Stories that need to be told: Sant'Ambrogio Market, July 1999

The market is the only thing that consistently inspires me. I am living in the middle of Florence in a beautiful Palazzo with Piazza Signoria and the Uffizi five minutes from me, yet I choose to spend my time at the Mercato di Sant’Ambrogio. There I feel at home.

My meloncholia threatens to keep me under water or perhaps its just my sensitivity to constant change. But I am pulled, attracted to the source of light like a moth. Or should I say the source of color, texture, and the sounds of life of the market. Not for selling wares, but selling food. All types of wonderful, fresh, tasty food. There I don’t feel stupid for asking a question about something I don’t know. Americans don’t like to appear ‘uninformed’. They prefer the prolonged humiliation of going around in circles when they are lost, than the brief vulnerability of admitting err. On the other hand, I have come to salivate my ignorance at the market, for I always find out more than I expected, and no one takes notice. As a matter of fact, if I ask a vegetable vendor for advice and he doesn’t know, he turns around and ask whomever might be shopping near him. “Senora, lo sai come prepare bene questi cipollini bianchi?” The Senora replies, “Of course, you simply boil the small white onions first, then toss them in a frying pan with olive oil and a pinch of salt. If you put a touch of vinegar or lemon it becomes even better.” For me it is a living free University, a private study of learning just what I want to know. I have learned about cuts of meat and how to cook them. “Well, if you are going to cook it in the oven, you need this one.” Says the butcher.

I am spending all my money in the market. I love the way they greet you. “Mi Dica!” Tell me! Or, “Ciao bella, dimmi tutto!” I feel like a kid in a candy shop. “I would like un etto of procuitto dolce, and un pezzo da questo formaggio, per favore.” The lady behind the counter whispers and cocks her head to the side, “Io adore questo formaggio!” I feel like I’ve just won the lottery. I have touched her heart. I’m in.
Or the young man who makes a bouquet of ‘odori’ (parsley, rosemary, basil, a stalk of celery, a carrot) extra special just for me, and I think, ‘hes in’. How could I go somewhere else with this kind of gentilezza?

A man walks swiftly by the eggplants with a tray of compari’s. I think to myself “where is he going with those at 9:00 in the morning!

Meanwhile, I stop in at the local cafe’ to see Franca and have something warm to drink and there is “Chammomila”. A short man, balding, with hair that flips up in the back looking very scrooge like, but much nicer, having his martini. They call him Chammomila because that’s what he asks for, knowing that is not what he will get.

I would feel lightweight all of sudden leaving the market, if I didn’t have five or six bags lugging me down. As it is, I leave reluctantly, only by the fact that I know that I can return tomorrow.

Stories that need to be told: letter to Sally 13 April 2003

I am here in Elba...the water so clear that the rocks seem like ice in a glass. A perfect day.

Last night was the festa for Luciano's restaurant 'Il Chiasso' as you know.As usual with parties where you don't know but one or two people apart from the host, I was wondering why I came. That odd moment of getting all dressed up and standing around with your plate in your hand and trying to find a corner to put one's glass down. I felt rather like a bird with my plumes spread, somehow there for the looking but not for the talking. Then I heard the name'Lia'. I saw on old woman sitting in the back with longish grey hair and sun glasses on surrounded by people. I realized that this was Luciano's aunt that I had heard so much about but had never met. She is almost 80. She was a student at Columbia when Eisenhower was the president after the war from 1948 to 1953. She studied philosophy and taught in Rome for many years. Lia of the lees..she is the real story. The real story for why you are coming and the real story behind Luciano. She quotes Dante, the Greeks, Shakespeare, sings Frank Sinatra, see's your very soul and drank us all under the table. It might as well have been coffee as her performance grew more intense and passionate without a waver. She was the most awake of all of us in every sense and still going strong until 3 am. Dagmar, Luciano's x wife and I took her home..and she said..Peggy, Peggy, questo e il mio castello! Guarda come bello! Like my aunt Sarah, she lives alone without a car deep in the countryside in a glorified hut. She is half blind but her memory is stellar.
I remember when I came to Elba the first time and met Luciano. I knew then why Fabio was Fabio. He was heavily influenced my Luciano as he spent every summer here in Elba and learned Luciano's gregarious, fearless, rustic ways of cooking. He took it and refined it. His habit of wearing red pants and orange shirts must have come from Luciano, part actor, part clown. Now upon meeting Lia, I see where Luciano took his.
His first trip was with Lia to the movies when he was 10 years old, changed his life. She transported him away from the provinciality of Capoliveri, in his mind, and from there she became his mentor.
The story does not end there. Her sister's family moved to Australia when her children were small. Her nephew's returned grown and gorgeous. She and the youngest one, I believe 8 years her junior, fell in love. It was shocking for everyone including themselves. They asked to be married by permission from the Pope and he granted it. They never married and he died early, from a cause I am not clear on.
These women keep showing up..whether in Alabama, West Virginia, or here in Capoliveri. There stories need to be told.

I'm off to the beach, cara. Soon it will be a conversation 'voce a voce'.
We'll be discussing how sweet the tomatoes taste this time of year..and
how gentle the breeze feels today.

Lia died last year in June, 08. Her 'castello' stacked with books.

Time to collect prune plums from the fruit-ladened branch..

I love to make pies. This is my absolute favorite. Hands down!


Seventeenth Century Bottom-crusted Plum Pie

2 cups unbleached flour,
1 3/4 sticks cold unsalted butter, sliced
1/4 c ice water
pinch of salt

3 cups Italian prune plums, quartered and seeded
1/2 c sugar
squeeze of half a lemon , avoiding seeds
2 T of flour
a few slices of butter
a touch of cinnamon

Prepare the dough by mixing the flour with a pinch of salt and the cold butter. If using a bowl, take two knives and cut butter into flour, creating a cornmeal texture. Use the pulse button to create the same effect if you are using a food processor. Add water slowly, looking for the right amount of moisture in your dough. Try not to overwork, or make too sticky. Toss dough on a hard clean surface, preferably marble.
Sprinkle a bit of flour on the surface to prevent sticking, then proceed to roll out using a rolling pin. Start from the center of the dough and roll out in all directions, until you have created a thin 1/4 inch round. Use a light touch, and remember, don’t overwork!
Center rolled-dough over your pie plate with the excess hanging over. Put a few fork-marks in the bottom to prevent swelling in the oven.
Place quartered plums, sugar, cinnamon, and lemon juice, in a bowl. Toss well. You can even let it marinate for a little while. Slip the mixture into the pie. Sprinkle the flour randomly over the fruit, and dot with butter slices.
Cover the pie filling with the excess pie dough hanging over the edges, as if you were using it as a piece of cloth to cover bread in a basket. That is why it is called ‘bottom crusted’. One crust rolled out then folded over the fruit. I like to use an egg wash, and decorate the top to look like lace. You can use a toothpick or any sharp point to create a detailed effect.
Bake at 400 for around an hour. When you start smelling the fruit, the pie is usually done.
Keep and eye on the crust. Don’t be alarmed if the juices come up over the crust. It is fine!
It makes for one delicious, old fashioned looking pie.

Here is one small sort that I made with peaches with left-over dough. This is the concept.
I can't show you the real McCoy until I get my lovely large shallow bowl from Thea Tenenbaum
and Raffaelle Malferrari. Their bowl, not unlike this small one.. works the best. This is similar to
a galette, but not necessarily.

( To pick up rolled-out dough off a hard surface, pull dough from one side to about half way center. Place your arm in the center and fold the dough over it. Gently pull the remaining dough off the surface and put your other arm underneath and center over the plate. Otherwise, you can pull one side of the dough to half-way, fold it very gently onto the other half creating a half moon. Pick up both ends and center over the pie plate, carefully unfolding it to its original roundness.)

Here is an open-faced prune plum tart. This one is the simplest. I threw it together for a friends birthday rather quickly. It will be fine eaten on it's own or with a nice dollop of cream? Sheep's milk
yogurt? Whatever you fancy..!

 

a carrot a day...

keeps the rabbits away.

Tagines Anyone??

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Teaching Tagines on the beach!

BLT with watercress and fried green tomatoes

When life gives you unripe tomatoes, fry them.

Summer series: Saturday's at the Farmer's Market

In summer, everyone else is out with their gear, maps, packed cars and travel itineraries,while I prefer to stay still. I would rather spend peaceful days, moving little, taking in the splendor of my favorite season in Colorado. I frequent the farmer's market with my grand-daughter Makena,3 1/2, who loves to make the rounds. Pete (Oxford Gardens) gives her fresh carrots to nibble on, Lara (Cure Farm) gives her flowers, and her basket fills with love.

Makena doesn't like peaches, (I could faint) but she likes to bake. Peach pies are a mainstay.

Peach Pie with Clotted Cream

6 organic peaches, skins left on, sliced
1/2 c sugar
1 lemon, sliced in half

crust:
2 cups of unbleached white flour
1 stick and a half of butter
a few T's of cold water
pinch of salt

cream

tart pan

This informal recipe is meant to give you a relaxed approach to pie making.

Put together your pie dough, by cutting butter into your flour with two knives(or use a cuisinart, pulsing the blade to cut the butter into flour). Add a pinch of salt. Add cold water a tablespoon at the time to bind the dough together. Form into a ball. It should feel like a 'babies behind'. Put it in the fridge for 1/2 hour.

Meanwhile, slice peaches into a bowl. Add sugar to taste and 1/2 lemon, juiced with your hand.Set aside.

Roll out dough on a floured surface, starting from the center and rolling out in all directions until you have a thin round. Center it over your tart pan, trimming the edges.

Press dough gently along the sides where the edge meets the bottom. The crust needs to bake on it's own before putting in the filling at 350F. weighted. Use a piece of aluminum foil over the crust and add beans, or other filler to keep the dough from rising. I've even used a glass bowl, turned upside down. Bake for 10 minutes. Remove
weight and foil and cook another 10 minutes.

Take crust out and add your peaches in a uniform fashion all around the tart pan, spiraling into the center. Bake for 20 minutes. Add cream by pouring over the top of the pie about half way. Let bake another 10-15 minutes. The cream will clot and the peaches will look wilted and rustic with their skins. Let cool for a moment, then unmold the tart from the sides. Enjoy.