The Essential Essential-less Guide to Summer

In the UK, around this time of year, the press go mad for summer ‘entertaining’, and no I don’t mean Punch and Judy shows or donkey rides along the beach. This one’s for the adults, surprisingly. We’re constantly being told what ‘entertaining’ essentials are required to throw the perfect summer party. Delia tells us ‘how to get it right’ and follows up with a breakdown of ‘summer entertaining advice’ to ensure a ‘magical dinner’. Now I know the British aren’t known for their laissez-faire attitude but surely this is getting a bit ridiculous? Inviting friends over for food and a few drinks doesn’t require this level of angst.

If we explore this British preoccupation a bit further, perhaps our dinner-party woes stem from the belief that we must ‘host’ the party and in doing so ‘perform’ the role of perfect host/hostess. Generally guests are asked to bring themselves and a token bottle of wine, leaving the hosts to do the rest. In Italy, guests will often bring a contribution to the meal itself - no matter how small. When friends or family (NB never ‘guests’) are invited over for a meal in the summer, everyone brings something special that they’ve cooked. Chairs are pulled up, tables placed under trees and the food laid out for people to help themselves to (wine included!) The enjoyment comes from tucking into each other’s goodies and the opportunity to catch up over delicious food and wine (now this is an essential!). Entertainment doesn’t come into it. The role of the guests is to create the merry-making. Otherwise, why else would you invite them? Delia, I know you're the hostess with the mostess but really... you need to get some new friends.

Blonde in Florence goes on Tour (with ‘The Mama’ in tow)

Take one look at this year’s red carpet and you’ll see that far from being un-cool for travelling with The Mama, I’m bang on trend. As mum (sorry I meant sister – doesn’t look a day over 30) proudly told me the other night, whilst reading an article in the Times (I later found said article neatly cut out, highlighted and put on my bed), the latest must-have accessory for any girl/guy-about-town is ‘mama’. It appears that I needn’t hide behind dark glasses and bury myself in a book (note to self – do not take Bridget Jones). Instead I can positively bask in the knowledge that I’m simply doing as contemporary British women do… keeping it in the family. Admittedly the Italians might not bat an eyelid at this leap of faith but for us Brits this should be seen as a sign of positive progress.

And so I embark on a week’s holiday in Morocco with the Scissors Sisters number one hit reverberating in my ears: ‘Take your mama out all night…” (headphones in ears, mama mouthing at me to turn the music down).

Tick Tock

It’s my 26th Birthday on Friday. Not exactly a huge deal but in the deep recesses of my mind, I’ve been toying with time-lines. This time in 25 years, I’ll be celebrating my 50th. I’m nearer the ‘30’ mile stone than the ‘20’ and in two days time, I will have to relinquish my right to a ‘young person’s rail card’. It seems that 26 is a sign of significant maturity in the UK (yes I’m back from Florence – my sensible older alter-ego got the better of me).

Robert Kennedy states that youth is ‘a temper of the will, a quality of imagination, a predominance of courage over timidity, of the appetite for adventure over the life of ease.’ With this echoing in my ears, it appears that I’ve certainly gone to the dark side. In a few months time I will be ‘glamping’ – camping but with a glamorous veneer. It involves the fun of being outdoors and sharing with your ‘mates’ but with the pleasures of domesticity. Basically it’s camping’s older, more sensible twin. No fear of ‘head colds’ for me, I will be tucked up in double-duvets and Egyptian cotton sheets.

After reading an article in The Times yesterday on how to grow old gracefully (nothing wrong with reading around the subject!) I’ve since invested in a book called ‘What French Women Know: About Love, Sex, and Other Matters of the Heart and Mind’. Yes, I may be verging on the eccentric for indulging my mind, at the age of 25/26, with these rambling lines of thought but I’m a perfectionist and the Mediterranean women seem to have this ageing process all wrapped up. Italian men positively adore the ‘older woman’ and if I want to end up in this bracket, I need to crack their secret before it’s too late… It’s all about being ahead of the game (it appears organization comes with ageing too).

Foreign Territories

I think the majority of Brits can say they've given their taste-buds a run for their money. The mere fact that Chicken Tikka Marsala is the most popular dish in the UK confirms this. Whilst not exactly authentic Indian cuisine, it's still an English and Indian fusion. A joint effort and a successful example of experimentation.

Now hold that thought and apply it to the Italians... The last time anyone tried to mess around with their cuisine, there was an outcry and a law passed as a result. Remember the Hawaiian pizza saga? Some ballsy sod tried pineapple on a pizza which turned out to be pretty tasty. The result of which found it's place on many Italian restaurant menus. So why's it so hard to find this sweet but savoury pizza? Because a law has since been passed to ensure that a hawaiian's home is in Hawaii and not an Italian pizza oven.

This Italian aversion to experimentation was highlighted last night, when I suggested that we opted for something other than Italian food for dinner. Daily doses of pasta (sometimes x 2) and rice leaves the foreign palette seeking pleasure elsewhere (if only for a change before once again making pirouettes with your spaghetti). My suggestion was made at 7.30pm. We didn't leave the house until 9.30pm. We didn't eat until 10pm (due to a last minute change-of-heart on route). In between 7.30pm and 10pm, menus were perused online (thank god for the web), questions asked (is the food spicy, is the fish raw, is the food fried/roasted...?) and reassuring promises made (on my part) of edibility. With all this taken into consideration, the conclusion was Chinese. Similar in the sense that the cuisine is based on rice and noodles (near enough to spaghetti), all parties felt that this was the safest option (Japanese contained raw fish and Indian was too spicy).

So we set out, a group of dawdling Italians, to conquer China... and then we made a diversion to America. A sign to an American Diner proved too enticing to my intrepid explorers (burgers, sandwiched in bread, loosely resemble paninis and chips are universally accepted, even in Italy). 'As seen on TV' this food might be plastic, but to the unadventurous Italian, safety comes first.

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'.