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.

Arte al Pomodoro

We’re all taking a rest day at Fattoria La Palazzina’s Il Colombaio. Time spent journaling, resting by the pool, reading, soaking up the landscape.

Priscilla paints a lovely watercolor of Il Colombaio. After a few hours, I wander over to take a peek. She tells me she’s taken some “tomato slices” with her rendering, and for a few seconds I’m lost. I see no sign of food. Must be the watercolors. I’m not a painter, so slicing tomatoes is lost on me as a technique. I lean in eagerly to decipher what she’s done. Apparently, the tomatoes are lost on Priscilla as well, because when I repeat the words, she looks up at me like the dog in the old RCA Victor ad, all cocked head and quizzical. In speaking them myself, I realize that ohhh, her actual words must have been “artistic license.” The afternoon sun has fuzzled my brain and ears. After a good laugh over my goof and gullibility, we vow that the phrase will become a joke for the rest of the trip.

Priscilla’s watercolor is beautiful, with or without tomato license.

'Meglio Bere Un Secchio Che Perdere Una Goccia'

May 14, 2009 evening...We head back up to the villa for dinner. In a region where nature defines elegance, La Palazzina serves as the perfect counterpoint to the land upon which it sits. Its elegance is natural, warm, and inviting. Where sunshine plays its light outside, the dining room is washed in shades of sunflower and corn silk. Where poppies grow along the side of the road, draperies in deep red grace the walls. Where olive groves, cypresses and vineyards robe the hills, graceful linens, and bowls of fruit color the tables. Eclectic works of art catch the eye at intervals along the walls. And Silvano ushers us in.

We sit, and Silvano reviews the courses that Eliana is preparing for us:
Antipasti : Assorted Crostini , bruschetta slices topped with pomodori - tomatoes, diced and herbed; cipolle - sautéed onion, marinated in balsamic vinegar; melanazana – roasted eggplant

Primo Piatto: Tagliatelle al ragu' (Tagliatelle pasta with a meat ragu)

Secondo Piatto: Tacchino al forno alla salvia (baked turkey with sage)

Contorni: Cavolo nero; patate all’arrosto (kale, seasoned; roasted potatoes)

As we’re savoring the tacchino and cavolo nero, Silvano decants the last of the lovely house red into our glasses, saying as he pours, “In the words of my father, ‘Meglio bere un secchio che perdere una goccia.’” Better to drink a bucket than to waste a drop. How very true that is here.

And for our dolce: Chocolate soufflé; and panna cotta which is literally cooked cream, but closer to flan in taste).

It’s close to 10:30 pm when we finish our coffee, praise Eliana’s culinary prowess, bid goodnight to our hosts, and groggily but ever so happily make our way back down the road to the farmhouse. Even the stars are smiling. I am transported to a sleep deep as the night sky.

Il Colombaio, The Dovecote

May 14, 2009 late afternoon...We fold ourselves into our car once more and follow Silvano back down to the main road. We cross and continue on the dirt track for about 1/8 mile, then take a right through an iron gate. And there, across a small packed gravel drive overlooking a steep drop to the lush green valley below, is Podere Il Colombaio, or Dovecote Farm in English, our home for the next week.

Walking ahead, Silvano pulls out a set of keys, works the lock, and swings open the door to the podere, a beautiful renovated stone farmhouse, roofed in the baked red clay tiles so widely and lovingly recognizeable in Italy and Spain.

My breath is gone even before I see inside, stolen by the view from the lawn. Steep but rolling hills tumble out below me in a 270 degree vista, dotted silver-green all over with olive groves, and punctuated at their tops by vigilant cypresses. Swallows swoop, dart and chirp around us, investigating the newcomers, doves coo from a tree somewhere ahead of me, and the air is warm and fresh. I take off my shoes, and the grass is a lush carpet under my feet. A rush of gratitude fills me, followed by giddy joy. “Oh, my,” I say softly. “God, You must have had a such a ball when you made Italy. You have really, REALLY pulled out the stops here.”

Picking up my shoes I join my friends Cynthia, Priscilla, and Trish, as Silvano shows us around like a proud papa'. We step inside and enter a small foyer/sitting room. The interior is rustic, and immediately comfortable, an homage to its early life as farmhouse and barn. The floor is tiled in wide polished brick-hued stone, and the room is appointed with a low wooden table, and two small sofas.

Through the foyer we step into the kitchen lit by a sunny window on the right. On the left, there’s a stone sink with wooden dish drain above, counter space with a small microwave oven, and a four-burner gas stove. Directly across the room from us is a raised kitchen fireplace. Its mantle is adorned with carpentry implements and a wooden pizza paddle. Under the fireplace are two stone cubbies for kindling. To the right stands a white fridge/freezer combo, flanked by a large wooden credenza and hutch that hold dishes, glassware and other cookware. The kitchen table centers the scene, and on it sits glass bottles of olive oil (La Palazzina’s own), vinegar, and a welcome basket of homemade goodies courtesy of Eliana: a jar of homemade pear jam, and bags of chocolate and chocolate chip cookies. Festooning these are mini servings of Nutella and breakfast toasts. Red and white country patterned linens adorn the table, windows, mantle and brighten the spaces below the sink and stove.


“It’s a working fireplace,” Silvano says gesturing toward the hearth laid with kindling and newspaper. “The apartment is heated, but you’re welcome to use the fireplace. It will add nice atmosphere, and take the chill out of the kitchen as the night cools down.” Each of us knows instinctively that we’ll take him up on his recommendation.

Stepping up from the fireplace, Silvano shows us the farm apartment’s three bedrooms and two bathrooms, flicking on the interior and exterior lights as he goes from room to room. Bright lights have never been part and parcel of Tuscan farm life, and the fixtures at Il Colombaio bear that out, but they’re sufficient for our needs. After all, we’re here to be part of the landscape.

Trish and I will share the smaller room with two twin beds. Priscilla and Cynthia should each have their own rooms, out of respect for Priscilla’s status as the group’s 74-year-old matriarch, and recognizing Cynthia’s unspoken need for respite from her stressed and sleep-deprived life back home. Raising her youngest son David has taken a toll. He’s a handsome 18-year-old suffering from severe physical and developmental disabilities caused by autism and epilepsy. One of the few things that has not burned down to the quick is Cynthia’s boundless love for David, nor his for her, and he’s never far from her mind. Well, here really, how can he be? You see, at home, ever present is David’s love for pesto, second only to his love for his mother, and here we are in the birthplace of that culinary delight. Basil plants across the whole of Italy must surely now be invoking David Keefe’s name in worship.

The tour complete, Silvano departs with a two-handed wave and a renewed invitation to dinner. We leave the studded wooden door ajar, welcoming in the air, the late afternoon light, and bird song as we unpack, poke about the house, and freshen up before dinner. At one point, gathered in the kitchen, we look at each other and squeal out as one, “Aaaghhhhh! We’re here!!!!!”

Gracious Hosts

May 14, 2009 late afternoon... The tension of our quest to find this place
begins to melt away, and we slowly refocus on the beauty of our surroundings. We’ve made it. To this little heaven called Tuscany. If I’m dreaming, per carità, don’t wake me.

A few minutes later, as we’re sipping and nibbling, we hear Eliana calling in the background, “Ugo!” “Ugo!” She’s calling the dog, who is in no rush to heed his master’s voice and make an appearance. A cat peeks around the corner, though, and Cynthia stands and follows it around the side of the villa. Eliana is there, leaving a bowl of water on the stoop near the door, and as she straightens up she wipes her hands on the front of her apron.

“That’s Mariola,” she tells us, pointing to the friendly feline wreathing around Cynthia’s ankles. “She’s very sweet. She and another cat just had kittens a week ago. Mariola had one, and Bella, the other cat, had four.” Eliana comes down the steps and reaches to open the roof of a small dog house, currently in use as the maternity ward. Peering up at us are Bella, a tortie like Mariola, and five kittens nursing with great enthusiasm. At least Bella is peering up at us. The kittens barely have their eyes open. Cynthia picks up one, and Bella meowls in protest. Having left the babysitting duties to Bella, Mariola begins to purr loudly.

“What is the Italian verb for that sound?” I ask Eliana.

“Fare la fusa. And in English?” she asks.

“Purr.”“Purr,” she imitates me, and with effort adds an impressively emphasized American rrr to the end. “Brava,” I congratulate her, and she beams.

Ugo, or Hugo, chooses this moment to come trotting up from the olive groves below. He looks like a miniature Rottweiler, and is about the size of an American football. “There you are, you vagabond,” chastises Eliana. “Where have you been this time?” Ugo’s not telling. He just sits and looks up at her with big brown moon pie eyes. Eliana clucks her tongue at him and shakes her head.

“Allora,” she says, looking up at us and smiling. “Are you feeling a bit recovered?”

“Yes, thanks so much.”“I’m glad. You’re probably eager to settle in and get your bearings. Let me call Silvano, so he can come and bring you to the apartment.” Silvano is her husband, Silvano Mamprin, manager of La Palazzina.

In just a few minutes, Silvano pulls in up in a Subaru wagon, gets out of the car and gives us a hearty welcome in English. He’s Venetian by birth, but a few years back he emigrated south to Tuscany. With pale blue eyes, fair skin, and stocky build, he’s expressive, extroverted, and enthusiastically sincere in his welcome. He speaks fluent English with an accent that is equal parts Italian and British. After exchanging pleasantries, and happy to see that Eliana has taken such good care of us already, he says, “So, now, I’ll take you to the apartment, Il Colombaio; it’s just down the road. Take your time settling in, and we’d like to invite you to dinner tonight back here at the house. How does 7:30 sound?” Like a healing elixir for weary souls.

Worth the Wait

Looking out the car window, I see Google Earth in living color. Looking at the map, I see a bread crumb’s distance from Radicòfani. The accent over the “o” in the town’s name signals the pronunciation Radi-CO-fa-nee. We’ve circled nearly the entire Val d’Orcia into Southern Tuscany. And now, following a small sign off the serpentine main road, down a dirt and gravel track lined with cypress trees and spiky yellow broom, and then bending left into a circular crushed gravel drive bordered by terra cotta pots overflowing with red geraniums, we pull up to Fattoria La Palazzina, Locanda Agrituristica.

La Palazzina gracefully adorns this crenelated landscape. It’s a beautiful villa and farm estate transformed into an agritourism destination. Its light yellow stucco exterior, with wrought iron lattice work over the arched windows, make it noble, warm, and inviting. It boasts eleven guest rooms, delicious traditional Tuscan cuisine, including its own olive oil, and stunning 300 degree views of the valley. And what a valley. The Val d’Orcia is a UNESCO World Heritage site that delights the senses with undulating hills bubbling up portions of the wide green valley, swaths of olive groves, vineyards, magpies, darting swallows, alpine choughs soaring on thermals, and towns rising like sentinels on distant hillside promontories.

The villa’s driveway cozies up to a wide patio tiled in terra cotta and dotted with cafe tables with umbrellas. It’s about 5 pm, and still quite warm in the May sunshine. Unfolding our bodies from the car, long pressed and pinched like origami cranes after hours of travel, we cross the terrazza to the impressive wooden front door, a veritable portone.

Before we can knock the wide door swings open and we’re greeted by Eliana, chef at La Palazzina. She’s been expecting us. Slim, her dark brown hair pulled back in a ponytail, she’s sporting chef’s clogs and a long white apron. We’ve pulled her from the kitchen. It’s obvious from her face that she’s been working hard, but it doesn’t show in her welcome. Her voice and smile are warm and friendly. Eliana doesn’t speak English, so I slip once more into my role as interpreter. She guides us to the terrace and offers us “Tea? Juice? Water? Biscotti? Tea and cookies, we say eagerly. As Eliana excuses herself to prepare our refreshment, we sit, happy to have Tuscan earth firmly beneath our feet at a full stop, zero kilometers per hour.

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