Umbria in a Week? So Many Choices, So Little Time

 

     
    How to choose what to do in Umbria in just one week? You might follow Malcolm Gladwell (Blink, 2005), who said that instantaneous decisions can be better than those based on lengthy rational analysis; in other words, wake up in the morning and see how you feel. Or, you could do your homework up front and decide where you want to go based on your own personal interests: history, art, food, wine, local products, rural settings, towns, shopping. 

The view from Titigliano

   


    Spend at least a day exploring the neighborhood where you're staying, especially if there's a sunset view. After all, vacations should include some downtime.




    The towns we love:

    Orvieto is known for its duomo (cathedral), some say the best Gothic cathedral in Italy (versus Siena and Milano). Pozzo di San Patrizio is an ancient well designed in a double helix so that the donkeys taking the water up from the bottom of the huge tufa mesa would not meet those going down to fetch more. Shop for ceramics, beautiful stationery, and chocolate. Taste some Orvieto Classico, the famous white wine. Visit Etruscan tombs and underground passages. If you drive up to the big parking lot across from the funicolare (cable car), there's a shuttle bus that will take you to the main piazza. 

Montefalco (photo SW)

    Montefalco is one of Europe's best preserved medieval towns; famous for its red wines, olive oil, locally produced fine linens, and eight saints of the Catholic church. The Church of San Francesco is now an excellent small museum with frescoes including by Perugino and Gozzoli. Stop in at one of the wineries along the Sagrantino di Montefalco Wine Route and don't forget to sample the local olive oil. Montefalco is known as the Balcony of Umbria -- the views from here include the towns of Assisi, Spello, Trevi, Spoleto and the verdant rolling countryside in between.

Assisi (photo SW)

 Assisi  and Spello are a nice combination for a day trip. The duomo in Assisi is simply spectacular, with unforgettable frescoes and the tomb of Francis of Assisi. In summer and during religious holiday times, there are often crowds of pilgrims crowding the streets of Assisi, so consider spending half a day in Assisi and go on to Spello, a smaller, quite charming town nearby, for lunch and an opportunity to poke your nose in a gallery or two.

Todi (photo SW)

  Todi is a beautiful place to wander, from the glorious main piazza with its palaces, museum, duomo and ancient Roman cistern under your feet, to the San Fortunato church, where you may climb the steeple if the spectacular view from the piazza isn't high enough for you. Combine Todi with a trip to Deruta to see the excellent majolica ceramics museum or spend the afternoon in Carsulae, the parklike ruins of a Roman town on the ancient Via Flaminia. 

Isola Maggiore (photo SW)

 Castiglione del Lago, on Lake Trasimeno, central Italy's largest lake, is the prettiest town on the lake. Taking the ferry to Isola Maggiore, the island famous for lacemaking, is a great way to spend a summer afternoon, especially with a gelato in hand. The ferry also stops at Tuoro sul Trasimeno, the site of Hannibal's great victory over the Romans in 217 B.C. Come back to Castiglione del Lago for a dinner of lake carp.

Bevagna (photo SW)

   Bevagna's Gaite (market festival) is a late June experience not to be missed -- local residents dress in medieval clothing to join crossbow contests, demonstrate old techniques of book and paper making, blacksmithing, candlemaking and more. Bevagna was originally Etruscan, but became a Roman town called Movania in 80-90 BC. The Roman baths are worth a visit, as is a stop for coffee overlooking the main fountain, where folklore says St. Francis had a conversation with the birds. Combine a trip Montefalco with a visit to Bevagna, only 7 km away.

Spoleto (photo SW)

    Spoleto is known for the summer Festival of Two Worlds, as well as other cultural events, but the atmosphere and the architecture draw tourists all year: the duomo (Cathedral) of S. Maria Assunta, the Rocca Albornoziana, the walk across the arched Ponte della Torri former aquaduct spanning Via Flaminia, the Roman amphitheater make the town unusual. Drive up the mountain above Spoleto to visit Monteluco and the 13th c hermitage of St. Francis for a glimpse of a more rustic part of Umbria.

Norcia (photo SW)

   Norcia's heart-shaped medieval walls encircle the town best known for salumeria, Italy's revered prosciutto and salami, as well as black truffles, lentils and other legumes. The hometown of St. Benedict, the Norcia area is also known for it's contributions to early medical science -- both the Norcia butchers and the surgeons were celebrated in the Middle Ages.  Nearby Castelluccio, above the great plain where the lentils grow, is the jumping off point for trekkers to Mt. Sibillini National Park. Travel to Norcia and environs by driving through the long tunnel that leads from the Via Flaminia near Spoleto to the Valnerina, the Nera River valley.

Gubbio (photo maggioegubino)

Gubbio's architecture -- its Roman and Gothic palaces, cathedrals, elegant houses -- make this city clinging to a slope of Mt. Ingino both dramatic and interesting. The majolica ceramics tradition is strong here, where metallic glazes for ceramics originated. If you happen to visit in early May, there is the Corsa dei Ceri, a spectacular run that takes place annually on May 15.

Trevi (photo SW)

   For your next trip. . . consider Lake Piediluco, Cascata delle Marmore, the Fonti del Clitunno, Trevi, Amelia. . . .

 copyright Sharri Whiting 2011

Life is Just an Ocean of Cherries; What to Do About It

    Somewhere around 1998 we planted a cherry tree at La Casetta Rosa, our house down the road. We just love cherries. For years, we had a few cherries here and there, most of which were enjoyed by the birds and the wasps before we ever got to them. This year, though, things were a bit different. Our cherry tree went on a growth spurt never seen by the likes of humans and 2011 will be a harvest for the ages. We picked cherries and gave them to friends, we picked cherries and ate them and ate them and ate them and gave more to friends.
    Finally, we recognized a problem: we needed to do something about the cherries filling up our kitchen and quick. Otherwise, they would all be ruined. Last Sunday morning I got up early and consulted my recipe books. I went into storeroom #2 and found a dusty box of empty canning jars, left over from the summer Jim and Carolyn stayed and went crazy making fig preserves. 

    I decided to start with Ciliegie sotto Spirito, a tasty concoction of 1) cherries 2) sugar and 3) pure grain alcohol. I found a bottle of the spirits in the back of the pantry, where it had lain since the year we made plum wine. (That's a whole 'nother story; suffice it to say that one of the bottles was left in the sun by some workers painting the living room and it blew up, scattering broken glass and plum wine all over the terrace, where every bee within flying distance arrived within thirty seconds to drown in sweet delight. A real mess).
     So, I started with the white lightning recipe, filling several liter jars. Next, I moved on to pickled cherries with white wine, white vinegar and fresh tarragon (called dragoncello in Italian, such a wonderful name). After that, I still had a few empty jars, so we tried pickled cherries in red wine, balsamic vinegar and brown sugar. Then we were out of jars and, as it was Sunday, the stores were closed. There were still a lot of cherries, even counting what we would eat with our lunch guests, with our dinner, and for breakfast the next day.
     Back to the computer. There is no cherry pitting implement in our kitchen, so I needed a recipe for how to freeze cherries with the stones in. Found out you wash them, dry them, spread them out in single layers to freeze separately and then put them together in Ziplock bags in the freezer. This was all well and good, but my freezer, which isn't the largest, was full of figs and plums from last year, along with a variety of things including a bag of Parmesan rinds for winter soups, half a frozen polenta cake from Christmas, and half a bottle of sorbetto limone with pro secco. The cake and some other over-aged packages (Il Magnifico calls them left-evers) got tossed, the sorbetto was consumed and we were in business freezing cherries. Supposedly, they will last a year and will taste like fresh fruit when defrosted. I will report back.

Umbria, Southern Style: the Bottle Tree Cometh

  
    When the peach tree that shaded our terrace at Yellow House started to die, we thought we'd have to take it out. Poor ole thing had been producing peaches as hard as baseballs for the last five years, it had bunions growing where branches had been trimmed in other generations, and early this spring it developed a terrible case of a wet black fungus that harbored zillions of little black bugs. 


    One sunny spring morning, we decided the old tree had to go. Il Magnifico and I dug around the storerooms #1, 2 and 3, and eventually found a little rusted saw and got to work on the misshapen branches. The flimsy instrument kept catching in the wood, so making any headway was like a trip to the gym -- in about five minutes our tongues were hanging out. Panting like hound dogs, we flopped down on the sofa and a long simmering idea surfaced in my Alabama- bred brain: our peach tree would have a second life, as a bottle tree. At last, I would have a little piece of the American South in my own backyard in Umbria (not counting the Mardi Gras beads strung in the olive trees).


    Il Mag went to the hardware store in Bastardo and brought back the biggest galvanized nails I've ever seen.  I scrounged around among the boxes and debris in the various storerooms for bottles, blue bottles to be exact. I've been following Felder Rushing's gardening show on Mississippi public radio for years, as well as his website (www.felderrushing.net/BottleTreeImagess.htm), so I knew from the hundreds of photos of bottle trees from across Mississippi, Alabama, South Carolina and other southern states that this was the color I wanted. 


    According to Felder's history, the desire for bottles trees originated in Arabia after glass was invented, spread through central Africa, and was brought to the southern US by slaves as early as the 17th century.  In the South, bottle trees were a way to have something inexpensive and pretty in the front yard--bottles catch the light, shine brightly at dawn when the sun shines through them, glow at sunset. Cobalt blue bottles have been said to capture and banish the bad spirits, keeping them away from the house. I certainly wasn't going to have a bottle tree without blue bottles and I could find just one. That was not going to do.

© Eudora Welty Collection,  

Mississippi Department of Archives and History, 1930s

    A call went out for blue bottles. Friends in Mississippi promised to bring us some, my cousin in Alabama passed along an old Milk of Magnesia, and my aunt in Virginia finished off some German wine and passed along the empty. A Brit with no earthly idea what I was talking about dutifully kept her eyes open and found some blue bottles containing water from Wales. I was making progress.
     

Ann and Dale

   Finally, our friends arrived from Oxford, MS, bringing with them a carefully packed box containing six beautiful blue bottles, along with their unmatched expertise on the South. Ann Abadie is associate director of the Center for Southern Culture at the University of Mississippi and an authority on all things Southern; her husband, Dale, is a historian. With them were law prof John Robin Bradley and, his wife, artsy Laura Bradley. With this level of Mississippi firepower on our terrace in Italy, we had no doubt our bottle tree would be imbued with a special magic. We each hammered in a nail and placed a blue bottle, with Laura's critical eye determining the perfect spot. 
    
   That was day before yesterday. Since then I've added an antique bottle from Cape Town to crown my tree -- since the idea for bottle trees came to the American South from Africa, I think its pale green glass is a fitting addition. Dale says I should move the bottles around once in awhile, for aesthetic reasons if not to confuse the roaming bad spirits. I might even consider adding red or yellow to the mix if I happen to find any. Any and all contributions will be accepted.

Bottle tree experts come to help

Bottle by bottle

   Fun reading about bottle trees:
http://usads.ms11.net/maxpower.html

http://usads.ms11.net/bottletree2.html
http://thiseclecticlife.com/2010/03/31/bottle-tree-at-last-maybe/
     
     

    

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


  

Reflections on Endless Washing Machine Cycles

Naples laundry...always an inspiration

   

      I am one of those expats living in Italy who has never stopped complaining about how long it takes to wash a load of clothes in my front loading European washing machine. Two hours and fifteen minutes for the cottons cycle is a mind boggling number.  In the US you can wash six loads in the time it takes to wash one load in Europe. What is wrong here? Don't these people understand that time is. . . time?

   Finally, thanks to the Internet, I've been put in my place. Who knew I was such an environmentalist? I was already rather proud of myself to have learned how to separate the paper, plastic, glass and indifferenziato (uncategorized) trash since Via Palombaro was put on the garbage recycling route in January. Now I am feeling even more virtuous with each load of dirty clothes I stuff into my European washer. 

     Here’s what I’ve learned from the websites listed below:

* Up to three times the water is needed for most US top loaders than for European front loaders.

* European front loaders are quieter than top loading machines

* European front loaders have more capacity without that pesky agitator taking up space

* Spin speeds in top loaders are usually slower, resulting in more moisture left in clothing.

* Top loaders that agitate are not as gentle on clothing and linens.

* European front loaders use horizontal-axis, tumbling drum system, which is why they require less than half the water. That's for a pre-wash, main wash and up to five rinses versus only the wash cycle on a top-loader.

* Frontloaders in Europe have internal water heaters, which saves the cost of using your hot water heater at the same time as your washer. This means that you can select temperatures between 30 and 95 degrees Celsius (86-203 F) and the machine will heat the water to that termperature. Rather than using bleach, it's possible to use very hot water on whites such as socks and sheets, thus saving the world from more Clorox in the water system.  Cold water is an option on newer machines and European detergents for cold water are now being sold, as well as good pre-wash stain remover sprays.

* Some models offer spin speeds as high as 1600 rpm compared to the average toploader's less than 1000, resulting in higher water extraction and faster drying clothes.

* The tumbling action of a front loader is much gentler on garments than the an agitator in a top loader.

      So, yes the long wash cycle is a pain. So, here in Umbria we find something to do while waiting the two hours, fifteen minutes for the towels to finish washing:

1) Read a book on my kindle in the bubble bath

2) Have a cup of tea on the terrace and listen to the birds sing

3) Bake a cake. . . from scratch

4) Take a long walk in the country

5) Inventory the pantry and go to the grocery store with an extensive list of staples to buy

6) Make my New Year's resolutions, including a plan to seek the virtue of pazienza (patience)

7) Hang the previous wash load outside on the clothesline to dry in the sun

8) Weed the orto (vegetable garden); toss the snails into the adjacent field

9) Make minestrone, chopping all the fresh vegetables (no cheating with pre-chopped frozen veggies, though they really are quite good)

10) Prune something -- an olive tree, a fig tree, a rose bush

11) Make olive oil infusions with rosemary and sage from the garden or lavender pot pourri

12) Reflect on the fact that living The Slow Life demands some concessions. If I had to choose between my WiFi and a twenty minute wash load, WiFi would win hands down.
Copyright Sharri Whiting 2011

While the towels are washing, the Umbrian countryside beckons

Links:

http://housewares.about.com/lw/Home-Garden/Home-improvement-renovation/Top-Loading-vs-Front-Loading-Washers-Which-is-Better-.htm

http://michaelbluejay.com/electricity/laundry.html

http://www.airliners.net/aviation-forums/non_aviation/read.main/65637/

http://www.efficientlivingforum.com/content/189-us-vs-european-front-top-loading-washer-comparison.html

 

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.