What's cooking?

There was a time, and it doesn’t seem all that long ago, when one could stay up half the night and still rise reasonably bright-eyed and bushy-tailed the next morning to do a day’s work. Unfortunately, that has ceased to be the case for us, and it took us a couple of days to catch up on lost sleep after last weekend. This wasn’t helped by Bella and Harry’s inability to understand the concept of a lie in, and Harry’s habit of pathetically whining if we are even five minutes past his usual getting up time. Not that he is spoilt, of course…

It was helped, though, by the weather at the start of the week, which encouraged us to spend a quiet couple of days at home. We had intended to get out and about a bit, as Wednesday was Ferragosto, the main summer public holiday, and we had planned to go walking on PSG beach in the morning. However, after a sustained hot and dry spell it turned – at least by Le Marche standards – decidedly iffy. It wasn’t anywhere near as iffy as the forecast predicted, but the onset of dull and vaguely stormy conditions on Tuesday afternoon convinced us that the anticipated rain and thunder would surely arrive the following morning.

In the event, we could have had a very pleasant walk if we’d kept to our P of A. Against expectations, Wednesday a.m. saw the sun breaking through the patchy clouds, and whilst it might not have been sunbathing conditions, the milder temperatures (mid-20s) and breezy winds would not have shamed a British August bank holiday. And then, at midday, it made us feel really at home when the rain eventually arrived and kept up a persistent grey drizzle for the afternoon. We didn’t mind, having been inured to such circumstances since childhood, but we couldn’t help feeling sorry for all those families down at the chalets for festive lunches. Well, ok then, yes we could.

After this hiccup, it was back to business as usual on Thursday, which allowed Stephen to gather some of our very own grapes from our very own vines. Though maybe a little on the small size compared with shop-bought ones, they are certainly palatable and have added a touch of variety to our lunchtime salads. This is the first time in our three summers here at LCDDB that we have been able to harvest grapes, and it’s all thanks to Stephen (no surprise there), who this year made sure that the vines were trained along wires rather than left to entangle themselves with whatever surrounds them. The two vines at the left-hand side of the house have spread out from the well to the edge of the terrazzo, making a pleasant shady arbour by the garage, while the one at the front has crept along towards the trees on either side of it, then on past the tree on the left to latch onto the top of the fence. If this expansion continues next year, we might have to consider going into wine production, though Stephen has it on very good authority (i.e. Luigi) that they are both of the eating rather than the oenological variety.

It was also just as well that Thursday pulled its climatic socks up as we had arranged to meet with Marco and Maddalena, as well as Maddi’s sister, Chiara and boyfriend, Daniele (hope you’ve got that – there will be a test at the end) at Loro Piceno for the first night of their Festival del Vino Cotto. As you no doubt recall, vino cotto means cooked wine and makes a most acceptable post-dinner little something to share with friends, especially with a cantuccio or two for dipping. While vino cotto is generally available around Le Marche, both commercially produced and a casa, Loro Piceno is held to be its birthplace, hence the town claiming it for their festa. Until recently, I was unaware of how much of a local speciality it actually is until I mentioned it during one of my conversation lessons in Bologna and Paola, the teacher with an encyclopaedic knowledge of all things cultural, had no knowledge of it whatsoever. She doesn’t know what she’s missing.

The festival was about much more than vino cotto, though, as was shown by there being six stages – at least that is what the publicity material said. Really it translated as six areas where there was entertainment, ranging from the main stage in the area by the main road in front of the modern shopping complex (occupied, on the first night, by a local radio DJ accompanied by the station’s version of the Nigel Lythgoe dancers) to a lone man with a guitar in a tiny square up a side street, who sang surrounded by an exhibition of oeuvres from the Loro Piceno Association for Aspiring but Misguided Amateur Artists. There were also several places to eat, but fortunately we eschewed the two down by the road (which would have been, as was once described to me, like eating in Asda) and followed the signs up the narrow alleys through the old town to Piazzetta Urelia, a charming square where trestle tables and strings of lights were arranged by a makeshift osteria below the Castello di Brunforte.

Here, in an elegant variation, the food (paccheri alla norma then arista di maiale al vino cotto - and, to Stephen’s immense delight, a bowl of tripe that Daniele shared with him and Marco) had a musical accompaniment. Wandering between the tables were an somewhat mismatched due: an older, folksy man with a very goaty goatee playing the tambourine and his young, clean-cut partner on the accordion, performing what were, by people’s reactions, amusing comic songs sung in (what else) the local dialect. When it came to our table’s turn, as I was at the end of the bench, they chose me to deliver their number to so I did my best to sit with a wryly amused smile on my face and hoped that there was not going to be any audience participation. Fortunately, after a few verses and appreciative chuckles from the rest of our party, they turned their attention elsewhere.

After dinner, we visited the castle behind us and took a tour of the mediaeval kitchen before heading back down the hill to find the pop-up shop with the man with the beard as Marco had been told that this was where the best vino cotto was to be had. We found it surprisingly quickly, mainly thanks to the man hanging around the shop doorway waiting for passing trade. We had a free sample, which was all right, but the small glass to which I was treated by Daniele was, oddly enough, much better. So much so that we left with a bottle, as did Marco, but he also had a head full of information about the process of making vino cotto and a promise by the man to call him in September when they are due to makes this year’s batch.

The rest of the week should have passed in relative peace, if it hadn’t been for Mascalzone Latino pizzeria and Harry – though not at the same time. The former sent us into a tizzy when I turned up to order our usual Friday night tea, only to find them shut for the holidays. A quick phone call to Stephen and plan B was put into operation – frozen ones from Sigma. “Back again?” said the lady on the till, as we had done our usual weekend shop some hours previously. I explained our difficulty to absolve myself of the sin of buying frozen pizze. I needn’t have worried. “These are very good,” she said. “Yes, they are,” said the lady who works in the post office, behind me in the queue, “And cheaper.”

As for Harry, he took it upon himself to make the most of a slight opening in the cover of his and Bella’s terrazzo day bed whilst Stephen and I were finishing our breakfast yesterday morning. Usually, I put the bed out with the worn piece underneath but this time I forgot. Hence the sight of Harry, in full terrier mode, scattering the white stuffing like snow around him as though Christmas had come early, having ripped open both the cover and the inside cushion. Well, we knew we were on borrowed time but had hoped it would last this summer out, and he was only doing what dogs do, and it did give us an excuse for a shopping trip to Corridomnia, something we hadn’t done for long enough.

And a beneficial one it turned out to be, blessing Stephen with several final reductions (cost, not size) t-shirts and some half-price melamine bowls (good for nibbles) besides a new dog bed and a toy each for Harry and Bella. The challenge now is getting them to use it, as they seem less than impressed with the change. Bella managed eventually to struggle onto it, looking less than comfortable, but as far as Harry is concerned the jury is still out and he is having no truck with it. Let it be a life lesson to him because we all know, you can’t have your comfy old dog bed and eat it.