Love and food in the Apennines 4

Grand opera meets jam and Jerusalem

The long awaited announcement

Il maestro torna a casa, says the headline in the newspaper being read by the man at the next table in the more popular of the two coffee shops in the square in Castelnuovo di Garfagnana. When he leaves, we pick up the paper and pick our way through the Italian. It transpires that il maestro is the operatic genius Giacomo Puccini and tomorrow is the grand opening, with open air concert,  of the house in Lucca where he was born. 

What greater incentive could there be for tearing ourselves away from the terrace and the views and the pool and make that long awaited expedition to Lucca.  Despite not being able to identify on either of our city maps the location of the Piazza San Lorenzo, where Puccini’s house is sited and where the open air concert is taking place, we set off.

On reaching Lucca’s impressive ramparts that completely encircle the city, we find somewhere to park and have the right change for a four hour stay. By chance, the nearest gate into the city is the Porta Elisa, named after Napoleon’s sister Elisa Bonaparte Baciocchi whose story I recounted last year. (Elisa Bonaparte and Lucca). She commissioned the construction of the gate in 1804, piercing the eastern wall that had been kept intact for defence against Florentine invasion since the 16th Century.

The walls saved the city of Lucca in 1812 when a massive flood of the Serchio River inundated the valley. Elisa was governing Lucca at the time from her villa outside the walls, and when she tried to get into the city for safety, the people didn't want to open the gates for fear of the surging waters. Lest they let their princess (and, more important, the sister of Europe's emperor) drown, they hoisted her highness over the walls rather unceremoniously with the help of a crane. Like most of Elisa's life, the tale is reminiscent of grand opera - a reverse of Tosca throwing herself over the battlements.  

Local audience

 We find a city map that pinpoints Piazza San Lorenzo and after a little while we simply follow the sound of music through the mediaeval streets,. An orchestra, resplendent in full uniform, is playing under the hot sun in front of a fine bronze statue of Puccini in a square crowded with attentively listening people. We manage to find two chairs at a pavement café, all the tablecloths printed with Il Maestro torna a casa, and order the local speciality of lemon sorbet floating on chilled sparkling mineral water. 

All ears and standing room only

A succession of local dignitaries and representatives of the Fondazione Cassa di Risparmio, who acquired the house and paid for its restoration, give speeches before the orchestra completes the concert with a rousing rendition of the Te Deum from Tosca followed by that universal crowd pleaser, Nessun Dorma from Turandot.

Buoyed by the celebratory atmosphere and a reminder of wonderful musicianship, we explore more of the fascinating city before returning home in fine spirits to find another of Natalina’s baskets on the doorstep. This time in addition to tomatoes and grapes, there are 1.5 kilos of fresh and very ripe figs. Not the large black figs that are sold individually at an exorbitant price in the UK, but smaller brown figs with pale creamy stripes which reveal wonderful juicy, pinkish purple seeds and flesh. 

Even the most dedicated fig fan (husband is definitely not) would have difficulty in consuming this quantity but I  cannot bring myself to throw away such bounty.  I have one large glass jar with a screw top, a full bag of sugar and a couple of lemons, so it's time to make jam. Of course there will be room in the suitcase......

Fig jam

1.5 kilos of figs, washed with stems removed

500 gm granulated sugar

juice and grated zest of one large lemon

Put all ingredients into a large pan and bring slowly to a simmer, stirring to dissolve the sugar and then let cook gently for about an hour until the fruit is soft and breaking up. Test for a set and pour into hot sterilised jars. 

The mixture filled a 687gm jar  plus a dish that held a further 300gm and which we ate fresh, keeping it in the fridge. The lemon juice and zest gives a welcome sharpness to the rich, sweet fruit. Highly recommended for regularising holiday digestive systems - and tastes good too!

Freshly pressed grape juice and fig jam.

Photographs by Rod and Sandi

Love and food in the Apennines 3

Marriage Italian style

At the bottom of the mountain, just before the railway line, sits the bar/restaurant/general store called Il Ponte de Ceserana, otherwise known as Claudio's place. We met Claudio for the first time last year, on our return from four hours in the local hospital having my broken wrist set in plaster from fingertip to armpit.  He bustled around dispensing cold beer and warm sympathy in fluent English disconcertingly delivered with a  broad Scots accent. He then put together a selection of pasta dishes and fresh salads as a take-away lunch for us and our hosts the Cloke-Brown family and their three hungry sons.

When we returned to have supper later that week we discovered that Claudio was an innovative cook and indefatigable host. Not only does he eschew a printed menu, he doesn't write the menu down at all, simply regaling each table with the wide range of local dishes that he has produced that day. Dishes such as gnocchi with lemon and hazelnuts with a beef jus, or rabbit with olives and tomatoes, or penne with crabmeat. Sparkling white wine is on tap, there is a very quaffable local red and at the end of the meal, Claudio puts a selection of weird and wonderful looking bottles containing homemade liqueurs, ranging from deep purple myrtle, through brilliant green menthe through to a clear grappa.

So this year we look forward to renewing acquaintance. On our return from shopping on Friday, we call in at Claudio's bar for a restorative beer and to find out if he is cooking the next evening. Sporting a natty new apron (fake waiter's waistcoat in scarlet and black), he beams from ear to ear when we walk in, welcomes us warmly and assures that he is certainly cooking dinner on Saturday and books us in for 7.30.  But why don't we come down around 6.30 he suggests, and have a ringside seat for part of the wedding celebrations of two couples in the commune that day.

We had noticed posters fastened to posts and railings along the roadside, and on walls and notice boards in the villages above the house. Some featured the smiling faces of Serena and Nicola, others those of Agnese and Eduardo, announcing their weddings that weekend.  

Claudio explains that a tradition has grown up in Fosciandora for bride and groom to come down the mountain following their church ceremony, to cut a white ribbon that has been strung across the road just before the bridge and to raise a glass of celebratory Prosecco. Although the two ceremonies next day are taking place at different churches, at different times, the couples insist on gathering for a joint ribbon cutting.

Community spirit

We duly arrive on Saturday evening at 6.30, after a four hour walk in the mountains to justify a four course dinner, and sit down on the terrace. Strung across the road just by the level crossing is a large white banner, looking suspiciously like a kingside bedsheet, which has been adorned with a message announcing the gratitude of the inhabitants of Fosciandora for the great sacrifice of Eduardo and Nicola in relieving the commune of two spinsters.

Claudio’s wife Clementina, anticipating a spate of weddings that summer in addition to their own daughter's, has invested in enough ribbon to mark out several miles of carriageway. Claudio and son have created two flamboyant bunches of looped ribbon on one side of the roadway and stand ready to string the lengths across at the appropriate moment. But true to form, both of weddings in general and Italy in particular, the timetable shifts somewhat. The ribbons are taken down on three occasions, to allow cars and trucks through. We try to slow down our wine consumption and Claudio provides interim entertainment by showing us the photographs from his daughter's wedding the week before.

Then a bridesmaid arrives, a forerunner of what turns out to be a stream of incredibly slim, attractive young women on impossibly high heels and wearing incredibly short dresses. One bridal couple is definitely on its way, she announces, so the ribbons go up again. Then comes a report by mobile phone that the other couple are on their way too, so out come bottles of Prosecco and a tray of glasses.

A stream of cars begins to flow down the mountainside, accompanied by much horn blowing augmented by a strange contraption that looks like a tyre pump, but which emits a row as ear-splitting as several zarzuelas. A whippet thin cyclist in spray-on Lycra suddenly zooms through under the bedsheet and then wobbles perilously as he spots the marital ribbon booby trap. But he safely dismounts and decides to linger to watch the fun before tackling the mountain.

Eduardo and Agnese, Serena and Nicola

Just how the wedding couples are going to reach the ribbon cutting through the stream of cars that has now effectively blocked all traffic, does not seem to be of much concern and sure enough, suddenly the brides appear. One is wearing a classic ivory satin gown, the other in warm rose chiffon adorned with swirls of roses. Did they confer, I wonder, knowing that there would be a double photo opportunity at Il Ponte de Ceserana? 

Two pairs of scissors are presented on a velvet cushion and to much cheering, the ribbons are snipped, the Prosecco popped and car horns sounded. The two parties then disappear to the next stage of the celebrations in chaotic scenes of reversing cars, near collisions but universal good humour and Claudio retreats to the relative calm of his kitchen to prepare the usual impressive selection of dishes.

We are introduced to our fellow diners and chairs rearranged so we can all have a good blether, as Claudio puts it. Then to put a final seal on the marriage theme of the evening, it turns out that the parents of one of them were not only married in the same town as Rod and I, Colchester, but just two months earlier in the same year. 

Cin, cin

Love and food in the Appennines 2

An embarrassment of riches 

Sunrise over the Apennines

The grape harvest is now under way. The sun has burnt off the morning mist and three men in hats and bright shirts, carrying buckets, appear in the terraced field above the second bend in the road below the house.  They move slowly and methodically along the lines of vines and occasionally their voices float up towards us on the light breeze. This reminds me that there are several large bowls of grapes sitting accusingly in the fridge, together with the large box full bought for 80 cents at Leclerc on our first morning.  It seemed a good idea at the time, before we became the recipients of local generosity. 

A natural resistance to wasting food, made even more acute by the sheer pleasure of receiving such fresh and organically produced beneficence, obliges me to do something productive with the large bunches of black and white grapes we have received. Here are two of the solutions cooked up in the kitchen at Casa Barile.

Tipsy quail

Sear four quail in a little olive oil,  put into a casserole dish with pepper and salt, then pack down, round and under them a generous quantity of white grapes, stemmed and washed. Pour over a glass of Prosecco (which is what happened to be at hand, but any white wine will do.) Cover and pop into a medium oven for about 30 minutes until the quail are cooked.

Grapevines lining the driveway

Remove the birds and pop back into the oven in a small tin  for five minutes to crisp and brown the skin, then keep warm whilst you make the sauce. Keeping aside a couple of spoonfuls of grapes, push the rest with the cooking juices through a fine sieve, put into a small pan and reduce if required to a consistency of pouring custard.  In a small bowl, beat an egg yolk with a large dollop of plain yoghourt (or cream if you have it) then mix in a couple of tablespoons of the hot sauce before adding the egg mixture to the pan. Stir well over a very gentle heat, season to taste and serve with the quail, garnished with the reserved grapes.

Sober juice

Delicious though tipsy quail are, I realise that I need to scale up my grape management. So thanks to a Californian website,  and to a husband's prediliction for large, white, fine cotton handkerchiefs, we now have a virtuous beverage in the fridge to enjoy before the sun disappears over the yardarm.

Too hot to tread....

Take 2 kilos of black grapes, stripped from their bunches and washed. Put in a large saucepan and bash firmly with a potato masher. Then put on a low gas and bring to a gentle simmer. After five minutes give another vigorous mashing, to encourage  the juices to escape, and cook for another ten minutes. 

Line a large sieve with cheesecloth, or as in my case,  line a colander with a large freshly laundered handkerchief, and pour over a kettleful of boiling water.  Position the lined colander over a large bowl,  carefully ladle in the grape mash (advisable to wear a large apron or least favourite  clothing) and leave to drip through for several hours. 

To speed the process, after three  hours I tied the four corners of the handkerchief together with string and hung it from convenient doorknob over the bowl as if making jelly (see earlier blog Wild and free - or the art of self-preservation ). The weight of the mash helps to extract juice more quickly. 
  

Husband hard at work at his easel 

Then refrigerate the rich, gloriously coloured liquid and use within a week. Serve diluted with still or sparkling water and decorated with a sprig of mint, borage, lemon balm or whatever is to hand in fridge or garden. 

General notes: 

Yield is about 500 cl from 2 kilos of grapes. Handkerchief turns a stylish patrician purple, a useful description when explaining unconventional use to owner.

All photographs by Sandi

Love and food in the Appennines

Casa Barile

The road to the house, in Tuscany's wild and wonderful Garfagnana, is a heart-stopping series of steep, hairpin bends, with an occasional widening to provide sanctuary from oncoming vehicles hurtling towards you with confident and complete ownership of the narrow ribbon of tarmac. On one side the rockface towers high above, on the other, the road drops away into a wooded cliff down to the river, with some stretches offering the comfort of battered metal railings. The road is the only route in or out for a dozen or so villages, smallholdings and an agriturismo, so as well as cars of various size and age,  you are likely to meet the local bus, forestry lorries and buzzing scooter drivers convinced of their own immortality. 

Thus it is with a mixture of anticipation and trepidation, (and a dash of satisfaction at identifying a new route around the challenging ramparts of Lucca) that we embark on the last leg of the journey from Pisa Airport. We turn off the main road, the junction made even narrower by two men with a lorry rebuilding the retaining wall, cross the slim bridge over the Serchio River, bump over the railway track, negotiate the parked car and dozing dog outside Claudio's bar and begin the ascent.

Jointly swearing to pay the extra money for automatic transmission next time, we negotiate into the steeply curving  drive, through the iron gates,  past the vines dripping with grapes and park by the house, its solid stone walls and red-tiled roofs as lovely as we remember. We unpack only to locate swimsuits, click the automatic pool cover and sink into cool, welcoming water just as the sun dips down behind the mountains, turning the sky to rose and lavender.

Sunset in the Garfagnana

Warm welcome

Natalina's basket

The afternoon after we arrive,  a car sweeps up the driveway, unannounced. Out bustles Natalina, with husband Bruno, welcoming us back in non-stop Italian and kissing us exuberantly on both cheeks, before handing over a large basket filled to the brim with five varieties of tomato, nine eggs laid that day,  bunches of small, sweet grapes and a bunch of basil large enough for a bridal bouquet.

Assuring us that Natalina would come as agreed in a week's time to clean the house, the pair then disappear back down the drive in a flurry of dust.

The previous year's visit had been somewhat marred by breaking my right wrist on the very first morning. Now I am looking forward to able bodied enjoyment of the house.  One of its main attractions, apart from the high ceilinged rooms, the swimming pool and choice of terraces, is the kitchen, which runs the full width of the house with windows on three sides taking in the wonderful views.

A sink with a view

Just as well, I ponder, surveying the bounty delivered by Natalina, knowing that the fridge is already full of fruit and vegetables purchased that morning. The tiny cherry tomatoes strung like jewels on their long branches are deliciously sweet and thin skinned,  as easy to eat as sweeties.

But now was clearly the time to make all those recipes which call for full blooded, red-all-the-way-through, lumpy but fragrant tomatoes. In other words, the tomatoes you get when you grow them yourself and the weather is kind. Or Natalina calls by with a basketful.

Sweet intensity

Roasted tomatoes
Skin large tomatoes, slice in half around their middles and arrange on an oiled roasting tin, close but not touching. Trickle oil over each half, grind on some salt and black pepper, sprinkle with a little crushed garlic and top with a basil leaf oiled on both sides. Pop into a hot oven and roast until soft and blackening around the edges. Serve warm or cold with plenty of crusty bread to mop up the juices. (If any get too pulpy, just add them to a tomato sauce, stir into pasta, add to roasted vegetables......)

Pure and simple tomato sauce

Skin and roughly chop about a kilo of ripe tomatoes (if using up some of the cherry variety don't bother to skin) whilst a couple of chopped, large, red onions are cooking gently in olive oil in a large pan. Add some crushed garlic and stir for a couple of minutes before pouring in the tomatoes followed by salt, pepper and if you wish, some organo.  Leave to simmer gently whilst you have a glass of wine on the terrace, empty the dishwasher, catch up with emails or whatever until the sauce becomes thick, fragrant and full of natural sweetness. (Check every now and then, especially if you go for the glass of wine option, to make sure the sauce is not sticking to the pan.)

Keep in the fridge and use in all sorts of ways, on top of bruschetta (although Italians insist that the tomatoes should be chopped and raw), stirred into pasta, added to roasted aubergines and courgettes,  transform left over cooked chicken with a handful of olives......

Don't forget to check the sauce....