Monthly Archives

October 2016

Travel: Arriving in Modena and falling in love with Italy all over again

Modena

It’s a good job that the clocks went back this weekend. After taking buses, trains and an aeroplane on Friday, I’ve hit a wall. I was in an easy going quiet village in rural France. The sort of place with just three bakeries and a church. However, it was time for a change, so I boarded my flight and arrived, some time later, in the hustle and bustle of Bologna. This was a detour on my way to Modena, which itself is a detour on my way to Naples. I’m off to meet DeepThought there next week.

Me and my suitcase (worryingly under 20kgs) arrived at the train station of Bologna. I wanted to catch a train to Modena but since I had some spare time, I thought it would be useful to buy some seat reservations ready for my exploration of Italy over the next month. Especially since the Trenitalia website hates me. As you might expect, it wasn’t much easier in the ticket office. There were not enough open desks and it was coming up to rush hour on the Friday evening before a long weekend. Tuesday is a public holiday here to celebrate the dead and Monday is a day off as a ‘bridge’.

To make sure the Italian man on the other side of the counter made the right seat reservations for me, I stood on my tiptoes leaning forward and gesturing at his screen with my pen. I’d written the details of what I wanted in my notebook to help this exchange. Even so, and not unexpectedly, it wasn’t a case of right first time. The ticket booth attendant spoke a lovely Italian. I replied not in Italian, which I can’t speak, but in a mixture of atrociously pronounced French and my tired Yorkshire infused English because my brain has gone poof.

To keep me on my toes, the app on my phone included trains and train stations that didn’t actually appear to exist.

I finally arrived in Modena, where Balsamic Vinegar comes from. It is very near to Ferrari land. In fact, my current host, a most hospitable Italian man who’s got a mountain of his own wondrous travel stories to tell, used to work in the Ferrari museum. As a true Modena man, he’s also the very proud owner of a small collection of real balsamic vinegars. Each is from a local family and tastes completely different. The experience is different to consuming the mass-produced variant. A deep sense of tradition and an attitude that treats vinegar like art results in this ‘black gold’. The bottles are so small that they’d pass through airport security in a sealed plastic bag.

He has an admirable Italian passion for food. We went out and got pizza, cooked by a Napolian chef in the local Modena style with aubergines.

Food matters to a true Italian. To amuse myself, I bought a couple of cachi (persimmon) and a few other vegetables from the fruit and veg shop down the street. Unlike a supermarket, or even a slightly larger grocery store, you must ask for each of the products you want. You do not touch. All the plastic carrier bags are stored behind the counter. The shopkeeper seemed delighted with my choice and particularly with my hesitant but correct pronunciation. I didn’t tell him that I leant the ‘chi’ sound from drinking Chianti. I’ve never had a cachi before, but found them heavenly and highly recommend them. Unfortunately, I spoilt it a bit by saying thank you in Spanish.

To recover from my travels I plan on spending my Sunday relaxing, perhaps going as far as the local art gallery.

More little things I’ve learnt on this French farm

champignions (mushrooms)

Raspberries

Yesterday morning, we got took out our secateurs (delightfully un sécateur en français) and chopped down the raspberry canes. You do this to promote new growth in the new year. As I chopped, I ignorantly didn’t know you used the word ‘cane’ to describe the plant, but the Father kindly corrected me when I told him about my gardening exploits later in the evening.

We dug up the canes which had failed to produce fruit this year and weeded around those that had. Now, unless there is some great technique that I’m oblivious to, the work has taught me that I am considerably physically weaker than Grand-mère. That’s with the fork, shovel or pick axe.

Je bêche avec une bêche.

One particularly long and stringy weed seemed to have grown everywhere. It winds around the plants and suffocates them. I could pull it off in large handfuls but it would snap from the roots. If the roots remain it will grow again.  Once we’d removed as much as possible we threw wood chip down on the ground around the plants to protect them.

Mushrooms

We set out on an adventure into the forest for mushrooms. So far this year, the mushroom harvest has been rather pathetic. There has simply not been enough rain. Although it’s now October, it rarely rains. The fields still have huge cracks in them from where they were toasted by the summer sun.

There were however some mushrooms in the forest. When we returned to the farmhouse we lay our small collection on the kitchen table for inspection. Grand-mère found her champignion book to help us analyse what we’d found. Luckily it contained many pictures as well as French text to help us identify our mushrooms.

With a quick glance at the table Grand-mère knew we didn’t have the best autumn mushroom in the collection. She hopes it will turn up next week.

We did have one particularly worrying looking mushroom, the closest image we found to it in the book had a rating of two skull and cross bones. Luckily, we  also had some edible (comestible) mushrooms. However, the book described the taste of some as sour, and others as unpleasant. They smelt bad too.  Fortunately, the very smallest, with stalks like straw and tops not much bigger than the tip of my thumb, smelt sweet. Grand-mère declared them to be very good. We have three of these tiny mushrooms.

Cream

Sometime last week, I finally woke up early enough to catch Grand-mere skimming the cream. Grand-père laughed at me wanting to see something so simple, but he eventually admitted he hadn’t ever skimmed the milk. Getting up early was well worth it though. My imagination had failed to consider that there would be a crisp layer of fat, translucent and a little yellow in colour, laying on the top of the milk. For some reason I can’t explain, being surprised by the cream delighted me.

What’s surprised you this last week?

On French aristocratic seating arrangements

The French aristocratic seating procedure is something I find quite bewildering.

Inevitably I am the youngest adult, and of course neither a priest nor a member of the military. Therefore I often sit at the head of the table. From the middle of the table Grand-père and Grand-mère conduct the proceedings. To Grand-père’s right sits the highest ranking woman (after Grand-mère) and to his left the second highest ranking woman. When there are only three women for dinner this is me. If there are only two women then we sit at the kitchen table.

The highest ranking man (ignoring Grand-père) sits to Grand-mère’s right. To her left sits the second highest. The pattern continues until everyone has sat down, following rank order, alternating between man and woman.

Everyone but me has an innate understanding of this order. I just know I’m at the bottom.

Grand-père serves the woman to his right first, then the woman to his left. He serves me before passing the plate to Grand-mère but after all other women. I’m not allowed to eat until Grand-mère had begun. I’m given a piece of bread at the beginning of my meal to use at the end to mop up the sauce. Inevitably I eat it first and then spend a while wondering whom I can interrupt to ask for the bread basket. The seven year old informed me that you must never take two pieces of bread at a time. Even if they are very small pieces. It’s rude. Furthermore, I find I drink my wine too slowly in comparison to everyone else, this vexes Grand-père and his smooth, wine pouring routine and therefore disrupts his own meal.

Otherwise it’s seamless.

Grand-mère says that it’s not just her who can make cooking and serving roast dinner for twenty-five look effortless. Her mother, her mother in law, her sister-in-law, all these people know, or knew, how to really enjoy a grand family meal. What’s more, she’s an outstanding cook. The meat is from the field and the vegetables from the garden. I’m in awe.

In comparison, I can cook roast dinner. I could even cook roast dinner for twenty-five, or at least I could if I had somewhere to seat everyone. But mid-meal you’d be unable to engage me in a meaningful and considered conversation, I’d be worrying about the gravy. Afterwards I’d sneak out from the washing up for a nap. I’d look like a wreak.

So I think Grand-mère’s magical. Her secret weapon though, is that everyone around her knows exactly which way to pass what plate when.

That’s something to ponder.

It’s the sheep’s fault – accidentally working on my day off.

sheep

The wood was in the wrong place. Not that we urgently need it, but should the heating system fail again, we’ll want it. Someone therefore had to fill up the empty wood shelter close by the wood burner.

I worked two hours on Tuesday and three hours on Wednesday moving wood from one pile to the other pile with the help of the digger and my little electric car. No surprise my arms and back ached afterwards. Logs are heavy. However, there’s something intrinsically rewarding about building a log pile. You start with a few logs on the ground, and slowly it takes form until you end up with a neatly stacked pile. It’s taller than me.

As Grand-mère and Grand-père were very grateful for all my hard work, today was pronounced as a day off (with the sole exception of feeding the animals, a task which Grand-père offered to help out with).

Because everything I own is already covered in sawdust, I was wearing a skirt and leggings.

It was raining. And due to a mixture of laziness and stupidity, half the sheep escaped into the neighbouring field. Whilst counting the sheep that remained, Grand-père realised that he was standing over one young boy and I was standing over the other. This was a great opportunity to separate the young boys from the herd. Five minutes later I’m hauling a wet, heavy lamb across the field by its forelegs.

The escapee herd wandered of their own accord through the gate of the next field which is prepared for sheep. So we followed with the two young boys in the trailer, Grand-père in the tractor and me riding cross-legged perched on the tractor wheel as if going side-saddle with my foot out of the door. We pulled close the gate.

Life here never fails to entertain.

Acrobatics with my ego

farmyard acrobatics

My reading, and basking in the sunshine on a blanket on the lawn, was interrupted by the seven-year-old asking if I could do a handstand.

While I certainly could once do a handstand, it was when I was her age, and even then I wasn’t all that good. A couple of summers ago, I gave a cartwheel a go and sprained my foot. I couldn’t walk properly for three weeks.

So the seven-year-old offered to teach me.

I thought:

  • I’d most definitely make a fool of myself.
  • Was I really going to think I could act like a child
  • I’m too old
  • Injury was inevitable
  • There would be pain
  • There was no chance of actually achieving a handstand

And that in life there are only results and excuses.

Was my ego so fragile that it couldn’t stand a little foolish fun? Do I really judge people for being able to play? Did I really consider myself weak because I’m just so incredible old? Could I perhaps risk an injury? Was I really likely to encounter pain other than embarrassment? And was achieving a perfect handstand the actual goal?

So, I tried, and failed. And kept trying and failing. Then I went to get my trainers because the grass was dry and prickly. On my return I tried some more and eventually the seven-year-old decided we could move from instruction on getting the legs up in the air to instruction on finishing nicely.

Then she decided that Grand-père needed to be shown the efforts of her teaching. And so could the painter.

I won the battle with my ego and did as I was told.

Mumbling even before the wine

wine

I’m really bad at saying ‘yes please I’d like a glass of wine’.

I’m also really bad at clearly saying ‘no thank you’.

I seem to find all sorts of ways of saying yes or no that don’t clearly state my preference. If you’re good at reading my body language, or you know me well enough to predict my appetite, you don’t need much of a signal to know what I want. On the other hand, if you find my alcohol consumption confusing and unpredictable, you’re going to struggle.

I tell you yes in such a way as to suggest that I’ll drink only if you really think I should, because I wouldn’t have helped myself as that might suggest a need where there is none and it doesn’t quite fit with the dainty feminine impression I’m trying to give out. Like I need to permission to have a drink?

I tell you no as if I’m trying to say that you have wonderful, lovely wine, and I really enjoy your wine, and I respect your culture to drink more than I would typically drink, and yes, I do know cheese and cake and venison and anything else you might suggest tastes better with wine, but I’m odd so I don’t want any right now.

I hadn’t realised I was so confusing. So much conflict to say a simple statement.

Why such a reluctance to forthrightly engage with the question?

And where did I pick this up from?