Minimalist Gossip Magazine Cover (49).pdf (23) - Flipbook - Page 26
olive trees. My nonna spent every summer there until she was 80.
At her funeral we hung a photo on the altar of her in the farm
house kitchen.
She was Italy to me, even when it was raining and cold and the
BBC was playing in the background and there were red buses
outside. Somehow her kitchen here had the same smell as the
Tuscan farmhouse. It seeped into every fabric and grouted tile,
sustained through the constant processing of the simplest
ingredients which she arranged into perfect melodies; basil,
oregano, tomatoes in summer. And when she mixed spinach with
parmesan, in a little appreciated alchemy, the floral perfume
worked its way through the house like a writhing ghost. When I
cook, that’s what I want; the taste of the Serchio Valley, of
Barga, Coreglia Alta and Lucca, where I sourced the cold
pressed olive oil as thick as axle grease and yellow because it
contains real sun - I like to think.
In autumn, Quinto, who was Nonna’s brother, would go shooting
in cold, English forests and bag pigeons for soup recipes while
she wandered off with her walking stick and basket to find
mushrooms that no one else could, like a nomad sifting through
the debris of a forest fire. Sometimes she would bring back wild
garlic, berries and stray nasturtiums, and sometimes rosemary
or tomatoes sheltering near a hedge row. Not far from the chip
shop there was a railway embankment next to the sawmill where she
picked sorrel, rocket and wild thyme while workers laughed at the
old lady in her black mantilla and woollen stockings that made
her look like a crocheted doll, as they ate cheese sandwiches and
puffed on Capstan Full Strength.
Puccini is on the second act of La Boheme and I, my third
glass of Barolo on an empty stomach, and I sway to an image of an
Italy baked in the heat of childhood holidays and my father’s
Ektachrome slides. This time I swear at the phone.
‘Tordelli?’ she asks.
‘Ravioli,’ I say
‘Tordelli! Are you following the recipe?’
‘But who…’
‘Then don’t! We don’t have time, it’s nearly Good Friday. Do
you know how much this call costs?’
‘But you’re dead. And where is your accent?’
‘We don’t have accents here. Now listen, when I said garlic
and onion I meant good onions. And fresh spinach, basil and
oregano, and the wine has to be from the hills; new and
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