Pane: From Wheat Field to Baker to Table

Wheat growing in central Umbria

Pane sciapo

        On my walks in the countryside I keep passing wheat fields so green I want to roll around in them. Eventually those grains will ripen, be harvested and milled, and metamorphosize into the piece of saltless local bread on the table next to my plate. The lack of taste discourages mindless nibbles while we wait for the antipasto, but it's terrific for a scarpetta ("little shoe" of bread) to soak up the not-to-be-abandoned olive oil or juices from my dish or for bruschetta with new olive oil.


      To be honest, I really adore the thickly crusted and divinely chewy casareccio in Rome more than the sciapo (saltless) bread they make in Umbria, at least for nibbling. Sometimes, though, history trumps taste, and in the case of this traditional Umbrian bread, I respect the history. This particular bread has been baked here without salt since the mid-16th century, invented in rebellious response to the Pope's blockade of salt to this landlocked region. While it's not the best to eat on its own, it serves very well as a delivery system for olive oil or gravy. 


     The most famous of the saltless breads comes from Strettura, a tiny village on the Via Flaminia between Spoleto and Terni. We went over there the other morning in time to see the raised loaves slid into the fiery wood-burning ovens at Forno Vantaggi. It's said their combination of local spring water, mixed grains and no salt is the best in Umbria. 

Raking out the coals

     The bakers had been working since before dawn and the risen loaves were ready for the oven. But, first, the forno had to be made ready for them. Behind three openings, about twelve feet of smoldering coals burned like Dante's Sixth Circle of Hell (the one reserved for Epicureans). The baker first raked the red embers into an iron barrel, leaving the oven ready for baking at 300 degrees Centigrade. Then the loaves were slid in and the doors closed. 

The risen loaves

The old recipes

In the workroom, various flours, eggs, and other ingredients awaited their turn to become cookies, sweet breads, or tozzetti (aka, cantucci or biscotti). Forget the Inferno, this place was obviously Paradise. On the counter was the recipe book, its pages marked by the fingers of bakers from previous generations. We nibbled warm slices of pizza bread, the tasty flat pane made by Italian bakers to test the heat of the ovens.

Torta al Testa

       Pane di Strettura is only one of many breads made in Umbria. There is torta al testa from the Province of Perugia, historically made on a flat stone in the fireplace or oven. This flat round bread, often served warm from the oven and cut into triangles, is called crescia in Gubbio and pizza sotto il fuoco (cooked under the ashes) in Terni. Today it is often cooked on top of the stove like a pancake in a pan called a panaro.  


    At Easter, Umbrians eat pane formaggio (cheese bread). There is also pan nociato, bread with nuts, and pan caciato, bread made with olive oil, pepper, nuts and Umbrian pecorino (sheep cheese). We are not suffering from lack of choice here in central Italy.


    Note: We visited Strettura as part of the annual Beecoming Festival, which offers events of all kinds in Umbria in late April/early May.


Copyright Sharri Whiting 2012


       


        
     




         

So said Pliny and he was probably right

The good green stuff

          "Sip the wine and splash the oil." Pliny the Elder (Rome, 1st C AD). Good old Pliny, always there with a pithy comment. 


           The third week of November is the highlight of our year, when ten friends from four countries arrive on Via Palombaro to spend a week picking our olives, drinking the local garage wine, and catching up on what has happened in the U.S., the Netherlands, Namibia, England and Italy over the last year. 


           What is it about olive picking that is so engaging, so refreshing to mind and body? Is it the fresh air? Is it the respite from ongoing (and often tiresome) responsibilities? A chance to get back to basics, to the relationship between humans and the land? A moment to be with friends, without cell phones ringing or texting, appointments waiting, chores to do?

Pickin' and grinnin'

    There is nothing more satisfying than standing with your upper half hidden within a net of olive branches, filling the basket across your chest with the fruit that has emerged after another flinty Umbrian winter, drenched spring, and bone dry summer. Looking from the house, it seems that the olive trees have each grown a set of denimed legs. 


            The aimless chatter of familiar voices emits from the trees like birdsong, spiced with laughter, hoots and hollers, and sometimes a song (our Swedish friend comes from Todi to pick with us and amuses himself by singing Scandinavian folk tunes). Occasionally, a mild expletive that soars across the field, when a basket full of olives is dropped, if the olives begin to roll off the net and down the hill, or if a ladder shifts, throwing its occupant to the ground. 

The end of the day

           With regard to our friend, Pliny the Elder, we can't say that the Olivistas exactly sip the wine during Olive Picking Week. We probably splash both the vino and the olio, if truth be known. We work hard, we have fun, and we end up with something tangible and delicious: nuovo olio, the new oil, fresh, green, something we contributed to producing with our own hands. It's not digital, it's simply delicious. 
    


   

Hungry?

Steak tagliata at Lo Scoiattolo

       Never let it be said that we fail to meet our responsibility to report on the ristoranti around Umbria. It may require a lifetime of eating, but our mission and our focus are unwavering. How else would we justify those extra 5 kilos?


      Here's the latest list of favorites:

Taverna Sette

Taverna Sette in Trevi
    Run by a group of energetic ragazzi (young people), this place is sophisticated, charming and downright good. Partners in the business are the charming Sara Damiani and Gherardo Mugnoz, who are responsible for the ambience, beginning with the intriguing torches that draw diners from the piazza up a narrow stone vicolo to the ristorante. Chef Alfredo Santovito is inventive, turning local ingredients into tasty dishes with a twist. My favorite antipasto is the Ricottina, which is light, fresh and fluffy, served with toasted walnuts and a drizzle of honey.

Tomino cheese antipasto at Taverna Sette

    Find more details at www.tavernadelsette.it. The address is Vicolo del Sette 8, Trevi. Take the road up to the top of Trevi and come down to Piazza Mazzini to find it. They're closed on Wednesdays. Call 0742 78071 to ask for a table in the secluded atrium.

Lake Trasimeno from Lo Scoiattolo

Lo Scoiattolo is on the road up the mountain about 4 km above Tuoro on the right.
    We were feeling peckish while driving over the mountain on our way to Cortona from Gubbio. We passed this place, with its plastic tables and chairs out front, and thought it was a bar. What we needed was lunch. Rounding the curve, we came upon an astounding view of Lake Trasimeno, an unmissable photo opportunity. Since we were there, since we were hungry. . . . We walked in and saw the ristorante in the back. This is a great find for lunch on a gorgeous day. We ordered the succulent local white beans and delicious steak tagliata.

How to Get There  Lo Scoiattolo is directly on SS416, between Lisciano Niccone and Tuoro. Tel (+39) 075844119 Call if you want to reserve a veranda table overlooking the lake.



Taverna del Gusto in Deruta

Deruta

    Our friend, Grazia Ranocchia, a Deruta city councilwoman, turned us to this one, which is right across the street from the comune building in the old part of Deruta. The official address is Via MastroGiorgio, 5. Ask Luciano to bring out an array of the ristorante's  antipastos, which are really delicious. Then perhaps share two or three pastas -- the fava bean and pecorino pasta is wonderful.
Tel: 075/9724120  Parking tip: park outside the gates to Deruta, as parking spaces can be sparse inside.

Roccofiore near Todi
     We wrote about Roccofiore several years ago for Luxury Travel Advisor magazine and then happened to go back recently with friends. We had forgotten the wonderful view of Todi from the terrace, not to mention the wonderful carpaccio Chianina. The atmosphere is quintessential upscale Umbria, with postcard landscapes to see in every direction.

Roccofiore 

Go to Roccofiore for details and directions.
    
Residenze l'Alberata in Collepepe
     For years, we've driven to Collepepe when we've needed foodstuffs on a Sunday morning. The deli/grocery there has prepared goodies, as well as staples to make Sunday lunch. Eventually the Andreani family built a few rooms upstairs; now they have opened a restaurant in their Sala del Gusto. They serve on Thursdays, Fridays and Saturdays only. The location is unexpected and charming, though you will have to climb three flights of stairs to get there (think of it as penance before you dig into the menu). There are different menus every weekend, with fixed price meals available, as well as ala carte.

Pasta with zucchini at l'Alberata

Go to Home Cooking for details.


   I suppose now you are wondering when I will recommend gyms in the area to work off all this eating, but no. Take to the countryside, where walking is a pleasure for the senses and always justifies the caffe and cornetto in the village bar afterwards.
Buon appetito!


copyright Sharri Whiting 2011


      
      

Martedi Grasso, Mardi Gras, Carnevale: It Began in Italy

A Carnevale princess on a street strewn with cordiandoli (paper confetti)

Mobile, Alabama, the town founded by Pierre Le Moyne d'Iberville in 1702, was the capital of French Louisiana from 1702-1711. In 1703, the settlers celebrated the first Mardi Gras in the U.S. The symbolic colors of Purple (justice), Green (faith) and Gold (power) became official in 1872. But, it was the Italians who started it all.

For adolescent Mobilians in the mid-twentieth century, Mardi Gras was all about the parades. The shining satin costumes worn by revellers atop mule-drawn floats reflected the flickering lights of the torches carried by the white jacketed muledrivers. Paper confetti and serpentine flew threw the air, landing in our hair, our mouths and the gutters. As children jostled for position among the crowds lining the street, straining for the beat of the marching band and avoiding their mothers' seaching hands, they thought only to go home with a good haul of the Moonpies and glittering cheap necklaces thrown by the masked men or women who rode the floats.

Carnevale in Piazza del Duomo in Milan

Mardi Gras (aka Martedi Grasso, Fat Tuesday), the culmination of Carnevale, was first devised by the Romans, although it is Carnevale in Venice and Viareggio that are famous worldwide. The word Carnevale translates as "go away meat," because during Lent practicing Christians did not eat meat. Much earlier in history, the Roman Saturnalia celebrations began with a parade of floats resembling ships – the carrum navalis. Instead of the colorful costumes we see today, the riders were, in fact, naked men and women dancing with erotic abandon. (And we thought that was a Brazilian idea). Eventually, the more sedate Carnevale celebrations spread to the Catholic countries of Europe and then on to the new world.

These days, Carnevale in Italy, apart from Venice, revolves mostly around children in costumes and food. The King’s Cake may be traditional fare in Mobile and New Orleans, but it is frappe, crespelle, sfingi, castagnole, cenci, nodi, chiacchere, bugie, galani, frittole, berlingaccio, sanguinaccio and tortelli that mark carnival season here.

Carnevale pastries

Children attend parties dressed like princesses or cowboys, while their parents ogle the pastry offerings that appear in the windows of le pasticcerie (bakeries) and clog the aisles of supermarkets. The diets that began on January 1 are forgotten these few weeks before Lent -- no one can resist the crunchy, flaky, sweet delight of a plate of frappe dusted with powdered sugar, and it’s absolutely impossible to eat only one.

In Umbria, Todi produces Carnevalandia, a lively festival packed with costumed children and their smiling parents, and a medieval banquet to localize it all. Other Umbrian towns celebrate with medieval-style flag throwers or Carnevale parties in the piazzas or schools. Costumes are for sale in local shops and i ristoranti decorate their entrances.

The Devil at EMI supermarket

At the supermarket, checkout ladies wear Carnevale hats and pretend to overlook the multiple packages of frappe sailing across their scanners on the way to my grocery bags and our own personal Pastry Saturnalia. And then, too soon, the frappe will be gone and Carnevale will be over until next year.
copyright Sharri Whiting 2011

Romance in a Single Bite: A St. Valentine's Day Tale

“What is love if not the language of the heart?” “My soul is a furnace of love: stoke it to the full.” “A loving heart is forever young.”

     You carefully unwrap the silver foil. Then, as you savor the silky richness of a Perugina Baci in your mouth, you smooth the wrinkles from the crumpled inner wrapping. Written on parchment in four languages is your own personal love message, vestige of the clandestine love affair that is one of Italy’s most romantic tales. After all, baci in Italian means kisses.
    Valentine's Day in Umbria reminds us two different lovers:  St. Valentine, from Terni, whose love affair with his jailer's daughter cast a permanent haze of romance over Umbria, and Luisa Spagnoli, who might have breathed a little too deeply of that pheramone-permeated air. 

     
Luisa was a beautiful and determined woman who married a poor young man from Umbria around 1900. The two struggled to buy a machine to make candy confetti, the sugared almonds popular at Italian weddings and other celebrations, which they installed in one tiny room in Perugia. Eventually, to enlarge their business, they needed a partner. That’s when the young Giovanni Buitoni, heir to the Perugina company, entered the picture. In 1907, two men and one compelling woman began to work together, setting the stage for romantic combustion.

      Luisa was the confectionary genius who created the Baci, using whipped milk chocolate blended with chopped hazelnuts, topped with a whole hazelnut and coated with rich dark chocolate. Her creation, originally called cazzotti (a "punch" of chocolate), is whispered to have been inspired by the steamy illicit love affair she carried on with her business partner, Giovanni Buitoni, under the nose of her husband.

      As the story goes, Luisa contrived secret ways to communicate with her lover. Luisa sent baci to both Giovanni and her husband to sample in their offices, but only Giovanni received the poetic love notes she wrapped around each candy. From the introduction of the baci on Valentine’s Day in 1922 to this day, every piece comes wrapped in a message of romance. (There’s also a rumor about the breast shape of the baci. . . . )

     The story of Luisa and Giovanni’s affair lives on, as does the legend of St. Valentine. Not only are the candies themselves a memorial to their love, but the advertising for Baci for almost a century has centered around a passionately embracing couple. Marketing posters feature a passionate embrace between two lovers. Are they Luisa and Giovanni? Who else could they be? In the 1920s, Federico Seneca, the designer, called them “The Lovers,” which he based on the Hayez painting of the same name. War weary, people needed romance and, after all, chocolate and romantic love are closely linked.

     The history of the Baci is immortalized at the Museo Storico (museum) at the Nestle Perugina in San Sisto near Perugia. The Aztec upper classes first enjoyed chocolate as a bitter drink, sometimes flavored by red peppers; then the Spanish, who brought cocoa beans to Europe, discovered that sugar enhances chocolate’s flavor. In the 16th century, the physician to the Spanish king Philip II used chocolate as a fever reducer. By the mid-seventeenth century, the Italian scientist and de Medici physician Francesco Redi combined drinking chocolate with ambergris and musk, which must have been horrible. Later, chocolate was found by clever murderers to be a good way to conceal the taste of poison.

     In early 19th century Netherlands, Coenraad Van Houten invented a way to use hydraulic pressure to turn chocolate into a hard cake. His process, called “Dutching”, made it possible to turn chocolate from a drink to a confection. Thank you, Coenraad, from lovers of candy bars everywhere.

       On a day when the Perugina factory is in production, the compelling aroma of chocolate consumes both mind and body. The resulting primal urge can only be satisfied by – what else? -- baci. Fortunately, they are for sale in the museum shop, along with posters of embracing lovers. The displays include TV commercials from the fifties and sixties, including one with Frank Sinatra singing the praises of Baci.

      Luisa Spagnoli didn’t stop with chocolate. She went on to found a fashion company based on wool spun from angora goats. Today more than 150 Luisa Spagnoli stores cover Italy, while Luisa’s chocolate is sold around the world and dark chocolate is still called “Luisa” in Perugia.

copyright Sharri Whiting Umbria Bella 2008 and 2011

Giovanni and the Chianina

Chianina in central Italy (photo from Wikipedia Commons)

    This is the story of Giovanni, who owns La Vecchia Cucina, a ristorante in Collesecco, and the Chianina beef that comes from a farm in Ponte di Ferro, about 5 km away. It is the tale of a marriage made in paradise, where a side of beef passes from pasture to kitchen to table, preferably to our table.

Giovanni's arm is a twig next to this steak

     Since 1997 we have been going to Giovanni's ristorante in the little village 3 km from home. We've always ordered something like pasta con melanzane or pasta primavera, or perhaps the tender veal tagliata, cooked rare with rosmarino and salvia and sprinkled with local olive oil.
     We needed nothing else. We were happy.
      But, then, we began to hear the unmistakable sound of a meat cleaver in the kitchen, followed by the glimpse and trailing aroma of huge pieces of succulent grilled beef passing us by, going to other people at other tables. Where had we been? Why hadn't we realized?
     Last week we decided to make a break with habit and ordered the bistecca alla fiorentina, a 1-1.5 kg (2.2 - 3.3 lb) T-bone, usually served to two or more people. We heard those familiar sounds emanating from the kitchen and we knew those noises were for us.

Giovanni slices our fiorentina

     The Chianina breed originated as work animals during the Roman Empire; because of their white hides, they were chosen to pull the wagons at important parades and were offered as sacrifices to the gods. The largest breed of cattle in the world, Chianina come from the Val di Chiana, which is an area near the border between Tuscany and Umbria. They are protected as a brand by the European Union. Usually grass fed, every Chianina is given a number, which follows it from birth to slaughter and all the way to the table. The fiorentina is steak Florence-style, a cut that dates back to the Medicis.
    As we waited for our steak, other hungry people began to pour into the ristorante. All of them, it seemed, came for the fiorentina. We tried to look nonchalant, chatting and sipping Montefalco Rosso, as if this weren't our first time. In truth, we were ravenous and, every few seconds, Piero cut his eyes toward the kitchen door. Finally, the gate to heaven opened and Giovanni emerged carrying a steaming platter of grilled meat. Alas! He passed us by and took it to the next table. How was it that for all these years we ate our pasta peacefully and never noticed that everyone else was digging into a significant portion of a side of beef?
      Our turn came at last and the fiorentina was placed before us. While we had been sitting there in anticipation, we'd observed that protocol was to wait patiently for Giovanni to come to the table, slice the meat and personally serve us from the platter. We watched reverently as he sharpened his knife and began his surgeon's cut, juices spilling gloriously from the steak. If waiting had been difficult the first time; it was almost impossible after we had tasted this tenderest of meats and wanted a second serving. What a brutta figura it would have been if we had helped ourselves.
       We are already planning a dinner in November when our olive picking friends are here. We think three bistecche alla fiorentina might be enough for twelve people, but, then again, we may have to order four. Plus, the pasta con melanzane. Fortunately, it is only February and we have the time and the will to investigate. This may take repeated visits to La Vecchia Cucina.
Copyright Sharri Whiting 2011


  

Will Work for Food, Provided it's Zero Kilometer Cuisine

    Anyone who's willing to come to Italy to spend a week picking olives the old fashioned way is a someone who appreciates biological, organic, fresh, local food and wine. Taking that step back in the process, from consumption to the actual harvest of something they are eventually going to eat, allows us all to reflect on what we do to our bodies when we hit the fast food counter. Fortunately, here in Umbria, our friends can enjoy what the Italians call "zero kilometer cuisine" -- just about everything they eat while here will have been produced in the region.

No olive left behind

    Yesterday, our ten pickers produced six full crates of olives from about ten trees, 10% of what we need to accomplish this week. Today, after a good dinner and solid night's sleep, we expect to fill many more of those green, red and yellow plastic boxes. We still have  the old wooden olive crates used in the old days, but have turned them into kitchen cabinets -- they are so heavy empty it's hard to imagine moving them full of olives.

La Signora picks the leave from her family's olive harvest

     Since food is an integral part of any Italian experience, especially a culinary trip, we offered a "workers'" lunch of fresh minestrone with parmesan and olive oil, salumeria from Norcia (prosciutto, salami), Stilton cheese brought by a friend from England, mozzarella, and a variety of fresh baked breads. There was the endless flow of Omero's garage wine, of course, and a polenta torta, citrus crostata and mandarini for dessert. After a cup of coffee we hit the trees again to work off lunch; we have to begin thinking of dinner.

      Standing amid the olives at La Casetta Rosa, we could hear our neighbors picking their trees further down in the valley. The rythmic cadence of Umbrian-style Italian conversation drifted up our way on the breeze -- they must have listened to us speaking English with accents tinged with Italian, Dutch, American Southern, English, and Namibian origins. We were all doing the same thing: picking olives while talking about our lives, our children and grandchildren, our gardens. In our group there was also talk of test driving Ferraris, future trips, and the anticipation of eating tonight at Le Noci, our favorite restaurant in Grutti.

     At Le Noci, Il Magnifico wrote down the orders ad La Principessa recited the menu. This is not required of all diners, of course, but since we have the fare memorized, we can cut out minutes from the process by presenting the server with a fait accompli -- in Italian. This ensures appreciation from Danielle and the ladies in the kitchen, who send out food out in some kind of reasonable order.

     Old favorites on the table last night included were fazzoletti (triangular ravioli stuffed with ricotta and topped with panna (cream) and fresh shaven truffles, strongozzi with truffles, gnocchi stuffed with porcini, tagliata (sliced grilled beef steak) topped with fresh arugula and balsamic vinegar, stewed cinghiale (wild boar), capriolo (venison), and veal prime rib. All this was followed by tiramisu, bavarese, creme Portuguese, and fresh baked cookies with Sagrantino Passito.

     It's 6:30 a.m. on Monday now and still dark outside. There is some stirring upstairs, so the pickers must be awake. After a quick cup of coffee, we will be back out in the piantoni (big plants -- local name for olive trees). Their picking sessions will be bookended with a coffee break in the field, a farmer's lunch in the kitchen, and tonight's dinner at Frontini, an agriturismo which, by law, serves a menu made up almost entirely of their own or nearby production.

     Olivistas Arise! Day Two has begun.

Copyright 2010 Sharri Whiting

Olivistas to the Table! Soup's On

If you look closely, you can see the olives silhouetted against the sky

6 am. CET, Via Palombaro, Umbria
      The countdown started 364 days ago when the last pickers left to go home to England, Germany, the US, Namibia and the Netherlands. Tomorrow ten friends from around the world will come for our fourth olive picking house party. We call them the Olivistas.

     We've spent this week in preparation. Since I am dealing with a demonic case of jetlag, having arrived from the States three days ago, I have been in the kitchen by five every morning, chopping onions for a soffritto that will form the base of one of the five soups we will have for lunch during the harvest. I am partially cooking each one before freezing it; mixed aromas emanate from various pots, wafting warm jetstreams of onions, rosemary, sage, and porcini throughout the house. There is also the scent of fig bread baking in the oven, making for a confusing cinnamon/onion olfactory experience.
    The Olivistas provide the manual labor to pick our 120 trees and we want them to be glad they came.  Even if it's a chance to get away from the daily routine of office/patients/computers/grocery store, picking olives is hard work. When the sun shines across the valleys, highlighting the autumn red Sagrantino vines stretching across the fields, it can be glorious. If it's damp and misty, it can be romantic (sort of), provided one is dressed for it. But, if it rains, it's just awful.
     This is when a steaming boil of farro, lentil, ceci (chickpea) or minestrone soup can provide the inspiration to get us back in the trees. We sit around the kitchen table, warmed by the fireplace, the soup, Omero's wine (sold by the liter from a kind of gas pump), and the conversation of friends who come back year after year to help us get in the harvest.
     Il Magnifico's job as host is to be the supreme organizer. He makes sure there are enough crates, baskets, nets, and hand rakes -- we pick our olives the old fashioned way. He books the restaurants for dinner (the promise of a traditional Umbrian meal gets us all through the day), makes the grocery runs and the emergency trips to Omero to replenish the vital red liquid. Of course, he has reserved our slot at the frantoio, where we will gather next Friday morning to turn our harvest into "Olivista Olive Oil," extra virgin, first cold press.
     But, now we are watching the stove and the sky. We try to organize everything, but are powerless to affect the weather. Yesterday started with sun, then turned to rain and hail, then recovered itself with a spectacular rainbow. The meteorologists say it will be sunny through Monday and then will rain Tuesday and Wednesday. We need at least three full days to pick, so rain on those two days will be a problem. I keep checking the iPhone weather app for those little sunny yellow symbols. Our guests are here for the week, so if necessary they will pick on Thursday and we will go wine tasting, sightseeing or shopping if it rains on a picking day. Or, we might even enjoy the delights of dolce far niente, the "sweet doing nothing," in the Umbrian countryside.

A wide angle wasn't wide enough

     The last pot of soup is on the boil and the slowly dissolving stars promise a sunny day. The birds are singing as the sky starts to lighten. The olives hang dark on the trees, waiting for tomorrow.
Copyright 2010 Sharri Whiting

Stalking the Wild Asparagus, not just reading about it

The late Euell Gibbons, probably the original locavore writer, wrote a book in 1962 called Stalking the Wild Asparagus. It was a folksy, humorous take on the recognition, gathering, preparation and use of the natural health foods that grow wild in almost every area. I found the title hilarious and it has stayed with me all my life.

Fast forward a lot of years to Spring 2010. We are living in Umbria. We know there are asparagi growing out there in the woods because here and there we think we can see the ferny/thorny looking plants which produce the thin succulent shoots we want to harvest. The hardware stores are full of long forceps-like tools, which both snip and hold the tender spears until they make it into your bag.

I'm not sure what to do or where to look, but I am determined that this will be the spring when I stalk the wild asparagus. Fidelma, my Irish friend, calls to invite me over for an asparagus hunt -- she has been given a gathering lesson by her giardiniere. We put on boots (in case the snakes are waking up from their winter hibernation) and gloves (to protect us from thorns), sling grocery bags over our shoulders, take up our "sticks" and we're off to her 5-acre backyard.

A veteran asparagus picker (this is her second time), Fidelma spots the almost invisible shoots immediately. I stand there squinting into the dappled shade of the underbrush,  trying to decide if this is a pursuit that requires sunglasses or not. I don't see a single thing that looks like an asparagus spear.

Fidelma looks over my shoulder and cries,"There's one! Get it!" I take off my sunglasses and get down on all fours, bottom in the air, and peer toward the ground. Finally, I see a very slender, dark green-purple stalk. I have found my first asparagus. I have become a hunter/gatherer.

We rummage around in the bushes for another hour or so, catching our hair in tree limbs, stumbling over roots, gradually filling up our Sidis bags with wild asparagus. Finally we each have enough to make asparagus pasta for dinner. We stand up and survey the landscape, which stretches in undulating green waves to Todi and, beyond, to Orvieto. Hilltop castles and medieval villages are silhouetted against the sky, where they have stood guard for centuries. No doubt their occupants enjoyed a plate or two of asparagus pasta in the springs of 1210 or 1610, just as we will in 2010. To us, being locavores doesn't only mean eating what's available locally in season. It also allows us to join hands with a tradition that goes back to the beginning of time in these ancient hills.

We emerge from the woods with muddy boots, dirty jackets, and with treasure. That night, we both cooked asparagus pasta like this:

Use your favorite pasta: spaghetti, tagliatelle, penne, rigatoni.

While the pasta cooks in salted boiling water,

wash and snap off the ends of the asparagus where they break naturally.

Cut or break the remainder of the asparagus into pieces, reserving the tips.

Make a soffritto of olive oil, a little peperoncino (crushed red pepper) and garlic (some people use onion, while others add a bit of chopped bacon); add some white wine.

Add the pieces of asparagus, leaving the tips until the last five minutes, as they cook faster.

Simmer the sauce for about ten minutes or until the pasta is cooked.

Put a few chunks of butter in the bottom of the pasta bowl.

Drain and put the cooked pasta in the bowl.

Pour the asparagus mixture over the pasta and mix together. Add more olive oil if necessary.

Serve.

Eat.

Copyright 2010 Sharri Whiting

Dining All' Aperto in Umbria Means Spring is Finally Here

Sometime in late March, one never knows exactly when, people in Umbria will wake up one morning to find their almond trees have burst into bloom. That doesn't mean that Spring is necessarily here, because two weeks ago it snowed on top of the almond blossoms, but it does mean that the seasons are thinking about changing. The next thing is the fruit trees-- pears, cherries, apples-- and the yellow mimosas. Dandelions are next and then. . .

     ta dah. . . the ristoranti and pizzerie open their terraces.  Now, we are sure that spring has arrived and summer is sure to follow. (By the way, did you know that al fresco
does not refer to outside dining -- it means "in prison." Though you'd want to know that.)

     

In our little green zone between Todi and Montefalco, we have some favorite restaurants whose food is even better when eaten outside. Who cares if a bee buzzes in the geraniums next to the table? What's important is that we are in plein air, with no air conditioning, experiencing the joys of eating Italian food in its natural setting. 

Le Noci in Grutti is a ristorante we discovered when we were furnishing our house thirteen years ago. We bought a sofa from Paolo Mobili, the local furniture man, and received a coupon good for lunch for two. Expecting nothing, we were wildly happy with what we found. Danielle, Marina, the mothers, the husbands, the ladies in the kitchen have put together a place where the pasta is a dream come true and their wine is pretty darn good and pleasantly cheap. We keep going back for the gnocchi stuffed with porcini, the triangular pasta stuffed with ricotta and covered with cream and truffles, the strongozzi with truffles or country herb sauce. In the warm season, Le Noci opens the shaded terrace and we spend leisurely evenings eating our favorite dishes and generally enjoying life.

La Cucina Vecchia in Collesecco is another ristorante we discovered during the process of moving into our house in 1997. Giovanni, the owner, is a small plane afficianado and has decorated the walls of the place with photos of old-time flyers and their single engine flying machines. We love his pasta with eggplant, pasta primavera, and veal tagliata with rosemary and sage. We ask only for vino della casa. Giovanni operates out of the bottom floor of his yellow house, which is set in a gated piece of property across from the school. In summer, we sit outside in his garden, relishing both the quiet and the food.

La Locanda del Prete is a newcomer in the world of restaurants in our little universe. We can see the medieval village of Saragano from our house and now we can see our house from the terrace of the Locanda in Saragano. The place is a bit more formal than our other favorites, which is a change from the days when Saragano's few residents sat outside in the evenings in their "relaxing" clothes, chatting and watching the fireflies. In addition to the restaurant, the Locanda has a wine bar and a cigar bar, an oddity in these parts. We prefer the terrace, where we sip a glass of pro secco and enjoy the expansive view.

The terrace of Federico II on the piazza in Montefalco is the best place to be in summer, at the height of the people watching season. Since Montefalco has been discovered by tourists interested in the Sagrantino Wine Route and the fine locally made linens, it's no longer a sleepy little town. The food here is both traditional and sophisticated, and the wine list is practically unlimited. For a more secluded experience, Federcio II's sister restaurant, Coccorone, is almost hidden on a narrow street. The terrace is tiny, but in summer it's delightful, packed with flowers, and secluded within medieval garden walls.

The best terrace of all is the one at our house, La Casetta Rosa, where the view is simply wonderful, though we have to prepare our own food. Sitting under the shaded pergola having a lazy lunch, with the only sound a distant tractor or a bee buzzing the jasmine, could be a preview of heaven.

   

99 and 44/100ths Percent Pure on Via Palombaro

It’s that season of the year in Italy, when virginity and purity are top of mind in all the churches (December 8 is the feast of the Immaculate Conception and it goes on from there). Piero says the teen aged girls in his time had a prayer, “Virgin Mary, Mother of God, who conceived without sin, help me sin without conceiving,” but that’s a conversation for another day.

Then there was the message from those Ivory Soap ads from the 1960s (1950s?): “it's 99 and 44/100ths percent pure.” All the post-war mothers rushed out to buy pure white Ivory and the “almost-pure” concept took off.

Then, somehow, the concepts of virginity and almost-pure were merged and came out as extra-virgin. I have no idea how. I do not set the standards here, but I’m sure there are millions of young women in conservative societies who would embrace the idea that just a little fooling around could still buy them the label of extra virgin bride.

My brother, the preacher, says he thought the extra virgins were the ones who didn't make the cut for the sacrifice-down-the-volcano selection in ancient times, kind of like those who don't get in the Top Ten in a beauty pageant, but I think he is mixing up his pagan rites with his hopes for his beautiful teen-aged daughter.

This is all to prepare you for the announcement that the olive oil from Yellow House and La Casetta Rosa, plucked from our motley assortment of a hundred or so trees by ten good friends, was tested and found to have an acidity of only 0.032%. To meet the standards of extra virgin, the acidity can be no more than 0.06%. So, you see, our gorgeous green oil is not only extra virgin, it surely must be extra extra virgin. Our oil is more virtuous than Ivory and the taste is infinitely better.

This was one of those banner years in the very short history of Olive Week at our place. The trees were just groaning with fruit, twice as much as in 2007. Our friends arrived from the South (Battle’s Wharf and Tampa), Tulsa (oil, yes; extra virgin, no) and Cape Cod, plus Namibia, England, and down the road in Todi. The days were long and sunny, so we managed to get more than 700 kilos of those little black nuggets off the trees and into the baskets, while exchanging gossip, arguing philosophy, falling off ladders, listening to Swedish folk songs (next year, Bjorn, think about the Beatles, in English, or opera, in Italian), and contemplating both the view and the zillions of olives hanging on the next tree over. Of course, there was much conversation about the American election, including numerous toasts to Obama with Omero’s garage red.



Our pickers were fueled with truffles, porcini mushrooms, pasta, hand cut prosciutto, home made farro soup, fresh bread, vino, and a wee drop of the plum wine made over the summer from a tree that unexpectedly rained fruit to prove it wasn't dead. Of course, we hit the local ristoranti circuit pretty hard and also managed to get to chocolate school.

Even now, weeks later, the pickers' hands are surely still twitching in their sleep; not unlike a dozing dog chasing an imaginary rabbit, they “milk” those endless olive trees. But, what an achievement! Ah, to have been acolytes in the grand ceremony of producing something extra extra virgin, the fruit of the land, green and organic, sustainably environmentally correct; with the dark moist earth of Umbria encrusting your boots, leaves in your hair, olives in your bra, proudly wearing scars from face-scratching branches to dinner parties across the globe. (See great opportunity below).PS.
A note to our pickers (you know who you are): In order to convince you to come back next year, we are naming a tree after each one of you, which will be pruned and fertilized with sheep dung. We will ask Bjorn to come over from Todi and sing your choice of tune to your tree, preferably when we are far away from home. You will receive photos of your tree during the year, so that you may see its progress, from buds in the spring to tiny olives to full, ripe, juicy olives ready to be picked -- by you. Va bene?

An Embarrassment of Richness

Here in Umbria we never get anything good to eat, but we try to make do.

Yesterday morning, standing in the middle of the medieval center of Deruta, I threw back a big slug of hot chocolate so thick and creamy it made my taste buds dance a jig. Think of it as the perfect fall day: crystal blue sky, slightly cool air, sunny, with the aroma of chocolate in the air.

It was the second annual Ceramics and Chocolate celebration in Deruta, an offshoot of the huge Eurochocolate madness that takes over Perugia every year in late October.

This festa is smaller, combining Deruta's central theme, the creation of hand painted maiolica ceramics, with the region's devotion to chocolate. Tied into the over five-hundred year history of the town is the sale of maiolica chocolate mugs, handpainted and fired by artists all over town. These can, and should be, filled with the complimentary and divine hot chocolate.

On regular days, you can wander the streets of Deruta, poking your head into tiny studios, where artists are painting plates, tiles, or bowls; yesterday, a group of artists were painting a wall of chocolate with the traditional patterns of Deruta ceramics. Last night, the wall would be broken and the crowd would be fed a piece of local chocolate.

But we weren't there. Last night, we had moved on to other culinary delights at Roccofiore Winery's annual harvest dinner, this year themed "Il Giuoco dell'Oca," the game of the goose.

We were seated in the cellar, among the barriques full of wines of various vintages, bottles of new red wine on the table.

The menu went like this:
gli antipasti (starters)-- goose prosciutto in salad with balsamic vinegar, goose salami, goose liver crostini;
primo piatto (first course) -- gnocchi made from potatoes with a ragout of goose from the farm;
secondi (main courses) -- goose roasted in a wood-fired oven, pork from Siena baked with herbs, roasted potatoes, field greens doused with local olive oil;
dolce (dessert) -- roasted chestnuts with the late harvest wine, Passito Collina d'Oro.

I know, I know. Today we will eat simple, low fat things: lentil soup, salad, broiled chicken breast with rosemary and sage, a glass of white wine.

And, just maybe a piece of that chocolate from Deruta.
copyright Sharri Whiting 2008