By
Sally Sontheimer
In April of 2005, I ran my first workshop at the house. A friend of mine from
Washington, DC came over with seven people she has been meditating with for
several years. I led yoga classes in the morning while J-Lee, my friend, guided
us into realms of peace and relaxation. We even opened the chapel and let
the special energy of the divine feminine work its magic.
But peace and calm weren’t the only thing we offered. Oh no, our lower
chakras needed sustenance and nurturing too. Being a lousy cook, I asked our
friend Gabriella and her husband Sandro from the Antica Salumeria Salvini,
our village shop down in Costafabbri, to do the catering.
‘Keep it light,’ I said, thinking about the difficulty of doing
yoga with a stomach full of pork sausage, ‘but warm. And give us protein
once a day.’
I’m not sure I can define the high point of our culinary experience
that week. I know I had to keep refilling the oil cruet with the green gold
that Signor Santinelli makes from our olive trees. Everyone kept pouring it
straight on top of everything – the Tuscan soup, the vegetables, the
salad – and used the bread Gabriella brought fresh every day to wipe
the green drippings off the plates.
Gabriella entered the house quietly every day at noon and then again at sunset,
bringing in big pots of soup and a white crate full of supplies for the meal.
I remember Tuesday lunch especially because she made something I had never
had before – risotto di farro con radicchio. Farro
is called spelt in English, that ancient grain of the Romans making quite
a comeback in Italy and the US these days. I mentioned this as I stood next
to Gabriella while she stirred the risotto, but she corrected me, telling
me that farro is Etruscan. It was these ancient people who gave their local
grain, as well as their king, to the Romans. In Tuscany, people never stopped
eating it.
I also remember the bacala al livornese that she made on Friday evening.
It was the classical recipe of salted cod stewed in tomatoes, yet I had never
tasted anything so delicate. I thought this was because Gabriella comes from
the north, from a mountain village in the Dolomites (her husband Sandro is
the Tuscan), and thus she has the lighter hand with things that is typical
of northern cuisine.
By the end of the week, we were calling Gabriella our kitchen angel. She whisped
in so quietly to work her wonders in the kitchen. One of the participants,
who is a graphic designer, made her a colorful thank you note and we all signed
it. Gabriella told me later that she had it framed.
Our workshop was in April when artichokes are still in season and the fresh
pecorino rounds made from the milk for the new lambs first show up on Sandro’s
counter. You won’t find these things in summer, so I asked Gabriella
to come up with some hot weather menus for you.
:: Listening under the portico :: The
kitchen angels :: ‘I only eat pigs I
know’ :: My beloved mountain ::
