Pasta agli Ulivi

Today I inform the Ladies that they will have to do without my translation services today. An intrepid band, they'll be more than fine. They're off once more to explore the town of Todi, eager to see as much as they can while they're here. I'm all for adventure, but after three days of day trips, I need to stop and regroup. Socially, I'm like a cheetah, at my best in measured spurts followed by contemplative refueling. And so I've elected to be here at the villa for the day. I'll savor more of what's close at hand; an intoxicating view that never disappoints, the olive groves I love so much, the natural rhythm, the silence, and a lesson in hand-made pasta and cookies that awaits in La Palazzina's kitchen.


Making my way up the dirt road or strada bianca to the villa, I take my time. The air is light and very warm, tempered by a small breeze. It will be hot today. I watch a gardener planting and grafting olive saplings in a small clearing in the grove set back a bit from the dirt track. Like me, those treelings begin a day of discovery in new ground, getting the feel for things around them with the guidance of a helping hand. I wonder, do trees remember the day they were planted?

I reach the villa's gravel drive, and stones crunching underfoot signal my arrival. Eliana meets me on the terrace with a wave, then leads me back into the kitchen, the villa's inner sanctum, where I will learn to fashion two types of pasta. The first will be pici, a typical Tuscan pasta that will be served to guests this evening. The second will be cavatelli, annoying to make they say, but satisfying to eat, especially because they hold sauce or ragu' so nicely. Eliana introduces me to chef Rocco, who has mounds of dough at the ready. He'll be my teacher, and I a willing disciple or perhaps sorcerer's apprentice, depending on how things go.

Rocco has set me up with the requisite rolling pin and large wooden board. He recommends wood or marble as the best surfaces for the board, and now I'm armed and ready to go. We sprinkle cornmeal on the surface of our boards to keep the dough from sticking, then we each take a round of dough. We roll it to a thickness of about a stick of Trident gum, and Rocco directs me to cut a few pieces the width of about one of his fingers, or two of mine.

Now the fun begins, and it's all about me following Rocco. His hands, wrists and arms are genetically engineered for making dough. They're strong, sturdy and deft. Watching him, I begin rolling a strip of dough with the heels of both hands, working from the center out. As I work the dough it rolls from a flat strip into the shape of a tube, lengthening and thinning out as I go. My technique is uneven, creating bulges and paper-thin spots along the roll, and Eliana murmurs "un po' brutto," so I fold it in on itself and start again. "Molto meglio", much better; she approves of my second attempt. I pick it up and toss it into a little pile of cornmeal that Rocco has scattered between our boards. Ta Da! My first piece of pasta! Mind you, in the same amount of time, Rocco has made about 10 pici to my one. Still he smiles his approval and tells me it's a process, a technique that takes a few years to perfect before you can reach of pace of say, two kilos' worth in an hour.

Making pasta is a tactile art, and I'm learning to let the dough touch me and direct my shaping it, instead of the other way around. As the minutes pass I become more comfortable with the task, more aware of the need to surrender some control. I relax my shoulders and let my hands feel more of the dough, its texture, its destiny. Rocco can sense the change and he nods. I watch him work for a few moments. I'm impressed. His hands are poetry in motion, spinning the dough as if on a distaff.

We fall into our own separate culinary rhythms, each with our own thoughts, and for a few minutes, the only sounds in the kitchen are of the rolling dough softly scuffing against grains of cornmeal, the bird songs through the kitchen window, and water coming to a boil on the stove. In these moments my grandmother comes to mind, my Nana, a warm and happy presence. I imagine her here in the kitchen, reaching for an apron and a mound of dough. I have inherited her hands; slim, with long fingers, and ideally suited for all the instruments she played effortlessly - piano, guitar, mandolin and ukulele. Unlike her, I play none of them, and now wish I did, because then I'd have more tensile strength for making pasta.

Especially for the cavatelli. If pici are about the heel of your hand, then it's all in the first three fingertips with this pasta. You need fingertips of steel and a quick, light touch to spin the little pieces of dough into shape. If you fail to apply the right pressure and don't flick your fingertips under quickly enough, the dough won't spin, and you finish with sore fingertips and divoty dough. After a few missed spins and stung fingertips, I'm soon flicking like an able apprentice, and my cavatelli look like little British bobby's whistles. Perfetto.

After Rocco and I finish the pici and the cavatelli, Eliana announces lunch, and I ask her when I should come back for the cookie session. She shakes her head vigorously, "No, no, stay. You're having lunch with us, the family, with Rocco, Silvano, and me!" I'm moved by the gesture, and so happy to be welcomed like this. We gather at a small table in a room off the kitchen and Rocco serves some of the pasta we've just made - drizzled with mild chili pepper oil...elysium. We chat amiably together, breaking bread, sipping wine, chatting about the cooking show we're watching on television, and over the latest match results of a favorite soccer team. I can't stop smiling, I'm so happy. I love these people and this moment. I truly do. Our embrace when work and the meal is done affirms that the feeling is mutual.

Walking home mid-afternoon, I pass the olive groves. The gardener is still at work, focused and dedicated, planting and grafting the young plants that will grow into gnarled, wise and bountiful trees. Their branches will flutter a silvery green like so many banners of welcome to future guests here. What have they learned since this morning? I make a silent promise to sit among their elders later and tell them about my day in the kitchen. I will listen for their quiet reply.

Later that evening, the Ladies and I gather around our own table at Il Colombaio. As they recount their joyful day in Todi, we dine on pici and a meat ragu'. My fresh-baked chocolate shortbread cookies go down nicely with a sip of wine and a cup of tea. All days should be flavored with moments and memories such as these.