Eye-catching Candy

What do Italians love more than pizza, pasta and coffee? The answer, for anyone who’s done a stint in Italy, will roll off the tongue: dogs and babies. Whilst the Italian stallion admittedly enjoys a good life, he’d surely opt to be an Italian dog/baby in the next life. Who wouldn’t? It’s a one way ticket to VIP status. The amount of attention they receive is remarkable and at the same time quite understandable. For someone who’s always thought babies resemble aliens (head too large, gurgling noises etc.) and shown utter ambivalence to man’s best friend, I’ve been amazed to find myself cooing in tandem with the Italians.

At first this unexpected reaction of mine, left me wondering whether I was reaching the maternal stage of my life (I won’t say ‘clucky’ due to chicken-brain connotations). The prospect of the dissolution of Numero Uno (me) left me pondering over the alluring power of Italian babies and dogs. What did they have that did it for me in a way that their English counterparts hadn’t? And then it hit me. Italian babies and dogs know how to mind their Ps &Qs. No wailing, mucky faces (worse-bottoms); none of that baby/dog smell that has you grasping at nappies/pooper skoopers; no drool smears (on you and them). Forget any thoughts of superiority on our part, these bambini and cani, with their royal manners, deserve nothing less than royal treatment. And red carpet treatment they get; allowed into any venue: restaurants, delis, cafes, hairdressers – you name it they’re ushered in. Bystanders ooooh and ahhhh whilst lunging forward to touch the deity (even better, stroke). No Italian ‘strut’ has a hope when a baby/dog’s in the vicinity; they’re simply troppo bellino (too ‘itsy bitsy cute’) damn it.

Everyone's at It

Whilst the rest of the world is dreaming of a white Christmas (could this year be the year?), the Italians are looking to the heavens for other reasons. Since the beginning of November, the Olive harvest has been in full swing. All over the countryside, olive trees are displaying signs of their own take on the traditional Christmas bouboule. Some black, some green, some small and some large; all are being watched as they grow heavy with oil. Pregnant with promise, these seemingly insignificant fruit are the jewels in the crown of Italian culture.

Olive oil in Italy is like bread and butter to the western world. An Italian family will get through litres of the stuff every month. No Italian table is complete without a bottle of olive oil taking centre stage. The demand is so high that whilst the Italians produce 20% of the world’s olive oil, they also consume an impressive 28% of it. Whilst the rest of the Western world might use it as a base for frying or dressing salads, the Italians will drizzle it on soups, pasta, rice, fish, meat and vegetables. In the same way that the British are partial to dipping biscuits in tea and the Americans for 'dunkin doughnuts' (now branded such), the Italians would rather douse their bread with oil.

For the Tuscans, it is especially important. Considered to be their most treasured asset, the oil produced in this region continues to be un-paralleled in both Italy and the rest of the world. From late October-January, the Tuscan landscape remains under a veil of olive nets. In direct contradiction to the Italian's dislike of planning-ahead, families gather together to ensure that every olive is taken care of. Nets are painstakingly sewn together and laid over a landscape that rolls up and down like a turbulent sea. Steep, rocky paths are climbed by i nonni and bambini alike as each generation plays its part to prevent any olives 'slipping through the net'. For foreigners/city dwellers unused to the annual routine of the olive harvest, it is a rare opportunity to witness family members working harmoniously together. Requiring much patience, it is a quiet process that demands concentration. Radios don't blare out music, phones don't ring and even conversation is muted. Each generation focuses on the task in hand: to collect as many olives as possible during the daylight hours.

In much the same way that the harvest breaches the generation gap, it also remains classless. Most frantolios, olive presses, require a minimum of 250 kilos of olives for a single pressing which allows for families with few trees to line their store cupboards for the year. For those who can't make up the minimum weight, there remains the option to contribute produce to the communal pot and partake in a collective pressing. In Italy, no olive is left out in the cold and this applies to the people collecting them. Prices are reasonable, approximately 80 euros for a pressing, and nets, baskets and sticks used year after year. Olive harvesting is such a collective passion for the Italians that first-timers will usually be able to loan the basics from enthusiastic neighbours, only too keen to impart their knowledge. However, virgin olive pickers be warned, whilst enthusiasm is welcomed by the Italians a piano piano approach is required. Always ask questions and pay heed to advice when it's given. Grown Italian men are prone to cry over the misuse of olive trees - even when not their own.

Whilst the dream of ‘pick-your-own’ might be appealing to some, in today’s fast paced world, time (or lack of it) can prove too costly. For those who want to enjoy their olive oil without the forethought, the market place can prove hard to navigate. Supermarkets are saturated with olive oil, following the media attention from celebrity chefs and it’s all too easy to pay for this liquid gold without actually getting it. Often olive oil can be blended and bottled in Italy and then labelled Italian when the olives themselves have actually come from Spain, Tunisia, Turkey or Greece. The same can be said of Tuscan olive oil. The name holds such weight that producers want the region on the bottle. However, in many cases it’s only the latter stages of the processing that take place in Tuscany.

To ensure ‘liquid gold standard’, observe the label carefully. The best olive oil is classified as ‘extra virgin’, which requires the acidity to be below 2%. The very best Tuscan extra virgin olive oils have acidity of less than 0.01%. These superior oils will always be cold-pressed within the first 48 hours, better still 24 hours. As heat alters the property of the oil, cold-pressing is required to retain its purity. If presented with the opportunity to taste the oil, take it. Generally Tuscan oils will have a peppery finish. The most classic of them have a green flavour, often described akin to Sauvignon Blanc with notes of green apple, artichoke and fresh grass. Other oils tend to be rounder and nuttier. The olio nuovo garnered from the initial pressing is notably green and cloudy. Whilst slightly bitter, the majority of Italians consider it to be of the most premium quality. This oil will retain its unique flavour for two-three months before mellowing out. However, oil can also last up to two years if kept well-sealed and stored in wine cellar conditions.

Whilst good olive oil doesn’t require a recipe to compliment it, bread is as good as any other accompaniment; the current season presents the perfect opportunity to enjoy both artichokes and oil at their best. So after sampling the new oil in the traditional Italian way with toasted bruschetta (pronounced brus-kett-a and not bru-shett-a!), enjoy the combination of finely cut artichoke hearts crudo drizzled with oil, lemon and pepper.

Character/Culture/Climate...?

Big boys don't cry or do they, dependent on where they are? In Italy, daily life is driven by emotion. Whilst the British are known to have a more temperate nature (critics would say bland) and the Germanic nations even more so (to the point of being deemed cold), the Italian heart takes priority. It is allowed to indulge itself, not when it's considered appropriate but whenever it fancies. Unlike the British, the Italians won't say that everything's fine and keep a 'stiff upper lip' (saving it for the privacy of their own homes) but will actively open the flood-gates, no matter what the environment. Whilst the stereotypical image of the Italian is one of passion (hands in the air etc) it should also extend to a cartoon-strip of other emotions, including sadness.

When asked how they are, Italians will often reply abbastanza bene meaning quite well. Most other nationalities would simply reply 'well' without even thinking. Not so with the Italians. Emotions aren't ever 'palmed off'. If things aren't well, they won't let you believe that they are. That would allow the person asking the question, far too easy a ride! The other day, I asked my colleagues how they all were and was surprised to be met with a series of male (bad). After questioning the reasoning behind this bleak response, they blamed the grey weather as a valid explanation. Apparently Italians are more sensitive to changes in their emotions because of the ever-changing climate. It affects their blood pressures you see. In their eyes, this explains many things. Have you ever wondered why the Southern Italians are particularly re-known for their fiery personalities? The weather's more prone to extremities in the south, that's why. The British climate on the other hand is very temperate which is reflected in the more passive, level-headed nature of the nation.

Whilst the logic to this might appear flawed to the most level-headed Brit, it can't be disputed that the Italians whole heartedly believe that emotions take hold of mind, body and soul. Grown men will weep over a badly pruned olive tree, lovers in the initial stages of a relationship will cease to function because of their inability to sleep (does he, doesn't he love me?) and seek solace in herbal teas to steady rising nerves. Yesterday, I found myself providing a shoulder to cry on for a very big boy as he wept over the break-down of his relationship. He cried solidly for three hours and remains red-eyed today (last sighting of him was on his way home to mama). In between sobs, he divulged that he'd had to call off the short-lived relationship because it hurt his heart too much. In any other country his masculinity might well be called into question, but emotion doesn't seek conclusions in Italy. Emotion simply 'is’. The boy in question is very masculine and very normal - he's just very Italian as well. The only conclusion to determine is whether such emotional freedom is a good or a bad thing. It might help to add that a recent post has been uploaded to this tortured boy's facebook wall: a clip of the song 'Love will kill you'.

Too many cooks (but only of the British kind)

Last night, I decided to play with fire and push the boundaries. It was a Saturday night, I'd had a glass of wine and was in the company of good friends. Feeling a bit cocky, I thought it was time to make the move from dish-washer to sous chef. After five months of observing dinner-prep, my housemates had begun to release their apron strings; occasionally I was asked to taste the food, prior to serving. This seemed to be a sure-sign that my opinion, albeit English, was worth taking into consideration. The next step, I allowed my ego to believe, was active participation, rather than passive commentary.

After much deliberation at the supermarket, my friends had decided to forgo the seasonal choice of pumpkin risotto or pasta with artichokes (they almost choked when I told them I didn't know what to do with fresh artichokes, having only used the ones in jars) to indulge my passion for seafood spaghetti. Naturally, this came with the pre-condition that I pay due attention to the creation of artichoke risotto and pasta next week (not one or the other but both).

In England, whenever I eat at an Italian restaurant I opt for seafood pasta. It's my favourite and something I'm well versed in, having cooked it lots of times at home. When I first arrived in Italy, I was dismayed to find that Italian restaurants only serve fish when located near the sea. Although my Italian friends (not trusting any cuisine that isn't Italian) joke that the local chinese restaurant serves fish caught from the Arno (NB very brown and murky!) It seemed the perfect dish for me to impart some knowledge and prove my clinary worth as a Brit who doesn't eat fish solely of the battered form (or out of newspaper). So for Queen and Country, I did it. I tried to dabble in the Italian kitchen.

Whilst my friend was giving the 'sugo' a final stir, I suggested that she add a drop of wine to the tomato sauce. White wine always enhnaces the flavour of fish - doesn't it? They go together like apples and cheese, marmite and crumpets, jam and scones. I was so convinced that I actually reached for the bottle... only to be rapped with the wooden spoon and a series of tuts. Yes, white wine goes with fish but white wine doesn't go with tomatoes. So there we have it, after five months and one baby step forward (white wine does go with fish - hurrah!), I still have a long way to go before dishing out cooking tips, especially to Italians brandishing cooking utensils.

Ammunition to prevent future knuckle-rapping mishaps:

1) Pesto should never be cooked - the rocket is 'crudo' raw. Stir into the pasta, once the heat is OFF.

2) Pasta requires a handful of salt in the water. Be brave.

3) Oil should be added to pasta once it is cooked - not during. Contrary to British belief, the boiling water does NOT require oil. The pasta will only stick if it's bad quality (yes, the British don't know good pasta from bad pasta... hahaha)

4) Stand to attention at all times and man your post. An Italian will never trust the instructions on the packet - test as you wait.

5) Think outside of the box. The pasta will still be cooking after you've drained it. Allow for this and turn off the heat once the pasta is a little hard.

6) Pasta is important; it takes priority. A pasta dish should consist predominantly of pasta, not sauce. My male housemate has two tablespoons of meat sauce MAX to his spag bol. Apparently mine resembled a mud pie. NB: Do NOT aim to tarmac the road with your 'sugo' (shame)

HOT TIP
Sauce-lovers should always angle for the final serving in the pan (whilst getting brownie points for appearing polite...)

New Take, Old Tradition

Apparently today is the Festa di San Martino. This festival celebrates the products of the season: chestnuts and wine. How do I know this? Via Facebook of course. Last night, a friend 'poked' me to ask how I was honouring Saint Martin. Two seconds later and I was 'Asking Jeeves'. It appears that even with age old traditions, one needs a modern-day reminder of what's 'coming up'. In Italy, it's rare to pass a week without celebrating/commemorating something. Last Sunday it was the 'Blessing of the Tractors' - the modern day farmers' version of the original 'Blessing of the Goats' and this weekend the Italians will be dousing their bruscetta with this year's new oil. It's hardly surprising that in between all the toasts, one needs a 21st century prod in the right direction.

Grub's Up!

Spotted in today's newspaper: 'Se io non ci sono o la nonna e' stanca cucina lui' (If I'm not there or granny's tired, he'll cook) and then as an additional aside 'Anche quando va dalla sua fidanzata' (Also when he's away from his girlfriend). Recounted without any form of bitterness, rather in a complimentary tone. The man can cook. Mama mia! Apparently, this Italian mama has a lot to be proud of...

Time to Kill

No man is an island... and yet when we envisage paradise, we imagine just that: an island, surrounded by an expanse of ocean, as far as the eye can see. So why the 21st century fear of solitude? Why is being alone considered something so terrible, so shameful? The phrase 'time-to-kill' says plenty of this mind-set. The realisation that time has suddenly become yours, whether it's for half an hour or more, is something to dispose of as quickly as possible. The indulgence of a few moments 'breathing space' has become something to avoid via the means of Facebook, Twitter, i-pods, mobile phones, lap tops etc. This form of escapism has become the 21st century way of taking time-out; a way to seek solace, without provoking thought.

During my first long lazy Sunday lunch in Florence, I found myself stealing glances at the Italian woman sitting at the table next to me. Here was a woman who seemed to be utterly un-phased by a lack of dining companion. In fact, she seemed to be wallowing in it. So much so, that she elongated the process by perusing the menu whilst sipping on a glass of prosecco before ordering a starter and main course, accompanied by the waiter's recommendations of wines. I found myself fixated. Not for one minute, did she reach into her handbag to strategically place a mobile phone on the table, or grasp at a book to hide behind. So why do the majority of us struggle to coordinate the use of a knife and fork whilst turning the pages of a book (even worse, newspaper - guaranteed to end up in the gravy)? Head down, eyes glued to the page (or ear strapped to the phone) we use these tools to convince others that we are juggling time, not indulging in it.

Since arriving in Italy, this vision of 'wanton solitude and nothingness' no longer grabs my attention; it’s too ordinary. The commonly used phrase of fare un po’ di niente (to do nothing) carries no shame and is something to actively seek out as highlighted by the unusual use of the verb ‘fare’ meaning ‘to do’. Italians will literally do a little of nothing. Whilst the Italian stereotype of large, boisterous family meals certainly has its place, so does a subtler, but no less enjoyable version. Italians will often enjoy long meals in their own company (without any form of 'phone a friend' life-line). In Italy, there is always a place for the solitary diner who wants to quaff their wine, play with their spaghetti and engage in light conversation with the waiter. Rather than being an isolated island, they're king of their court and enjoying the attention. Perhaps it's a case of the Italian ego enjoying being waited on hand and foot? Whatever it is, phone batteries die, and what then? Maybe we should do as the Italian’s do, stop killing-time, and simply take it instead.