Black Gold

By Patricia Winton

Last weekend, I joined an international group of writers for the Summer Truffle Festival of the Monte Cucco Park. The park straddles the boundary separating the Italian regions of Umbria and Marche in the eastern part of the country, about 70 kilometers from the coast. It rises 1,566 meters (5,138 feet).

Alberto Facchini, the dynamo who coordinated this event, is president of a group called Tartufi  amo. On the logo, there are two heart-shaped truffles—one black and one white—separating the two words, which mean, “I love truffles.” But if you put the two words together, tartufiamo, it roughly means “We put truffles on things.” I rather like this translation because I think Alberto is the embodiment of truffles.

He was everywhere. One moment he was overseeing stalls being set up to display typical products of the area: pecorino cheeses, various types of salami and other cold cuts, wine, and legumes such as lentils and farro.

That done, he ferried a group of journalists (including me) up hill and down dale in his Mitsubishi wagon. We forded two streams, bounced along a grassy track, careened perilously close to cliff edges, and made sharp v-turns that required much toing and froing. At one point, we went up, up, up with nothing ahead of us but sky. All of us were screaming like roller coaster riders, even the robust Russian guy. At the end of the journey, we watched our hosts prepare a local bread called crescia (also known as torta di testo). While the bread is common throughout the area, it is usually cooked on a large stove-top griddle, but we saw the traditional method, in the ashes of an outdoor oven.

At the official festival opening the next day, Alberto didn’t actually cut the ribbon; that was left to local political dignitaries, but he strung the tricolor and provided the scissors. And the truffles. These had been nosed out by his pack of truffle-sniffing dogs.

When the congresso—a symposium about truffles—began, Alberto mounted the podium to offer a welcome and introduced the first few speakers, including  leaders from various agricultural groups—especially those involved with truffles, local and regional government officials, academic researchers and others. He disappeared for a while, and I can only guess his motive, but he returned in time to bid everyone adieu and tell us about the Winter Festival, come December.

But he wasn’t done. He had awards for many of the presenters, the most impressive going to Fernanda Cecchini, who heads the regional department of agriculture.

Through all of this, Alberto arranged incredible lunches and dinners at restaurants known for their use of local products. Every meal featured truffles in each course! Except dessert. After Friday’s dinner, the sommelier decanted a plum cordial to end our meal, and we learned that Alberto had made it. It was superb.

Most of the writers departed Saturday evening, and Alberto gave each a package of truffles. I left the following morning, and somehow I got left out of the truffle presentation. Alberto did accompany me to catch my train, so I can only think that he was relieved that the event had proceeded with such success and truffles for me slipped his mind. I am a bit miffed, though. I had imagined trying to recreate some of the outstanding dishes I sampled. I questioned the cooks and chefs at each restaurant to make sure I knew how the dishes were constructed.

Oh well.

A Long-Standing Affair

Italians are wedded to their automobiles. In fact, Italians own more cars per person than citizens of any other country in the world‒32 million motor cars for 57 million people. That’s more than one car for every two people. Be it a Fiat or a Ferrari, it makes Italian hearts flutter.

 A Classy Lady Gets a Facelift

Italy’s love affair for the automobile is reflected by the language. While the word automobile exists in Italian, the word macchina is more common. Macchina means machine, obviously, and is used in conjunction with descriptors to refer to other objects, such as macchina di fotografica for camera, but just say macchina, and Italians immediately think you’re talking about a car.

I’m sure this love for automobiles led Pope Pius XI to appoint a patron saint for automobile drivers in 1925. The Pope tapped Saint Francesca Romana for this position, so the legend goes, because an angel always carries a lantern ahead of her to light her way, keeping her safe from harm. Canonized in 1608, Saint Frances never had a glimpse of an automobile of course, but the image of a light darting in front of her must have been the closest thing the Vatican could find. People still drive by the Santa Francesca Romana church (near the Colosseum) on March 6 in hopes of being blessed. Watch the 1936 ceremony below.

 

This deep-seated cultural predilection for cars is being combined with the Italian love for coffee come October when Fiat introduces the new 500L which has an optional built-in Lavazza espresso machine between the two front seats. I’m not sure the combination will catch on. Going to the bar for a cup of espresso is as integral to Italian life as driving. Besides, the economic situation is making people cut back, and an option that can only be used when the car is in park could be easy to pass up. If you’re going to park anyway, why not just go to the bar?

Hanging Out at the Local Bar

 

The economy is ravishing the romance in other ways as well. Gasoline prices in Italy are the third highest in the world at $9.35 a gallon. Taxes account about 54 percent of this amount, a rise of more than 25 percent over the last year. These increases are part of Prime Minister Mario Monti's plan for economic recovery, and a two euro-cent increase in May aids earthquake victims. These higher prices have reduced both gasoline and automobile sales. Even so, the tax raised 33.5 billion euros during the first six months of this year. I do notice less traffic, however, and people are cutting back on holiday driving.

 

Will Italians divorce themselves from their macchine? Not a chance. Like any marriage, this one is facing a rough spot, but love will prevail in the end.

Holiday Recipes

I’ve just returned from a fabulous vacation in Greece. While on Mykonos, I sampled a couple of salads that were delicious and refreshing. Our guide outlined the ingredients list, and I’ve tinkered with the recipes. I think these are close approximations of what I ate on the island. They're both really easy to make. Enjoy!

Taramosalata (Fish Roe Salad)

I find fish roe in the dairy case at my supermarket. 

50 grams red fish roe (about ¼ cup)

4 slices hearty day-old bread, crusts removed

½ pound potatoes

Juice of one lemon

NO salt

Pepper to taste

1/3 cup extra virgin olive oil

          

Soak the bread in warm water for about half an hour. Drain and squeeze out excess water.

Boil the potatoes, peel, and lightly break up the pulp with a fork.

Mix the fish roe and lemon juice and carefully separate the eggs from one another.

Place ingredients in a food processor and puree until smooth.

Taste and adjust seasonings. You may wish to add more lemon juice or dill.

Serve with bits of toast.

Tzatziki (Cucumber and Yogurt Salad)

Greek yogurt, made from sheep’s milk, is creamier and lower in calories that other yogurt. A suppler around the corner from where I live keeps it in stock, so I use it most of the time. If you are unable to find it, buy a plain (unsweetened) yogurt.

1 ½ cups Greek yogurt

2 large cucumbers, peeled, seeded, and grated

2 tablespoons fresh dill, chopped

2 tablespoons grated red onion (use more or less to taste)

Salt and pepper to taste

1.      Combine all the ingredients except the salt and pepper.

2.      Taste and adjust the ingredients to your taste (i.e. add more onion or yogurt)

3.      Season with salt and pepper.

4.      Chill and serve.

A Slice of Life in Rome

By Patricia Winton

The Rome Reads Book Club met in a little-known bar to select next year’s reading list. We chose this bar because it provides two amenities required by the group: reasonable proximity to public transportation and ample parking. This group is made up of people who drive wherever they go, including a couple of motor scooterists, and those who get about on buses, trams and trains.

Everyone was settled with glasses of fruit juice or beer when I arrived. I went to the bar and collected an acceptable, if not outstanding, glass of wine for a couple of euros and joined my friends.

At the next table, a group of Chinese men and women gathered over drinks and embroidery. They worked on a communal project using the same fabric and gold braid, frequently comparing their work. One woman rethreaded her needle from time to time, pulling it through the fabric and up over her head. They reminded me of a quilting bee I saw my aunt host when I was a child.

Some Italians grouped around another table, sharing glasses and gossip, a favorite Italian passtime. On stage a couple of musicians tuned their instruments, occasionally drowning out our conversation. Some Italian teens strung out a line of chairs before the stage, preparing to enjoy the show. We put our book choices to a vote. The Chinese continued to stitch.

A singer joined the musicians, and they performed a set. The teens slouched in their chairs, ears on the band, eyes on passing girls. The Italian adults laughed at a joke. We assessed our book choices and assigned dates for each discussion. The Chinese admired their handiwork.

The band took a break. We folded our notes and talked of vacation plans. One goes to Stromboli, an Italian volcanic island; another is off to a music festival in Strasbourg, France; a third plans to loll at Lake Vico north of Rome. I am off cruising some Greek Islands. The teens bunched together to trade insults and assess what they’d heard and seen. The Chinese continued to stitch.

The musicians returned and struck up a catchy rhythm, heavy on the bass. Outside, a dog joined in, barking to the beat. The band took another break; we gathered our belongings and ambled away, leaving behind the gossiping Italians, stitching Chinese, and barking dog.

On the street, we wished each other a good summer--those on wheels heading in one direction, those on foot another.

A good time was had by all.

December Choice

Talking Trash

By Patricia Winton

When I first came to Italy many years ago, I lived in a town on the Tyrrennian coast. The post-war town had tree-lined streets of two-story houses. The garbage collectors came on bicycles. They left plastic bags each time they came, and we filled them with our trash. On collection day, we put the bags outside and the cyclists collected the trash and carried it away in large cylindrical containers attached to the front of their bikes. An idyllic method for an idyllic setting.

The Old View Outside My Door

Things are different here. Rome is a city with narrow streets and no alleys. There’s no place to hide the trash. The dense population creates mountains of trash daily.When I first moved here, a row of dumpsters stood outside the front door of my apartment building; others lined the block a few doors down. Colors indicated what to put into each: white for paper; blue for plastic, glass, and metal; green for everything else. Trash trucks came every morning to empty the green ones, but the other two were emptied infrequently. Often, piles of bottles and bags of paper littered the pavement. And dumpster diving gypsies patrolled the neighborhoods on a regularly scheduled basis to dig through the trash, ripping open bags of garbage in their quest to find things to resell.

A couple of years ago, the city began a new recycling program designed to educates citizens slowly in an attempt to change behavior, and I think it’s working.

The Cleaner View

I live in one of the experimental neighborhoods, and the process has fascinated me. First, notices went up announcing that the city planned to begin collecting organic garbage to compost. The green dumpsters would be removed, and everyone would be given a container for kitchen scraps.

These notices remained in place for a few months. Then employees of the city trash removal service visited every apartment in the neighborhood, handing out buckets, paper bag liners—with instructions printed on the outside. Every morning—weekends and holidays included, small trucks park throughout the neighborhood, collecting the organic trash in one container and non-recyclables in another. The trucks move every couple of hours, but they are only a short walk for the residents. For me, there’s one available in every direction I might take when I exit my home.

The Guide

Many people chose not to participate in the program and continued to put their trash in the dumpsters as usual. Then one day, the city took the dumpsters away. On my block-long street alone, this action freed up about a dozen parking places. Dumpsters for recycling paper, plastics, etc. moved around the corner. They are emptied daily.

While many people still don’t recycle, more and more do participate in the program. A number of independent recycling efforts had already been initiated: medical waste containers stand outside all pharmacies; used clothing receptacles dot the city; little boxes to receive spent batteries can be found on many streets.

This education program provides a complete guide of what to recycle where. The color-coded guide provides an index of things you might want to throw away. Have some leaves and flowers from gardening? That’s brown for organic. An umbrella? Green for non-recyclable.

The program hasn’t made its way across the city yet, but in my little neighborhood, things seem cleaner. That’s a good thing.

The Earthquake in Your Kitchen

By Patricia Winton

The earthquake that struck northern Italy on Sunday took lives, injured many people, destroyed countless homes, and ravaged cultural treasures. The region, and all of Italy, will feel the effects for years.

But you may feel the effects as well. At least your dining table or your pocketbook may.

The devastated region, Emilia-Romagna, produces some of Italy’s finest cuisine and the basic ingredients that create it including cheese, wine, prosciutto, and balsamic vinegar.

The wine, called Lambrusco, is cultivated from a grape that dates to the Etruscans. While people in the US probably know the sweet variety better, Italians prize the dry one. According to news reports, the quake damaged several factories that produce the wine, but it’s unclear if the vines themselves were hurt. Ironically, the town of Viadana, within the quake area, celebrated a Lambrusco festival Saturday; it had been scheduled to continue Sunday.

Yesterday, I saw Lambrusco on sale at a local supermarket, obviously part of a long-planned promotion.  I suspect that the wine will be off the shelves at that low price today. And since Italian vendors don’t offer rain checks, I also suspect that it will reappear in a couple of weeks at a higher price.

Balsamic vinegar aging in casks

Lambrusco is drunk young, so even if a warehouse of bottles was destroyed, it won’t take a long time to recover. For balsamic vinegar producers, on the other hand, it’s quite a different story. Only Modena and nearby Reggio Emilio produce true Balsamico and age the most revered for up to twelve years. A destroyed warehouse of that represents more than a decade of work. Thousands of liters of balsamic aging in the casks have been lost. The tallies are still underway to assess the extent of the damage.

You have probably seen the destroyed warehouses for aging Parmigiano Reggiano cheese. Early estimates suggest that the quake damaged or destroyed as many as 500,000 wheels, with estimates as high as a million euro in losses.

Food inspectors are currently trying to see how much can be salvaged. Some of the cheese near the end of the aging process can be saved. If the wheels have been merely broken but not contaminated, the cheese can be vacuum-packed and sold. Any cheese adulterated must be destroyed. The broken wheels of cheese that have just begun to age must also be destroyed.

Grana Padano, another cheese from the region, suffered damage as well. The production area spans a larger area, so the percentage of loss will probably be lighter. That, too, remains to be seen.

And finally, prosciutto—ham. Specifically, we’re talking about Parma ham, the best of the best. Farms raising the pork that will become Parma ham and several factories producing it have also been struck.

The agricultural consortiums and the unions have requested government financial help, including relief from taxes due in June, but those decisions await resolution.

So, if you’re eating Italian today, or later, think about these losses. We’ll all be affected for a long time to come.

A Bimbo by Any Other Name

By Patricia Winton

Today on Novel Adventurers, I write about children’s games in Italy, including one called Bimbo. In English that word carries a pejorative connotation—a sexy, female airhead—but in Italian, it’s a word wrapped with parental love.

Bimbo is the diminutive of bambino, a male child—from birth to around puberty. The feminine version is bambina, or bimba. It’s not unusual to hear a father call out, “Bimbe (plural), venite qua,” (girls, come here). The use of bimbo or its feminine or plural forms suggests affection, in the same way that my grandfather called me Patty while others said Patricia.

The Oxford English Dictionary (OED) records the first usage of bimbo in English in 1919; at that time it meant a man who wasn't very smart. And in the 1930s, cartoon character Betty Boop—who in today’s English could be called a bimbo—had a boyfriend named Bimbo, sorely lacking in intelligence.

The word bimbo, meaning woman, first appears in the 1929 version of the OED, citing an article in a scholarly journal; it didn’t have a negative meaning then. But two 1929 films moved the word bimbo towards it current English meaning. In the first, a silent film called Desert Nights, a sexy, wealthy female thief was called a bimbo. But the more celebrated, The Broadway Melody (the first “talkie” to win an Oscar), probably holds the honor as the chief vehicle for transporting the meaning to a sexy, dumb woman. In the film, an angry character calls a chorus girl a bimbo.

There’s a shop near my home called Bimbo Point. It makes me smile every day as I pass because the juxtaposition of the two languages could lead to confusion. Italians understand that the shop sells children’s clothing, but what do English speakers who don’t know Italian think? Another shop nearby, Io Bimbo (Me, Baby), also deals in children’s items.

 
A recent item in the Los Angeles Times seemed to be mixing languages. The headline read, “Ready for post-bimbo era in Italy.” Now, Italy has the lowest birthrate in Europe, but to begin an era with no babies is unthinkable! The article actually addressed moving beyond former Prime Minister Silvio Berlusconi’s days in power. It examined his sexual exploits and the way he uses scantily-clad young women on his television stations.

Berlusconi created the first privately owned television station in Italy. One of its earliest shows, still running, parodies the news of the day with young women wearing few clothes prancing on stage to hand sheets of paper with news items to the hosts. These bits of paper are called veline, named for the onionskin paper that Benito Mussolini's censors sent to editors throughout Italy with their acceptable slant on the news.

The young women themselves came to be called veline, and they now appear on a wide variety of television programs, even in the pre-dinner hour. They also grace television commercials for anything from exercise equipment to yoghurt. In many ways the veline in Italian are the bimbos in English.

The drawing of the velina comes from Dianne Hales at  Becoming Italian Word by Word