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.

Love and food in the Apennines 4

Grand opera meets jam and Jerusalem

The long awaited announcement

Il maestro torna a casa, says the headline in the newspaper being read by the man at the next table in the more popular of the two coffee shops in the square in Castelnuovo di Garfagnana. When he leaves, we pick up the paper and pick our way through the Italian. It transpires that il maestro is the operatic genius Giacomo Puccini and tomorrow is the grand opening, with open air concert,  of the house in Lucca where he was born. 

What greater incentive could there be for tearing ourselves away from the terrace and the views and the pool and make that long awaited expedition to Lucca.  Despite not being able to identify on either of our city maps the location of the Piazza San Lorenzo, where Puccini’s house is sited and where the open air concert is taking place, we set off.

On reaching Lucca’s impressive ramparts that completely encircle the city, we find somewhere to park and have the right change for a four hour stay. By chance, the nearest gate into the city is the Porta Elisa, named after Napoleon’s sister Elisa Bonaparte Baciocchi whose story I recounted last year. (Elisa Bonaparte and Lucca). She commissioned the construction of the gate in 1804, piercing the eastern wall that had been kept intact for defence against Florentine invasion since the 16th Century.

The walls saved the city of Lucca in 1812 when a massive flood of the Serchio River inundated the valley. Elisa was governing Lucca at the time from her villa outside the walls, and when she tried to get into the city for safety, the people didn't want to open the gates for fear of the surging waters. Lest they let their princess (and, more important, the sister of Europe's emperor) drown, they hoisted her highness over the walls rather unceremoniously with the help of a crane. Like most of Elisa's life, the tale is reminiscent of grand opera - a reverse of Tosca throwing herself over the battlements.  

Local audience

 We find a city map that pinpoints Piazza San Lorenzo and after a little while we simply follow the sound of music through the mediaeval streets,. An orchestra, resplendent in full uniform, is playing under the hot sun in front of a fine bronze statue of Puccini in a square crowded with attentively listening people. We manage to find two chairs at a pavement café, all the tablecloths printed with Il Maestro torna a casa, and order the local speciality of lemon sorbet floating on chilled sparkling mineral water. 

All ears and standing room only

A succession of local dignitaries and representatives of the Fondazione Cassa di Risparmio, who acquired the house and paid for its restoration, give speeches before the orchestra completes the concert with a rousing rendition of the Te Deum from Tosca followed by that universal crowd pleaser, Nessun Dorma from Turandot.

Buoyed by the celebratory atmosphere and a reminder of wonderful musicianship, we explore more of the fascinating city before returning home in fine spirits to find another of Natalina’s baskets on the doorstep. This time in addition to tomatoes and grapes, there are 1.5 kilos of fresh and very ripe figs. Not the large black figs that are sold individually at an exorbitant price in the UK, but smaller brown figs with pale creamy stripes which reveal wonderful juicy, pinkish purple seeds and flesh. 

Even the most dedicated fig fan (husband is definitely not) would have difficulty in consuming this quantity but I  cannot bring myself to throw away such bounty.  I have one large glass jar with a screw top, a full bag of sugar and a couple of lemons, so it's time to make jam. Of course there will be room in the suitcase......

Fig jam

1.5 kilos of figs, washed with stems removed

500 gm granulated sugar

juice and grated zest of one large lemon

Put all ingredients into a large pan and bring slowly to a simmer, stirring to dissolve the sugar and then let cook gently for about an hour until the fruit is soft and breaking up. Test for a set and pour into hot sterilised jars. 

The mixture filled a 687gm jar  plus a dish that held a further 300gm and which we ate fresh, keeping it in the fridge. The lemon juice and zest gives a welcome sharpness to the rich, sweet fruit. Highly recommended for regularising holiday digestive systems - and tastes good too!

Freshly pressed grape juice and fig jam.

Photographs by Rod and Sandi

Love and food in the Apennines 3

Marriage Italian style

At the bottom of the mountain, just before the railway line, sits the bar/restaurant/general store called Il Ponte de Ceserana, otherwise known as Claudio's place. We met Claudio for the first time last year, on our return from four hours in the local hospital having my broken wrist set in plaster from fingertip to armpit.  He bustled around dispensing cold beer and warm sympathy in fluent English disconcertingly delivered with a  broad Scots accent. He then put together a selection of pasta dishes and fresh salads as a take-away lunch for us and our hosts the Cloke-Brown family and their three hungry sons.

When we returned to have supper later that week we discovered that Claudio was an innovative cook and indefatigable host. Not only does he eschew a printed menu, he doesn't write the menu down at all, simply regaling each table with the wide range of local dishes that he has produced that day. Dishes such as gnocchi with lemon and hazelnuts with a beef jus, or rabbit with olives and tomatoes, or penne with crabmeat. Sparkling white wine is on tap, there is a very quaffable local red and at the end of the meal, Claudio puts a selection of weird and wonderful looking bottles containing homemade liqueurs, ranging from deep purple myrtle, through brilliant green menthe through to a clear grappa.

So this year we look forward to renewing acquaintance. On our return from shopping on Friday, we call in at Claudio's bar for a restorative beer and to find out if he is cooking the next evening. Sporting a natty new apron (fake waiter's waistcoat in scarlet and black), he beams from ear to ear when we walk in, welcomes us warmly and assures that he is certainly cooking dinner on Saturday and books us in for 7.30.  But why don't we come down around 6.30 he suggests, and have a ringside seat for part of the wedding celebrations of two couples in the commune that day.

We had noticed posters fastened to posts and railings along the roadside, and on walls and notice boards in the villages above the house. Some featured the smiling faces of Serena and Nicola, others those of Agnese and Eduardo, announcing their weddings that weekend.  

Claudio explains that a tradition has grown up in Fosciandora for bride and groom to come down the mountain following their church ceremony, to cut a white ribbon that has been strung across the road just before the bridge and to raise a glass of celebratory Prosecco. Although the two ceremonies next day are taking place at different churches, at different times, the couples insist on gathering for a joint ribbon cutting.

Community spirit

We duly arrive on Saturday evening at 6.30, after a four hour walk in the mountains to justify a four course dinner, and sit down on the terrace. Strung across the road just by the level crossing is a large white banner, looking suspiciously like a kingside bedsheet, which has been adorned with a message announcing the gratitude of the inhabitants of Fosciandora for the great sacrifice of Eduardo and Nicola in relieving the commune of two spinsters.

Claudio’s wife Clementina, anticipating a spate of weddings that summer in addition to their own daughter's, has invested in enough ribbon to mark out several miles of carriageway. Claudio and son have created two flamboyant bunches of looped ribbon on one side of the roadway and stand ready to string the lengths across at the appropriate moment. But true to form, both of weddings in general and Italy in particular, the timetable shifts somewhat. The ribbons are taken down on three occasions, to allow cars and trucks through. We try to slow down our wine consumption and Claudio provides interim entertainment by showing us the photographs from his daughter's wedding the week before.

Then a bridesmaid arrives, a forerunner of what turns out to be a stream of incredibly slim, attractive young women on impossibly high heels and wearing incredibly short dresses. One bridal couple is definitely on its way, she announces, so the ribbons go up again. Then comes a report by mobile phone that the other couple are on their way too, so out come bottles of Prosecco and a tray of glasses.

A stream of cars begins to flow down the mountainside, accompanied by much horn blowing augmented by a strange contraption that looks like a tyre pump, but which emits a row as ear-splitting as several zarzuelas. A whippet thin cyclist in spray-on Lycra suddenly zooms through under the bedsheet and then wobbles perilously as he spots the marital ribbon booby trap. But he safely dismounts and decides to linger to watch the fun before tackling the mountain.

Eduardo and Agnese, Serena and Nicola

Just how the wedding couples are going to reach the ribbon cutting through the stream of cars that has now effectively blocked all traffic, does not seem to be of much concern and sure enough, suddenly the brides appear. One is wearing a classic ivory satin gown, the other in warm rose chiffon adorned with swirls of roses. Did they confer, I wonder, knowing that there would be a double photo opportunity at Il Ponte de Ceserana? 

Two pairs of scissors are presented on a velvet cushion and to much cheering, the ribbons are snipped, the Prosecco popped and car horns sounded. The two parties then disappear to the next stage of the celebrations in chaotic scenes of reversing cars, near collisions but universal good humour and Claudio retreats to the relative calm of his kitchen to prepare the usual impressive selection of dishes.

We are introduced to our fellow diners and chairs rearranged so we can all have a good blether, as Claudio puts it. Then to put a final seal on the marriage theme of the evening, it turns out that the parents of one of them were not only married in the same town as Rod and I, Colchester, but just two months earlier in the same year. 

Cin, cin

Love and food in the Appennines 2

An embarrassment of riches 

Sunrise over the Apennines

The grape harvest is now under way. The sun has burnt off the morning mist and three men in hats and bright shirts, carrying buckets, appear in the terraced field above the second bend in the road below the house.  They move slowly and methodically along the lines of vines and occasionally their voices float up towards us on the light breeze. This reminds me that there are several large bowls of grapes sitting accusingly in the fridge, together with the large box full bought for 80 cents at Leclerc on our first morning.  It seemed a good idea at the time, before we became the recipients of local generosity. 

A natural resistance to wasting food, made even more acute by the sheer pleasure of receiving such fresh and organically produced beneficence, obliges me to do something productive with the large bunches of black and white grapes we have received. Here are two of the solutions cooked up in the kitchen at Casa Barile.

Tipsy quail

Sear four quail in a little olive oil,  put into a casserole dish with pepper and salt, then pack down, round and under them a generous quantity of white grapes, stemmed and washed. Pour over a glass of Prosecco (which is what happened to be at hand, but any white wine will do.) Cover and pop into a medium oven for about 30 minutes until the quail are cooked.

Grapevines lining the driveway

Remove the birds and pop back into the oven in a small tin  for five minutes to crisp and brown the skin, then keep warm whilst you make the sauce. Keeping aside a couple of spoonfuls of grapes, push the rest with the cooking juices through a fine sieve, put into a small pan and reduce if required to a consistency of pouring custard.  In a small bowl, beat an egg yolk with a large dollop of plain yoghourt (or cream if you have it) then mix in a couple of tablespoons of the hot sauce before adding the egg mixture to the pan. Stir well over a very gentle heat, season to taste and serve with the quail, garnished with the reserved grapes.

Sober juice

Delicious though tipsy quail are, I realise that I need to scale up my grape management. So thanks to a Californian website,  and to a husband's prediliction for large, white, fine cotton handkerchiefs, we now have a virtuous beverage in the fridge to enjoy before the sun disappears over the yardarm.

Too hot to tread....

Take 2 kilos of black grapes, stripped from their bunches and washed. Put in a large saucepan and bash firmly with a potato masher. Then put on a low gas and bring to a gentle simmer. After five minutes give another vigorous mashing, to encourage  the juices to escape, and cook for another ten minutes. 

Line a large sieve with cheesecloth, or as in my case,  line a colander with a large freshly laundered handkerchief, and pour over a kettleful of boiling water.  Position the lined colander over a large bowl,  carefully ladle in the grape mash (advisable to wear a large apron or least favourite  clothing) and leave to drip through for several hours. 

To speed the process, after three  hours I tied the four corners of the handkerchief together with string and hung it from convenient doorknob over the bowl as if making jelly (see earlier blog Wild and free - or the art of self-preservation ). The weight of the mash helps to extract juice more quickly. 
  

Husband hard at work at his easel 

Then refrigerate the rich, gloriously coloured liquid and use within a week. Serve diluted with still or sparkling water and decorated with a sprig of mint, borage, lemon balm or whatever is to hand in fridge or garden. 

General notes: 

Yield is about 500 cl from 2 kilos of grapes. Handkerchief turns a stylish patrician purple, a useful description when explaining unconventional use to owner.

All photographs by Sandi

Love and food in the Appennines

Casa Barile

The road to the house, in Tuscany's wild and wonderful Garfagnana, is a heart-stopping series of steep, hairpin bends, with an occasional widening to provide sanctuary from oncoming vehicles hurtling towards you with confident and complete ownership of the narrow ribbon of tarmac. On one side the rockface towers high above, on the other, the road drops away into a wooded cliff down to the river, with some stretches offering the comfort of battered metal railings. The road is the only route in or out for a dozen or so villages, smallholdings and an agriturismo, so as well as cars of various size and age,  you are likely to meet the local bus, forestry lorries and buzzing scooter drivers convinced of their own immortality. 

Thus it is with a mixture of anticipation and trepidation, (and a dash of satisfaction at identifying a new route around the challenging ramparts of Lucca) that we embark on the last leg of the journey from Pisa Airport. We turn off the main road, the junction made even narrower by two men with a lorry rebuilding the retaining wall, cross the slim bridge over the Serchio River, bump over the railway track, negotiate the parked car and dozing dog outside Claudio's bar and begin the ascent.

Jointly swearing to pay the extra money for automatic transmission next time, we negotiate into the steeply curving  drive, through the iron gates,  past the vines dripping with grapes and park by the house, its solid stone walls and red-tiled roofs as lovely as we remember. We unpack only to locate swimsuits, click the automatic pool cover and sink into cool, welcoming water just as the sun dips down behind the mountains, turning the sky to rose and lavender.

Sunset in the Garfagnana

Warm welcome

Natalina's basket

The afternoon after we arrive,  a car sweeps up the driveway, unannounced. Out bustles Natalina, with husband Bruno, welcoming us back in non-stop Italian and kissing us exuberantly on both cheeks, before handing over a large basket filled to the brim with five varieties of tomato, nine eggs laid that day,  bunches of small, sweet grapes and a bunch of basil large enough for a bridal bouquet.

Assuring us that Natalina would come as agreed in a week's time to clean the house, the pair then disappear back down the drive in a flurry of dust.

The previous year's visit had been somewhat marred by breaking my right wrist on the very first morning. Now I am looking forward to able bodied enjoyment of the house.  One of its main attractions, apart from the high ceilinged rooms, the swimming pool and choice of terraces, is the kitchen, which runs the full width of the house with windows on three sides taking in the wonderful views.

A sink with a view

Just as well, I ponder, surveying the bounty delivered by Natalina, knowing that the fridge is already full of fruit and vegetables purchased that morning. The tiny cherry tomatoes strung like jewels on their long branches are deliciously sweet and thin skinned,  as easy to eat as sweeties.

But now was clearly the time to make all those recipes which call for full blooded, red-all-the-way-through, lumpy but fragrant tomatoes. In other words, the tomatoes you get when you grow them yourself and the weather is kind. Or Natalina calls by with a basketful.

Sweet intensity

Roasted tomatoes
Skin large tomatoes, slice in half around their middles and arrange on an oiled roasting tin, close but not touching. Trickle oil over each half, grind on some salt and black pepper, sprinkle with a little crushed garlic and top with a basil leaf oiled on both sides. Pop into a hot oven and roast until soft and blackening around the edges. Serve warm or cold with plenty of crusty bread to mop up the juices. (If any get too pulpy, just add them to a tomato sauce, stir into pasta, add to roasted vegetables......)

Pure and simple tomato sauce

Skin and roughly chop about a kilo of ripe tomatoes (if using up some of the cherry variety don't bother to skin) whilst a couple of chopped, large, red onions are cooking gently in olive oil in a large pan. Add some crushed garlic and stir for a couple of minutes before pouring in the tomatoes followed by salt, pepper and if you wish, some organo.  Leave to simmer gently whilst you have a glass of wine on the terrace, empty the dishwasher, catch up with emails or whatever until the sauce becomes thick, fragrant and full of natural sweetness. (Check every now and then, especially if you go for the glass of wine option, to make sure the sauce is not sticking to the pan.)

Keep in the fridge and use in all sorts of ways, on top of bruschetta (although Italians insist that the tomatoes should be chopped and raw), stirred into pasta, added to roasted aubergines and courgettes,  transform left over cooked chicken with a handful of olives......

Don't forget to check the sauce....