Look up more often. And above all, that striving for perfection is no life at all.
Sounds so easy when I look at the photo. But here I am, with the same unnamed fear somewhere behind my heart that she had, and a familiar litany in my head that differs in specifics but not in tone — I haven’t used this time to grow our business, blast Itch into the millions of readers and film and book deals, lose weight and get in the best shape of my life, become fluent in Italian, pick every weed in the garden, and more. And thus I am somehow less than.
And here we come to the wising up part. Mostly I am thankful that this period is tough as the times I change the most are when being the same is too hard. I feel like it is time for the ultimate showdown with the boring voice and its litany of ways I’m not perfect. That it’s more interesting to be in the moment and to celebrate the things that make me who I am and bring me pleasure.
I am spending time with the discomfort, attempting to meditate, reading a lot, and comparing notes with others. I’d love to hear from any of you who are confronting discomfort what is working for you.
Because when the future me looks at a photo of the current me I want her to say “That’s when you learned to trust and relax inside. When you really started to have fun, love yourself and be completely who you are.” And I probably won’t arrive there this week, or next month, as the voice of perfection would like, but I am closer than I was.
One of my favorite things that happens in our village is the local musical play, called Tovaglia a Quadri, performed every August in a tiny piazza filled with long tables. The plays are written a month or so before they go live and tackle current and controversial topics ranging from how Amazon touches village life to the Genoa bridge collapse. Tovaglia a Quadri is satirical, introspective about the village, and broadly performed, but hard to experience for non-locals as the dialog is in Italian and the local dialect, and tickets are almost impossible to get.
As with most things this extraordinary year the fate of Tovaglia a Quadri’s summer play was not looking promising — it wasn’t just the restrictions against crowds gathering in close quarters but also a prohibition against serving food at theatrical performances, which put a damper on the three-course meal. But this is the 25th anniversary of the play and the show must go on. The intrepid creators, Andrea Merendelli and Paolo Pennacchini, decided to make a movie instead.
The movie will be subtitled in English and available to stream from August 24 – Sept. 6th — ten nights just like would have happened in our parallel “normal” universe. I can’t give too much away, but the plot is a humdinger. While Andrea and Paolo were writing the play there was a positive case of Covid-19 in our village. The person involved was a healthcare worker who had returned to Anghiari for the weekend from a city where he worked when he received the positive result. The reaction of several of the villagers was surprisingly extreme. Andrea and Paolo wove parts of this event right into the play. Their fictional character has to flee to the village rooftops to live, in fear for his life should he descend. Meanwhile the rest of the village is gathered around a community bread oven rediscovering the joy of making bread despite the shortage of flour and yeast. The title, as always, is a pun: Pan de’ Mia, which refers to the pandemic as well as means “My bread”. It’s a clever glimpse into one way that Italians are processing the horror of the epidemic with grace, creativity, and humor.
I’ve been at some of the shooting and the movie looks like a treat. Not only will be it entertaining but it’ll serve as a nice little escape to our village. There is a 15€ fee to stream the movie which helps to cover expenses. You can buy tickets here. A couple of production shots…
This summer we have become more deeply Italian by creating the thing that makes every house complete — an orto — or vegetable garden. Most houses around here feature one prominently in the front yard. We didn’t put in any wimpy things like zucchini that grow all over the place and I don’t quite know what to do with beyond one or two things, but we did plant loads and loads of tomatoes.
Here are two tomato ideas from this week.
Slow roasted tomatoes
This recipe is from one of my favorite chefs, Skye Gyngell, and is unfussy but yields a tasty result. Skye suggests plum tomatoes but we used a mix of what we had in the photo above, halved or quartered them depending on size, and placed them on baking sheets with parchment paper underneath (we had four going). Sprinkle liberally with a mix of equal parts salt, pepper, and sugar. Then place in an oven on the lowest temperature you can get for about four hours until the edges start curling up. You aren’t going all the way to sun dried, just mid-way there. We’ve found that they store well submerged completely under olive oil and in the fridge.
We will use them often from making paninis to salads, but first out the gate was a pasta with eggplant and sundried tomatoes from chef Francis Lam. Here is her recipe for what she calls Pasta With Let-My-Eggplant-Go-Free! Puree. When she calls for tomatoes we added the slow roasted ones above.
Heirloom tomato tart
A friend in my WhatsApp “Cooking in Quarantine” food group made this today and it is on the list for this week. She said it was absolutely delicious. Recipe from the New York Times. Extra bonus points if you make your own pesto, which I think we will try, as we also have basil taking over the orto.
