Umberto and His Woods

The rains really haven't let up since  Friday. Yesterday we had hail, rain, sun, and extremely high winds in the night. So high that the shutters blew open at 3 AM. The Stia Christmas fair was a washout but there will be one in Pratovecchio, the next town over, very soon.

The kitchen is closed today, as far as I'm concerned. Peter went into Florence on the 6:30 bus this morning and won't be home until 2:30. I know he had some things to take care of in town but to tell you the truth, I think he didn't want to see another round of turkey showing up on his plate. I made turkey noodle soup yesterday and offered him a bowl last night. He looked up from the paper and said,"Again?"

He contributed to turkey-philia on Sunday by making turkey polpette alla Fiorentina,turkey meatballs. This isn't what you think. These meatballs are made with very finely chopped cooked meat, chicken, whatever you have, (you can use a food processor), and then mixed with plain, well mashed, boiled potatoes. Use an egg to bind the mix and season with salt, pepper, cheese, a little grate of nutmeg, chopped parsley and garlic. Use your imagination. Shape them round or as cylinders, roll in flour and then fry in a neutral oil. They are delicious. 

Potatoes are used to stretch the leftovers. In very poor times this was what "la mamma" did to feed her brood. Which gets me to the next subject.

I wanted to write about Umberto's Woods the other day but the deer got my attention, instead. Peter's cousin Umberto lives in Stia. I always say that if you sit in the piazza for twenty minutes and don't see Umberto, something's wrong. Peter's father and Umberto's father were two of a brood of thirteen. There was Bruno, Brunetta, Nello, Nella, Giulio..that's as far as I could get but based on those names I'm pretty sure there was a Giulia. Giulio ran a "drogheria" in the main piazza. This was many years ago and he sold sugar, flour, all kinds of dried goods. You don't see drogherie around any more. They've been replaced by the "alimentari",(from the verb "alimentare", to feed) more of a little grocery store. 

Anyway, Umberto's father, Bruno, won the lottery when Umberto was young and with the money he bought the two apartments where Umberto and his wife Maria live now and the storefront below where they opened a store. They were selling their own sopressata, fresh pasta, tortelli, ravioli, you name it. You could walk in and Umberto would slice the proscuitto  for your panino. Maria was making the all the pasta. She is a lovely woman. One that you would call "handsome" in a complimentary way. Always dressed in a good wool skirt and sweater and classic earrings. As many times as I've sat in her kitchen I've never seen this woman sit down. One time I watched her make about 75 tortellini in about 5 minutes. She's so fast I couldn't get the count. She always uses the same knife. It looks like a sword it's so long. But it's her favorite knife and her brother has mended the handle many times, she says. I've seen the brother pass through the kitchen and pop a few tortellini in his mouth right from the cutting board.

Unfortunately, the store closed about ten years ago when the COOP, a communist cooperative, opened a market in town. Umberto and Maria have never stepped foot in it.

One of the other things that Umberto and his father bought was a nice patch of woods. This must've been a long time ago because Umberto is in his seventies. They built a little hut, shack, cabin, I can never decide what to call it. Our friend Chris was right on target when he said it reminded him of "The Beverly Hillbillies". It is very Jed Clampett, indeed There is a beautiful fireplace with a chestnut mantle, a plastic medicine cabinet (band aids and brandy), another cabinet where we put our cooking stuff, a rickety table and equally rickety chairs. And this is where we have had our Sunday feasts.

As soon as we get there and unload our cooler, Peter goes and collects the wood for the fire as well as wood to bring home for our fireplace in the kitchen, Lucy goes wild and free, and I start the prep. Our favorite is half a chicken, one of those scrawny, free range beauties that taste like heaven. I give it a massage with a dry rub that I concocted with rosemary, sage, garlic, plenty of pepper and some lemon zest and olive oil. Then I chop plenty of parsley, basil (if we've got it) and garlic, s&p, to put on the tomatoes halves after they've been grilled. I slice bread for the fettunta...we grill the bread and when it comes off the fire I take a clove of garlic and rub it over the toasted surface. Then it's drizzled with olive oil and sprinkled with salt. That's the REAL garlic bread, my friends. I usually pack some pecorino and a pear, and whatever cake I've made the day before. And of course, vino rosso. Sometimes, I absolutely cannot wait and I rip off a hunk of bread and wash it down with some vino. How can something so simple be so good?! If only the magazines could see our rustic feast. And there's not a sound anywhere except for the cowbells that I hear when the sheep are herded down the road to another pasture. I love it.