Love and food in the Apennines 6

Sniffing out the best
 

Spot the dog

Every evening at around 5.00pm the warm, still atmosphere of Casa Barile is shattered as the pack of hunting dogs kept in the village above the house demand their dinner. This part of Tuscany is a hunter’s paradise, with boar in the hills, duck in the lakes and best of all, truffles in the ground. The ancient Italian breed of dog, Lagotto Romagnolo, is believed to have been used for hunting for 3000 years and an image of this woolly haired,  stocky animal with its cheerful face features in Mantegna's  picture The Meeting, painted in 1474.  The breed is regarded as the original stock from which many of today's hunting dogs are descended, including the Portuguese water dog chosen by President Obama and the golden retriever so beloved by British families. 

A Lagotto Romagnolo, or truffle hound 

The Lagotto is a natural retriever, particularly in water, but has to be trained to seek out the truffle, that elusive tuber that is worth more than its weight in gold. Some traditionalists believe that sows have more sensitive snouts than dogs for this lucrative job (because the truffle has a similar smell to the natural sex hormones of the male pig) but recognize that it is easier to train dogs than pigs not to eat the truffles they find. 

Every October there are festivals all over the Garfagnana to celebrate not only truffles but also those other, more affordable fungi found in the dense forests of the region -  porcini mushrooms. The harvesting and sale of mushrooms is tightly regulated in Italy, both to protect stocks and to try to reduce accidental poisoning. (Some 40,000 people suffer mushroom poisoning every year in the country.) 

Anyone wishing to gather mushrooms on land they do not own themselves is required to buy a permit and is also required to take a test to show knowledge of the poisonous varieties. There is a limit to the amount of mushrooms gathered, the days on which they can be gathered and also the manner in which they are collected. Baskets only, to allow the spores to be distributed through the chestnut forests - no paper or plastic bags allowed. The redoubtable Claudio, down at the bar/restaurant Il Ponte di Ceserana, is the official provider of the  permits for mushroom gathering in the Fosciandora commune. 

Porcini from the fores

This morning, after a night of torrential rain that brings cool relief after weeks of unusually hot weather,  Alina arrives to give me an Italian lesson.  Alina is the girlfriend of Francesco, a licensed mushroom collector and mountain guide and  son of the gardener who looks after Casa Barile. (And whose mother Maria has cooked and delivered wonderful homegrown four course dinners for us from their organic farm. Chicken or rabbit cacciatore,  vitello tonnato,  home-made ice cream.... what a place.)

I ask Alina if Francesco will be out mushroom gathering  now that the drought has broken. She tells me that according to local tradition, it takes 13 days after the first serious rain of the autumn before the mushrooms are worth gathering. Too late for us this year. So I buy 100gm of the local dried porcini from a shop in Castelnuovo di Garfagnana,  to enhance a risotto, enrich an omelette or transform a slow cooked leg of lamb and bring back sunny memories of Italy on dark days in London.

Slow cooked lamb with porcini and white wine
(based on a Waitrose recipe)

Leg of lamb
large onion, roughly chopped
two cloves of garlic, cut in slivers
lemon thyme sprigs
300 ml white wine
40 gm dried porcini
250 gm fresh chestnut mushrooms, halved or quartered
2 tablespoons creme fraiche
seasoning 

Pour warm water over the porcini to cover and leave to soak whilst preparing the meat. Cut small slits in the lamb and push in slivers of garlic. Season with salt and pepper and sear all over in hot oil in a frying pan. Put on one side, and fry the chopped onions in the same pan until soft and coloured. Put the onions into a slow cooker or ordinary casserole dish, add four or five sprigs of lemon thyme and top with the leg of lamb. Deglaze the frying pan with the white wine, add the porcini with their soaking liquid, bring to a bubble and pour over the meat and vegetables. Either cook in the oven at Gas Mark 4 (180 degrees) for 2.5 hours or leave in the slow cooker and go off for a long walk, write the chapter of a novel, or catch up with your Italian homework (Alina is offering to teach me by Skype).

When the meat is cooked, keep warm on a carving plate.  Reduce the sauce by half over a high heat, then stir in the chestnut mushrooms and simmer for 5 minutes.  Stir in the creme fraiche and heat gently, test seasoning. Carve the lamb, and serve the mushrooms and sauce separately. Good accompaniments are potato and celeriac puree, or grilled polenta, with green beans.

Closer to (any) God in a garden

Rowan berries glowing in Clerkenwell

The end of September is an important date in our pension planning diary, because it is new tenancy time for the three bedroom maisonette in Clerkenwell which gives a far better return on capital, plus growth, than anything else in our portfolio. 

The flat is just a few minutes walk from the Barbican, the wonderful St Luke's (home to the London Symphony Orchestra) and Whitecross Street market which has become a Mecca for lunchtime foodies seeking the ultimate artisan loaf, french cheese, Thai noodles, wild game pasties, indulgent macaroons and pastries, plus coffee shops and Mediterranean restaurants. Not to mention, joy of joys, a Waitrose store at the end. What's more, there are still hardware shops, dry cleaners, newsagents, barbers and florists.  It is not surprising that people enjoy living here.

So two days after returning from holiday I am deep into long spells on the telephone listening to muzak whilst trying to reach a sentient being to organise landlord gas safety certificates, untangle the byzantine thinking of the council tax department and arrange for this year's treat for the flat - sanding and varnishing the wood floors in the ground floor kitchen, hallway and living room.

One of the particularly attractive features of the flat is that in addition to its own paved and planted front area, it also has a south-facing back garden that overlooks the tree-filled and historic Bunhill Fields and the pretty building that was the first Quaker meeting house in London.

The only drawback is that whilst every tenant loves the garden, not one has ever been an active or knowledgeable gardener. So while the floor sanding is under way I plan to attack the jungle, arriving equipped with long armed pruners, secateurs, green sacks and gardening gloves.

The grape vine has gone berserk, dangling dozens of shriveled bunches of aspiring sultanas over the patio door. The roses too, which were severely pruned two years ago, have responded vigorously to the " treat 'em mean, keep 'em keen" principle and have sent whippy stems loaded with bright scarlet hips all through the vine, passion flower, viburnum and choisya.

Hidden harvest in a City garden

As I untangle the thorny growth, I discover that the vine stem branching off to the west facing wall is carrying bunch after bunch of ripe and juicy grapes hidden amongst the leaves and flowers of the other shrubs fighting for light and air. Small and sweet, but with thick skins and lots of pips, they are not dissimilar to the baskets full given to us in Italy earlier in the month.  Impossible for two people to consume in a week, I turned them into grape juice. See (An embarrassment of riches)

When Manjik the floor sander steps into the garden for a breath of fresh air whilst he waits for the first coat of varnish to dry, he spots the pile of grapes on the garden table. His eyes light up, so I offer him some. As he eats, he looks keenly at the tangle of vine stems and foliage.

"These are grow too much," he says in his slow, accented English. He touches the fat rose hips, and tells me that his grandmother used them. "She not really doctor, but she made medicine for children from these."

Manjik then nods at the two bags full of vine prunings and asks if he can take some, for his garden.  "Before I come to England from Iran, " he says, "I was farmer.  I grow grapes and all fruits."

He carefully chooses and then ties together half a dozen vine stems, some green, others thick and brown, and puts them in the plastic bag that contained his lunch. Then he looks up at the jungle and reaches for the pruners. " I help you," he smiles, " I love this work more than sanding floors.”

So for the next hour, whilst the varnish dries, the Iranian refugee and I work in companionable silence in the golden autumn sunshine of an English garden. 

Grape jelly with lime and tarragon

The haul from the exuberant Clerkenwell vine is well over 2 kilos, so the grapes are carried back home on the Northern Line for processing. As I have plenty of sugar and glass jars to hand, I will make jelly rather than the grape juice solution of the previous week in Tuscany.  White grapes have sweetness but a less pronounced flavour than black ones, so I decide to add the sharpness and colour of limes plus the aroma of tarragon, to make a jelly that will make an excellent partner for roast chicken or grilled fish.

Remove grapes from stems and wash thoroughly and put into large pan with the juice of two limes and the zest of one. Cook gently until juices run freely and fruit is soft, mashing firmly from time to time. Put into a sterilized jelly bag and suspend over a bowl overnight.

Measure juice and for every litre add 750 grams of sugar and stir over a gentle heat until thoroughly dissolved. Add the zest of two limes and a bunch of tarragon tied in a square of muslin and bring to a rolling boil. When it reaches 105 degrees, remove from the heat, remove the tarragon bunch and any scum. Pour into hot sterilized jars and just as it begins to set pop in a sprig of tarragon. Seal in usual way.

Photographs by Sandi.

Love and food in the Apennines 5

Trains, sheep and other diversions

The station halt at Fosciandora

En route to see the structural wonders of Pisa (see Towering Genius), we find the level crossing closed at the foot of the mountain and the red light flashing.  We are about to witness another pride of Italian engineering, the railway system. The station at Fosciandora is on the Pisa to Aulla line, one of the early beneficiaries of Benito Mussolini's programme of efficient rail networks throughout Italy in the 1930s.  (Although it is said that the widely trumpeted reputation of Italian railways for punctuality reflected more the fear of admitting failure to Il Duce than the reality.)  

Aulla is a town in the mountains not far from Carrarra, at the strategic junction of two rivers, and was virtually destroyed during the Second World War, as this part of Italy was a stronghold of resistance by partisans against the Nazis and the Fascist Government. Today the station at  Fosciandora does look rather like an abandoned set from a film featuring resistance fighters, purloined artworks and a guest performance by Donald Sutherland, but despite appearances, it is fully operational.

Passing through

In fact it is possible to travel by train from the mountain halt of Fosciandora to a station in the UK within the day, or on a smaller scale, make a trip to the centre of Pisa without worrying about where to park. Admittedly you have to read the timetable with care to ensure that you are on one of the trains that stops, rather than hurtles straight through, rattling the glasses and crockery in  Claudio’s bar and restaurant,  but still a useful alternative mode of travel. Next year, perhaps...

The splendour of  the Duomo in Pisa

Back to Saturday morning. The train passes through, the barrier rises and we continue on our way to Pisa, taking the scenic route through the mountains. After enjoying the sights of this wonderful city, we decide to visit the coast for some respite from the unusually hot September sun.  The lovely Alina,  girlfriend of the son of the gardener who looks after the house where we are staying (and who is giving me Italian lessons) suggests that we avoid the designer-heavy resorts of Forte di Marmi and head to the sand dunes and birdsong of the nature reserve to the southwest.

This proves to be easier said than done. After driving several miles through the nature reserve, part of which appears to be occupied by a military camp, we pull over in the shade of a line of trees to take a birthday greetings telephone call from son in Pakistan. After exchanging just a few words, the conversation is interrupted a loud blast on a horn.  The driver of a very large garbage trucks gesticulates for us to move out of the way. We realise that in all the vast acreage of the reserve we have chosen to pull over in front of a collection of large waste bins,  hidden in the shade of the trees.

We finish the transcontinental conversation and decide to find our way out of the reserve and head back to Fosciandora for dinner.  As we drive through increasingly smart clusters of stylish houses towards a road that should take us to the motorway, there suddenly appears a cluster of dark, rippling shapes, filling the carriageway. A man in a grey shirt materialises, wielding a stick and with a black dog weaving around and in front of him. It is a shepherd, in the middle of a smart Pisan suburb, moving his flock to a new pasture.

The dust settles, we find the motorway and drive back in time for a shower and change before dinner at Claudio's place. No fresh wild mushrooms yet, he says,  because of the hot, dry weather, but there is lamb is on the menu this evening.