DIPPING AND SIPPING

DIPPING AND SIPPING

“I see Giovanni picked a beautiful bowl of cherries.  Where is he?”  I said to Carolina upon my return to the villa from my morning internet session at Firzetta Caffe.  She held her hand up to cover her eyes.

“I’m not looking!  I can’t look.” she exclaimed.  That’s when I turned to see her husband , precariously perched near the top rung of a ladder, clipping dry branches, determined to reach the few dangling cherries left on the tree’s highest branches.

I sped down the grand front steps, excitedly begging him to let me pick some.  “Strategize!” I thought!.

“I’ve never picked cherries before!” I told him - which was true.  After steadying the ladder for his descent, I hoisted myself up to the second last wrung, picked about fifty cherries, dropping them into the black wire basket, and told him the rest would have to stay up there for the birds.  I’m not fond of heights.

“That’s-a fair,” he agreed, and the job was done.  No injuries - and a happily relieved wife.

We picked about five or six pounds in all.  After washing our harvest and setting a bowl aside for us, Carolina poured the rest into jars, filling in the empty spaces with white sugar.  They are still sitting in the sun, being preserved.

“The longer, the better,” she says.

“Like-a wine,” he follows.   Giovanni loves to sip wine throughout the day, mixed with fresh cold mountain water from the tap.  The couple buys it by the gallon from Mazzarosa, a few miles down the road.

When the gallon (actually, five liters) from last year ran out, I dug out a few reds from the dining room cabinet.  A 2005 Montepulciano, followed by a 2011, were both exquisite.  Toothless Giovanni, whose teeth had to be removed for heart surgery, loves to soften his food by dunking it in a liquid, wine not excluded.

Be it a chunk of bread, a sweet roll, or an ice cream bar, he dunks to his heart’s content.  I, on the other hand, being the mother of a blossoming sommelier, prefer to breathe, smell, swish, gurgle, and sip.  I laugh at his dipping, as he laughs at my sipping.  Either way, we both enjoy!

Eating and drinking at home seems to be the couple’s preferred style.  But they were eager and ready to visit their friends at one of the  local beachside restaurants, each  called a lido.  Lido Lauretta is owned by longtime family friend, Romeo, and his lovely wife, whose name escapes me and Carolina.  Another side-effect of aging that both frustrates and saddens the mind of the once-beholder of dates, places, and, most-importantly, names.  

Most businesses here are run by at least two, if not three, generations of the same family, Lido Lauretta included.  Romeo’s daughter works alongside her parents, learning the ropes, and securing her future.

Deciding on a table on the sand-front patio was most challenging.  Simple tasks that we “young” take for granted, become mountainous chores for the elderly.  We walked in circles, seeking the perfect spot, but many were reserved.  None that I suggested sufficed. I am forced to take a deep breath and go with the flow.  Finally, a friendly tattooed young lady sensed our discombobulation, and offered us her spot in the shade.  

Romeo’s daughter cheerily greeted us, promising to return with the “umbrella book” later, assuring the couple’s family a reserved, shaded Lido spot on the beach for when they arrive next month.  Different from California, Mexico, and Hawaii’s free beaches, most here come with a price.  Just like New Jersey, where most beaches require tags.  There are a few free beaches scattered along the coast, but they are not as “user friendly,” shall we say.  No food to order!

The couple each ordered the fish lasagna, which I hesitantly tasted.  The pasta part was fresh and yummy, but it was a little too fish-filled for me to have eaten an entire square.  I guess I’m just not used to the combination. I chose basic penne al pomodora, perfectly cooked - al dente.  

The piece de la resistance was a giant bowl full of mussels, and sweet baby clams, swimming in a decadent buttery fish sauce.  Giovanni and I soaked some of the broth up with fresh bread, and took the rest home in the little jar of wine we had brought with us, now empty.  This sauce was later used for a decadent clam linguini, with a slight kick from the years-old dried peppers hanging in Carolina’s kitchen.

I’m not much of an ice cream eater anymore - stomach issues - but I took Romeo up on his offer for a free cone.  Good thing I said “piccola,” because it was a more than ample cone of homemade, creamy pistachio and stracciatelli.  Giovanni chose the same.  Benissimo!  And my stomach liked it too!

The short walk home took about 20 minutes.  I am proud of my patience for this exhaustingly slow pace.  But I was ready for a brisk bike ride to Firzetta, where I sat for nearly three hours, writing, chatting, and hoping to receive a Skype from my 2-year-old  granddaughter.  I'm having "Skype" issues.  Tomorrow is another day, but I miss her so.  It seems no matter how far I roam, my family is always at the forefront of my mind, and in the center of my heart’s prayers.

Summer 2014 in Texas

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Two months ago with all my children