During summer in Sicily a traditional beverage is latte di mandorla – almond milk – and visitors wilting in the heat will often be offered a chilled glass of this refreshing drink. Once upon a time, almond milk was commonly made at home in Sicily, but nowadays, most people drink the commercially available stuff bought in the supermarket. Instead of being refreshing, I find it to be cloying sweet. So, I set out to make my own.

I had scored a kilo of beautiful pizzuta almonds from the San Basilio farm during the almond harvest, and so I began quizzing the natives about the best way to make almond milk. Asking for culinary advice is always a dangerous proposition in Sicily, as it inevitably leads to an overload of information, often conflicting. Just when I may have settled on a method, another person will look at me in surprise and explain an incredibly simple way of doing the same thing, that they claim is buonissimo. So, first I needed to sift through all the almond milk info.

Everyone did agree that the almonds had to be shelled, which I had taken for granted. Next, should they be blanched in order to remove the brown skins? The “yes” crowd said the skins would make the almond milk bitter, the “no” crowd claimed the skins added flavor and color. I wondered if the no crowd could simply be lazy? Everyone also agreed that the almonds needed to be finely chopped, though methods differed. A food processor was okay with some (see lazy crowd above), others said the heat generated by the blades would affect the taste, and that the almonds must be finely chopped with a mezzaluna. My friend Giovanni said they should be slowly pounded to a paste with a mortar and pestle, gradually adding water. He claims he learned this when he had to make emulsions while studying to be a pharmacist at the University of Catania. Meanwhile, my trusty neighbor Beatrice said she just tied the unpeeled almonds in a cloth sack and beat the whole thing with a wooden mallet. As the path to almond milk became ever baffling, this at least seemed like a great way to release my frustration.

Everyone soaked the ground almonds in water, except for Beatrice-of–the-Mallet, who just dipped the sack in water periodically, until the water became “milky.” The soakers put the almond mass into a fine cloth and squeezed out the almond milk. Some added sugar, others honey. One left it plain, but admitted to being on a diet. Time to move on I told myself, before I just decide to make almond biscotti.

First, I had to shell the almonds, and these being pizzuta almonds with amazingly thick hard shells, a regular nutcracker was useless. It was time to use ‘The Rock’, a 5 lb. stone that I use for crushing olives, and occasionally, my fingers. At first, I had a tendency to hit too hard and crush the almond to smithereens along with the shell, but soon I got skilled at giving one sharp whack that splits the shell, yet leaves the almond intact. By the time I’m done, I’ve got a sore arm and one bulging bicep.

Next, because I don’t fancy the idea of brown bitter milk, I decided to remove the skins. I poured boiling water over the almonds, and let them sit for 30 minutes, while I rested my arm. Then by squeezing each almond between thumb and index finger, the skins slipped off quite easily. There are always a few recalcitrant ones that hold tight to their skins – I used the zero tolerance approach to these and just ate them.

By the time I am done with this, I am intimately familiar with each and every almond and am beginning to understand why everyone buys almond milk at the supermarket. (You could skip this whole process if you simply buy blanched almonds, but depending upon their age, they may be fairly tasteless, and you won’t become close personal friends with your almonds.)

Now, it was finally time to chop or grind the almonds. I tried the mortar and pestle method, and it took just 30 seconds to flunk out of pharmacy school, as with each move of the pestle, the slippery almonds flew out of the mortar and went skidding across the kitchen floor. By now I was hot and tired, and longed for a glass of cold almond milk to perk me up. Time to skip tradition and revert to modern times with a food processor (you could probably use a blender, but I don’t own one.) I ground the almonds in batches, pulsing and adding a bit of water until the mixture was fairly fine, then dumped the mixture into a bowl. I added some mineral water, and let it soak while I rested in front of the fan.

Finally, I poured the contents of the bowl into a cloth-lined strainer, over another clean bowl. Then with my last bit of strength, I squeezed the cloth of ground almond paste to extract all the liquids. Wow! Out poured almond milk! I refrigerated the almond milk and had a nap. Once it was cold, I slightly sweetened it with sugar – this seemed to enhance the almond flavor – and added a little more mineral water. Sitting in the shade, it made a refreshing silky drink with a surprisingly tangy almond finish. In the end, worth all the effort.  

Read Similar Stories:

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The Moneyless Bank

Recipe type: Beverage
Author: Anita Iaconangelo
Prep time: 1 Hour
Cook time: No cooking
Total time: 2 hours, including chilling
Serves: 8 three-ounce servings

Nutrition:
Serving size: 3 oz

Ingredients:
4 oz almonds

Cooking Directions:

1. Pour boiling water over the almonds to cover, let sit for 15-30 minutes, then squeeze each almond individually so that it slips out of its brown skin. (You can also just buy blanched almonds and skip the shelling and skinning.)
2. Place almonds in food processor and pulse in order to finely grind, adding a bit of water to make a thick chunky paste.
3. Transfer the almond paste to a bowl, add about 2 cups (16 oz.) of mineral water, and let soak for 30 minutes.
4. Dampen a square piece of fine linen or cotton cloth and place it in a sieve over another clean bowl.
5. Pour the contents of the almond paste bowl into the cloth lined sieve.
6. Let the liquid (which should be milky looking) drain into the clean bowl.
7. Gather the corners of the cloth together, twist them tightly and squeeze the almond paste so that the liquid also goes into the clean bowl – do this until you have squeezed out all liquid humanly possible from the almond paste, and are perspiring heavily.
8. Next, fill a measuring cup with about ½ cup of water, and place the bag of almond paste in it, dip it and up and down, then push it down into the water several times to extract more milky liquid, then add the liquid to the bowl of almond milk and squeeze the bag again – do this 3 times or until the water is no longer very milky, and you are feeling weak.
9. Assuming you have enough strength left, place a funnel in a bottle or pitcher and pour the contents of the almond milk into the funnel.
10. Taste the almond milk!
11. It will be quite bland without any sugar, but should have a nice almondy finish.
12. Sweeten to taste if you like, with either honey or sugar.
13. If it seems okay as is, refrigerate; if too strong, add a bit more water.
14. Shake or stir before pouring into glass, and serve well chilled.
15. Makes about 8 servings of 3 oz each.

A little bit of rain does not keep the bidders out of the piazza in Santa Croce Camerina, a small town in southeastern Sicily that is known for its lavish St. Joseph’s day celebrations. Sure there are processions, but food is the centerpiece. 

Walking three blocks from the parking lot, there are cooking smells pouring out of kitchen windows, with sugar laden desserts, aromatic tomato sauce, and yeasty breads mingling into a thick food fug. By the time I reach the piazza, I’m dizzy.

My goal is the food auction, which starts at 9.30 am, and continues for most of the day, with a break for lunch, presumably to attempt to consume some of the huge quantity of goods purchased at auction.  Just the cheese table alone is a sight to behold as it groans under the weight of 20 kilo loaves of caciocavallo, heaps of freshly made provola, and wheels of pecorino studded with peppercorns.  And cheese is just the beginning.  There are cases of strawberries, eggplant, fennel and oranges, hand-picked bunches of wild asparagus and mustard tops, and baskets of citron that look like huge knobby lemons, and are eaten in thin slices dipped in salt. 

I am invited back stage at the auction to survey the goods, and find baskets of the prized carob-tree mushroom, carefully frozen in the fall and now fetching a handsome price.  There are innumerable piles of San Giuseppe festival breads, in traditional shapes decorated with flowers or shaped like St. Joseph’s cane.  While I am busy surveying the abundance of produce, a burlap bag at my feet begins to move and I am cautioned not to step on the (live) rabbit.  Someone hands a whole pork thigh to the auctioneer, and then a fellow shows up with his young son and a live baby goat.  The goat, being frisky, is quickly moved to the front of the auction line.  Rather than being sad about parting with it, the young boy is obviously  proud of the fact that a man immediately bids on it.   After parting with 30 euros, the man wrestles the goat into his car, and drives away with a baa.

We take a break from the food auction to check out some of the tavolate – laden tables – set up in private homes, where townspeople playing the part of la sacra famiglia - the holy family- will be guests at a festive lunch, and then take home a tower of homemade sweets.  The  presentations are breathtaking, and I am accompanied by Leonardo, a 15-year old nephew who, like 15 year olds the world over, is perpetually hungry. His eyes are popping out of his head at all the sweets and he whispers, “are you sure we can’t eat any of this?” as his hand hovers over a plate of little cassatelle, ricotta tarts. I share his pain, so hustle him out before I give in to temptation and ask him to grab me one, too. 

Once out in the street we head forlornly back to the auction, and reach the piazza just at the moment they are auctioning off a tray of arancini.  Leonardo gasps and we lunge forward to have our bids heard, and are stunned when no one outbids our screams of “quindici, quindici”!  We are soon the proud owners of 10 arancini.  We waste no time in moving to a corner of the piazza, and giggle gleefully as we each grab an arancino. They are still warm.  The first bite is the point of the arancino, perfectly crusty and not too oily, the rice inside creamy and fragrant. The second bite hits the meaty filling, and a thick string of warm cheese flops onto my chin.  “Buono” I swoon.  “Buonissimo” responds Leonardo. We grin with our mouths full.  Forget the processions-now this is what I call a feast day.

Read similar stories:
Weeds for Cheese-The Caciocavallo Trade
Horses Cloaked in Flowers at St Joseph’s Day Parade

The mandrake plant is a lovely autumn wildflower, but watch out.  Besides being poisonous, it’s said to possess strange and mystical powers.

My favorite mandrake myth is that the plant emits a horrible shriek when uprooted, causing madness and death to those foolish enough to have dug it up.  To solve this, medieval sorcerers advised that a dog should be used to uproot the mandrake plant, by tying a cord around the plant and the other end to the dog’s tail –  then the root collector makes a run for it.  The dog would die upon hearing the shriek, but the collector would be safely out of earshot.  I guess the idea of being man’s best friend is a one way street.

The root of the mandrake plant is said to resemble the human form, and in medieval times the root was highly valued as a magical talisman, endowing its owner with supernatural powers. I’ve seen the mandrake plant in bloom many times during my wildflower walks in Sicily, and enjoyed the bright purple blossoms.  But I’d never seen the root.  

On my way home recently, I spied a mandrake plant in bloom at the edge of the village and was curious to see the human shape of the root, and decided to dig it up.   I also liked the idea of being endowed with supernatural powers.  Armed with a spade, rubber gloves, and my camera, I briefly thought about wearing earmuffs, but decided it was too hot, and too strange – I must keep up appearances in the neighborhood.  Anyway, if I really believed that deadly shriek story, I’d just enlist the “help” of my neighbor’s odious dog, whose most endearing trait is barking incessantly from sunset to dawn. 

After digging for a few minutes, I had unearthed 3 inches of mud and gotten to the top of the thick root, which was, quite literally, firmly rooted.  After I’d dug down 6 inches, encountering several rocks along the way, I’d ripped holes in my rubber gloves, gashed my thumb and had thick mud oozing from under my fingernails. I was sweating profusely and my legs ached from squatting.  It was time to yank.

I positioned my feet on either side of the plant, gripped the top of the mandrake root with both hands and yanked with all my might.  There was a loud snap, followed by a piercing shriek – mine – as I fell over backwards in the mud, clutching the upper half of the mandrake root.

So much for appearances.

The mandrake root may or may not have a shape that resembles the human form, but I know longer cared.  My hopes for becoming an Italian Harry Potter dashed, I hobbled home to change my clothes, leaving my muddy shoes to dry in the sun.

Where to find the mandrake plant in bloom:

The mandrake plant (mandragora autumnalis) blooms from September to December in the south of Italy.  When walking in Sicily, it can commonly be found along the rocky seaside path at the Vendicari coastal reserve.

Read similar stories:  Antipasto: Delivering a Goat in Tuscany  or head further south and learn How Not to Restore a House in Sicily

Farmer Mario, who tends one of our fields, is outside with the engine of his tractor rumbling.  This winter the field was left fallow, so that by May, it’s a huge tangle of shoulder high wildflowers, grasses, and let’s face it, weeds.  It’s time to cut. 

Our farmer friend is accompanied by 2 of his young sons, who unlike other teenagers who zip around on Vespas, seem to love driving agricultural machines.  They take turns cutting, and warning each other of big rocks looming beneath the vegetation. The cut grasses are left to dry “for as long as it takes” says Mario, as they all drive away with a wave.

After however long it takes passes, another piece of equipment shows up which gathers the dried grasses in long rows, ready for the baling machine, which arrives a few days later. The baling machine comes with a couple of other people I have never met, because it usually breaks down once or twice and they know how to fix it, so another day passes before this phase is finally done.  In the meantime, Emanuele watches from the window, and bets me a dinner for guessing the number of bales that will be made.  I come closest to the 6, and look forward to choosing an expensive restaurant.  

All the while, Mario is thinking differently. He’s got 40 cows and 100 sheep to feed, along with a brood of 8 kids.  These 6 hay bales will come in handy.

Mario treats us a bit like curious bystanders, assuming we know nothing about farming, which is essentially true.  We grow useless things like roses and geraniums. We have handed this field over to a farmer because we are not farmers, and have no equipment that breaks down or not. We shook hands, and no money is exchanged. Mario rarely phones before coming – then is surprised and a little offended if he finds us gone and the gate locked, as if we have purposely shut him out.  I guess on a real farm, someone is always home.

Mario does not feel the need to communicate with us about what he is doing with this field – one year he plants hay, the next wheat.  When I ask him why he replies “Do you eat the same thing every day? No? Well, the earth is the same way.”   But that was before the cheese. 

“Signora, Signora!” I hear a voice shouting outside.  I open the front door to find Mario smiling shyly, and clutching a plastic bag.  “Una cosa per voi” – something for you, he says.   I hesitate – the last time he gave us a gift it was a freshly butchered goat – and am relieved to find that inside the bag is a huge caciocavallo cheese.  It must weigh 15 lbs.  “Bellissimo”  I say, quite pleased, while realizing that now we will be eating the same thing every day. 

I stick my head into the bag with the cheese and inhale deeply – it smells like warm milk, overripe fruit, and sweaty feet.  I suppress a gag, and quickly come up for air.  I politely try to conjure up a pleased expression on my face, as Mario beams.  It’s better than goat, I remind myself. 

Caciocavallo cheese in Modica, Sicily is made from cow’s milk, and the cows graze on rough pastures of spontaneous forage, otherwise known as weeds. It is one of Sicily’s oldest cheeses, and historical records note that it was exempt from tax back in the late 1400’s during the reign of Ferdinand II,  who apparently had a benevolent moment in the midst of the Spanish Inquisition.  It is traditionally worked with wooden utensils, before being shaped in a rectangular wooden mold stamped with the producer’s name, and finally brined in salt water.  It can be eaten fresh or aged for up to a year. The term caciocavallo – cheese on horseback – comes from the practice of tying a rope around the middle of 2 rectangular cheeses, then hanging them over a beam to age – reminiscent of being astride a horse. 

The appearance of Mario’s  caciocavallo  is definitely handmade, with the “i” from his name barely visible, so it looks like “Mar o.”  Our first taste of “Mar o’s” caciocavallo is a bit disappointing, as we find it overly salty.  We plot about offloading a hunk to various people – Emanuele’s sister, a neighbor, my hairdresser.  We wonder if we keep it in a cool place to age, it will lose some of its saltiness, but don’t relish the idea of sharing a closet with it.  We cut the cheese in half and find the center to be pale and soft, with  a pleasantly grassy aroma – the sweaty sock syndrome seems to have disappeared – and a good nutty taste. By now it seems a lot less salty, or maybe that’s because we’ve eaten so much of it we can’t tell any more.  In any case, weeds for cheese is not a bad deal. 

If you’d like to see firsthand what’s happening on our non-farm, book a 1-day tour in Sicily, or explore the area in depth on our Walking & Cooking in Eastern Sicily tour. 

Dawn in the garden with a huge moon hanging in the sky, wet grass cool under my feet. I feel like I’m the only person awake in the world. The day, like the garden, feels full of promise. In other words, it’s before I check my e-mail. 

A soft night rain has been kind to the garden, which is drinking in the wetness, grateful for this last bit of refreshment before the hot summer sets in.  A few perfect roses are in bloom, with hundreds of buds awaiting their moment to burst open, while the lavender and orange thyme are giddy with blossoms. 

Join me on a little tour of my garden in Sicily.  Put on your flip-flops and let your toes get wet in the grass.  Listen to the bees buzzing in the sage blossoms, and the birds chirping in the almond tree.  Actually they are making quite a racket, it’s a serious bird argument and I’d wish they’d keep it down.  They are wrecking this peaceful mood.

Look around. An apricot is ripening. Fat figs sit on a branch soaking up the sun’s first rays, carob pods dangle in the breeze, poppies nod sleepily in the morning sun, and even the palm tree is in flower. Little pears and plums are taking shape.  The succulents are pleasantly plump.  Notice the teeny tiny flowers on the olive tree, the capers stretching out their first dark leaves, the geraniums bursting from their pots.  Prick your finger on an artichoke. Ignore the weeds.

Pick a sprig of mint, a twig of rosemary and a laurel leaf and crush them in your hand, releasing a spicy perfume good enough to bottle.  Step on the creeping thyme as you walk beneath the arbor, and really take time to smell those roses.  Brush against the lemon verbena, sharp and pure against the scent of jasmine as thick and sweet as honey.  Pick a lemon wet with dew and breathe in the intoxicating fragrance of zagare – citrus blossoms that are the essence of Sicily in April.  Ouch, don’t touch the nettles.

I drink a cappuccino sitting on the stoop. I want this garden to be my entire day, but have yet to win the lottery.  Slowly,  I turn my back on the garden, on the real world, and head to the virtual world of my computer. See you there.

My favorite place for a summer walking tour is the Dolomites, and now you can enjoy idyllic hikes, breathtaking wildflowers, and great food with these 3 special offers:

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Stay in our signature luxurious 4 & 5-star hotels (including the Relais & Chateaux Rosa Alpina and historic Hotel Ancora in Cortina) plus enjoy these complimentary perks:

Wildflowers in the Dolomites, July 7-13:
Enjoy a complimentary dinner at the 2-star Michelin restaurant St. Hubertus with a 5-course tasting menu.

Cortina Dolomites High Routes, July 13-17:
Pamper yourself with a spacious suite upgrade for all 4 nights.

Book both tours and receive an additional 2-night suite upgrade and a discount of $100 per person. 

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Call today to book your Dolomites walking tour: 1-800-462-7911

For day-by-day itineraries of our Dolomites walking tours, click:

Wildflowers in the Dolomites  – July 7-13, a walking tour in 3 valleys

Dolomites High Routes - July 13-17, a walking tour from Cortina

More News from the Dolomites of Italy:

We’ve been organizing walking tours in the Dolomites for 18 years, and the New York Times recently discovered some of our favorite dining spots and hotels (Rifugio Averau and Hotel Ancora), except we go without the snow!  Read the NYT’s winter in the Dolomites article.

The long-awaited article about our Dolomites tour by Christopher Buckley is due to be published in ForbesLife in September, 2010. We’ll keep you posted.  In the meantime, see Christopher talking about his Italian Connection tour on video-he took the exciting via ferrata option, which I wrote about in this previous post.

Anita Iaconangelo, founder of Italian Connection, we’ll be leading both of the Dolomites tours.  She knows the walking & hiking trails of the Dolomites almost as well as she knows the best pastry shops.  Don’t miss out on the most spectacular mountains in Europe -the Dolomites are now a UNESCO protected area. 

Call to book your Dolomites walking tour:

Toll free USA & Canada: 800-462 7911 

Telephone Canada:  780-438-5712

Italy: (39) 0932 231 816

Emanuele staggers into the kitchen, pouring sweat.

“You’ll never have to worry that I’ll murder you and hide your body in a pit in the garden” he gasps, as he swigs down a liter of water.  Rather than a strange Sicilian declaration of love, this is a gardener’s realization that between wanting and having a garden there is a whole lot of backache.

After various attempts at planting things that dry up within minutes under the intense Sicilian sun, we have settled on a drought-resistant creeping rosemary to be planted in a neglected section of the garden.  We buy a dozen plants, and the next morning, I get up early to dig holes.  It is mid-April, but the earth is already baked dry. It looks like something from a drought-stricken desert, but with more rocks. 

My first energetic lunge with the hoe knocks me off balance with the impact, and leaves a small dent in the earth and a much larger one on my self-image as a strong competent woman.  Another whack with a hoe hits a rock, and I spend 10 minutes wrestling the thing out.  By the time I have managed to dig one hole, I am breathing heavily and cursing, and by the third one, I’ve collected a bushel of rocks and crabgrass and am ready to break for lunch. 

What ever possessed us to buy 12 of these damn things?  3 days of digging later, I have a crippling backache and barely enough strength to open the bottle of Ibuprofen.  But the rosemary plants are in and watered. Fingers crossed that they grow!

I hobble over to the part of the garden that is thriving, and gain strength as I admire the lavender in bloom and the hedge of thyme in a spectacular moment of blooming perfection.  A cat joins me to relax amongst the thyme, taking all our work for granted. A garden is not made overnight, I remind myself – we made this beautiful space from a plot of weeds. Then I limp back to the kitchen for a glass of wine.

I am asleep in a tiny farmhouse on the top of hill in the middle of postcard-perfect Tuscany, the scent of lavender floating in the air, when suddenly I am awakened by the sound of a loud motor and the stench of diesel fumes wafting into my bedroom.  I stumble to the window to see what is disturbing my little corner of paradise. There is a backhoe down in the driveway.  The driver leaps out of the cab, and flips back his long sun-bleached hair.  He’s wearing a pair of tiny shorts made from a scrap of denim, and his well-toned muscles are bulging from a torn shirt. He appears to be Tarzan with a driving license.  “Buongiorno,” he shouts up to me. “I’m here to look for il pozzo nero – the black well. 

It all started a week ago, when I noticed a brown smelly liquid oozing out from under an iron grate a few feet from my front door. My corner of this farmhouse was restored before I moved in, so I know only the basics of the working of its plumbing system.  For instance, when I flush the toilet, the water goes away, into the ominous sounding black well.  Before the oozing started, the black well was hardly a focus of my life, but that’s about to change.

At least I do know the location of the pozzo nero, since it was pointed out to me when I moved in by Vasco, who owns the house behind me and shares this same pozzo nero.  When Vasco showed me its location, next to a newly planted rosemary bush, he took a rock and scraped an X onto the top of the stone wall, to mark the spot.  That was 2 years ago.  Since then the rosemary has grown to be huge, along with the nearby lavender and fig tree.  They all seem to like living in proximity to the black well.   

When I phone Vasco to discuss the smelly brown liquid, I ask, “Could the pozzo nero be full?”  “Impossibile” he  says.  Vasco explains that it is a kind of system that decomposes and assures me that “it never needs to be emptied.”   “Mai?” I ask suspiciously.  “No, never,” he insists, and comes to take a look. 

Vasco surveys the garden and his gaze falls upon my beautiful lavender in full bloom. “It is most likely the roots of this lavender that you planted” he says accusingly.   I tell Vasco that he showed me the location of the black well when I moved in, and it was just to the right of the rosemary bush, and that he marked it with a scraped X.  “Non ti ricordi?”    He looks at me as if I have just made up a preposterous lie.  “No,” he says, he does not recall this.  To prove my point, I ask Vasco to lift the rosemary branches, and I crawl under them, searching for his scraped marking, which not surprisingly, I do not find.   I crawl back out, smelling like the preparations for a roast chicken. “Sicuramente it’s your lavender bush”, he says, jabbing a finger into my forearm.  He shakes his head. “I’ll have to call for help.” 

Help turns out to be Tarzan.  Vasco directs Tarzan to where he believes the posso nero is located, underneath the culprit lavender.  The back hoe’s claw takes a big bite out of the earth and pulls up my beautiful lavender bush, breaking the thick roots at their base.  This is the first, but not the last casualty of Tarzan and Vasco’s campaign.  When they find no pipe there, never mind a clogged one, I helpfully suggest that the pozzo nero is near the rosemary bush. Tarzan shakes his head and says “No, it’s not in line with the other pipes.”  “Oh”, I say, encouraged by this observation, “do you have a copy of the plumbing plans?”  Tarzan looks at me like he has just noticed that I am a strange alien being.  “Ah,” he chuckles, “a lot of foreigners ask for those.”

Next they decide to dig around the base of the fig tree, crushing and discarding my iris bulbs.  Niente – nothing. Another idea occurs to Vasco, and they dig a rectangular ditch in the lawn, to see if they can find a cross section of piping.  Niente.  Then Vasco remembers that they had to put a lot of extra dirt on top of this lawn area to level it out, so he suggests they dig deeper.  Niente.  The ditch looks like a tomb.  Tarzan piles the dirt roughly back in the tomb, so it has a mound on top.  I wonder if I could pass it off as Etruscan and charge admission.  

It’s a mystery.  Vasco and Tarzan scratch their heads and wonder what to do next.  Before they decide to knock the house down, I sweetly ask, if, just to be nice and humor a strange foreigner, they could dig by the rosemary bush.  Tarzan shrugs and acquiesces. After all, he’s there to dig.  The metal claw hits the dirt and immediately a loud clang resounds – it’s the cover of the black well, which was apparently quite close to the surface.   Tarzan removes the cover and an overwhelming stench sends me into a gagging fit.  “It’s full” he pronounces. Tarzan replaces the cover, swings back into the cab, and drives away in a surge of diesel fumes.

Vasco says I need to call a spurgo.  This is a new word for me, so I first look in the dictionary.  I learn that the verb spurgare means to purge, to bleed, to expectorate, while the reflexive verb spurgarsi, means to clear one’s throat and spit.  I decide to consult the Yellow Pages instead.  There are a surprising number of listings for “Spurgo Pozzi Neri”, a service for the emptying and cleaning of black wells.  I call most of them before I find one open in August. 

The spurgo service man arrives on the hottest day of the year at high noon, with the August sun beating down like a merciless tyrant. He has a truck with a big tank and a machine that sucks up the contents of the black well. I barricade myself inside, with all the windows shut against the roar of the machinery, the heat, and the unbearable stench.  Finally the motor cuts off and I hear a voice calling “Signora! Signora!” I venture outside, trying not to breathe through my nose, where I find Spurgo-man covered with sweat and asking for water.  I give him a tall glass of cool mineral water, which he gulps down like a man lost in the desert.  He plunks down the glass, and informs me that the pipes leading into the house need to be cleaned out or nothing will work right. It seems they are partially blocked with “residue”.  “It’s necessary to use pressure” he says.  He tells me he has the equipment, and  will do this right away if I give him another glass of water.  I give him the bottle.

I am back inside when the motor roars into action and then I hear a loud gushing sound coming from the bathroom. Curious, I open the bathroom door and find a shit-geyser shooting up from the toilet and spewing across the walls.  Apparently the toilet has decided to clear its throat and spit the  “residue” all over the bathroom.

I scream in horror and rush outside yelling “fermo! fermo!” to Spurgo-man who is happily engrossed in his pressure machine.  He does not hear me until I am next to him tugging on his sleeve, which I nearly rip off.  “Stop, stop, fermo fermo, it’s spraying out all over the bathroom”, I plead frantically, aware that I am hopping up and down.  Spurgo-man shuts off the machine and simply replies  “Allora, I said it was necessary to use pressure”.  I must have looked like I was capable of murder, as he says he’s finished anyway.  He quickly packs up his equipment, puts the cover back on the black well, and asks me where to leave the bill.  Before I can tell Spurgo-man to shove it up his culo, he lays the bill on the stone wall and drives away.

I, too, want to drive away, and never return.  Why not?  Everyone else is doing it.  I could just drive away and keep going, never looking back.  I sit in the shade drinking a bottle of water while I mull over this appealing idea, and then realize that I have to pee, but can’t use the residue-covered bathroom.  I walk into the vineyards and squat behind a grapevine, wondering if I will lend a special flavor to this year’s Chianti. 

In the end, I decide to stay. After all, there are the cats to think about.  I mix up a deadly concoction of bleach and 3 kinds of floor cleaner, pull on some rubber gloves, and madly scrub until I have the cleanest bathroom in Chianti.  Then I say a little prayer to the patron saint of plumbers, and flush the toilet. The water goes away, down into the pipes, across my front garden, past the Etruscan tomb, and just to the right of the rosemary bush, it settles down into the black well.

Walking through the market in Syracuse, Sicily, there are piles of artichokes everywhere, and if you even pause in front of them the vendor will quickly offer you a deal that’s hard to pass up.  But we are picky, taking our time to stroll up and down and look at all the stands, reveling in what Emanuele calls il momento del carciofo – the artichoke moment. 

This differs from il periodo del carciofo, which is the entire artichoke season, while il momento is the peak, brief and glorious.  We must seize this moment to feast on artichokes.  

During il momento, you cannot even think of buying less than 20 artichokes, and often bundles are sold in lots of 25 or 30.  Since the artichokes come with their long stems and bushy leaves, one of these bundles is roughly the size of a small Fiat. 

After a thorough perusal of the market, we buy from an overflowing truck doing a brisk business.  The artichokes are small, firm and taut, the leaves crisp, the edges of the stems still wet with artichoke juice, meaning they have been harvested a very short time ago.  We plunk down our 6 euro and become the proud owners of 30 fine artichokes. 

After we wrestle the bundle into the backseat, we fill in the remaining space in the car with our bodies, and head back home, all the while discussing various ways to cook artichokes in Italy.  We are even thinking about having our own little Festa di Carciofi and inviting family and friends for an artichoke feast – fried artichokes, artichoke risotto, stuffed artichokes, artichoke pasta, raw artichoke salad – we are high on the artichokes fumes that have permeated the car. 

One of my favorite ways to  prepare artichokes calls for small tender ones like we bought today.  Somehow, when I translate this dish into English, it comes out half-French: Artichokes au Gratin. I like the sound better in Italian, so here’s the recipe for Carciofi Gratinati. This simple dish can be served as an appetizer or a side dish. Or if you are like me, you can devour an entire pan for lunch. 

Fresh small artichokes and their preparation, with the final result, a panful of baked carciofi gratinati for lunch.

On a drizzly cold March day in Tuscany, my good friend Nora Kravis phones to invite me to dinner. “Come early so you can see the kids. There are 23 of them,” she says, and hangs up.   

Nora’s house is notorious for being unbearably cold, so I dress for dinner in several layers of warm wooly clothing, thick socks and sturdy boots.  I can see Nora’s farmhouse, La Penisola,  from my front window – she is on the other side of the valley below Radda in Chianti – but driving there is like a slow roller coaster ride of steep ups and downs and twists and turns, dodging the odd wild boar or porcupine along the way, until at last I bump down a dirt road that ends at Nora’s house. 

I walk into the kitchen without knocking, and am immediately blasted with thick warmth, and am overwhelmed with the smell of frying sausage and the panicky sensation that I have somehow accidentally walked into the wrong house.  “It’s hot!” I shriek, and begin peeling off layers of clothing.  Just then a thin young redhead walks into the kitchen. 

She sticks out her hand and introduces herself as Alison, the new farm helper, and informs me that Nora is in the shower.  She tells me she answered an ad on a bulletin board in Florence, and dreamily recounts that she has always wanted to live on a farm. I shake her delicate hand, look into her innocent pale face and think: She won’t last a month. 

A few minutes later, Nora strolls into the kitchen with dripping wet hair.  “How do you like my wood stove?” she asks with a grin.  “You can even cook on it and bake in it!”  She shows me all the features, opening and shutting the doors like a car salesman.  I agree that it is a fantastic piece of equipment.  “I can’t believe it, you finally have a warm house,” I say in amazement.   We have both suffered horrendous cold winters in old stone houses in the mythical paradise of Tuscany, and I am thrilled that after all these years, she’s got heat that works.  

We chat as she dries her hair by flipping her head back and forth over the stove, stopping occasionally to stir the sausage in a big iron pan.  “I’m making pasta with sausage and broccoli, okay?”  “Sounds great,” I reply while making a mental note to check for stray hairs in my dish.  Nora tosses the broccoli in the pan and it sizzles and steams as she stirs.  “This will take a few minutes to cook,” she says.  “Let’s take a walk while it’s still light and see the kids – they’re adorable.”   She’s looking out the window at the pastures when suddenly she cranes her neck and says, “Uh-oh, I’ve got a mama in trouble! Can you guys lend me a hand?”  

As if we have a choice, Alison and I pull on our coats, while Nora is already out the door, racing down the muddy hillside, nearly disappearing in the gloom.  We run to catch up, and as I round a corner my boots sink into the soft orange mud and I grab a fence post, just barely managing to stay upright, as the less fortunate Alison slides past me on her stomach.  We stumble into a rudimentary paddock with a flimsy makeshift gate, and come face to face with a shaggy white goat with alarming horns.  She also sports an impressive beard.  “Okay” says Nora who has her arms spread wide in a semi-crouched position, “Don’t let the goat get out,” assuming as always that other people understand goats the way she does.  I am beginning to regret accepting this dinner invitation. 

Suddenly the goat makes a move to escape, and Nora lunges and tackles it, all the while barking orders to me and Alison. “Grab the horns, grab the horns!”  We really do try, but we appear to be in some danger of being gored, the goat is quick, and we slip and slide in a spectacular display of clumsiness, while Nora manages to get a rope around the goat’s neck.   

Nora starts tugging the goat up the hill to the barn, while Alison and I try and catch our breath. Alison’s got so much mud on her she looks like a terracotta sculpture.  I re-estimate that she’ll last 2 weeks, tops.  “Welcome to farm life,” I say trying to act nonchalant, as we follow Nora’s footprints. 

Once inside the barn, Nora does a quick cursory examination palpitating the goat’s underside, and then rummages around in her vet’s bag, pulling out a bottle of liquid soap.  “The goat needs help right away,” she announces and slathers soap up to her elbows.  So does Alison, I think, as I glance at her ashen face.  “Hold on tight to the goat’s horns,” she orders. We obey, taking up a stance on either side of the goat.

Nora shoves her hand up the goat’s vagina, and the goat lets out a surprised yelp, completely understandable under the circumstances, I think.  “Keep her still!” Nora commands, and her arm now disappears inside the goat, her head rests on its hindquarters and she seems to be searching for something, like a set of lost keys.   Suddenly the goat bawls out in a long desperate wavering cry, -bleeeeee…eeeee..eeeeeeeeeeh,  its thick tongue sticking straight out, parallel to the ground. 

“Bleeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeh!” the goat wails, only louder this time. I am amazed at the length of the goat’s tongue, as well as how long she can hold a note. “Bleeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeh!” she repeats desperately.  I am getting rather unnerved and I glance at Alison, who is as white as a sheet and looks like she is ready to faint.  I wonder if she’ll make it through the night. 

“Hold on!” I shout, and grip the horn as the goat surges forward, sending a searing pain through my shoulder.  “Would you just hold her still!”  Nora scolds in exasperation, as though we are slacking off.  “Just pull back on the horns if she tries to get away.”
“Won’t the horn come off?”asks Alison timidly. 
 “I don’t think you’re that strong” replies Nora sarcastically, and shoves her hand back into the goat. 

“Bleeeeeeeeeeh! Bleeeeeeeeeeh! Bleeeeeeeeeeh!”  The goat’s cries are shorter now, though even more heart wrenching, as though she’s running out of hope. The goat pants and paws the ground, as Nora rummages and grunts.  And just so we get her full repertoire, the goat lets out a series of terrified yelps, Blaaaah! Bleeh! Bliii…oooh …uuuh!”

I am about to ask if the goat is just practicing her vowels or should we be seriously worried when Nora suddenly jerks her arm down and there is a loud slurping sound. She stands triumphantly, holding up something long and gray, with a clear shiny coating.  It does not even remotely resemble a set of keys.  My stomach lurches, as though my own guts have been tugged out.

The mother goat’s tongue retracts, and now quick panting replaces its wailing, which I personally prefer.  Alison is murmuring “oh my god oh my god oh my god,” like a mantra.  “Is it dead?” she asks in a quavery voice.  Just then the slippery gray thing springs to life on wobbly legs, and prances in the straw.  Kid number 24. 

“There’s another one inside,” says Nora matter of factly. “Twins.”  She gives the mother goat an injection, pats her on the back, and says, “She can do the rest herself,” which is the best news I’ve heard all night.  “Let’s go have dinner.” 

 As we walk out of the barn, Nora asks, “Did anyone take the pasta sauce off the stove?”  There is a collective gasp before we race down the hill, laughing in the dark.

Details:  Just as Nora is no ordinary vet, these are not ordinary goats.  They are cashmere goats, and you can meet them and Nora at the Chianti Cashmere farm, 5 km from Radda in Chianti in Tuscany.  Birthing season is in the spring, usually through May.  On Nora’s property there is a farmhouse for weekly rentals and a shop selling hand-woven cashmere shawls, yarns, and skincare products made from cashmere goat’s milk. E-mail in advance for visits. www.chianticashmere.com