Live Archives - Page 11 of 12

Live Archives - Page 11 of 12 - Itch.world

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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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 13, 2018 In Live By Nancy

The joy of being l’intrepida

Every October, in the village of Anghiari, the vintage bicycle rally L’Intrepida occurs. (I really must insist that you click on this link now to see some of the fantastic images on their home page so that you can get a sense of what I am talking about before proceeding.)

Over 800 people take part, choosing routes of 42, 85, or 120 kilometers (26, 53, or 75 miles). Lest one still thinks that this might not be too difficult, bear in mind that only steel-framed bikes prior to 1987 are allowed, and that riders must be dressed in vintage clothing. Forty percent of the ride is on unpaved roads, and there are loads of hills. Plenty of scenic rest stops (some in front of castles) are provided, well stocked with wine, vin santo, pastries, and pasta. In the seven years since it started it has grown to being second only to the L’Eroica vintage bicycle rally in terms of participants and prestige.

Some friends of mine from California and France came to ride in L’Intrepida two years ago. These friends have always intimidated me with their athleticism, taking on insane challenges like the Death Ride (cycling over 100 miles and five mountain passes in the Sierras.) Within this group, my friend Dee is the lone non-extreme athlete. But recently she realized that the best way to spend more time with her husband was to start cycling. So when this band of cyclists signed up for L’Intrepida, she gamely signed up for the 42 kilometer race while the others opted for the longer routes.

They approached L’Intrepida with focus and caution—practice rides to get used to the rented vintage bikes, checking and rechecking all aspects of the equipment, pouring over maps. As the day approached, I could see Dee getting more and more worried, especially as she’d be doing the route by herself. We planned out what would happen if she had a flat tire or became too tired. She’d call me with her coordinates and I’d pick her up.

(inevitable Vespas)

On the day of the race, John and I cheered them on at the starting line in the main square. It was an amazing scene: hundreds of people in wildly-varied vintage costumes, vintage bikes of every type, and rally support vehicles which included vintage Vespas with sidecars and old Fiat 500s. The starting gun goes off, L’Intrepida started, and slowly the square emptied, our friends tucked into the middle of the pack.

We went back home and waited. By afternoon friends slowly started to arrive back as they finished their routes. I kept checking my phone to see if I’d missed a call from Dee, but there was nothing. The 85-kilometer group arrived back, full of stories. Then the 120-kilometer participants, exhausted, but having had a wonderful time. All agreed it had been their favorite rally ever. Still no Dee, though. We were all starting to get worried.

We decided to go back to the square to scour for signs of our missing friend. And there was Dee, at the center of a circle of a dozen older men, laughing as they toasted her with prosecco. Turns out she’d been adopted by a group of Italian friends who were riding together in the rally. The fact that they spoke no English, and Dee spoke no Italian, turned out to be irrelevant. They communicated partially through songs, like “California Girls,” describing her. One man indicated he was from Milan but preferred the countryside. Unable to express more about why he liked to get out of the city, he sang a line from “The Sound of Silence.”

The group stuck by her for the whole 42 kilometers. During a particularly tough unpaved climb, one man, whom Dee guessed was in his mid-70s, rode beside her and placed his hand on her back, helping to propel her to the top of the hill. By the finish, they still wanted to hang out together at the bar. And Dee realized the joys of being intrepid, and the special type of kindness typical of Italian strangers.

This year’s rally takes place on October 21st.

October 13, 2018 In Live By Gianna Delle Valle

La Bella Figura

Itch is delighted to feature more from our Italian abroad, Gianna della Valle, with ideas about how to live more like an Italian no matter where you are. She has made a study of how to bring elements of the Italian way of life into her adopted, more frenetic homeland.

“Far bella figura,” or “make a beautiful figure,” is an Italian state of mind—and a national obsession. “Make a good impression” does not even come close to describing the rich combination of looks, gait, elegance, and manners included in the concept of the “bella figura.”

It means to dress elegantly and appropriately.

It means to have an elegant posture and gait.

It means to smash the objective you’ve set, whatever that is.

It means to stand out with your thinking.

It means making sure the light shines on you, no matter what.

It means taking centre stage and being the main character of the occasion.

It means to be the best at what you do.

It means people look at you and think “wow.”

It means to walk with your head tall.

It means to stand in tunica bianca (in a white tunic) despite adverse situations.

It means losing with class and without losing dignity.

It’s the full package, not divided into chunks with post-industrial taste: philosophy, fashion, interesting lives in social media, right ambition at work.

It’s the “sum being bigger than the parts,” a definition of “homo” with Renaissance smack.

It means to be able to navigate different circles successfully, of being able to be relevant amongst bakers and fishermen as well as millionaires and princes.

After something happens, parents question their children, bosses their employees, friends question friends: “hai fatto bella figura?” “Did you make a bella figura?”

One often hears disheartened accounts of having made a “figura di merda” or “shit impression” with all the details of what went wrong, like a post football match replay after a loss. I remember in high school we even had a nasty jingle to highlight “figura di merda,” clearly a social deterrent for not having prepared well enough.

So dear fellows, companions on this journey on earth, and kind readers: stand tall, head high, put on your best face, and coolest trainers. Today make a wonderful, magnificent, victorious “bella figura.”

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.

September 27, 2018 In Live By Gianna Delle Valle

Living like an Italian lion—in London

Itch is delighted to feature the second installment from our Italian abroad, Gianna della Valle, with ideas about how to live more like an Italian no matter where you are. She has made a study of how to bring elements of the Italian way of life into her adopted, more frenetic homeland.

I read that lions, most of the time, take it very easy. These prolonged periods of laziness are the foundation for big bursts of energy spent hunting prey (or mating)—in short getting in the swing of things only when it really matters. The rest of the time they enjoy the moment in the slow lane.

Italians aspire to live in the slow lane, punctuated by bursts of intense activity only when required, or when emotions demand.

Despite more than 20 years abroad, I am no exception. I like to start my day in London as I would in Italy. The other commuters rush to the fast train to get to work as quickly as possible. Not me. I figure I will be hunting all day in my office. Now it’s time to enjoy.

So I choose a nice path to walk to the station and catch a very slow and uncrowded train. Sometimes I stop at the local station cafe for a coffee. Other times I meet my grown-up daughter at the main station at the nicest breakfast place. We sit there and pretend to be in Sardinia at Capo d’Orso, having breakfast while listening to the sound of a harp on a terrace overlooking the Mediterranean under olive trees. We ponder the finer point of life while we sip our organic smoothies or eat our avocado on toast. We talk, we laugh, we people watch. We are the lions on the savanna. Gazelles run all the time: they have to. Lions, however, lounge majestically.

And then the clock reminds us that it is time to go to the office to hunt. I have never figured out, though, if in my office-savanna I am a lion or a gazelle. Most likely a gazelle, aspiring to be a lion.

September 25, 2018 In Chow, Live By Nancy

My pasta aisle is bigger than yours

Dear readers, I have decided that you do not, yet, know enough about pasta. I have started to accept as normal that there’s a pasta aisle bigger than Texas in every Italian grocery store.

On a recent trip back to California we were stunned to rediscover that the pasta section in Safeway was a mere 17 feet. Felt like trying to find provisions for a fine meal in a 7-eleven.

So I will begin to educate you. You need to be able to tell your frogs’ mouths pasta from your radiators and volcanoes. You need to know that al dente is far more crunchy than what you probably think. What sauces go with what shapes. That the cooking water needs to be salted far more than you probably do now.

And you need to know that you never have to do anything as uncontrolled as throwing pasta against a wall to test if your spaghetti is done. Italian cooking is far more scientific and precise than that. The know-all cooking times on the packaging need to be taken very seriously.

This spaghetti, for instance, is perfectly cooked at 11 1/4 minutes.

(Unless you finish cooking it in the pan, like spaghetti aglio e olio, when the spaghetti is removed two minutes early to finish in the pan with the garlic and oil, and a couple ladles of the pasta cooking water.)

Full disclosure—I don’t yet know everything about pasta. This is an excellent excuse for me to up my pasta game, and keep you informed of the discoveries.

September 22, 2018 In Chow, Live, Recipes By Nancy

Making gnocchi, and a film, in Italy

John and I have this idea to start filming local grandmothers cooking. A possible way to enter more deeply into Italian life, capture some of the spirit of Tuscan woman, and learn more about food.

We gather some savvy, younger locals and start brainstorming about people we can shoot. The grandmother who hunts? Possible. The grandmother who makes feather whips for the lingerie store? Very possible. For our first shoot we settle on two of our collaborators’ grandmother in a house in the countryside outside of town, complete with a huge watermelon patch.

The morning of the shoot comes. We are prepared to act with military precision, which is the norm for any shoot. The “call time” comes to meet our collaborators and head to the country. The meeting location changes. The start is delayed because breakfast isn’t finished. Their grandmother actually lives in the ancient center of town, not near the watermelon patch at all. We start to get nervous.

We arrive at their house on a tiny street from the 1100s and the grandfather, Franco, jumps into cooking action. Maybe the premise of the video, cooking grandmothers, needs to be reassessed?

Then it all starts to unfold. The constant lesson of Italy. You can predict nothing, control nothing, but just step back and enjoy the gifts of grace, ease, and warmth that the Italians offer. Which more often than not is so much more than you could have possibly imagined or engineered.

Anna, the grandmother, is everywhere in the kitchen at once. This gnocchi pas de deux has clearly happened hundreds of times in their kitchen. Both of them are cooking with a rare ease, barely even looking at the food as they cook.

While Franco forms the dough for the gnocchi, and then shapes and cuts it, he tells us stories about what is was like for families growing up as tenant-farmers in the years before the “economic miracle” of the 1960s (thanks Marshall Plan), with 30 people in a house, hunger, limited mobility, and the Padrone with total power.

The conversation ranges across centuries and topics, and the enormous mound of gnocchi dough melts away. Anna is taking away the cut gnocchi, boiling it, and then rolling it in oil to separate and cool, directly on the marble table.

Soon after we sit down with the extended family to eat. As it has been said before, “And it was good.”

This is, in some ways, one of the most unfiltered films we’ve ever done. It’s as close as we can get you to sitting down in a Tuscan kitchen for a visit. Please let us know what you think of this rawer kind of glimpse. And we hope you learn a lot about gnocchi along the way.

September 12, 2018 In Live By Nancy

Small world

A couple of my friends have asked me what daily life is like in a small village. It’s a little like this:

I enter the butcher shop. It’s market day, so it’s very crowded. There are two butchers, brothers. The taller one is holding court on the raised platform behind the glass shrine of meat. They are both in their 50s and always seem to be in a great mood … always. Friends of mine who visited were amazed to see one brother telling jokes over his shoulder while whacking a huge hunk of beef down to size with a foot-long cleaver.

This tendency might explain the missing part of one finger.

Today, he pauses between customers to cut a sample of porchetta (a delicious Tuscan thing—a roasted whole pig stuffed with herbs) and has the crowd pass it to a specific customer, a woman in her 50s who is with her daughter and is seated near the door. The daughter says loudly enough for everyone to hear: “He spoils you.” The butcher says: “I was in love with her when we were in preschool.”

At this point, another patron, a grandmother who is just tall enough to see over the meat part of the shrine but not over the top of the glass, adds: “No you weren’t. You were in love with Clementina.”