Under the Tuscan Sun (27 page)

En route home, we stop in town for a coffee. We expect the
streets to be deserted on Christmas night at nine o'clock, but
everyone
is out, every baby and grandmother and everyone
in between. Walking and talking, always talking. “Well, Jess, you're
objective,” I say. “You're new here so you must tell me if I'm
under an illusion—or is this the most divine town on the
planet.”

Without a pause, he says, “I'd say so. Yes. Extra
primo
good.”

The
passeggiata
activity is to stroll from church
to church, viewing the scenes of Christ's birth. The reminder of
birth is everywhere, is still the major focus of Christmas here.
Pagan, I suppose I am, but I think what a glorious
metaphor
the birth is at year's end, the dark and dead end of the year. The
one cry of the baby in the damp straw and death is denied. The
baby in every scene has a nimbus of light around his head. The sun
heads toward the celestial equator, bringing back the days I love.
One foot over and we're on a swing toward light. That restless
urge at this season, maybe it's the desire to find the light of one's
own again. I've read that the body contains minerals in the exact
proportions that the earth does; the percentages of zinc and
potassium in the earth are the same amounts we have in our bodies.
Could the body have an innate desire to imitate the earth's push
toward rebirth?

All the Cortona churches display their
presepi,
nativity scenes. Some are elaborate reproductions of paintings in wax
and wood models with elaborate architecture and costume; some are
terra-cotta. One crib is made of ice cream sticks. At the middle
school's exhibit of students'
presepi,
we're touched to
see the children's less ornate versions. Most are traditional, with
small dolls, twig trees, and hand-mirror ponds, but one astonishes
us. Paolo Alunni, aged perhaps ten, is a true heir of the Futurists
and their love for the mechanical and its energy. His
crèche—stable, people and animals—is
constructed entirely of keys. The animal keys are horizontal and
it's clear which are sheep, which are cows. The humans are upright
except for the cunning little diary-sized key that is the baby Jesus.
He's made the stable roof from a hinge. Eerie and effective—a
stunning piece of art among all the earnest projects.

EVERY MORNING I LOOK OUT THE WINDOW AT THE VALLEY
filled with fog,
pink tinted at dawn on clear days, a roiling gray when high clouds
blow across from the north. These are seamless days of walks and
books, of taking trips to Anghiari, Siena, Assisi, and nearby
Lucignano, whose town walls describe a graceful ellipse. At night, we
grill in the fireplace
—bruschetta
with melted
pecorino
and walnuts, slices of fresh
pecorino
with
prosciutto,
and sausages.
Scamorza,
more
native to the Abruzzo but growing popular in Tuscany, is a hard
rind cheese shaped like an 8. It melts to almost a fondue and we
spread it on bread. I learn to use the hearth to warm plates and
keep food hot, just as my imagined
nonna
must have done.
Our favorite pasta becomes
pici con funghi e salsiccie,
pencil-thick pasta with wild mushrooms and the grilled sausages.
A seven-mile walk along the fire road cancels the effects of
one evening of grilling.

On New Year's Eve, I am coming home from town with a carload
of groceries. We're cooking the traditional lentils (tiny coin shapes
are the symbol of prosperity) and
zampone,
sausage in
the shape of a pig's foot. As I climb the road toward home, I pass
the dome of Santa Maria Nuova below me. Fog completely surrounds
the church and the dome floats above the clouds. Five intersecting
rainbows dive and arch around the dome. I almost run off the road.
At the curve, I stop and get out, wishing everyone were with me.
This is staggering. If it were the Middle Ages, I'd claim a miracle.
Another car stops and a man dressed in fancy hunting clothes jumps
out. Probably he is one of the murderers of song birds but he, too,
looks stunned. We both just stare. As the clouds shift, the rainbows
disappear one by one but the dome still drifts, ready for any sign
that might be about to happen. I wave to the hunter.
“Auguri,”
he calls.

BEFORE ASHLEY AND JESS GO BACK TO NEW YORK
, where serious winter
waits to kick in, and before we go back to San Francisco, where
paper-white narcissi already are blooming in Golden Gate Park, we
plant the Christmas tree. I expect the ground to be hard but it is
not. Loamy and rich, it yields to the shovel. As Jess shovels dirt,
the white skull of a hedgehog turns up with its perfectly articulated
jaw and teeth still attached by a string of ligament.
Memento
mori,
a useful thought as the end of one year folds into the
new. The sturdy tree looks immediately at home on the lower terrace.
As it grows it will tower over the road below. From the upstairs,
we'll see its peak growing higher and higher each year. If the rains
these first few years are plentiful, in fifty years it may be the
giant tree of the hillside. Ashley, old by then, may remember
planting it. Because she is flush with beauty, I can't imagine her
old. She will come with her friends or family, all of whom will
marvel. Or strangers who own the house may take its lower limbs for
firewood. Surely Bramasole will still be here, with the olives we've
planted thriving on the terraces.

W
inter
K
itchen
N
otes

CIBO, FOOD, A BASIC WORD. I'M GATHERING
a bag of
cibo
to take back to California with me. I'm not sure
exactly when my carry-on bag became a grocery bag in disguise.
Besides olive oil (each of us carries back two liters), I take tubes
of those pastes that are marvelous for quick hors d'oeuvres: white
truffle, caper, olive, and garlic. They're very inexpensive here
and easy to transport. I take boxes of
funghi porcini
bouillon cubes, which I can't get at home, and a pound or so of
dried
porcini.
The bright boxes and foil bags of Perugina
chocolates make handy gifts. I would like to take a wheel of
parmigiano
but my bag is not that accommodating. This time
I'm stuffing in a truffle-flavored vinegar and a good
aceto
balsamico.
I notice that Ed has added a bottle of
grappa
to the bag, as well as a jar of chestnut honey.

To the question “Are you carrying any food items?” on the
customs form, I must answer yes. As long as products are sealed,
no one seems to care. A friend who had special sausages from his
hometown of Ferrara stuffed in his raincoat pockets was sniffed by
airport beagles and stripped of his heirlooms.

The only kitchen item I usually bring with me
to
Italy is plastic wrap; the Italian kind always gets off to a bad
start, leaving me untangling a two-inch strip. This time, however,
I have brought one bag of Georgia pecans and a can of cane syrup,
pecan pie being a necessary ingredient of Christmas. All the other
ingredients of Christmas in Tuscany seem new. One pleasure of the
cook is that now and then you learn all over again.

Winter food here recalls the hunter stepping in the door with
his jacket pockets filled with birds, the farmer bringing in the
olive harvest and beginning the cold-weather work of clearing and
preparing the trees, trimming back vines for spring. Tuscan food of
this season calls for massive appetites. For us, long walks build
us up to the hefty dishes that we order in
trattorie:
pasta
with wild boar
ragù, lepre,
hare, fried mushrooms,
and polenta. The rich smells drifting from our kitchen are different
in winter. The light summer fragrances of basil, lemon balm, and
tomatoes are replaced by aromas of succulent pork roast glazed
with honey, guinea hens roasting under a layer of
pancetta,
and
ribollita,
that heartiest of soups. Subtle and earthy,
the fine shavings of Umbrian truffle over a bowl of pasta prick the
senses. At breakfast, the perfumed melons of summer are forgotten
and we use leftover bread for slabs of French toast spread with
plum jam I made last summer from the delicate
coscia di
monaca,
nun's thigh, variety that grows along the back of
the house. The eggs always startle me; they're so
yellow.
The freshness does make a tremendous difference, so that a platter
of eggs scrambled with a big dollop of mascarpone becomes a very
special treat.

I didn't anticipate the extent of the excitement of cooking in
winter: The entire shopping list is changed by the cold season. In
winter here, there are no asparagus from Peru, no grapes from Chile.
What's available, primarily, is what grows, though citrus comes up
from the south and Sicily. A mound of tiny orange clementines,
bright as ornaments, shines in a blue bowl on the windowsill. Ed
eats two or three at a time, tossing the peels into the fire, where
they blacken and shrivel, sending out the pungent scent of their
burning oil. Because the days are so short, the evening dinners are
long, and long prepared for.

~ANTIPASTI~

Winter Bruschette

Crostini,
the
antipasti
that appear on every
menu in Tuscany, and
bruschette
are both pieces of bread
onto which various toppings are piled or spread. The
crostini
are rounds of bread; the baguette-shaped loaves are sold at the
forno.
A typical platter of
crostini
includes
several choices;
crostini di fegatini,
chicken liver
spread, is the most popular. I often serve
crostini
with
garlic paste and a grilled shrimp on each.
Bruschette
are
made from regular bread, sliced, dipped quickly in olive oil, grilled
or broiled, then rubbed with a clove of garlic. In summer, topped with
chopped tomatoes and basil, it appears frequently as a first course or
snack. Winter's robust
bruschette
are fun to prepare at
the fireplace. When friends stop in, we open a hefty
vino
nobile.

Bruschette with Pecorino and Nuts

~Prepare
bruschette
as described above. For
each
bruschetta,
slowly melt a slice of
pecorino
(or
fontina)
in a pan on hot coals or on the stove.
When slightly melted, sprinkle chopped walnuts over the cheese. With a
spatula, slide the cheese onto the grilled bread.

Bruschette with Pecorino and Prosciutto

~Prepare
bruschette.
In an iron skillet over the
coals or in a nonstick pan on the stove, slightly melt slices of
pecorino,
top with
prosciutto,
then another slice
of
pecorino.
Flip over so that both sides melt and are
crisp around the edges. Slide onto bread.

Bruschette with Greens

~Chop
cavolo nero,
black cabbage (or Swiss
chard). Season and sauté in olive oil with 2 cloves of
minced garlic. Spread 1 or 2 tablespoons on each
bruschetta.

Bruschette con Pesto di Rucola

This variation on the standard pesto is equally good with pasta.
Arugula is satisfying to grow. It sprouts quickly and the young
peppery leaves are best. By the time the leaves are large, the taste
usually turns bitter.

~Prepare
bruschette,
this time cutting the
bread into small pieces. In a food processor or mortar, combine a
bunch of arugula, salt and pepper, 2 cloves of garlic, and ¼ cup of pine nuts. Blend together, then slowly incorporate enough
olive oil to make a thick paste. Add ½ cup of grated
parmigiano.
Spread on grilled bread. Makes about
1-½ cups.

Bruschette with Grilled Eggplant

I've often burned eggplant on the grill—by the time it's done
it's black—so now I bake the whole eggplant in the oven for
about 20 minutes, then slice it and, for taste, just finish it off
on the grill.

~Bake an eggplant on a piece of foil in a moderate oven
until it is almost done. Slice and salt. Let rest on paper towels
for a few minutes. Brush each slice lightly with olive oil, sprinkle
with pepper, and grill. Chop ½ cup of fresh parsley, mix
with some chopped fresh thyme and marjoram. Lightly brush the
eggplant with oil again if it looks dry. Place a slice on a piece of
prepared
bruschetta,
sprinkle with some of the herb
mixture and a little grated
pecorino
or
parmigiano.
Heat briefly in the broiler to melt cheese slightly.

~PRIMI PIATTI~

Wild Mushroom Lasagna

Dried lasagna in boxes leaves me cold—those wavy edges like
tractor tires, the gummy pasta. Thin sheets of fresh pasta create
a light, light lasagna. I watched a real pro with pasta in a local
shop. Hers is thin as a bedsheet and supple. In summer, this recipe
works well with vegetables instead of mushrooms: sliced zucchini,
tomatoes, onions, and eggplant, seasoned with fresh herbs. Both
recipes can be used as a filling for long, rolled
crespelle,
crêpes, as well.

~Cut sheets of pasta to fit 6 layers in a large baking
dish. (Some of the middle layers can be in more than 1 piece.)
Prepare a
béchamel sauce: Melt 4 tablespoons of butter.
Stir in 4 tablespoons of flour, and cook but do not brown. After
3 or 4 minutes, remove from heat and whisk in 2 cups of milk all
at once. Return to heat, stir and simmer until the sauce thickens.
Mince 3 cloves of garlic and add it to the sauce, along with 1 tablespoon of chopped thyme, salt and pepper. Grate
1-½ cups of
parmigiano.
In a large pan,
heat 2 tablespoons of olive oil or butter and sauté 3 cups
of sliced fresh mushrooms—preferably
porcini
or
portobello. If you don't have wild mushrooms, use a mixture of
button mushrooms and dried
porcini
that have been revived
by soaking them for 30 minutes in stock, water, wine, or cognac.

Assembly: Cook 1 sheet of pasta until it is barely done,
remove it from the boiling water, and let it briefly drain on a
cloth towel spread on the counter. Place the semidry pasta sheet
in the lightly oiled baking dish and cover it with a layer of
béchamel sauce, a layer of sautéed mushrooms,
and a sprinkling of the cheese. Continue cooking the next pasta
sheet as you prepare each layer. Add a spoonful or two of the pasta
water to the sauce if you've used too much on the first layers.
Tuscan cooks usually use some of the pasta water in their sauces.
Top the dish with buttered bread crumbs and more
parmigiano.
Bake, uncovered, at 350° for 30 minutes. Serves 8.

Ribollita

A thick, soul-stirring soup with white beans, the ubiquitous bread,
and vegetables. As the translation “reboiled” indicates, this is
a soup that is easily made using leftovers, probably from a big
Sunday dinner. The classic recipe calls for hunks of bread to be
added to the pot at the end. Tuscans pour oil into each bowl at
the table. The soup, with a salad, is a complete meal—unless
you've been out plowing. Almost any vegetable can be used. If I
say “zuppa” to Maria Rita, she piles in everything I'll need,
plus handfuls of fresh parsley, basil, and garlic. I take her
advice to include the heel of the
parmigiano.
Once cooked,
the softened heel is the cook's treat.

~Prepare a pound of white beans by washing them well. Cover
with water in a stock pot and bring them to a boil. Take them off
the heat and let them sit in the water for a couple of hours. Add
more water to cover, add seasonings, and simmer until barely done.
They should be watched because they tend to become mushy soon after
they're done. Clean and cut into medium dice: 2 onions, 6 carrots,
4 ribs of celery, a bunch of curly cabbage or chard, 4 or 5 cloves
of garlic, and 5 large tomatoes (or a box of chopped tomatoes in
winter). Mince a bunch of parsley. Sauté the onions and
carrots in olive oil. After a few minutes, add the celery, then
the chard and the garlic, adding more oil as needed. Cook 10
minutes,
then add the tomatoes, a heel of
parmigiano,
and the
beans. Add enough stock (vegetable, chicken, or meat) to cover.
Bring to a boil, then simmer 1 hour to blend flavors. Add the
cubes of bread. Allow to rest for several hours. Add the parsley,
reheat, and serve with grated
parmigiano
on top and olive
oil to pass around the table. Leftover pasta, green beans, peas,
pancetta,
and potatoes all can be added to the pot the next day.
At least 15 servings, depending on the amount of stock
used.

Pici with Quick Tomato-Cream Sauce

Hearty sauces of hare and boar adhere especially well to the long,
thick strands of this local pasta, which is almost as thick as a
pencil. I use this sauce on
fusilli
and
pappardelle
or any broad pasta. This is a favorite.

~Cook 4 or 5 slices of
pancetta,
drain on paper
towels, then crumble and set aside. Chop 2 medium onions and 2 or 3 cloves of garlic and sauté in olive oil for 5 minutes. Chop
and add 1 large red pepper and 4 or 5 tomatoes. Season and cook 5 minutes more. Season with chopped thyme, oregano, and basil. Stir
in ½ cup of light cream and ¾ cup of puréed
tomatoes. Add a spoonful or so of the pasta water to the sauce.
Stir the
pancetta
into the sauce at the last minute to
retain crispness. Cook and drain enough pasta for 4. Mix the pasta
with half the sauce; serve the rest of the sauce over the pasta. Pass
the
parmigiano!
Serves 4.

~SECONDI~

Quail, Slowly Braised with Juniper Berries and Pancetta

My father was a hunter and our cook, Willie Bell, often was lost in a
cloud of tiny feathers as she plucked a mound of quail. The drooping
little heads all fell in the same direction. I wouldn't eat them,
even after she smothered them with cream and pepper in the huge
covered frying pan on the outdoor fireplace. With more equanimity,
I've met them in a new guise. The balsamic vinegar should come
from Modena. Those that are labeled
Aceto Balsamico Tradizionale
di Modena
and are marked
API MO
are the real thing,
aged for at least twelve years. Some of the ancient balsamics are
so fine that they're sipped like liqueur. I think Willie Bell would
approve of these quail.

~Flour and quickly brown 12 quail (2 per person) in hot
olive oil. Arrange the quail in a heavy casserole with a tight-fitting
lid and pour in ¼ cup of balsamic vinegar. Cover quail with
strips of
pancetta
and 2 minced shallots. Sprinkle with
sprigs of thyme, crushed peppercorns, and juniper berries. Braise
in a slow oven (275°) for 3 hours. Turn the quail over after
about an hour and a half. Moisten with a little red wine or more
balsamic vinegar if they look dry. They are excellent served with
polenta. Serves 6.

Roast Chickens Stuffed with Polenta

In Georgia when I was growing up, the Christmas turkey always was
stuffed with a cornmeal dressing. This adaptation of my mother's
recipe uses Italian ingredients.

~Soak 2 cups of polenta in 2 cups of cold water for 10 minutes, then add it to 2 cups of boiling water in a stock pot.
Bring to a boil, then lower the heat and cook, stirring constantly,
for 10minutes. Stir in 1 cup of butter. Remove from the heat and beat in 2 eggs. Add 2 cups of fresh croutons, 2 chopped onions, 3ribs of chopped celery, and season generously with salt, pepper,
sage, thyme, and marjoram. Stuff 2 chickens (or 1 turkey) loosely,
tie the legs together, and scatter sprigs of thyme over the birds.
Roast on oiled racks in a large pan. 25 minutes a pound at 350°is a rough estimate for the perfectly roasted bird—but start
testing sooner. Leftover stuffing can be baked separately in a
buttered dish. Serves 8.