blogfromafar

Thanksgiving is a great American tradition; a time when we actually get it right and spend time with family, friends and food, while our European friends are scurrying around increasing the value of the Euro or something.This Thanksgiving, we tried a free-range turkey from Rehoboth Ranch and knew that brining was in order because those turkeys build up muscle tissue with all that running on the free range. Gary used this recipe that uses cider instead of salt to brine the turkey; it yielded a moist turkey with a proper crisp skin, with just a taste of apple in the meat. Along with that, he continued the apple theme with this recipe for oven-baked stuffing with bread and apples. And, in what’s a new tradition for us, he whipped up some deviled eggs (try a simple recipe from Epicurious if you don’t have a favorite) using Fruth Farms free- range eggs ($4.50/doz) for tons of flavor and dark yellow yolks, and added in some crumbled bacon and O&Co. Summer Truffles in Oil ($24.99) at the end. Decadent and completely worth it.
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Cider-Brined Turkey, Apple/Bacon Dressing, Bacon/Truffle Deviled Eggs

Thanksgiving is a great American tradition; a time when we actually get it right and spend time with family, friends and food, while our European friends are scurrying around increasing the value of the Euro or something.This Thanksgiving, we tried a free-range turkey from Rehoboth Ranch and knew that brining was in order because those turkeys build up muscle tissue with all that running on the free range. Gary used this recipe that uses cider instead of salt to brine the turkey; it yielded a moist turkey with a proper crisp skin, with just a taste of apple in the meat. (more…)

Tuscany is a land of lives played out in layers: old generations with new, shiny Vespas buzzing past the Ponte Vecchio, silver olive trees glistening on terraced hillsides alongside brilliant oaks radiating red.  Or, just to mention it, a bunch of Texans standing on those same hills picking olives, staying in a nearby villa that whispers of visitors who stayed here last week and last century.   (more…)

Some people collect rocks, stamps, postcards, menus, on trips.  Not me.  I collect dogs; I love their eyes, their universal language, their open spirit…and can’t resist a pat or a hug, throwing sanitation and safety to the wind.  There have been several in my life over the years:  1) the Border Collie on a working goat farm who dropped a pine cone at my feet because he didn’t know that tennis balls weren’t available  2) Stellina (name means “Little Star” in Italian), the church dog in tiny Pian de Sco, who sits at the foot of the altar, barking with joy as visitors approach, 3) Dinah the truffle dog from Arezzo, a small short hair dog in fighting trim, ready for the hunt.

This year, “Rimbo” won my heart and the prize.  Walking down the Roman road from I Camini with a friend, we came upon a family harvesting their olives under the strict supervision of Rimbo (see olive net rolled at bottom of photo).   (more…)

The meal’s the thing in Italy, and a little  foreplay in the form of an apertivo often arrives before the menu: a little something to sip on and nibble as you contemplate your choices.

Figline Val D’Arno is a sweet little village close to the hillside where we pick olives, and L’Antico Frantoio (the old olive press) is a relatively new restaurant in town.  Their apertivo consists of a little white wine topped with something orange from a soda bottle 
labelled “Ginger” (no resemblance to our ginger ale).  They bring these wonderful little fried dumplings with it called “coccoli”; sort of like sopapillas without the sugar, they are crunchy outside with a puffy, chewy interior. (more…)

It’s the olive harvest, and we’ve taken a group of Texans down Tuscany way to help out and learn how it’s done.  This is our third year that we’ve taken a group to pick olives, and each time we’ve been blessed with a group with a good heart and a willing spirit.  For example, Jean and daughter Cindy pictured above graduated from PIT (Picker In Training) status to POP (Professional Olive Picker) on day one.

So how do you pick olives, anyway?  Our Amici olive oil is produced from olives like these that are picked by hand.  It’s not the most efficient method but the only one that works on trees that grow on terraces laced around hills like tinsel on a Christmas tree.  

First, you circle the net around the base of a tree, then grab a branch and comb the olives out like tangles from a child’s hair.  As the low-hanging fruit disappears, the going gets tougher, forcing adults to use lost tree-climbing skills to gather the remaining recalcitrants.  After the tree has shed its fruit, you roll the olives in the net to a central point, then pour them into a ventilated box where they rest for a brief time before being pressed.  

It’s good work, keeping the body in motion while the mind, bereft of its usual to-do list and schedules, finds time to unwind and reach back, uncovering forgotten strengths and untangling puzzling problems.  

The next time you taste Amici olive oil ($34.99 for 1/2 liter), think of our hands at work and time well spent in the Tuscan sun.

Italy has a sweet tradition of local mobile markets that move through small towns from day to day.  If it’s Tuesday it must be Figline Val d’Arno, and the vendors roll into town the night before, set up their vans with pop-up tops and awnings, and prepare for the next business.  In the morning, locals crowd the square, as much to talk and discuss the happenings of the day as to fill their shopping basket.  At the market, you can find clothes of variable quality, household goods, but best of all, the food!

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It’s November now, the harvest is over,  the tractor beds are empty, and rows of golden grapevines stripe the mountainsides in Chianti.  The view here is from a walkway to the tasting room at Verrezzano winery (www.verrazzano.com), just north of Greve in Chianti.  

Giovanni da Verrazzano set off in 1524 at the behest of the King of France to find a shortcut to Asia and wound up exploring New York instead.  The Verrazzano straits and their bridge  are named after him.  There is a connection and an affection for Americans here that lasts today.

The winery, normally besieged with tourbuses and tourists in the high season, was quiet on a late November afternoon when we rolled up.  The drive up the hill to the castle was spectacular, well-paved, and (not always the case in Italia), easy to navigate.  We prevailed upon the gentleman behind the bar for one more tasting of the day, and so we tried the 2005 Chianti Classico, the 2004 Riserva, and a 2004 “SuperTuscan” made only from grapes on the sunny tops of the hills.  As Chianti wine tastes best after 5 years’ aging it is hard to appreciate its future taste, even though our host cheerfully plied us with fresh bread drizzled with this year’s new olive oil, also produced on the estate.  We bought several bottles to tuck into our checked luggage (we’ve had good luck stuffing the boxes the winery provides with socks and placing in the center of a suitcase).  We’ll break them out a few years hence for anniversaries and grandbabies yet to come, and toast this lovely gray November day and the adventurous heart of Verrazzano.

In every Italian town there is a church, a Holy space – catholic even to  a longtime Methodist in the sense of universal, timeless.  The church bells are the heartbeat of every town, sounding a timeless, sometimes even asynchronous rhythm.  No “First Baptist”, “Second Lutheran” here;  it’s just “the church.”

Pictured above is Franca, custodian of the tiny town church in Ponte Agli Stoli.  We learned that Franca is completely deaf, so she must have seen us peering in the tiny church window and came running towards us with the key to show us in.  The church is a space smaller than 1000 square feet, recently renovated and furnished, including the linens on the altar behind Franca made by her and her cousin.  So much love and righteous pride in this home of the Spirit, this heart of the town shone forth from every pore of Franca’s being…so much that for once, it really could be captured on “film”.  Well done, Franca, good and faithful servant.  God bless.

In every travelers life there is a recalcitrant machine that eludes 
our understanding and just keeps us from enjoying what should be 
relatively simple creature comforts.   Last year it was the washing 
machine that refused to cycle.  Fellow traveler Linda Anderson 
counseled me wisely, “Work with the Machine,” she said, and I’ve tried to follow her advice ever since.  “Zen and the Art of Motorcycle 
Maintenance,” I think, and I search for the soul of a machine as I 
deal with the isiosyncrises of my cappuccino maker and my aging Ford 
Explorer.

Pictured here is one such inscrutable machine.  Deceptively shaped as 
a fun and sassy juke box, it is instead a heater and holds the key to 
early morning sanity for me and others.  It uses what look like rabbit 
pellets for fuel and has an electronic control panel running across 
the top that is most particular about how isle is treated.  One, only 
one press of the finger starts the warm-up cycle, acknowledged by a 
mysterious “-15″ in angry red electric letters.  A tiny flame licks 
hopefully around the bottom of the heater, then is extinguished by too much ash in the tiny bin below.  I empty the bin and start again, 
pressing the button obediantly only once.  “Attend” it blinks 
(“attendere”, or “wait” in Italiano).  So I do, until the light blinks 
the time again, signaling it’s ready.  I press the button again, a few 
pellets drop down, and the tiny flame starts.  Finally the heat builds 
inside and a blower starts, filling the room with, if not warmth, then 
with its anticipation.  An uneasy truce, until tomorrow.