Under the Tuscan Sun (17 page)

~Soak 2 cups of polenta in 3 cups of cold water for 10
minutes. In a stock pot, bring 3 cups of water to a boil
and stir
in the polenta. Let it come to a boil again, then turn down the heat
immediately and stir for 15 minutes on a gentle flame that is strong
enough to keep slow, big bubbles rising. Add salt and pepper, 8 tablespoons of butter, and 1 cup of grated
parmigiano.
Add
more water if the polenta is too thick. Stir well and pour into a
large buttered baking dish. Run in the oven at 300° for
about 15 minutes. Serves 6.

A Sauce of Porcini

When available, fresh
porcini
are a treat. They're at
their finest simply brushed with olive oil and grilled, a dish that
is as substantial as steak, which they're often paired with on
the grill. Out of season, the dried ones have many talents. Though
they seem expensive, a little bit adds a lot of flavor. Spoon this
sauce over polenta or serve as a risotto or pasta sauce.

~Soften about 2 ounces of dried
porcini
in
1-½ cups of warm water. This takes about one half hour.
Peel and dice five cloves of garlic and gently sauté in
2 tablespoons of olive oil. Add 1 tablespoon each finely chopped thyme
and rosemary, 1 cup of tomato sauce, and salt and pepper. Strain
the mushroom water through cheesecloth and add it to the tomato
mixture. Chop and add the mushrooms and simmer the sauce until
thick and savory, about 20 minutes. 6 servings for polenta, 4 for pasta.

Chicken with Chickpeas, Garlic, Tomatoes, and Thyme

One of those recipes that can expand to accommodate any number.

~Simmer 2 cups of dried chickpeas in water with 2 cloves
of garlic, salt, and pepper until tender but with plenty of bite,
about 2 hours. In hot olive oil, quickly brown 6 breasts that have
been shaken in a bag of flour. Arrange pieces in a baking dish.
Drain chickpeas and scatter over chicken. Add a little olive oil
to the same pan and sauté 1 coarsely chopped onion and
3 cloves of minced garlic; add 4 ripe tomatoes, also chopped
coarsely, 1 teaspoon of cinnamon, and 2 tablespoons of thyme. Simmer
10minutes. Spread over the chicken. Season with salt, pepper, sprigs
of fresh thyme, and ½ cup of black olives. Bake, uncovered,
at 350° for about 30 minutes, depending on the size of the
chicken breasts. This is attractive in a terra-cotta dish. Serves
6.

Basil and Lemon Chicken

A last-minute favorite, this chicken, served with a platter of summer
squash and sliced tomatoes, tempers the hottest July night.

~In a large bowl, mix ½ cup each of chopped spring
onions and basil leaves. Add the juice of 1 lemon, salt and pepper.
Mix and rub onto 6 chicken pieces and place in a well-oiled baking
pan. Dribble with a little olive oil. Roast, uncovered, at
350° for about 30 minutes, depending on the size of the
chicken. Garnish with more basil leaves and lemon slices. Serves
6.

Turkey Breast with Green and Black Olives

Turkey is popular here, though the whole bird is rare except at
Christmas. In this recipe, the breast is sliced into cutlets, like
scaloppine.
You can use flattened chicken breasts instead
of turkey. If you don't pit the olives, warn your guests. I use the
rest of the breast for distinctly un-Tuscan stir-fry with peppers.

~In a large pan, sauté 6 turkey cutlets in olive
oil until almost done and remove to a platter. Add a little more
oil to the pan and sauté 1 finely chopped onion and 2 cloves
of crushed garlic. Add 1 cup of vermouth and bring
to a boil, then quickly reduce heat to a simmer. Cover for 2 or 3minutes, then add the turkey again, as well as the juice of 1 lemon
and 1 cup of mixed green and black olives. Cook for 5 minutes or
until the turkey is done. Season with salt and pepper and stir in
a handful of chopped parsley. Serves 6.

~CONTORNI~

Fried Zucchini Flowers

When this is good it's very, very good and when it's limp it's a
disaster. I've made it both ways. The mistake was in the oil, which
must be hot. Peanut or sunflower are the best oils for these delicate
summer flowers.

~Choose a fresh bunch of flowers, about a dozen. If they're
slightly droopy, don't bother. Don't wash the blossoms; if moist,
pat dry. Place a thin strip of mozzarella inside each one, dip in
batter. To prepare the batter, beat 2 eggs with ¼ teaspoon
of salt and pour in 1 cup of water and 1-¼ cups
of flour. Mix well, breaking any lumps with a fork. Make sure the
oil is hot (350°) but not smoking. Fry until golden and crispy.
Drain quickly on paper towels and serve immediately.

Baked Peppers with Ricotta and Basil

Stuffed peppers were my favorite dorm food in college. This ricotta
filling is the polar opposite of the “mystery meat” we faced at
Randolph-Macon. Fresh ricotta, made from ewe's milk, is a treat. The
special baskets for making it imprint the sides of the cheese with a
woven pattern. We often buy it at farms around Pienza, which is sheep
country and also the source of
pecorino.

~Singe 3 large yellow peppers quickly over a gas flame or a
grill. The peppers should char all over, but don't cook them so
long that they turn limp. Cool in a plastic bag, then slide off the
burned skin. Cut in half and clean out ribs and seeds. Drizzle with
olive oil. In a bowl, mix 2 cups of ricotta, ½ cup of chopped
basil, ½ cup of finely sliced green onions, ½ cup
minced Italian parsley, salt and pepper. Beat in 2 eggs. Fill peppers
and bake at 350° for 30 minutes. Garnish with basil leaves.
Serves 6.

Fried Sage

Too often sage is associated with that green dust that comes in little
jars and makes you sneeze. Fresh sage has an assertive punch that
complements meat.

~Wash 20 or 30 sprigs of sage, pat with paper towels, and
allow to dry completely. Heat 2 inches of sunflower or peanut oil
until it is very hot but not smoking. Dip sprigs in batter (
see
recipe for Fried Zucchini Flowers
) and drop them in
hot oil (350°) for about 2 minutes or until the leaves
are crisp. Drain on paper towels. A splendid garnish for lamb, pork,
or any meat.

Sage Pesto

I found a pestle of olive wood at the monthly antique market in
Arezzo and put it to use with an old stone mortar rescued from a
friend who used it as a copious ashtray. These big mortars, she
explained, originally were used for grinding coarse salt. Until
recently, salt, a heavily taxed and government-controlled monopoly,
was sold only in tobacco shops. The cheaper coarse salt was widely
used. The large old mortars are handy for pesto; the pestle and
rough stone release oils from the herbs and bind the essences of
all the ingredients. Extrapolating on the basic basil pesto, I've
made a lemon-parsley pesto for fish, an arugula pesto for pasta and
crostini,
and a mint pesto for shrimp. I've come to prefer
the texture of these pestos to the smoother ones I'm used to.
Traditional Tuscan white beans with sage and olive oil taste even
better with a daub of this sage pesto. I like it on
bruschetta.
Passed separately in a bowl, it's a good
accompaniment for grilled sausages.

~Chop a big bunch of sage leaves, 2 cloves of garlic, and
4 tablespoons of pine nuts. Grind together in the mortar (or food
processor), slowly adding olive oil to form a thick paste. Transfer
to a bowl, mix again, add salt and pepper and a handful of grated
parmigiano.
Makes about 1-½ cups.

~DOLCI~

Hazelnut Gelato

Super rich, this gelato makes me want to give up my citizenship and
decamp permanently. Even people who claim not to like ice cream slip
into a swoon over this one.

~Toast 1-½ cups of hazelnuts in a moderate
oven for five minutes. Watch the nuts carefully; they burn easily.
Remove, wrap in a dish towel, and rub off the fine brown skin. Chop
coarsely. Beat 6 egg yolks and gradually stir in 1-½ cups of sugar, beating until nicely incorporated. Heat 1 quart of
half-and-half until almost boiling, then remove from the heat and
quickly whisk in the egg and sugar mixture. In a double boiler, cook
the mixture gently until it thickens and coats a wooden spoon. Cool
in the fridge. Whisk in 2 tablespoons Fra Angelico (hazelnut liqueur)
or vanilla, and 2 cups of heavy cream. Add hazelnuts and the juice
and zest of one lemon. Pour the mixture into an ice cream maker and
process according to manufacturer's instructions. Makes about 2quarts.

Cherries Steeped in Red Wine

All through June we buy cherries by the kilo and start eating them in
the car on the way home. Almost nothing you can invent improves the
taste of the plain cherry. We've planted three cherry trees and have
uncovered three more from the ivy and brambles. Two neighboring
trees are necessary for fruit production.

~Stem and pit 1 pound of cherries. Pour 1 cup of red wine
and the zest of a lemon over them and simmer for 15 minutes, stirring
occasionally. Cover and let stand for 2 or 3 hours. Serve in bowls
with plenty of juice and a big dollop of sweetened whipped cream
or mascarpone. Little slices of hazelnut pound cake or cookies also
might be served. You can use plums or pears instead of cherries.
Serves 4.

Folded Peach Tart with Mascarpone

I first learned to make folded pie crusts from a Paula Wolfert
cookbook. On a cookie sheet, you spread the crust, pile the filling
in the middle, then loosely fold the edges toward the center,
forming a rustic tart with a spontaneous look. The peaches
here—both the yellow and the white varieties—are so
luscious that eating one should be a private act.

~Roll out your favorite crust a little larger than you
normally do for a pie pan. Slide to a nonstick cookie sheet or baking
dish. Slice 4 or 5 peaches. Mix 1 cup of mascarpone, ¼ cup of
sugar, and ¼ cup of toasted almond slices. Combine this
gently with peaches. Spoon into the center of the crust, and flop
the pastry edges over, pressing them down a bit into the fruit
mixture. Don't seal over the top—leave a four- or five-inch
hole. Bake at 375° for about 20 minutes. Serves 6.

Pears in Mascarpone Custard

This is an Italian version of the fruit cobblers I must have first
tasted at the age of six months in the South, where they almost
always were made of peaches or blackberries.

~Peel and slice 6 medium pears (or peaches or apples) and arrange in a buttered baking dish. Sprinkle with 1 teaspoon of
sugar. Cream 4 tablespoons of butter and ½ cup of sugar
until light. Beat in 1 egg, then
²
/
₃
cup of mascarpone. Stir in 2tablespoons of flour last and mix well. Spoon over the fruit.
Bake at 350° until just set, about 20 minutes. Serves 6 generously.

C
ortona,
N
oble
C
ity

ITALIANS ALWAYS HAVE LIVED OVER THE
store. The
palazzi
of some of the grandest families have bricked-in
arches at ground level, with remains of waist-high stone counters
where someone used to ladle out preserved briny fish from a vat to
customers, or carve the stuffed pig, a job now performed in sleek
open-sided trucks that ply the weekly markets or sell from
roadsides. I run my hand over these worn stone counters when I pass
them. From odd windows at ground level, the
palazzo's
house wine was sold. First floors of some
grand houses were warehouses. Today, my bank in Cortona is the
bottom of the great Laparelli house, which rests on Etruscan stones.
On the top floors, windows open to the night show antique
chandeliers, big armfuls of light. Often the residents are leaning
out, two, sometimes three to a window, watching one more day pass
in the history of this piazza. The main shopping streets, lined
with great houses, are everywhere converted on the ground floor to
the businesses of hardware, dishes, food, and clothing. For many
buildings, probably it always has been so.

On the facades, I notice how many times previous occupants
have changed their minds. The door should be here—no,
here—and the arch should be a window, and shouldn't we
join this building to the next one or add a continuous new facade
across all three medieval houses now that the Renaissance is here?
The medieval fish market is a restaurant, the Renaissance private
theater is an exhibition space, the stone clothes-washing sinks
still just await the flow of water, the women with their baskets.

But the clock repairer in his four-by-six-foot shop under
the eleventh-century stairway of the city offices has been there for
all this time, though he may now be changing the battery on the
Swatch watch of an exchange student. He used to blow the glass and
sift the white sand from the Tyrrhenian at Populonia for his
hourglasses. He studied the water clocks drip by drip. I never
have seen him stand; his back must be a hoop from slouching over
the tiny parts for so many centuries. His face is lost behind
the lenses he wears, so thick that his eyes seem to lunge
forward. As I stop in front of his shop, he is working by the
light that always angles in just so on the infinitesimal wheels
and gold triangles, the numbers of the hours that sometimes fall
off the white face, four and five and nine sprinkled on his
table.

Perhaps my own teaching activities are immortal and I just
don't see it because the place doesn't have this backdrop of time;
in fact, my building at the university is a prime earthquake hazard,
slated to be demolished. We're to move to a new building next fall,
one with a flexible structure suited to a foundation that is partly
sand dune. A postwar structure, the current Humanities Building
already is obsolete: fifty-year turnaround.

The cobbler, however, seems permanent in his cave-shaped
shop, which expands around him only enough for his bench, his shelf
of tools, the shoes to be picked up, and one customer to squeeze
into. A red boot like one on an angel in the Museo Diocesano, Gucci
loafers, a yard of navy pumps, and a worn work shoe that must weigh
more than a newborn baby. A small radio from the thirties still
brings in the weather from the rest of the peninsula as he polishes
my repaired sandal and says it should last for years.

At the
frutta e verdura,
it is the same, the same
white peaches at the end of July. The figs that are perfect now and
overripe by the time I get them to the kitchen. Apricots, a little
basket of rising suns, and bunches of field lettuce still wet with
dew. The Laparelli girl, who became a saint and now lies
uncorrupted in her venerated tomb, stopped here for her grapes
before she gave up eating, in order to feel His suffering more
clearly. “From my garden this morning,” she heard, as I do when
Maria Rita holds up the melon for me to smell the fruit's perfume
and her clean hand so often in the earth. When she takes me
in the back of her shop to show me how much cooler it is, I step
back into the medieval rabbit warren many buildings still are, behind
their facades and windows filled with camcorders, silk skirts, and
Alessi gadgets. We're under stone stairs, where she has a sink to
wash the produce, then, another step down, we're in a narrow stone
room with a twist into darkness at the end.
“Fresca,”
she says, fanning herself, and she shows me her chair among the
wooden crates, where she can rest between customers. She doesn't
get much rest. People shop here for her cascades of laughter, as
well as for the uncompromising quality of her produce. She's open
six and a half days a week, plus she cares for a garden. Her
husband has been ill this year, so she's shifting crates every
day as well. By eight, she's smiling, washing down her stoop,
wiping a speck off a pyramid of gargantuan red peppers.

We shop here every day. Every day she says,
“Guardi,
signora,”
and holds up a misshapen carrot that looks obscene
to her, a luscious basket of tomatoes, or a cunning little bunch
of radishes. Every garlic head, lemon, and watermelon in her
shop has been lavished with attention. She has washed and arranged.
She makes sure her best customers get the most select produce. If
I pick out plums (touching is a no-no in produce shops and I
sometimes forget), she inspects each, points out any deficiency
she detects, mumbles, takes another. Each purchase comes with
cooking tips. You can't make minestrone without
bietola;
chard is what makes minestrone. And toss in a heel of
parmigiano
for flavor. Just melt these onions for a long
time in olive oil, a dash of balsamic vinegar, serve them on
bruschetta.

Many of her customers are tourists, stopping in for some
grapes or a few peaches. A man buys fruit and makes motions of
washing his hands. He points to the fruit. She figures out that
he's asking her where he can wash it. She explains that it is
washed, no one has touched it, but, of course, he can't understand,
so she leads him by the elbow down the street and points to the
public water fountain. She finds this amusing. “Where is he from
that he thinks the fruit isn't clean?”

All along the streets, artisans open their shop doors to the
front light. As I glimpse the work inside, I think medieval guilds
might still be practicing their crafts. A young man works on
elaborate fruit and flower marquetry of a seventeenth-century desk.
As he trims a sliver of pear wood, he's as intent as a surgeon
reattaching a severed thumb. In another shop near the Porto
Sant'Agostino, Antonio of the dark intent gaze is framing botanical
prints. I step in to look and spot a lovely old mirror on his shelf.
“Posso?”
May I, I ask before I touch it. When I lift it,
the top of the frame comes loose in my hand and the fragile,
silver-backed antique mirror crashes to the floor. I want to
dissolve. But his main concern is my seven years of bad luck. I
insist on paying for the mirror, over his protests. He will make a
couple of small mirrors with the old foxed shards and he will repair
my frame and put in a new mirror. As I leave, I see him carefully
picking up the pieces.

Most fascinating to look into is the place where paintings are
restored. Strong fumes emanate from this workshop where two women
in white deftly clean layers of time off canvases and rework spots
that have been punctured or damaged. Renaissance painters used
marble dust, chalk, and eggshells as paint bases. Sometimes they
applied gold leaf onto a mordant made of garlic. Their black paint
came from lampblack, burned olive sticks, and nutshells; some reds
from insect secretions, often imported from Asia. Ground stones,
berries, peach pits, and glass yielded other colors, which were
applied with brushes made from boar, ermine, feathers, and quills:
spiritual art coming directly out of nature. To duplicate the colors
of those mulberry dresses, mauve cloaks, azurite robes, modern
alchemical processes must go on in this little shop.

In holes in the wall all over town, the refinishing of
furniture goes on. Many men make tables and chests from old wood.
There's no subterfuge involved, no attempt to pass them off as
antiques; they know the aged wood won't crack, will take the stain and
wax, in short, will look
right,
that is, old. We take
our tools to be sharpened in a blackened room where the
fabbro
apologizes because he can't get them back before
tomorrow. When we pick up the ten hoes, scythes, sickles, etc.,
their knife edges gleam. Tempting, but I do not run my finger across
the edge.

The tailor does not wear glasses and his stitches could be done
by mice. In his dark shop with the sewing machine by the window and
the spools lined up on the sill, I see a new white bicycle, a water
bottle attached for long trips, nifty leather saddlebags over the
back wheel. When I see him later, though, he is only in the town
park, feeding three stray cats food from his saddlebags. He unwraps
the scraps they are so clearly expecting. He and I are the only ones
out on Sunday morning, when most people who live here are doing
something else. When I gave him my pants to hem last week, he showed
me a circle of photos tacked up on the back wall. His young wife with
parted lips and wavy, parted hair.
Morta.
His mother like an apple doll, also dead. His sister.
There was one of him, too, as a young soldier for the Pope, restored
to youth, with black hair, his legs apart and shoulders back. He was
twenty-five in Rome, the war just ended. Now fifty more years have
passed, everyone gone. He pats the white bicycle.
I never
thought I'd be the one left.

CORTONA MERITS ALMOST SEVEN PAGES IN THE EXCELLENT
Blue Guide:
Northern Italy.
The writer meticulously directs the walker up
each street, pointing out what's of interest. From the gates to the
city, further excursions into the surrounding countryside are
recommended. Each side altar in the
duomo
is described
according to its cardinal orientation, so that, if you happen to
know which way east is, after travelling the winding roads, you can
locate yourself and self-guide through the nooks and crannies. The
writer has even identified all the murky paintings in the choir area.
Reading the guide, I'm overwhelmed once again by all the art,
architecture, history in one little hill town. This is only one of
hundreds of such former marauder lookouts, perched picturesquely
for views now.

Now that I know this one place a little, I read with doubled
perception. The guide directs me to the acacia-shaded lane along
the inside wall of the town, and I immediately remember the modest
stone houses on one side, the view over the Val di Chiana on the
other. I see, too, the three-legged dog I know lives in the house
that always has the enormous underpants drying on a line. I see the
cane-bottomed chairs all the people who live along that glorious
stretch of wall pull out at evening when they view the sunset and
check in with the stars. Yesterday, walking there, I almost stepped
on a still soft dead rat. Inside one of the doorways that opens
right out onto the narrow street, I glimpsed a woman holding her
head in her hands at the kitchen table. Whether she was weeping or
catching a catnap, I don't know.

Whatever a guidebook says, whether or not you leave somewhere
with a sense of the place is entirely a matter of smell and instinct.
There are places I've been which are lost to me. When I was there, I
followed the guide faithfully from site to site, putting check
marks in the margins at night when I plotted my route for the next
day. On my first trip to Italy, I was so excited that I made a
whirlwind, whistlestop trip to five cities in two weeks. I still
remember everything, the revelation of my first espresso under the
arcades in Bologna, remarking that it stung my throat. Climbing
every
tower and soaking my blistered feet in the bidet
at night. The candlelit restaurant in Florence where I first met
ravioli with butter and sage. The pastries I bought to take to the
room, all wrapped and tied like a present. The dark leather smell
of the shoe store where I bought (inception of a lifelong
predilection) my first pair of Italian shoes. Discovering Allori in
a corner of the Uffizi. The room at the foot of the Spanish Steps
where Keats died, and dipping my hand in the boat-shaped fountain
just outside, thinking Keats had dipped his hand there. I kept no
record of that trip. On later trips, I began to carry a travel
journal because I realized how much I forgot over time. Memory is,
of course, a trickster. I remember little of three days in
Innsbruck—the first bite of autumn air, a beautiful woman
with red hair at the next table in a restaurant—but I can
still touch every stone of Cuzco; little is left of Puerto Vallarta
but the Yucatan is bright in memory. I loved the Mayan ruins seen
through waves of hallucinatory heat, a large iguana who slept on the
porch of my thatched room, the dogged solitude of the people, crazy
storms that blew out the lights, mosquito netting waving around the
bed, and candles melting astonishingly fast.