Buona Festa del Ringraziamento!

Thanksgiving is upon us.  The day when the country comes together as one nation indivisible for unbridled eating, the one holiday that truly revolves around food and comes closest to typifying an Italian festa in the volume of food and length of meal.  Each year, friends and family inevitably, innocently ask us, “What do Italians do for Thanksgiving?”

The answer is, nothing. Thanksgiving is not a holiday there. (But no Thansgiving also means there is none of the lunacy known as Black Friday, either.)  Italians know about Thanksgiving, of course.  Our Italian friends, upon hearing the words “festa del ringraziamento,” immediately respond with, “Ah, si. Tacchino!” They’ve all seen enough film and TV images of enormous turkeys roasted to perfection and carved tableside to know our national fondness for fowl.  They are always happy to learn first-hand that it is, indeed, our official holiday food.

Then they usually shrivel their noses and say, “Mah! Wouldn’t it be better to have a nice porchetta, or something with...flavor?” They don’t generally think of turkey as being very tasty, but that, I tell them, is because they’ve never had the pleasure of a succulently roasted bird. Finding a whole turkey in Italy is about as hard as finding a decent caffé in America.

We always debated about inviting friends and throwing an American Thanksgiving shin-dig, but since it’s not a holiday for them the party would have to be held on the weekend; for us it just didn't feel right to not celebrate it on the correct calendar day. I mean, part of the fun is in knowing that the entire nation is celebrating together.

Thanksgiving may not be celebrated in Italy but don’t feel too bad; Italy is certainly not lacking in holidays. In fact, according to their national calendar they have twelve public holidays compared to our eight in America. Throw in a few local festas and a couple of saints’ days, and you can garner yourself even more days away from the office. Italians also receive an average of 33 vacation days, compared to our depressing national average of 13.

And that is before they start building bridges. It is common to fare un ponte by tacking on a day or two before or after a holiday to “bridge” it to the weekend and thus turn an ordinary one-day celebration into a three or four day affair. Many of our friends take advantage of the opportunity to pass a long weekend in a neighboring region while also crossing off a few extra days from their work calendar. Clever, actually.

Fortunately, Thanksgiving is the one holiday in America that usually comes with a built-in 'bridge'. We are going to enjoy the four-day weekend, while being careful to avoid all streets that lead to malls or shopping centers.  We will enjoy our first full-on Thanksgiving meal in three years and stuff ourselves in the company of friends and in the national, gluttonous unity of the whole country, and give thanks for the blessings, opportunities, and joys of the past year.

Related Posts:

Roba da Matti

Turkey Day - Our First Thanksgiving in Italy

Raise a Glass to San Martino

After what seemed like an endless week of dreary grayness and relentless rain, the sun found its way back and the weekend turned into a beautiful display of blue skies and brilliant autumn leaves.  A classic Indian Summer, or as they say in Italy, l'estate di San Martino (Saint Martin's Summer).

What does a return of sunny warmth in late autumn have to do with Saint Martin, you ask?  His feast day is November 11, when it is quite common to see this welcome weather phenomenon take place.  A folk saying goes, "l'estate di San Martino dura tre giorni e un pochino."  (St. Martin's Summer last three days, maybe more.) 

San Martino was one of the Church's first non-martyred saints to be beatified.  He was born in a Roman province in what is modern-day Hungary, a Roman citizen whose father was an army officer in the Imperial guard.  Martino himself was pressed into service and was attached to a cermonial cavalry unit assigned to guard the Emperor, before giving up his commission as an officer and its certain wealth to become a monk.  He is the patron saint of soldiers and wine makers.

The wine-maker part is why San Martino is so widely revered in Italy.  You see, the feast of San Martino is the traditional day to open the casks of newly-made wine for a first taste of the year's vintage.  The grapes were picked and pressed in August and September so they've been in the vats and undergoing the fermentation process for about two months.  Everyone likes to get some of the fruity, juicy immature wine, just because it's a temporary taste treat. 

My friend Serafino, a sommelier who has worked in the Italian wine industry for more than 50 years, says that the tasting opportunity on San Martino gives them an indication of the quality and characteristics of the year's vintage, a preview of what is to come.  That may be, but it is also a good excuse for an autumnal party.

"A San Martino tutto il mosto e` gia` vino," our landlord Guerino told us as a way of inviting us to his cantina for a festa di San Martino.  By November 11 all the grape must has already become wine, albeit "new wine".  Vino nuovo differs from vino Novello although the lines seem to have blurred in recent years as Novello (or French nouveau) has gained in popularity.  According to Serafino, vino nuovo is just that, new wine that is siphoned directly out of the vat.  Novello, on the other hand, is produced by a method known as carbonic maceration, a process initiated by Louis Pasteur, whereby carbon dioxide is pumped into a tank of grapes to ferment them.  "Vino Novello," he said, "is produced as a novelty.  It is bottled and distributed, and must be drunk young, no later than the end of the year."  It has the same grapey, juice-like flavors but is produced specifically as Novello.  It is a consumer short-run wine. 

Vino nuovo is, instead, just the normal wine that the vintner is creating but it is being "previewed" and consumed while it is "new".  Most of the wine will be left in the vats to age properly, then placed in barrels for wood aging and refining, to be bottled next year (or a few years down the line, depending on the grape varietal and end goal of the vintner).  True vino nuovo is rarely bottled; it is sold sfuso, ("loose") to customers who bring their jugs to the winery for a fill-up.  Serafino splits hairs over this issue, though many people -even in Italy- use the term novello to indicate either type of new (young) wine.

Guerino invited us annually to his San Martino parties where the menu tradizionale was grilled homemade sausages, fire-roasted chestnuts, bruschetta doused in newly-pressed olive oil, and (of course!) his homemade vino nuovo.  This type of festa is common, and all over Italy there are sagras dedicated to chestnuts and new wine.  Some regions hold more formal Cantine Aperte events, where wineries open their doors for full-blown tasting parties, holding the glasses under the spigot and toasting the patron saint of wine makers, San Martino.

Related Posts:

La Sagra e i Soci

The Fruit of Autunno (Or, all about chestnuts)

Fairs and Festas

Bumping into Gladiators

I never really gave much thought to the iconic Roman fighters known as gladiators.  Sure, we skimmed over them in my ancient history classes in college, and I read a bit of background when I visited the Colosseum for the first time.  I have seen them talking on cell phones and getting bawdy in coffee bars while on break from their jobs as costumed kitsch performers offering photo ops to tourists for a price. 

                                         
I even watched as my step-father came close to losing his...um, "manhood" when one such sword-wielding gladiator didn't like being videotaped on the steps leading out of the Forum.  He swung gracefully and aimed precisely, giving John quite a scare.  Then he laughed uproariously and patted him on the shoulder, saying "you should have seen the look on your face, my friend!"

However, I have never seen Spartacus - Bryan assures me I'm possibly one of only about ten people on the planet who hasn't- and I never bothered with the Russel Crowe movie about them, either.  Just not my genre, I guess.

So I don't know why, but it seems every time I turn around lately I'm running into gladiators, or some reminder of them anyway. 

First I ran headlong into their footware at Nordstrom's, where apparently gladiator sandals are all the rage.  Several styles and heights, including bizarre nearly knee-high brace-like contraptions are being sold. They have been popular in Italy for a few years now, but I didn't realize they had caught on here, as well. 

Then I read online about the Gladiator School, where you can learn about Imperial Rome by acting out the gladiatorial games first-hand.  For $75 you can get into the garb and play Spartacus for a day on the ancient Appian Way.  It's garnering good reviews, so I am guessing they don't fight to the death.

A few days after that I stumbled onto the ItalyGuides site and ended up a page that gives a  brief background about Gladiators (with a few macabre facts I'd never heard before).

And as if that weren't enough, a post on the message board of Slow Travel revealed that there are now yellow-jacketed "angels" on electric propelled chariots who will be riding the Roman roads to come to the assistance of lost travelers.  Much cuter and friendlier than the fierce warriors of old.

That's a lot of gladiator gab for one week, don't you think?  Maybe it's time for me to see Spartacus after all.

A Happy Birthday

Yesterday was my birthday.  While I'm not particularly *thrilled* to admit that I've turned 43, I'm not one to lie about my age, either.  I figure I've lived, experienced, and earned all of the joys, tears, laughs, meals, chores, events, mistakes, excitement, monotony, pleasures, fears, decisions, and dreams of each of those years, and I wouldn't deny any of them. 

I don't mind the laugh lines that are starting to develop (hey, they just show I'm a fun-loving gal, right?)  The only thing I tinker with is my hair, because I've been the victim of genetics to inherit premature graying from an all-too-early age.  It's kind of fun to change the semi-permanent hues or hennas for different highlights or seasons.  (Looking for a bright side to pitiless genes.)

No, I don't mind birthdays.  They usually entail a nice dinner out and a decadent dessert, the likes of which I don't usually indulge in most of the time.  I received lots of cards, emails, and Facebook greetings (I could feel the love!)

Yesterday was special because I was able to spend my birthday with one of very best friends.  We have been buds since freshman year in high school, so a history of nearly 29 years ensures an ease and good time whenever we're together.  It was a wonderful surprise to learn that she and her husband would just happen to be in town for a convention.  We bopped around Georgetown, had lunch at an outdoor cafe, and watched the time zip by all too quickly.

I received another special gift, too.  This past summer I helped a family friend arrange a trip to Ascoli Piceno for her 65th birthday.  She took her entire family - 4 kids and their spouses, 7 grandkids, and her husband - to celebrate the big event.  I booked them in a wonderful villa, set up a personal chef, arranged for tickets to La Quintana, and reserved some very special restaurants, in addition to sending them to all our favorite spots.  She returned and raved about the trip and has continuously thanked me whenever I talk to her.

She visited this past week and presented me with a thank you/birthday gift that really touched me.   She had collected and pressed leaves and flowers from plants around Ascoli Piceno, and framed them in a pretty arrangement.  What a thoughtful thing to do!  (She also toted a delectable cake along with her from South Carolina.  Have cake, will travel.)  

The frame is on my desk and I think of my beautiful city and wonderful experiences whenever I look at it.

There's no denying...a happy birthday, indeed.

The Eagle is Slowly Rising

I was strolling through the rotonda of the National Gallery of Art when a gloriously gilded painting caught my eye.  The beautiful triptych was obviously Italian from the Medieval period.  I went to take a closer look and discovered why the altarpiece struck me as familiar; it had been housed in the Castello Spagnolo in L'Aquila, and was brought to the US as a gesture of gratitude for American aid and for safe-keeping during the fortress's reconstruction.

It has been more than six months since the devastating and deadly earthquake shattered the peace and destroyed the homes of tens of thousands in Abruzzo.  After the much-hyped G8 summit in L'Aquila in July, the region and its struggles in the aftermath seem to have disappeared from the news. 

I have wondered often how many people are still in tents, how many Abruzzesi have left the region to find work and housing elsewhere.  Whatever happened with Berlusconi's boisterous declaration that some of the displaced could live in his several vacation homes?  Did he actually open the doors to them, or was it just more newsbyte fluff?  I have been trying to find out what progress has been made, but it is has proved a difficult task. 

Many of the aid organizations are (understandably) busy with other recent tragedies and haven't updated their websites.  The Protezione Civile site has a news section, mostly to inform the area citizens about new services or office hours.  The latest newletter proudly hailed the opening of a new sportello per il pubblico, a type of public affairs office that will "provide information and a place for citizens to ask questions about the rules and procedures for repairs and reconstruction, temporary housing, or financial assistance.  They will give information about schools and transportation, tax breaks and work projects."  Sounds great, but it goes on to say that "the clerks won't be able to solve many of the problems" but that they can take requests and call people with answers.  (Word to the wise: when a bureaucrat says they will call you back, don't count on it.)

The initial plan was to build apartments and assemble pre-fabbricated buildings so that everyone could be housed before winter, but as the first snowfall arrived on October 19, there were still almost 1,800 people living in tents.  Some have nowhere else to go; others refuse to leave, fearing that if they go to another area they will miss out on the apartments when they do become available.  Most want to remain in their birthplace, close to their families and jobs.

The National Italian American Foundation has made sizable contributions, and continues its fund-raising efforts.  Their newest initiative is help L'Aquila college students continue their studies.  To that end, they have inistituted an "Adopt a Student" program.  NIAF has been offered some tuition scholarships from several American universities, including my alma mater, the University of New Mexico, but money is needed for housing costs, transportation, books, and fees.

Caritas has the most informative updates on their projects, with a breakdown showing that they have spent 1.3 million Euro for their "first response" of tents, medical aid, food, necessities, and initial reconstructions.  They have other projects underway that total 18 million euro.  Caritas sent out 2,400 volunteers from April through August, 2009, and they continue to coordinate a continual presence of volunteer workers. 

The news about reconstruction is scarse but not dismal.  It takes time to rebuild, especially when damage was so extensive, but things are moving forward little by little.  Churches are being stabilized, artworks have been taken for restoration and repairs, debris has been cleared, and - brick by brick - a city is trying to reform itself.  L'Aquila, which means "eagle," is rebuilding its nest.  While it's not ready to fly again, it is healing its wings.

Related Past Articles:

How To Help - Where and How to Contribute

Rome Trembled - Our Experience of the Tremor

Watch a video of the wonderful song, Domani, by Artisti Uniti per l'Abruzzo

photo credit: Paolo Russo

The Last Mule of Anzi

A friend told me the story of her father-in-law’s emigration from Italy. He left Lucca at age 17 for California, like so many others, in search of opportunity and riches in the New World.  His wife and her family had likewise come from Lucca, but he had long shunned the idea of returning to Italy, despite his kids’ pleadings. Finally, after much insistence that Italy had changed in the forty years of his absence, he agreed to travel there to show them his birthplace and introduce them to his long-lost family members. It was the early 1980s.

As they drove through the cultivated plains to reach Lucca they passed an old man along the country lane accompanied by his donkey, laden with wood. “That does it!” yelled the father. “Turn around and take me back to Roma! The last thing I saw when I left Lucca forty years ago was a man with a donkey; today I return and the first thing I see is a man with a donkey! Nothing has changed here. Take me home to America.”

To him, the donkey symbolized backwardness. He was sure everything was as it always had been, including the poverty he had grown up with, and he didn’t want to relive any of it. He was unconvinced that Italy had become a modern nation with an active economy during his absence.

The continuity of old traditions is something we find so appealing about Italy. Things have changed, that is certain, but many of the long-held customs and crafts are – at least for the moment – still alive.

Like my friend’s father-in-law, the first thing we saw when we visited my ancestral village for the first time was a man with a mule. Rather than see it as a symbol of poverty or backwardness like he did, we found it sweetly reassuring that, in a world where technology blitzes forward at a mind-boggling rate, some things are still left to tradition.

Through our many visits to Anzi we would see this man, striding along his clip-clopping mule, which was usually bundled with firewood. We would wave as we passed him, and exchanged buongiornos and polite chit-chat as he delivered wood to an old signora’s doorstep. In an ancient hamlet with leg-numbingly steep and narrow streets, the mule makes sense. How else are you going to get a load of heavy wood home?

All around town there are stone circles affixed to many buildings, placed there to tie up a mule. At one time, my cousin Michele told me, there were probably thirty working mules in Anzi. They would be utilized to haul tools and implements to the fields, tote grain sacks to the flour mill, and transport olives or grapes to be pressed. Now there is just one.

“La panda e` ucciso il mulo,” Michele’s wife Melina stated flatly. The panda killed the mule? What?

“The Panda, the car by Fiat,” she said. It became the workhorse of rural towns like this because it was narrow enough to fit through many of the streets, had enough power to accelerate uphill to reach them, and came in a four-wheel drive version that could be taken to the fields. It was also economical, didn’t require feed, a stall, or pooper-scooper clean-up.

Completely logical. It was only then that we took notice of just how many older model Pandas were still in use in Basilicata, and now understood why. The newer Panda is much larger and less desirable in towns like this; old ones are greatly in demand.

Yet the mule guy continues unfazed. The Panda, after all, cannot climb steps.  His customers are mostly anziani, elderly folks, but he can be seen around town every day guiding the mule up the stepped, inclined alleyways with bundles of wood to fuel their stoves and fireplaces. It is an old-world tradition that will likely die when he does, but for now he and his mule carry on.

Home Food

In my last post I reported on a "home cooking" trend in the US.  As you might expect, Italy takes the concept of home cooking to a different level. 

The organization Home Food was started to preserve and showcase the special and unique regional dishes and food products of each area.  "Typical", "traditional" and "regional" are the buzzwords they live and cook by.  They even wax poetic: "Food is Man and typical foods are his roots." 

Whether you find food to be poetry or not, the simple aim of the organization is to maintain and share the foods that have been passed down to them through the generations, to keep them alive and appreciated by their own generation and the one below them.  They do this by hosting dinners and cooking the local, seasonal cuisine that their grandmothers and mothers taught them...and they invite you and me into their homes to enjoy it.

That's right - you can be a guest at one of their tables!  They encourage you to "Taste typical Italian food in an Italian home."  While the majority of the guests are traveling Italians eager to taste the specialties of another region, more and more foreign travelers are discovering the opportunity to live - or at least eat - like a Roman (or a Pugliese, or a Tuscan).  It provides a unique chance to dine with an Italian family and learn first-hand about their culinary culture.  And since nothing brings about bonding quite so fast as food, you're bound to leave with new friends in hand.

To participate you must become a member of Home Food.  An annual membership costs €35, but travelers who want to join in on the fun can sign up for a one-month temporary membership for just €3.50.  Registration can be made online. 

Once you're a member you can peruse the calendar and events to find a dinner in a location that suits you.  Never mind the often comical English translations; there is nothing silly about the menus.  You can enjoy fresh-made pici and drunken pork on a farm in Chianti; orecchiete with rapini and richly-stuffed foccacia in the heart of Puglia; or a well-rounded menu of Artusi classics in the historical center of Bologna.  There are dinners slated in several regions every month.  Each carefully planned and home-cooked menu costs between €35-40 per person. 

Home Food also organizes occasional cooking classes and interesting special events, such as the Food in Film festival, or a weekend of culinary bliss in Bologna, a package that includes hotel for two nights, two meals at different homes, a cooking class, and a foodie tour of town.

Partaking in age-old traditions, tasting fresh regional fare that has been lovingly prepared...this is what I call home-cooking!