Bella Tuscany (14 page)

 

From my reading, I gleaned an unpleasant insight—how unformed and narrow my views of gardening were! In my new yellow book, I'm starting a list of newly realized possibilities for my more mundane-sized garden, beginning with sketches of pergolas. Anyone looking at them might think they're scaffolding or subway tunnels. Almost everyone with a garden in Tuscany has a pergola, not only because they're practical for grapes. Chestnut, stone, willow, iron, they direct a view, provide a focal point, and protect you from the sun, an easy contrast and defining point. Lunching under dangling bunches of grapes imparts a delicious mood of hedonism, while the splashes of sunlight falling over the table make faces beautiful and seduce everyone to enjoy themselves fully. Why have I never built a woven willow pergola in California? I can superimpose one over my memory of the yard of my house in Palo Alto—there behind the house. I should have taken out that ugly juniper hedge and put up a lovely arbor.

 

I have a practice which must release beneficial rushes of body chemicals, purify the blood, and strengthen the heart. When I can't sleep I imagine holding all the animals I've loved; I revisit my happiest moments; I walk through the streets of Cuzco, San Miguel, Deya, recalling views, windows, faces, sounds. I think of everyone I love unstintingly. To this habit I now can add the revision of the gardens of all the houses I've lived in, budgetary considerations of the time notwithstanding. I'm more accustomed to the revisions of interiors, a large topic among the women of my family, any one of whom might say something like, “I never should have papered that dining room, especially with those Chinese cranes coming in to land. I always feel like one will plop down into my soup. I should have lacquered the walls
brilliant
yellow and a mirror should go over that sideboard, not those puny sconces. . . .” I wonder if they, when insomnia strikes, have practices like mine.

 

Formal squares traditionally organize large Italian gardens. I knew that, of course, but did not know that the square was called a quincunx, for its four trees planted at the corners and one at the central point. Ever since Cicero, many gardens are a series of quincunxes linked by paths. Boxwood was the common border but some quincunxes were edged with sage, rosemary, lavender, or myrtle. Within the quincunxes, gardeners planted lilies, roses, and bulbs such as hyacinth, narcissus, and crocus. Pergola walkways worked as boundaries on the sides of the gardens, offering shaded walks.

Reading garden inventories from hundreds of years ago, I see how many of the plants loved then still are—cyclamen, jasmine, honeysuckle, savory, clematis, anise. Others have fallen from favor: hyssop, mugwort, rue, tansy, melissa, black cumin, sweet cicely, balsam apple, black bryony, and woodbine. Herbs often were used interchangeably with flowers. The iris and the orange lily (
giglio selvatico
), both of which grow wild at Bramasole, are mentioned frequently, causing me to wonder how long ago they naturalized.

I'm happy that some plants I've chosen are on the lists of common herbs and flowers in Renaissance gardens. Last summer I planted
issopo,
hyssop, as a border. It rewarded me with long-blooming spiky purple flowers and an ambition to spread into a bush. Francesco recognized it as something good to rub on bruises. Another I planted was melissa, which I then found was the same as the wild mints I'd called lemon balm or citronella. It smelled like the oil my mother used to rub on me in the evenings when mosquitoes swarmed and I played late in the alleys and neighbors' back yards. Now I cut branches and lay them under the table when we eat outside at night. Maybe it helps.

Savory, another mint cousin, I planted by accident. At the market I bought a pot of
santoreggia
. “Use the flowers and the leaves,” was all the seller told me.

“In what?”

She raised both arms, “In the kitchen,
signora. Insalata, zuppa,
everywhere.” By chance I came upon a mention of
santoreggia
as
satureja hortensis,
the Latin name for savory, and noticed the connection.

Jasmine grows over an arch and along the iron railing on the upstairs terrace. Honeysuckle I also planted early. The scent takes me straight to a white Georgia road in moonlight, when my true love in high school picked a branch and put it in my hair. When we kissed, his mouth was hard and unyielding, then suddenly open and alive. Honeysuckle doesn't dazzle anyone with its flowers, but I can lean out of my study window, look over cypresses and hills and breathe not only the honeyed fragrance but the sand road cooling off behind Bowen's Mill, the wind in long leaf pine, and Royale Lyme aftershave liberally doused on the cheeks of a shy boy years and miles away. I was not shy; I'd been waiting for him to kiss me for weeks.

Southern scents are powerful. I always keep a gardenia pot going in the shade, a connection to the old giant in my mother's yard, a scent I slipped past when coming home late, the green-black leaves and the gardenias so white they seemed to have a nimbus of light around them. I'd pick one and float it in a water glass by my bed. By the time I woke up late the next morning, the scent had invaded every corner of the hot room. My family's garden in Georgia was nothing special, just nice, though by August almost everything looked exhausted. We had camellias, lilies, azaleas, crape myrtle, larkspur, bachelor's buttons, which we called ragged robin, and a back hedge of bridal bouquet. Inside it I had a hideout and would not answer when my mother called from the back door. Through long swoops of white bloom, I could see her fuming. I liked to spy. My other hideout, strategically located near the front door, was under the porch, behind the blue hydrangeas. I could see the postman's hairy leg and black socks, the skirts of my mother's bridge friends, and sometimes hear bits of forbidden conversation about Lyman Carter “running around,” or Martha's shock treatments in Asheville.

Here I have pots of pink and white hydrangeas, the blooms as large as a baby's head. Between two of them Ed built a stone bench, an almost hidden vantage point for viewing our garden, though nothing as exciting as who entered and exited my family's home. We have planted both white and lavender lilac, which has the lovely name
lillà
in Italian.

 

The garden, I begin to see, is a place where I can give memory a location and season in which to remain alive. Ed, too, loves the lilac. They grew all over his hometown in Minnesota and, after the harsh winter, must have been a sweet sight. His neighbor Viola Lapinski, an “old maid” (he now realizes she was in her thirties), used to bring bunches when she came over on Saturday nights to watch “Gunsmoke” with his family.

I'll have to ask my daughter, whose first word was “flava,” flower, if she feels a memory imprint from our Somers, New York, back yard of maples, which in autumn dropped knee-deep yellow leaves she and the dog burrowed under. Along the boundary wall, I planted my first herb garden and never since have had one so extensive. Digging beside me one day, she found an amethyst medicine bottle which she kept for years. In the front yard, a peony hedge popped up every year. Ashley thought someone with too much lipstick had kissed the crest of each pink globe. What does she remember? Her room in Palo Alto had one sliding glass wall. She stepped outside every day to mock orange, lemon, kumquat, loquat. The inheritance of those light scents must be floating in the canaliculi of her brain. I wish she had the grape arbor to remember. Perhaps building one here will do.

Scents operate like music and poetry, stirring up wordless feelings that rush through the body, not as cognitive thoughts but as a surge of lymphatic tide. Ed walks by the lilac and simultaneously his mother places the vase of ashen lavender blossoms on the coffee table, his father offers a box of toffee to Viola, whose hair is rolled on orange juice cans in preparation for mass tomorrow, Lawrence Welk starts to bounce, and the room is presided over by the shadowy tones of the framed Jesus over the TV, pausing to look out at everyone from the garden of Gethsemane.
His eyes follow you everywhere
.

A garden folds memory into the new as well. I have no history with lavender, pots of lemon trees, balconies of tumbling coral geraniums, double hollyhocks shooting up, tree roses, dahlias—but now I see that when (if) I am ninety, a lavender sachet will return to me the day Beppe planted forty lavenders, will bring back summer after summer of white butterflies and bees around the house, dipping in and out of the lavender haze. Probably nothing will stir the memory of the horrid weed that smells like old fish, or the sticky one that makes me rush inside for the allergy tablets.

 

“If we plant everything you list in your yellow book, we'll live in a botanical garden.”

“Or maybe an Eden.” Ed has told me the etymological root of the word “paradise” comes from the Greek
paradeisos,
meaning garden or park, and farther back, from
dhoigho-,
clay or mud wall, and from the Avestan
pairi-daeza,
meaning circumvallation, walled-around. Paradise: a clay-walled garden. Genesis says nothing about wall-building on any of the seven days, but I can imagine a high perimeter of golden bricks thumb-printed by the hand of God. If He has hands, of course. Was the Eden wall covered with Mermaid, a quick-growth rose? Ours seemed to plunge down roots and surge forth the moment we planted them. Surely the wild magenta rugosas behind our house thrived there, the low branches sheltering the serpent. Maybe a new apple is in order on our land. Since ours are gnarly, they tempt no one.

From much-later historical inventories of gardens, I'm intrigued by black bryony—whatever that may be. It sounds like something entwined over the graves of Catherine and Heathcliff. One writer of the time recommends carnations every three and a half feet, the intervals planted with marjoram, lily of the valley, ranunculus, and cat thyme. Thyme and marjoram would add texture and cover bare dirt. “What about zinnias,” Ed says. “Old plain zinnias. What
do
you have in store for me in that yellow book of yours?”

“O.K., I'll skip the plants. We've got a pergola to build. I'd love at least one statue. And a fountain.”

“Is that
all
?
What about a folly? I like the idea of those ornamental hermits you read about, too. And we could build a fake ruin at the end of the Lake Walk. A broken arch, a piece of a door, a tumbled wall.”

“That's a great idea! A place to sit. . . .”

He looks stunned. “No wait, back up. I was kidding. You're not serious, are you?”

Spring Kitchen

ANTIPASTI
  ——

Paolo's Fennel Fritters

Anything Paul Bertolli cooks I will eat. Once he even served me tendons. “Whose tendons are these, anyway?” I asked. He flinched only a little. “Veal. You'll like them.” He knows I'm somewhat squeamish and tries to educate me. When he was chef at Chez Panisse, I was allowed to assist him in the kitchen a few times. My first assigned task was to behead a mound of pigeons. Their closed blue eyelids bothered me, but not wanting to be just the lettuce washer, I began to whack their little heads off. Paul has Italian parents and deep affinities with Italian life. His genius is for revealing the essence of whatever he's cooking. His pleasure and integrity are clear to anyone who reads and cooks from his
Chez Panisse Cooking.
Recently he has built an
acetaia,
a barn for the complex process of making balsamic vinegar. He was one of our first guests here and helped us
set up our prototype kitchen. When I'm in California, I love to go to his restaurant, Oliveto's in Oakland, especially on nights when he celebrates truffles or
porcini
mushrooms. This is his recipe, just as he handed it to me, for fennel fritters. Select young fennel—older plants are too fibrous.

6.5 ounces of wild fennel hearts, cleaned
6.5 ounces of tender fronds and leaves
1 whole head of garlic, peeled
2
3/4
cups of sturdy bread crumbs from a day-old loaf
3/4 cup of freshly grated parmigiano reggiano
1 whole egg
1/2 t. sea salt
freshly ground black pepper
3/4 cup of olive oil

— 
Pare the fennel stalks down to their tender centers and while doing so, separate and retain the leafy fronds. Combine the stalks, fronds, and leaves on a cutting board and chop them coarsely. Place in a bowl, cover with cold water and drain well.

— 
Place the clean fennel in a steamer along with the peeled garlic cloves. Steam over high heat for 12–15 minutes, or until the fennel and garlic are very tender. Cool and transfer to a cutting board. Chop the mixture finely.

— 
Add 13/4 cups of the bread crumbs and the grated
parmigiano.
Next add the whole egg, the salt and a little freshly ground black pepper. Stir with a fork until the mixture forms a firm mass.

— 
Using two soup spoons, portion the fritters evenly. One by one, toss the fritters into a bowl containing the remaining bread crumbs and form them by hand into small uniform patties.

— 
Warm the olive oil in a large skillet. Test the temperature of the oil by tossing in a crumb. It should sizzle and dance in the pan. Fry the fritters over high heat, turning them with the help of a slotted spoon. Transfer to a platter lined with absorbent paper or towel, then to a service platter. Pass while still warm.

Fried Artichokes

As a Southerner, to me “deep fried” is an enchanting phrase. We never met an artichoke, when I was growing up, except marinated in a jar. Still, this seems like soul food. At the spring markets, vendors sell five sizes. For stuffing with bread, herbs, and tomatoes, I buy the largest ones. For frying or eating raw, the smallest, purple-tinged ones are best. Even with those, trim off any part of the leaf that might be stringy.

— 
Select ten small artichokes. Strip any tough outer leaves and trim off the tips quite close to the heart. Quarter and pat dry with paper towels. Heat safflower, peanut, or sunflower oil. Beat three eggs in a bowl with 3/4 cup of water, and quickly dip artichoke pieces in the egg then shake them in a bag of seasoned flour. Brush off excess. Fry in hot oil (350 degrees) until golden. When done, remove to brown paper to drain, then pile on a platter and serve with wedges of lemon. Serves eight as an
hors d'oeuvre
.

PRIMI PIATTI
  ——

Odori

Usually the greengrocer, whether in a shop or outdoor market, will give you a handful of
odori,
literally “odors, herbs,” aromatic flavors for your pot: a handful of parsley and basil, a couple of stalks of celery, and a carrot or two. If I'm not making a stock or stew, sometimes this little gift wilts in the fridge. One night when the cupboard was bare, Ed minced the
odori
and invented this simple mix for pasta. After that, we spread it on
focaccia,
and also pulled apart the petals of steamed artichokes and stuffed it between the leaves, a fresh alternative to lemon butter or vinaigrette.

— 
Finely chop—almost mince—2 carrots, 2 stalks of celery, and 3 cloves of garlic. Sauté in 2 T. of olive oil until cooked but still crunchy. Scissor basil and parsley into the mixture, add another 2 T. of olive oil and cook on low flame for 2–3 minutes. Prepare enough spaghetti for two. Drain and mix 2 or 3 T. of the pasta water and a little olive oil into the pasta. Mix 4 T. grated
parmigiano
into the
odori.
It should have the texture of pesto. Toss with spaghetti. Serves two.

Risotto Primavera

“The best meal I've ever had,” a friend said, after a simple dinner of
risotto
with spring vegetables. Of course it wasn't, but the effect of a lovely mound of
risotto
in the middle of the plate surrounded by a wreath of colorful and flavorful vegetables inspires effusive declarations. This seems like the heart of spring dining. It could be followed by roast chicken but I like it as a dinner in itself, followed by tossed lettuces with pear slices and gorgonzola. A special local
risotto
is made with nettles. Evil as they are when mature, they're a spring treat when they're very young. Some farmers' markets at home have them occasionally. Chop and quickly blanch them, then stir into the
risotto
at the last minute of cooking.

— 
Prepare and season the vegetables separately. Shell 3 pounds of fresh peas, steam briefly. Clean a large bunch of new carrots and cut into pieces about the same size as the asparagus stems. Steam the carrots until barely done. Break 2 pounds of asparagus stalks just where they naturally snap, and steam or roast. Heat to a boil then turn down to simmer 51/2 cups of seasoned stock and 1/2 cup of white wine. In another pot, sauté 2 cups of
arborio
rice and a finely chopped onion in a tablespoon of olive oil for a couple of minutes, then gradually ladle in the stock as the rice absorbs the liquid. Keep stirring and ladling in more until the rice is done. Some prefer it almost soupy, but for this dish it is better moist and
al dente.
Add the juice of a lemon, stir in 1/2 cup or so of grated
parmigiano,
and season to taste. Serve the plates with the vegetables surrounding the rice. Serves six.

Orecchiette with Greens

Orecchiette
, pasta shaped like little ears, work well when served
con quattro formaggi
, with four cheeses:
gorgonzola, parmigiano, pecorino
, and
fontina
. In spring, they are popular with greens.

— 
Sauté 2 bunches of chopped chard with some chopped spring onions and garlic. Cook enough
orecchiette
for six. Drain and toss with the greens. If you like anchovies, sauté about 6 fillets, then chop and mix with the greens. Season, then stir in 1/2 cup of grated
parmigiano,
or serve separately.

Orecchiette with Shrimp

This combination, amusing because of the similar shapes of the pasta and the shrimp, makes a rather substantial course.

— 
Shell enough fava beans for 1 cup. Sauté the beans in a little olive oil until almost done, then add a finely chopped small onion, or a couple of fresh spring onions, to the pan. Cook until onion is soft. Season and purée in food processor. Clean and sauté a pound of shrimp or small prawns in olive oil with 4 cloves of garlic, left whole. Add 1/4 cup of white wine, turn heat to high very briefly, then turn off. Discard garlic. Cook pasta for six, drain, toss with almost all the green sauce; stir shrimp into remaining green sauce. Serve pasta on plates, arranging shrimp mixture on top.

SECONDI
  ——

Spring Veal

This completely simple veal, discovered when I suddenly had no tomatoes for the stew I was about to make, has become a favorite. The lovely, pure lemon flavor intensifies the taste of the tender veal.

— 
Pat dry 3 pounds of veal cubes. Dredge in flour and quickly brown in a heavy pot. Add 1 cup of white wine. With a zestier, remove the thin top layer of peel from 2 lemons; add to pot with salt and pepper. Cover and bake at 350 degrees for 40 minutes, or until veal can be pulled apart easily with a fork. Stir, add the juice of the 2 lemons. Add the lemon juice at the end, since it would toughen the veal to add it sooner. Put back in the oven for 5 more minutes. Stir in a handful of chopped parsley. Serves six.

CONTORNI
  ——

Fava Beans with Potatoes and Artichokes

First and most loved of the spring vegetables are the raw
fave
. Fresh
fave
are nothing like the ones I've found in supermarkets, which must be blanched and very tediously peeled, bean by bean. Although they still can be good, basically a bean that must be peeled is past its prime. Easy to grow, they're hard to find at home, although sometimes farmers' markets will have a bin of just-picked tender green ones. In one Tuscan friend's home, a bowl of raw, unshelled
fave
were brought out with a round of
pecorino,
served with a bottle of wine late in the afternoon. At another friend's house, the
fave e pecorino
ritual was observed at the end of a light dinner, a simultaneous salad and cheese course. Any time seems to be a good time for this sacred combination. The following recipe could accompany a veal chop or a pork tenderloin, but is a happy spring main course, too.

— 
Quarter and steam 6 small artichokes until just tender. Drain and set aside in acidulated water. Peel and quarter a pound of white potatoes (you can use tiny red new potatoes). Steam these, too, until barely done. Shell 2 pounds of fava beans, as fresh as possible; steam until done. Heat 4 T. olive oil in a big sauté pan. Sauté 2 or 3 chopped young spring onions (or a bunch or two of scallions) and 3 or 4 cloves of minced garlic. Add the vegetables, chopped thyme, salt, and pepper. Squeeze the juice of 1 lemon over the vegetables. Gently toss the mixture until nicely blended and hot. Turn out onto a platter. Serves six generously.

Roasted Vegetables, Especially Fennel

The larger your oven, the better to roast a variety of the vegetables-of-the-moment. I've come to prefer oven-roasting to grilling vegetables. The individual flavors are accentuated, while grilling imposes its own smoky taste. Oven-roasted fennel is unbelievably good. I find myself stealing a piece as soon as I turn off the oven.

— 
Generously oil a non-stick cookie pan with sides, or a large baking pan. Arrange halved peppers, quartered onions, separated pieces of fennel, halved zucchini and squash, sliced eggplant, whole heads of garlic, and halved tomatoes. Drizzle with olive oil, sprinkle with chopped thyme, salt and pepper. Slide the pan into the oven and roast at 350 degrees. After about 15 minutes, start testing the squash, zucchini, and tomatoes, removing them to a platter as they are done. Turn the eggplant and peppers. Everything should be done before 30 minutes have passed. Arrange on a platter. The garlic requires hands-on attention. Guests pull off the cloves and squeeze them onto bread.

Other Roasted Vegetables

Since my friend Susan Wyler, author of several cookbooks, taught me to roast asparagus in the oven, I've never steamed it again. Even burned and crisp, it's delicious. Little string beans also benefit from a run in the oven. Roasting brings out a hidden taste. With about 200 onions growing like mad in the garden, I've taken to roasting them frequently. Balsamic vinegar adds a sweet surprise. Surround a roast chicken with a ring of these onions.

— 
Arrange asparagus spears in a single layer in a pie or cake pan. Trickle olive oil over them and season with salt and pepper. Roast for 5 minutes—or until barely fork-tender—at 400 degrees.

— 
Steam Blue Lake string beans until almost done. Shake them dry and roast with a sprinkling of olive oil for 5 minutes at 400 degrees.

— 
Arrange almost peeled onions—leave a layer or two of the papery skin—in a non-stick baking dish. Cut a large X-shaped gash in the top. Sprinkle liberally with balsamic vinegar and olive oil. Season with salt and pepper. Roast for 40 minutes at 350 degrees. Check a time or two and add more balsamic and oil if they look dry.

DOLCI
  ——

In
primavera,
fruits aren't ripe yet. Most of the
gelato
stands are still closed for cold weather. As in winter, dessert is often chestnuts roasted at the fireplace, a wedge of
gorgonzola,
or
Baci
, the chocolate kisses of Perugia, along with a glass of
limoncella
or
amaro
, or, for the stalwart among us,
grappa
. One stand at the Thursday market sells dried fruits. Poached in wine, with a few spirals of lemon zest and spices, and served with
biscotti,
the fruits come to life, good to hold us over until the fruits of summer begin to arrive.

Fruits Plumped in Wine

Delicate and light, this homey dessert falls into the comfort food category. Pass
biscotti
for dipping into the sugared wine. Children hate this dessert.

— 
Pour boiling water to cover over a pound of dried fruits—apricots, peaches, cherries, and/or figs—and let them rest for an hour. Bring to a boil 2 cups of red wine, 1/2 cup sugar, a little nutmeg, and spirals of thin lemon peel. Stir in 1 cup of raisins (a mixture of gold and dark), and the drained fruit. Reduce heat immediately to a simmer. Cook for 10 minutes. Remove the fruit. Boil down the remaining liquid until it thickens and pour over the fruit. Better the next day. Sprinkle each serving with toasted pine nuts.