Well oiled

After a wet end to last week, the rain cleared on Monday and we have again been blessed with seven days of clear skies and warm sunshine. Despite this, though, we have not been lulled into any false sense of security and have continued with our preparations for the coming winter.

Before these got underway, at the beginning of the week I took a call from Mario on the house phone. I was prepared to do my best to understand what he was phoning about but when he found out that I was home alone, he said he’d speak to Stephen later. Don’t think there was some great mystery to all this as it turned out all he wanted to know was whether we were interested in buying some of their olive oil. I mentioned last week that it is olive harvesting time and we had seen evidence of this happening to the handful of trees that stand at the top of our road by Mario’s and Luigi’s house. The oil on offer, which we readily agreed to, was pressed from this batch – a double whammy of freshness and reducing our carbon footprint.

Thus we turned up on Wednesday evening with our two 5 litre cans that we’d acquired the day before at the ferramenta’s. We’d toyed with the idea of investing in one of the stainless steel oil containers, the culinary equivalent of a samovar, which start at baby 5 litre ones and work their way up to grand matriarchs at 50 litres. We were almost seduced by the allure of a 10 litre shiny temptress, but when we weighed its €50 price tag against the €5 for our two utilitarian green ones, good sense prevailed. It may be different when we eventually turn downstairs in the summer loft living fantasy that is in Stephen’s head and the urn can be displayed in its full glory, but until then it would have to be hidden away, a galvanised Cinderella.

So there we were, outside the house clutching our containers, but we had to wait before they were filled while Mario and Luigi showed us the many crates of olives in the nearby barn that were waiting to be taken to the communal press. These had been garnered from their trees at the further side of the house and seemed to me, with my vast experience of such things, to be a pretty good harvest. From here we went into the basement utility room/kitchen that all these large Italian houses seem to have, the purpose of which appears to be storing all those things that you don’t know what to do with but can’t bring yourself to throw away because they might come in handy one day. I’m not exactly sure what I expected would happen but being familiar with the brothers’ customary modus operandi I wasn’t at all surprised by their ad hoc approach to filling our cans.

This comprised placing a small, rickety chair in the middle of the floor on which to rest the giant plastic jerry can (one that had obviously seen much action) containing the oil, then selecting a suitable funnel from a range of available sizes through which to pour it. Mario, in charge of the jerry can, then tipped it carefully while Stephen and Luigi held on to our container and the funnel. We knew when the container was full by Luigi periodically pulling out the funnel and checking the level until he thought it could take no more. Stephen then sealed the container with the plastic cap and bob was our uncle. We are, I’m pleased to say, obviously valued customers as Luigi presented us with a free gift as we were leaving: a jar of their apple jam, which, like the olive oil, had been made from fruit from their trees. I couldn’t help but wonder if its manufacture had followed the same strict hygiene procedures as I’d just witnessed …

As I said, we have continued with preparations for the coming winter, most of which seem to have fallen on Stephen’s shoulders. This is not because I am totally disinterested in the matter, but we all know how once he gets his organizing head on there is no stopping him. Thus he spent a happy hour on Thursday afternoon storing the outside furniture in the garage (I did help with the table), though it seemed a bit odd to be packing summer away when it was so hot and sunny that he did it all without his shirt on. As they say, you can take the man out of Old Trafford but you can’t take Old Trafford out of the man.

Friday morning we did one of our periodic trips to the Iper supermarket for the usual basics and necessities, but in tandem with the everyday items we also stocked up with various foodstuffs to put away in our emergency supplies box. This is our third year of squirrelling away provisions for the winter in the event of a heavy snowfall marooning us in LCDDB. So far we haven’t needed to call upon them, but besides the comfort of knowing we won’t starve should MSP suffer a white out it also means, should they not be used, we get a cheap week of grocery shopping sometime around the end of March.

This weekend, as befits the clocks going back, has seen the great wardrobe change over. No, we haven’t had MFI in (whatever happened to them?); rather it has seen the packing away of summer clothes to be replaced by snuggly winter wear. The plastic storage boxes that for several months have held jumpers, checked cotton shirts and thermal vests now contain shorts, t-shirts and anything linen. Still, I can’t say that I am too sad to see them go. At least living in Italy, where there are proper seasons, it has meant that such items get a good outing and they, like us, have enjoyed soaking up the sun ready for the cold days ahead. Besides, with Stephen testing out the chimney this evening and setting our first fire of the autumn, the promise of cosy nights in is a very welcoming prospect.