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.