Monday was a normal day in Pontelandolfo. The school lobby was open so we could vote in the Regional Election. With “what party” and “who” I was to vote for jotted on a note in my pocket, I raced around the rain drops. It was teeming and in 15 minutes the polls would close.
(For those of you who wondered why I had the “what” and “who” jotted on a note, there were six candidates representing six parties. All wanted to be Regional President. I can barely remember my own long Italian name. You had to know the name of the candidate so you could print it nicely on the paper ballot.)
Cursing the rain and hobbling up slick steps without a guardrail leading into the school, I looked up and raised a fist at my dad.
JFG started us getting out the vote before we could drive.
He had ingrained in me the absolute need to vote in any and all elections. Deluge be dammed. I stopped in the foyer, shook the water out of my hat and opened my tessera votare to see where I had to go. District 3.
District 3. How is it possible that the district I lived in so many years ago. The district filled with ardent supporters that made sure my dad would be successful in Flagtown, Hillsborough and the County was the same district I’d vote in here?
Ciao Midgeee! Salve Midgeee! And as it had happened years ago in a different District 3, the home town chattering began.
I voted and dashed out.
Barely making it to the car, I was convulsing with sobs. Tears ran down my face. Jack, who didn’t go inside to vote kept touching me and asking what was wrong.
Angie Dorsa. Mc Cray, Mc Hugh, Doyle, Johnny G – my dad. My bigger than life dad who was an iconic election figure. That’s what was wrong. After hearing the first poll worker bellow “Midgeee,” all those old Democrats came to life for me. I could see them, feel them, hear them in the District 3 of yore.
Click and feel the moment. Midge “raw”coming to you from her Fiat.
Wild Boar – Cinghiale. They dig up crops, scare the bejeeezus out of tourists, and imagine this – one year ago the Italian army was sent in and told to shoot to kill. The ugly critters, found even in the streets of Rome, were or may have been carrying African Swine Fever which threatened the pazzilion dollar prosciutto industry. Some of the wild bad boys may have been getting a little too close to the gentile domestic sow. Sigh – isn’t that always the way.
Here in Pontelandolfo, we may not like their big ugly tusks charging at us but we do love the rich sauce you can make with the meat. The amazing steak and well, the general incredible taste that only free ranging, wild things can give us. 🎶 “Wild thing, you make my taste buds sing!” 🎶
Growing up in rural agrarian Somerset County, New Jersey, venison, wild turkey, peasant and other wild critters often graced the table. My dad told me that in the dark days of the depression, ground hog – which tastes remarkably like pig when made in tomato sauce – was often part of Sunday pasta day. My nonna told me the horror stories of picking buckshot out of teeny tiny sparrows or maybe they were black birds. When a flock flew over my nonno would hauled out the shotgun and BAM. Wee birds for dinner. I remember cleaning buckshot out of peasants and that wasn’t fun. But a family has to do what a family has to do.
Here in Pontelandolfo, we still have subsistence farmers who grow and process vegetables, raise animals for milk and meat and, gulp, remind me of my grandmother. They are kind, hardworking and loving people. We’ve integrated into the village’s rural lifestyle. Nope, I haven’t planted a thing except words on a page and a good will smile. Since, everyone thinks that because I spend my time at a desk, poor Jack will die of starvation, we are often recipients of parts of harvests and hunting. NOW YOU SEE WHERE THIS IS GOING…
Thanks to a wonderful hunter, a giant chunk of cinghiale found its way to my freezer. Jack and our summer guests would not starve. Unless I was hosting a party for our contrada (neighborhood), there was too much to use for one meal. I put on my 4-H Cooking Club farm girl brain and thought – I know me thinking seems like an anomaly – but Shazam an idea. Yes! I would divide the meat and create three freezable dishes. Stew, pasta sauce and meatballs – all freeze well and will make Jack a happy cena.
First step, get out a big knife and divide the hunk. Based on no knowledge of boar anatomy, I think it was a thigh or butt. I grabbed one of my nonna’s giant stainless steel bowls – yes, I brought a few to Italy – tossed in leftover red wine, wine vinegar, apple cider vinegar and herbs. Why, you are wondering did I use a mix of vinegar. Simple, there was a little bit left in a few bottles. I also added diced garlic, fresh rosemary on the stem, thyme, pepper and salt. Plopped in the meat, covered it and left it in the refrigerator for two days. I think twice I remembered to flip it around.
Truth be told, I then had to succumb to google. Did I wash the meat after the marinade? I did. Did I mention, I throughly washed the meat before I dropped in the melange of acids. I’m glad I washed it. An important lesson was learned. Leaving boar in vinegar for 48 hours means it is tender and tastes like a hint of vinegar. Next time it will just be red wine.
I looked at the three big pieces of meat which were now no longer red. WHAT DID I DO? I was planning on taking one third to our friendly butcher and asking him to grind it. When I got there the first words were – in very marginal Italian – did my marinade wreck the meat?! He laughed. The meat absorbs the acids and changes color. I promised him some meatballs. He smiled at that too.
Cinghiale Balls!
There is something meditative about squishing a mixture of meat, grated cheeses, breadcrumbs, raisins, oregano, salt, pepper, basil and eggs through your sanitized hands. Because the meat wasn’t very fatty, I used more cheese and eggs than one might usually. Actually, I scooped in extra bread crumbs too. I ended up rolling about 30 balls this size.
Meanwhile on the stove, my giant stainless steel pot was hosting slow cooking freshly diced tomatoes, onions, garlic and green/red pepper. I wanted the fresh stuff to break down before I added jars of passata ( homemade tomato puree graciously left on my veranda.) In went the passata plus a couple of store bought cans of diced tomatoes. I was trying to fill the giant pot and freeze enough sauce for decades.
To make the sauce really rich, I have learned to add a mirepoix. Carrots, celery and onion were diced to almost a paste in my blender. That went into the pot then I stirred and waited. When it started to bubble, I very carefully placed each of those boar balls in the pot. Lid went on and I let the ragù slow cook for a few hours. The meat balls gave it not a gamey taste but a savory taste that one wanted to go on forever.
I could eat this sauce everyday!
I made enough sauce and meat balls for three of us to have a substantial meal. Nestled in my freezer are now three containers of sauce and balls for the future. Yummy. I thank the hunter who share with poor starving Jack.
We will talk about the stew another day. I am hungry and need to forage for local cheese,wine and bread.
The following blog may contain content that vegans, vegetarians and lovers of small farm animals may find disturbing. Reader discretion is advised.
Did you ever lust for something so much that the thought of it made you salivate? Admit it, you have. This week all I could think about was eating lamb. I love roasted lamb, lamb chops, lamb-burgers and most of all real hearty Shepherd’s Pie made with – what else – lamb. The little baa baas had been tempting me for a month. Daily, I watched the little ones romp in Pontelandolfo’s verdant fields, stop traffic and then suddenly they disappeared . Disappearing lambs? My mind was wandering hither and yon, over hill and dale, wondering where Bo Peep was hiding the baby sheep.
Love the Lamb Jam. Driver beware.
My tummy wanted to find them. That is a big juicy lie. I did not want to find a lamb, I wanted to find mutton before it became mutton. Knowing that I would make Jack insane if I didn’t stop talking about Shepherd’s Pie, I dashed down the hill to Marcelleria Mancini.
One of the primary joys of living in Pontelandolfo is being able to shop at a real butcher, baker and cheese maker. Stefano Mancini of Marcelleria Mancini is an amazing butcher. All of his meats are locally sourced and he prides himself on working only with select farms. The meat found at Marcelleria Mancini tastes like meat that was on the hoof a few days ago. Free range, scrumptious and not spiced up with hormones. Of course, I would head there for lamb.
Stefano, our always smiling butcher.
What is wonderful about Stefano is that he doesn’t look at me like I’m crazy when I ask for something that most of my neighbors would ever ask for. Like agnello macinato – ground lamb. Not just ground but thickly ground. Here, ground meats are passed through the grinder a few times. For my rustic dish I wanted it rough.
Stefano looks at me and asked – what are you making? My Italian will get us fed, a room and a hospital but how do I explain Shepherd’s Pie – torta dei pastori? Sauté lamb with veggies and cap with butter-rich mashed potatoes. As I described it, I could see it and couldn’t wait to make it.
Dashing to the back room, Stefano returned holding aloft a leg of lamb. Literally, aloft. He was holding the leg by the tibia (shin bone), above the knee was the meaty thigh. La coscia sarebbe perfetto, he said. This is the first time that I realized that the leg of lamb we buy is really the thigh! That incredible meat would be perfect for my Shepherd’s Pie.
As the butcher deboned the meat, I asked if I could have the bones for bone broth. He was impressed that I would make a broth and promptly dashed the bones into manageable pieces. From leg to grinder to packaged, I soon had the lamb I needed for dinner and a package of bones.
Don’t tell Jack, please but another thing I love about Macelleria Mancini are their “pretend you spent the day making interesting meat based dishes.” Stefano’s fiancé, Ilaria, creates amazing to go dishes. As their website says: Avete voglia di qualcosa di sfizioso ma il tempo stringe !?! Passa a trovarci…tutti i giorni prepariamo diversi “pronti a cuocere”…con carni fresche e di qualità !Craving something tasty but running out of time!?! Come visit us…every day we prepare different “ready-to-cook” dishes…with fresh, quality meats!
Pretty Isn’t It!
My Shepherd’s Pie was scrumptious- and I had made enough for a couple of days. After cooking the base, I made the mashed potatoes. No, I tried to make the mashed potatoes. Where are all my potatoes??? Merde, I only had four little potatoes. That would never be enough for my mashed topping. What do do???
Think about where you are and use what you have. What did I have corn meal for polenta? I made a batch of polenta, added Parmesan cheese, and mixed the polenta with with the potatoes. It was absolutely fabulous. My mashed potato – pontenta may become a carb mainstay.
Wherever you are enjoy what you make. Buy local and serve every meal with a smile.
Sigh, I can see the steam floating up from my perfect cappuccino at Cafe Style. My wallet is thrilled that we can go to Bar Elimar for a scrumptious homemade lunch and spend a scant €15 for two people. Jack’s nose is yearning to smell the bouquet of the featured wines at Ponte Simone. We both have saved up our pennies for a night out at Tãwa, the glorious sushi restaurant, in Piazza Roma.
Do I sound homesick? I am, I am! Soon we will be back home in Pontelandolfo and I can’t wait.
Will we see you there? In 2025 we have two incredible opportunities for you to become a part of our village. Cook in the Kitchens of Pontelandolfo – May 17th to the 24th or September 6th to the 13th! This yummy program has been bringing smiles to the faces of culinary adventurers since 2016. (Not bragging, but last year we got a tourism award.) Check out the videos on the website – lots of food, laughter, and community. Then register and join the fans.
Follow your Creative Muse to Pontelandolfo
Our newest adventure is literally literature. Toss your laptop in a bag and participate in our 2025 Writers’ Refuge in the Sannio Hills. This Writer’s Retreat runs from June 21 to June 28th. Authors can soak up the atmosphere and work on their craft with Amy Scott of Scott Editorial.
All of the adventures start with a bar crawl. ‘Midge, Midge,” you are thinking, “a bar crawl is soooo sophomoric.” Nah! It is anything but sophomoric. What an incredible way to explore different parts of the village, meet locals and gain an understanding of village life.
Our very first group of writers joined the village in 2024. Playwrights organized by the New Jersey non profit – Write Where You Are. They wrote. They flourished. They conquered.
Oh no, has it really been more than a month since I shared my adventures with you? Were you thinking “she must be off doing something magical.” “Maybe she is checking out the new murals in Pompeii.”
Sigh, I am staring blankly out the window clutching my wallet to my chest. We flew back to New Jersey at the end of January and ran smack into the big bad brick wall of culture shock.
cul·ture shock (Definition from Oxford Languages)
the feeling of disorientation experienced by someone who is suddenly subjected to an unfamiliar culture, way of life, or set of attitudes.
WHAT! WHAT! NOOOOO!
How much???? NO! NOT THAT MUCH! HEEEEEEEEEEEEELLLLLLLLP!
HOW LONG? Where am I?????
“Jack,” I queried, “Did I become mean looking or just old and nasty? Unless I say good morning first, everyone passing us is ignoring us.” The ever logical Jack replied, ” No one in Ewing knows your name. Most people are just getting on with their lives. Not everything is about you. We aren’t in Pontelandolfo anymore.”
I really miss the cultural and personal connection that comes from a bunch of people knowing my name and hearing “ciao Midge.” Even if everyone in the pharmacy is a stranger they’ll say Buon giorno to each other. Simple welcoming phrases can put on smile on a lonely person’s face and pull me out of my doldrums.
We love to eat out and don’t need an occasion. Just the joy of – what BS – OK, at this point in my life I’d rather be creating and writing than cooking. So we do eat out a lot. Lunch every day In Pontelandolfo, home cooked with love at Bar Elimar or Ponte Simone cost me about $20 for the two of us. Often less. Out to lunch in NJ my hand trembled when I signed the credit card for a cheap two roll lunch with miso soup at a substandard sushi restaurant that cost $50 for two people. Don’t get me started about the cost of bad coffee in a cookie cutter coffee place.
I miss starting my day with a trip to Cafè Style, chatting with the owner and having him make a perfect super hot, low on foam cappuccino.
“Un euro per favore.” Yup, one euro for a perfect coffee. Since the euro and dollar are almost par you can see why I shudder at the $3.50 to $5.00 almost OK tasting cappuccinos to be found near our condo. Stop, asking If I want whipped cream! Ugggg.
And what is this “there is a 3.5% surcharge if you use a credit card?” Talk about declassè. Dear restaurant and store owner, It is the cost of doing business, raise your prices to cover the cost. Or, as the evil kid in my brain thought, are they just doing the surcharge thing to grow their profit margin and the prices already cover the surcharge. Seriously, is this just a New Jersey thing or is it happening everywhere?
I will admit if the amount I’m spending in Pontelandolfo is less than 40 or 50 euro, I pay in cash. They don’t do the up-charge but I am guessing that a fee must be there.
Don’t get me started on medical issues. Knowing the early bird gets the appointment, I started calling the doctors we wanted to see in early December. My thought was we would be able to see the doctors we have loved for years the first week we were back. Not! Calling in early December meant seeing specialists at the end of February. And all of these frustrating gate-keepers! I had a million questions about Jack’s new Italian pacemaker that obviously wouldn’t get answered until we were in the office. Using WhatsApp, I am able to communicate directly with our Italian specialists. Doctors who actually respond themselves within a day. Sigh… We are only here for a few months so I will suck it up.
“Your co-pay maam for the anticoagulant that your exceptional cardiologists in two countries feel is important to keep you from stroking out is only $500 a month.” You laugh! That is true. Being an inquisitive patient advocate, before we left Italy, I had called my New Jersey pharmacy and my medicare part D insurance provider asking what the anticoagulant pills would cost me a month. After laughing out loud and then cursing out loud, I went to my Italian pharmacy and bought retail the three months worth of pills I needed for my stay in NJ for – drum roll please – 96 euros a month or about 100 dollars a month. Other brands that our USA chums were prescribed would still cost me over $200 a month. In Italy, my universal healthcare system knows not taking the drug could kill me, therefore, like Jack’s diabetes medicine, it has no co-pay.
YES I WILL STOP WHINING! There I feel so much better just getting that last whine out of my system. You all, my delightful readers, are like extended family. And as you know, only our family ever sees us whine. (Ha ha ha.) Thank you. Grazie.
All that bitching out of my system, it is important that you know that we reallydo like being back in New Jersey. I get to see people I adore, eat food from lots of different cultures, ramble through our lovely condo building for instantaneous cocktail hours and easily enjoy lots of urban culture.
Speaking of culture – who is ready to visit Pontelandolfo in 2025?
One blustery Saturday night, the theater in Pontelandolfo was full. Men and women of all ages braved the cold to see a production developed by two amazing women, Michela Delli Veneri and Fiorella De Michele. Posters for Conto su di Me – Libere e Vivere had been zapping around social media and tacked up everywhere. I had no idea what to expect. The one thing I did know, was that Michela and Fiorella, both powerful women, would present something professional and relevant. Nestling into my seat, I looked around and noticed the hand made signs surrounding the space – My Body My Choice”, “Non Una di Meno”, “no è no” “Girl Power “.
Women Can Do Anything
Reading the signs triggered a response this 75 year old woman didn’t anticipate – sadness. Silently, tears dribbled down under my glasses. Didn’t we march for these same thoughts and rights when I was a girl? How many generations of women need to be treated like chattel? How long will society allow the minimization of women? Suddenly, I realized I was going to be in for a roller coaster ride of a production.
The multi media event was well developed and staged. This wasn’t a pound the idea on your head lecture but a thought provoking presentation that coupled actresses with real psychologists. The theme – Economic Abuse of Women. When I heard that, I thought equal pay for equal work or how to crack the glass ceiling. After seeing the performance I realized, economic abuse by one’s partner is horrific on both an emotional and physical level. Frankly, I was embarrassed that I had never realized holding back and controlling money was a form of abuse. I should have realized it. Having grown up in house full of tears, shouts and begging for love. Money, or the lack of it, was an embarrassing topic. My parents separated when I was about 11. Dad was caught “in the cookie jar” and mom was – well not very stable. Being the obnoxious child in our family, it was my job to go and “ask” my father for money. Mom, my sister and I were often just making do. My lack of patience and pushiness may be learned behavior. I learned how to be tenacious. One event that crushed me was my eight grade dance. After my asking dad for the money for a new dress and getting turned down, I was decimated when my younger sister came home from school crying and told me that a boy in her class whose mom was a ‘good pal’ of my dad’s just got an expensive train set from our father. I didn’t call it economic abuse – I was 14 – but after seeing this show, I realized that causing that kind of pain is indeed a form of abuse.
The staging was interesting. An actress would enter the set and tell their story. Then, the psychologists would either interact with the actress or talk about the case. The psychologists were wonderful performers in their own rights. I felt as though I was part of a group session and was throughly engaged. One scene that obviously tugged on my heart opened with a mom and son going to see a therapist. As the little boy was in his session, the mom shared her grief at not being allowed to use any money – money her husband earned – to pay for the boy to participate in a traditional dance company. Obviously the mom didn’t have money of her own. The arguments that the boy witnessed included screaming, pushing and threats. The husband would not give up a penny for this child to join the other children in the village and dance. Yes, they could afford it. He controlled the money – period. That seems like such a small thing but the impact on both the mom and the child was incredible. The dad was so controlling. The money was being withheld as a method of controlling and punishment. Damn, I had been there.
Always having worked and maintaining my own bank accounts, it took a while for me to understand the stories of women who were totally dependent upon their partners. Stranded at home without cars, driver’s licenses or any form of recreation that wasn’t blessed by the king of the house put women in dangerous positions. The psychologists brought the truth of this battering home for me.
Media, music, monologues and scenes seamlessly worked together to further the theme. I hope the young women I saw in the audience realized, they are in control of their destiny. I hope the young men in the audience learned that men who promulgate any kind of physical, emotional or economic violence against women are cretins. ( I wanted to use really bad words here about abusive men – FFFFFFbomb ASSSSSSh#$#^$.)
Have you missed me? Sorry, I’ve been so silent, but life in New Jersey had some ups and downs. Speaking of ups and downs. Boom, bang – no not thank you mam – but my blood all over the nice marble floor of Aeroporto Fiumicino. Caspita! I’ve always had stars in my eyes but this wasn’t my favorite way to find new ones.
I am now – thanks to family, friends and the medical system – fine. Swollen knees, cracked teeth, ditzy witzy head and a hole in my lower lip ain’t gonna keep me down. Yes, I did all the right things – went to doctors, dentists, got X-rays and an MRI. (Panoramic X-Ray of my teeth – €40. MRI of my fabulous head – €100.) That’s the boring part of the tale. This is actually one of those “feel good” stories.
BACKSTORY –
Why were my eyeglasses on the floor over there? Hmm? Opening my eyes, the first thing I saw were my eyeglasses floating above my ear. My ears were very active –
Signora, mi senti? Ma’am can you hear me? Yes I could hear her – what is in my mouth? Why is my nose smelling the floor?
Tutto OK? Was I OK? Bo? I haven’t an idea – the floor looks good – nice marbling. I was asked that by about six different people. Was I finally an extra in the Law and Order franchise?? Damn, what fun. Do I get the SAG day rate??
Apparently, after we got off the plane, which had been held for about 3 hours on the tarmac in Newark, NJ, got Jack a wheel chair ( his aching back won’t tolerate super long walks), I fainted.
Sta sanguinando! She’s bleeding! Whose bleeding? Shitis that wet stuff under my mouth my blood? Shit, it is my blood. People, speaking a variety of languages, were tossing blood soaking up things at me and putting them on my lower lip and chin. No one was afraid to touch the bloody lady sprawled on the floor.
Two woman helped me sit up. Whoa – sitting on the floor was a nice change from eating the floor but I wasn’t going anywhere else. Weee, the merry go round is fun! We’re my underpants clean and not ancient?
Chiamare i pronto scorso! Someone called the EMTs and suddenly I was in a chair being prodded and poked.
There had been a female vigile near by who not only had seen everything, but with the incredible woman pushing Jack’s wheelchair got me to sit on the floor and carried all pazillion pounds of me to a nearby chair. How did the chair got there? She explained to the head EMT (doctor) that I was walking perfectly well and then suddenly like a waterfall slowly wafted to the floor smacking my face/head. Wafted to the floor – was that a Graham dance move or was I once again channeling Ruth St. Denis?
Good goddess, why is Midge telling us all this horrific tale? Because “she” – me – I was treated like visiting royalty. Every staff person who interacted with me was genuinely concerned, courteous and terrific. OK, OK, I can hear you cynics thinking – they just worry about lawsuits. In Italy a lawsuit would take 100 years.
I am telling this tale because I want to publicly thank the woman pushing Jack who then called for a wheel chair for me and organized our getting through passport control, getting our luggage and even asking a pal at lost luggage to leave her spot and find Jack’s lost bag. Damn, she was great, as was the other woman who was stuck pushing me and dragging my carryon.
The vigile must have called the accident in and two oh so handsome men in superior uniforms arrived to check our passports and calmed me down in English. Actually, they both had luminous dark eyes and maybe that’s what calmed me down.
The EMT staff was there quickly and acted professionally. As a woman was taking my blood pressure and oxygen levels another was looking in my eyes. Everything they checked was perfect – even my sugar levels. They wanted to transport me to the hospital in Rome, I wanted to go home. After signing a release that I was refusing the hospital, I was not allowed to stand and transferred to the wheelchair. Grazie Mille a tutti.
This is one of the reasons I had to get home. Our first group of culinary adventurers were arriving June 8 and I landed June 1.
I want to thank Giuseppe who was our ride home from the airport. He literally waited hours for us and didn’t laugh at my bloody swollen face once – well maybe once. He was a gem.
Once I landed on the couch in our house, I received incredible support. Thank you Annarita for all you do. Thank you Mariann and Jeff for making sure I wasn’t comatose and fed. Thank you Carmella and Giusy for making sure I had help, appointments for X-rays and doctor visits. Thank you Rossella for keeping me sane. Thank you Zia Vittoria for getting edibles in my empty refrigerator. Thank you to the men in my life Jack, Nicola and Mario.
Thank you all.
Stay tuned for more about life in a small Southern Italian village.
“Haul out the holly…”. “Jingle bells, jingle bells…”
Buon Natale and Happy New Year. No need to go “dashing through the snow in a one horse open sleigh” to have a happy holiday. Enjoy your family, friends and most importantly yourself this season. May all your dreams and wishes soar.
Pontelandolfo and the Sannio hills are magical at Christmas time. Lights twinkle in piazzas and line Benevento’s grand Corso Garibaldi. On January 3rd and 4th Morcone, our neighboring village, produces an amazing community wide Presepe Viventi – living nativity.
Small eyes peer upward searching for Babbo Natale. Santa’s train scoots around Piazza Roma. The crisp mountain air invigorates everyone who walks around the piazza gossiping with friends, looking at the lights and sipping adult beverages at one of our fabulous bars. Baccalà is soaking in kitchens. Nonna’s are kneading dough. Panettone waits on kitchen counters. Laughter and hugs will soon fill homes. Tis the season of family and friends who are like family.
The feeling of the holiday season is so strong that I really believe I can feel it sweeping across the sea.
Benvenuti a Pontelandolfo Joy for everyone!
Did I mention that the Pontelandolfo spirit of Christmas could be felt across the sea? Not only across the sea, but across the continent. Jack and I are spending our happy holiday season with young Pontelandolfese in Los Angeles. Annalaura Iacovella and Allesandra Rosaria Niedt are hanging out with the elders this Christmas. We send our thoughts of love and good cheer to Pontelandolfese everywhere.
Nonna's Mulberry Tree 