A Unique Change of Pace

Beauty is in the eye of the beholder, and I have been a privileged beholder of beauty for exactly two weeks now. My arrival to Bra from New York has been an eye-opener in warmth, great food, wine, and of course, the‘b’word - beauty. I’ve been familiarizing myself with all types of it, big and small, say a snow-capped mountain, or a little glossy chocolate wrapper that is as gorgeous as the little treasure found inside it. Its not like I’ve been starved of beauty, but I’m rather used to the
steel and grit kind, the hard beauty a la Max Ernst, instead of the soft touches of Cezanne.

I am having a little adventure, similar to the one I experienced two years ago, when I interviewed a magnificent set of British and Scottish food producers for Slow Food UK. And while I’ve only interviewed three so far in the Piedmont region, the experiences have been unique, and again beautiful, whetting my appetite in more ways than one, for what’s to come.
In other words, I am granted perspective on a perspective that’s new to me, all around gorgeousity. How will I readapt to NY? I don’t have to think about that for another couple of months.

So here goes. First stop was Signora Raffaella Firpo who produces the Capriglio Pepper (a member of the Piedmontese presidia), a small munchkin cousin of the regular gigantic bell pepper. The dainty Capriglio was threatened with possible extinction until Firpo took this precious vegetable under her wing where it grows just a hop, skip, and a jump from her lovely sanctuary Cascina Piola. Signora Firpo epitomizes the crux of what Slow Food is all about. More than twenty years ago, she left city life for Capriglio, and escaped with her husband and young children to rediscover and work with the land. She refurbished an old house, and created there an ode to the land, and an ode to the joys of farm to table. In addition to growing the peppers, Firpo has melons, squash, lettuces, and a little store where she sells the preserves of her vegetables. The process of preserving is a considerable family legacy, one that she has fortified with the very act of growing special things with her own very special hands.

Next on the list, is the Orbassano Red Celery producers at Cascina Gorgias and their great glowing root and stalks that were once a common item found in the market gardens near Turin from the 17th century on. But, sadly, the celery went out of fashion after World War II because of its demanding cultivation process and relatively low profitability. The lovely almond essence and iconic red base of this unique vegetable might have been lost on the Piedmontese, if it weren’t for a devoted few men in Orbassano. Cascina Gorgias is a 62 hectare oasis of pets, pond and green. It’s a wonderland of bunnies, chinchillas, horses, cockatiels, chickens, and alone peacock. And the celery is left undisturbed to do its duty. Cascina Gorgias also houses a restaurant, and a store should you feel inclined to buy some of the very ‘local’ products.

Last but not least, there are the mountains of Castelmagno, that almost led me off the precipice plummeting into a giant beauty vat. There was a possibility of plummeting literally a la Grace Kelly, if you were too ‘focussed’ on the magnificent view, as the guard rails on that steep windy road were few and far between. What’s there to say about those mountains, that air, that water that you drink up there - that is cool, crisp, and a true gift? If anything could possibly top it, it must be the centuries old Castelmagno cheese made up in those mountains that is sheer bliss, and Georgio Amedeo whose passion is the production of that cheese. ‘Art’ would be a better word to use than ‘production.’ Amedeo sees that Castelmagno is made the same way it was hundreds of years ago. What does the cheese taste like? Like pure cow essence, mountain air, dew, straw, grass, and perhaps even the divine touch of a Castelmagno ancestor or two, leading us the way to nirvana.

New York is a far cry from what I’ve experienced thus far. The skyline seems a little dusty in my mind’s eye at the moment. I have mountains on my mind.

The Kids of Dogliani

Never start a sentence with “never,” or so the teachers of my formative years used to say. And speaking of formative years…Never have I seen a group of kids, a collective of young blood, so intelligent, so charming, so witty, and so well-behaved. The back-drop for this rather startling occurrence was Dogliani’s Scuola primaria dell’Istituto Comprensivo Luigi Einaudi. A mouthful, yes, but well worth the trouble of training the tongue. Good old professor Henry Higgins would be proud if you could say the name of the school three times at break-neck speed. He would also be proud of the young lads and lasses at the Scuola that could articulate their sophisticated thoughts so well. I had the opportunity of visiting these kids on the bright and beautiful November 11th – the day of Festa Degli Orrti, (school garden day), and also St. Martin’s Day*, hence the beautiful weather. Not that I’m assigning credit to someone other than the kids, but I think the patron saint lent some of his virtuous touch to these astute children as well. They were in a word, otherworldly. The day took the kids through various discoveries of cultivating the land in their own back-yard, or garden, on the school’s property, care of a few devoted vegetable farmers that explained the diversity available to them. The school’s garden houses a variety of green leafy vegetables, as well as a hunchbacked cardoon. There was also a giant worm that was slithering around in the soil, which both delighted and grossed out the kids who tried to pick up its slippery body.

Taste was of course a factor in getting the kids to understand just what they were cultivating, first on land, and then on their palettes. There were jam and honey tastings, where the kids had to submit their top pick. But, I think the thing that got me the most, was how these little angels conducted themselves in the canteen. And even how the canteen conducted itself. Perhaps I’m just from depraved parts, but I have never seen tablecloths, china, glass, and real silverware used in a New York school cafeteria, where the kids are younger than ten years old. It was something out of one of Edith Wharton’s novellas. And the kids were something out of one of Jane Austen’s. They sat patiently waiting for their gnocci. I wasn’t that patient, I almost had to stop myself from banging on a glass with my fork. I do a lot of odd things in anticipation of gnocci. The gnocci was laid out on the children’s plates, and they used their knives and forks. I just used my fork to shovel it in. If only I grew up Italian…It makes me want to marry an Italian, just to have some angelic tots. Then the plates were collected to make room for the entrée of turkey and peas. The kids again exhibited such maturity and deftness at eating and appreciating their meal, that I felt frankly embarrassed to have let one of the peas roll of my plate, and then roll off the table, only to be squished later by my decidedly uncouth foot and shoe. Dessert was comprised of a locally grown kiwi, so local, it probably grew on a tree in the school’s garden. How dainty, how pleasant, how right to end a meal like that. Of course, the kids outshone me in the cutting and eating of the kiwi. I think that some of the kids actually peeled theirs.

The “A” for effort and good behavior at the school is of course attributed to the leadership of the dedicated teachers and headmaster Tarcisio Priolo. This is a school from make-believe, or rather a school founded in a glorious reality, celebrating a day that pays homage to the land that produces the food on your table. With the Thanksgiving brouhaha around the corner in the US, I feel that I have already experienced Thanksgiving Italian style. After all, the Festa Degli Orrti is all about Thanks and Giving.

*St. Martin was born in A.D. 316 in Hungary, and grew up the son of a Roman military officer in Pavia. He joined the Roman army and was sent to Amiens, where on horseback, he met a starving man begging at the city gates. In a gesture of deep compassion, St. Martin tore his red woolen cloak in two with his sword, and gave half to the beggar. The next night, he saw Jesus wearing the half od the cloak he’s given away. St. Martin then decided to convert to Christianity and dedicate his life to Christ.

Back In The Saddle Italian Style

Someone once asked me: Clover, what would make you happy, really happy? I don't remember what I answered, but just what I thought. The thought of happiness came in an immediate rush of images - Mozart's violin concertos playing in the background, a lovely breeze spreading itself over a nicely made-up bed, roses in a vase, good friends in my kitchen making something delicious to eat. I'm sure there's much more than that, but these are the things that make my heart feel light. Are these stock images, or do they hold sway somewhere in a yet to be announced future. I sometimes get mixed up with what has happened, and what I want to happen. Maybe, that's why lying has come easy to me, and why, I have to sometimes fight off the impulse with everything I've got. I want so much to happen to me. I want to be happy, I want to will it. And now, without extending the truth at all, I am happy. I'm in Italy, have been for nearly two months, and I find that my day-to-day is brimming with sunshine. Can a change of scenery change a person's outlook? Maybe. Or has my outlook changed? I don't know. I don't think I ever will, but I do know that I was suffering in my hometown that I once loved so much; that I was festering. Nothing was changing, and yet the need to be happy was ever present. I don't have that pain in my neck and shoulders anymore. I'm sleeping better. Is it the Italian mountain air, the love put in the food, and the wine? Is it a stranger taking my hand to assure me that all is okay, or a person I've only exchanged two words with kiss my cheek, not once, but twice. There's a warmth here that I have never known in my birthplace. There is a love of life, a love of doing nothing, a love of taking time to have a coffee, a cigarette, a kiss, a walk, a meal, a sleep, a dinner. Nothing is rushed here. This is what I needed. Leger. The French would say. Take it easy, Italy keeps whispering in my ear. You're fine, you're out of danger. Don't look over your shoulder. Relax. Sshh. Enjoy your glass of wine, enjoy your meal. Don't worry about your weight, you're fine. Open the window in the morning, and look forward to the day, and sleep in peace when day is done. No rat race, no bitterness, no anger, no paranoia, no nothing. Breathe easy. Breathe deep. Study the lovely chocolate wrapper, look at the ribbon that wraps up a cake that you're bringing to a friend's house. Observe the snow-capped mountains. They're all around you. They're protecting you. I'm been brought back to myself, and for that Italy, I am eternally grateful. I'm back in the saddle. Italian style.