Living Light in Liguria: Life at the House of the Sun

(This story, which I wrote for BootsnAll, sums up much of my experience at my last — for now — WWOOFing farm in Italy)

“Oh Baba!” Massimo sighed as he lugged a heavy load of firewood into the house. Twenty-five years a farmer and fifteen a yogi, Massimo cried out to his guru in the moments of struggle most of us express through less inspired four letter words.

I was lying on my bedroom floor like a corpse, covered by one of the six wool blankets I slept with. My room was on the shady side of the house, and without the wood stove burning, it was too chilly to lie down in single layer yoga wear. This was my ten-minute savasana, the resting time after our morning asanas. Massimo, my current WWOOF host and yoga instructor, insisted that this was the most important part of the practice (though he was too busy this morning to relax for the full ten minutes). He also suggested that I refrain from touching water by washing or drinking for fifteen minutes. He explained that the exercises, mostly stretches and gyrations, activated glands throughout the body which released oils that did wonders for the skin. I didn’t quite get it, but my mind was open and my 7:30am body still sleepy, so I gleefully sank into my savasana.

With the energy and impulsiveness of a 17 year old and the insights and wisdom of 70 year old; bare feet that never got cold, tan skin, bright eyes and gray hair, Massimo seemed ageless. From the moment he picked me up at the Chiavari train station, he had shared his musings in English-speckled Italian. I’d probe him with questions, curious about his philosophy on communal living (it’s the ultimate lifestyle he is striving to create at his home, Casa del Sole) and healthy eating (one of the bigger ideas is that different foods feed different Chakras; one of the smaller ideas is that garlic is a medicine, not a food). Sitting without worrying isn’t my strong suit, but I’d try to quiet my mind for evening meditation. Hearing, “You are but a drop of water in the ocean,” is particularly soothing when it’s raining outside and the words are in Italian.

The 17 year old bellowed for the “Americana” to come outside, and as I joined him by the potatoes, the older man pushed him out of the way to poke fun at me by singing ‘50s Neapolitan star Renato Corosone’s “Tu vuò fa l’ Americano.” Tucked deep in the lush mountains of Liguria, Casa del Sole was isolated save for the neighbors across the valley. The terraced land burst with a thousand shades of green, broken only by plots of soil and stonewalls. We planted five rows of potatoes, Massimo digging up soil and me following behind, placing small potatoes from last harvest roots face up.

We followed the grassy footpath the next terrace down. To our left were arugula, leeks and chard and to our right, a forest of olive trees. With a small stream of water running between the trees and a tenacious streak of sun pushing through the clouds to light the morning dew, the grove looked nothing short of enchanted. All was silent except for the water trickling, birds chirping, roosters crowing and Massimo’s constant crooning – a mash up of his mantra and classic Italian love songs. I gave an impressed ”Bravo!” and he bellowed louder. “This is why I must live in the mountains.”

Using a knobby olive branch staff as a pointer, Massimo identified everything around us. “Cicoria,” he poked the ground where I was about to step, “is delicious fresh.” I walked more lightly with each step as Massimo revealed the food all around me. It wasn’t just under the soil where the carrots grew, or in the plots of broccoli and spinach. It was in the paths between crops, and in the soil between the stones of terrace walls.

With enlightened eyesight, I saw that the walls were thriving organisms, crawling with life. “Pimpinella,” Massimo stuck his knife between two stones and cut a cluster by its hairlike roots, “is like melon.” I nibbled the clover-like leaves and, to my shock, tasted honeydew. These herbs weren’t just edible; they were nuanced. There was a reddish, bristly, bitter cousin to the fern and a rounded, lime green leaf with hints of hazelnut. Had I just discovered detox’s answer to winetasting?

We filled three baskets with nothing but wild herbs; two for the farmers market in Genoa and one for us. I felt energized and at ease. Maybe it was the asanas, maybe it was the mountains, or maybe it was the fact that these three days were the longest I’d gone in months of Italian countryside life without wine twice daily. I’ll go with a combination of the first two (I like my lunchtime wine). After much snipping, soaking, a squeeze of lemon and a drizzle of Casa del Sole olive oil, our primo piatto of wild herbs was ready. Between the hunting, gathering, cleaning and chopping, I’d spent more time preparing a simple plate of raw greens than I’d ever spent cooking a whole dinner in New York.  And oh Baba, was it good.

Cuccìa for Lucia

I walked in for a morning cannolo (or, as the Sicilians would say, cannolu). There was nothing special about this particular pastry shop, and it was a bit early to be actively seeking out such indulgences, but this was my last day in Sicily. I had a vital list of almond-and-ricotta-infused goodbyes to make and no time for playing games. I tried to keep my eye on the prize, but something else was calling in my glass-cased periphery.

As I waited for the man in the kitchen to fill my cannolo, I shifted to get a better look at this milky mystery. Rows of small cups held a yogurty substance, some white, some brown, strewn with…were those chickpeas? “Che cosa è questo?” I’d asked “What is this?” enough to sound like I could really speak Italian, though I rarely understood the answers with such fluency. “Oggi, è Santa Lucia.”  In my pre-espresso haze, I understood her answer to imply that this dessert’s rotating name honored local celebrities. Today, it was the Santa Lucia special. A woman came in and ordered twelve cups of the darker one, il cioccolato. My hands were full with my cannolo, but my interest was piqued.

An arancino con ragù, gelato, marzipan and second cannolo later, I returned to Nonna’s apartment. (You may be thinking two cannoli in one day is unnecessary, overboard, gluttonous in the bad, Jerry Springer Show with a crane intervention kind of way, but hear me out. I stumbled upon Fratelli Rosciglione, a cannoli factory. What was I supposed to do – walk away? There were people rolling pastry shells by hand right before my eyes! Sadly, I had a camera battery fail, so no photos…this time. This guy, on the other hand, remembered his.)

This was my second time crashing at Nonna’s. The mother of my WWOOF host, she lived a minute’s walk from the train station and opened her home to me to make it easier to catch my early airport shuttle. A sweet scent seeped out in to the hallway. As Nonna opened the door, she asked if I wanted to try something special. Something Sicilians made just once a year, to celebrate Santa Lucia’s Day. Aha. Today, it is Santa Lucia!

Nonna

Needless to say, my answer was “Sì.” Nonna set a tray in front of me with a slice of panettone (good for dipping) and a generous bowl of what appeared to be the light-colored, thin pudding I’d seen that morning, only four times the size, dotted with bright pieces of candied fruit and topped with chocolate sprinkles.

I tried a spoonful. It was milky; strangely delicious. The pieces of grain added a depth of texture to the sugary liquid, creating a subtly addictive sweetness akin to that of tapioca or bubble tea latte. Every bite in a while, I’d sink my teeth into a piece of candied fruit. Normally, gelified fruit doesn’t do it for me, but the liquid cut the cloying out of the sweet, like vanilla ice cream on pecan pie. What was this odd enchantment, and why eat it only once a year? It was cuccìa.

A sweet dinner for Santa Lucia

Nonna, Luigi and Mimma each told me some version of the same legend: During the great Sicilian famine of 1582, the residents of Palermo prayed to Santa Lucia to end their hunger. As they prayed, a ship full of grains miraculously appeared in the harbor on December 13. (Many sources tell of this miracle occurring in Palermo; others claim it was in Siracusa.) Too ravenous to bother grinding the grains into flour, they ate them as they had arrived (most say they at least boiled them first). Since then, Sicilians commemorate Santa Lucia on December 13 by abstaining from eating any source of wheat other than boiled wheat…and maybe panettone. These grains, and the dishes made from them, are called cuccìa. Sicily’s history of Arab rule is manifest in many aspects of Sicilian culture, not least of them its cuisine. The word “cuccìa” was derived from the Arabic kiskiya, meaning both grain and the earthenware that holds the grain.

Over time, the Sicilians devised numerous savory and sweet recipes that transform bland wheat berries into flavorful treats. Of the many sweet cuccìa recipes, some have a chocolate or honey base, and most, like Nonna’s cool dessert soup, contain a ricotta as a star ingredient.

Once aptly bloated, I asked Nonna for the recipe. Looking back at my notes, all I jotted down was “ricotta, sugar, milk, candied cherries, grain and 3 1/2″ hours boil.” Upon searching for cuccìa recipes that fit this bill, I kept coming across ones that were either ricotta based with a more solid finished product, or cream based but ricotta-free. Finally, I decided to combine a few recipes that seemed just about right, relying primarily on one from Carol Field’s Celebrating Italy.

I believe the milk-ricotta combination was Nonna’s personal touch. If, after following the recipe below and if you’d like it to be a bit less thick and more soupy alla Nonna, stir in milk until the consistency is to your liking.

Cuccìa alla Ricotta

Makes 10-12 servings

Ingredients:

1 pound 2 ounces (500 grams) of soft white wheat berries

Pinch of salt

1 cup (200 gr) sugar

2 lbs 2 ounces (1 kg) of fresh whole milk ricotta, made without gelatin or stabilizers

1 package/50g of candied cherries, candied pumpkin, candied orange or citron peel or combination of your choice, cut into small pieces

Handful of dark chocolate chips, pieces or sprinkles

¼ teaspoon vanilla extract (optional)

1-2 cups milk (optional)

Preparation:

Place grains in a bowl, cover them with water and leave to soak for about three days. Change water twice a day. On fourth day, drain the grains. Set grains in a large pot and cover with lightly salted water. Bring to boil and simmer for 3 ½ hours or until wheat is nearly bursting and soft, but still chewy. Let stand at room temperature for 6-8 hours.

Meanwhile, press ricotta through sieve into a mixing bowl and stir it well. Add sugar and vanilla, if using, and beat until creamy.  Let ricotta cream sit for at least 2 hours and press through sieve a second time. Drain berries well and stir into ricotta cream along with candied fruit. Serve in small cups or bowls and garnish with chocolate chips, pieces or sprinkles.

Don’t be afraid to tweak it to your liking. Want more chocolate in every bite? Mix in a cup of chocolate chips alongside the grains and candied fruit. Chocolate cream? Melt the chocolate before mixing. A hint of spice? Top with cinnamon.

Can’t wait until December to celebrate Santa Lucia? I’m sure she won’t mind if you have an unseasonal bowl of cuccìa in her (and Nonna’s) honor.

Pasties, Pumpkin ‘n’ Pie

I’ve been doing the unthinkable and writing far back in retrospect. Blogger faux pas? Perhaps, but I felt wrong leaving a significant chunk of my journey unrecorded.  Alas, here’s a look back at December.

After far too much deliberating over whether or not to abide by the pesky Schengen Area regulations (90 days in the region per 180 day period), I decided to play it safe and spend sometime in England and Croatia.

I spent a few weeks with friends and families of friends in London, with a wee bit of Couchsurfing in Brighton and Canterbury (chose the latter as a base for a day in Dover, home to the famed White Cliffs). I’m going to leave my England entry brief, just a few lasting impressions and (mostly edible) visual highlights:

– Dreary weather and gray skies made me want to be lazy and eat cookies and drink mulled wine and hot alchy cider all day….which on some days is exactly what I did.

– The coffee is crap and the pub culture is impressive. The same great older male character watching you can easily find at coffee shops in Italy (and Croatia for that matter), you get sitting in a pub at lunchtime in England.

– Pub food is surprisingly good.

– Everything is disgustingly overpriced.

– Lots of doughy things, but a pasty is tasty.

– Camden Markets are a trip: vendors selling cheap eats yelling for your attention and tons of fun, generally negotiable, shopping in the markets and down the road.

– Walking along the grassy expanse atop the White Cliffs of Dover is a beautiful, peaceful (at least in the off season) experience.

– People are very polite and quiet on the tube, even during rush hour. The amount of discomfort this caused me made me realize just how much of a New Yorker I’ve become.

– Jamie Oliver owns that country. He is inescapable.

– London, Brighton and I’m sure plenty of other towns have tons of fantastic (albeit many overpriced) thrift shops.

– Lots of visually stimulating candy shops.

– Oxford Street around the holidays is quite possibly more overwhelming than Times Square.

– Big parks and the Thames make for a nice walking city.

– Hot alcoholic drinks are everywhere through the holiday season. They are sugary, comforting and slightly addictive.

– Changing of the guards is largely an overcrowded yawn. The royal band plays for a while which boosts the excitement, but it’s mostly you taking pictures of iphones taking pictures of iphones taking pictures.

–  Brighton is sweet! Small seaside town with kitschy pier, alternative bent and plenty of quaintness to boot.

Covent Garden

mince pies

pretty, pretty big meringues

West Cornwall Pasty Co.

XMas Fair in Hyde Park

Mr. Simms, Purveyor of Finest Confectionery

Why yes, thats exactly what a Tiffanys pop-up shop would look like.

Borough Market

Brighton

Couchsurfing hosts street

tea and whole wheat scone at Mock Turtle. hands down best (and biggest) scone i had in England.

Pumpkin soup at farmers market Farm Kitchen

Up in the Valley

Light-skinned and clean-suited, Luigi looked more businessman than farmer and was, in fact, more businessman than farmer. A retired engineer, he’d moved back to Sicily from Bologna to take over the family land after his father passed away. Sitting in the passenger’s seat was his girlfriend Mimma. She’d moved to the country with Luigi, but clearly missed the city life and fashion design career she’d left behind. Petite, buoyant and squeaky-voiced, Mimma kept creatively stimulated by painting and taking sculpting and Spanish writing classes in the city. I could tell right away that it would be her energy keeping things lively around the house.

Half an hour from Palermo, we came to the town of Altavilla. Then, we wound up through dark, rocky hills for fifteen minutes, the wind picking up along the way. The wind didn’t just whistle or howl; it whistled with the gusto of a howl. There was something unsettling about this Dorothy Gale force wind welcoming me to Randino, my new home in the valley. I couldn’t see much outside, but liked what I saw inside. Mimma’s abstracts and small bronze sculptures gave the open house an artistic edge, while weathered wooden doors and furniture reminded you it was a farmhouse.

I was working with another WWOOF couple, Else and Damian (or Damiano as she had taken to calling him). I could tell we’d get along right when I saw Else’s bright smile and Damian’s (he’s the first video) overgrown, curlyish hair. Else is from Norway and Damian’s an Englishman-cum-Irishman. Damian lives alone the forest by the Buddhist monastery he called home for several years. He was more humorous than hermit-reticent, kind of like an old man and a little boy wrapped in one. A drug counselor and certified yoga teacher, Else was warmhearted, calming, intuitive and had immense trouble remembering and pronouncing Italian names.

The description of Randino mentioned olive trees, a garden, fruit trees and lots of land. The land was there, but the olives had been harvested and the vegetables picked. We’d be weeding the oregano. Vincenzo, a gruff but friendly man in his forties, managed the farm. My first morning, he walked us down to 15 endless rows of oregano. Of us three WWOOFers, I was charged with the communication. However, Vincenzo spoke only Sicilian through a cigarette butt. Interpreting Sicilian is not like a New Englander deciphering a Mississippi accent. Even for someone fluent in Italian, Sicilian is like a whole other language. Hand motions would have to do most the talking. He picked up a trowel and dug out a bunch of weeds surrounding the oregano at an impressive pace. We gave him the “okay,” and he left us to work while he tilled the soil in the barley fields and looked over the free-range pigs and cows.

This was by far the most physically taxing job of all my WWOOFing. It was the hard on the back and the first serious arm workout I’d had in months outside of luggage carrying. Most of my farm work required moments of carrying heavy crates, but this was four hours of consistently intense work. Luigi was laid back, so we worked hard on our own volition and would break for the occasional midmorning tea and snack.

The landscape was strange but spectacular; brown cows grazing through miles and miles of rocky, green hills, with the sea off on the horizon. We’d usually have a long, late lunch, often some combination of homegrown pumpkin and pig. On rainy days, Mimma taught us recipes like pumpkin gnocchi and eggplant Parmesan. After lunch, we’d either work a bit more or wander into the hills. It was very serene, except for when that eerie wind returned. Or perhaps it was the neighbor that made things eerie….

I soon learned that Luigi’s meetings in Palermo had been with his lawyer. I had gone from one neighborhood war to another. Luigi’s grandfather had started Randino, buying many hectares of land and running a now-defunct wine vineyard with hundreds of employees. He gave one employee a piece of land to settle and work on, and this man’s son had turned out to be a total loon. The son, though seventy years old and presumably retired, is set on proving that he is entitled to part of Luigi’s land, which Luigi denies. These sorts of disputes happen a lot in the country. Family histories can blur the lines, and there are laws that give those who work a piece of land for a certain number of years ownership of that land.

However, this went way beyond an innocent dispute. It got Fatal Attraction creepy. The neighbor, who we dubbed Asino (donkey) Man, had taken to cutting the fences Luigi built to prevent neighbors’ cows from eating his crops. Last year, he earned his moniker when he murdered Luigi’s fifteen donkeys after they’d wandered onto his property. Yep. Crazy. He put up gates that blocked access to public roads, and took down others built to keep cattle from grazing on public land. And somehow, he got away with it. Mimma and Luigi blamed corruption from the mafia for the lack of response to Asino Man’s transgressions.

When Luigi’s much-anticipated donkey court date was delayed, he didn’t even seem surprised. “Justice in Italy is slow,” he sighed. In his words, I sensed the same sort of I love the kid, but she makes it really difficult to love her when you live with her sentiment I’d gotten from Chiara and Marco.

On the lighter side, Mimma shared tidbits about food, art, fashion and family history. She had a lot to say, but only in Italian (and Spanish), which I appreciated – good practice. One of the first questions she asked me was “If you could be an animal in your next life, which animal would you be?”  I loved her curveball of answer. Most people go for a bird (men love eagles), lion, dolphin or whale. Mimma chose the cow for its peacefulness and tranquility.

Those were the kind of conversations that made these workstays so great. With only oregano to weed and garages to clean, I didn’t learn as much about agriculture at Randino as I’d hoped to. Yet once I accepted that it wouldn’t meet all of my expectations, I had a lovely time. That’s the thing with WWOOFing; part of the fun is the element of surprise. Even if you read the listings carefully and ask questions, no farm will be exactly what you imagine. So, you need to size up the situation and decide if the farm’s a “fit” for you. If the shortcomings bother you enough that you’d rather pack your bags and come up with a Plan B, no one’s stopping you. But if you decide to stay, it’s essential to just roll with it and appreciate your new home for all its quirks.

Randino

"Randino Vecchio"

free form pumpkin gnocchi

Mimma, Luigi and pumpkin gnocchi

pumpkin soup with toasted pumpkin seeds

pig roast

eggplant parm

Damiano in Trapani

Vincenzo

Else and the big red van

oregano masters

The Center of the Universe

Sicilia! An island where the oranges are sweet and the ricotta is sweeter; where the dialect is incomprehensible and elderly men rule the street corners and voluntarily pose for my photos. It’s my kind of island to get lost in.

Before heading to the next farm, I decided to spend a few days somewhere else nearby. Without much research or reason aside from its proximity to Palermo, I chose Sciacca. I’d come across the Mazzotta brothers as hosts on the WWOOF, Couchsurfing and HelpExchange sites. One of the brothers is the arborist and the other the chemist. They produce a modest amount of olive oil for consumption and olive-based skin and beauty products. Fabio, the arborist, had recently relocated to a 300 person-populated island off the coast of Sicily, and invited me through HelpExchange to help with gardening there. I was already set to WWOOF at a farm near Palermo, but intrigued by these omnipresent brothers. Fabio’s island was too far and expensive for a weekend jaunt, so I set up a Couchsurfing/WWOOFing weekend in Sciacca with Alessandro.

Sciacca is a cute, seaside town without a ton to offer in terms of sightseeing.  Aside from barhopping with Alessandro’s friends, hanging by the fireplace and walking through town (including Italy’s narrowest street), most of my time with Alessandro was spent at his grandmother’s apartment in the center of town. His mother lives in a separate apartment in the same building, but comes down to join nonna for lunch and dinner. Judging by the pattern of our weekend and his empty fridge, I think it’s safe to say that Alessandro also takes his meals there.

Lucky for me, Alessandro’s mom was entertaining her friends at the grandmother’s place that night. The apartment had this old-style regality, with a big dining room table where we set up the food and a parlour room with floor-to-ceiling windows where everyone would eventually settle among a set of small tables to smoke and play cards.

We dropped by midday (for lunch and) to help make a ricotta-artichoke pastry appetizer. This was one of a myriad of delights Alessandro and I would enjoy that night and the rest of the weekend. Among the mom’s tour de force was a crispy rice and porcini casserole, local sardines, a simple salad of potatoes, gamberetti (baby shrimp) and marinated polpetti (little octopi) and, the undisputed champion, the caponata. A mix of eggplant, capers, nuts and, her nontraditional touch, sausage, in an ever-so-slightly sweet tomato-vinegar based sauce. Surprisingly, the sausage wasn’t at all overpowering. It was delectable.

In addition to the dried dates and never-ending bowl of kiwis, oranges and mandarins, was my first love affair with gelatin. I always opt for the canned cranberry sauce over the homemade Jello-cranberry mold at Thanksgiving; I’ve never been much of a Jello girl. This was a different story. There were two gelatin desserts: a Sicilian lemon one with sliced kiwi and banana, and a watermelon-hibiscus one with a dark chocolate shell. Washed down with a bit of homemade limoncello and herb-I-forget infusion, it was, in Alessandro’s words “Il ottimo!” ( “The optimum! The best!”)

Alessandro often spoke in superlatives. He was a ball of energy, manifest in random outbursts of joy. As we neared his home ten minutes into the countryside from the center of town, he slowed near a neighbor’s olive grove.  We stared at the centuries-old tree trunks. They were thick, gnarly and sage-like.

“You see that?” I saw it. “This is it. Those trees understand life. That is life!”

That evening, we drove to the beach and caught a brilliant sunset. “You can see Tunisia on the horizon. Not a bad place to be.  Sicilia! The center of the universe!”

Laughter on both ends. “Vero, the center of the universe?”

“Yes…Sicilia…Sciacca…the center of the universe!”

Guess I chose the right place to Couchsurf.

 

View from Nonna Mazzotta's

She was always watching, quick to critique his form

Sicily in December = ceramic nativity ornaments

 

What was once the caponata...you know it's good when I'm too distracted to take a pre-destruction shot

Potatoes, shrimp, octopus, capers, parsley...

An aggressive crowd. Note the men still huddle by the TV.

——-

Soon enough, I was in another grandmother’s apartment.

Alessandro had a meeting of chemists to attend in Palermo, so we took a bus there together on Monday. There, I met Luigi, my next WWOOF host. Luigi had meetings of an undisclosed purpose in the city all afternoon, so I had the day to explore.

We went to his mother’s place to drop off my bags. She lived in an apartment right by the station with a plant-filled terrace and incredible views of the city. There was something I instantly loved about this woman (I can’t remember her name cause she was always referred to as Nonna). She was friendly and welcoming without being overbearing, and she spoke slowly and loudly enough for me to converse with her. Once a piano teacher at the nearby consortium, she now taught from home.

“Palermo’s beautiful but it’s just too noisy,” Luigi said as he pointed out points of interest on a city map, “Just try to imagine it without sound when you’re walking.”

It was indeed noisy, though not unbearably so, and beautiful. Like all Sicilian cities, Palermo has a wholly different flavor than northern Italian cities. For starters, it felt more diverse. You could feel the Arabian influence in the archways of Norman-Arab architecture, the markets filled with colorful food and fabrics and districts of little Arabian restaurants to be found between windows of almond sweets and fried rice balls (more on those to come).

Palermo’s many stucco apartment buildings and ancient white and brown stone palaces and churches are nestled between green mountains to the east and west, the sea to the north, and an oddly stunning landscape of rocky hills to the south.

That evening, we headed about 25 km east along the coastline, to my new home in Altavilla.

View from the bus

Nonna's view

Nonna's terrazza

Country Mouse, Citta Mouse

While I was at Pulicaro, I took a weekend trip to Firenze. It was even more beautiful than I remembered from my brief afternoon there about six years ago. I stayed with Federico’s friends Marianna and Enrico, a beautiful, free-spirited Italian couple who met while living in Portugal, and Marianna’s adorable seven year-old, Niam. With bright orange highlighting the walls, natural elements integrated into the décor, a yellow parakeet Enrico mysteriously encountered on the shore near Cecina and a steady soundtrack of African and atmospheric music, they managed to bring an island vibe to a small apartment smack in the middle of the city. They live in a market district, so I’d wake to the sounds of leather goods, scarf and trinket salesmen setting up shop below.

It was a weekend of little sleep, lots of wine, wandering and dancing. Mixed in there was a lunch with my grandfather, who was in Firenze for an afternoon of a Mediterranean cruise (you know, Floridians), a random Tricky concert, an incredible meal at the vegetarian restaurant where Marianna works – a colorful oasis tucked behind a health food store in the city outskirts, a 24-hour lawn in front of the Duomo and a very tired trip to the Uffizi.

And, I mustn’t forget, Gelataria Vivoli, easily one of my top five gelato experiences. A rarity, I wasn’t actually hungry or yearning for gelato when I went there, but since Marco and Chiara (Chiara of previously mentioned gelato heritage) said it was the country’s best, I was on a mission. A charming shop with cursive neon signage out front, it was bustling yet not overrun by tourists. Vivoli nails both the classic and innovative flavors. After considering a myriad of options from my safety, nocciolo, to caramelized pear, I selected a special flavor called festina lente, vanilla-based with ginger, alongside rice and millefiore (honey from “a thousand” types of flowers), a honey-infused flavor interspersed with flaky saltine bits.

Chef Marianna

I made a few more city stops after leaving Pulicaro. In Siena, I Couchsurfed with a houseful of anthropology students ten kilometers from Siena. Riccardo, Davide, Marta, plus a few others, live in an old farmhouse up a long, vineyard-bound road, so I felt right at home. My body felt like it was shutting down, so I let myself stay an extra night and spend more time in little Siena than big Rome. When the housemates’ cars were all in use and we missed the bus, we’d hitchhike to town (yes Mom, but just twice) and get dropped off outside the city walls. The concept of a walled city is visually and generally fascinating, and gives Siena a distinctly old world feel. The Sienese are all about the Panforte, or “strong bread.” More of a cake than a bread, this dense and chewy confection contains just a bit of flour, generally along with honey, spices, nuts and dried fruit, topped with powdered sugar. Most shops carry the classic Margherita, along with the Panpepato, similar to the Margherita but with more warm spices, like cinnamon, nutmeg and pepper, Panforte Cioccolato and other flavor combinations like Noce e Ficchi (walnut and fig). I splurged on one pricey slice from Siena mainstay Nannini – a special flavor made with a layer of marzipan. It was worth the extra couple of Euros; a small cover charge for the party in my mouth.

Riccardo e Davide

Excellent name-what-you-want plate lunch at the tiny Grattacielo (“Skyscraper”)

Today, Porchetta

Rome was Rome: big, busy and beautiful with a constantly stimulating contrast of new and ancient everywhere you turn. I can picture myself happy as a clam living there. My two days there were a whirlwind. Sometimes in the places that have the most, you end up seeing the least destination-wise because walking in circles is the most exciting part. That said, I know I walked through still-being-uncovered ruins, went to my first Couchsurfing bar night, ate chestnuts by the Trevi fountain, ate gelato at Giolitti (yes, just like Audrey Hepburn in Roman Holiday) and gawked for my second time at the grandeur of St. Peter’s Basilica and the Sistine Chapel. I knew I’d be back, so I didn’t feel pressured to see everything at once.

Rainbow by the Colosseum!

Gallery of Maps, Apostolic Palace

Before heading to Sicily, I decided to spend an afternoon in Napoli and catch the night ferry from there. This was an excellent decision. Americans and Italians alike warned me about Naples: It was city gone wrong. I’d be mugged and left for the mafia within ten minutes of arrival, and using my camera in public was sudden death. Well, if Napoli is wrong, I don’t want to be right. Sure, there was a little trash piled up in front of the station and I got the vibe (albeit no major incidents to confirm said vibe) as I walked back to the station after sunset that maybe it’s not the best city wander solo after dark. But it’s alive. Alive with people who wanted to talk to me but didn’t speak English and who wanted to make sure I consumed what was quintessential Naples before I left.

I drank a delicious chocolate coffee shakerato of sorts at Caffè Mexico, served by a man in a cute diner style hat who let me photograph him with a smile and no mugging. Then I wandered into a church drowned in toothbrushes. A Scandinavian artist had filled it with sculptures made entirely from toothbrushes, including a sea of blue toothbrushes which wooden swimmer figures were diving into. I made my way to L’Antica Pizzeria Da Michele, a Napoli institution since 1870 and, as boasted in posters around the restaurant, the one where Julia Roberts ate in Eat, Pray, Love. I’ve heard that people wait for an hour outside during high season. When I asked for a number, the white-coated Antonio, one of the two brothers who run the shop their father founded, told me to stay inside by him and he’d find me a seat shortly. In ten minutes, he had me seated at a table with three 40 something Neapolitan sisters.

Like many of the world’s best eateries, Da Michele keeps it simple. The menu is such: Marinara (sans cheese) normal, medio and maxi; Margherita normal, medio and doppio. The increase for the Margherita isn’t so much in size as it is fior di latte cheese. The sisters ordered a normal Margherita  and Marinara. I generally like a heavy tomato:cheese ratio, but I followed the waiter’s advice and went for the medio. I wasn’t going to take any chances skimping in the home of Margherita. The pizza was, no surprise, divine – the cheese warm, creamy goodness that was just runny enough; the tomatoes fresh and just sweet enough; and the dough thin of course, but notably softer than the prevailing thin crust pizza in America. By American standards, the cheese wasn’t too much, but if I lived close enough to be a regular, I think Margherita normal (con birra) would be my personal order. The sisters welcomed me into their crew, insisting we take a few photos together. They too, did not mug me; in fact, one sister insisted on paying for my pizza and beer. When I tried to refuse, the others literally pushed me out the door. “I love Napoli,” was all I could think.

I sauntered off my personal pizza along the city’s narrow market streets. It was amazing, especially with the holidays coming up. It was like I’d died and gone to kitsch/nativity scene heaven. I walked in a happy stupor, staring at the overcrowded store windows and stopping to pick up a few tchotchkes and the requisite sfogliatelle (hard, pleated crescent shell shaped pastry filled with light, sweet ricotta) and yes, gelato.  Later, I dropped into another Caffè Mexico for espresso, this time helped by a bubbly girl who wanted to practice her English and ask me about the big homes are in Florida (her chosen subject for a school paper). An aggressive afternoon for the stomach, sure, but if I was in Napoli for only a day, this was my Last Supper.

Feeling chubby, cheerful and tired, I boarded the ferry to Sicily…

Pulicaro

From Le Serre, I headed inland and south to Torre Alfina, a village in the plains of northern Lazio. My next two-week home was Pulicaro, a farm and agritourism run by a young couple, Marco and Chiara. The half-hour ride with Chiara from the train station in Orvieto to Torre Alfina was an unexpected introduction to her and Marco’s personal challenges and the more generally fraught relationship Italians have with their government.

She informed me that Marco would be in Rome for the day tomorrow for a meeting. The meeting was actually a court date. For nearly all of Marco and Chiara’s six years at Pulicaro, they’ve been entangled in legal battles with an industrial neighbor. This neighbor excavates basalt, apparently far more than he’s legally entitled to. Outraged by the liberties he’d taken with the land and the threat he poses to the area’s natural landscape, Marco turned to the law. As the head of their local agriculture group, he was the natural leader for the fight, and soon the object of libel charges from said neighbor.

The government has been slow to react to Marco’s cries for justice. Chiara sighed, “Sometimes I think of going somewhere life would be easier…” She explained that she loves her land and her country dearly, but the government and its corruption make it a hard place to work and live.

From that first evening, it was clear that Chiara and Marco are sweet, down to earth and very real (though not of the hippie persuasion). Chiara grew up in Milan and Marco, Rome. Neither come from agricultural families, though Chiara’s family used to run a gelato shop in Milan and her dad is now president of the country’s gelato association. Seriously. This means that regional “best of” flavor competitions among other dreamy duties fall under his jurisdiction. If I’d only met Chiara before going to Milan, I’d have insisted on meeting my new idol. Marco and Chiara bought Pulicaro as newly married twenty somethings, renovated the old farmhouse into a beautiful B&B and planted a small olive grove on their own.

They have 26 hectares of land, much of which is woodland and roaming room for their animals: some two hundred chickens, ducks and geese, a few turkeys, about fifteen rabbits, three cats, six kittens, five goats (just for fun), five big white Shepard dogs and two silly house beagle mutts. Marco is largely engrossed in the basalt battle, but when he does work on the land, he rocks amazing red-suspendered denim overalls. Chiara’s focus is growing and running the agritourism business. Meanwhile, Marco’s younger cousin and new Torre Alfina resident, Pasquale, runs the day-to-day farming tasks. Fiora, a chatty woman from town who spent twenty-three years working at a designer jeans factory, runs the jam and sauce production and does housework for the agritourism.

I worked mostly with Pasquale, Fiora and Siggis and Agne, a young Lithuanian WWOOFer couple who were at Pulicaro for half my time there. They were all lovely company, but the weather made it one of the more challenging stretches of my travels.  It was either raining or about to rain nearly all of my time there. I expected to be working a lot with the olives, but we ended up harvesting their “rented” trees only one day and they harvested their own smaller trees over the weekend I went to Firenze. The first week was consumed by cutting up giant pumpkins of various shapes and colors, making sweet pumpkin jam and a pumpkin risotto sauce, carrying wood logs to the oven and running out to feed the animals and clean their cages whenever there was a dry spell.

When Siggis and Agne were with me, Siggis would handle the chickens and bigger animals, while Agne and I fed the chicks, cats and rabbits. The chicks were stinky and wild (too many animals in a small space, but Pasquale keeps them there for a little while because they need the heat when they’re young) and the rabbits alternately friendly and shy. During Week Two, I managed all the animals on my own, though thankfully, Pasquale was kind of enough to man the chick refuse for me. It was impossible not to smile when passing the goats with their noisy little bells. There were two baby goats, and the little white guy with the start of a fantastic beard was nameless. Pasquale let me have the honor of naming him, and I quickly settled on Rumpelstiltskin.

Feeding the chickens was an adventure in and of itself. Even when there was still food in the containers from the last feeding, they would swarm me, eager for a new batch of grain. Plus, there was Nagasaki. Pasquale warned me about Nagasaki on my first day with the chickens, “He’ll try to fight you every time.” Sure enough, when we entered Nagasaki’s domain, one chicken separated from the rest and approached us confidently. An attractive lunatic, Nagasaki was recognizable by his golden feathers, green-black tail and cocky strut. He  puffed up the feathers around his neck and went in for the kill. Pasquale blocked him with the wheelbarrow and with a plastic scooper tapped the possessed chicken on its tail. Nagasaki subsided and backed away. “Once you hit his ass, you’ve won.”  Pasquale offered no further explanation. When I was in charge of feeding, I’d fill a wheelbarrow with grain from a silo a few meters dowhnhill from the rest of the farm. The wheelbarrow itself was a bit heavy going uphill; paired with the slippery, muddy ground and Nagasaki on the attack, it was like an episode of Italian Gladiators: Countryside Special.

I became buddies with the rabbits, so it was a sad morning for me when Pasqaule took a few of them from their cages as I was feeding them. He brought them down to two old country women there to get the job done with old school expertise. I’m sure they did it in the most painless and cleanest way possible, but I could hear the rabbits crying as I stood only twenty meters away feeding the kittens. It was an awful, stirring experience.

An avid food lover and discoverer, I’ve long had incompatible desires to try every type of food from every culture I encounter and to swear off meat. As I’m inundated with amazing homecooked meals and surrounded by farm animals, many of whom actually seem very content and free to wander, these conflicting feelings are top of mind. We should know where our food comes from in a much more real, visceral way than we do when we buy it at the supermarket or order it for dinner. If I can’t be around animals dying, let alone slaughter an animal, who am I to eat meat?

No sooner had I thought the word “vegetarian,” than Pasquale invited me to a hunters’ feast at our neighbor’s restaurant. They were having a massive dinner provided by their recently hunted cinghiale (wild boar). When in the country…

Pasquale is the youngest member of Torre Alfina’s local hunting club. Until a large family showed up late, I was the only girl at the feast. It was me, Pasquale and a room full of jovial, some rough, some slick, mostly 60+ men.  There were easily fifty diners. We had five courses, two of which were cinghiale: one with pappardelle and the other a simply-presented plate with chunks of tender meat. The boars get to run free their whole lives, not like the poor rabbits who are stuck in cages, I rationalized. (Note: Pasquale, Chiara and Marco do care about the treatment of their animals. They go out of their way to feed them organic food and are still learning and experimenting with ways to make the animals as free as possible. Unlike the bunnies, the chickens, ducks, etc. have some room to roam). There was of course plenty of wine to go around, so I was glad the ride home was just down one long driveway and up another.

Pulicaro’s stone farmhouse was truly lovely, and the tree-filled plains in the winter was like some sort of beautiful, bizarro New England. Still, I found myself longing for the water. Something about knowing the sea is only a few kilometers away, even if it’s too cold to go swimming and I can only see the water in the horizon, makes me feel invigorated and at ease. It was interesting to stay with such a young couple as they faced the very real challenges of making organic farming profitable. Marco hopes to focus on doing a few things really well (like eggs and olive oil) and working through GAS’s, their version of CSA’s. While I was there, they developed a new relationship with one GAS that will hopefully give them the stability they need to keep investing in their animals, fruits and vegetables. It’s a rewarding lifestyle, but only for those with immense patience, passion and dedication.

Life of the party. Pasquale says he’s “the team mascot.”

teeny kitten!

You say “olivi,” I say “ulivi” (or we all just say “olives”)

The Harvest

Picking grapes and chestnuts was a fairly simple process from the picker’s perspective: clip or pick up and drop in little container, when container is full, empty into larger container, repeat.

Things get a bit more interesting with olives. The exact method for olive growing and harvesting of course varies depending on the size of the olivi/ulivi* (olive trees) and the owner’s preference. For starters, Le Serre is biologico aka organic, which means no scary chemicals are used on the olives. All trees need to be pruned, or clipped down a bit, in the winter. Snipping away a few branches actually helps keep the plants healthy and their olive yield and quality high (if you know how to prune properly; something I’m interested to learn more about).

*I heard and read “olive words” starting with both ‘o’s and ‘u’s in Italy. When I asked people, I always got different answers. Upon further research, it seems that indeed both forms are used today and both correct.

Enrico explained that it’s best to pick when the olives are just ripening, so we started to harvest when most of the olives were turning from green to brown. We’d place large nets beneath the trees, clipping the nets to each other and making sure they hugged the tree trunks leaving no gaps for the olives to fall through. Enrico’s not big on killing all the plants around the trees, so there were lots of weeds to navigate our way around with the nets.

We used a ladder only for one very tall tree. For the rest of them, one or two of us would duck under the leaves and climb up on the trunk to pick the inner ulivi/olivi. Most of us would pick by hand or using a little yellow comb that always made me think of a dinglehopper.  Meanwhile, a couple of people would use machines resembling motorized, vibrating rakes to shake most the olives from the trees and reach the highest ones.

After all the trees above a net were picked, we’d unclip, gather the olives, pick out any big branches or leaves, pour the olives into a cassetta, move the nets and re-clip. When a lot of people are working quickly, there’s almost a constant need to be gathering olives and moving nets. Like many, I preferred picking. It was fun, therapeutic even, to pick while chatting, humming or basking in a moment of silence with a view the sea in the distance. To go for the low-hanging fruit, I’d sometimes sit beneath the tree, hidden in my own little canopy of leaves, olives and branches. The harvest is really a beautiful balance between physical work, socializing and having your own private peace.

Tooltime! Keren, Kristy, Daniel and Gabe

Louise hanging in the trees

Side Note: It’s a pretty tame job, but naturally, I made good on any potential dangers involved…

1) Falling out of trees: One morning, I got a bit overzealous in the tree and slipped off the branch, falling onto another on my way down. It hurt a bit, but my ego was far more bruised than my bum; I felt a slight breeze and realized I’d actually managed to rip a few holes in the back of my pants during the fall.

2) Leaf Eye: If you stand near the guys with the auto-rakes, it basically rains olives on your head, an experience I didn’t mind. A greater hazard than the olives themselves are the leaves. Olive leaves are constantly flying off the tree and snapped your way when your neighbor releases a branch. I got a leaf in the eye on one of my first mornings at Le Serre. It stung a bit, but I threw on a pair of inappropriately-large-for-manual-labor sunglasses and figured I’d get over it. That night, conditions worsened. It burned to open my eye all the way and the skin around it was red and swollen. Despite criticism, I continued to don oversized glasses at dinner. By morning, I couldn’t open my eye. This alongside the cold and stomach bug I was quietly fighting made for a painful combination. With one nostril curiously stuffed and one eye watering, I was looking pretty pathetic. It was Sunday, and all the WWOOFers had planned to visit nearby thermal springs for the day. Enrico took me to the nearby pharmacy (run by COOP!) on the way to the station. There, the pharmacist understood that I’d spliced my eye with a piece of paper (foglio) rather than a leaf (foglia) and insisted I go to the emergency room. Eventually, I convinced her to let me first buy some eye drops. The eye drops and the fresh water helped immensely, and I was back in the oliveto/uliveto (olive grove), armed with protective sunglasses, the next day.

From Graft to Glass

Enrico’s olives are a mix of frantoio, moraiolo, leccino, and pendolino. He prefers to mix them all up, producing a well-balanced oil with hints of fruit and spice. I’ve talked to others who prefer to stick to one type of olive, many claiming the flavorful frantoio is the best.

Most of the trees at Le Serre are about twenty years old; big enough to hold a couple of grown male climbers, but without the gnarly, thick trunks of 200-year old trees. It takes about eight years for a new olive tree to bear a significant amount of fruit, though there’s not as strong a correlation between age and quality with olive trees as there is with vines. Likewise, olive oil doesn’t grow better with age; it softens up a bit after the first few months when the oil is bright green and tastes as spunky as it looks, and is best consumed within a year of bottling.

Many things surprised me about the ways of olive and their trees. Here are just a few:

1. All wild olive trees produce small fruit or none at all, and you can’t grow the cultivated varieties by seed. They must be “grafted” or “budded.” Federico told us a thing or two about grafting, the process of fusing the bark of one (cultivated) tree with that of another (wild) tree. Apparently, there are just a few pro-grafters in Italy. By keeping their methods secret, they keep grafting a high-paying gig.

2. There’s a natural cycle with olive trees by which a tree produces a lot of fruit every two years. I found that this can help keep a positive attitude, as each tree that had only a few olives this year was just a promise for more olives next year. Pruning can help to maintain a balance and avoid the alternate bearing effect.

3. Fresh olives are rancid. This is probably not a surprise to most of you, but I had no idea exactly how bitter olives are before they’re pressed, cured or otherwise processed. By the time I’d been in Varenna for a week, I’d developed a dangerous habit of picking and eating fruits familiar and foreign. It seemed natural to pluck an olive off the tree in the backyard and test it out. After all, no pesticides, no problem, right? Wrong. I spat it out, scraped my tongue and gargled some water. I wondered if maybe Sandra and Gigi were organic with everything except their olives, which they sprayed with poison. After experiencing no symptoms of impending death, I asked them about table olive prep. Table olives need to be fermented or cured before consumption. There are lots of methods for curing; like most people I met, Sandra and Gigi, soak the olives in brine (a salt-water solution) for at least one month, changing the water about every ten days.

Once you make it through the perils of picking, it’s time to take the olives to the frantoio (Note: frantoio is both a type of olive and the olive oil “factory” or press). Enrico would take the olives to the frantoio within 24 hours of picking, usually sooner. For top quality oil, it’s important to limit both the time and distance between picking and processing. The longer you wait, the more the olives oxidize immediately, increasing their acidity. The farther you go, the more likely you are to bump and bruise the delicate olives. The frantoio charges the oil makers by kilo of olives, not the actual oil produced. I heard tales of less discriminating producers who would leave their olives out to dry for a week before taking them to the press to lighten the bill.

Enrico let me tag along on a trip to the frantoio. The first thing that struck me when I entered the frantoio was THAT SMELL. It was so incredible I thought I might pass out. I don’t know how to describe it other than to say the air was thick with oil, and when I inhaled it was like being cocooned by olive oil. There’s nothing like a powerful scent coming from fresh vegetables, fruits or herbs that are simply releasing their essence without any cooking involved. It’s something so earthy it’s feels…unearthly?

Olives arrive at the frantoio in a covered loading dock, where they’re poured into a machine that weeds out leaves and other unwanted debris. This carries them into the main room, where they are first washed and then crushed into an aromatic paste. A rotation device known as a decanter crushes the olives and mixes the paste for a half hour or longer. The centrifugal rotation encourages droplets of oil to form, preparing the olives for the next phase: separation. The pulp and oil go to another decanter, where another clever centrifugal system separates oil, pulp and water. The oil comes out of a pipe popping bright green, poured immediately into barrels. The pulp is sucked into a tube and sent to a big pile outside, where Enrico claims passerbys flick their cigarettes and animals do their thing. This is the stuff your dirty, un-virgin olive oil is extracted from.

All the while, a few old men stand there watching. They seem to do nothing except give visitors and the young workers knowing looks that you’d steal a few barrels if at any moment unmonitored. Enrico located his barrels and checked out his stats: 14% oil yield. He was relatively pleased. I’ve read that a low yield is 10% and a very high yield 20%, but 10-15% seems more realistic based on my conversations around Italy. I took in a last whiff of olio air (Olio2?) and the silent guards watched as Enrico and I loaded up the tractor with fresh oil ready for bottling…and dinner.

Green Olio and Ham

Next stop, Toscana. The train ride along the Ligurian coast was beautiful; forests of pines bordering a craggy coastline. I stepped off the train in Cecina, a small city near my next WWOOFing farm.

My host, Enrico, met me outside the station. He had gray hair balding in the middle, little round glasses and a substantial mustache. He instantly made my feel at ease, free to relax, joke, ask questions and be myself. He had to run a few errands on the way home, and as we waited for the mechanic to fix the trailer, we chatted about WWOOFers past. He was quick to bring up Rachel, a Bostonian he’d hosted last year:

“She TALKED LIKE THIS,” he told me, doing his best Donald Duck impression. I’d soon discover that Enrico’s imitations of all Americans sounded like Donald Duck, the Boston one was just a bit louder and slightly more grotesque than the rest.

After a detour to check out the beach, we drove into the hills of Riparbella, a tiny town with a center of two roads and one bar. Enrico was like a personal tour guide, telling me about the history of the roads, the region and the special salt extracted directly from the sea without salt beds. It was clear that my cultural education and Italy experience were of interest to him, which is the X factor that separates a great WWOOF host from the rest.

Le Serre, Enrico’s olivetto (olive vineyard), farmhouse and agritourism, was home to some 1,200 olivi (olive trees), along with a couple of donkeys, Ugo e Pino, a couple of pigs, Gustavo Uno e Gustavo Due (Gustavo also means “I savored,” so their names translate roughly to Yummy One and Yummy Two) and a few dogs, including the beloved Molla. It’s common to meet farmers, wine and olive oil makers who inherited their land from their family; this was not the case for Enrico and his wife, Luisiana. They met in Milan, where they’d worked for the same IT company and later ran a bar together. They decided to escape the city about twenty years ago, and after lots of land-searching settled on their oasis near Cecina. Situated on Tuscany’s coastline, it’s a good environment for tourism, quality olivi and overall quality of life.

Luisiana was a petite woman who was as friendly as she could be without speaking much English. She often wore a t-shirt that read “White Trash,” hinting at an acute sense of irony, though there’s a chance she neither knew nor cared what it meant. She had a kind, calm disposition and an uncanny ability to make exactly the right amount of pasta for 12 people to overeat just enough. Diego, their sixteen year-old son, was incredibly shy; despite my mealtime efforts, it was hard to get much out of him. What I can tell you is he had long, well-kempt hair and an affinity for comics.

Five other WWOOFers were there to greet me: Gabe and Kristy, two Minnesotan rugby gals; Keren and Daniel, an Israeli couple who had just made a early escape from a crazy farm near Siena; and Mary, a Swedish chef who, like all the Swedes I’ve met, spoke impeccable English. Also working the harvest were Federico, who spends each autumn and winter harvesting olives and pruning the trees at Le Serre and each spring and summer  living in his camper on the coast, working at a beach resort and surfing; Marco, Enrico’s lovely older brother who visits Le Serre from Milan for a month every harvest; Marco’s brother-in-law Lino, a softspoken man with a penchant for cigarettes, gambling and climbing up olive trees; and Rafael, a smiley friend of Federico who occasionally came to help from Cecina.

Ugo chilling out

with Marco

Molla!

love at first sniff

Celebrating Halloween with "Enrico-Lantern"

The man behind the pumpkin

WWOOFers slept in the agritourism rooms, and I was lucky enough to snag my own private bedroom, sharing a bathroom with Gabe and Kristy. Each morning, we’d walk a few steps along the terrace to the dining room/living room for breakfast around 8. After growing accustomed to 7am reveille, the late breakfast felt like quite a luxury. We’d stuff ourselves with kiwi, apples, bananas, yogurt, cereal and toast with jam or the occasional Novi crème (like Nutella minus some additives) and head out to pick olives in one of the vineyards surrounding the house by 9. After a good four hours of work, it was time for lunch.

Lunch was always a feast (as was dinner) – plates piled with pasta, hearty soup and/or meat, plus a platter of fresh veggies from which you make-your-own-salad, a platter of cheese and the occasional platter of sliced meats.

Feast!

clearly eager for my pasta

Every day was a lesson in cheese, as we sampled everything from talleggio, gorgonzola, and mozzarella, to parmigiano, pecorino and a neighbor’s fresh cow’s milk cheese. Enrico and Luisiana were of the muca party, maintaining that cow’s milk cheese is superior to sheep’s milk cheese. This is a dangerous claim to make Lazio, home of pecorino romano (pecora are sheep…who knew?). Grana padana is defined by the grain, or grana, that they feed the cows, and is generally considered Parmesan’s Grade B cousin. Still, you can get some very high quality GP and I certainly enjoyed it. Marco used to work as a scientist for the government’s dairy association, and actually helped develop the enzyme that prevents holes from forming in grana padana.

Enrico was always sharing tidbits about how something was produced and how to best enjoy it (hint: the answer is usually add olive oil). I learned, for instance, that the fuller, meatier mouthfeel of much Italian pasta is due not only to its being prepared al dente, but also to the fact that it’s made of grano duro, a hard grain.

There were always two types of Extra Virgin Olive Oil on the table: bottles from the 2009 harvest and bottles from current harvest. Both were incredible, but the new one, a vibrant green, really packed a punch with a bit more tanginess than the 2009. There was also always wine, unlabeled bottles from their friends nearby.

There was a consistent pattern in these lunches: too much food + too much wine = too tired to move + coffee + some healthy sweets + some unhealthy sweets = still too tired and full but ready to work. Once we all hit our food coma walls, Enrico would announce, “Who doesn’t want coffee?!” (a crowdpleaser every time). Generally, one person would raise their hand and quickly retract after thirty seconds’ thought. Moka is Italy’s steel stovetop wunderkind. Each machine has its own idiosyncrasies, and every Italian has their own strong opinion on how to make the perfect cup of coffee. Some press the grounds; some don’t. Some fill the filter just to its rim; others pile it into a cone “volcano style.” Enrico makes his with 2 or so teaspoons of Orzo (a caffeine-free barley drink) and 3 or so of coffee. I quite liked the Le Serre café; enough espresso for a good buzz, plus the Orzo cutting through the bitterness, softening it a bit like milk.

Enrico and Luisiana’s generosity and attentiveness were stunning. Once the homegrown produce is done, some hosts might leave WWOOFers with bread, more bread and pasta. Don’t get me wrong; Italian pasta’s great, but the body wants some color. If ever we were short on tomatoes, bananas, kiwi, yogurt or juice, the next day it would be replenished as if by magic (or a trip to the omnipresent COOP).

Most Saturday afternoons, Sundays and rainy days were free days, some spent more ambitiously than others. We took a trip to thermal baths, to explore villages nearby, walks in the countryside and a slightly painful bike ride (I was on one of what Enrico called the ‘Chinese bikes’) to the sea. There were also plenty of afternoons hanging around Le Serre, playing cards and reading, Internet trips to the local library and COOP and my own special trip to the Sony repair center in the port city of Livorno.

neighbors

pretty little town nearby

Pensive aka exhausted after biking to the sea

During my stay at Le Serre, I said goodbye to one group of WWOOFers and welcomed a new group of Swedes and a fellow Bostonian to the farm. In 2+ weeks, I had become the veteran WWOOFer, and it really started to feel like home. As I said my very difficult goodbyes, I was already daydreaming about next year’s harvest…or maybe learning how to prune.

I believe the cue was "Look cheesy."

**Thanks Daniel and Annie for sharing your pics!**

Milano Due

I made another quick stop in Milan en route to my next WWOOFing farm in Toscana. I stayed at Philippe’s again, where I’d left a few of my warmer clothes to lighten my painfully and embarrassingly heavy load. My just-bought-for-Italy-early-birthday-present digital camera had broken right before I left Varenna, so I wasted an afternoon trekking out to the outskirts of town to a Sony repair center. When I got there, they were still in the middle of their two-hour lunch break. (When do people get all their errands done?) Knowing only one way to kill time, I wandered until I found a legit looking artisanal gelato shop. I got marron glaces and, on the owner’s recommendation, chocolate fondente. I rarely, if ever, order chocolate based flavors at home, but this is the real deal….pure, dark chocolate and a texture that’s 90% gelato 10% sorbet. The owner gave me a frequent buyer card, which I gifted Philippe. Turns out I’d stumbled across the one place in that neighborhood his friends had raved to him about. He’d thought of recommending it to me, but couldn’t remember its exact name or location. Perhaps I’ve discovered my sixth sense?

Thank goodness I found that gelato shop (can’t remember the name), because Sony repair was a bust. They reconfirmed my knowledge that yes, it was not a problem with the battery and yes, it was definitely broken. They needed at least a week to fix it, so I decided to go to a shop near my next WWOOFing farm instead. That would be a painful camera-free 2+ week ordeal, so I depended on other WWOOFers for my pics from Le Serre in Tuscany.

The spectacular Duomo and Teatro alla Scala alone made up for all the camera drama. This time, I climbed up to the top of the Duomo and I was blown away. It’s really astonishing to see such intricate detail on such a truly massive scale, and you see this phenomenon on a whole other level from the roof.

Milan’s opera house, Teatro alla Scala (‘the steps’), is another masterpiece. With a bit of patience and determination, we managed to snag a couple of seats through the theater’s last minute reservation system. Our seats were as high as you can go…so high that to see, I had to stand up from my seat and lean against a column on the side of our little “box” (imagine a thousand little sections of six seats forming a scalloped border  around the ground floor at each level). I had a pretty active viewing process, alternating between standing to watch the performers and leaning over to read the screen in front of my seat for the translation, but I was too excited to be there to mind. The show was Donizetti’s L’elisir d’amore, a lighthearted romantic comedy about a scammer who comes to town and sells a lustful lad a bottle of wine disguised as “love potion.” It’s a cute show, replete with the money-hungry, gossipy, gullible townspeople, aloof object of affection who only wants what she can’t have and a thickheaded, but sympathetic protagonist.

A walk around Milan’s fashion district, a prettier, more pedestrian-friendly 5^th Avenue, made me nearly forget any “the simple life is all you need” notions from my time on the farms. Drawn inside by the neon-feather adorned mannequins, I indulged myself in trying on just one thing: a fabulous off-white coat at the fabulous Krizia, rippled collar and slightly bubbled body forming one soft piece of perfection. It looked like a wool-cashmere blend, but was actually 100% silk and over $1000 Euros. I told the kind saleslady thank you, but it’s a bit too large, and called it a day.

Milano was nice, but there were too many pushy people, angry drivers and crowded buses making my head throb and giving me flashbacks to New York. I was ready to get back to the country, this time in Toscana.