Vacation Pictures: Patricia, Edith, Leslie

Florence

By Patricia Winton

I’ve just returned from a visit to Florence, a city I know well. Some of the things I revisit from time to time are the more than a dozen murals of The Last Supper to be found there. The one above (top), by Andrea del Sarto, has been called the most beautiful painting in the world. Unlike in most others, including Leonardo da Vinci’s, here Judas sits at the right hand of Jesus instead of across the table.

As I continue to look at these murals, I’ve become obsessed with the tablecloths. In the del Sarto one, the cloth hangs in soft folds in a natural manner. Left (Mateo Rosselli) The cloth has been ironed with all the folds pointing out—an ironing impossibility. Center (Domenico Ghirlandaio—Ognisanti) Elaborate embroidery graces both ends of the tablecloth. Right (Andrea del Castagno) Here the slightly patterned tablecloth hangs rigid and narrow with no folds or pleats and provides an ample view of the diners’ feet.

My current work in progress gives a nod to The Last Suppers of Florence. You can keep up with my progress on my website www.PatriciaWinton.com or on my blog at Italian Intrigues

Ralighvallen, Central Suriname Nature Reserve

By Edith McClintock

It is the setting I loved most in my first mystery—the rainforest, the wildlife, and a place called Raleighvallen (Raleigh Falls) in the Central Suriname Nature Reserve.

I think my protagonist, Emma, expresses it best:

“Even with all the frustrations, I fell completely and irretrievably in love with the rainforest that week — the deep rich smells of dirt and decay and teeming, thriving life; the warm soft light of the rocky moss-covered paths hidden beneath layers of climbing and tumbling lianas and roots; soaring tree trunks wrapped in colorful bromeliads, orchids, moss, and lichens; and the canopy of leaves of every conceivable size and shape. Each day was a new adventure, new wildlife (some good, some terrifying) and ever changing forest, from the sunlit traveling palm groves to the dense, swampy marshes near the river; to the rocky, open forests with the towering trees the spider monkeys loved.” —Monkey Love and Murder 

Living in Raleighvallen was hot, itchy, and scary, but also spectacularly beautiful. Something I’m grateful to have experienced. You can experience it too, minus the mosquitos and deadly snakes. Pick up Monkey Love and Murder and enjoy a rainforest adventure from your couch. 

You can also follow my future travels on my blog A Wandering Tale or visit my author website. 


National Parks

By Leslie Hsu Oh 

Wrangell-St. Elias National Park and Preserve

I grew up rafting, hiking, spelunking, and riding on horseback through nearly all the national parks in the United States and Canada. On the forgiving banks of Lake McDonald in Glacier, I mourned the death of my mother and brother a few days after I turned 21. At the foot of Denali, beneath the gentle fall of snow, my husband got down on one knee and proposed. 

When my mother died, she asked my father to take me to Alaska and finish visiting all the parks. My father never made it to Alaska but my husband tried his best to complete her wish. While he drove me to Kenai Fjords and Denali many times in the seven years that we lived in Alaska, the other parks were much more difficult to visit due to logistics and finances. A few months before we had to leave Alaska, we captured this shot of the four of us, outfitted in crampons (including the two-year-old), traversing a crevice in Wrangell-St. Elias. I hang this photo in my living room because it encourages me to pursue my dreams no matter how hard it might seem and how many people tell you it’s impossible.

Whenever I feel overwhelmed by my life, like I’m being blown off course or things aren’t going my way, I find strength from the photograph of my daughter in Canyonlands. For my 40^th, my dear friend Keilah Frickson, found matching bracelets, each with an aphorism that spoke to us at the moment. This photo reminds me of mine: “Storms just make you stronger.” Stay tuned at www.lesliehsuoh.com. 

Canyonlands National Park

Remembering Rosemary

By Patricia Winton

There's rosemary, that's for remembrance.... Ophelia in Othello

I first encountered rosemary in a little red, white, and blue metal container. It didn’t—and doesn’t still—sit on my mother’s spice rack. When I opened my own kitchen, I began widening my culinary horizons, and rosemary became an early experiment. I hate to admit it, but I produced the worst meatballs ever to be consumed by humankind, and my enthusiasm for rosemary cooled considerably…until I first came to Italy and encountered it fresh.

I visited my friends John and Enzo in the village of Riparbella, not far from the Etruscan town of Volterra. Enzo prepared roast chicken by sticking slivers of garlic into the flesh, placing more garlic, half a lemon, and a large sprig of rosemary in the body cavity, and coating the skin with olive oil. He placed it in a large baking dish surrounded by quartered potatoes. These were coated with more olive oil and anointed with additional garlic and rosemary. My reaction to this dish was akin to Julia Child’s introduction to sole meuniére, her first meal in France. I’ve been a fan of fresh rosemary since. Variations of this dish still dominate the Italian dining table for Sunday lunch.

Rosemary, common throughout the Mediterranean, has long been an integral part of the culinary scene on the Italian peninsula. Archaeological evidence suggests that the Etruscans used rosemary to flavor their fish and meat as early as 700-300 BC. The Italian word rosemarino comes from the Latin ros marinus, meaning “dew of the sea.” The Romans spread the plant to England during their occupation, although it needs protection from the cold in that climate, and Italians took it with them to the Americas when they emigrated there.

When I returned to the US after that first experience here, I grew rosemary myself. It can survive outdoors in the Washington, DC, area, where I lived, and rosemary graced my community garden for ten years. When I left the garden, I transplanted it (with the owner’s permission) to an area behind the building where I lived. It was an enormous plant by this time, and I had to rent a car to transport it. It thrived that summer, and when winter came, I gathered sprigs to hang in my kitchen, but I always clipped a fresh bit for cooking. Imagine my horror the following spring when I went out to gather rosemary to find the gardener had hacked it down. More than ten years later, I still get an empty feeling when I think about it.

Here in Rome, I have rosemary in a pot on my fifth-floor terrace. I still haven’t gotten the knack for growing it in a container. Surprisingly, it doesn’t seem to like Rome’s summer sun, which is intense. But come autumn and winter, it will thrive again just in time for all those winter stews, roast chickens, and legs of lamb that I’ll enjoy.

This is my last essay on Novel Adventurers. Beginning today, I will be posting weekly on Italian Intrigues.

Gridi, Grido, Gridiamo per il Gelato (You Scream, I Scream, We All Scream...)

By Patricia Winton

Birds are warbling in the pre-dawn hours. Women are painting their toenails. People are unswathing their throats of the scarves they’ve worn all winter. Well, some people are beginning to unswathe throats, but I digress. I’ll save throat swathing for another day. These are the classic signs that summer is approaching in Italy and the gelato season is upon us. Not that we’ve been deprived of gelato during the nippy winter. It’s always available. But when summer comes...oh, my.

The first signs appear in the late afternoon when the warm air invites people to stroll arm and arm down the street enjoying being outside at last. What better way to celebrate than to stop by the local gelato shop for a cone. But we know that summer prevails when the family piles into the car after Sunday lunch at Mamma’s. The car heads for a park, or a lake if there’s one handy, or some archeological site to enjoy the open air. After they walk to and fro admiring the fresh blooms on plants, or the sailboats, or ancient statues, they look for an outdoor café.

And everyone orders gelato. Well, almost everyone. Mamma may choose granita and the youngest child may choose a frozen confection-on-a-stick shaped like a cartoon character. But in general, gelato reigns.

Italian gelato differs from American ice cream in many respects, primarily the intensity of the flavor. Since gelato is sold by weight instead of volume, it isn’t whipped with air, so it’s denser. In addition, gelato is made with less cream, sometimes just milk. In my opinion, cream coats your tongue creating a barrier between taste buds and flavor. So again, the intensity of gelato bursts in your mouth. But the main reason that Italian gelato has such a potent flavor is legal. By law, gelato labeled strawberry must comprise thirty percent strawberries. This law

applies to all fruits and nuts, so the flavor is intense. Certainly, the vanilla isn’t thirty percent vanilla, nor is the chocolate thirty percent. But the flavors explode in your mouth nonetheless.

It’s customary to get at least two flavors. After you pay for the size you want to buy, you take your ticket to the counter and select from the array of flavors available. If you have a small size, you generally select two flavors, but with larger sizes you can have as many as four or even five. The choice is yours: cantaloupe and coconut, tangerine and tiramisu. Let your imagination soar. One shop in central Rome has about fifty flavors on display at any given time, and the choice is really difficult. My favorites there include pink grapefruit and champagne.

Once the waiter has filled your cup or cone, he or she will ask, “Panna?” That means “Do you want any whipped cream?” So even on an ice cream, er, I mean gelato, cone, you can have a dollop of whipped cream on top. It’s really hard to resist.

So please excuse me while I go out for my first gelato of the season.

I blog on alternate Thursdays at Italian Intrigues I hope you'll stop by.  Also, please visit my website at PatriciaWinton.com

The Practical Traveler: Mariana Starke

By Patricia Winton

People have been writing about travel since they learned to write. Homer’s epic tales; exploration reports by the Polos, Columbus, Vespuci, and others; 18th century novels by DeFoe and Montesquieu who created imaginary manuscripts documenting “voyages” of their characters; guides to art and culture that led young men taking the Grand Tour. All this writing about travel documented what the travelers, real and imaginary, saw and did or what they should see and do. It was not until Mariana Starke published Letters from Italy in 1802 that travelers received practical advice about modes of transportation, places to stay, and where to eat. Starke’s work, frequently updated (and sometimes retitled) until her death in 1838, directly inspired the Baedeker and Murray Guides that dominated European travel in the 19th and 20th century and indirectly inspiring later guides such as Foder, Frommer, and Steves.

Starke examined the various ways to travel from England to the mainland. She wrote “the most convenient way of visiting the Continent is to go from London to Calais in a Steam-Packet; and…resting one night at Calais, (where Roberts' Hotel is particularly comfortable).” She noted that “Mr. Roberts is a Wine Merchant; and his wines are particularly good.” She went on to recommend other hotels. Before Starke, travelers were left to fend for themselves or to follow recommendations of friends who had previously traveled. Her work is sprinkled with hotel and inn suggestions, sometimes saying that a particular inn offers “tolerable beds” or that another is good enough for a meal but “unfit for sleeping.”

She commented on cuisine as well. The Florentine “markets are constantly well stored with excellent eatables, fish excepted, which is never fresh but on Fridays and Saturdays. The Florence wine is good and wholesome, but the same report cannot be given of the water, except that which comes from Fiesole.” She went on to say the Florentine water passes muster as safe, but that it isn’t good to drink.

Her concern for reader’s health was sprinkled throughout the work. “Persons who wish to preserve health in Tuscany, should be careful never to eat sweet things made with orange-flower water, falsely so called; it being, in this country, a distillation from Italian laurel-leaf.” She also noted that “Doctor Kissock, a skillful and experienced English Physician, resides in this City (Florence). Of Rome, she wrote, “all the land is ill cultivated and worse drained; so that fogs and noxious vapours prevail there during night: it likewise abounds with sulphur, arsenic, and vitriol: hence, therefore, in some measure, perhaps, may arise that fatal Malaria which never affected ancient Rome.”

She commented on safety, noting that in Tuscany “no offense is punishable with death.” This first abolition of the death penalty took place there in 1786. Starke wrote that the repeal “and many other equally wise regulations…[contribute] to the almost total exemption from robbery and murder which this country has long enjoyed.”

Sometimes her advice was practical. She mentioned one Gasperini, an innkeeper, whose “dinners, generally speaking, are better cooked, and more comfortably served, than at the other hotels.” She also pointed out that “Gasperini builds carriages, sells anti-friction grease for wheels, and likewise repairs English traveling carriages remarkably well.”

She often included tidbits about local custom that might otherwise have taken the traveler by surprise. In Acquapendente, for example, she reported “every Passport must be examined and sealed by the Police Officers, who demand, in consequence, one paul [a coin] per passport.”

Roman Ruins by Wenceslas Hollar

She felt that there was too much to be seen in Rome and arranged her itineraries “to prevent travelers from wasting their time, and burdening their memory, by a minute survey of objects not particularly interesting; thereby, perhaps, depriving themselves of leisure to examine those which merit sedulous attention.” She didn’t have much admiration for the ruins of antiquity and advised “whoever wishes to see these wrecks of ancient splendour advantageously, ought to visit them, for the first time, by the mild and solemn light of the moon; which not only assimilates with fallen greatness, but throws every defect into shadow; leaving imagination to supply every beauty, and array every object in its pristine garb of magnificence.”

Not everything she wrote was practical. Like travel writers before her, Starke included detailed descriptions of the paintings and sculpture in museums and churches. She painstakingly moved from room to room listing the things she saw. She devised the first rating system of the works as well, applying one to five exclamation points for the items she deemed the most interesting, beautiful, or worthwhile. Here is one rating at the Pitti Palace in Florence: “the Madonna della seggiola, by Raphael !!!!”

Mariana Starke continued traveling through Europe, and especially Italy, and updating her travel guide all her life. She died in Milan in 1838 at the age of 76. She was on her way home to England from Naples where she had been researching a new guidebook.

Everybody’s Talking about It

By Patricia Winton

A television repairman on my street befriended me soon after I moved here about ten years ago. For some reason, he thought my name was Gabriella and that I came from London. I corrected him many times, but he never remembered. I finally started answering to “Gabriella” when he greeted me. He’d ask me, “Have you been to London?” and I’d say “Yes. It was raining.”

First Courses

Until he closed down recently, he would pop out of his shop as I headed home at mid-day. “What are you eating for lunch?” He really wanted to know my dietary habits. Sometimes, when I faced just a ham sandwich or a carton of yogurt, I invented a menu. “Oh, I’m eating pennette al pomodoro and insalata.” That satisfied him. “Are you eating your fruit?” he’d ask. Another time, a Thursday, he called out, “In Rome we eat gnocchi on Thursday and cod with chickpeas on Friday.” I came to  learn this came from a traditional Roman saying, "gnocchi Thursday, chickpeas and cod Friday, and tripe Saturday. 

He always stood very close to me and shook his finger in my face as he lectured me. Once, he raced out of his shop, waving his hand to stop me, “Gabriella, you must try the new tavola calda (hot table, a type of cafeteria) across from the fire station. They have an excellent lunch menu. For just six euro, you get a first course, a main dish, vegetables and bread. It’s a good value, and you get lots of choices. Delizioso!” I followed his advice, and he was right.

Second Courses

My pal’s conversation mirrors that of many other Italian people. They are known for being a chatty race, and food ranks up there with travel, politics, and football as a favorite topic. At the market, for example, a stall keeper might ask a customer buying a head of escarole, “What are you going to do with it?” The reply would be detailed. “I’m going to sauté some garlic and mash in some anchovies,” she might say, “then add the escarole and sauté a bit more. I’ll serve it with short pasta and lots of Parmesan.” Other customers might kibitz. “Add some hot pepper.” Or, “Use pecorino instead of Parmesan.”

Conversations can become intense. “I love torta di patate (potato cake—not a sweet),” someone might say. Her companion might close her eyes and respond, “Oh, yes. Potatoes, onions, cream.” The first might object, “Oh, no, no onions.” La Mamma is always the ultimate authority. Everybody’s mamma. “My mother always uses ham and no onions.” Depending on how many people are involved, the argument could continue for some time. Should the potatoes be sliced or grated? Should you use béchamel or cream? Opinions are strong and passionately expressed.

Vegetables

People often seek ways to bolster their authority when debating Italian cuisine. In an exercise I often use in my English language classes, a British guy presents a recipe for Ragù Bolognese. It’s a horrible recipe, including tomato ketchup and “any kind of cheese.” The exercise sparks spirited debates among Italians. In one memorable discussion, various members of the class—all men—offered their take on the right way to make this sauce. Finally, one guy said, “My relatives are from Emilia-Romagna (the region where Bologna is located), so I know the best way to make this sauce.” He wasn’t from the region, you understand, but he put his family behind him to reinforce his opinion.

My TV repair friend has gone, and nobody calls me Gabriella any more, but I still listen closely to people talking about food. Where they’ll drive in the fall to get the best olive oil. What private producer makes the best Parmesan. How to cook the squid. When to prepare the walnut cordial. Who makes the best bread in the neighborhood.

 I blog on alternate Thursdays at Italian Intrigues where, next week, I'm writing about the world class chef who's preparing Italian cuisine for the International Space Station. You can read more about me on my website www.PatriciaWinton.com